- "I just really need to have you here right now."
- "Didn’t you see what I did?!"
- "Oh fuck, oh FUCK."
- "Please come get me."
- "Where are you?!"
- "I’m coming, just sit tight!"
- "Look at me - just breathe, okay?"
- "I can’t breathe!"
- "You don’t have to stay."
- "It’s all my fault."
- "It’s all YOUR fault!"
- "Don’t fucking touch me."
- "Please I just… really need space right now."
- "I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere."
- "I’m gonna be sick."
- "Ever wonder if the world would be better off without you… ?"
- "I’m sick of being USELESS."
- "You’re not useless."
- "Shit, are you bleeding?!"
- "Please, put it DOWN."
- "Shh, c’mere…"
- "It’s okay to cry…"
- "Don’t listen to them. Don’t you EVER listen to them."
- "I’m not cut out for this."
- "Just leave me ALONE."
- "Please listen to me-"
- "You can trust me."
- "Don’t trust me."
- "What happened doesn’t change anything."
A Study in Lace
Oikawa Tooru, Kuroo Tetsurou, Sawamura Daichi (fem!)
“You know,” Oikawa said conversationally, pausing to blow a puff of air up at her bangs to get them out of her eyes. “I can’t wait until I get to tie you two up.”
“But Oikawaaaa,” Kuroo sang lightheartedly, turning slightly to make eye contact with the pretty brunette. “You’re so cute when you’re at our mercy!”
Oikawa wasn’t entirely certain how she’d gotten herself into this position.
Actually, that wasn’t altogether true; she knew that she’d come over to Kuroo’s apartment because she’d received a call from Daichi to come over for a fresh batch of cookies the two of them had baked together. What she was a little confused about was literally how she had allowed Kuroo and Daichi to put her in this position: kneeling in the middle of the living room in nothing but her lacy bra and panties with her arms and hands tied behind her back with solid-braid nylon rope.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Does it hurt?” Kuroo asked from behind her, sounding genuinely concerned, though there was also a layer of smugness in her tone that had Oikawa narrowing her brown eyes. Her cheeks and the bridge of her nose were hot with a pink flush at her position and her state of undress, but her heart was pounding out an excited rhythm in her chest that she could feel all the way down to her toes. Daichi was kneeling right beside her, helping Kuroo try to secure one of the knots she’d made in the rope but also rubbing a comforting hand along Oikawa’s shoulder blade. Oikawa glanced in the other direction, aiming for her inflection to be one of boredom. Her long brunette hair cast her face in a slight shadow as she turned, hiding her nervous expression even from Daichi, as close as she was.
“I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt. You can…keep going.”
Kuroo Tetsurou, Bokuto Koutaro
Kuroo is a different person when he wears his Heelys.
They call him…Hot Wheels.
The sun streams in through his window and burns a hot trail up the slouched line of his back as the hour hand clicks into place, signaling that it was time for him to head over to the skate park. He had an hour before it opened and he liked to get there before the person on the opening shift even got to the door. He also liked to make sure that he beat Bokuto there; since their houses were equal distance away from the skate park and they’d set the limit that the earliest they could leave their respective houses was an hour, on the dot.
Kuroo Tetsurou slowly sat up from tying his laces, lifting his body from the bed and stretching his shoulders up and over his head, listening to the methodical cracks in the joints. He twisted his body and made sure his back was thoroughly loosened up as well, not wanting to show up at the skate park stiff as a board—especially since he’d woken up that morning feeling like a victor before his eyes had even opened. Today was going to be special—he could feel it. He was going to win.
He double-checked all of his safety gear one last time: securing his wrist guards, his elbow pads, his knee pads, and making sure the buckle beneath his chin was secured so that his helmet wouldn’t fall off from any intense tricks. It was a little battered, a little scuffed, the solid red of it marked with several black and grey scrapes from times when he’d fallen head first across the asphalt. But he’d put stickers over some of the scratches and, if he was being honest, had left some of them purposely uncovered because they made him feel badass. Not that his stickers weren’t badass either! There were a couple Spitfire flames because obviously, a plain black cat sticker, three of those people-shaped stickers that families put on the back windows of their vehicles because Kuroo thought they looked pretty cool lining the bottom of his helmet on one side, and even an Enjoi panda! Needless to say, he’d prepared well over the years.
Hanai Azusa, Tajima Yuuichiro
Tajima was Hanai’s favorite subject. And his worst.
But he so liked to learn.
Hanai couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t focus.
He sat in his math class, staring down at the sheet of paper that would end up being a quarter of his grade and all he could see was a blur of lines intersecting each other. He blinked furiously, trying to get himself back on track, but it only took a few spare moments of false focus before he was right back where he started, curling his fingers into his palm and silently cursing the idiot plaguing his thoughts.
When was the last time he’d even talked to Tajima? Days ago. And yet instead of paying proper attention to the test on his desk, he sat picturing the precise way that Tajima’s hands curled around a bat. He curled his own digits in before flexing them out, looking down and studying each callus marring his hardened skin. There were so many that he’d lost a measure of flexibility in his throwing hand, though he’d never admit to it, most especially not to Tajima himself. Determined as he was to take back the position of clean-up hitter, he could work through that minor setback with ease.
Staring down at his open hand, he turned it this way and that, studied his long, thin fingers and mentally replaced them with Tajima’s. Where Hanai’s palm was like a bear’s, rough and wide like a padded claw, Tajima had lithe hands with supine fingers. Small palms marred with their own constellations of calluses and constantly caked with dirt, Tajima might as well have had the grip of a bat tattooed into his skin for how often he could be found holding one. For such a little guy he sure knew how to grip a bat and make it perform magic tricks over the big diamonds they played on.
Not that Tajima or his hands or the way Hanai’s were big enough to encompass the whole of Tajima’s was of any importance at that exact moment, with Hanai’s math grade hanging in the balance. He bit his bottom lip and pushed the heel of the hand he’d been studying against his forehead, feeling the velvet of his shaved head as he well and truly focused on his exam. If he wanted to remain on the baseball team, he had to have passing grades. More than that, if he wanted to get into a good college for baseball—or whatever he would decide to do with his future, he wasn’t sure yet, didn’t have to be—he’d need good grades.
With that thought in mind, ever the encouragement to dig deep and give it his all, Hanai poured all of his focus and his knowledge into the test and deliberately ignored the way his heart was still pounding out a jagged rhythm at the thought of holding Tajima Yuuichirou’s hand.
The sun streamed in through the window like magic, everything it touched becoming lighter and brighter all at once. It’s glowing fingers reached through the room, touched upon the blue ocean of carpet and split it into the pale blue of the shallow and the dark cerulean of the depths before reaching up and over the bed sheets to crest the curve of one defined calf. Wind breathed in through the small opening between the sill and the vertically sliding window, coercing his opalescent curtains into a gentle dance, bringing goose bumps to rise across his skin.
The clock’s digital numbers signal the top of the hour, and at the same time a subtle click can be heard from his iPod port before the telltale clapping and bouncing beat resonates throughout his room, indicating that it was time for him to get up and get ready for class. Stretching his arms and cocking his hips forward enough that he heard a few quiet pops, Rin Matsuoka slowly sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The music kept bouncing around him and he slowly started jostling his shoulders and moving his abdomen to the beat, smiling with eyes closed as he allowed himself to wake up a bit more before standing.
He’d been told countless times that it was stupid to set songs he enjoyed as his alarm clock—so many horror stories about favorite songs being ruined because they were eventually associated with waking up early—but Rin was a little bit unique in that regard. He was a little bit unique in a lot of ways, actually, but most especially when it came to mornings and waking up.
He met the morning sun with a smile, wide and sharp and toothy, shuffling around his bed and shimmying his hips to the music as he moved towards the window, shoving the slider up all the way so the full extent of the light breeze could taste the interior of his dorm room. He leaned his hands on the windowpane, thrusting his head and chest outside to glance at the front quad of his university; a wide expanse of grass surrounded by a paved walkway and several different kinds of trees. His favorites were the red and purple crape myrtles, as well as the freshly blooming sakura trees. There were students walking about beneath him, shuffling to and from classes and dorms, jostling bags and binders and notebooks of varying sizes.
Rin pushed himself back inside his dorm and began to dance with his entire body, his feet light so as to not bother those living beneath him. To make up for his inability to jump around, his hands raised high in the air and waved over his head, his shoulders doing most of the detailed work as he tried to sing along with a song that wasn’t in any language he knew.
His friends thought he was strange for being so lively and happy so early in the morning, well, except for Makoto who was also a morning person and understood his morning routine a bit more than the others did.
Because of that, he and Makoto had taken to sharing their early mornings more often by getting tea or croissants together before returning to their respective duties. That had been before Makoto had transferred to a university with an advanced architecture program a little too far from Rin for them to meet up so regularly, though they still managed to see each other at least once a week at a bakery almost equal distance from both of their universities. Nagisa and Rei were making their relationship work while attending two different universities—Nagisa for business and Rei for fashion. Rin admired their longevity and their continued intensity, wondering how in the world neither of them went stir-crazy not being able to see each other every single day.
He’d entertained the idea of attending a different university than Haru and couldn’t even get past wondering which university he’d be attending—it was inconceivable. He and Haru were both art students attending the same university, though they didn’t live in the same dorms. Haru’s were the closest dorms to the ocean and Rin’s were closest to the university pool, an admittedly wide distance between the two. But Rin would never complain; not when he was able to have dinner and movie nights with his raven-haired boyfriend just about every night, with time even to make a few lunch trips throughout the week as well. Their classes were close together so they were never lacking in seeing one another, though Haru had been mumbling recently about not getting enough swim-time with Rin.
Rin agreed that it had been too long since they’d gone swimming together but to be honest it was mostly Haru’s fault. He wasn’t just saying that, either! If Haru would get his butt out of bed before noon than he’d be able to meet Rin in the pool and share the simple pleasure of moving through the water beside his love before the sun could find it’s center directly above their university. When he’d mentioned this, Haru had merely stared at him, blinking heavily in that deadpan way of his. Finally, he’d said something about not everyone being as weird as Rin was by waking up and dancing straight out of bed.
Rin had tried to explain to him that the sun’s rays on his skin in the morning felt like kisses and that he felt like it’d be rude to ignore them, to wrap the blanket over his skin and reject the sun’s greeting. That when his music went off in the morning his bones awoke singing, his heart a pounding drum in his chest, his lips already curling around the words. The only reaction he’d received from his quiet boyfriend was a tightening of his eyes that had made Rin think for just a moment that Haru had been jealous of the sun. That was so Haru.
Cats & Cream
Kuroo Tetsurou, Oikawa Tooru (fem!)
But she was Oikawa Tooru, the queen of cool, the sultry sultan, and she would not embarrass herself.
“Hrmph?” she gargled, spitting the collar of her jersey out of her mouth and flushing bright red. Smooth.
for gren, again ♥
“It was a joke,” Oikawa snapped, ripping her arm from Kuroo’s grasp, ignoring how soft her skin had felt against Oikawa’s wrist. She stomped ahead, not waiting for Kuroo to catch up, not looking back to make sure she was following. Kuroo’s legs were longer, a little firmer, held a little more muscle mass. Not that Oikawa would ever admit that she’d looked, that she’d studied those legs. Of course not.
And besides, Oikawa thought, smirking to herself as she shoved her perfectly manicured hands into the pockets of her teal hoodie. Her own legs were smooth and lean and when she was on the court they made her feel like there was no distance between her and the net, like she could be wherever the ball was instantly. She was quick and strong and, okay, so what if her thighs weren’t as muscular as Kuroo’s? Now she was thinking about that stocky captain from that bastard Kageyama’s team, whose thighs were miniature arsenals she wouldn’t mind feeling wrapped around her. That girl, what was her name? Sawamura. She was built like a dream.
Oikawa was not sexually frustrated. She wasn’t. Not at all.
She was a little sexually frustrated.
126.96.36.199. (Part 1)
Kuroko no Basuke
Kise Ryouta, Aomine Daiki
When a couple of boys first learn that time both stops and flies when they’re together. (And, later, even when they’re not)
Kise’s first love was basketball.
Kise’s second love was Aomine Daiki, who just so happened to be the reason that Kise fell in love with basketball in the first place. There was a complicated connection between the two, but Kise didn’t really like to pay attention to it. Instead, as a fifteen-year-old boy who had just discovered something that actually managed to challenge him, he was entirely focused on trying to reach the peak of his junior high basketball career. And yet, every time he showed up for a practice session or even a game, thinking all the while that today would be the day he overcomes the challenge of basketball and gets bored, he was proved wrong time and time again.
The sport was gloriously taxing for his strong, durable body, making his muscles tear and mend and tear again. His legs were strong beneath him and his core solid and lined, allowing for him to be flexible and quick and powerful. Basketball practice became the highlight of every day, and of every night. He couldn’t get enough of the sport, always thinking about ways to improve, of techniques he could apply to his style so as to become the best. Every day he woke up with an itch under his skin as he anticipated morning practices. His days were spent waiting for the time after school when he would have matches with the other Miracles, and he lived for the good days when he was able to cajole Aomine into agreeing for a one-on-one match in the evening. Those were his favorite matches—he never moved as fast or played as hard as when he was playing against Aomine.
Kise would be lying if he claimed that his love for basketball was separate from his feelings for Aomine.
It had started as admiration. Respect. Aomine Daiki could move so fast your eyes couldn’t keep track of him, a blur of his navy hair and his loose clothes. Kise’s heart stayed in his throat when he was off on the sidelines, able to watch the other boy jag through his opponents during practice as if there was a magnetic connection between him and the net. But Kise’s heart never pounded as hard as when he faced off against Aomine; the true pleasure of basketball was facing off against someone incredible and being able to keep up.