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atlaswav · 27 days ago

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ACE! ➷

INFO: 3246 words, oikawa x fem! reader, olympics au, timeskip SYNOPSIS: In the heat of the competition, you find more enemies in the Olympic dining hall, rivalling for the last infamous chocolate muffin, the social media sensation. WARNINGS: none. AUTHOR'S NOTE: i wrote this ages ago when the Olympics were still happening and just finished it so uh....... ANYWAY!!! this is my attempt at a crackfic because it makes sense. Writing quality and pacing may be off sorry BUT IT COUNTS RIGHT watch this flop because the haikyuu fandom is dead

There are few things left in this world that still hold unequivocal beauty. Few things can exist with such suffering and turmoil. Few things, too, could quell this hopelessness, and in sleepless nights, scrolling on your phone with blue light illuminating the room in eerie shadow, you’d come to see the legendary Olympic chocolate muffin as one of these beautiful things.

The night was quiet, and the dining hall was almost empty as you walked up to the dessert stand.

There was one muffin left, molten chocolate glowing under the warm lamplight, oozing with liquid bliss, illuminated in a halo of gold.

But where there is beauty, there is also ugliness. There was someone in the way of your pursuit of enlightenment. You could only dream of the bliss of sweet chocolate ganache dissolving on your tongue with angelic grace, only imagine the taste it would leave lingering in your mouth. But now – as womankind may always find – there was a man in your way.

“Excuse me.”

“Huh?”

As he turns around, your heart drops into your stomach. The giant of a man lays his hands on the muffin in front of you. All hope you had for humanity diminished in one touch.

“...that was mine.” you mumble.

The shuffling of sandals on the ground echoes through the empty dining hall. His gaze awkwardly flits between you and the muffin.

“...Sorry? Finders keepers??” He replies in the same language – almost perfect English. He shrugs. A giant movement. He was taller than you’d have liked, towering over you as you attempted to argue for custody of the muffin. It didn’t help that his dark brown eyes seemed to glint with challenge, and you felt yourself indignantly rise up to this unspoken provocation.

“What happened to chivalry?”

“Guess its dead, sweet heart.”

“You’re not even gonna attempt to be a gentleman?”

“You’re not ladylike, so I won’t be a gentleman.”

“So you’re admitting you’re a douche.”

“At least I’m a douche with a muffin.”

You sigh dejectedly. First, your first loss in the preliminary games – crushing, really, losing by two points – second, the massive specimen of a man standing in front of you with his hands on your consolation prize.

This was going to be your last straw.

Well, at least the asshole was handsome. The ‘Argentina’ scribed on his uniform, however, didn’t make sense. He looked Asian, and yet he spoke English fluently. He was confusing, but one thing you knew for sure was that all those guys on the Argentinian men’s team were jerks, based on the few of them that snickered at your team as you exited the stadium following your loss in the prelims.

“Fuck you. I hope you lose your next match.”

“Oh–”

You storm away before he can get another word in.

This was your first encounter with Tōru Oikawa. Maybe an overreaction, but you really didn’t care.

The following day, your warmup is interrupted as the Argentinian men's team decide to enter your warmup stadium, raucous and impossible to miss.

“Do they have the wrong court, or something?” your coach murmurs, tearing his attention away from the practice game.

“Oh! It’s you!” a distinctive voice calls.

You turn from your rally – a mistake – and see the handsome thief from the day before staring at you, carrying a sports bag, wearing a light blue jacket with a white stripe down the sleeve. So he was an Argentinian player. Why was he here, though?

“Wait! Ball!”

You turn back to your rally just in time to get hit in the face with a volleyball, nose aching, eyes bleary with tears, reality tilting on its axis as you fall on your hands.

“Hey! What are you guys doing here?” the coach yells, distinct through the cacophony.

“This is our court, isn’t it?” the thief says. His voice is smooth like honey – like a liar.

“No, It’s ours until noon.”

“Is it not a quarter to noon?”

“Exactly, so get out. You’ve already injured one of my star players.” He swears in Japanese, and you hear the thief snicker, saying something back. Is he Japanese?

You don’t know what happens next, except being hoisted up, braced on someone’s arms and being sat on a bench. Someone hands you a tissue for your watering eyes, and you feel a biting cold on your nose, wincing as someone gives you an ice pack to hold to your face.

“I always hated those Argentinian volleyball players. So cocky.” your teammate says.

“Their captain is a handful. I wouldn’t want that bastard on the Japanese team either.” your coach echoes.

So he was their captain. And Japanese. And an asshole.

How dare he?

This is how you, in your head, earn the right to one of Oikawa’s apologies – how you find him in the cafeteria once again, nose lightly bandaged, lined up for dinner, and are intent on getting a “sorry” from his perpetually smiling lips.

“Oh, you.”

His lips twitch into a half grimace, half smile. “Me.”

“Are you going to apologise?”

“I – for what?”

“Are you being stupid, or an asshole right now?”

“Neither. I don’t see what I need to apologise for.”

You mutter something under your breath about “Stupid, hot Argentinian volleyball players.”

“What was that?”

“Move up. You’re holding up the line.”

He shuffles forward, but turns around again to continue your exchange. “It’s not my fault you were too slow.”

“Which incident are you talking about? The muffin, or today?”

“The muffin, obviously. What, like it's my fault you lost concentration?”

“Mother–”

“Hey, can you guys quit arguing and move along? You’re holding everyone up.”

You both shut up and collect your dinner, parting with scalding glances toward each other.

“...you okay?”

“Does it look like it?”

“Is it that Argentinian captain again?”

You groan, stabbing your lukewarm mashed potatoes with your spoon. “I hate him.”

Your teammate casts you a sidelong glance. “Okay, whatever you say.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Your third encounter with the Argentinian captain is when you file into the stadium, teeming with people decked out in red and white, to watch a preliminary game of the Japanese men’s team – your competing country. You’d been scouted for their women's team, but you were never able to witness the men’s team in action, only heard about their strengths.

“What the hell?”

You turn, and behind you is Oikawa. He wears a cap with a sports logo on it, and sunglasses that are almost comically large. You find it within yourself to resist a howling laugh.

“What? Why are you here?” you ask – slightly too loudly, as people cast their attention toward you. He shrinks down in his seat in embarrassment.

“I’m scouting the enemy, of course. What, are you stalking me or something?” he mumbles, glaring at you past the rims of his sunglasses.

You scoff. “Of course not. I’m watching my country play, obviously.”

“Really? You’re Japanese?”

“I’m a citizen. Aren’t you?”

He crosses his arms, huffing. “And I thought I’d tanned when I was in Brazil.”

You scoff at his childishness. “Brazil? Why aren’t you playing for Japan?”

“I need to crush them.”

You let out a barking laugh at his antics. “Really? You have vendettas that need fulfilling?”

“Don’t laugh, you’re drawing attention.” he sighs, leaning forward as if passing on some great generational secret. “But yes. I do.”

“I can’t begin to imagine who could ever be your enemy.”

“Well I sure can.”

This man has to be a social experiment. “That was sarcasm, captain.”

He pouts, and you turn straight ahead for the national anthems to play and the first serve.

The first server is the Japanese setter, Kageyama. The stadium’s volume seems to drop slightly as he prepares to serve, making the impact of the ball with his hand even louder than it would’ve been. The ball hits the other team with frightening speed, ricocheting from their libero’s arms into the spectator’s stands.

The Japanese supporters begin to cheer, and you applaud with them, before you hear a scoff from behind you.

“What, is he one of the guys you need revenge on, or something?”

He turns away, but you see his pout.

You laugh. “Afraid he’s better than you?”

“Of course not. I’m better.”

“Hey, you know what, why don’t we switch seats?” Oikawa’s teammate suggests from beside him. The captain looks completely betrayed at his teammate’s suggestion, but he can’t rebuke before the teammate gets up, crossing the stands.

You decide it’d be fun to mess with him, so you comply.

But you don’t forget that he owes you an apology. Two. You’re not growing fond of him, either.

The crowd erupts into cheers as Japan scores another point, and you applaud with them, but Oikawa only sinks further into his seat – now beside you – narrowing his eyes and lowering his sunglasses on his nose, only to glare at the court.

“What?”

“I hate that guy.”

“Who?”

“The one who just scored.”

“...Ushijima? Why?”

“I hate him.”

“...sure you do. Should I ask who else you hate, or will we be here all day?”

He ends up listing every wrong Ushijima had done to him since middle school, going on an angry rant about how he failed to bring his high school team to victory because of Kageyama. You can see his inferiority complex showing by the end of this. By the end, the game had reached the second set that Japan was also about to win.

“...Okay, wow, a lot to process.”

“So yes, I have a vendetta. Thought you should know.”

“That was a really big dump on some stranger you haven’t even known for a week.”

“You asked.”

“No, not really.”

He rolls his eyes, and you both go back to watching the game. What you don’t realise is that he’s smiling.

And despite himself, he is clutching the edge of his seat as Japan gets to the game point in the third set, locked in a deuce with their opponents. The score climbs higher and higher, neither team willing to let up.

“Oh my God, I’m going to throw up.” you groan, watching the next server prepare.

“Want a throwup bag?”

“You look like you could use one too.”

“I’m not nervous, unlike you.”

“I can see the sweat on your shorts. You’re not subtle when you wipe your hands on them.”

“Damn you–”

“Shut up, they just served.”

Maybe it's the adrenaline running high from the match, or from the ceaseless energy of the spectators, but you both nearly cry in relief when Japan finally pulls away from the deuce, securing the game. Despite his grudge for the entire Japanese team, it seems, he pulls you into a side embrace as you both cheer.

“Aren’t you supposed to be ‘scouting the enemy’?” you say through laughter.

“I am. This is all a disguise.”

You roll your eyes, but as you begin to file out of the stadium with the rest of the stadium, he decides to linger, signalling to a man on the Japanese team – tall, muscular, handsome, spiky brown hair.

“Really? Leaving just like that?”

“I have a friend on that team.”

“You?”

“Shut up.”

You shrug, smiling as you turn to leave. “Bye then, muffin thief.”

“That’s Toru Oikawa, to you.”

“Muffin thief,” you call over your shoulder as you disappear into the crowd.

“Oikawa.”

“Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi’s eye twitches, but he grins nonetheless, pulling Oikawa into a hug. “Was that your girlfriend?”

“What? Huh? Really? Is that the first question you ask me after so many years?”

“Nah, she probably isn’t. She’s too pretty for you.”

“Mean.”

But nothing had changed, and he was grateful.

It’s only late into the night with the fan whirring beside his bed that he can’t help but think about the prospect of you as his girlfriend. He was truly delusional. Especially since he somehow reached the conclusion that he wouldn’t mind it if you just so happened to fall to his charms and confess his love. He’d expect that much, at least.

You barely remember your fourth encounter, but it’s during your final game of the preliminary matches – the one that you have to win, else be cut from the competition.

You could think of no moment more stressful than serving at a time when you were at game point for the fifth time, and your opponents were creeping up behind you, waiting to snatch the game from you with one mistake.

It was deafening, the way the spectators roared as you prepared to serve.

You wished they’d all go quiet.

The whistle blew, and you let your serve fly, watching as it barely skimmed the net, landing in their court just short of the metre line.

Your teammates cheer, patting you on the back, but you don’t hear them.

This is when your coach calls a time out.

You stand to the side, breathing deeply, the air thick with noise and sweat and air so hot it becomes suffocating around your skin.

Distantly, the buzzer sounds for the end of time out, and you return to the service line, drowning your thoughts in the noise.

“Don’t lose concentration!” you hear from the stands behind you. Despite it all, you turn around, searching for the heckler.

Oikawa sits in the row closest to the front, having lost the cap and sunglasses, waving his arms like a madman.

“What the fuck,” you mumble to yourself.

“Look closely!”

“I’m losing concentration because of you, you absolute –”

Then the whistle blows for you to serve, and you abruptly turn back to the game, the insult dying on your tongue.

What did he mean by ‘pay attention’? He’d just broken the laser focus you were in, and now you didn’t know where you were going to serve.

Except, there was a massive hole in the opponent’s defence.

They were now accustomed to your short serves that just landed within the metre line.

You make a mental note to thank Oikawa if your serve went in, and slam your serve so hard that their defence has no time to register the change.

Your serve lands on the line, nearly out of bounds.

Your team sighs in relief, finally pulling ahead of the deuce, securing the match.

“Japan takes the win! That’s their star player for you, landing service aces all across the court!”

“I told you!” you hear from behind again.

You turn around, meeting his eyes.

His smile is endearing. Dimples, and his nose slightly scrunched. It’s contagious.

You smile back, waving, then become crushed underneath the weight of your team as they jump onto you, screaming and laughing and crying.

He helped you make it to the finals, and somehow, it was better than an apology.

The fifth time you meet – and one of the last – you’re, once again, in the cafeteria, craving molten bliss in the form of one of those chocolate muffins. You hope the Gods have heard your prayers, and that there would still be some left, even at this late hour.

“Oh, you’re here?”

“Yeah, why are you?”

“Is that the first thing you wanna say to me?”

“...yes, why would it be any other way?”

He smiles, rubbing the back of his head. Averting your eyes. “Muffin?”

“Huh?”

“This was the last one.”

“Are you okay?”

“What?”

“What have you done with Oikawa? This isn’t the whiny, vengeful guy I know.”

“And you’ve known me for, what, a week?”

You shrug, snatching the muffin from his hands before he changes his mind. “Thanks.”

He sighs. Sits down at one of the tables. You follow suit.

“So, why Argentina?”

“Really?”

“What? It’s awkward with silence.”

“...I looked up to Jose Blanco.”

“That’s surprisingly sweet.”

“Hey, I can be sweet.”

“I wasn’t talking about you, I was talking about the muffin.”

“..Oh.”

“Sorry. You’re alright too, I guess.”

He pouts, but you can’t care less as you bite into the muffin, savouring the chocolate as it melts onto your tongue.

“Thanks, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“For today. Game point.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Shut up and take my thanks.”

“Alright, fine, fine.” He tilts his head, watching you with his sharp eyes. “You didn’t need my help though. You were good enough on your own.”

“Thanks.”

Quiet lapses in the empty dining hall as you sit, the rows and rows of chairs and tables almost eerie in the dark.

“Well, I’m going to bed. Too tired after today.”

“Rest up, you deserve it.”

“Seriously, you need to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“This niceness. It’s off putting.”

“I can be nice.”

“No, you can’t. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Fine, I won’t.”

“...right. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

The night carries a chill in it, a cold bliss as the breeze brushes against your skin. Nostalgic, with the moonlight’s glow.

Oikawa regretted many things. Many of those included not working hard enough, not being fast enough, not being strong enough, but that night, he regretted his cowardice.

The sixth and final time you meet is after his finals game. You barely see each other after your late night encounter at the dining hall, and you’re both too busy with training now that you’d both qualified. After being knocked out of the competition in the running for second place and barely winning your third place match, your team is exhausted, and your spirits are still high.

The air of the Olympic village is thick with lethargy and simultaneously the buzz of relief and excitement, cheering echoing across courtyards and buildings. You mill about the front entrance, watching people come and go, waiting for him. You don’t know why, but you feel obligated to congratulate him, your heart still spiralling with the spirit of the stadium.

You vividly recall his plays, the way he moved as if the world made space for him, the efficacy of his movements and the focus in his eyes that had Japan by the neck.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“It’s me.”

“Did you watch my game?”

“I did. Congrats.”

He smiles, and your heart melts a little. “Thanks.”

You smile back, and quiet fills the space between you once again.

“Are you staying in Japan for a bit after the games?”

“I’m planning to.”

“That’s good.”

“Are you? I mean, you live here, but–yeah. We should play together”

“What?”

“I could set for you?”

You burst out laughing, hunching over, and don’t see as Oikawa's face flushes profusely.

“Sure. I’d love to see you try to pick up one of my serves too.”

“Wanna bet? I could easily pick up every one of your serves.”

“Sure, pretty boy.”

“No aces, you owe me another muffin.”

“Huh? How does that work?”

“Figure it out, loser.”

You indignantly narrow your eyes, crossing your arms. “And if I do score an ace on you?”

“You get a muffin.”

You roll your eyes at his childlike antics. “Sure. Just make sure you’re ready to go bankrupt.”

You wake the next morning to your team manager banging on your door, slamming it open, and shoving her phone in your face. You blink blearily, abruptly pulled from senseless dreams and the warmth of sleep to a grainy photo of the unmistakable tall, broad shouldered figure of Oikawa, and you beside him, laughing together.

“Care to explain? Why are there dating rumours? What do you think you’re doing?”

You grumble, turning over. For now, you’d relish in your dreams of a certain volleyball player and glorious chocolate muffins.

written by @atlaswav , published 28th of January 2025

#icymi

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atlaswav · 27 days ago

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MORNING SONG ☾

INFO: 1468 words, jing yuan x gn! reader SYNOPSIS: grief steals from those that it latches onto, and jing yuan knows this best. Your disappearance from the Xianzhou creates a rift in his heart, and only death can bring you back together. WARNINGS: gore metaphors used, mention of death, grief and loss AUTHOR'S NOTE: wrote this one ages ago too, kind of proud!! i can feel its gonna flop tho bc i used too many metaphors again

There was a lark perched on his windowsill, and its song reminded him of you.

Its song, as it was written in age old books, was a mimicry of all those that it heard. A mosaic of all that came before it, translated into a high, rapid tune that marked mornings.

Mourning-song, he’d once mused.

Jing Yuan couldn’t decide if he looked forward to these mornings, or dreaded them. There was nothing he could do that could possibly erase your memory completely, nor tarnish the sparkling image he preserved of your meetings. There was nothing that could erase the betrayal he felt when you left so suddenly, and he could only pray that an aeon was watching.

When you left, the world went cold as the ice that crept onto glass in a stagnant winter morning. Frost in intricate needles, laid perfectly, waiting for someone to breathe and shatter its balance.

There was a hint of you in all he did, as if you wanted to haunt him after your sudden departure. After the ill fate of the high cloud quintet that left you both in shambles, both bleeding, both breaking, both grieving, but finding solace in one another. Remnants of what remained of those golden years, promising each other patience and never to leave.

Until you did.

He didn’t know why, and didn’t care. It didn’t matter, because you were gone with a whisper of still morning air with only a note left on the hilt of his sword.

Heal yourself, heal us.

There were memories that time couldn’t erase, he believed, and you were one of them. A curse or a blessing, he couldn’t tell. Yearning and grief were one and the same, and you were the perfect subject for his emotion to be channelled into – the singular subject for all his grievances. The object of all his hatred and rage, the one who held all the answers to the questions he wanted to scream at the heavens which didn’t deign responses.

There were birds that lined the trees all throughout the Xianzhou, and all of them seemed to want to imitate the lark’s mournful song.

Their song was something he grew accustomed to, however. He was getting complacent. Less mornings were befell by these hymns of waking, more were filled with plans of the day, which assistants he needed to check up on, Yanqing’s training, investigations and documents and reports that he lost himself in.

And yet seasons changed, leaves browned, flowers blossomed and your note remained on his desk, now lost amongst countless documents.

The lark’s song, one morning, marked your return – though he never knew it. It became the tune of his waking hours, one that became white noise in the work he buried himself beneath.

It shocked him to the core to discover you had become one of the nameless.

You left him to be one of the nameless.

It tore him apart to see you look upon him with such a strange demeanour, a foreign gaze – hardened, almost cruel – and smile.

“This is general Jing Yuan.”

You nodded then, and it felt so familiar. As if your past was trapped behind your new face, and that if he tore it off as you had torn out his heart, he’d see that youthful, naive grin he’d always coveted, festering and rotting behind your new visage. Despite it all, he searched for the dregs of loss on your face, only to learn that you were now slivers and shards of what once was.

You were bleeding when you were with him. Now healed, he had no idea what to do except admire the scars and patchwork.

“Nice to meet you, General.”

The timbre of your voice was familiar long ago, if more meek–wary. Even his title felt distant. Wrong. As if your lips longed to mouth the name that you once so easily voiced. And did your voice carry a new lilt? There was something new in every face and orifice of your existence, and he knew it was childish, naive and brash – like you both were, once – but he wished he could glimpse you again. A small part of him, dark and spiteful, wished you were still suffering. That you suffered as he did.

What stood before him was a mosaic of memories he was unfamiliar with, hardened beneath the world’s cruel touch. Cold and alien, like the stars of other galaxies, and he cursed the aeons.

“A pleasure, Y/n.”

He nearly misses the way your eyes don’t smile with the curve of your lips, the glance you cast at Himeko and the way the redhead’s eyes subtly narrow before returning to the conversation.

You were reduced to common niceties and courtesies that strangers could exchange, and you both knew exactly what would happen if you deigned to acknowledge the crouching lion that hid beyond the facades.

“Crouching Lion, Pouncing Tiger.” Is what Fu Xuan ordained, and he soon realised this to be entirely true.

With Dan Feng’s incarnation making an appearance, he idly wondered where this so-called “Pouncing Tiger” may come in, only to realise with stark confrontation.

“General.”

Your voice cuts through the still quiet of his office like a knife honed on years of cruelty. He hadn’t heard you enter, and he sits straight as his gaze meets yours through the dim light.

“Yes, Y/n.”

“Do you remember?”

He does, and it suffocates him with a cold that imbues a vengeful chill on hands that have long since lost colour.

“I remember.”

You blink, and don’t respond for a while. Quiet settles again, and distantly, birds sing their eveningsong. Mosaics of other songs, precisely what they were.

“Are you angry?”

Of course he is. Was. When you disappeared, he wanted to carve his heart from his chest to ease the ache. He wanted to tear his skin from his bones and use the ivory to form the divination that may lead him to you. He would’ve turned the cosmos out for a chance to find you again, would sacrifice all his memory of all his life to be able to hold you in his hands again – gently, this time, of course – you were a fragile thing, prone to breaking.

But he did exactly this, and now, you stood before him, completely unaware.

“I’m not angry.”

“Why not?”

“There is time for everything, songbird.” The nickname slips out far too easily for his liking, and though it tastes like a memory from centuries ago, covered in dust and now cloying sweetness, you still smile.

It meets your eyes, this time.

“Time for everything?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“Is there time for us?”

This makes him pause.

There was, once, time for it all. There was an immortal’s reverie that once perpetuated this suspension from the elements and all that came to it. A paralysis of time that cast everything in an age of gold which gave illusions that there was, indeed, time for it all. Time for the clandestine meetings in parks and impromptu visits, stolen glances and hushed giggles.

“There is time.”

Your smile falls slightly.

“Jing Yuan, I’m dying.”

And time stops, the world freezes on its rotation, and Jing Yuan doesn’t know anything but startling disquiet as your eyes become teary.

He remembers, once, wiping your tears away with his own sleeve. There was sunlight in this memory. Sunlight, lush grass and distant birdsong, but it was all meaningless because you were in front of him.

You were happy. Or so he thought. You cried because you were overjoyed that he loved you the way you loved him, and your pining hadn’t been for nothing.

But history moved in cruel circles, and his anguish, it seemed, would be for nothing.

“How?”

“The stars.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been written in the stars.”

“It’s been ordained?”

You nod. “Fu Xuan herself.”

He breathes deeply, and the space between you becomes swallowed up by his footsteps, sealed as his arms wrap around you. His hold is so tight that you almost can't breathe, but you don’t care. You don’t care about anything except how he smells identical to what you remember. How his hair – though longer – brushed against your cheek, and his firm, tall stature that engulfed you.

You missed him.

You think the aeons are cruel.

He wants to curse the stars and draw blood to whoever dares to try and steal you again.

He holds you for longer and longer, until you both sink onto the ground in a heap of tears and grievances, time apart dissipating with proximity.

Neither of you want to leave to wash away the receipt of your regret, because it means it’s real.

The stars were cruel in separating you, and only crueller in bringing you back together.

written by @atlaswav , published 29th of January 2025

#icymi

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atlaswav · 1 month ago

Text

MORNING SONG ☾

There was a lark perched on his windowsill, and its song reminded him of you.

Its song, as it was written in age old books, was a mimicry of all those that it heard. A mosaic of all that came before it, translated into a high, rapid tune that marked mornings.

Mourning-song, he’d once mused.

When you left, the world went cold as the ice that crept onto glass in a stagnant winter morning. Frost in intricate needles, laid perfectly, waiting for someone to breathe and shatter its balance.

Until you did.

He didn’t know why, and didn’t care. It didn’t matter, because you were gone with a whisper of still morning air with only a note left on the hilt of his sword.

Heal yourself, heal us.

There were birds that lined the trees all throughout the Xianzhou, and all of them seemed to want to imitate the lark’s mournful song.

And yet seasons changed, leaves browned, flowers blossomed and your note remained on his desk, now lost amongst countless documents.

The lark’s song, one morning, marked your return – though he never knew it. It became the tune of his waking hours, one that became white noise in the work he buried himself beneath.

It shocked him to the core to discover you had become one of the nameless.

You left him to be one of the nameless.

It tore him apart to see you look upon him with such a strange demeanour, a foreign gaze – hardened, almost cruel – and smile.

“This is general Jing Yuan.”

You were bleeding when you were with him. Now healed, he had no idea what to do except admire the scars and patchwork.

“Nice to meet you, General.”

What stood before him was a mosaic of memories he was unfamiliar with, hardened beneath the world’s cruel touch. Cold and alien, like the stars of other galaxies, and he cursed the aeons.

“A pleasure, Y/n.”

He nearly misses the way your eyes don’t smile with the curve of your lips, the glance you cast at Himeko and the way the redhead’s eyes subtly narrow before returning to the conversation.

“Crouching Lion, Pouncing Tiger.” Is what Fu Xuan ordained, and he soon realised this to be entirely true.

With Dan Feng’s incarnation making an appearance, he idly wondered where this so-called “Pouncing Tiger” may come in, only to realise with stark confrontation.

“General.”

Your voice cuts through the still quiet of his office like a knife honed on years of cruelty. He hadn’t heard you enter, and he sits straight as his gaze meets yours through the dim light.

“Yes, Y/n.”

“Do you remember?”

He does, and it suffocates him with a cold that imbues a vengeful chill on hands that have long since lost colour.

“I remember.”

You blink, and don’t respond for a while. Quiet settles again, and distantly, birds sing their eveningsong. Mosaics of other songs, precisely what they were.

“Are you angry?”

But he did exactly this, and now, you stood before him, completely unaware.

“I’m not angry.”

“Why not?”

It meets your eyes, this time.

“Time for everything?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“Is there time for us?”

This makes him pause.

“There is time.”

Your smile falls slightly.

“Jing Yuan, I’m dying.”

And time stops, the world freezes on its rotation, and Jing Yuan doesn’t know anything but startling disquiet as your eyes become teary.

You were happy. Or so he thought. You cried because you were overjoyed that he loved you the way you loved him, and your pining hadn’t been for nothing.

But history moved in cruel circles, and his anguish, it seemed, would be for nothing.

“How?”

“The stars.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been written in the stars.”

“It’s been ordained?”

You nod. “Fu Xuan herself.”

You missed him.

You think the aeons are cruel.

He wants to curse the stars and draw blood to whoever dares to try and steal you again.

He holds you for longer and longer, until you both sink onto the ground in a heap of tears and grievances, time apart dissipating with proximity.

Neither of you want to leave to wash away the receipt of your regret, because it means it’s real.

The stars were cruel in separating you, and only crueller in bringing you back together.

written by @atlaswav , published 29th of January 2025

#hsr #hsr jing yuan #jing yuan #jing yuan hsr #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #jing yuan honkai star rail #honkai star rail #jing yuan x y/n #star rail #hsr angst #scheduled this to post so hopefully it works???? never used this feature before #idk #anyway #☁️. writing

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atlaswav · 1 month ago

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twenty years across the sea

#fuck #FUCKK

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atlaswav · 1 month ago

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#poetry #poem #writing #spilled ink #verse #☁️. poetry

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atlaswav · 1 month ago

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ACE! ➷

The night was quiet, and the dining hall was almost empty as you walked up to the dessert stand.

There was one muffin left, molten chocolate glowing under the warm lamplight, oozing with liquid bliss, illuminated in a halo of gold.

“Excuse me.”

“Huh?”

As he turns around, your heart drops into your stomach. The giant of a man lays his hands on the muffin in front of you. All hope you had for humanity diminished in one touch.

“...that was mine.” you mumble.

The shuffling of sandals on the ground echoes through the empty dining hall. His gaze awkwardly flits between you and the muffin.

“What happened to chivalry?”

“Guess its dead, sweet heart.”

“You’re not even gonna attempt to be a gentleman?”

“You’re not ladylike, so I won’t be a gentleman.”

“So you’re admitting you’re a douche.”

“At least I’m a douche with a muffin.”

This was going to be your last straw.

“Fuck you. I hope you lose your next match.”

“Oh–”

You storm away before he can get another word in.

This was your first encounter with Tōru Oikawa. Maybe an overreaction, but you really didn’t care.

The following day, your warmup is interrupted as the Argentinian men's team decide to enter your warmup stadium, raucous and impossible to miss.

“Do they have the wrong court, or something?” your coach murmurs, tearing his attention away from the practice game.

“Oh! It’s you!” a distinctive voice calls.

“Wait! Ball!”

You turn back to your rally just in time to get hit in the face with a volleyball, nose aching, eyes bleary with tears, reality tilting on its axis as you fall on your hands.

“Hey! What are you guys doing here?” the coach yells, distinct through the cacophony.

“This is our court, isn’t it?” the thief says. His voice is smooth like honey – like a liar.

“No, It’s ours until noon.”

“Is it not a quarter to noon?”

“Exactly, so get out. You’ve already injured one of my star players.” He swears in Japanese, and you hear the thief snicker, saying something back. Is he Japanese?

“I always hated those Argentinian volleyball players. So cocky.” your teammate says.

“Their captain is a handful. I wouldn’t want that bastard on the Japanese team either.” your coach echoes.

So he was their captain. And Japanese. And an asshole.

How dare he?

“Oh, you.”

His lips twitch into a half grimace, half smile. “Me.”

“Are you going to apologise?”

“I – for what?”

“Are you being stupid, or an asshole right now?”

“Neither. I don’t see what I need to apologise for.”

You mutter something under your breath about “Stupid, hot Argentinian volleyball players.”

“What was that?”

“Move up. You’re holding up the line.”

He shuffles forward, but turns around again to continue your exchange. “It’s not my fault you were too slow.”

“Which incident are you talking about? The muffin, or today?”

“The muffin, obviously. What, like it's my fault you lost concentration?”

“Mother–”

“Hey, can you guys quit arguing and move along? You’re holding everyone up.”

You both shut up and collect your dinner, parting with scalding glances toward each other.

“...you okay?”

“Does it look like it?”

“Is it that Argentinian captain again?”

You groan, stabbing your lukewarm mashed potatoes with your spoon. “I hate him.”

Your teammate casts you a sidelong glance. “Okay, whatever you say.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What the hell?”

You turn, and behind you is Oikawa. He wears a cap with a sports logo on it, and sunglasses that are almost comically large. You find it within yourself to resist a howling laugh.

“What? Why are you here?” you ask – slightly too loudly, as people cast their attention toward you. He shrinks down in his seat in embarrassment.

“I’m scouting the enemy, of course. What, are you stalking me or something?” he mumbles, glaring at you past the rims of his sunglasses.

You scoff. “Of course not. I’m watching my country play, obviously.”

“Really? You’re Japanese?”

“I’m a citizen. Aren’t you?”

He crosses his arms, huffing. “And I thought I’d tanned when I was in Brazil.”

You scoff at his childishness. “Brazil? Why aren’t you playing for Japan?”

“I need to crush them.”

You let out a barking laugh at his antics. “Really? You have vendettas that need fulfilling?”

“Don’t laugh, you’re drawing attention.” he sighs, leaning forward as if passing on some great generational secret. “But yes. I do.”

“I can’t begin to imagine who could ever be your enemy.”

“Well I sure can.”

This man has to be a social experiment. “That was sarcasm, captain.”

He pouts, and you turn straight ahead for the national anthems to play and the first serve.

The Japanese supporters begin to cheer, and you applaud with them, before you hear a scoff from behind you.

“What, is he one of the guys you need revenge on, or something?”

He turns away, but you see his pout.

You laugh. “Afraid he’s better than you?”

“Of course not. I’m better.”

You decide it’d be fun to mess with him, so you comply.

But you don’t forget that he owes you an apology. Two. You’re not growing fond of him, either.

“What?”

“I hate that guy.”

“Who?”

“The one who just scored.”

“...Ushijima? Why?”

“I hate him.”

“...sure you do. Should I ask who else you hate, or will we be here all day?”

“...Okay, wow, a lot to process.”

“So yes, I have a vendetta. Thought you should know.”

“That was a really big dump on some stranger you haven’t even known for a week.”

“You asked.”

“No, not really.”

He rolls his eyes, and you both go back to watching the game. What you don’t realise is that he’s smiling.

“Oh my God, I’m going to throw up.” you groan, watching the next server prepare.

“Want a throwup bag?”

“You look like you could use one too.”

“I’m not nervous, unlike you.”

“I can see the sweat on your shorts. You’re not subtle when you wipe your hands on them.”

“Damn you–”

“Shut up, they just served.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be ‘scouting the enemy’?” you say through laughter.

“I am. This is all a disguise.”

“Really? Leaving just like that?”

“I have a friend on that team.”

“You?”

“Shut up.”

You shrug, smiling as you turn to leave. “Bye then, muffin thief.”

“That’s Toru Oikawa, to you.”

“Muffin thief,” you call over your shoulder as you disappear into the crowd.

“Oikawa.”

“Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi’s eye twitches, but he grins nonetheless, pulling Oikawa into a hug. “Was that your girlfriend?”

“What? Huh? Really? Is that the first question you ask me after so many years?”

“Nah, she probably isn’t. She’s too pretty for you.”

“Mean.”

But nothing had changed, and he was grateful.

You barely remember your fourth encounter, but it’s during your final game of the preliminary matches – the one that you have to win, else be cut from the competition.

It was deafening, the way the spectators roared as you prepared to serve.

You wished they’d all go quiet.

The whistle blew, and you let your serve fly, watching as it barely skimmed the net, landing in their court just short of the metre line.

Your teammates cheer, patting you on the back, but you don’t hear them.

This is when your coach calls a time out.

You stand to the side, breathing deeply, the air thick with noise and sweat and air so hot it becomes suffocating around your skin.

Distantly, the buzzer sounds for the end of time out, and you return to the service line, drowning your thoughts in the noise.

“Don’t lose concentration!” you hear from the stands behind you. Despite it all, you turn around, searching for the heckler.

Oikawa sits in the row closest to the front, having lost the cap and sunglasses, waving his arms like a madman.

“What the fuck,” you mumble to yourself.

“Look closely!”

“I’m losing concentration because of you, you absolute –”

Then the whistle blows for you to serve, and you abruptly turn back to the game, the insult dying on your tongue.

What did he mean by ‘pay attention’? He’d just broken the laser focus you were in, and now you didn’t know where you were going to serve.

Except, there was a massive hole in the opponent’s defence.

They were now accustomed to your short serves that just landed within the metre line.

You make a mental note to thank Oikawa if your serve went in, and slam your serve so hard that their defence has no time to register the change.

Your serve lands on the line, nearly out of bounds.

Your team sighs in relief, finally pulling ahead of the deuce, securing the match.

“Japan takes the win! That’s their star player for you, landing service aces all across the court!”

“I told you!” you hear from behind again.

You turn around, meeting his eyes.

His smile is endearing. Dimples, and his nose slightly scrunched. It’s contagious.

You smile back, waving, then become crushed underneath the weight of your team as they jump onto you, screaming and laughing and crying.

He helped you make it to the finals, and somehow, it was better than an apology.

“Oh, you’re here?”

“Yeah, why are you?”

“Is that the first thing you wanna say to me?”

“...yes, why would it be any other way?”

He smiles, rubbing the back of his head. Averting your eyes. “Muffin?”

“Huh?”

“This was the last one.”

“Are you okay?”

“What?”

“What have you done with Oikawa? This isn’t the whiny, vengeful guy I know.”

“And you’ve known me for, what, a week?”

You shrug, snatching the muffin from his hands before he changes his mind. “Thanks.”

He sighs. Sits down at one of the tables. You follow suit.

“So, why Argentina?”

“Really?”

“What? It’s awkward with silence.”

“...I looked up to Jose Blanco.”

“That’s surprisingly sweet.”

“Hey, I can be sweet.”

“I wasn’t talking about you, I was talking about the muffin.”

“..Oh.”

“Sorry. You’re alright too, I guess.”

He pouts, but you can’t care less as you bite into the muffin, savouring the chocolate as it melts onto your tongue.

“Thanks, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“For today. Game point.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Shut up and take my thanks.”

“Alright, fine, fine.” He tilts his head, watching you with his sharp eyes. “You didn’t need my help though. You were good enough on your own.”

“Thanks.”

Quiet lapses in the empty dining hall as you sit, the rows and rows of chairs and tables almost eerie in the dark.

“Well, I’m going to bed. Too tired after today.”

“Rest up, you deserve it.”

“Seriously, you need to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“This niceness. It’s off putting.”

“I can be nice.”

“No, you can’t. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Fine, I won’t.”

“...right. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

The night carries a chill in it, a cold bliss as the breeze brushes against your skin. Nostalgic, with the moonlight’s glow.

Oikawa regretted many things. Many of those included not working hard enough, not being fast enough, not being strong enough, but that night, he regretted his cowardice.

You vividly recall his plays, the way he moved as if the world made space for him, the efficacy of his movements and the focus in his eyes that had Japan by the neck.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“It’s me.”

“Did you watch my game?”

“I did. Congrats.”

He smiles, and your heart melts a little. “Thanks.”

You smile back, and quiet fills the space between you once again.

“Are you staying in Japan for a bit after the games?”

“I’m planning to.”

“That’s good.”

“Are you? I mean, you live here, but–yeah. We should play together”

“What?”

“I could set for you?”

You burst out laughing, hunching over, and don’t see as Oikawa's face flushes profusely.

“Sure. I’d love to see you try to pick up one of my serves too.”

“Wanna bet? I could easily pick up every one of your serves.”

“Sure, pretty boy.”

“No aces, you owe me another muffin.”

“Huh? How does that work?”

“Figure it out, loser.”

You indignantly narrow your eyes, crossing your arms. “And if I do score an ace on you?”

“You get a muffin.”

You roll your eyes at his childlike antics. “Sure. Just make sure you’re ready to go bankrupt.”

“Care to explain? Why are there dating rumours? What do you think you’re doing?”

You grumble, turning over. For now, you’d relish in your dreams of a certain volleyball player and glorious chocolate muffins.

written by @atlaswav , published 28th of January 2025

#oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru #haikyuu oikawa #hq x reader #hq oikawa #oikawa x you #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #oikawa fluff #haikyuu x you #haikyuu time skip #oikawa time skip #olympics au #olympics #erm i dont remember when i wrote most of this and its barely proofread so if it seems off then SORRYRYE #not my best work but fuck it we ball i guess #☁️. writing

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