#I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mission Control 6

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

As the man comes toward you, you can’t react. He grabs your jacket, splitting the zipper, and rips it down your arms. You whimper as he strips the fabric away and lets it drop. His hand recoils to his belt and he unsheathes a long hunting knife. You take a step back and he catches back of your head and tuts as he closes in once more. 

He fists your hair in his hand and tugs until you tilt your head back. He pokes the tip of the knife against your chin and drags it down your neck. You quiver as his eyes blaze down at you. His pupils dilate as his gaze falls to the blade and turns it in his grip. He hooks the slightly curved point under your shirt and rents through your shirt. 

He slices so easily through the fabric that it leaves you breathless. You don’t move, terrified of being gashed. He cuts up your bra in quick succession, then your jeans, and your panties, leaving you only in your beat-up sneakers and socks. You’d feel ridiculous if you weren’t so scared. 

He stands straight and raises the knife, showing it to you in a silent threat. He twirls it and slides it back into the sheath on his belt. He looks down as you try to cover yourself with your hands. You shift on your feet and slowly bend to untie your shoes. 

He turns away. You peek up as he goes to the wall and pulls a framed painting, opening the hidden compartment behind. He takes the pistol from his belt and puts it away. He unstraps the harness from around his chest and another blade from his leg. He reveals a few more weapons from under his clothing before he shuts the door; gears whirring to lock it in place. 

Even without a blade, he’s dangerous. You know that much. That he disarmed himself shows that he’s just as aware of the imbalance. You slip free of your shoes and socks and stand, a hand over your pelvis and an arm over your chest. You gulp and search the room helplessly. 

He nears and grabs you by the back of your neck. He marches you across the room and through another door. Within, a bathroom is lit by the flip of a switch. He shoves you towards the tub and reaches to crank on the faucet. The scour of water makes you wince. 

He snaps his finger and points inside. You step over the porcelain wall and he yanks the curtain shut between you. You shiver even as the water steams hotly and pours over you. 

The heat should feel nice but you only shake as it spatters down. You look around. You take the fresh bar of soap and scrub yourself. It smells like rose and vanilla. You set it back in the dish and rinse the lather. 

You glance over. His shadow is gone. You inch towards the curtain and peer around it nervously. He’s not there. 

You retreat and face the showerhead. You turn off the faucet as the water only agitates your skin. You stand shivering, arms crossed, waiting. 

The door clicks open and he stomps back in. He tears back the curtain and shoves a towel against you. You hug it. 

“Thank you,” you look up into his scarred face. “Sir, why...” 

He lifts a single finger and pushes it against your lips. He shakes his head. You close your mouth and unfold the towel. He pulls his hand back as his eyes drift again to your body. You’re self-conscious as you fumble to hide yourself behind the towel. 

He grabs your arm and drags you out of the tub. He takes you out of the bathroom, back into the front room, and through yet another doorway. It’s a bedroom. It’s lit by a ceiling light, dimmed to amber, and a bed stands, draped in grey plaid flannel. 

He points again and let you go. You go to the bed and stop at the foot. It’s then you notice the plain white night gown. You look over your shoulder. He dips his chin down. You turn back and reach for cotton. 

You trade the towel for the nightgown and the door slams. You turn. You’re alone. You sway on your feet and examine the room. The walls are dark wood, rippled with knots and rings. The decor is sparse. The bed, a tall armoire, a shelf in the corner. 

You near the shelf slowly, not sure you’re seeing what’s there. The wall above it is plastered with pictures. Of you. Of your apartment. Of the tea shop. Every aspect of your life documented. Below, the shelf is cluttered with various objects; your possessions. The brush you thought you dropped out of your bag and replaced, several tubes of lip balm but you never finish those, a bracelet you forgot about, and an old journal you thought was still in your closet. 

You back away. This man didn’t just find you, he’s been following you. For a long time. You retreat to the bed and sit on the end. Again, you’re paralysed in futility. 

He returns and you gasp as you look up. He has only a towel at his waist as he barges in. You cower with wide eyes as he walks to the shelf and sets down something in the small glass tray with your bracelet. Your shank of hair. You cover your mouth in horror. 

Is he going to kill you? He’s some deranged murdered and this is his kill room or some weird stuff like that. You stand and clutch the towel. 

“Please just tell me if you’re going to kill me. I’d like to know at least,” you say, quavering. 

His back tenses. Scars crisscross his muscles as they strain beneath the skin. He pushes his head back before he faces you. His expression says nothing. He comes to you, stopping just in front of you. 

He grabs you by the neck and you tense. You try to prepare yourself for death but you won’t ever be ready. Your eyes well up and your heartbeat hammers in your chest. With his other hand, he strips away his towel. You yipe against his firm grip. 

He spreads his hand over the left side of your chest. You can feel your heart more clearly. His palm is hot like fire. You shakily reach to clasp onto his wrist, begging him with your eyes. Not to let you go, but for mercy. Make it quick. 

He squeezes your throat, not enough to block your breath, but enough to make you nervous. He lifts your neck and, without much effort, or care, hurls you back onto the bed. You splay over it as you exclaim and bite your tongue.  

What he intends to do, might be worse than death. 

[ninjatrashpanda]

The Other Shoe (Waiting for it to drop)

Written for @bucktommypositivityweek Round 2! Today's prompt is "Coming Out Scenes!"

Read it on AO3 here.

“I, uh, I think it’s time to face the music,” Buck whispered, tugging on Tommy’s sleeve. His eyes wandered over to his parents, who had watched him and Tommy like hawks throughout the entire reception, though Buck had a hard time predicting what they were thinking. On one hand, therapy had been going well, and while The Buckleys would probably never be the big happy family Buck had wished for as a kid, Mom and Dad were trying. They had been nothing but supportive about him being Connor and Kameron’s sperm donor last year, and Buck would be lying if he said he hadn’t felt a pang of appreciation when they had stood up for him against Chimney’s father and stepmother.

On the other hand, well, these were his parents, and old fears die hard. While they had apologized for how they had treated him and Maddie and become better, there was a little voice at the back of his head that told him they’d just be disappointed again. The fact that his mother hadn’t managed to get rid of the bewildered look on her face since he had dragged Tommy into Chimney’s hospital room didn’t help.

“Should I be scared?” Tommy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Buck chuckled, though it sounded more like a nervous exhale. He stole another glance at his parents, then shifted his gaze to the floor, kicking at an imaginary speck of dust. “Nah,” he said, though he admittedly wasn’t even able to convince himself of that. “Not scared. Just... prepared.”

Tommy followed Buck’s gaze across the room, where Buck’s parents stood stiffly by a wall, half-empty champagne flutes clutched tightly in their hands. Buck knew they had been mingling just a few minutes ago, but he still couldn’t help but feel that they looked, well, out of place. While they were nothing but polite, they didn’t really mesh with anyone else, and always seemed a little awkward.

“They don’t seem like they bite,” Tommy observed, in that casual, dry tone Buck had grown to appreciate over the past few weeks. In an instant, a part of his anxiety evaporated and bubbled to the surface in a barely held back snort.

“Not literally, no.” Buck ran a hand through his hair with a shake of his head, the slight smile Tommy had brought to his face staying on his face. “It’s just... history, you know? They’re trying, and I get that, I do. But sometimes it’s like...” He trailed off with a shrug, struggling to find the right words. “It’s like I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Tommy nodded, his hand reaching out to squeeze Buck’s. Buck had told him the basics, how Maddie had practically raised him, how their parents had been neglectful and controlling. He vaguely knew about Daniel, too, though Buck hadn’t delved into the whole Savior Baby thing yet. The subject was…touchy, to say the least, and while he knew he had to breach it at some point, he wanted Tommy to have as neutral an opinion on his parents as possible. They were putting in the effort, so Buck figured they deserved that much.

“Well,” Tommy said, squeezing Buck’s hand again, a bit firmer this time, “if things get weird, you’ve got me for backup. Just say the word, and I’ll distract them with my fake mouth static.”

Buck couldn’t help but let out a genuine laugh at that, which surprised even himself. Tommy had a knack for diffusing tension, and Buck was grateful for it. It was one of the reasons he had gravitated toward him in the first place. He tightened his grip on Tommy’s hand, drawing strength from the contact, before letting go and straightening up.

“Good idea. You’re renowned for your fake mouth static after all.”

“Damn right I am.”

They stood there for a moment, neither quite willing to take the first step towards the inevitable conversation. The reception was starting to wind down, (because the nurses were kicking people out now) so at least if this developed into a scene, not too many people would end up seeing. Chimney, now recovering well after the whole viral encephalitis debacle, was in high spirits, chatting animatedly with Hen and Karen. Maddie was close by his side, smiling brighter than he had ever seen, seemingly refusing to let go of her new husband’s arm.

The love between them gave Buck a tiny surge of courage. If Maddie and Chimney could find happiness after everything they had been through, then maybe things could work out with his and Maddie’s parents too.

“Alright,” Buck said, straightening his posture, bracing himself for impact. “Let’s do this.”

They crossed the room together, Tommy a step behind Buck, offering silent support. Buck’s parents straightened as he approached, their faces neutral masks. They clearly didn’t know how to react, and Buck could hardly blame them for that.

“Hi,” Buck said, forcing a smile. “You probably have a few questions.”

His mother’s eyes softened, but there was still a glimmer of uncertainty in them. His father cleared his throat, his grip on the champagne flute tightening just slightly. The atmosphere was stiff, and the air felt thick enough to cut it with a knife.

“Hi, Buck,” his mother replied, her voice wavering just a bit. Buck was actually (positively) surprised that she used his nickname, though he had to admit it sounded almost foreign in her voice. “Yes, we, uh…” She glanced at his father, who nodded, urging her to continue. “We do have some questions, but—”

“We don’t want to push,” his father interjected, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “We’re just… trying to understand.”

Buck nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. They weren’t throwing accusations and bad faith arguments around, so that was a good start. Still, Buck knew that they weren’t out of the woods yet. He hadn’t spoken about the big B yet, after all.

“Yeah,” Buck said, rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous habit he hadn’t quite outgrown. “I figured. And, uh, it’s okay to ask. I know this is… a lot.”

He could see the moment his mother tried to put on a brave face, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We were surprised, that’s all,” she said. “When you came into the room with…”

She trailed off, her eyes moving over Buck’s shoulder to where he knew Tommy stood just a foot or two behind him. He took a deep breath. This was it. No going back. He had thought about it for weeks at this point, had said it out loud to himself in the mirror, but not to anybody else, not even Maddie or Tommy.

“Tommy.” He turned slightly, reaching out his hand out to Tommy, who took it into his own with a smile as he stepped up. “Mom, Dad, this is Tommy Kinard. He’s my date. He, uh… he’s the reason I figured out that I’m bisexual.”

The words hung in the air for what felt like an eternity. Buck could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the sound of his blood rushing through his ears almost deafening. He knew this moment was pivotal (one of the most important in his life, probably) and the weight of it pressed down on him like the world on Atlas’ shoulders.

His parents exchanged glances, and Buck could see an onslaught of emotions flitting across their faces: surprise, confusion, and perhaps a flicker of something that could be hope. His mother’s fingers tightened around the stem of her champagne flute, and his father took a small step closer to her.

Tommy, for his part, stayed by Buck’s side, his presence a quiet but powerful anchor. He gave Buck’s hand a reassuring squeeze, a silent promise that he was here, and that he wouldn’t leave. Buck was grateful for that; it reminded him that no matter what was going to happen, he wasn’t alone.

His mother was the first to speak. “Bisexual,” she repeated, as if testing the word on her tongue. Her brow furrowed slightly, but there was no trace of anger or disappointment in her tone. Instead, she seemed...curious. “I…well, I didn’t expect that.”

Buck could see his father’s jaw tighten momentarily before he let out a slow breath. “Buck,” he began, his voice careful, deliberate. “This is…this is a lot to take in. But I want you to know that we’re listening. We’re trying to understand.”

Buck nodded. This wasn’t a rejection, not outright. But it wasn’t exactly acceptance either, not yet, at least. Still, it was something, and in this moment, something was better than nothing.

“I know it’s a lot,” Buck said, his voice quieter now. “And I don’t expect you to get it all at once. I only figured it out a few weeks ago, too. I just wanted you to know, because…because it’s who I am. And Tommy… he’s important to me.”

His mother’s eyes softened at that, and Buck could see her shifting, recalibrating her thoughts, trying to process this new piece of information about her son. “Tommy,” she said, as if tasting the name for the first time. She looked at him then, really looked at him, and there was something in her gaze that was almost…gentle. “It’s nice to meet you, Tommy.”

Tommy smiled, his usual confidence replaced by an almost shy nervousness. “Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Buckley. And Mr. Buckley,” he added, nodding respectfully toward Buck’s father.

Buck’s father gave a small nod in return, though his expression remained unreadable. “Tommy,” he repeated, his voice a bit more measured. “You’re… Buck’s boyfriend?”

Buck sucked in a sharp breath. Obviously that question would come up. He should’ve been prepared for it, but he wasn’t. He and Tommy hadn’t even really had that conversation. He’d certainly like for Tommy to be his boyfriend, he just wasn’t sure if Tommy was at that point yet. It had only been a few weeks after all. They had been on four dates, one of which was a complete disaster, and another that hadn’t even been a date at first, but an apology for the date that had been a complete disaster.

“Yeah,” Tommy said, his tone steady. “I’m his boyfriend. And I know this might be surprising, but Evan…he means a lot to me. I care about him.”

Buck’s breath hitched in his throat. He hadn’t expected Tommy to say it outright. He had expected a lighthearted “Not yet” or “We’re seeing each other.” That he’d gone right ahead… Buck’s heart swelled just a little bit. He squeezed Tommy’s hand a little tighter, grateful beyond words. Tommy’s answer made Buck just a little braver.

Finally, his mother spoke again. “I…I see,” she said, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. She looked at Buck, her eyes searching his, as if trying to reconcile the son she knew with these new things she was learning about him. “And you… you’re happy?”

Buck felt a lump rise in his throat. It was such a simple question, but it carried so much baggage. She wasn’t asking if he was happy with Tommy. She was asking if he was happy with himself, something that would’ve been absolutely unthinkable just three years ago.

“I am,” Buck replied, his voice growing more assured. “I’m happy, Mom. I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

His mother’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and she nodded slowly, as if coming to a decision within herself. She reached out then, tentatively, her hand hovering in the air for a moment before she placed it on Buck’s arm. “That’s all we want, Buck,” she whispered, her voice wavering a little. “We just want you to be happy.”

His father, who had been silent for most of the exchange, cleared his throat again. “It’s…a lot to adjust to,” he admitted, his voice gruff but not unkind. “But if this is who you are, and if this man makes you happy, then…well, we’ll do our best to understand.”

Buck felt a surge of relief wash over him, so powerful that it nearly knocked him off his feet. It wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but it was something. Something good. It was yet another step toward healing their relationship, and for that, he was grateful.

“Thank you,” Buck said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for not, like, freaking out.”

His father gave a small nod, and his mother’s hand tightened on his arm, a silent reassurance that they were, in fact, trying. Tommy smiled and wrapped his arm around Buck’s shoulders, Buck leaning into his side almost automatically, enjoying the warmth of their connection.

His mother glanced over at Tommy, her expression softening further. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner before we fly back to Hershey, Tommy,” she said, a small, tentative smile tugging at her lips. “We’d like to get to know you better.”

Tommy’s eyes widened at the invitation, and Buck didn’t blame him. It was already unusual that Tommy had met his parents this early, but getting invited to family dinner? That was big. “I’d love to, Mrs. Buckley. Thank you.”

Buck’s father gave a curt nod, not quite ready to add anything further, but his stance had relaxed just a little. There was still a long way to go, a lot of conversations to be had, but in that moment, Buck knew they were moving in the right direction.

As the reception continued to wind down, Buck stood there with Tommy by his side, his parents before him, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a cautious sense of optimism. The journey ahead would be challenging, there was no doubt about that, but they were all still here, still trying, and that was more than Buck could have hoped for when he first approached them.

As they exchanged a few more words, lighter now, less fraught with tension, Buck realized that this was what he had been waiting for all along. Not just acceptance, but the willingness to grow, to move forward together. And maybe that was enough to help the wounds of the past heal.

[burningfairytales]

In honour of our favourite ace’s birthday, lemme dump this bit of unedited writing on you.

Happy Birthday, Bokuto!

They make it through the first two rounds of the Interhigh Qualifiers with ease.

Really, it’s almost too easily. Konoha is expecting something to go wrong at literally any moment.

They’re the last ones on the morning of their second day, because Bokuto insisted on checking the merchandise stand before their first match, and even though he’d whined and asked Akaashi to join him, their vice-captain had insisted that at least one of them should be with the team, and had trusted Konoha to “reign him in before he spends too much money, Konoha-san. Thank you for your hard work.”

He’s prepared to drag Bokuto to the arena kicking and screaming, which it turns out he doesn’t have to, because Bokuto is actually excited for their match, and goes willingly with one more t-shirt and two matching keychains in his hand.

(The t-shirt, of course, is as ridiculous as any he’s ever bought, with the English words ‘POWER UP’ in big bold letters on its front. The keychains are of Vabo-chan, which fine, Konoha understands, but does Bokuto really need two?)

The other shoe drops when they’re making their way down the hall and towards the arena, and really, Konoha’s been waiting for it to happen - it’s just that he’s been expecting Bokuto to go all depressed over something small again, something laughable, something to joke about with the others, maybe tease Bokuto about afterwards.

He’s not expecting to come across two players from the team they’re about to face, standing a few metres away and talking, loudly, about Fukurodani.

Or rather, their captain.

“Have you seen their captain, though? Doesn’t he feel a bit… useless?”

He isn’t expecting the way Bokuto freezes for a moment, the way his shoulders slump imperceptibly, how he seems to shrink in on himself.

“I know! He looks strong and all, but I heard he sometimes messes up the simplest of plays.”

A chuckle.

“Maybe the team would be better off without him.”

The hallway is quiet when they leave, and Konoha glances at Bokuto from the corner of his eye. And it looks a bit like someone had poured salt into an open wound or found a bruise to poke at, the way Bokuto presses his lips together, wincing at a phantom pain, like his heart is bleeding.

“Hey, Owlhead,” Konoha starts. “You know they’re just talking sh-”

“Konoha,” Bokuto interrupts, straightening. Throws him a brittle smile, his lip quivering. It’s the saddest goddamn thing Konoha has ever seen. “I’m going on ahead, okay? Akaashi was right, I should have stayed with the team. Gotta warm up and all!”

His laugh lacks all his usual enthusiasm, and he turns, making his way towards the arena.

Konoha watches him go, watches the bow of his head, the downward pull of his shoulders as if he’s carrying something heavy.

Bokuto is ridiculous. He’s too enthusiastic, gets discouraged too easily. He’s simpleminded, and a bit of an airhead, and Konoha teases him for it often - but Bokuto is his teammate. Konoha knows he can joke about it because the things he says aren’t one hundred percent true, and he’s not always one hundred percent serious.

He can joke about it because he knows that Bokuto knows that.

But that just now, that was something else.

Konoha clenches his fist. He turns on his heel, following the other two players in the direction of the bathroom. Anger tightens his chest, sizzles in his gut, hot and dizzying.

“Hey, you!” He calls, when he catches up with them. “I heard you talking shit about our captain!”

The two of them look at each other and then at him. One of the two shrugs, unimpressed.

“So?” He asks. He’s the taller of the two, probably taller than Konoha. “He just seems like a bit of an idiot.”

Konoha grits his teeth. How dare they?

How dare they?

He’s in front of them before his brain even registers the movement, grabbing the taller one’s collar and shoving him against the wall.

“You don’t talk about him that way,” he grits out. “You don’t know him.”

“H-hey,” the shorter one says, his voice suddenly small. “Don’t take it personally. It’s not like we were talking about you.”

But it is personal. It is personal in a way Konoha doesn’t deign to explain because they have no idea how their team works. They don’t know half the stupid shit Bokuto pulls, or the way he’s there for his team when one of them needs him. They don’t know that he keeps stealing their food when they go out to eat, or the ongoing prank war with Nekoma High that Bokuto puts all his effort into winning. They don’t know how he makes sure they all know that it’s not their fault when they lose a match. They don’t know how he pushes them - encourages them to try harder, give it their all.

They don’t know shit.

He considers, for a moment, the consequences of punching one of them, just for the sake of it. Considers if it’s worth the suspension that’s likely to come his way. But just as he decides he’ll just have to risk it, a voice stops him.

“Konoha-san.” Akaashi stands at the end of the hallway. His back is straight, his hands hang loosely at his side. “We’re waiting for you.” His voice is quiet; calculated. “Let’s join the others, shall we?”

With a long exhale, Konoha lets go. Takes a final look at the two and almost laughs at the relief on their faces, because really, they have no idea.

That Akaashi’s calm demeanour shouldn’t at all be reassuring to them - that the fact he keeps his hands at his side betrays his anger, because it’s likely a conscious decision, or else he would be fiddling his fingers. That his quiet is the lethal kind.

Akaashi probably took one look at Bokuto’s deflated form, came to find Konoha two seconds away from throwing punches, and most likely realised exactly what must have happened.

They don’t know that their calm, collected vice-captain doesn’t get angry - he gets even.

“You don’t know us,” Konoha repeats, this time with a smirk. “But you’re about to.”

***

He tells the others what happened while Akaashi is off in the corner warming up with Bokuto - speaking to him most likely, while doing the thing that never fails to cheer him up: spiking Akaashi’s tosses.

Komi glares daggers over the net, looking just as ready as Konoha to drag them out of the arena and settle things off-cours. Washio frowns, and Onaga keeps sneaking worried glances at their captain. Saru’s mouth is drawn downwards in an unhappy line.

Their collective anger isn’t surprising, of course. Bokuto is their teammate, too.

“Let’s show them what we’ve got,” Komi says, a fist in the air. “They won’t get away with this.”

“I have an idea.” Akaashi’s voice is quiet as he approaches, like the subtle cracking of ice before an avalanche. “It’s a bit unorthodox.”

Behind them, Bokuto is talking to their coach, but he seems at least in somewhat higher spirits than before. Konoha wonders what it would be like, to have whatever these two have going on. To know and understand each other so completely.

“Let’s hear it!” Komi says.

“It might be a bit difficult to pull off,” Akaashi says slowly, “And it certainly won’t be very nice.”

Konoha laughs. “Akaashi, haven’t you heard? We’re not very nice people.”

***

Unorthodox is a good word to describe Akaashi’s sets - none of them could be considered textbook, which makes them anything but predictable.

He dumps the ball over the net not once, but twice, sets the ball to Konoha even though the blockers are on his side, and throws him a look that clearly says, I expect you to get around that.

Konoha snorts as he jumps. No pressure or anything.

Luckily, the blockers apparently aren’t expecting that bold a move either, because they’d already taken a few steps to the other side of the net, and are scrambled to get back into position just a second too late.

He scores, and laughs at the sheer audacity.

Most notably, Akaashi lets Bokuto spike however he seems to want to, even though he would normally try to reign him in - there’s a particularly bold backrow set that Konoha has to admit is actually kind of impressive. Not that he’s about to say that out loud.

(“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi calls between sets, “You haven’t used a single feint this tournament. Not today or yesterday.”

“Huh? Yeah, I guess? Do you think I should?”

“I think,” Akaashi says, and his smile is lethal, “I think it might be fun.”

Konoha shudders. He really, really doesn’t want to get on Akaashi’s bad side.)

By the end of the second set, Bokuto is back to his old self, laughing and whooping with every scored point.

He does use a feint then, cheerfully tips the ball over the blocker’s hands, punches the air in victory with an emphatic, “hey, hey, hey!” when it hits the floor on the other side of the net.

Konoha catches the smile on Akaashi’s lips as he watches Bokuto - warm and proud and so full of something else, something big and overwhelming that it catches Konoha off-guard. But before he can blink, Akaashi has already schooled his features into careful indifference, turning back towards the net.

Oh, Konoha thinks, as the puzzle pieces fall into place.

Oh.

***

It’s probably the most unconventional they’ve ever played - definitely the most risky, and, dare he say - the most fun, too. He’s sure Coach Yamiji will have words with them later, but for now, Konoha doesn’t care.

They didn’t just win - to put it in Bokuto’s terms, they crushed their opponents.

***

“Konoha!” Bokuto throws an arm around him, and Konoha allows it, just this once. “Let’s go get Yakiniku tonight, to celebrate, okay?”

“Sure.” Konoha shrugs. “As long as you’re paying, Captain.”

“Eh! Uh. Hmm….” Several emotions flit over Bokuto’s face. “Okay, yeah. Sure. We deserve it. Yeah!”

And then he bounces off. “Akaashi!” He calls, “Help me pay for Yakiniku later!”

With the advantage of hindsight, Konoha supposes it’s obvious. He watches how Akaashi’s focus shifts the second he hears Bokuto call for him. How his entire body turns in the direction of his voice before he’s even finished what he’s doing, like it doesn’t have a choice but to move, the pull of Bokuto commanding its movement like some sort of gravitational force.

He sees how Akaashi’s entire demeanour changes - it’s nothing obvious, nothing someone not from Fukurodani would even notice. But Konoha, like everyone else on the team, is practised in the art of recognising their setter’s subtle shifts, and so he sees:

The small, upward quirk of his lips, his open posture, how he reaches out and lightly touches Bokuto’s wrist with two fingers - Akaashi, who never initiates any physical contact with anyone.

Everything about him becomes softer the second he lays eyes on Bokuto. The same way, Konoha supposes, reviewing these past two years in his head, the same way Bokuto is softer around Akaashi than with anyone else on the team as well.

How did it take him this long to notice, he wonders, when it’s right there, written plainly on Bokuto’s face, and in the curve of Akaashi’s shoulders.

***

On the bus ride home, Bokuto stops at nothing to point out how amazing they were today. He mentions almost every one of Saru’s spikes and Washio’s blocks, compliments Komi on his receives and recreates Konoha’s plays with exaggerated hand gestures and dramatic flourish.

It’s completely ridiculous, in the way Bokuto always is, and Konoha feels his own chest with pride anyway. Komi high-fives Saru, and Onaga chuckles behind them.

Next to Bokuto, Akaashi catches Konoha’s eye and gives a subtle nod. Konoha smirks.

And this - this is why their team isn’t better off without Bokuto - not that Konoha is ever about to tell him that. Because Bokuto always tries his hardest, whether it’s during a game or off-court, whether it’s about volleyball or lifting their spirits. Because he reminds them of their strengths and still dares them to do better.

Because he is theirs, for better or for worse, and they will always, always rally behind him.

[dragons-library]

The cruel prince rants:

Okay maybe I’m just too paranoid about Locke or already love cardan too much lol

But when Nicasia said “he ruins things” what I understood was:

She was supposed to marry cardan and Locke ruined it because that’s what he likes to do.

[drunkardsprayer]

I am so sooo blissfully happy right now my life is so amazing I have a boyfriend and a girlfriend and a cat and a doggy and i literally could not be living a better life rn 🥰🥰🥰🥰

[clowningcrows]

existed in a space today where everyone only used my preferred name and pronouns to refer to me and !!!!!! oh my god :’) it feels so right i’m so giddy ahhhhhhhh

[disengaged]

wrote a 6 page acid-fueled letter to my ex about how i’m still in love with him and probably always will be, blah blah blah . his reaction ?? asking if i want to go on a trip to montreal to get tattoos together

[no1islost]

I don’t know what crack they put in the new Assassin’s Creed Mirage music, but every time I turn it on to play, I end up leaving it on the title screen or the pause screen and disassociate to the music for like an hour. Then I turn the game off 😂.

[francisforever2014]

having to worry about housing for next year despite thinking that i had it all sorted and i don’t even feel like i’m gonna throw up at all i’m actually completely normal

[eenochian]

like 16 people have told me happy birthday and i’m ngl i’ve been tearing up over it

[astronomical-bagel]

[offers hugs]

thanks dude. Todays been hard :(

[supernovasimplicity]

.

[letterstotheflre]

didn’t realise how traumatising it is to have every single boy leave me at the two week mark!!!

[summercourtship]

here from ao3 to say congrats on 10.5k hits on stay to burn!! you deserve all of that and more and im so happy to see one of my favorite authors get all the love and attention they deserve!!!

Oh my goodness, thank you so much! I think I’ve said it before, but I was really expecting this fic to not get any attention because it’s in such a niche with a kinda convoluted premise (at least, that’s how it felt when I was starting). So having this many people read it and a lot of them tell me that they really truly love it or it’s one of their favorite fics ever is absolutely unreal for me.

I guess it’s a perfect example of “write what you want to read and your audience will find you” haha. Because while, yes, Kingdom Come Undone was very similar I started to feel that over time I was being swayed by what the people reading wanted me to do which is why I’m trying to go back through it and edit things so that it reflects what I always wanted for it. I want to finish that one so bad but I need to fix it first.

[strohller27]

.

[motherfuckerunleashed]

…on one hand, I’m so thankful that I was introduced to this wonderful book series that has taken over my life for the past year.

on the other, he’s taking WAY too much pleasure in watching me suffer at the hands of character arcs