#artemis.writes

[lovingnekoma]

silly in love

minors do not interact | gojo x reader

what if one day you leave me, gojo wonders, frightened beyond belief. he tucks his face in the cradle of your warm palm, eyes open enough to see you smile softly. your fingertips are cold against his cheek.

there are no words for him to say, none that don’t get caught in his throat. gojo has faced down some of the greatest spirits and beasts in japan, even in the world, but this vulnerable, bleeding ache is somehow even more ominous and terrifying.

“what if,” he begins and stops to exhale, nuzzling deeper into your hand. his eyes stay fixed on you — gojo knows you like the path that is walked on every morning, like a favourite poem and the familiar feeling of adoration — which is how he catches the sadness seeping into your eyes.

“you’re such a silly man,” you say. you are too good for him. he knows this in his bones.

but you are with him regardless and he is selfish enough to take what he can get. if you choose to be with him, he will not do you the disservice of throwing your agency back in your face.

“you’re it for me. don’t you know? you’re the love of my life.”

i love you too, gojo thinks, then says out loud. then again and again. i love you i love you i love you; in kisses on your face, across your knuckles, on the curves of your throat.

the feeling rises in him. i will protect you endlessly. gojo knows this sentiment well, has felt it in every cell of his body only every day after he first began falling in love with you.

how fitting, for someone with infinity to express devotion in eternal absolutes. to have love expressed to them in kind.

“you’re mine,” he tells you instead, coy, something to rile you up, make you smirk wickedly. his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth. and i protect what’s mine.

[lovingnekoma]

“come on,” gojo says. he looks unbearably fond, impossibly sad.

you have bantered with him almost everyday for a year but right now you are helpless but to gaze back at him. you have no words that can match his tone, something beyond you. you want to reach out and shake answers out of him. you want to kiss him until he stops looking like that.

he cups your face, so tenderly that you are falling apart in his hands before you even know it. his fingertips still smell like his jujutsu; which is to say that infinity smells like vintage leather, bergamot, and ripe plums.

gojo burns citrus scents at home, sometimes sandalwood if he’s in a specific mood. you never thought much about it but in this moment, for some reason, your mind catches on it.

“baby.” gojo’s voice is so deep and warm and aching. it makes your heart hurt. when you look into his eyes, they are bright and tired and resigned. they are so blue, you want to drown in them, want to spend eternity doing stupid things like holding his hand and telling him how pretty he is.

“don’t you know? you’re my favourite person. i’d do anything for you.”

this is a lie, you think. gojo will put himself first in almost any situation. and yet, you know he will do unspeakable things for you — that he has done so already.

so what more can you do except catch his wrist, fine bones and soft skin, in your hand; to lean your face into his warm palm. his hands are so big and warm.

“i know,” you reassure him, gentle. his gaze, impossibly, softens further. there is something so fragile about him, a man who you just saw take down a special grade curse without a scratch. “i love you too.”

[lovingnekoma]

Preparing for the New Year | Nanami K.

tw/cw: gn reader, photo-taking, lingerie, spit, light degradation (name calling), implied size kink, a little bit of dom/sub undertones; tiny mentions of praise kink, breeding and mirror sex.

minors dni ; for the secret santa exchange. happy holidays venus @semisgroupie !! hope you like this x

Christmas is a… tentative time for you. It’s not really something you celebrate, but hey, widespread corporate holidays are A Real Thing and also, Gojo Fucking Satoru keeps cursed mistletoe in the halls to annoy everyone so. Tis the season, or whatever.

But the point! The point is that this also falls around your one year anniversary with Nanami Motherfucking Kento: sexiest man alive, forearms of a god, shoulders for days, competency kink’s wettest dream. He’s also, coincidentally, maybe, the love of your life.

You want to do it all with him: slow sex on rainy mornings and kissing him with terrible coffee breath and planting a garden together, spending forever together. You want to watch him spin out his jujutsu like it’s nothing and then meet him at home and watch him gently but firmly pluck lemons from your backyard fruit tree.

Case in point is that you want to get him something special and beyond that, you want to get him something that will make him feel soft and squishy and maybe willing to fuck you into your guys’ new couch cushions. It’s a very nice couch — a pale, pale green and so comfortable and deep that when you sit down, you sink right it. The kind of couch that swallows you whole and is, admittedly, not very idyllic to fuck on but should still be christened.

Lots of gift ideas are in the cards for Kento but it’s hard to get something for a man who is so practical and who indulges himself very intuitively. You know that you are one of his indulgences but aside from wrapping yourself like a gift and putting on a bow on your private parts, there’s not a lot in that department. But there is something that comes to mind, a far off idea that you saw on social media, and it manifests like this: you, in lingerie and Maki, with a camera.

The plan is to make a sexy calendar, every month a collage of your nudes. You brought a variety of lingerie, because the one thing your darling and devilishly handsome boyfriend likes more than buying you lingerie is ripping it off of you, so your collection has amassed pretty well.

There’s a fluffy white set, a bite of tulle and lots of lace. A silk skirt that you hike up to show the curve of your ass. A thong that you hitch around your waist and which covers approximately nothing. Your whole ass is exposed. It’s you, Maki’s unimpressed face, and your private bits against the world.

You put on a teeny tiny miniskirt and an itty bitty top and feel inordinately more exposed than you were in just the underwear. The negligee requires some untangling, more straps than fabric. You arch your back and spread your legs and lollipops get involved.

The photoshoot is fun and sexy and you get a little stirred from it but that’s nothing compared to when Kento opens up his gift. The air noticeably thickens and you can’t help the way you squirm in your seat, just a little. All Nanami does is lay one broad hand over your thigh, fingers giving you a firm squeeze that makes you ache a little, already.

It’s one thing to be in front of the camera, making faces at Maki in between shots and trying to school yourself into the right mindset to fellate a strawberry-flavoured lollipop. It’s another thing entirely to be sitting beside your boyfriend, watching the flicker of his eyes as he methodically and slowly peruses each monthly spread. It’s different and you’ve never felt sexier than when you’re underneath Kento’s gaze, never felt the hot flush of want like you do when he looks over you.

Each monthly spread is a collage, either of you from the photoshoot or of past pictures, alone or together with Kento himself.

January starts off easy, kind of. It’s you in the thong and some socks. You thought it was kind of cute at the time, but now you squirm in your seat, already achingly empty and hyper aware of Nanami’s big, warm hand on you. Your ass is printed out in multiple angles. There’s you, sitting back on your heels, showing off the fullest curves of your cheeks. Bent over the arm of a couch, stretching like a cat. Wearing your boyfriend’s button down, hiked up around your hips to show off as much skin as possible, looking up with a lollipop in your mouth.

Kento’s hand tightens on your thigh and you can’t help the whimper that escapes you.

“You look like a whore,” he says, something hard in his tone, but he doesn’t say anything else, just flips to February. It’s a purposeful tease and when you try to wiggle around again, his fingers grip you harder: a reprimand. You’re going to be bruised from this. You can’t wait to look at them.

March is a strappy number that covers exactly nothing, which Kento would remember because he ripped it an identical piece off of you the first time you wore it for him. There’s you on your knees, presenting for him, back arched and cheeks spread. A picture with a dildo worked into you, straps pulled aside, that you had to kick Maki out to take on self-timer. A few of you and Nanami from the last time you fucked in it: hole spread wide around his fat cock, his hand adding to the straps wrapping around the base of your neck.

Kento, at this point, has pulled you to sit in between his legs, instructing you to hold and flip through the calendar on command in a low, deep tone. It leaves his hands free to wander, pinching your nipples, wandering down between your legs to rub thick knuckles against sensitive places. It’s all you can do it not get on your knees and beg. Every time your head tips back to rest on his shoulder, he forces it up again.

“Head up,” he orders. His fingers squeeze your cheeks, making your lips part. He angles your head to spit in your mouth and you whine, clenching around nothing, desperate and half crazed as he makes you flip another page.

August is a collage of you two from the summer. There was a curse out on the coast, they called in Kento to deal with it, and you spent a blissful two weeks there, fucking between bouts of fucking exorcising and sunbathing between bouts of fucking. Your skimpy bathing suit bottoms leave nothing to the imagination, especially with the way the pictures have perfectly captured your boyfriend squeezing your ass, pulling you up on your toes in a kiss. There’s you in his lap, legs sprawling, his hand high, high up on your thigh. Kento, in his broad shouldered glory, all muscled arms and tiny waist and that broad, broad chest, not bothering to look up for the mirror picture you’re taking, two of his thick fingers inside of you, mouth on your jaw.

Kento gets through the whole calendar, a tent in his pants that you definitely grind on the whole time, while he fondles you, casually, lightly. The second the calendar closes, Kento has already manhandled you onto your knees like you wouldn’t have sank down anyway. The man is an Adonis, chiselled and glorious, and you are so, so desperate for him, you’d do anything he asked in this moment.

“Slut,” he says, tone void of inflection and eyes heated. He doesn’t touch you, just watches you pant for him for a second, eyes big and watery looking up at him. You barely, barely resist the urge to rub your thighs together impatiently. You want to be good for him. You know this look and want to give him it all, want to be a good baby for him for Christmas tonight and have him breed you in reward.

His big hands unbuckle and unzip his pants — measured, patient movements that mean your mouth is already salivating when he frees his massive cock. Kento pumps it slowly with one hand, and you lose track of the plot for a second when his other hand grips the back of your neck, tilting your head further up to spit in your mouth again. When he pulls away, you keep your mouth open for another few moments, eyes fixed on him, a good little bitch with their tongue out. You swallow only when he gives you permission.

“Go on,” he tells you, and you need nothing else to get your mouth on his fat cock. Kento’s such a good boyfriend, training you on his cock for months and months so now, you only struggle a bit before you get his thick head down your throat.

He keeps eye contact with you, because that’s one of his requirements, you must look up at him unless he says otherwise, and you feel one of his big hands pet your head, even as you gag a little on his dick.

“That’s it,” he says. You work a little harder, because Kento is fair in his praise and you’ve always been a slut for it. “Good baby, that’s it.”

© lovingnekoma.tumblr.com (2021)

[lovingnekoma]

kuroo headcanons for the soul

minors do not interact. i have promised and delivered @srbxzero for you, my beloved

tw/cw: gn reader. nsfw below the cut — praise, degradation. mentions of semipublic sex, exhibitionism, mirror sex, petnames

i shall set the scene: it’s a bad day. your joints hurt and work was an exhaustive capitalist hellscape and you are one wrong word away from giving up escaping to a lakeside cabin. so you get home, irritable and too exhausted to be irritable, and kuroo knows. he knows by the curve of your mouth and the slump of your shoulders and sends you off to shower. he brings you your favourite hot beverage and puts on a stupid show, something real estate or animal related or your comfort animation, and cooks for you. your day was shit but you go to bed warm and loved and full.

kuroo has amassed a very very large collection of sweatshirts because not only does he buy enough for himself, he buys extra knowing you’re going to steal them. additionally, if he’s buying you a hoodie, he buys it in his size so he can steal it. he calls you a sweater thief and himself pragmatic. like ok consumer

likes to collect things ! when he was a kid he had a bookmark collection (specifically the math and science ones). he travels a lot more these days and likes to pick out magnets for the fridge.

sends you postcards if it’s a long trip. it does not matter if he’ll be back sooner than the postcard will arrive. kuroo has come home from three weeks in america and three days later you got a postcard addressed to “the love of my life”. fucking dork.

genuinely laughs at science memes and jokes. like it does not matter if it is an awful generic physics pun or some niche chemistry joke. he thinks they’re hilarious in a corny, genuine kind of way. you get him those awful shirts with the puns printed out on them and he wears them unironically all the time.

kenma and kuroo are still and always will be besties. there are many times you come home and kenma is over and they are both curled up on the couch. and almost all those times you have just inserted yourself into the cuddle pile and been welcomed. you and kenma are besties — nothing like trashing kuroo and sitting in ambient, comforting silence as you do your own thing.

(i know this is a kuroo headcanon thing but sometimes you and kenma will be on facetime / videocall for hours just vibing. not to say you don’t do that with kuroo too, but rather that you and kenma have a longstanding weekly videocall date).

kuroo likes to bring you flowers but is also delighted when he receives flowers. or when you make him coffee in the morning (he usually does a coldbrew but he’ll never turn down a cortado from the very expensive coffee machine that kenma gifted him).

wears birkenstocks and crocs and slides bc theyre comfy. new balance shoes bc theyre ergonomic. $5000 dress shoes for work. i have nothing else to say.

big fan of jasmine tea and green tea. not a huge fan of hot chocolate but drinks it on the bad days

kuroo eventually joins the local volleyball club that consist of people around his age who will play rec games with other clubs / scrimmage with each other. you are unsure how long this mans will actually last on there considering he is a househusband, works a full time business job and already goes for runs int he morning but he genuinely enjoys going and is on a mission to drag kenma out too. you show up to his games with oranges and water bottles and he kisses you, messy and sweating and glowing with satisfaction, after every game

you guys have a full sized 12 month calendar (cat themed) where you plan out cute dates and grocery shopping days. kuroo is a big meal planner and while you do your fair share of cooking, it’s easier for you to just stock up so you have anything you need on hand. it’s all very domestic and organized and very kuroo. and there is, admittedly, nothing like watching his bright grin over the calendar, inordinately expensive pen in hand to match with his ratty, too short sweatpants and bed head.

kuroo keeps a photo of you in his wallet, tucked behind a couple of cards he rarely uses. i want to say he blushes but this man can also have mad game when he wants. he tries to convince you to keep a polaroid of him but you refuse to carry his dick pic around

bangs fists on table exhibitionist kuroo who slides his hands up your thighs when you’re seated at a restaurant, keeps them high on your leg the whole night. likes to run his fingertips over sensitive places to make you twitch while talking. does an awful job of not smirking while doing so

kuroo is not huge on pda but definitely can do a little sloppy public makeout, a little semi public groping. semi public sex is always a yes for him, esp if someone’s been hitting on you that night

likes to praise and degrade you in turns (calls you sweet, calls you a slut. tells you how you’re all he can think about, his perfect whore). lots of pet names (you know he calls you kitten. do we even have to ask.) and heavy petting

foreplay lasts hours and half of it can be mostly talking, just him saying things to get you riled and teasing / goading you until you’re shaking

loves fingering you, loves eating you out and being on his knees for you. mirror sex is always a yes but in general he loves being able to watch your face

[lovingnekoma]

gojo once asks you what you truly, genuinely think of him.

you pause. there are pages and pages in your journal dedicated to him. how he is a supernova, burning up from the inside out. how he is infinite and brilliant and you want to hold him in your palms until eternity comes crashing home. how you think he is a fool and you think he is, often, the smartest person in the room at any given moment.

you settle on saying, “you are a pipedream.”

he laughs. his eyes scrunch into little half moon smiles. they are strikingly bright, the curve of his mouth genuine and sweet.

“i’m right here,” gojo says.

“not always,” you say. you do not mention the missed and cut off phone calls; gojo’s bloody hands the last time he came home at 3am. you do not mention the way he sometimes grows distant, the twist of his mouth when he becomes the jujutsu world’s prodigy, golden boy, strongest sorcerer. you do not have to.

gojo satoru as you know him does not exist in many landscapes. gojo as you see him now, hair down, in soft sweatpants and bare feet, is still as deadly as he is with his bandana around his eyes, in full regalia. your gojo is vulnerable in spades, uncurling around the edges: casual, and a little careful around you, existing in the margins of sunlight and nighttime.

you do not have to say any of this, because gojo knows better than anyone the faces he dons. you know, only in parts, the collateral of them.

it is quiet for a moment, and then, an arm curls over your shoulder. you look at him, try to memorize the cut of his high cheekbones and arch of his brows. the sunrise turns his hair pink and a little gold, warm tones.

“i’m here right now,” gojo promises. “i’m here for you.”

not always, you want to say, words catching in the hollows of your throat. you will break my heart and i will love you regardless, maybe for forever. and yet, you want to believe in him, this pipedream that is your shared apartment and his love and gojo fucking satoru himself, in his bleeding heart, golden veined glory.

you say nothing. when he reaches for your hand, you hold on tight.

[lovingnekoma]

you’ve noticed lots of things about oikawa’s hands, over the course of the past few months of talking to him. first of all, oikawa’s nails are always cut very short, and kept very neat and clean. it’s because of volleyball, you know — hands are a legacy, weapons that need to be upkept and treasured.

another thing you’ve realized is that oikawa’s hands never shake — not that you’ve seen, anyway. they are always sure and steady.

you figure out he loves you, long before he will ever say it, because he lets you hold his palms in your own. it’s not handholding, oikawa is very fond of that with just about all of his friends, but it’s rather: you, folding your smaller hands over oikawa’s large ones, tucked into his argentina national team hoodie; and oikawa, no product in his hair, glasses on, relaxed and softened as you pull out the athletic tape.

he looks at you, honey sunlight bleeding through the late morning haze, and you feel the crushing weight of his trust like a deity’s gift, a palm shoving into your heart, a punch strong enough to knock you off your feet.

“don’t tell me,” oikawa starts. he’s eyeing you because you’ve stilled, quiet as you contemplate the callouses on his fingertips. “you’re so in awe of me, you’ve realized you can’t possibly me worthy enough to touch something so divine. fear nothing, i can and will allow you the privilege of being close to me.”

it feels like a privilege, you want to say. you are so vulnerable like this, so loving like this. how could i not feel blessed.

instead, you say, “shut the fuck up,” with all the fond annoyance that is settled in your stomach. you unwrap the athletic tape.

oikawa grins, brilliant and knife-quick and so achingly genuine you are involuntarily smile back. “it’s that or you have a hand kink!” he teases. he’s practically glowing with contentedness and satisfaction. it’s a good look on him.

he is so happy here and you are so happy here, with him, like this, right here.

this does not stop you from pinching the soft skin on the underside of his arm, and taking your own satisfaction in his yelp and subsequent whine.

oikawa’s hands are steady in yours and that is enough. you suspect it will always be enough, to have him trust you like this, just to have him beside you.

[lovingnekoma]

cw jjk spoilers / shibuya arc spoilers & i have not read or watched about the shibuya arc yet lmao so this could be terribly off | MINORS DNI! 18+ ONLY!

“nanami.” your voice is fraught. you pause, winded, trying to catch your breath for no reason. you haven’t gone anywhere, but he has. “come home already.”

your voice breaks a little. when he left for work, he hadn’t returned and now here you are, eyes blurring; a double betrayal.

you hang up the phone. one day, you know, his voicemail will be full. one day you may not be able to call at all.

how frighteningly dreary and horrifying it is to be ruled by this kind of fear. when you swore your love and life partnership to your best friend (three years in spring, followed by a 10 day coastal honeymoon a month later in summer, all the time your husband could get off), you never thought you’d feel lost like this.

there’s a text in your inbox, asking can we meet for coffee, i need to talk to you.

you send back an affirmative, wishing you had made nanami take a few more days off in general to spend with him. you hope it was all worth it. you hope you made him happy.

you hope — and then stop yourself.

there’s many reasons nanami loved you and one of them was this: you do not lie to yourself, even — even when it makes you feel flayed open; even when the truth crushes your lungs to dust. it isn’t over you, you think, and then: isn’t it?

where are you, you wonder. you’re crying again. maybe it’s been hours, since the call, or a few minutes. your eyes feel too dry and your face hurts from being screwed up, trying to keep the tears back. where are you and what happened and i love you, i miss you so much it hurts.

[lovingnekoma]

you see him and you think, that is a man who never loses. you see him and you fall in love.

bakugou katsuki is not a nice man and yet he cradles your heart in his hands. for some reason, you feel like he would let you down gently, even though you know he would not. instead, he would lay you down carefully and callously.

but there is this: he will love you forever. he will protect you until the end of his days. devotion is the burden bakugou has borne his whole life and you, in the centre of his universe, in the peripherals of his dreams, are always going to be one of the best and worst things to have happened to him.

how do you look at a man who has let you hold his legacy, his hands in yours, and not give yourself to him, over and over. how do you see the knife-sharp curve of his smirk and the burning light in his eyes and not think, ah yes. i want to love him until i am dust in this earth: as my eternity, my homecoming.

nobody would ever call bakugou stable and yet he offers himself up time and time again to give you a north star, a home, a guiding voice on the worst of days. it is gritty and it is humbling but bakugou is trying and so are you, reaching out again and again; heart on your sleeve, heart caught in your throat.

it is honest work. it is trying work. it is a relationship, built off of trust that is bone deep and love that drains into the basin of both of your very fucking souls.

is that not it, something between you two that is so deep and fundamental where if you were to ever part, you could never replace the feeling of bakugou’s hands on your vulnerable ribcage, curling into the liminal space of your chest.

if you were to ever part, there is something in bakugou that would shatter before he could rebuild himself, an ache in his hands that would never quite go away to match the one in his heart.

but bakugou has not lost yet and he does not plan to lose you. so: he tries. and you try. and in there, you keep falling in love.

[lovingnekoma]

gojou satoru misses valentine’s day because japan’s strongest sorcerer has duties to fulfill. but you find little gifts everywhere, addressed to you, as you’re cleaning the house: lumpy but carefully packaged homemade chocolates, a gorgeous and boneachingly expensive necklace, a new fluffy bathrobe.

he comes home at midnight and pouts when he sees you’ve collected all his gifts.

“ah, i wanted to surprise you,” he whines and you smile, roll your eyes fondly.

“you did. i was very surprised,” you assure him, patting his head. gojou tries to bite your hand before he straightens, uncovered eyes skimming the room and jumping back to you.

“i think you missed something though,” he says, scanning the gifts you’ve spread out on the bed. “ah, another chance for surprise! sit down.”

you sit on the bed, wondering how you could have possibly missed a gift in your deep clean. maybe he brought in flowers when he came home — you only realized he was back when he entered your bedroom after all.

“close your eyes,” gojou calls and you sigh.

closing your eyes, you ask, “is this where you murder me? how romantic!” and smile, pleased, at the sound of his laugh, the pad of his footsteps as he steps into the room. it’s definitely flowers, you think. he’s always so dramatic.

“not quite,” he says. “you can open your eyes.”

you do.

there are, indeed, brown paper-wrapped flowers beside him but your attention is, for better or worse, drawn off them at the sight of gojou on his knee, ring box open in hand.

“love of my life,” grins gojou. “come on. you had to know.”

“i did fucking not,” you choke out. you can barely look at him. his eyes are so fucking bright and the flowers are so vibrant, all pinks and reds and purples against the cream carpet. your heart swells in your ribcage, like it’s about to burst. “gojou, what the fuck.”

you expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. his intensity is something that you’ve always liked off the bat; the weight of his gaze on you is one of your favourite things. now, it sends goosebumps racing down your arms. you want to reach out. you want to curl up in his lap.

gojou simply looks at you, the smallest of smirks upturning his mouth, eyes intent.

“i love you,” he tells you.

it has cost him a lot, you know, to unearth the space to love like this. he once described it as the one of the easiest and hardest things he’s ever had to do: to open himself up so vulnerably to someone else, to bare the soft skin of his belly and let himself grow roots. you know the mountain ridges of his ribcage and the softness of his hair slipping through your fingers and how he looks stretched out by your hip. you are the only person who has reached into his heart like this and he is the only person who you have loved this deeply.

“i want to spend as long as i can with you. i trust you with all the worst and best parts of me. i want to adore you until the end, until forever. i can never stop thinking about you. will you marry me?”

[lovingnekoma]

hinata shoyou has a smile that could burn down mountains and a personality to match. holding his hand is like cradling the hope of the world in your palms. you cannot imagine life without shoyou — in every sense, he is a star. he is so brilliant and sweet, he makes your heart ache.

shoyou tells you he loves you shortly after being together for four months. he says it first, easy and simple, while cradling your face in his broad hands.

“i love you,” he tells you — like it’s everything, like it’s nothing. it costs him so little to give, except for his very full heart: a squirming warmth in your hands.

you don’t say it back until your six-month anniversary. in the two month timespan, you contemplate a lot about — feelings. what does it mean to be in love? what is love?

but what is more to say than the syrup-slow, summer-infinite memories of shoyou that become cornerstones of your life. he is your homecoming, your lodestone.

when he has away games, you close your eyes and the memories of hinata revolve around heavy hands on your hips and the bright curve of his full mouth and the feeling of safety. the mere thought of him invokes an aching and endless sense of safety and home that you carry with you in your belly.

the feeling fills you, like an endless pour of wine into a curved glass, from your waist to your throat, until you are drowning in all the love you have shored up for this golden, beautiful man.

when you say i love you to him it feels like drowning, like letting the ocean carry you far far away, and when he smiles at you it feels like salvation, like the gods have given mercy and are cradling you in their palms.

i want to stay with you forever, you tell him. in this moment, you are trembling, you are infinite.

divinity plays out as a turn of hand when hinata holds your face in his hands, peppering kisses on your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids.

i feel the same way, he says, beaming and glittering. billions of stars in the sky and you’d bring them all down to keep him smiling like this.

you let him kiss you; you kiss him again. eternity is here, pressed against the broad warmth of his chest, his mouth on yours.

[lovingnekoma]

TIMELINE.

summary: a bokuto kotaro character study in roughly three parts, with a heavy dash of bokuaka. mdni please 🤍

cw: a little angst, light mentions of insecurity

bokuto has heard a lot of unflattering comments about him. that he’s stupid, he won’t get anywhere, he’s a hopeless case. too volatile to make it pro, too sensitive to be a good friend. bokuto, from a young age, has always been overflowing with love and passion and been told he is too much and not enough simultaneously.

and yet, bokuto has always, always been immovable from his dreams. devotion is unparalleled in his hands, supernovas spiralling out in his veins, there is something to be said about a man who rises to meet an unforgiving tide.

ACT I. GROWING

8: his hair ruffled by his sisters’ hands, asking them eagerly to please play volleyball with him, if they wanna please nee chan it’s gonna be so fun.

he has tried soccer and basketball (excess energy, they say. hyperactive.) but the first time his gym coach has him bump the volleyball, he remembers the burn on his forearms for days. bokuto watches volleyball matches, the low coil of their bodies, the lightning quick spikes that incite the roar of a stadium, and thinks, i wanna make the crowd yell like that.

14: life builds around volleyball and family and they begin overlapping. and then, meeting akaashi in wide-eyed wonder and thinking i want to know him forever. thinking, i want him to set for me for the rest of my life.

it is love at first toss, which is an absolute because bokuto does not deal with in-betweens and bokuto does not know life without sport and the rush of glory. he only knows, at this young age, the sound of his sisters’ laughter and the way akaashi’s eyebrows furrowed when bokuto calls his name and the flex of his friend’s wrists as he learned how to set.

16: championship finals. the taste of victory tangible in his mouth. akaashi is warm and sweaty pressed along his side and when bokuto closes his eyes, all he can see are his teammates smiles.

18: fukurodani wins and wins and loses a bit and wins until championships fall away in his third year.

bokuto forges himself into an ace, again and again. he reworks his body, his mind. his hands sting from hours spiking and he buys two new sets of compression sleeves, which are constantly cycling through the wash.

bokuto thinks of himself as he always has thought of himself: enough in this sense, but constantly becoming better; shaping himself to have shoulders broad enough for his team to lean on. he knows his drive is a lot, but in volleyball, it all tracks into professional team offers and that’s all considered good, amazing, better.

akaashi tells him, you are enough in every sense. he tells him that bokuto will go far in life. he squeezes bokuto’s hand and tells him, congratulations, bokuto-san.

ACT II. CAREER

24: bokuto texts akaashi everyday and video calls him at least once a week and misses him, still, every single day, even after all these years. his muscles burn from overexertion but he tastes victory, copper rich and sun bright, on his tongue. and it’s, they’re good, that’s the thing. bokuto’s good, he’s considered good, he’s considered more than enough. shoulders broad enough to lean on and a back big and broad enough to cover for his teammates, so that it’s not as easy to reach out and pull them down.

years get a little hard, around 20. because bokuto is on a renowned team with guys years older than him, with powerful hands and sharp eyes and easy smiles who make him feel welcomed, but humbled and young. bokuto keeps on his toes and chases the high of sweeping, perfect spikes; the fit of the volleyball in his hand, the feeling of being suspended in the air; the crowd’s roar pounding against his temples.

so, bokuto remembers things in parts.

i. at first it was atsumu, who comes into msby swinging. he is all bleached hair and a swagger bokuto immediately loves but it’s his tosses, second best to only akaashi’s, that make bokuto feel like a live wire on the court. the energy sits low in his stomach and flies up, up, up. heart in throat, the room washed away except for the ball, floating into the calloused curve of his palm.

and, despite the niche emotions bokuto knows he struggles to read, they are fast friends. because bokuto knows how it feels to miss a second half. he sees it in atsumu’s eyes.

ii. hinata is signed. he says, bokuto-san i’ve missed you! and then receives one of his spikes without flinching. he is a baby lion and bokuto is spurred on, feeling like he is alive with competition and love and sunshine.

there is not a lot to say, because when hinata joins the team, mostly bokuto remembers the warm curve of his smile and hugging his prodigy and the late night tv shows and long gym hours and akaashi’s smile, whenever they all videocalled.

iii. sakusa is hard, for bokuto, a bit because he wants sakusa to like him. he loves the way he spikes and he loves the way sakusa kiyoomi plays: ruthless, like this game determines the rest of his life and he will put it all on the line.

akaashi tells him to give the other man space, that he will warm up eventually because sakusa has his own sensitivities and feelings he personally must deal with. akaashi says, if he does not like you, koutarou, then it is okay and you are loved regardless.

sakusa does warm up, bokuto thinks. he’s pretty sure they’re friends now. akaashi said not to assume but sakusa gave him a birthday gift and seemed pleased at bokuto’s one to him (compression sleeves for sakusa’s arms, because he has joint pain, and some vinyls of albums bokuto has heard him mention in passing).

ACT III. INTERLUDES

iv. akaashi’s 21st birthday, they go to an izakaya. bokuto gets a little tipsy, because it’s his best friend’s birthday! but not too tipsy, because he wants to be sober enough to buy akaashi all the alcohol he wants.

they go home together, the two of them, curl up in bed like little crescent moons facing each other.

i love you, bokuto tells him, confident. you’re my best friend, he says.

akaashi does not respond. bokuto is near-spiral when he realizes he is asleep.

v. akaashi’s graduation. bokuto brings a poster and his loudest voice and his best pair of black slacks, the pair he wears for post-game interviews. he also brings flowers, in a multitude of colours because it’s celebratory and also flower meanings are difficult. there’s a rose, though, because akaashi deserves something like a rose: deep and vibrant and bright.

akaashi’s parents are there and they are all smiling but akaashi’s smile is crumbling at the edges with exhaustion. bokuto wishes his back was broad enough to protect akaashi. he can only try his best, in the post-grad party, to act as a buffer when needed. akaashi has so many people who love him and want to congratulate and talk to him. bokuto feels large and clumsy in comparison but, he also feels sure in his skin. he may not have a degree, but he knows gameplay like the back of his hand, knows the thunder of a stadium and the bittersweet taste of getting back up after a loss.

so: bokuto feels, inept, a little, but it is nothing in the face of akaashi leaning on him a bit as they go back to akaashi’s apartment. it is nothing in the face of his warm smile when bokuto reveals that he stashed peach soju in the cupboard last night because he knows how akaashi gets after extended interactions with too many people and especially with his family.

vi. it is a month after bokuto gets the call that he makes the 2021 olympic volleyball team and two weeks since bokuto has seen the love of his life. he opens the apartment door to find akaashi on his laptop, looking delightfully nerdy and beautiful with his glasses and an extra large MSBY black jackals hoodie.

“kotaro-kun,” akaashi says, his voice shaking a little. his hands are shaking too. bokuto reaches out to hold them and akaashi gently curls bokuto’s fingers into his own palms, like he’s comforting bokuto instead of the other way around. “i love you.”

oh, is that all? bokuto loves him too, he always has, he’s his best friend — and he says so.

akaashi’s brows furrow and bokuto feels a pit of worry. is that not enough? or, are those feelings too much to process? but akaashi only says, insistent, hands tight around bokuto’s knuckles, “kotaro, i’m in love with you.”

bokuto beams at him, anxiety sloughing off his shoulders. “i’m glad! i’m in love with you too, akaashi! i’ve been in love with you forever, i told you. since high school. since you first set for me. forever and ever.”

since we won our first volleyball game together. since the first time i saw you cry after a fight with your parents. since you comforted me when i cried, after those kids in high school made fun of me. since a month ago, when you told me you were proud of me. since yesterday, when i woke up and thought of you and immediately had to text you to let you know.

these are all things bokuto thinks, but doesn’t say. the simmering and constant push for more is swallowed in the softness of akaashi’s eyes, the tender curve of his mouth. bokuto has spent over twenty years shaping himself to be the bloodlust and glory and blue sky he has always yearned to be but.

he knows, he will take infinity with akaashi. he will spend the rest of his life detailing to him in extremes and turns how much he adores him.

© lovingnekoma.tumblr.com (2021)

[lovingnekoma]

main thing.

cw: mild angst. minors dni. do not repost on any platform and do not recommend on any other platform. just had this thought and wanted to share.

fic begins in last year of high school, all characters are 18 and 18+ bar the flashback scenes. contains haikyuu spoilers for s2 of the anime and for timeskip.

truth or dare. you pick a folded paper out of the truth hat.

one word to describe oikawa tooru, the paper requests. your favourite, it adds, in oikawa’s slanted kanji.

the others around you boo, but oikawa grins, unrepentant.

“i am the favourite,” he beams.

you turn to look him in the eye, he’s sitting beside you, and call him an asshole. iwaizumi reaches over from oikawa’s other side to clap you on the shoulder, approving, and matsukawa indulgently ruffles your hair. oikawa sulks and whines. you and iwaizumi let him sprawl across you both, a warm, heavy weight stretched across your laps.

one word to describe oikawa tooru. you’ll never say it outloud, but you know what it really is: glorious.

you remember the first time you see him play volleyball. first year of middle school, you just see another kid like yourself, fucking around. you befriend him, actually — he’s in your class, too smart for his own good, sparkly eyed and bright. three months later, you attend your first volleyball game, curled up in the stands with your friends.

when you see him play, really play, you see — something. you can’t define it. intensity? skill? there’s something about oikawa on the court that draws the eye. in the following years, this image of young oikawa haunts you as you see him only grow better and better.

there is passion and dedication seeped into his very bones. there is no feeling like reaching out and barely being able to grasp his shirt. there is no feeling like looking back and seeing him staring at the ground, heavy lidded and quiet.

you’re there for it all — for the practice games, the parties, the losses against ushiwaka, the ramen after, the spring tournament. you’re there to hug him, steady and unwavering at the sight of his tears. you have to be. oikawa is foundational and his resilience is unparalleled but when his facade shatters, you and the team close in around him, protect him.

there is something about oikawa’s trust that is so precious to anyone who has it. this is a boy who has clawed his way up to where he stands, crown on head, kingdom falling. there is nothing dearer than holding a part of him in your hands. except, maybe.

you graduate high school. you’ve grown affectionate with your friends, lots of hand holding and hugs and cheek kisses. mattsun wraps an arm around your waist and oikawa presses his mouth to the top of your head. you’re free of the shackles of high school, but youth feels so permanent. you feel suspended in time: oikawa’s hand in yours, his eyes soft when he looks at you.

you remember him at thirteen, struggling. fifteen, desperate for success. like this: eighteen, determined, grim, and stronger than anyone will really ever know.

when you land in argentina, it’s a culture shock off the bat. lots of languages, lots of people who look different than you. the airport is warm. you see oikawa, beaming and bright, unmistakable, towering over six feet with a glittery welcome sign in kanji.

when you see him play, you remember how you saw him years ago, how you’ve always seen him: glorious.

how do you look at a man like that, flushed from his game, brilliant beyond belief, confidence disguised as arrogance and he never misses when it matters. how do you see him and not kiss him after his win? how else are you supposed to feel when he kisses you back?

you look at him and think: glorious. you look at him and know: he is going to break your heart one day, this pulsing heartbeat of a man, and you would burn down the world for him anyway.

© lovingnekoma.tumblr.com (2021). dividers by @/sleepyrintaro. title inspired by ariana grande’s main thing.

[lovingnekoma]

write me smth soft when you have time bby. pick whatever character you want <33

sometimes, only sometimes, there is something about atsumu that looks very sad. it’s fleeting, of course: a flicker of his eyes, the set of his mouth, the way he gently, gently curls his hands into loose fists. he looks very young in those times.

it’s easy to forget, in the golden haze of glory that atsumu has pursued for years, the sea of success that has always risen to meet him on the shoreline, that atsumu is young; that atsumu has gone through hardship very quietly, with his head down.

osamu, worlds away in hyogo, then tokyo, opens his shop in the serenity of quiet mornings. kita exists in the margins of sunlight, out in the field, hands busy, heart busy. aran, surrounded his new teammates, lands a combo with his setter that they’ve been working on for weeks, stars in his eyes, planets in his hands. atsumu, here, in this living room, stares off for a beat too long, eyes strangely vulnerable, before he blinks and the golden light around him reappears.

you want to protect him. you want to call osamu and ask for him to please, send his brother’s heart back. you want to wrap him in your arms and take him to the beach and let him watch the sun rise, so he knows that he is golden. that life goes on. that it is a new day and he will be okay.

there is a miya atsumu that believes he is the centre of the solar system but this miya atsumu, the distant one, galaxies away, milky ways gathering in the hollows of his cheekbones, the shadows of his jawline, is not that.

so, instead, you cook him dinner. vegetable fried rice. gyoza. curry. you hold his hand and rub your thumb along the outside of his hand. his skin is baby smooth, smelling like the lavender body lotion kita gave him once. you press your mouth to the crown of his head, trying to tell him that you think the world of him.

miya atsumu is fourteen crows in a trench coat. he is an asshole, he has a terrible disposition, he is sulky at times and co-dependent. but he also is learning how to play guitar, careful as he plucks through the strings. he volunteers at soup kitchens. he’s an excellent chef, and leaves dinners at your apartment door when you’re too tired.

sometimes, miya atsumu looks very sad. but you look over one day and think, maybe i make him happy. maybe i make him half as happy as he makes me. and perhaps, that is enough for now.

[lovingnekoma]

SFW TAGS.

general blog things

#artemis.reads -> rec/rb tag. contains sfw and nsfw content. block tags as needed

#artemis.favs / #mod.favs -> favourite things i’ve reblogged. contains sfw and nsfw content

#artemis.talks -> probably me talking about tumblr/fandom/blog related things

#artemis’ adventures -> me just talking about my life hehe

#artemis.writes -> writing tag

fandom tags

#[group/person/fandom].art -> art tags (old, not really used as much)

ex. inarizaki.art, nekoma second years.art, miya twins.art, atsumu.art, hq.art, bnha.art, jjk.art

#[fandom] — gen.hcs -> sfw headcanons of 3+ people

ex. hq — gen.hcs, jjk — gen.hcs

heavier topics

#important -> often used for global/social issues

#discourse cw / #cw discourse