#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]

in my glory days. / reader x sakusa

minors do not interact.

cw: gn reader, allusions to being trapped in a world against non-consensually (think spirited away world), one (1) mention of blood, allusions to unfounded deities, some charas are animal hybrids, terrible grammar

author’s notes: the first half of a fantastical haikyuu fic based loosely off spirited away. gn reader x sakusa ft many many hq characters. inspired by server movie night w the honeymooners. i hit a writer’s block somewhere in this but i’ve spent weeks on this so! no word count bc i just smashed out all my thoughts on this app. part two will come eventually <3

you meet god in a flower field and it is oikawa tooru, all bleeding heart and bloody teeth and gilded collar. he calls you gorgeous, tells you that your pride is all you will have here.

osamu, you find in the kitchen, hands covered in flour, face resigned and tender — the look of someone haunted, of someone satisfied. atsumu appears in the hallway, sharp teeth and bright eyes, a manifestation of brilliance.

sakusa is your guide, green-gold scales shimmering under his skin but only in the right light. his hands are manicured and clean, voice low as he steers you through the maze of corridors and volleyball courts.

he found you after, after oikawa let you pass him. when you looked back, the flower field was a highway, empty and lifeless.

when you turned back around, sakusa was already there, a broad-shouldered dark figure against the jewel tones of the field and sky beyond him. his hands were shoved into his pockets, gaze watchful.

the moment you made eye contact with him, you shivered. even looking at him felt so achingly familiar. you felt like you knew him from — somewhere. like you have always known him.

the aborted twitch of sakusa’s hands reaching out to you, and the intensity of his gaze, told you he maybe felt the same.

now, sakusa weaves you past two barn owls that shift into humans as you pass by. they scare you, a little, in their intensity, their obvious representation of darkness and light. but there is hope there, too, a tangible center piece, bleeding between them.

sakusa lets you meet hinata, though: sun incarnate, hell incarnate. he is powerful and golden, fiery in his passion. he slams the ball against the court again and again. you would stand there forever if sakusa didn’t keep you moving.

my name is kiyoomi, he says. this is a gift, you know. remember that. call me when you need me. he leaves you in the tender mercy of a boy with oceans for eyes.

oikawa finds you again. he waves off kageyama, the boy with the blue eyes, and takes you by the shoulders and brings you to the cliff side.

as you both look out at the endless intersection of blues and greys, he says, ah, this isn’t my domain.

which one? you ask, despite it all. despite, the absurdity of being here, with a man of more power and consequence and quasi-realism than you can actually perceive.

he smiles at you: sad, delighted, frustrated. his eyes give away nothing. does it matter?

you look at the waves lapping below the cliff, the dirt underneath your feet and the yawning sky above you. you look at oikawa’s empty eyes. does it matter, indeed.

sakusa finds you again. you and oikawa are sitting down when you look up, see a shadow and frowning eyes flagged by two delicately placed moles.

this is why i should not leave you with the oligarchs, he says. let’s find komori.

oikawa does not bare his teeth at him, which you think is somewhat surprising. instead, the great king only looks amused, especially when you both catch sight of the man trailing after sakusa.

ah iwa-chan, he says, and lets you abandon him. or — it feels, somehow, like he abandons you in favour of wrapping himself around the other broad-shouldered, spiky-haired man. iwa-chan, who you will learn later is iwaizumi, has scales peaking out of his collar that oikawa runs his hand along possessively.

you would think more about it, except you have more important things to do. for example: catching sakusa’s hand to lace your fingers together. he does not protest. though you’ve only spent a handful of long, stretching hours together, his silence is telling. it makes something warm and molten in your chest spread, like love or hanahaki disease. you feel like you’ve known him forever.

as you meander down another one of the grand halls, you ask sakusa why oikawa has told you his full name.

i do not know how oikawa thinks, he replies. and his name, means something different. it is something of his that he is able to give more freely, i believe his shackles to this world are in other places.

you think about iwaizumi’s arm around his shoulders, the jaunt of oikawa’s walk as he led you through rooms of opulence. the red that stained his mouth when you first met him and if it spread to his chest, too.

you squeeze sakusa’s hand, his cool fingertips in contrast to the warmth of his palm, and think — that you maybe understand, a bit.

there’s a doorway marked with ‘room 3’ but when you peer inside you find two cats and a couple of frogs. one of the frogs has glasses.

sakusa obediently lingers with you, impatient and sullen in a way you are unbearably fond of. you feel like you have watched him sulk like this for years, his arm pressed against yours since the beginning of time.

the animals transform into humans, as you learn most animals can do here. the black cat turns out to be a spiky-haired human, tall, but the frog with glasses turns out to be taller. the yellow cat is a small man with sharp eyes, but the other frogs are large and broad-shouldered.

you blink at them. the blond man slow-blinks back at you. you feel like you are having a conversation in a language you don’t speak, much less understand, but sakusa pulls you away when the spiky-haired man opens his mouth.

he will say nonsense, sakusa says, and you will get caught up in it. it’s better to go now.

komori, as it turns out, is in a whole other building. the walk there was lovely, all cherry blossoms and large, porcelain vases of multi-coloured flowers.

you expect komori to be another animal hybrid person but instead he looks surprisingly very normal.

“hiya.” komori smiles, revealing very normal human teeth. sakusa presses his mouth your temple, brief, a reassurance and promise and reminder all in one. when he turns to leave, you do not watch him go.

something about komori makes you want to take your eyes off him, another human like you, but your gut says, illogically, to not. so — you maintain eye contact and komori’s smile widens slowly.

“let’s put you to work,” he says.

komori, as it turns out, works in the gardens. the back of the estate unfolds into a brilliant scene of winding stone pathways and flowerbeds. within the massive backyard are fruit trees and vegetable patches. beyond it, there are full orchards and even a rice field.

there’s another human already out there, attending to one of the herb gardens, with nine tails and fluffy ears. his black-tipped grey hair match his fur.

this is kita, komori says, smiling. it has been only so many minutes and komori has smiled for most of them. he does not feel familiar in the way sakusa does, like you have known him in every lifetime including this one, but it does feel, still, like you have known him before, somehow.

kita does most of the fieldwork with the veggies and the rice and all. we’re here for the lemon trees within the garden and for the flowers and grass maintenance. less physical stuff, y’know.

kita shakes your hand, gives you a freshly picked and peeled orange, and continues on his way to check the other herbs.

you stare at the orange, wondering vaguely about its significance, but. if you’re stuck here, you may as well enjoy the food. the orange is juicy and tangy, easily one of the best you’ve ever had.

komori grins at the expression you must be wearing.

for the next few months you spend your time helping komori in the gardens. you water flowerbeds and dig up radishes and mow incredibly large stretches of emerald green grass. you visit the kitchens often with food deliveries. your arms get stronger from all the crate-lifting you’re doing.

osamu is in the kitchen every time to receive you. he offers you soup, bao, onigiri and well, you’re not going to turn down his signature dish. that would be rude.

there’s something strange about the kitchen, though. you’re really only bringing fruits, vegetables and sacks of rice but osamu somehow always has racks full of spices, cupboards full of different flours and sugars, at hand.

you chalk it up to the nonsense of the realm, and move on with your daily tasks.

you also see sakusa often. you take breakfast together, usually, tucked away in one of the gilded rooms of the manner, tearing apart freshly baked bread with your bare hands.

sakusa, you learn, works primarily in the volleyball courts with hinata, kageyama and, to your surprise, atsumu, who you had assumed was some sort of butler by the way he stood in the hall.

sakusa comes by the gardens at least twice a day and you try to swing by an empty volleyball court when you can. you don’t exactly know what he does. in theory, it sounds like sakusa hits the ball around to charge the rooms with life energy to sustain it. in application, it mostly sounds like he plays recreational volleyball and cleans the courts after.

who’s land is this anyway? you ask, one day. is it oikawa’s?

you have been cutting the grass all day — it’s truly a chore. but there’s, something about this grass. this garden. this estate. the longer you’re there, the more apparent it becomes: it’s too perfect.

there is rainfall and there is sunshine but the grass is too green, even with attendance. the flowers are too perky and moreover, never wilting or withering away. there is never a bad fruit or vegetable, never too many bugs, or an anthill or distinctly ugly tree.

the gardens and manner grounds are idyllic. it’s haunting.

to your surprise, it is kita who answers. he is mostly a quiet worker, steadfast and unrelenting in his work ethic but today he looks you square in the eye. he is six feet of muscle, broad shoulders rolled back as he stands up straight.

no, he tells you. it’s someone greater than oikawa. the great king can be a shadow. these grounds gave way to him, but he is not the one who owns them. oikawa is bound here, as much as any of us.

subservience intertwined with godhood. iwaizumi and oikawa are often seen together on the cliff top, or can be found in one of the echoing volleyball courts. you wonder if iwaizumi is bound the same way. you wonder if oikawa lingers with his shackles on.

and then, another day, you get the courage to ask komori what he is. he’s not an animal hybrid or a mythical creature. he’s not a god. what binds him here, beyond his humanity, if anything?

the secret is this: i’m a hedge witch, komori says. i keep things in balance. haven’t you ever wondered how we can maintain so much land with so few people? i am the magic that holds these estate grounds together.

you’re startled into silence.

vases that never break. flowers that never die. a wave of komori’s hand and the world is in stasis. here, beyond all else, the sense of eternity hits you like a nightmare.

why do we spend all this time gardening then, you ask.

you think of osamu in the kitchen — his constant supply of fresh vegetables and fruit, the endlessly giving pantry. suddenly, things are making more sense. he is a kitchen witch.

komori smiles at you, strikingly pleasant and a little mischievous. i like to think it makes things more fun, he jokes. you do not think he is joking.

you think of sakusa pulling you away from the black cat, he will say nonsense. like this whole fucking realm isn’t nonsensical. your fellow gardener, a witch strong enough to put a spell on everything he has passed by and make it stick.

it hits you that you do not belong here. that nobody does: not komori or sakusa or oikawa or hinata. it gives you goosebumps to imagine your own magic holding up a world that binds you.

this is not your life, but rather a carved pocket of time that keeps borrowing and borrowing from the future. you have friends and a family, somewhere beyond this. this is not where you should be, alien in your own skin, more mortal than most, and yet.

you wake up curled in sakusa’s arms. you sit at the kitchen counter laughing with osamu over atsumu. you help aran, a deity with stars in his palms and kindness in his eyes, coax ivy to wind around poles. you cannot give this up.

this is not your reality, your timeline, but on god you did not think you would be forced to give it up.

you wake up with your chest hurting, sakusa’s name on your tongue. the sheets are cold and empty beside you. nonsensically, you start to cry.

i’ll be back before dawn, sakusa had said, but in your dreams the void had swallowed him whole. in your dreams you saw only his back as he kept walking away, until the edge, until the white light eclipsed him.

awake, you wipe your tears. you get out of bed. then you run, through the halls, out the door. the manor spits you out on the cliff side and you hang on to your sense of self by your fingernails.

it should be pouring rain, the sky should be thundering with grief and pain but instead the world is calm. starlight shadows oikawa’s silhouette but when you step closer you see it: the stillness in his eyes, the unhappy twist of his mouth.

why are you out here, you ask, trying to keep your voice steady. you are scared beyond belief. you are grieving for something that has not ended, someone who is not gone. the heartache hurts worse than anything you’ve felt before.

oikawa looks at you: hair unruly and unkept, dried tear tracts staining his smooth cheeks. sweetheart, i think you already know.

things unravel quickly after that. the lightning storms come: they leave scorched marks on the earth and fell several trees. komori replants them, resurrects them with grim determination.

a tsunami rises, which the magic folk fend off. you learn that the life energy that the volleyball players were charging the courts with extend to the rest of the castle. osamu lends his magic to the wards, atsumu lends energy to his twin: a cycle that feeds off each other. aran hangs stars in the sky and they spark against the water.

you think of oikawa on the cliffside, this is not my domain. as if he is not in the center of it all, magic pouring out of his fingertips, mouth grimacing with rage.

you walk around with a constant heartache, rubbing at your chest with one hand, learning how to siphon energy to others with the other hand. human energy is still life energy, you learn, and still potent enough to stabilize the landscapes.

most of your time is spent with komori, who spins fast blocks and heavy spells with unparalleled grace and still touches the soil so gently. he teaches you how to lend your energy, and how to take care of yourself after it is done, when you are feeling like a husk of a person.

you still do not know who is causing all this but sometimes you wonder if you would care to know. if it would change what is happening, if it would bring sakusa and iwaizumi back.

when you are alone, very late into the night, sometimes you say, kiyoomi into the air. it is a summon that lingers in the emptiness of your room. it is a prayer that goes unanswered.

you roll over in a bed too large for just you and try not to cry.

where are they, you ask, finally. it’s been a bit over a week, which is far too long for everybody in the manor including yourself.

oikawa smiles at you, trembling and furious. in the grey of dawn, he is so clearly exhausted and yet he still rolls his shoulders back to stand tall.

maybe it’s time to take a field trip, he says. but you never end up going on the field trip because sakusa and iwaizumi come stumbling home at two in the morning.

it’s bokuto that leads you to them, his hand gentle on your shoulder as he steers you through the halls. they’re tucked up in the infirmary, more dragon than human and your heart hurts so much, to see them trapped in tubing and wire and white sheet, blood soaking their clothes.

sakusa wakes up in fits throughout the night, fever burning his skin. his personality swings wildly off-course during these spells. in one, he is sickly sweet and cooing. in another, he is morbid and brooding.

why are we the creatures that have lasted this long in this hellscape, he mourns, before hitoka puts him back to sleep: cold compress caressing his neck, his hand loosely held in yours.

yachi has been mixing herbs for days. across the room, oikawa is staring down at iwaizumi’s face, as unmoving as he has been for the last eight hours.

the room reeks of lavender (for sleep, she told you, for dreams) as yachi smears a white balm onto the dragons.

to stabilize their meridians, explains yaku, like that makes any sense to you. she smiles at the blankness on your face. it’s where their magic flows.

komori comes in to lend a hand. apparently, the hedge witch can do more than just make a few flower pots grow.

he coaxes iwaizumi to wakefulness to shove a dark broth down his throat and does the same with sakusa, clamping a sterile-gloved hand over his mouth to make him swallow.

it’s almost worse than the week they were missing, because at least now they’re here.

god, you say, what happened to you.

sakusa, fever recently broken and eyes still a bit hazy, says, don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, scornful and tense.

you do not lash out by the skin of your teeth. your eyes catch on his injuries and you subside, for now.

there are more important things in life than fighting: staying alive, taking care of each other.

i’ll be back later, you tell him. then: i love you.

i love you too, sakusa says. as you close the door, you turn around to watch him slump back against the pillow, eyes already closed.

[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

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