#i am loving writing these

[askteikoku]

hello!! for the valentine’s day ficlets requests, I’d like to ask for 3 ships if that’s okay 🥹🥹

- SakiHen, With a hoarse voice, under the blankets

Thank you for requesting, the ficlet is under the cut! I hope you'll like it! I'll try to add a little sketch for every ficlet too. I accept requests for this ficlets all the month! So you can continue requesting. English isn't my mother Language so if you (anyone) sees a grammar mistake or mispelling you can tell me to fix it! Reblogs and likes are appreciate, since fics didn't usually get a lot of love.

With a hoarse voice, under the blankets [SakiHen] Henmi always really liked going to his friend Sakiyama's house to spend the night, since he was little and as far back as his memory allowed, he remembered those moments as something very special. The two would get together after finishing school and go to the house of Sakiyama's grandmother who lived on the outskirts of the city in a large traditional house with a beautiful garden that Henmi enjoyed walking through even when he already knew every herb and every stone like the palm of his hand. The days when his family allowed him to go to his friend's house were days of fun, and with the time they became days of liberation. In that house he felt accepted and protected, the only place where he did not have to constantly prove his own worth because his worth was measured in his mere company. Perhaps it was partly because Sakiyama's grandmother loved him like another grandchild, or perhaps it was because Sakiyama's presence gave him a security he didn't feel anywhere else or with anyone else.

In his own home, Henmi was always required to uphold the name of his family, and although due to his upbringing it was something that had been deeply instilled within him, making him proud and sometimes vain, as he grew up he discovered that he was not one of those prodigies who were able to stay on top, could never be number one in academics and could never be number one in sports. But he never lowered his head for this reason and although he could not be the best, he made an effort so that his family could be proud of him.

So when he could get out of this environment of continuous judgment, Henmi could breathe. Visiting Sakiyama's home was one of the few liberties he was allowed since Henmi's family held the other family in high regard ever since Sakiyama's great-grandfather saved Henmi's great-grandfather. Those days that turned into nights were a blast of cold air on a hot and stifling summer day. Since they arrived and the old woman received them, the aura that enveloped Henmi changed completely.

In that place he felt protected, in that place he felt accepted, in that place he felt that he could enjoy being a child, a teenager... In that place he was together with Sakiyama eating cookies and drinking tea, watching television, playing, having a bath in a huge wooden tub and having dinner. In that place he felt at home.

And when the woman sent them to sleep and they obediently went to bed, the real fun began.

Henmi and Sakiyama made a bunker under the bed blankets, lit a flashlight and talked in low voices between breathy giggles and barely controlled excited screams. In addition, the blond always managed to steal some cookies that they ate, filling the sheets with crumbs. Under those sheets they read adventure books, under those blankets they planned their own adventures, talking about their trips around the world when they were older, about how many adventures they would find, how many imaginary worlds they would travel... Under those blankets they were both happy. Henmi didn’t need to prove anything to Sakiyama and Sakiyama didn’t need to prove anything to Henmi, they were the same, they were colleagues, they were accomplices, they were themselves.

That late-winter night of their second year of High School, they snuggled under the sheets and blankets on Sakiyama's bed as usual, even though by now they had grown so large that being in the same bed was uncomfortable. But they kept doing it, perhaps out of tradition, perhaps because of the secrets they kept.

Sakiyama had a small orange flashlight he'd gotten from a survival store lighted, and they were holding an aged-looking world map open as they ate chocolate chip cookies.

They were talking about all the places Henmi had visited throughout his life, since the boy traveled constantly with his family around the world and from those trips he brought back anecdotes for his friend who had only been overseas a couple of times to visit his parents who lived abroad.

It was a conversation monopolized by Henmi, but the blond had no problem with it because he liked to hear him talk with bright eyes about everything he discovered on those trips, his experiences, his meetings, the food, the culture... His golden eyes glowed with emotion when they related everything to his friend who was lost in his gaze trying to imagine what he was bringing for him: adventures. Henmi told him about true wonders, told him about gigantic open deserts and small alleys from centuries past, told him about dense tropical jungles and tall skyscrapers, told him about famous works of art and corners unknown to most tourists. And he tried to recreate in his imagination what those places would be like since he only saw through photos or television but that in Henmi's raspy voice had a different magic, as if they were taken from a fairy tale.

“Where would you like to travel if you could choose a place?” asked Henmi after they both laughed at an incident with a street hot dog vendor in New York.

Sakiyama was silent, thoughtful… He hated traveling to see his parents instead of going on adventures with Henmi.

"To your heart."

Henmi dropped the cookie he was eating with a pounding in his chest and turned slightly flushed to his friend who was staring at him. He raised his eyebrows in a mute question, and Sakiyama bit his lip and frowned doubtfully, but then looked back at him, his voice shaking as he answered. Opening his heart to the one person he allowed to get close to that part of him, showing how vulnerable he felt at that moment.

"I love you." His voice was barely a hoarse murmur under the blankets.

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

I am incredibly serious right now when I beg you all, please, and if you have Twitter or Tiktok or whatever to please spread the word: click on an author's profile on Ao3.

You want to know if an author has written more? Want to know if they're still writing? Want to see more from them? Want to know if they've written a trope or kink or sex scenario you enjoy?

Click on their name. And look at their profile.

I cannot tell you how many times in the last six months someone has read a new or newer fic of mine and said they (a new reader who has read nothing else I've done) "can't wait to see what you do next!" I've written 50+ fics and over a million words already.

"I don't know if you're still writing..." click on my profile. I am. I literally wrote a 128k+ fic for that ship last month.

"Would you ever do X?" "Please do Y!" I already did. Click on my name and look at my works.

Archive of our Own is a library. It's an archive. Not social media. It is your responsibility to fight back against the laziness that corporate algorithms have trained into you.

Click my author name. Just click it. Just click it.

Before you demand more, or ask if a writer will do XYZ, or wonder if the author still writing, or anything - click on their profile. Click on the author's profile.

I'm not trying to be mean or condescending or anything like that. I'm just exhausted. It's disheartening and frustrating to repeat myself ad nauseam, because someone couldn't take thirty seconds to do the tiniest bit of work to see if I've written lately, if I've written more for their ship, or scan my works to see if I've written what they're asking for. Please. Please. I'm begging.

Click the author's name, and explore before you ask.

[geezmarty]

(bellara/taash) nerd/jocks lovers rise up

[soldrawss]

Something something 16yo 2k12 Mikey gets sucked into a portal and sent into the RISE universe and ends up helping raise the RISE kiddos AU

[lena-oleanderson]

you're allowed to be held.

[lazylittledragon]

i need guenhwyvar to be Cat so bad

[hinamie]

unconditionally

[akanemnon]

I thought this game didn't have random encounters!

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[ivynightshade]

fatima aamer bilal, from i mother it the absence of her, iii. i am not a person that can be loved for a very long time excerpt from moony moonless sky.

[rafesweetie]

need a jealous bsf!rafe x reader where he is possessive and doesn’t want other guys touching her even though he touches other girls, so she is basically over it and at a party, she dances on another guy and he gets mad

౨ৎ in which bsf!rafe just can’t help wanting to protect you.

you were done with rafe cameron. you’ve decided it. he was your best friend, sure, but he was controlling, mean, overly protective, and he acted like he owned you or something. so you were completely done with him, forever.

this is the third time you’ve promised yourself that, and news flash — you never dropped him.

it wasn’t your fault, you try to tell yourself every time. he just wouldn’t let you leave him, shutting you up whenever you’d even try and be reasonable with him, yelling louder than you or slamming his palm over your mouth. but a little part of you knows that you like the attention. you like that rafe cares so much about you, even if it does ruin your chances of getting a boyfriend. today is the day that you break the pattern though, and rebel against his constant authority.

parties are where rafe thrives. he’s like a celebrity, it always wonders you how much people love him. during parties, he keeps less of an eye on you, assuming you’re just busy gossiping with your friends. but little does he know, you’ve found a boy — it wasn’t often you’d get the opportunity to chat with a boy that wasn’t rafe, and you were loving every second of it. you felt so free from your friend’s gaze, listening to the boy talk, his deep voice vibrating your brain.

but the issue was, the boy was boring. he didn’t talk about cool things, like dirtbikes or his life or death adventures or money. you hated to say it, but he just wasn’t rafe. your mind kept flashing back to him, how much more you smile and enjoy his company. maybe rafe was right. you just didn’t need boys when you have him.

you’re so close to excusing yourself from the boy, going back to rafe’s arm and giggling with him and talking with your faces really close together. you glance back to where he is, ready to retreat, until you see it. you see her.

you’re not sure who she is, but she bothers you. her hair is so gorgeous and healthy, and you can’t see her face from behind but she must be gorgeous. her arm is on rafe’s bicep — your bicep, the one you always hang onto while you’re walking with rafe. you hate that you’re jealous. rafe’s your friend, not your boyfriend, you have no reason to be. but it’s like you can’t control it, your rage, and before you know it, you’re blinking back any potential tears and touching on this boy — this stranger — like there’s no tomorrow. tyla is blasting through the speakers, and yours and these boy’s hands are all over each other’s bodies. you really hope rafe sees you like this, drunk off the smirnoff pink lemonades and enjoying another mans company.

it really doesn’t take long for him to notice. he’s so predictable. shrugging the girls hand off of him, rushing over to his dear friend to get her away from this lowlife.

usually he’d reason with you. coax you away from the boy nicely and lecture you. but he’d had a few beers and a line of coke and he was in no mood for politeness. a rough hand pushes the boy away by the chest, and rafe isn’t muttering a word to anyone, grabbing your wrist and stomping away with you stumbling behind.

he pushes you into a spare bedroom, the first private place he could find. sitting you on the edge of the bed, he starts pacing in front of you and rubbing his face as if this was hurting his head. it’s like your brain flicks a switch, back to “rafe rafe rafe” as you’re sat there with tears brimming your eyes, fiddling with your manicure as you bat your eyelashes up at him, remembering the girl flirting with him, and now you making him mad, and now he’s got you in a puddle of guilt.

“shit— it’s like, you never do what i say, huh?” he mutters, still pacing. “you know i do everything to protect you, kid. you even know who that fuckin’ guy was? no, m’sure you don’t, cause you don’t think. thought by now my voice would be in your pretty head, there to help you make some smart decisions every once in a while. but nah, nah, you see one other boy and it’s back to square one with you,”

you go to speak, glossy lips parting, but he shuts you up with a quick “no”, and stopping pacing to go kneel in front of you.

“everything i do — for you, okay? for you. my girl,” he often calls you that, it makes you weak every time. he grabs your hands. “stop fiddling, paid for this polish.” you stop instantly. “i know— i know you think that my protectiveness is, uh, stupid, but i need to be like this, or you’re gonna get hurt. i know you, baby. i need to be all over you for you to even have a slight awareness to not do stupid things. so i do take some ownership over you in that sense—“

you cut him off, muttering a, “don’t want you to take ownership.”

he huffs. “yeah, but i do, so…” he shrugs. “you’re mine. my friend, my girl. so i don’t like it when someone else touches my girl, or when you’re the one intiating it. makes me so fuckin’ angry, kid, makes me wanna, like—“ he cuts himself off. “so i need you to knock it off.”

you wanna argue so badly, but your brain turns to mush around him. so you sniffle and nod hesitantly.

“no, i want a ‘yes rafe.’ need your words.”

“i just think that—“ you try.

he cuts you off. “yes rafe. say it with me.”

“..yes, rafe.” you both say.

he squeezes your hands and gets up. “yeah, there you go, good girl. now do you, uh, need a minute, fix your makeup, or d’you wanna go back down there and hang out with me?”

your hand goes to his bicep as you stand up with him, and a ghost of a smile appears on his lips. “wanna go with you,” you say softly, leaning into him a bit.

“yeah, that’s what i thought.”

[hansoeii]

Do you think of me?

[erabu-san]

I enjoyed every second of this quest

[This art has platonic intention. Thank you for not tag ship!]

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[rosarysgarden]

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s ‘i am an observer, but not by choice.’

[text id: i have the everlasting tendency to ruin everything i love.]

[generalsdiary]

Sunday mannerisms I noticed during the 2.7 livestream

when he finds something funny or amusing but doesn't laugh out loud - his right wing twitches

when he is happy or joyous - his left wing twitches

when he is flustered, shy or laughing out loud - both wings twitch