#maybe Miya will!

[plagalkey]

ENERGETIC ⚡️

you make me feel so high

[kaattlin]

season 4 rewatch, complete

[a-pastel-edgelord]

Despite all the commonly held beliefs about him, Atsumu is not a bad guy. He knows this because he hasn't moved from his spot at his desk once today. And sure, maybe his eyes wander over to you and his mind keeps conjuring vague questions about how your day is going—regardless, he's not going to budge. He may end up burning a hole into his math work sheet from his staring, but it's a small price to pay.

He's taken you for granted. After you got a boyfriend. Little ole you, who never quite changed from being a snot-nosed brat in his mind until all of a sudden you couldn't hang out. The space you used to occupy (somewhere between Suna and Samu) is conspicuously empty. It's not right.

You don't eat lunch together anymore: instead, your stupid boyfriend (he's in Kita-san's class, and not even that good-looking by the way) collects you and off you skip to some obscure corner of the school where you guys probably make eyes at each other over your bentos. You don't walk home with him and Samu these days, no it's Whatshisname doing it in their place while holding your hand and calling your name with sugary familiarity. Like that guy knows something he doesn't. Well, jokes on your boyfriend because Atsumu knows how ugly you are when you cry or how spine tingling your whoops of glee are, or how your eyes absolutely sparkle when you eat something you like. Atsumu is willing to bet a month's worth of Osamu's cooking this scrub doesn't even know what your favorite café order is.

Fuckin' ridiculous.

But what's Atsumu supposed to do about it?? If you like this guy seriously, it's the least he can do to not get in the way of you being happy.

Are you happy? You deserve it, more than most people, in his opinion. Life hasn't been super fair to you, so the least it can do is give you someone who treats you well. Yeah, maybe it's just the universe balancing itself. This thought sustains him for a little while as the days pass.

Until he misses a spike serve in a particularly spectacular fashion. The ball ricocheted off the wall and out of the open gym doors. He rounds the corner of the gym, snatching up the wayward ball, only to look up at a sound. On the other side of the chain link fence that separates the gyms from the fields is your boyfriend with his tongue down the throat of the captain of the soccer team.

A grin, all teeth, cracks across his face. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears as blood rushes to his brain. His breath becomes shorter, and he checks himself before he starts hyperventilating. Atsumu Miya is not a bad guy, really he's not. After all, who wouldn't be happy to get what they want?

[kuroppiii]

  tough as nails ᵕ̈       boyfie!msby boys       x nail tech!gn reader ˎˊ˗

⋮⋮ ˒ ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ 𖥻 ⿻ : when you want ⋮⋮  to practice some designs ⋮⋮  and they volunteer them- ⋮⋮  selves as your test dummy !

📋 content     ♡ # 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧 🐮     ♡ # 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴 🥛     ♡ # 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴 🥛     ♡ # ~2.5𝘬 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴

🧸 directory  ‹ ✩  like what you read ? check out more of my blog !  •ᴗ•

💬 kuroppiii  ─ “ ik that ' s not really the context of the saying in the title but i couldn ' t think of anything else ! nail pics as with all my other header pics are from pinterest <3 also lmk if you want to see more characters for this prompt bc highkey i loveee looking through nail designs lol ”

︴hinata shōyō ․﹒∗*○․﹒✧∘° 

this is not this man's first time around some nail polish

natsu used to paint his nails all the time, so he’s so down!

big color inspo from the colors of a classic blue and yellow mikasa volleyball because of his love for the sport (obvi)

howeverrr switching out the yellow for a bit more of an orange hue to go with his hair <3

also!!! some tropical floral designs as an homage to his time in brazil

a super fun vibe for a bright and go-lucky guy :)

when you first take his hand in yours, the tips of his ears start to redden a little bit

"hey shō are your ears alright–?" [you]

"your hands are so soft." [hinata]

"okay, shō." [you] (totally not fighting back a smile)

he's held your hand countless times but for some reason this–you holding his hand so gently and focusing in on it as you start prepping his nail beds–feels so much more intimate

seeing your face as you're so focused on him and his hands makes him blush lowk but good thing you're looking down and can't see how flustered he obviously is

like for someone so talkative, he's silent and almost as attentive as you the whole time and he's not even the one doing the work

you also notice he holds his breath every time you make the nail polish make contact with his nails until you finally lift back up CUTIEEE

“love, you know you can breathe, right?” [you]

“i don’t want to mess you up though! you’re doing so great by the way, babe.” [hinata]

cups your face when his nails are finally set and dry and you can see his eyes dart between your facial features and his nails contrasting against your skin and his smile gets bigger in real time

then he gives you a biggg kiss as a thank you for your hard work

definitely goes to every one of his teammates in the msby locker room his next practice to show them the nails

on tvs, cellphones, laptops and countless other kinds of screens everywhere: the camera following the msby jackals' game whips around to land their sights on hinata shōyō.

ten seconds remain on the clock. the jackals are behind their opponents by the most miniscule handful of points. in a last-ditch effort, atsumu's in place, and in a matter of seconds hinata is already high in the air.

the ball is met with a collision from the redhead's hand and quickly surpasses any of the opposition's lines of defense. an abrasive buzzer blares throughout the area and the msby jackals all start to jump onto one another with screams and yells and high fives in celebration.

"another excellent shot by hinata! what a way for the jackals to clutch this game folks!" a commentator excitedly blabbers.

"let's take another look at that one, shall we?" another accompanying commentator beckons.

time slows on screen during the instant replay–from the moment hinata gets in front of the net, to the moment his feet leave the ground, and especially as his arm is reeled back moments before the winning shot.

the camera takes the liberty of zooming in on hinata’s hand then. it captures the precise moment when his purest love and energy for volleyball surges through his body. the unseen electricity has ricocheted throughout him to finally trail up to his fingertips, adorned with colors that showcase the blend of his identity with the same ball his skin almost adoringly caresses for a second in the eyes on the slow-mo cam footage.

blue and yellow, blue and orange side-by-side in front of thousands and millions of eyes to witness as the ninja shōyō’s manicured hand follows through and pushes that volleyball past the net to bring his team to victory.

︴sakusa kiyoomi ․﹒∗*○․﹒✧∘° 

as babygirl as sakusa kiyoomi is, black’s just really his vibe i think

not on like some emo shit but the black would go really well with not only his hair but his iconic beauty marks above his eye

speaking of his hair, the cyber tribal chrome kind of sitch kinda alludes to his curls :0

i mean to the rest of the world he’s this stoic and serious guy all the time

but they don't see how he looks at you while you paint the finer details on his nails

or the subtle and soft dopey smile he’s got on as he asks you in lovestruck whispers about your technique, how work's going, what materials you use, etc.

"and... what's this for now?" [sakusa]

"it's to make sure your nails stay nice and strong for whenever you hit your incredible spikes, omi." [you]

"oh, that's definitely important. wouldn't want to skip that." [sakusa] (before you laugh at his little joke and his heart skips a beat and he gives you a quick kiss on the top of your head as you continue to work)

once the nails are finished, he goes to look at them with his fingers clawed–boyishly characteristic of a dude who's never gotten his nails done like this before

you can't help but laugh and he asks what's wrong

"what do you mean i'm looking at them weird?" [sakusa]

"your hands look like when you posed with the msby jackal mascot that one time." [you]

"how else am i supposed to look at them?" [sakusa]

you demonstrate how people normally check out their nails at the salon

and then it delves into a mini hand modeling lesson and many, many, giggles between the two of you as he tries to figure it out

you end up with some new reference pics of his set for any of your future clients, what a supportive boyfriend!

a certain photo is going viral as it makes its rounds online. the photographer who took it had to have known they struck gold capturing this certain moment, and the racking number of likes and comments are only affirmations of that.

it's a professional shot of sakusa kiyoomi mid-game. late-game, actually, as its evident though the state of his appearance in the picture.

visible droplets dot his face and figure, giving his skin and curly hair a certain sheen that proves the dedication he puts into every one of the msby jackals' games. to combat the sweat that's accumulated on himself, it seems like sakusa had absentmindedly reached for the edge of his jersey to act as a substitute for a towel in that particular moment (his expression is clearly focused on nothing but what might've been happening next on the other side of the court net). the muscles that adorn his torso peek out from the action.

and on top of it all–the sweat, the abs, the way the rest of the jersey clings to the rest of his body–the subtle chrome detailing of his nails stand out where his hand tugs the fabric to wipe at the bottom of his face...

and you hadn't even really caught on to this picture online yourself. the only reason you went to look it up for yourself was because of the influx of work emails you had received since the jackals' last win.

the public was vaguely aware you specialized in cosmetics, as sakusa had alluded to now and then in press conferences and interviews. however, it wasn't really until people online started to wonder where your boyfriend got these nails from did google's reverse-image search bring them to the pictures on your profile that you and sakusa took post- his manicure.

to say your clientele grew overnight, would be quite the understatement.

︴miya atsumu ․﹒∗*○․﹒✧∘° 

ik the picture is a bit blurry but PLEASE stick with me here yall 🙏 HEAR ME OUT

heavy on that barbie ken atsumu sort of agenda

you ask if he had any colors in mind

and he’s like "y'know what? fuck it. go big or go home."

he knows people might shit on him for having his nails done at his next game so yeah get the most stereotypically “feminine” color you got–just to mess with whatever losers might whine about it

“but... do ya think pink would look good on me y/n?” [atsumu] (AND HE'S KIND OF SHY WHEN HE'S ASKING YOU)

"OF COURSE IT WOULD BABY??" [you]

as you're ducked down working, he misses seeing your face

so he cranes his neck and looks up at you from where his hands are

"hey baby, funny seeing you here." [atsumu]

"tsumu, stay still!" [you]

"sorry angel, just missed lookin' at ya." [atsumu]

in that position, he loves the feeling of you holding his hands and the sensation of the nail polish brush against the top of his fingers so much, that he semi-falls asleep against his forearm as you wrap up

he just feels so much at peace <3

and when you’re done he is definitely giving ken, and that his job is volleyball

and tbh i hc his hair post timeskip isn’t so much piss yellow as ppl joke it was while he was at inarizaki

but that if he stuck through with keeping it blonde for so long he eventually managed to get it professionally done, and with some GODDAMN TONER 😭

i think it’s like a brassy sort of blonde

which looks perfect as an accent to the nails

like pop off regina george!!!!

something endearing about your loving atsumu is he never fails to get you the best seats in the arena whenever you come watch the msby jackals play.

from front row, you can see everything, and in so much detail—the action, the sweat, the tears that goes into each and every matchup the team faces. truly, the experience was leagues above settling for a closer look on any big screen or arena jumbotron. everything was just so much clearer!

but most importantly, you can see your boyfriend. very clearly.

so clearly, in fact, that after a particular great serve to bokuto for a spike that earned the jackals yet another point, you have the luxury of soaking in all the glowing details of atsumu in his element.

the way he clutches his strong fists and yells with joy at the small win, a bit of pink peeking out from the insides of his palms.

how his hands clap and grasp at the hands of his teammates in quick celebratory high-fives that leave streaky blurs of pink trailing behind his excited movements.

when his hand quickly drags over his smiling and glistening face, before carding through his hair—small pink detailings disappearing and reappearing amidst the blonde strands that rest on the top of his head.

by the time all the players on the court are settled back into their places for when the moment the ball will be up in the air once again—anticipation pulsing on both sides of the net—you can even catch as atsumu quickly glances at his nails with a small, blink-and-you’d-miss-it smile.

thankfully, your top-tier seat allows you to catch it. and although he’s smiling at his hands, you know that it’s for your work and by extension, it’s all love for you in that split second before your boyfriend has to lock in again.

when the next ball is served, you find yourself almost falling out of your chair from how far you’re leaning forward to take in as much of your great view as possible.

︴bokuto kōtarō ․﹒∗*○․﹒✧∘° 

MISMATCH IS A MUST

you say the few designs you want to try out and ask him which one you can try on him and he just goes: ALL OF THEM!

(he knows it’ll take longer to do with all the different elements, but that just means he gets to stare at you for longer as you work)

"are you sure? i mean, do you have a color you want in particular? i can tweak them so they all have the same palette." [you]

"nope! cover me with whatever your beautiful mind is envisioning!" [bokuto] (he's jutting his fingers out in front of you and wiggling them around with the biggest grin on his face)

these nails also just fits him as a person because he’s super all over the place and spontaneous so it works it JUST WORKS OK

plus his hair’s literally greyish whitish so it’s like a perfect neutral and blank canvas to accent the color palette

it's one thing having him sit still for an extended amount of time, but having you this close? right in front of him?

how is he not supposed to give your lips a quick kiss now and then

BUT!!! he always goes to double check he didn't mess up the nails every time he pulls back

"kō, the nails are fine! you didn't even move your hands, you're just moving your head to kiss me, silly." [you]

"just making sure, babe! i know this stuff takes a lot of work. plus, i can't really think of what else is happening when i'm kissing you, really." [bokuto] (already going in for another kiss)

you can see in the corner of your eye as you work on your designs that bokuto's nose scrunches up now and then

it's because he's not used to the smell of the nail products you're using

upon completing the whole nail set, he concludes it’s legitimately one of THE COOLEST THINGS anyone’s ever fucking done for him

doesn’t stop staring at his hands in a little bit of awe even after you’re done and chilling on the living room couch, completely oblivious to what's going on on the tv in front of you two

the crowd is going absolutely ballistic. the jackals are in the lead. and your boyfriend, the bokuto kōtarō is up and about to serve.

you watch the arena's big teleprompter with the rest of the spectators as the cameras pan to bokuto.

he has that look on his face–confident and happy playing the sport that runs through his veins. his hand crashes down onto the ball once. wham!

twice. blam!

when the ball comes back up, he grips it between his hands. it's evident even through the screen how his arms tense and pulse. it's like he's revving up.

as everyone hangs off the edge of their seats and keep their eyes glued in anticipation to the broadcasting of bokuto holding that unmistakable combo of blue and yellow–it's impossible to ignore how the ends of his hands glint and reflect the bright overhead lights.

colors of all kinds twitch in excitement against the leather and the star player quickly glances down at the ball, sure, but most definitely also at the intricate art you so graciously blessed his nails with. bokuto's lips crack a smile.

then he's tossing the volleyball up. a loud and powerful smack reverberates throughout the arena. in the blink of an eye the ball whizzes past two of the opposite team's players and the crowd explodes once again as the ball is now rolling on the outskirts of the court across the net.

your boyfriend's chest swells with pride, and his carefully manicured finger darts to point over you in the stands. you cheer even louder for him as he beams a tooth-filled smile your way.

💬 kuroppiii  ─ “ oh and i forgot to point out that most of these designs are short and with minimal charms so they don't get in the way of a volleyball player ' s , well ... volleyball playing ! short nail - ers rise up ! ”

[atelier-dayz]

Oh yes, I did promise some Jangobi thoughts so:

You know how we have the Disney Princess Obi trope? Where large creatures love him?

I'm thinking about:

Disney princess Obi with best girl Boga the Varactyl

And Jango, who has zero problems with being called Varactyl vomit because they're "majestic creatures" and whose enemy (Tor Vizsla) was finished off by dire-cats.

And Boba, who receives a rancor as a gift and goes EXCELLENT, I WANT TO PET HIM

Conclusion: in some Jangobi universe(s) out there, the home of the Kenobi-Fett clan is really a menagerie of inadvertently befriended/collected creatures, some of which might be more reasonable (like Boga), and others that most sentients in their right mind would not keep around (like the rancor, maybe a dire-cat, etc). Visits to the Kenobi-Fett homestead if you're not family are...stressful.

[zentriii]

atsumu groans when light fills up his room. his head's submerged in the clouds and all he knows is that he's going to have to call out of practise today. fuck.

the sheets beside him are barely warm so he forces his eyes open and rubs the crust out with the back of his hand. what kiyoomi won't see can't hurt him. his phone reads 6:23. at least he's awake early enough that kiyoomi hasn't left yet.

the process of brushing his teeth and throwing a pair of clean, non-sweaty pants on feel like they take up five years. there's a fit of nausea trying to make itself known in his stomach but he wants to see kiyoomi off.

"how're you feeling?" kiyoomi asks, filling a plate up with eggs.

"like i wanna be run over by a car." atsumu finds that to be more of an honest statement than he thought it was. he can barely stand up but the unsteadiness of walking over is daunting.

"do you think you can eat some eggs?" there's a small gesture towards the plate in his hands but fuck – the thought alone of how greasy the butter is, the strong flavours of salt and pepper – he could puke.

"i dunno if i could keep 'em down t'be honest," he mumbles, shame churning in his gut. it's not the first time kiyoomi's seen him sick – but it's the first time since they started living together. there's nowhere to hide in their apartment.

"try?" and it's that classic Omi-Pout™ that has him folding. a little because it's cute. a little because he still feels like he's imposing sometimes. a little because he refuses to live with regrets – if all there is, is here and now, atsumu knows he'll be upset if kiyoomi becomes upset too.

there isn't much else for him to do but shrug helplessly and unstick his feet from the ground. walking isn't too bad after the first step – or with company.

the toaster pops off and kiyoomi quickly adds those to his plate before atsumu can even finish washing his hands – as if he'd refuse anything more once he sat down. kiyoomi's not wrong, but still! it's the principle of the matter – wait is atsumu internally trying to convince himself that kiyoomi should consider him a simp? that that's how he wants to be seen?

does he? he does not. (does he?)

atsumu is very confused on which side he's on right now and comes to the conclusion that his head hurts so he will not be thinking further on this matter. he sits down.

kiyoomi's long since scurried off to grab his gym bag and change out of his pjs but despite atsumu's 23 years of life – he misses him. his company's a quiet but solid one and the warmth that atsumu always feels from beside him leaves in exchange for a cold chill. the egg starts tasting more bland.

surprisingly enough – flavour-wise it isn't all that rich to begin with. kiyoomi's the type to overdo quite literally everything when it comes to food, and even though atsumu was expecting something more mellowed out in terms of taste, it's super easy on his stomach.

he wants to ask but kiyoomi beats him to it, walking out of their room and ready for the day. "i used less salt and pepper and cooked it on oil instead of butter. are you alright to finish it?"

atsumu's stomach turns into a mess for a whole new reason and there's tears pricking at his eyes that he ignores. "yeah," he croaks, voice far too fragile to say any more.

"i called coach already, i left some medicine on your nightstand and – rest well okay?" kiyoomi's brows furl and it rushes into atsumu all at once how far kiyoomi's going for him.

kiyoomi who hates being sick, hates the idea of even getting sick. kiyoomi who's been playing nurse since atsumu woke them both up in the middle of the night with a sudden fever, not once complaining about being in close contact with him.

"omi-kun–" atsumu's voice warbles. he's gonna regret this later but he's. he's not even sure what he wants to say but he feels steady enough on his feet thanks to the food kiyoomi carefully made.

"i'll be back soon yeah?" and it's the way kiyoomi doesn't make a step to the door that brings words flooding out of atsumu.

"i'll be waitin' at home for ya." there's a silent moment where he wonders if he chose wrong, if kiyoomi wasn't really ready to refer to his apartment as theirs. it's only been two months since he–

"yeah, love you." atsumu hates how he can't smother kiyoomi's stupid pretty little face in kisses so instead he engraves the curve of kiyoomi's pleased and wobbly smile into his mind.

atsumu knows his face is just as sappy. he can't quite find it in himself to care.

"love you too."

[slightlytoastedbagel]

the untapped potential of exploring the craziness of Miya Girls

[minyoungieee]

i’ve always had a hc that Miya Atsumu would have an Athlete lover.

and like imagine them always running to each other after each match and it continued until they become professional and fans noticed and make edits of them to The Alchemy.

[solkver]

sakuatsu but make it angel x demon where atsumu falls from heaven from being too careless when wandering around, and lands at the gates of hell. and when kiyoomi, devil himself. lucifer in all its glory, orders his creatures to bring the crestfallen angel to him, they drag and rough atsumu up to the point where kiyoomi needs to intervene. he takes care of the angel, promising him he'll find a way to get him back to his safe little cloud but what atsumu doesnt know is that kiyoomi's just prolonging everything until all the feathers of his pearly white wings falls and gets replaced by black.

[areioshq]

It’s 11/7 in the western hemisphere now, so… 🍙🦊

[justanotherjaydrawing]

was going through my files and found some of my older doodles of the boys~

[nyaptimez]

atsumu doodle... it's been so long....

[baeshijima]

anyway since my hq!! hyperfixation has reared its head around once more, i shall remind u all of one thing:

iwaizumi hajime (27) athletic trainer (+ argentina player oikawa tooru)

[lovelyunholyc]

hurt/comfort but mostly comfort. gender neutral. inspired by this post :')

from the moment you see him, you know something's off.

his shoulders sag just the slightest bit, and instead of his usual bone-crushing hug and a flurry of kisses as a greeting, he places only one, soft and sweet, at the center of your forehead.

this would be normal to most people, but it's miya atsumu, and you know him better than he might even know himself.

"baby, is something wrong?" you drop what you're doing on the kitchen counter in favor of catching his hand and tugging him back to you before he can walk away.

atsumu shrugs, eyes downcast, and there's a slight downward pull to his lips that would be imperceptible to anyone else. "no, i'm fine."

you scoff good-naturedly, amused that he still thinks he can hide how he feels from you of all people. "'tsumu," you admonish lightly, and delight at the pink tinge creeping up his ears at his beloved nickname, telling you that no matter how down he is, he's still pleased to hear it from you.

he plasters on a tiny smile, a pitiful fraction of its usual intensity, you know, and brings your hand up to press his lips to your knuckle. "i'm okay, darlin', don't worry."

you sigh, but let him be with a gentle squeeze to his hand. he can be so stubborn; but you know he'll come back to you eventually.

atsumu has always gone through his emotions hard, fast, and loud, much like he does with just about every other aspect of his life. you've always loved that about him, how being so vulnerable comes so naturally, how he isn't ashamed to wear his heart on his sleeve, can't seem to help himself from reacting so openly to everything around him.

you continue your work in the kitchen while he settles in for the night, setting his things down and changing.

soon enough, he makes his way back to you, all but draping himself across your shoulders, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. you brace yourself against the edge of the counter with his added weight on you, but you don't complain, only letting him melt into you. it's comforting, his warmth encompasses you entirely and soothes you inexplicably, his arms hugging you tightly to him.

you smile to yourself, turn your head slightly just to press your lips to the top of his head, soft blonde tickling your skin. "oh, my love," you breathe, taking his hands and turning in his embrace so you can then kiss at his pretty little frown.

atsumu merely grunts softly in appreciation, lets you lead him to sit at the dining table. he makes room for you to stand between his knees, and as soon as he sits, he pulls you to him, hugs you tight once more. he makes a small, satisfied sound when he buries his face in your stomach and breathes you in, and you immediately start threading your fingers through his hair, soothing at his scalp.

"what's going on in that pretty little head of yours, hm?" your voice is soft, cautious. patient, ready to help him ease his worries when he decides he's ready to share them. you feel him shiver with your touch, a wave wracking through his body, and all the tension slipping free with it, slowly, muscle by muscle. "rough day?"

atsumu just nods into you, takes a few deep breaths before he tilts his head up to finally look at you. his hair is mussed charmingly where he'd been rubbing it against your shirt, his brows and lips heavy with revelation.

"do you think i'm too much?" you've never heard him sound so small. your big, invincible, rambunctious lover, reduced to barely a whisper. you think your heart breaks.

before the heat of anger starts to spike through your chest at whoever, whatever had made him feel that way.

outwardly, you wait patiently for him to continue, to elaborate if he chooses.

"...too emotional? ....too dramatic?"

the mix of hurt and confusion in his eyes makes you want to burn the world down.

"oh, honey," you coo gently, caressing his face fondly before brushing through his fringe. you decide not to press, taking his bitten in bottom lip as a cue that he needs reassurance more than anything, a reminder. you crack a small smile, hoping he'll mirror it eventually. "dramatic, maybe, but never too much." you lean in to press your lips softly but firmly to his forehead, as if you can etch your words into his brain that way. "you're nothing i can't handle, you know."

your heart flutters just a bit when his lips do tilt the tiniest bit to the side, his eyes shining with emotion. "yeah?"

"yeah." your fingers move from his hair down to follow the line of his neck, until you get to his shoulders and massage gently at the muscles you know must be sore from practice. "do you wanna know what i really think, baby?"

he sighs contentedly as you work at the knots in his shoulders and back, and you're glad to feel the tension in his body start to dissipate beneath your fingers. he buries his face into your shirt again but nods, his arms giving you a fond squeeze.

"'tsumu, you love so loudly and so, so proudly, it makes everything else melt away. you get all soft and gooey so easily and i love you that way - i love you in every way, you know that?" he looks up at you again at that, and the way his bottom lip protrudes in a pout makes you laugh quietly. you lean down to press yours against it and feel it slip into a subtle upwards turn instead. "i think anyone would kill for the kind of vulnerability you show so naturally, 'tsumu, and everyone you share it with should count themselves lucky. i know i do." you touch the tip of your noses together, delighted when he starts to smile. genuinely.

atsumu tugs you down to sit on his lap, so he can kiss you properly. "i love you," he whispers against your lips. his eyes are sparkling so ardently, it makes you warm all over. "more than you know." he kisses you again, heart in your hands, and doesn't stop until you're breathless, and he's grinning like the world is right again.

"not more than i love you, though, pretty boy."

that makes him furrow his brows, his innocent smile molding into a smirk. he kisses you once more, deepening it with ease, like he has something to prove.

[iphigeniacomplex]

লিখি লোৱা, মই এজন মিঞা ("Write Down 'I am a Miyah'", 2016) by Hafiz Ahmed, translated from Assamese to English by Shalim M. Hussain, began a movement of resistance poetry among Assamese Muslims of Bengali descent, referred to as Miya Poetry after a slur used to describe this community. From Abdul Kalam Azad, for Indian Express ("Write...I am a Miya", 2019):

This poem went viral and other young poets started responding to him through poems. The young poets also started reclaiming “Miya”, a slur used against us, as our identity with pride. This chain of Facebook posts continued for days, reiterating the violence, suffering and humiliation expressed by our community. As time passed, more poets wrote in various languages and dialects, including many Miya dialects. The nomenclature ‘Miya Poetry’ got generated organically but the poets and their associates have been inspired by the Negritude and Black Arts movements, and queer, feminist and Dalit literary movements, where the oppressed have reclaimed the identity which was used to dehumanise them. The trend transcended our community. Poets from the mainstream Assamese community also wrote several poems in solidarity with the Miya poets while some regretted not being poets. Gradually, this became a full-fledged poetry movement and got recognised by other poets, critics and commentators. The quality and soul of these poems are so universal that they started finding prominence on reputed platforms. For the first time in the history of our community, we had started telling our own stories and reclaiming the Miya identity to fight against our harassers who were dehumanising us with the same word. They accused us of portraying the whole Assamese society as xenophobic. The fact is we have just analysed our conditions. Forget generalising the Assamese society as ‘xenophobic’, no Miya poet has ever used the term ‘xenophobic’ nor any of its variants. The guilt complex of our accusers is so profound that they don’t have the patience to examine why we wrote the poems.

Amrita Singh, writing for The Caravan ("Assam Against Itself", 2019), detailed the political backlash against Miya Poetry, in particular the above poem.

On 10 July this year, Pranabjit Doloi, an Assam-based journalist, filed a complaint at Guwahati’s Panbazar police station accusing ten people of indulging in criminal activities “to defame the Assamese people as Xenophobic in the world.” Doloi claimed that the ten people were trying to hinder the ongoing updation of the National Register of Citizens, a list of Assam’s Indian citizens that is due to be published on 31 August. The premise of Doloi’s complaint was a widely-circulated poem called, “Write down I am Miya,” by Hafiz Ahmed, a school teacher and social activist. “Write. Write down I am a Miya/ A citizen of democratic secular republic without any rights,” Ahmed wrote. The police registered a first information report against Doloi’s complaint, booking all ten persons for promoting enmity between groups, among other offences. [...] At the press conference, Mander emphasised that people in Assam are in distress because of the NRC’s arbitrary and rigid procedures. “One spelling mistake when you are writing a Bengali name in English … that is enough for you to be in a detention center, declared a foreigner,” Mander said. “If you are not allowing this lament to come out in the form of poetry, then where is this republic of India going?”

Ahmed's poem is influenced in structure by "Identity Card", a 1964 poem by by Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish which uses the symbolic figure of the Palestinian working man to confront Israeli occupiers. Darwish's identity card, a symbol of Israeli subjugation transformed into a cry of Palestinian national identity, is reshaped by Ahmed into the National Register of Citizens for Assam and the accompanying fear of statelessness and disenfranchisement for the Miya people.

This solidarity between writers from oppressed groups is, of course, not one that ends with Darwish and Ahmed, nor with the Black, queer, feminist, and Dalit influences of Miya Poetry. As long as there is oppression, there will be companionship and recognition reflected in art and activism. On December 13, 2023, Black Agenda Report reprinted Refaat Alareer's "If I Must Die", acknowledging the connection between Alareer's poem and "If We Must Die" by Claude McKay, written in 1919 in response to the Red Summer white supremacist riots. In 2000, Haitian community activist Dahoud Andre translated "If We Must Die" into Kreyòl, and the Black Agenda Report editorial honors Alareer in a similar way, reprinting "If I Must Die" with an accompanying Kreyòl translation. (POEM: If I Must Die, Refaat Alareer, 2023.)

Transcripts under the cut.

[Hafiz Ahmed Transcripts (Assamese and English):

লিখি লোৱা, মই এজন মিঞা

লিখা, লিখি লোৱা মই এজন মিঞা এন. আৰ. চিৰ ক্রমিক নং ২০০৫৪৩ দুজন সন্তানৰ বাপেক মই, অহাবাৰ গ্ৰীষ্মত জন্ম ল’ব আৰু এজনে তাকো তুমি ঘিণ কৰিবা নেকি যিদৰে ঘিণ কৰা মোক?

লিখি লোৱা, মই এজন মিঞা পতিত ভূমি, পিতনিক মই ৰূপান্তৰিত কৰিছোঁ শস্য-শ্যামলা সেউজী পথাৰলৈ তোমাক খুৱাবলৈ মই ইটা কঢ়িয়াইছোঁ তোমাৰ অট্টালিকা সাজিবলৈ, তোমাৰ গাড়ী চলাইছোঁ তোমাক আৰাম দিবলৈ, তোমাৰ নৰ্দমা ছাফা কৰিছোঁ তোমাক নিৰোগী কৰি ৰাখিবলৈ, তোমাৰে সেৱাতে মগন মই অনবৰত তাৰ পিছতো কিয় তুমি খৰ্গহস্ত? লিখা, লিখি লোৱা মই এজন মিঞা গণতান্ত্ৰিক, গণৰাজ্য এখনৰ নাগৰিক এজন যাৰ কোনো অধিকাৰ নাইকিয়া মাতৃক মোৰ সজোৱা হৈছে সন্দেহযুক্ত ভোটাৰ যদিও পিতৃ-মাতৃ তাইৰ নিঃসন্দেহে ভাৰতীয়

ইচ্ছা কৰিলেই তুমি মোক হত্যা কৰিব পাৰা, জ্বলাই দিব পৰা মোৰ খেৰৰ পঁজা, খেদি দিব পাৰা মোক মোৰেই গাঁৱৰ পৰা, কাঢ়ি নিব পাৰা মোৰ সেউজী পথাৰ মোৰ বুকুৰ ওপৰেৰে চলাব পাৰা তোমাৰ বুলড্‌জাৰ তোমাৰ বুলেটে বুকুখন মোৰ কৰিব পাৰে থকাসৰকা (তোমাৰ এই কাৰ্যৰ বাবে তুমি কোনো স্তিও নোপোৱা) যুগ-যুগান্তৰ তোমাৰ অত্যাচাৰ সহ্য কৰি ব্ৰহ্মপুত্ৰৰ চৰত বাস কৰা মই এজন মিঞা মোৰ দেহা হৈ পৰিছে নিগ্ৰো কলা মোৰ চকুযুৰি অঙঠাৰ দৰে ৰঙা সাৱধান! মোৰ দুচকুত জমা হৈ আছে যুগ যুগান্তৰৰ বঞ্চনাৰ বাৰুদ আঁতৰি যোৱা, নতুবা অচিৰেই পৰিণত হ’বা মূল্যহীন ছাইত!

Write Down ‘I am a Miyah’ Hafiz Ahmed, 2016 trans. Shalim M. Hussain

Write Write Down I am a Miya My serial number in the NRC is 200543 I have two children Another is coming Next summer. Will you hate him As you hate me?

write I am a Miya I turn waste, marshy lands To green paddy fields To feed you. I carry bricks To build your buildings Drive your car For your comfort Clean your drain To keep you healthy. I have always been In your service And yet you are dissatisfied! Write down I am a Miya, A citizen of a democratic, secular, Republic Without any rights My mother a D voter, Though her parents are Indian.

If you wish kill me, drive me from my village, Snatch my green fields hire bulldozers To roll over me. Your bullets Can shatter my breast for no crime.

Write I am a Miya Of the Brahamaputra Your torture Has burnt my body black Reddened my eyes with fire. Beware! I have nothing but anger in stock. Keep away! Or Turn to Ashes.

]

[Mahmoud Darwish Transcripts (Arabic and English):

سجِّل أنا عربي ورقمُ بطاقتي خمسونَ ألفْ وأطفالي ثمانيةٌ وتاسعهُم.. سيأتي بعدَ صيفْ! فهلْ تغضبْ؟ سجِّلْ أنا عربي وأعملُ مع رفاقِ الكدحِ في محجرْ وأطفالي ثمانيةٌ أسلُّ لهمْ رغيفَ الخبزِ، والأثوابَ والدفترْ من الصخرِ ولا أتوسَّلُ الصدقاتِ من بابِكْ ولا أصغرْ أمامَ بلاطِ أعتابكْ فهل تغضب؟ سجل أنا عربي أنا اسم بلا لقبِ صَبورٌ في بلادٍ كلُّ ما فيها يعيشُ بفَوْرةِ الغضبِ جذوري قبلَ ميلادِ الزمانِ رستْ وقبلَ تفتّحِ الحقبِ وقبلَ السّروِ والزيتونِ .. وقبلَ ترعرعِ العشبِ أبي.. من أسرةِ المحراثِ لا من سادةٍ نُجُبِ وجدّي كانَ فلاحاً بلا حسبٍ.. ولا نسبِ! يُعَلّمني شموخَ الشمسِ قبلَ قراءةِ الكتبِ وبيتي’ كوخُ ناطورٍ منَ الأعوادِ والقصبِ فهل تُرضيكَ منزلتي؟ أنا اسم بلا لقبِ! سجلْ أنا عربي ولونُ الشعرِ.. فحميٌّ ولونُ العينِ.. بنيٌّ وميزاتي: على رأسي عقالٌ فوقَ كوفيّه وكفّي صلبةٌ كالصخرِ... تخمشُ من يلامسَها وعنواني: أنا من قريةٍ عزلاءَ منسيّهْ شوارعُها بلا أسماء وكلُّ رجالها في الحقلِ والمحجرْ فهل تغضبْ؟ سجِّل! أنا عربي سلبتُ كرومَ أجدادي وأرضاً كنتُ أفلحُها أنا وجميعُ أولادي ولم تتركْ لنا.. ولكلِّ أحفادي سوى هذي الصخورِ... فهل ستأخذُها حكومتكمْ.. كما قيلا!؟ إذنْ سجِّل.. برأسِ الصفحةِ الأولى أنا لا أكرهُ الناسَ ولا أسطو على أحدٍ ولكنّي.. إذا ما جعتُ آكلُ لحمَ مغتصبي حذارِ.. حذارِ.. من جوعي ومن غضبي!!

Identity Card Mahmoud Darwish, 1964 trans. Denys Johnson-Davies

Put it on record. I am an Arab

And the number of my card is fifty thousand I have eight children And the ninth is due after summer. What's there to be angry about?

Put it on record. I am an Arab

Working with comrades of toil in a quarry. I have eight children For them I wrest the loaf of bread, The clothes and exercise books From the rocks And beg for no alms at your door, Lower not myself at your doorstep. What's there to be angry about?

Put it on record. I am an Arab.

I am a name without a title, Patient in a country where everything Lives in a whirlpool of anger. My roots Took hold before the birth of time Before the burgeoning of the ages, Before cypress and olive trees, Before the proliferation of weeds.

My father is from the family of the plough Not from highborn nobles.

And my grandfather was a peasant Without line or genealogy.

My house is a watchman's hut Made of sticks and reeds.

Does my status satisfy you? I am a name without a surname.

Put it on record. I am an Arab.

Color of hair: jet black. Color of eyes: brown. My distinguishing features: On my head the `iqal cords over a keffiyeh Scratching him who touches it.

My address: I'm from a village, remote, forgotten, Its streets without name And all its men in the fields and quarry. What's there to be angry about?

Put it on record. I am an Arab.

You stole my forefathers' vineyards And land I used to till, I and all my children, And you left us and all my grandchildren Nothing but these rocks. Will your government be taking them too As is being said?

So! Put it on record at the top of page one: I don't hate people, I trespass on no one's property.

And yet, if I were to become hungry I shall eat the flesh of my usurper. Beware, beware of my hunger And of my anger!

]

[osamusriceballs]

The Accident - Part IX

Atsumu x fem reader

Warnings: None

Words:- ~ 1,2 k

About: The phone call with Atsumu! What could he possibly want from you?

Part I II -> Next Part

"Hello?"

"Y/n? It's me, Atsumu Miya."

You glance at Yachi with wide eyes, and she nods frantically, clearly excited by the call. She urges you to respond, gesturing for you to say something to him.

"Oh, yes. Atsumu. Is everything alright?"

"Everything's good. Don't worry. I just wanted to let you know that I've talked to my lawyer, and apparently, we both can't have the same lawyer for the divorce. I've contacted Samu's lawyer, though, and they're willing to help us out. I'll cover the cost, don't worry. They're discreet too, so we don't need to worry about the public getting involved." You try to focus on his words, but his voice flows like honey through the speaker, causing your heart to skip a beat. Yachi taps your shoulder, urging you to respond once again. You clear your throat and quickly start to answer.

"Oh. Thank you. I really don't know what to say. I've been thinking about the public, especially since I found out you're in the Olympic team. I was wondering if the situation would cause problems for you."

"No! No, yer not causing me trouble. It's not like we're under a dating ban. Most of us just try to be discreet about our dating life. Some fans are... a bit obsessed." There's a brief silence, and you debate if you should mention stumbling upon his profile and complimenting him for it. You're technically still strangers, yet it feels like you're the early stages of actually dating.

"But don't worry about that; your husband will take care of that, 'kay?" His tone turns playful, and you snort at the comment. "Okay. Let me know how I can help." You ease back into the couch, Yachi attentively watching you with a curious expression.

"Of course. You could start by telling me about your plans for next week. We need to talk to the lawyers; can you fit me into yer schedule sometime?"

"I have the next week off, so just let me know when works best for you." You smile at the thought of seeing him again, ignoring Yachi's encouraging grin.

"Sure. How about Wednesday? We can have dinner after the appointment; I can show you Onigiri Miya, if ya want? You can say no too; I just thought it would be a good idea to get to know each other. We started rather... unusually." Your cheeks heat up at the memory of how you technically met—waking up naked and married.

"Oh! That sounds lovely, actually. I've seen some pictures of Onigiri Miya, and I'd love to try Osamu's food."

"You've seen pics? Found my Instagram, didn't ya?" His teasing tone intensifies, and you feel even more heat rushing to your cheeks.

"I just- I wasn't trying to-" You stammer, the image of a shirtless Atsumu vivid in your mind.

"Just teasin' ya. Are you getting shy on me now? We literally slept in the same bed; I'd stalk my husband's Instagram too if I woke up married like that." He teases, and you can't help but get flustered.

"I wasn't stalking!" You clarify and clear your throat uncomfortably. "Did ya make sure to follow me? I wanna stalk my wifey too." He laughs, clearly unfazed by the situation, and his lightheartedness quickly transfers to you. "I didn't. I just had a short look; I don't know if I remember your username."

"Oh? You only remember the food on my page? Guess that's the only thing I'm good for. Only known for being the brother of the famous Osamu Miya, chef, and successful restaurant owner. I'll ask Samu to post some pictures of me to gain more followers." He sighs dramatically, and you snort at his exaggerated acting. "Did you just laugh? You seemed so tense before; I'm glad yer feeling better already."

"Thank you. I really appreciate everything." You smile, and even though you can't see his face, you're sure he's smiling too. "And I'll make sure to follow you. Maybe it will help raise your popularity- I want your volleyball career to thrive, after all." He laughs at your words, and you notice Yachi looking at you with raised brows, clearly curious about what you're talking about.

"Maybe I can finance us someday with my volleyball skills. Stick along, wifey. I'll get you an even prettier ring then." You blush feverishly and cough nervously while glance at the ring on the couch table. "The rings don't look too bad actually. The diamond looks almost real."

"Oh, about that. It is real, so make sure to wear it often to show off."

It takes you a few moments to process his words, and you take a sharp breath through your nose as you look at the ring. "What do you mean it's real? Like a real diamond?" Yachi stares at the ring too, and her mouth is agape as she hesitantly reaches for it, holding it in the light. It shines beautifully, and you lean forward to inspect it closer.

"Yeah, real diamond and all that. I found a receipt in my pocket. The rings are from a real jewelry store. I got the certificates for them too. I'll give you the one for your ring when we see each other again."

"I don't know what to say- Atsumu-" You hesitate, gazing at the ring once again. The diamond is not small, not overly huge, but tastefully big enough to shine brightly. "Don't mention it. We'll talk next week? I'll message you the time. I can pick ya up, or we can meet up there; I'm fine with both."

"Okay. Thank you. See you next week, Atsumu."

"See ya, wifey."

You hang up with a smile and stare at the screen for a few moments, until Yachi starts to laugh right next to you.

"'See you next week, Atsumu'- the way you made sure to say his name, ohh, y/n, you're crushing on him."

"I don't even know him, Yachi! And we're in no position to be liking each other; it's just business!" You shake your head and furrow your brows.

Atsumu is a nice guy. Funny, charismatic, kind. And extremely good looking. You know that you realistically have no chance to score a catch like him, and yet, you find yourself married to him. You wonder if he is regretting the whole situation, even though he seems to play it cool. He's on top of his career and you're just distracting him right now in this important phase. He's probably just worried about his reputation, worried that you'd go to the media and claim that he had forced you to do something. He might just be nice to you because he's scared- scared that you could potentially ruin his career. You need to make sure to always remember that and not to let his words get to you.

You'd have to make sure you don't fall for him— or else you'd end up with a broken heart.