sportsanime | Bonus Round 1: Quotes

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Bonus Round 1: Quotes

SASO 2015 is over, but this round is perpetually open to new fills (no new prompts).

PLAY BALL! For this round, we'd like you to take inspiration from songs, sayings, poems, and other kinds of famous words.

Because this is our first full round, please read this post carefully before proceeding!

This round ends at 7PM on June 13 EDT. Countdown Timer.

RULES

Submit prompts by commenting to this post with a quote attributed to a specific person or character, along with any ship/ot3/etc. from one of our nominated fandoms.
- Example: "Hi-ho, Kermit the Frog here!" -Kermit the Frog
- The quote can come from anywhere. Famous people, poetry, songs, books, movies, your neighbor, etc.
- Your prompt MUST include some kind of relationship. (This is not the sports anime gen olympics.) Platonic relationships are indicated by an "&" between the names (e.g., Yachi & Kiyoko). Non-platonic relationships use "/" (e.g., Yachi/Kiyoko). Please don't say "Any pairing," either!
Fill prompts by replying to the prompt with your quote-inspired fanwork.
Remember to follow the general bonus round rules, outlined here.
You cannot fill your team's prompts or your own prompts.

FORMAT

Bonus round shenanigans all happen in the comments below. Brand-new works only, please.

Required Work Minimums:

400 words (prose)
400px by 400px (art)
14 lines (poetry)

There is no max work cap.

Format your comment in one of the following ways:

If PROMPTING:	If FILLING:	If FILLING as a TEAM GRANDSTAND participant:
PROMPT: TEAM [YOUR SHIP] Replace [YOUR SHIP] with the name of the team you belong to, including Grandstand or Sports Teams Write it exactly as it appears on the team roster or your team will not receive points Place the prompt's relationship in the first bolded line of the comment. Including the canon isn't required, but it's nice. Visual example	FILL: TEAM [YOUR SHIP], [RATING] Replace [YOUR SHIP] with the name of the team you belong to Write it exactly as it appears on the team roster or your team will not receive points Replace RATING with the rating of your fill (G - E) Place applicable major content tags and word count before your fill (when applicable) NSFW FILLS: Post written/text fills directly to the round with clear tags. Please link to art/visual fills. You can include a small safe-for-work preview if you'd like. To place an image in your comment, use this code: <img src="LINK TO YOUR IMAGE" /> Visual example	FILL: TEAM GRANDSTAND, [RATING] Replace RATING with the rating of your fill, G - E, as explained in the rules Place applicable major content tags and word count before the fill, where applicable NSFW FILLS: Post written/text fills directly to the round with clear tags. Please link to art/visual fills. You can include a small safe-for-work preview if you'd like. To place an image in your comment, use this code: <img src="LINK TO YOUR IMAGE" /> Visual example

Posts not using this format will be understood to be unofficial discussion posts, regardless of what they contain. They, like all comments in this community, are subject to the code of conduct.

SCORING

These numbers apply to your team as a whole, not each individual teammate. Make as many prompts/fills as you want!

For prompts: 5 points each (maximum of 50 prompt points per team per round)

For fills:

First 3 fills by any member of your team: 20 points each
Fills 4-10: 10 points each
Fills 11-20: 5 points each
Fills 21+: 2 points each

All scored content must be created new for this round.

Etc.

If you're hunting through the prompts looking for what to fill, a good trick is to view top-level comments only.

Have a question? Check The FAQ first. If you still need help, feel free to contact the mods. Happy fanworking!

Page 133 of 137

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

SWAG2016 participant #11

no tags

When Kagami tells the story, he always oversimplifies it.

"I made some hot cocoa and got engaged by the end of it," he says, with no sense of suspense, no real head for storytelling.

It undermines all of Himuro's efforts, and he knows it's not intentional, but it's why he tries to take over before Kagami can tell people his version of things.

"In the winter," he tells people who ask and, to be honest, absolutely anyone who will listen, "we have a habit of having hot cocoa at three o'clock in the afternoon on the weekends when we're home together. So I knew that would be the perfect time for it. I bought all the decorations—"

"—heart confetti," Kagami helpfully supplies, "and rose petals. Where he even got those from, I have no idea—"

"—and hid them so they'd be ready while he was in the kitchen," Himuro continues. "I knew I had just over three minutes while he was busy making out hot cocoa, so I used the time to pull everything out of its hiding places and set it all up. I even lit a couple of candles to add to the romantic atmosphere."

"So here I come back into the room carrying two mugs," Kagami takes over, "and I find him down in front of me on one knee, holding this ring box open with heart confetti and rose petals scattered all over the lounge room. It took forever to vacuum all the confetti out of the carpet. Tatsuya cr—"

"Taiga cried, of course," Himuro interrupts smoothly. He smiles fondly at Kagami, who simply grins in amusement at this part now. "He's always so emotional. I knew how much it would mean to him, so I made sure to make it absolutely perfect. Memorable."

"I think about it every time I'm making hot cocoa," Kagami adds. "It' sa nice thing to think about."

Himuro's smile grows as he turns to Kagami. "I didn't know that."

"Yeah, well…" Kagami shrugs. "It makes me happy every time. Even if we never got to finish our hot cooca. In fact, I don't think we ever got around to starting on it. Oops."

"It was worth it, though," Himuro murmurs, and Kagami rubs the back of his neck with a shy grin.

The movement has Himuro's gaze catching on Kagami's silver ring and then he can't look away, can't keep himself from reaching out and touching it, interlocking their fingers and squeezing, smiling at Kagami.

Kiyoshi, who is sitting across the table from them, is dozing, snoring lightly. They might have told him the story two times already but, well, they want to tell everyone and sometimes that means accidentally repeating the story a few times, to a few people.

Himuro honestly doesn't mind going over the story again and again, for however many times he needs to. He's probably going to do the same thing when they actually get married, remember everything well enough to give an accurate blow-by-blow. To the people who don't get to make it just as much as for the people who do.

"Hot cocoa's my favourite drink now," Kagami murmurs, wrapping his arm around Himuro and pulling him close.

"Mine too," Himuro replies with a smile.

WHO ARE yOU MYSTERY SWAG PARTICIPANT #11 kASLdkfaLwjfka;sifaoj ❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

I am dead from the cute I love you please accept my love for you and your amazing writing there is just so very little fluff for these two and I just, I can't even begin on how much I love this and just jsut ❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

You are wonderful the way you write Kagami and Himuro are wonderful of course they both cried ahhhhhhhhksaldjfais;oja

I'm just, i'm jsut going to lie here in an incomprhetnsible mess of feelings and be a blob of gooo as i sob over how perfect this is ❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

anon #22

no tags

"We won."

Oikawa says the words through labored breath as they leave the court, quiet enough that Iwaizumi, always close by can hear them. Although they're tired from the exhausting match they just played, the overwhelming sense of joy and triumph is not left out.

They won.

It's always a good feeling, when they are able to come out of a match successful, when their teamwork and practice pays off and leads them to victory.

(There's another part of it that Iwaizumi loves to see as well, though. Oikawa's bright smiles and certain motions. The spring in his step and the happiness in his eyes.

He loves and admires those looks, and the way they accompany victory, the way they embody and carry it.)

"Yeah," he replies, same volume level as Oikawa's own words. He rests a hand on his shoulder, his fingers curling in the back of Oikawa's jersey. The jersey that has become their foundation and home throughout their years of high school. Familiar and part of them. "Nice work."

Oikawa grins, and nudges Iwaizumi's shoulder. Gentle and playful, but proud. "You too, Iwa-chan."

When Oikawa stands before the rest of the team, tall and proud as their captain and leader, he tells them to keep it up for their next matches. It's encouraging and motivating, like victory is--a reminder that they can do it. That they can be successful, implying a moment's worth of invincibility.

It's a good feeling. One of the best.

...

But losses remind them that invincibility is sometimes inconceivable and just out of reach.

This tends to happen, when they lose right before they reach the goal, when their dreams are conquered and quelled as if they are nothing compared to the powerful force that seeks to put them out.

"You okay?" Iwaizumi finally asks, sitting down on the bench next to Oikawa in the locker room back at school. This is the first they've explicitly talked about the loss since it's happened, now that they're alone to lock up, while the rest of the team went home.

"We were so close," Oikawa hisses, running a frustrated hand through his hair. The other tangles in the fabric of his pants, his shoulders tense.

"I know." That's the most frustrating part. Getting so close and losing out. It proves that they're capable, so unbelievably capable, but fell short in the end. "I know."

For a moment, only silence overcomes them. But Iwaizumi wraps an arm around Oikawa's shoulders, curls his fingers in Oikawa's jersey again. Warmth and familiarity and home.

Win or loss, it always will be.

Oikawa looks up at him, determination and will to fight burning bright in his eyes. Their existence meaning that they won't give up. Never.

"Next time. Next time we'll win, Iwa-chan. We'll win and go to Nationals."

Iwaizumi nods, the determination searing and hot under his own skin as he thinks about it. As he longs to hold victory in his hands, in their hands for them and the team to share. "Couldn't have said it better."

Oikawa grins.

death mention

I am a desert,
dry, hot wind in your face, aching like a caress,
and your throat is full of sand.

You shovel it in, swallow
and swallow and scrape down your throat,
but always there is more of me.

I brought you here, and I hold you tight,
and you drink me in like sunlight.

I whisper in the wind,
pretty promises about summer storms.

You dig a home in the sand,
bury yourself until the rain falls
or you die first.

participant 9. thank you for the lovely prompt.

the flower petal is velvety, smooth between fingers
careless people have plucked it,
scars never healed,
removal permanent.

the moon is the nocturnal sun.
it glows over all flowers,
ones rising toward the sky,
standing on stage.
ones rooted on the ground
afraid, uncertain, immobilized

the remaining petals bask in the light.
they wilt,
already battered,

the moon is always watching.

gender exploration

"Tell me I'm pretty," he says, but what he means is validate me, watching Iwaizumi and waiting for him to read between the lines, like he's so good at doing.

Iwaizumi scowls at him. "Fuck off, Oikawa."

-

"Tell me I'm pretty," he says, because the boys at school are saying it behind his back, like it's a bad thing. He just wants one person to say it to his face, for it to be a good thing.

Iwaizumi scoffs, shaking his head. "The guys are just jealous of you, that's all. Everyone knows you don't actually wear makeup."

"What if I did wear makeup?" Oikawa asks, then hastily adds, "Not that I do, but would you have a problem with it if I did?"

Iwaizumi stares at him, like he's never considered the concept before. He probably hasn't, and that doesn't matter. What matters is his answer.

"Guess not," he shrugs. "People can do what they like, right?"

Oikawa nods, satisfied. He buys the lip gloss he's been eyeing at the pharmacy around the corner, smiles pleasantly when the cashier tells him his girlfriend will love it.

-

"Tell me I'm pretty," he says, his voice cracking because he feels so ugly inside and he can't stand it.

Iwaizumi rubs soothing circles into Oikawa's back. "It's okay. You lost your temper. Just don't do it again, okay?"

Oikawa rests his head against Iwaizumi's shoulder, shutting his eyes tightly as they cling onto each other's hands tightly for comfort.

-

"Tell me I'm pretty," Oikawa says with an exaggerated wink, because he can't think of what else to do when Iwaizumi drops by without warning, catching Oikawa in his lip gloss, his hair pulled up into tiny pigtails.

Iwaizumi just stares at him. Oikawa's heart sinks, his stomach twisting, but he plasters his smile to his face, determined to make light of this situation until Iwaizumi's gone. It's probably not even going to take long.

"Come here, Iwa-chan, I'll do your hair next."

Iwaizumi turns and flees. Furious at himself and doubly furious at Iwaizumi, Oikawa throws the lip gloss into the bin and resolves he's never going to wear any again.

-

"Tell me I'm pretty," Oikawa says the next day as they walk to school, because he's nothing if not a masochist. He does it for the way Iwaizumi shifts uncomfortably beside him and he's an idiot. He should be grateful that Iwaizumi's still walking with him to school at all.

"Is that what you want to be?" Iwaizumi asks at length. He gestures at Oikawa, trying to encompass what he saw yesterday as he struggles to put it into words. "…Pretty?"

Oikawa winks at Iwaizumi. "I've always been pretty."

"That's not—" Iwaizumi begins, then cuts himself off, sighing heavily, dropping the conversation entirely with an, "Okay."

-

"Tell me I'm pretty," Oikawa says, and he's never meant it more in his life.

He's terrified about this, even if they're not leaving the house at all. Iwaizumi's been trying. He's been getting better. He's been asking questions when he doesn't understand things, looking even more information up on the internet. He's been really good about this, after the initial shock.

Oikawa is wearing a new shade of lip gloss—one that Iwaizumi pressed into his hand the other day with an awkward, incoherent mumble—and eyeliner. He feels pretty, and he feels satisfied. He's allowed to be a boy, even like this. He can be a pretty boy if he wants. It's never felt like an insult to him anyway.

"You're pretty," Iwaizumi breathes, looking at him, properly taking him in. He places his hands on either side of Oikawa's face, pulling him in so their breath is on each other's lips. "You're so pretty, Oikawa. With or without your makeup. You're always pretty. Always have been, right?"

Oikawa smiles. "If you kiss me, you're going to get lip gloss everywhere."

"Is that a bad thing?" Iwaizumi asks, raising an eyebrow and pulling him in.

"Not at all," Oikawa replies, leaning right into Iwaizumi's arms.

SWAG2016 participant #47

People ask Koushi how it feels, the day he gets married, the day after, and he gives them the same answer with he same cheeky grin.

He feels a little heavier. Specifically, on his left ring finger.

Marrying Daichi is the most important thing he's ever done in his life and simultaneously the most ordinary, inconsequential thing ever.

They've been married long before they ever officiated it with a ceremony, he thinks. They've been equated to an old married couple ever since they were teenagers in high school, still trying to sort their feelings out from their friendship. The teasing has only gotten worse as they've gotten older and Koushi's never minded it, knows that Daichi hasn't either.

It's difficult to pinpoint a date, a time, a moment that turned their relationship on its head. It's the little things, he thinks. Their hands, steady on each other's backs, holding each other up the way that together, they held the rest of the team up. The comfortable silences between them, content in each other's presence. The unwavering confidence in each other, happy to follow each other to the ends of the earth, if that's what was required of them.

He lies in bed with his husband, tracing over the gold band on Daichi's finger with his index, and wonders if this marriage began when they first moved in together. He thinks of the first few nights, when most of their stuff was still packed in boxes and they didn't even care because they each other and they had a place to themselves, and that's all that mattered at that moment in time. He thinks of the first time they set their bed up, lying in it together, a sense of ownership and satisfaction that they've never felt when they've slept over in each other's beds in the past. This one belonged to them, and it made all the difference in the world.

They're made of memories, of little bits and pieces of each other woven in amongst themselves, until they can't tell them apart. They're entwined so firmly that it's perfectly normal to think of them as together, as two parts of one whole, and strange to think of them apart from each other. To think that there were thirteen years of Koushi's life where he didn't even know the name Sawamura Daichi feels strange and wrong, like surely he came into the world knowing Daichi, knowing that they were meant for each other, because they fit together so perfectly, so easily that it feels as if they were shaped purely to accommodate each other. It's clear in their bodies, the way they curl against each other as close as possible, it's their in their personalities, in their sense of humour. Perhaps they're the one soul, broken in two, trying to weave itself back together again, and Koushi buries himself in Daichi's strong, familiar arms as deep as he can go, holding Daichi like he never plans on letting go.

Perhaps he won't, he thinks to himself with a smile hidden against Daichi's neck. Daichi is his husband, after all.

participant 9. thank you for the lovely prompt.

abe clutches at the swelling in his chest
nine, he remembers.
nine sections.

he’s been going about this all wrong.

abe is used to being the big man in charge.
he is extraordinary.
the clean muff of the ball against his mitt tells him that.
but in the face of this new information,
nine
abe feels small.

this must be what mihashi feels like, he thinks.
tiny and shaken and small.

mihashi does not recognize the sleeping lion resting in bird feathers.

abe takes a breath to steel the thumping in his blood.
he is extraordinary,
he has no doubt.

mihashi is extraordinary.

SWAG2016 participant #47

no tags

Yaku honestly doesn't know why he decides to take over with the cooking while they're at yet another training camp, but it might have something to do with the fact that Yamamoto is insisting on putting as much chilli sauce into everything as possible, so that it will make them all more manly.

All that really resulted from his attempts last night were a lot of teammates taking really frequent bathroom breaks.

So Yaku's tired after a day of training and yet he's still standing over the stove, mixing the curry at regular intervals while the timer on the rice cooker steadily counts down.

He doesn't know why Lev offers to help, especially because Lev isn't really doing much, beyond moving things when Yaku tells him to―mostly commonly himself, out of the way―but he's kind of hovering there and it's weird.

Maybe also a little nice, to not be the only one standing in the kitchen while everyone else winds down as they prepare to eat. Yaku isn't about to actually tell Lev that, though. It'll only make him even more insufferable than he already is, and that's a terrifying thought that Yaku wants absolutely nothing to do with, if he can help it.

"Hey," Lev says, as the silence stretches on. Yaku doesn't need to check the curry again just yet so he's just standing there, zoning out until Lev speaks. "Yaku-senpai."

"Huh?" Yaku blinks, turning to Lev. "Yeah? What is it?"

Lev fixes him with a serious look. "Do you smell something burning?"

"What?" Yaku immediately snaps into action, checking on his curry, stirring it anxiously and checking for the burnt bits to see if it's still salvageable. After all the shit he gave Yamamoto last night, if he ends up making a curry that is just as bad, if not worse, then he's never going to live it down―

He pauses when he realises that he doesn't actually smell anything burning. He stops stirring the curry and turns to Lev, who is standing there with the most shit-eating grin on his face.

"You little―" Yaku begins, before he realises that it's not a prank. No, this is so much worse than just a prank. "If you finish that sentence, I swear to god that you are getting the tiniest serving at dinner."

"―Because it's my heart. Burning for you," Lev finishes, grinning even wider, so fucking pleased with himself that Yaku wants to punch him.

Except Yaku also just wants to turn away because the line is downright awful and yet he can still feel his cheeks burning because of it.

"Did you like it? Do you think it's clever?" Lev asks, not quite pushing himself into Yaku's space but hovering, right there, impossible to ignore or escape or even push away.

"The tiniest serving at dinner," Yaku growls at him, and Lev is still smiling, completely unconvinced.

In the end, Yaku doesn't give him any less food than he gives everyone else, because he's not a dick and they're all tired and hungry. He does give Lev a small kick in the shins though, as he walks past.

(And later that night, just before they go to bed, he gives Lev a quick kiss, but nobody needs to know about that.)

SWAG2016 participant #47

no tags

Kenma wakes up in Kuroo's arms, with the afternoon light filtering in through the blinds, feeling warm and safe and content, and wonders if this is what it feels like to be in love.

Kuroo sleeps on, his deep, even breathing new comforting to listen to. Kenma is too awake to close his eyes but too content to move, so he lies there, pressed against Kuroo's warmth, and carefully assesses the way he feels.

Maybe it's love. Maybe it's not. Maybe it's just familiarity, and Kuroo has always said that Kenma tends to prefer what he knows. Maybe it's just that he's convinced himself that he's in love with Kuroo because then, maybe, he can keep Kuroo forever.

Maybe this isn't love at all, but something selfish and needy. Kuroo has so many friends, so many things to do in his life and he still takes time out of it all to spend time alone with Kenma. Yet, Kenma still wants more, he thinks of Kuroo when he's with his other friends instead, tries to extend their time together for as long as he possibly can. It's selfish. He's being selfish.

He wonders if he should get out of bed, if he should just let Kuroo sleep and walk down the street to his own house, so he's not keeping Kuroo to himself. He makes to get up, and Kuroo's arm tightens around him.

"Where are you going, kitten?" Kuroo mumbles sleepily, nuzzling into Kenma's hair.

Kenma stays right where he is, relaxing against the bed again and letting Kuroo cuddle him. After all, if it's Kuroo keeping him here, then it can't be selfish, it can't be Kenma's fault.

He's so happy that Kuroo wants him to stay and it's the kind of happiness that he doesn't know what to do with because it's the kind that demands for him do something about it. He settles for a small, content smile to himself, his heart racing at the thought that Kuroo is extending their time together too. It's not just Kenma.

Or perhaps Kuroo is just sleepy and he doesn't want to be disturbed yet. That's an equally valid assumption to make. Regardless, it means that Kenma gets to stay in Kuroo's arms for longer and that's always a good thing.

Kuroo has fallen asleep again, his arm still around Kenma, but it's loosened now. His hand is resting on Kenma's arm, warm and soft, and Kenma reaches for it, pressing his own hand to it. Kenma interlocks their fingers and Kuroo's fingers curl, squeezing gently. Kenma's heart feels like it's fluttering in his chest, like a trapped butterfly that doesn't know how to get out. He breathes deeply, but his exhale comes out shaky.

"Kenma?" Kuroo lifts his head, frowning with concern.

Kenma realises he's trembling, his hand still holding Kuroo's. He doesn't meet Kuroo's eyes because he can't, he doesn't know what his expression is saying, can't handle the thought of letting Kuroo read it. Kuroo shuffles, not letting go of Kenma's hand, thumb gently stroking over the back of it, up to Kenma's knuckle, then down again. It's a steady, repetitive motion and Kenma breathes, in and out, as Kuroo kisses his forehead.

"How are you feeling?" Kuroo asks, and Kenma doesn't trust his voice not to crack. He shakes his head, unintentionally making a soft noise at the back of his throat. Kuroo hushes him, kissing his forehead again, pressing kisses into his hair, holding Kenma's face to his shoulder. "That's okay. I'm here if you need me, okay? I'm right here."

Kenma clings to him, letting his breathing slowly even out. He loves Kuroo, he thinks, but maybe he'll feel different tomorrow. Maybe it will keep changing and he can't be sure of himself, not like this.

For now, he clings to Kuroo, and that is enough.

THIS IS SOME GOOD SHIT RIGHT HERE THANK YOU LAURA!!!!!!

Poem fill! 14 lines

you hold his hands
like a lifeline
the memory of safer spaces,
how he stands in front of you,
a place of
shelter too strong to beat.

you close your eyes and imagine
you’re there
and he’s laughing
against your neck; you’re kissing his cheek
and he’s yours, yours,

yours

and you’re nothing but safe,
and every part of you is his, too.

Edited 2016-01-05 03:51 (UTC)

no tags

Kyoutani has the kind of face that Yahaba just desperately, desperately wants to punch.

He wants to punch it until it's bleeding, until his lips cheeks are swollen, until his nose is broken and he looks even worse than he already does on a regular basis. He wants to throw Kyoutani down and utterly destroy him, that's how much Yahaba hates him sometimes, when he shows up late to practice, disrupting the flow of it, throwing his other teammates off their game and then joining them on the court, demanding the best tosses so that he can hit them to his full satisfaction.

He has no fucking right, Yahaba thinks with savage fury, already having snapped at him for showing up late, and then for making Kindaichi switch off so he can play. He isn't even paying the proper respect to the third years, he never does, and it's making Yahaba want to grind his teeth because yeah, sure, Kyoutani's good and he's allowed to be confident about it, sure, but there's a line between being cocky and being a ridiculous, abrasive asshole who is too difficult to play with, too stubborn to pull into line the way you would with anyone else.

Which is probably why Yahaba's aching to just throw his fists right at Kyoutani's face and see if that makes any difference. He only ever responds to threats, to aggression, and Yahaba has all of that and more, ready to throw at Kyoutani without a second's hesitation.

"Yahaba," Oikawa says, patting his shoulder. "Deep breaths."

"What?" Yahaba blinks, pulled out of his internal monologue from the side of the court. Kyoutani jumps and slams his hand into the volleyball, making a loud sound as it hits the floor on the other side of the court. Yahaba's eyes track the movement, track the way Kyoutani lands on his feet gracefully, looking down at his hand with an air of satisfaction.

"Yahaba."

"Sorry!" Yahaba blinks again. "Yes?"

Oikawa smiles at him slowly, looking between him and Kyoutani. "You're going to have to learn to be more subtle, you know, or he's going to figure it out."

"About wanting to punch the shit out of Kyoutani?" Yahaba frowns. "I'm pretty sure he knows."

If anything, Oikawa's smile only grows even wider. "That's not what I meant, but okay. Let's swap."

He ruffles Yahaba's hair, sending him onto the court.

With Kyoutani.

Yahaba's incredibly aware of Kyoutani now that they're standing beside each other like this. He's aware of the other players on his side of the court too, but Kyoutani sticks out to him, like he's demanding Yahaba's attention, the way he always does when he's on court, when he's off court, all the fucking time, and Yahaba can't fucking stand it, can't get Kyoutani's stupid face out of his head, making his chest twist with something that's so intense that it can only be loathing.

He takes another deep breath, just like Oikawa told him to, and pays attention to the ball.

He tosses it for Kyoutani, perfect, just the way that Kyoutani likes them so he can hit it with full strength.

It wins them the point and this time, when Kyoutani lands on his feet, he looks at Yahaba, with that same silent expression of satisfaction and, oh, fuck, Yahaba thinks as they look each other.

He wants to punch Kyoutani, sure, but he's always wanted to kiss him just as badly.

Edited 2016-01-05 04:19 (UTC)

Poem: 31 lines

The first time I see you--hair
golden in late summer sunlight--you’re happy.
I want to kiss the laughter from your lips.

You don’t want me, and it feels like nothing has before,
because I don’t know when I’ll see you next.

The next time you are still blonde,
but you do not smile the same. I get to kiss you,
you run your hands through my hair, and it
is almost perfect.
When it ends it’s like a sunset: golden-orange and
bright until it’s not.

When I see you next,
I say it’s been too long.
Your hair is brown, eyes
the same gold like the chain I wear around
my neck and we laugh
like we’ve never known laughter before.
We’re happy, I think, and I hope you agree.

When we’re together
the last time,
you’re smiling in the rain and holding my face.
You make promises
that we both know you can’t keep,
and I smile too
because it’s better to pretend while we still can.

You don’t love me as much as you could,
though I love you more than any times since the first,
but it’s enough.

And when you’re gone I pray for a dozen more lifetimes--
a hundred
or even just one.

Kyoutani presses him into the sheets and the only thing that Yahaba can hear over the blood pounding in his head is the low thud of bass coming from Kyoutani's stereo, playing music to cover up the sound of them grinding against each other, gasping into each other's mouths, tugging at each other's clothes until they're naked and hard and desperate, watching each other, not breaking gaze even as their hips rock against each other.

Yahaba likes it like this, slowly and cautiously building up into something bigger, but what he wants is Kyoutani's teeth against his skin, blunt nails dragging down his skin, leaving red marks in their wake. He wants Kyoutani to be rough with him, the way they are when they push each other around between practice, half fighting, half playing, always ready to turn it into an all out brawl while the rest of their teammates pull each other apart. That's what Yahaba wants most right now, he wants that barely contained violence, he wants that wild look in Kyoutani's eyes,

Kyoutani leans in, biting Yahaba's lips hard and, well, that's a good start.

Yahaba bites right back and it just kind of goes from there. They bite whatever skin they can reach as Kyoutani leans over him, pulling Yahaba's thighs apart so he can settle between them a little more comfortable. Yahaba sinks his teeth into Kyoutani's shoulder, hard enough to leave a semi-circle imprint behind and he runs his tongue along it, liking the way it feels a little like a mark of ownership. Kyoutani responds in kind, covering Yahaba's neck with bites, his shoulders, his collarbone.

"Fuck, Kyoutani," Yahaba gasps, as Kyoutani sucks a mark just above his collarbone, then pulls away, grabbing for the lube and a condom.

Kyoutani isn't gentle about the way he spreads Yahaba open, but Yahaba doesn't want him to be. He loves the rough thrust of his fingers, the feeling of being spread open for him, the burn of it. Kyoutani's cock nudges against Yahaba's entrance, slowly pushing its way in.

"Yeah," Yahaba gasps, fingers digging into Kyoutani's arms, pulling him closer. "Come on."

Kyoutani fucks him hard, holding his legs up for more room. He pounds into Yahaba with small, snarling noises at the back of his throat, until Yahaba drags him down into a messy kiss, more teeth than anything else. Yahaba's lips feel so swollen already and he can't wait to see how bad they are once this is over, can't wait to run his tongue over them before Kyoutani does it for him instead, until Kyoutani can't resist biting on his swollen lips, making them even worse.

He's close, so wound up already, so desperate for more, no matter how much Kyoutani gives him. He gasps sharply as Kyoutani's fingers wrap around his cock, stroking it firmly, in time with their thrusts. Kyoutani hits Yahaba's prostate, making him cry out, trembling as he comes.

Kyoutani keeps fucking him, biting into Yahaba's neck hard until he comes, growling at the back of his throat. They pull apart, panting loudly as Kyoutani's music keeps playing, taking each other in, with all the new bite marks and bruises littered across each other's skin.

"You're hot like this," Kyoutai mutters, leaning in, sucking on Yahaba's lower lip. "With my marks on you."

"Likewise," Yahaba grins, biting Kyoutani's lips before Kyoutani can bite him first. "It's a nice reminder that you're mine."

Kyoutani snorts in reply, but doesn't say a word about Yahaba being wrong.

participant 9 here. happy new year.

“i turned up the heat and it’s still cold,” oikawa whines as he snuggles back under the kotatsu. his feet bump into iwaizumi’s and oikawa takes the opportunity to curl his freezing toes over iwaizumi’s calf.

iwaizumi kicks him.

“ow! iwa-chan!” oikawa yells as he slides his leg out from under the warmth and rubs it. “you brute! be nice! it’s almost the new year you know!”

iwaizumi snorts at him. “you know what they say. new year, same me.” iwaizumi grabs the remote and turns up the volume. he's not really paying attention to the new year's special they have going on, and oikawa knows that too, but it's nice to at least pretend he can drown out oikawa's whining.

“iwa-chan,” oikawa gasps. “i cannot believe you just said that.” iwaizumi turns up the volume higher. "iwa-chan! are you ignoring me? how could you do this, in our own home, just minutes from midnight," oikawa starts, and okay, iwaizumi is definitely blocking him out now. he props his arm up, face in the palm of his hand, and acts like he's deeply interested in the recap of the events that happened during the past year.

oikawa gets up again and tells iwaizumi to scoot over, forcing himself in the space next to iwaizumi. iwaizumi sighs, but oikawa lies his head on iwaizumi's shoulder once he's settled in, and iwaizumi lets him. they sit in silence for a couple of minutes, the buzz of the tv providing comfortable white noise.

"ah," iwaizumi says suddenly and gets up. oikawa falls over with a yelp and yells out "iwa-chan? where are you going?" he doesn't get a response so he shrugs and sits up, taking the remote and flipping through the channels.

iwaizumi returns not too long after with a plate of oranges and he sets it down in front of oikawa then moves into the kotatsu next to him, their knees touching.

"oh right," oikawa says. "can't have new years without our oranges." oikawa picks up an orange and grabs a marker on the other side of the kotatsu. he draws iwaizumi's face on it, surrounded by lots of hearts, and shows it to him. "look iwa-chan. i made you cute."

iwaizumi rolls his eyes and picks up an orange himself and plucks the marker out of oikawa's hands. he scribbles on it and then places the orange in front of oikawa. it's a scrawl of what looks like could be oikawa, if the ends of oikawa's hair pointed 90 degrees upward and his face was the lenny face.

"i can't believe this!" oikawa yells. "you made my face a meme!"

iwaizumi retorts casually with "it's always been a meme." oikawa screams in frustration. he grabs the marker out of iwaizumi's hand and tries to draw on his face as payback but it devolves into an all-out tickle war.

when they come up for air, after oikawa's crushing defeat, iwaizumi grabs their oranges. he smiles at the drawing of himself and then starts to peel it. he peels the rest of them and hands a slice to oikawa when he's done.

"thank you iwa-chan." oikawa leans against iwaizumi again, who kisses the top of his forehead, and pops the slice into his mouth. their home is a little warmer.

Crowds were trouble. Darkness was as much an enemy as it was an ally. Mysterious lighting and music blaring were more openings for strangers to take a shot. A dozen endless blindspots - and on top of that, most glasses were smudged, few bartenders had a clue of how to handle themselves. Yet, Midousuji still found he did not quite loathe nightclubs.

They had their use. His escort shook as he gestured to his special seat, stuttered apologies ruining the severe image he should have held. Midousuji sneered, but took the seat. Most people would never overcome their disgusting cowardice. He took off a glove to slide a finger around the brim of his glass, a sweet hum responding. Perhaps the staff finally took his threats seriously. The soft tinge of lemon went well alongside clean water. Good enough. If he only had to be here one night, it was bearable.

"Thank you all so much for coming out tonight!"

Trumpets rose a cheer with the audience, and his target walked out on stage. Manami Sangaku - dressed down in white, spotlights centered around them as halos and magic. Midousuji's lips curled up in a measure of disgust. A pretty show for a singer steeped in enough sin that he'd be the one called out to kill them.

"I've had so much fun here in Kyoto, but I'm afraid this is my last night performing here!" A chorus of wails circled up around them, as they closed their eyes, patiently waiting through it - they knew what they were doing. Midousuji leaned forward to listen. "I understand, but I promise I'll be back another year. I'd never want to let any of you down," they said, giving an elegant curtsy, standing straight in another instant with a pert smile. "With that said, let's start the show!"

He rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair as the music started - piano ivories noisily popping up as Manami spun a finger along, bouncing their shoulders. The mark was a joke. They had a watchful eye, but it all seemed like another part of the mask a performer would show any fan. He pulled his glove back on. The building had been cased a dozen times over in preparation. There were no bodyguards, no eyes to watch and protect them.

Whoever had been protecting them from previous assassins clearly wasn't interested in doing so anymore - or perhaps had become so cavalier as to think there would be no more.

"But I was sure surprised," floating through the air, singing old classics in English. Drums popped noisily in his ears - bass twanged as they swung from side to side - he should have brought ear plugs. "Heaven help me, I didn't see, the devil in your eyes."

Between that and the contractor demanding it be up-close - that it be hidden behind the scenes, away from the crowd's eye - it was annoying. Having someone snipe Manami from outside a window would be preferable and easy, rising a panic enough to lose oneself in, but the pay offered was certainly something. The information that came with it, the pure power in blackmail, it would have been a fool's errand to turn it down.

A piece of ice cracked between Midousuji's teeth. If nothing else, it was his preference to handle matters as personally as possible. Easy did not mean clean - as long as he was the one taking care of it, there would be no mistakes made.

He watched them spin around and bounce, leaning into their band mates, grinning wide and - his eyes slanted, staring at that smile. The guitarist brushed them away with more than slight discomfort. No one would notice, with how Manami danced away, but there were flashes. They spun too quickly, moved too much, for him to catch any sure glance, but it was strange. Their wide eyes watching everything and everyone, catching anyone in the audience. Their smile's curve, not always soft and - he thought it with a measure of disgust - cute, as a singer like this was trained to be. Sharpening around the words, as though they were weapons in their own right.

"The sad sack was a sittin' on a block of stone," they sang, swinging their hip with each wave of guitar strings, "Way over in the corner weepin' all alone." Swinging up an arm to point at him. "The warden said, hey buddy, don't you be no square," staring straight at him, smile cutting up strangely on their face, they leaned over, bouncing toward him over the stage, singing, "If you can't find a partner, use a wooden chair."

"Gross," he muttered.

Midousuji's lips barely moved, but Manami still stood up straight, ignoring the music as it went on except to to bounce their shoulders. "Gross? Not at all!"

Their band mates groaned behind them. The audience murmured in confusion as they started apologizing - Midousuji stood up to leave. This was pointless.

"Hey!" He didn't stop walking. "Could someone please stop him, the tall one, thank you!"

Bouncers were up to grab Midousuji's shoulders before Manami finished their request. He ripped his arms away, shuddering at people thinking they had any right. He turned around, putting on a wide-tooth smile as Manami waved from the stage.

"Hello, sir! I saw you there, and you didn't look like you were having much fun!" Disgusting. "I don't like leaving town with people looking so down. You should get comfy up here at the front, there's plenty of space!" Their lashes fluttered, poised pretty and open. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, too. It'd be a waste if you left now, don't you think?"

Everyone was staring now, a quiet cheer beginning to grow, people agreeing, clapping for him. His smile didn't seem to put them off - they only bounced along to the claps, gesturing to move on up. He took his time as he walked to the spare table they pointed him to. There were too many people who had seen him now. It would cause more trouble if he actively refused.

"Thank you, sir," Manami said, crouching with a bounce. "What's your name?" He shook his head. "Do you have any requests? Any songs you'd like to hear?"

"No, thank you," he said as snide as he could. "I didn't come for you. I like this bar."

"Oh, really," they answered, almost whispering. "You'll have to tell me what your favorite drinks on the menu are." They matched his toothy smile as they swung back up into the music. "Sorry for the interruption, folks! Just a couple of songs left in the set before I've got to go!"

Piano wire sat safe in his pocket. He had time to fix this problem, for all of how annoying it was. Manami went on glancing down at him, singing as they did, bright grin flashing on their face every time they met eyes. He liked it even less than he did before.

There wasn't an encore.

Midousuji stood to leave as Manami hastily left the stage, late and foolish, in their own words.

"You're him, right?" He turned - the guitarist stood there, folded arms, tight frown on his face. "That kid wants to see you backstage." Midousuji started to refuse, but he put up his hands. "Listen. I don't wanna think about anything Manami does, so if you're gonna ask what you're wanted for, don't fuckin' ask me. But you'd better hurry up. While no one's looking too hard. People don't like it much when they do shit like this."

Foolish decisions - gross. "Fine," he said.

If it meant an easier route to them, it was fine.

He fit well in the darkness behind the stage, hiding from anyone who might ask despite the excuse. The less people who saw, the better. Manami's door itself was wide open. He leaned in, seeing them sitting in front of their mirror, staring at nothing but their own reflection - looking at the dead look on their face, he had a hard time believing they had ever smiled once in their entire life.

Edging through the side silently, he closed the door.

"You came," they said. "How nice."

"Quite," he answered, hands behind his back, wrapping the piano wire out with care. His footsteps were silent against the cloth strewn across the floor.

"I really was surprised when I saw you," they said, eyes on his reflection. It was doubtful they'd be quick enough to stop him - no chance they'd have the time to scream. "I was even more worried you wouldn't accept my invitation ... it's such a rare chance, you see."

"How so?" He paused behind them, looming with his face beyond the reach of the mirror.

Manami's eyes crinkled with laughter. That was his chance. His arms swung up, dropping the wire around their neck. He leaned over them as he began to pull, and - there was nothing.

"I've been wanting to meet you," he heard them say. Staring at their reflection, he saw them tap scissors against their lips. "I ... well, I shouldn't say I'm a fan. But I never expected they'd call someone like you out for this. It's quite an honor."

Midousuji pulled up the cut halves of his wire. Things - fell into place. Why there were no bodyguards. Why no other killers succeeded. Why they called him out. The smile on his face grew. "You're a monster, aren't you?"

They tittered. "That's rude!" Something slammed into his shins - their seat sliding back into him, as they spun around and knocked him over. He rolled out of the way, only quick enough to avoid their scissors tearing through his arm, instead embedding themselves in his trenchcoat. "When you're the person coming to kill someone, don't you think you're the monster of the situation?"

Wild eyes and a sharp smile that cut away any hint of sweetness their mask had otherwise - and they knew it - down to the bone. Not so gross as he'd thought.

An angel that knows what it is, fallen and blackened, was one of the purest things that could exist.

"Why do they want you dead?" he asked.

Manami swung their arms behind their back, stretching, not a weapon in sight. "Mmm... I don't know that I could tell you." And then they had a knife, in the time it took to blink. "Midousuji Akira likes blackmail, I've heard. You could still kill me, and use that information against my agency. No good at all."

"Not wrong," he said, circling around them. "Blackmail is the only way to get along in the world. So much so ... I could tell you who is out for your blood."

They watched him with a careful hum. "Why would I care about that?" He paused. Most people would give up anything for information. "As long as I can survive, the matter of who wants me dead doesn't matter."

Quite the devil, indeed - he didn't dislike that.

But they knew who he was. Either they'd agree, or he'd kill them. Manami's smile - perhaps they knew as well. Playing a game to see who'd win.

YOOOOO I WAS... so surprised to see this filled... but i'm so glad, it's brilliant, i'm honking excitedly in lieu of a proper comment

i was looking through my bookmarks and i refound this and i. hi ice. this wasn’t the prompt i said i was going to fill (i still need to do that one sweats) but i’m filling this one because 1) always need more kuroyaku right 2) i’ve been dying to write something like this anyway (though it got away from me big time i’M SORRY)

first year, may.

To say that Yaku Morisuke’s rough around the edges is the understatement of the century. In a matter of weeks he manages to build up a reputation for himself - and not a very good one, at that. Rumors float around the first year halls that he’d beaten up several people for lunch money, was a member of a gang, and threatened several teachers for good grades.

Kuroo didn’t know the guy very well - like him, he’d joined the volleyball club, but avoided him like the plague and spent a majority of practice with the starting libero or the other first year, Kai - but, well. Even if he did seem a little too wound up at times, he couldn’t be that bad, right?

Except after one poorly phrased comment about his short fuse and smaller stature, Yaku gives him a kick in the back of the legs hard enough to knock him onto the ground. He’s aware that Yaku’s standing over him, yelling obscenities at him, but the dull ache in his legs was enough to tune him out for the time-being. Shit.

As the captain steps in to pull Yaku away and give him a lecture on controlling his temper, all Kuroo can think is that this is going to be a very, very interesting three years.

****

first year, november.

As it turns out, Yaku continues to smack Kuroo again and again, for reasons both logical (when Kuroo steps out of line) and ridiculous (pretty much every other time). With Yaku’s aggression growing by the day and reputation souring by the second, Kuroo knows something has to change, and fast.

Months of bickering, teasing, and butting heads culminate to this: a loss at Spring High’s Tokyo Representative Playoffs, after Yaku’s first high school appearance on the court; Yaku punching a wall in frustration, repeatedly, until his knuckles bled; Yaku punching Kuroo in frustration after Kuroo tried to pull him away from the wall; more yelling, more kicks and punches from Yaku; a wake-up call that he’s gone too far this time.

“You’re an idiot.” Yaku seethes, pinching Kuroo’s nose closed with a little more force than necessary. They’re sitting in the nurse’s office, Kuroo on the bed and Yaku on a chair next to him, with blood sticking to Kuroo’s face and shirt.

Despite the black eye, bloody nose, and countless other bruises he knows he’ll wake up with the next morning, Kuroo grins. “I know.”

Yaku sighs. “And you’re being a bigger one now - keep the ice on your face.” He holds the ice pack to Kuroo’s face, expecting him to take over after a few seconds.

It takes a sharp glare from Yaku for Kuroo to take the hint - his fingers brush against Yaku’s briefly as he adjusts the placement over his swollen cheek. “Are we cool now?”

A few seconds pass before Yaku replies. “... Yeah. We’re cool.”

The smile Kuroo gives him is enough to light up the room and Yaku finds himself glad for the ice pack, if only to hide how much his smile brightens up his own face.

****

second year, april.

Yaku’s three steps into the gym (a new year, a new team, new starting members with himself included) when Kuroo stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Hey - can I talk to you for a moment?”

Inside the gym, the rest of the team begins to congregate to warm up and prepare for the arrival of their new members. Yaku furrows his eyebrows. “You know you’re going to make us late, right?”

“It’ll only be a minute. Promise.” Kuroo raises a hand, as though taking an oath. “And I’ll take the blame.”

He thinks of brushing him off, asking if it can wait until after practice, but the look in Kuroo’s eyes is oddly serious. So he sighs in defeat and pats the hand on his shoulder. “Good - you’re getting blamed anyway.”

Kuroo doesn’t take them far from the gym’s - just enough to give them the semblance of privacy. He looks around for a moment before rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s about Kenma.”

Yaku crosses his arms. He remembers Kenma - or, well, what Kuroo’s said about Kenma, at least. Childhood best friend, year younger than him, means the world to him, played volleyball with him in middle school. Basic facts. “What about him?”

“He goes here now - and he’s joining the team.” Before Yaku can say anything, Kuroo continues. “Listen, this might be a little strange, but I talked to Kai already and-”

“You want me to be friends with him?”

Kuroo blinks. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess.” Yaku says with a slight shrug. “But I can do that. Or, at least try.”

A bright grin lights up Kuroo’s face as he wraps an arm tight around his shoulders. “Thanks, Yaku. It’d mean a lot to me.”

Yaku nudges his side with his elbow with a huff. “Don’t thank me - now, c’mon.” As he keeps his head ducked slightly, he hopes Kuroo doesn’t notice the slight tint of pink on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

(He notices.)

****

second year, september.

They’re sitting together during lunch when Yaku first brings it up.

“You should be captain next year, Kuroo.”

Blunt, and to the point - and enough to make Kuroo nearly choke on his drink. He sputters and stares at Yaku with wide eyes. “Wait - you’re serious?”

Yaku raises an eyebrow and, without thinking, offers a tissue for Kuroo. “Why not? You’re the best for the position, by far.”

Kuroo wipes his mouth dry. “Thanks.” He coughs out, then gets to folding up the tissue into a small square. “But, you’re sure, Yaku? What about Kai?”

Yaku doesn’t miss a beat. “He’d be a good vice for you. He’ll keep you in line when I can’t.” Yaku watches as Kuroo folds, unfolds, and refolds the tissue, and sighs to himself. “Just think about it, okay? The coach will ask us eventually who our pick is.”

Doubt lingers in the back of Kuroo’s mind, but he smiles at Yaku still. “Alright, alright - you convinced me.”

(Months later, with unanimous votes and support behind him, he accepts the position.)

****

third year, june.

As Yaku steps out of the guidance counselor’s office, Kuroo catches him by the arm. It takes all Yaku has to not yelp, and more than what he has to not whack Kuroo on the shoulder.

Though his shoulder stings, Kuroo thinks it’s worth it - his hand slides down to hold Yaku’s and he hums with delight as Yaku threads his fingers through his. “What did the counselor tell you?”

“The same thing he told you and Kai: that I should quit the club now and focus on studying for entrance exams.” He rests his free hand on his hip, lips pursing in annoyance. “Like we haven’t heard that already.”

Kuroo goes tense for a moment - Yaku feels it in their linked hands, the sweat in his palm. He squeezes gently. “What?”

“You’re not quitting, right?”

Yaku stares up at him blankly. “You’re kidding me, right?” After a pause, long enough for Kuroo to laugh and say it’s a joke if it was one, he frowns. “One, Lev still needs more help, and there’s only so much you can do while being captain. Two, Shibayama needs more time before he can handle being a regular. Three, you’d fall apart without me.

“Four,” He smacks Kuroo’s hip with their joined hands. “we still need to play against Karasuno. Officially.”

“Aww.” A smile creeps on Kuroo’s face. “You care.”

“Of course I do,” is Yaku’s quick reply. “We’re a team - the blood and the brain make up a body.”

The smile turns into a full-blown grin, and he brings Yaku’s hand up to his lips to press a kiss. “... Just be on your best behavior these next few months, okay? No starting fights~”

Kuroo’s laughter rings loud and clear down the third year hallway as Yaku smacks the back of his head and barks, “Shut up!”

Thank you for this loveliness.

SWAG2016 participant #47

Nijimura thinks about his underclassmen at Teiko when he flies back to Japan.

Actually, Nijimura thinks about a lot of people while he's on the plane between LA and Tokyo, chin resting in his hand as he looks out of the window, grateful for his window seat and the stunning view it gives him of the ocean and then into the clouds as the plane rises into them.

He thinks about Himuro.

If Nijimura is being honest, he thinks about Himuro a lot. Thinks about him in his day to day life, the beautiful face sticking at the back of his mind, his kind smile, his gorgeous voice.

He thinks about Himuro more than he should, really. Tatsuya, as Nijimura still mentally calls him, smiling as he remembers Himuro insisting on it, because they were both in LA. They only met once and they're unlikely to meet again, if Nijimura's being realistic about it, but he can't help but hope anyway.

At least now that they'll be in the same country again, he has more of a chance than he did when they were living on opposite ends of the Pacific Ocean. He sighs to himself, a little wistfully, and contents himself with the memories of the time they shared, at least, at the sound of Himuro saying Shuuzo, lips pulling into a small smile as he did.

He definitely doesn't expect to bump into Himuro when he gets to Narita International Airport. Actually bump into him, accidentally, and with enough force to send them both stumbling back, struggling to find their footing. Nijimura is an athlete though, so he regains his balance quickly enough. Himuro is even faster, holding his suitcase steady and looking at Nijimura with wide-eyed wonder, clearly recognising him.

"Shuuzo?" Himuro blinks, and then he smiles brilliantly. "What an amazing coincidence!"

Nijimura wonders if they were on the same plane, wonders how he managed to miss Himuro if they were. He's as gorgeous as ever, no, even more gorgeous since they last met.

"Tatsuya," he greets, smiling in return. "It's so nice to see you again. You look—great. It's hard to believe that such a handsome man could become even handso- handsom- hands- prettier."

Of course the first thing he does when he sees Himuro again is to begin stuttering. He can feel his face burning but, he reasons with himself, it could have been worse. Much worse. At least so far, he's managed to resist the urge to just drop to his knees and propose marriage right then and there.

"Coffee?" he suggests instead, glad that he can at least get that word out.

Himuro beams at him. "I'd love to get coffee. You're not in any rush to leave, are you? Is anyone picking you up? I was just going to take a taxi home from the airport, so I'm flexible."

Nijimura's mind takes Himuro and flexible to places that it really shouldn't, when he's standing in the middle of a crowded airport.

"I'm taking the taxi home too. Maybe we can go home together. I mean. You know. Share a taxi."

Himuro grins, dragging his gaze up and down the length of Nijimura's body in a very obvious way. "I'd like that."

SWAG2016 participant #47

Takao lies in bed, rolling onto his side, and his heart skips a beat when he feels Midorima's chest pressed against his back, arm sliding around his waist, holding him close.

They don't do this. They don't cuddle. They don't stay the night. They don't do anything to acknowledge this thing between them outside of the act itself, because Midorima doesn't like that.

But yet here they are. Lying in Takao's bed. Together. With Midorima's arm around him.

Midorima's breath is tickling the small hair at the back of Takao's neck. His breathing is a little too quick, a little too shallow to make Takao believe that he's asleep. Besides, with his chest pressed to Takao's back like this, it's so obvious that his heart is pounding.

Then again, Midorima has always been pretty awful at lying. He couldn't manage it without giving himself away all the way throughout high school. He hasn't gotten much better since then, either. The only difference is that Takao isn't willing to laugh at him about it right now. If anything, Takao isn't willing to make a sound at all, in case it shatters the fragile moment around them. He doesn't want to do the wrong thing, to misstep and have Midorima rolling out of bed, walking out the door like he does every other night.

Slowly and very carefully, Takao places his hand on Midorima's arm.

He feels Midorima suck in a sharp breath. He's definitely awake and Takao shuts his eyes tightly and smiles to himself. No matter how many years pass, he's always going to find Midorima ridiculously cute.

If he could go back into his own past and meet himself when he was in his first year of high school, Takao honestly has no idea what kind of advice he'd given.

Don't fall in love with emotionally constipated losers, maybe.

Or maybe just, fall in love with him, fall head over heels and keep falling, falling, because there's no end to it. Just make him own up to it sometime too.

"Shin-chan." His voice sounds so loud in the silence between them.

"Takao," Midorima replies. His breath is still tickling Takao's neck. He sounds unsure of himself. Ready to leave, maybe. Ready to make a run for it.

Turning around to face him, Takao wraps his arm around Midorima's waist in return.

"This is nice," he says quietly, searching Midorima's face for any kind of reaction.

He gets a brief moment of narrowed eyes, as Midorima processes the words. Then Midorima's expression relaxes, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Yes," he replies, and pulls Takao against him a little closer. Their hearts thud against each other's chests, both nervous, both willing to try this out. "Yes it is."

Maybe, Takao thinks as he shuts his eyes, he'll wake up and find Midorima still in bed with him, Midorima's clothes scattered across the apartment from the lounge room to the bed, Midorima's slippers kicked off at the foot of the bed.

Maybe he'll find Midorima still holding him, and Takao wills himself to sleep, so that the morning will come sooner, already eager to find what it will bring.

Number: 4

We grew tall like trees:

(I grew down,
with roots in rich soil, twined
around you like a cage of arms and branches.

You grew up, eyes
and head in the sky,
stretching away from my grasp.)

You always whisper, like winds
through our leaves, that this
is how we belong.
Our boughs
come from the same seed;
we’re good like this,
we are enough.

I watch you watch the stars, and I
curl my roots in deeper,
hold the curves of your hips like
you’re going to leave without me--

outgrow me like a shadow at sunset,
stretch into the darkness.

Number: 4

Your pulse: footsteps,
clacking against the front of your throat,
my fingers,
like high heels on tile.

I feel you living
like you’re walking away
and you’re quick,
clicking like a busted fan blade, faster,
faster,
snap.

When I squeeze it’s even faster:
machine gun fire,
deadly repetition.
Pull the trigger until I’m ready to choose.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

awkward!Nijimura gives me life thank you so much for this <3 <3 <3

"At least so far, he's managed to resist the urge to just drop to his knees and propose marriage right then and there."
alksdjf;aksjdk please do I am terrible curious about how that would have went haha but seriously, this is so cute the world needs more cute NijiHimu you are great

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