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beechichi:

Older Kenma doodle (that got out of hand) inspired by @moami‘s tweet 

idk honestly…

“You look gorgeous.” Kuroo’s voice is heavy with admiration, and he takes a step forward, gently touching Kenma’s wrist. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” Kenma says. He lets the blacksmith adjust the filigree jewelry that curls along his arms, his neck, smooth and perfect against his silky hair. The other apprentices spent an hour helping him, lining his eyes with red for fire, dusting crushed earth over the roots of his hair, painting his nails blue for the ocean’s grace. 

Now, Kuroo has brought him the jewelry that is wind and energy, pulsing with magic right where his veins send blood flowing into his body. The blacksmith steps back, eyeing Kenma over. A soft smile spreads on his lips. “You are honestly, just. I don’t have words. Sorry, it’s silly, I made this for you but I didn’t know it’d be so – so-”

Kenma swirls around and kisses him. It’s a quiet touch of lips, barely a moment. Kuroo freezes, his breath hitching against Kenma’s mouth. His eyes are closed when Kenma pulls back. “Thank you. It’s beautiful. You’ve made me complete for the ritual.” 

Kuroo blinks at him, slow, like a cat that shows affection with a drop of dark eyes. “You were always complete. The ritual is stupid. Kenma, you’re the most powerful magician that the world’s seen in what, centuries? They just want to control you.” 

But Kenma just smiles. “Maybe.” His fingers lace up with Kuroo’s, wiping soot off the rough hands of his beloved one, tracing the harsh lines that whisper about years in a smithy, about nights with Kenma, kisses, touches, two souls as one. 

“They can’t hurt me. Not when I’m carrying your silver on my skin. Let us go.”

“Sorry I’m late!” Kuroo bursts through the door of the flat, a plastic bag full of groceries in each of his hands. Snow is hissing behind him, a storm of white flakes trying to claw its way into the warm house. Kuroo manages to slam the door shut with his foot before dragging the groceries into the kitchen. “Kenma?” He calls out while searching the bags, only putting away what belongs in the fridge and then wandering through the flat with a packet of sandwiches. “Ken-”

The door to Kenma’s room is open. Kuroo moves closer, taking a peek inside, making sure that his steps are loud enough to not startle his boyfriend. “May I come inside or is it alone time?”

“You can come in,” Kenma replies from inside. A blanket rustles, and Kuroo recognises the noise of a gaming console being put onto the nightstand. “Welcome home. I missed you.” It’s only with those words that Kuroo pushes the door open and comes inside. Kenma is under the blanket, curled up, lips forced into a thin smile. A jolt of pain flies through Kuroo’s chest. 

He’s by Kenma’s side and underneath the blanket within seconds. “What’s wrong? Talk to me. Are you havin’ a bad day?”

Kenma bites his lips and nods. Sometimes Kuroo hates being right, hates knowing the reason that tears well up in Kenma’s eyes. “How can you still l-love me when I’m,” Kenma begins. His voice is so tiny, wet, shivering, and Kuroo immediately acts. He carefully slides his hands below the blanket, tickles his fingertips along Kenma’s soft waist. “Mhm.” Kenma closes his eyes, hums, a hiccup following as he smiles through the tears. “Kuroo.”

“I couldn’t not love you,” Kuroo says. “I don’t care if you look different.” His fingertips are reverent when they paint invisible patterns of gentleness onto Kenma’s lower belly that has gotten bigger and softer after he’s stopped playing volleyball in college. “I love you in any shape and age, I love you with wrinkles and grey hair and with blind eyes or a bigger stomach. I’d kiss you until we both couldn’t breathe anymore, no matter what. You’re always – just.”

“…I’m your K-Kenma?” 

Kuroo nods. His neck is wet where Kenma has buried his face, and his chest hurts a bit because short nails dig into it through his Iron Man shirt. But it doesn’t matter. Kenma’s stomach is warm and beautiful below his touch, and the hiccups stop. “Okay?” No, it’s not. He knows. It returns, and it takes time to heal.

But Kenma looks up with eyes as golden as sunlight, kisses Kuroo’s mouth until both of their heads are dizzy, and then he lets his own fingers slide down to tickle the trail of hair on Kuroo’s stomach until both of them laugh, grin, smile.

“What is your wish tonight, my prince?” Hajime whispers the word into the hollow of Tooru’s collarbone, where he’s painted him night-blue with his teeth and has flicked the dawn’s colours underneath his skin. Tooru, his prince, the jewel behind his shield, laughs and rolls his head back. 

“Do not ask me silly things, Hajime. My wish is the same as always.” There’s a spark of heat through amber eyes, and Hajime catches himself licking his lips. His mouth hovers above Tooru’s neck now, breath catching where his hair is braided out of the way, where the collar of his royal gown will sit tomorrow and his shoulders will tremble beneath the weight of the crown. 

“Then I would dare to say that you wish for my touch,” Hajime says. His thumbs caress the sharp edge of Tooru’s hipbones, and as he lowers himself down, knees slipping away, the prince spreads his legs and welcomes him with a soft moan. His thighs catch around Hajime’s waist, slender fingers sliding over his wrists, nail by nail scratching over his skin and leaving white marks that tell stories of whom the guardian of the prince belongs to. 

“Not just your touch.” Tooru smiles. His lips are red-kissed and slick, a small tongue flashing as it licks up the residue of Hajime’s length sliding into that whining mouth just earlier. “I want all of you. Are you not to protect me and make sure that I am safe?” 

In the end, he always gets what he wants. Hajime leans over his lover, elbows sinking into the bed by Tooru’s head. Their breaths melt into steaming heat, foreheads touching, and Hajime pushes, slow, intoxicating, burning. Tooru falls apart below him with a whimper, a sputter of Hajime’s name on his royal lips, the chest that bears pink marks of Hajime’s rough warrior hands arching into a sweet bow. 

“I will have you all night, then, and some more after that.” The promises are accompanied by a gentle rock of Hajime’s hips, and he slides a hand to cradle Tooru’s cheek when the prince moans, oh, he is beautiful like that. His insides tremble, relax, spreading around Hajime as he buries himself into his prince. They breathe, together, hands finding their counterparts and fingers sliding into a web of touch. “Please,” Tooru whimpers. His legs are tight around Hajime’s waist. His mouth is slick, red, spelling words that are love and want and a plea.

Hajime lets their foreheads touch, and takes him apart. 

“I wonder why I ever wanted a cat. With you, I don’t need one.” 

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Tooru grins down to where his boyfriend glares up at him, brows furrowed into a dark line of confusion. Hajime has this habit of draping himself over Tooru’s stomach or legs while studying, and today isn’t any different. It’s become a reflex for Tooru to push his fingertips all over Hajime’s scalp, to gently pet his hair and rub careful circles onto his skin to release the tension of hour-long university days and training.

When Hajime keeps staring a him just like the cat that Tooru mentioned before – demanding and unblinking – Tooru laughs softly. “Well. You’re stubborn, unique, you sometimes pretend to just be here for the cuddles, your signs of affection are the weirdest I’ve ever come across. Especially when you just put food you’ve prepared onto the table before me and leave again.” 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Hajime growls. His cheeks have taken an intriguing shade of crimson. Tooru can’t resist running his finger over them, and Hajime makes a gesture as if to bite him. “Stop it.” 

“And you are cute,” Tooru says. His voice is still teasing, but there’s a tenderness swaying with it, calm and secure. “I know I had to earn your love, that you’re not like this with anyone else.” 

Hajime has fallen silent. His cheek rests on Tooru’s thigh as he looks up at him, the furrow in his brows gone. “Hm. Okay.” 

Tooru tries to add “also, you’re fluffy and do that cute squinty-thing when you try to show me that you’re hungry”, but Hajime shuts him up by stretching his body towards his face, giving a tiny kiss to his mouth. “Shut up, and keep scratchin’ my head.”

“I will be there with you until the end,” Hajime promises him when he slides a silver ring onto Tooru’s finger. 

“Liar,” Tooru whispers when he touches Hajime’s cold lips one last time, “I thought you promised me until the end of us, not the end of you.”

beechichi:

Iwaoi Cats! based off of tweets/skype between, @moami, @astronautical-polarbear, @starlitciities and myself

Also everyone should check out @astronautical-polarbear‘s HQ cats cause holy shit they are ADORBS

Bee, you are incredible. I enjoy our skype talks so much, you’re kind and warm and I constantly want to squish you. Now, I wish to squish those beautiful fluffy (slightly angry??) balls of fur and angel cotton candy as well. The world needs more Iwaoi cats and a smol, short, angry bobtail cat Iwaizumi. Ahh thank you for drawing this, and thank you everyone else for the great twitter convo, and to Lina for giving us the basic idea of Iwaoi as cats. ♥

It takes more than ten years and his last year in high school for Hajime to understand. When he passes by a group of girls, a whispered secret filters through their giggles like sunlight through an ocean of emerald-singing leaves. 

“He’s so intimidating! I’m scared.” – “No wonder he doesn’t have a girlfriend.” 

On their way home, Hajime tells Tooru about the conversation. The late autumn wind has gotten sharp and cold, gold dancing along the horizon where the sun sinks into slumber above the smoke-filled town. Tooru’s hair glows like sweet caramel, and the arch of his fingertips dances in soft circles over Hajime’s wrist.

“Scary, they said?” 

“Yeah.” Hajime presses closer to him, his arm sliding around Tooru’s waist, natural, year-long habit having grown into a beloved tradition. 

“I see.” Tooru smiles, soft as the upcoming frost from the north. “I think they lied to you, Hajime. It’s not you that they’re scared of.” 

A cold breeze whirls over the street. Hajime watches the darkness twitching around the corner of Tooru’s mouth. His body is pliant and his lips gasp when Tooru suddenly hauls him close, pressing a rough kiss onto him, into him, burning on his mouth and licking at his tongue and throat. 

“I guess you’re right,” Hajime croaks when Tooru pulls back. “Of course I am!” Is all that Tooru chirps back, face alight and grinning like seconds before. 

When Tooru falls asleep against his shoulder that night, Hajime carefully brushes his hair back and looks at his face. The realization comes slow, but somehow, it’s not a surprise. Tooru has always known whom he’s wanted, how, when and how badly. 

Fear is a powerful thing, Hajime thinks, closing his eyes and listening to Tooru’s breath. 

Or maybe it’s just that he loves so fiercely that the man who’s a beast to others becomes a saint to him.