Tag: haikyuu!!

rainbowd00dles:

@moami posted on twitter about kenma having a chubby stomach and muffin tops and then this happened

kuroo would love to cuddle him

me too kuroo. me too.

Oh my gosh, they are perfect. I want to squish Kenma’s cheeks and his beautiful tummy and I want them to hug all night, drink tea and kiss and be happy without anyone ever hurting them. Thank you so much, Rainbow! This is wonderful in any possible way. ♥

Because Kuroo loves all of him, the soft outside and the sometimes insecure, dark inside, anything and everything through shadows and light.

The man’s breath reeks of cheap beer and old cigarette smoke clinging to rotten teeth. Tooru has seen the silhouette of a knife in his pocket before the man has even sat down on the bar stool by his side and smile at him with a lick of his fleshy tongue over thin lips. “Well, ain’t ya a pretty one,” the man slurs, grinning. Tooru tilts his head and smiles like honey. “Do you want to buy me a drink?”

Of course the man wants to. He wants even more, his filthy lips say, and Tooru is almost bored by the obvious slide of greedy eyes up and down his body. Hajime keeps throwing him quick glances from the other side of the club; there’s no worry in them, just impatience. He holds Hinata and Kageyama by their collars, they sit by his side, hands curled into fists where they don’t cling to each other’s. Hajime’s lips form silent words. ‘Hurry. They’re hungry.’

Tooru touches the man’s arm. His lips curve a bit more, he stands. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” How naive can someone be, Tooru thinks when the man’s black-dirty eyes light up with unconcealed lust, to think that he gets anything without paying a price? 

“Wait. Where are we going?” The man begins to understand when Tooru’s already led him into a room that’s covered in pure white tiles. The door slams shut behind them; voices echo through the corridor they just walked, and Tooru keeps smiling, smiling, milky-sweet teeth and a soft tongue flicking his lips. “Who are you,” is all the man can say before Tooru gently puts a finger on his mouth – and shoves him onto the floor. 

“It’s so easy to find food these days.” 

The door slams open. Three silhouettes push inside, two growling in triumph and jolting forward. Tooru steps aside. Hajime comes to stand beside him, leaning in to kiss Tooru’s cheek. “Just in time,” he says, his smile tiny around needle-sharp teeth and the red glow of his two eyes, three, four, as the hidden ones on his forehead open and the horns slide back out from his hair. 

“Don’t worry,” Tooru tells the man over his own gurgling screams. “You may survive this. If the young ones can control themselves.” He laughs, watching Hinata’s fangs dig into the man’s throat to share the best blood with Kageyama, their horns now visible again, claws scratching over the floor, and the hundreds of eyes on their skin opening to witness their meal. 

Some nights, Kenma can’t stop the stinging and crawling of his skin with cold showers. He dries himself off and migrates over into Kuroo’s room, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and hips, hair tied into a ponytail. He only ties it back for Kuroo. There’s nothing to hide when they’re alone. 

Kuroo doesn’t look up. He’s sitting before his easel, rough fingers guiding the brush in delicate strokes. Kenma licks his lips. He manages to speak, but it’s hard and awkward. “I,” he says, slow, and remembers that Kuroo will love him whatever weakness he admits, whether his recovery is sluggish or smooth. “I don’t feel… good.” 

“Thanks for telling me.” Kuroo puts the paintbrush away and turns. He opens his arms. “Come here?” Kenma has waited for that. He moves, catapults himself into Kuroo’s hug. It’s hard to keep his fingers away from his back, his face-

“May I try something?” 

“Uhm.” Kenma frowns. Kuroo has spoken gently into his chest, where he’s buried his lips and kisses his skin. “Okay?”

“Trust me.” And Kenma does. He follows Kuroo’s plea to lie down on the bed, after Kuroo’s spread an old white bedsheet over it. Kenma rests his head on his hands and listens to the noises Kuroo makes, shuffling closer, uncapping a tub of paint, or is it something else? 

A paintbrush touches his back. Something cold melt against his skin. Kenma’s lips curl into a smile. “That’s a good idea. Can you turn on music?” 

Kuroo can, and he does. Kenma doesn’t know for how long Kuroo paints on him. His skin tingles with sensation, bursting into sparks of joy and yes, good, that’s better than the crawling stings from earlier. It’s almost natural to fall asleep. It’s dark outside when Kenma drifts back to consciousness. Kuroo’s rummaging in the kitchen; a cup of steaming tea is on the nightstand, together with Kuroo’s phone. The display is lit up, showing a photo. 

Kuroo has taken a snap of his back. He’s painted two wings on Kenma’s back that melt together into the shape of a door. The lock is twisted out of a cat’s mouth, green eyes shining with cunning. On the back of his hand, Kenma then discovers the shape of a small, golden key. He smiles. 

His skin doesn’t itch anymore.

blargberries:

im hopping on the hq insta train cause @moami​’s tweets are always fantastic 

I want to print this out and tape it to the headboard of my bed and look at it whenever I’m having a bad day – because this makes me smile and giggle and gives me so much happiness. ♥ 

You did an amazing, amazing job, aaaaaahh what do I even say, look at those dorks. Kuroo, just because you lick it doesn’t mean it’s yours. And the instagram layout, Kenma’s name, the hashtags you even included – thank you so much, I’m so delighted and happy I could inspire this. ♥

Kuroo asks him when they’re ten and eleven years old, lying in the grass of the garden behind Kenma’s house. Their fingertips touch, and Kuroo whispers as if it’s a secret. “If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?” He wants to say, so you can have a superpower or something, but Kenma already says, quiet: “Everything.” 

Kuroo frowns. “That’s stupid. You can’t hate all of yourself.”

Kenma falls silent. His fingertips are cold and pale, like the small marbles Kuroo collects. He wants Kenma to stop making that sad, tiny face. “What do you like about yourself, then?”

“Nothing.” There’s something wet, glinting on Kenma’s cheek.

That’s the moment where Kuroo takes Kenma’s hand for the first time. “Come on,” he says, and then again, louder, “let’s go play! I’ll show you something cool about yourself!” 

After a moment, Kenma follows him. He wipes his tears with his shirt and nods.

Twelve years later, Kuroo takes his hand again and kisses the knuckles. “What are you thinking about?” His arm rests on Kenma’s shoulders, lap full of two sleeping cats, and Kenma leans into his side, lips still red, warm, mouth a smile.

“Nothing,” he says, soft, before stealing another kiss from his boyfriend. “I just thought of another thing for my list.” 

“Will you tell me?” A rough thumb caresses Kenma’s knuckles, one by one, careful and so familiar. Kenma nods. “Sure. Thing number two hundred and fifty seven that I like about myself – that I’m here right now.” 

The hug that Kuroo gives him knocks all air out of Kenma’s lungs, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. This time, it’s Kuroo who’s crying. 

“Mom,” Hajime says when he’s sixteen and sitting on a kitchen chair, watching his mother decorating gingerbread cookies with frosting, white as the snow outside. “How do I know that I love someone?” Even before his mother can reply, he stands, hurrying to check on the turkey with red-blushed cheeks. “I mean,” he murmurs into the oven. “I don’t know – he could be – I mean, sh-she, of course. But how do I know that I want to be with someone forever?”

His mother smiles. She tucks back a strand of brown hair, streaked with grey. “You’ll know, Hajime. One morning, you will wake up and feel calm. It’s not a wild and exciting thing, realizing that you’ve found the one. It feels like coming home.” When she reaches out to brush back a strand of Hajime’s hair, he gives her a nervous smile. “O-okay. Thanks.” – “You’re welcome. Wanna try a cookie?”

“Mom,” Hajime types into his phone when he’s twenty-six. The message is sent, and Hajime quickly deletes the usual notification of ‘this number is out of service’. He looks at the man next to him, soft brown hair, fingers curled into the pillow, glasses on the nightstand. A ring would look good on him, Hajime thinks. Silver, maybe. Platinum. Something that lasts forever.

“Mom,” he types once more, smiling even as the tears come and wake Tooru up. “I wish I could have told you in person, but I hope you’ll read this somewhere up in the sky. You were right. I did it. I’m home.”

“Bokuto-san, why do you keep calling me pretty?” Akaashi’s voice is calm. He is standing behind Koutarou just as he’s pulling off his shirt, and the surprising voice speaking to his back has him jolt around. 

“Whoah! You scared me, be more careful!” 

“I’m sorry.” Akaashi blinks, watching silently as Koutarou stuffs a fresh shirt over his head and pushes the sweaty one into his bag. The locker room is empty; Akaashi is responsible for being the last one and taking care of everything, which Koutarou thinks is very smart. Akaashi is brilliant. And he’s also clever enough to think of something that confuses Koutarou as much as that just now.

“I dunno what you mean,” he says slowly, furrowing his brows at Akaashi. “I do it because it’s true? And – y’know. Just. I-isn’t it obvious? Why do you call people pretty?” His cheeks are on fire, fuck. Koutarou quickly picks up his bag, pushing the belt onto his shoulder and tries to walk past Akaashi. 

A soft hand curls around his wrist. “Please stop,” Akaashi says. There’s something dark in his words, and when Koutarou glances back at him, Akaashi is looking down, his lips a thin line. “Don’t say that to me if you don’t mean it.”

What? “But I do! You’re really pretty, and you’re intelligent and cool and-”

“Stop it.” The grip on Koutarou’s wrist tightens for a second. Then, Akaashi lets go, stepping back. His arms are wrapped around himself. He looks vulnerable, Koutarou thinks, oh no, what did I do, I don’t want him to cry. “I’m… sorry?”

Akaashi turns his head to the side. A shiver runs down his arms. “Just. I’m younger, you’re a great volleyball player, you could have – have anyone-” 

Oh. Koutarou understands, finally, God his head is slow these days. Well, in that case. “I won’t stop.” Before Akaashi can protest, Koutarou gently cradles his cheeks, thumb brushing along the corners of his lips. “Hey. Look at me. I just really-” He is about to do this, fuck, fuck. “…I really like you. For who you are. So – when I say that, when I call you pretty, it’s – it’s how I feel. If you hate that, I won’t do it anymore, if it makes you uncomfortable or somethin’. But if you just think that you’re not good enough, I won’t stop. ‘cause you are, ‘cause I like you a lot, really really, I do, you’re so beautiful and-” 

“Koutarou.” Akaashi leans in, and kisses him. “Shh,” he whispers against Koutarou’s mouth, soft, his lips trembling. “Okay. You can keep saying that, then.” 

“Can I ask something,” Koutarou whispers back. His fingers are shivering. Akaashi smiles. “Yes?”

“Are we boyfriends now?”

The answer is a soft laugh, and another kiss. 

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.