Morning’s Silver.

“Kuroo, your face is all stubbly. Didn’t you shave this morning?” Bokuto reaches out and rubs a finger along Kuroo’s jaw, nudging his cheek until Kuroo grunts. “Did you forget? You’re usually perfectly shaven.”

“I know. It’s just – “ How is he going to explain? “Kenma’s on a field trip for his biochemistry class, and – “

– his mornings are lonely now, but soon Kenma will return and wake him with warm, soft kisses again, a whisper against Kuroo’s throat, the tiniest lick against his mouth. “Wake up, Tetsu,” his kitten will mumble, and crawl out of the bed to make breakfast. They will eat in bed, because Kenma is a saint and Kuroo’s last unregretted sin, and he will feed his lover fruit and kiss coffee with cream and too much sugar from his sinful mouth.

And then Kuroo will undress and sit before the mirror on his desk, and Kenma gets the black leather case. The razor inside is silver, polished and sharpened to silent perfection. Kuroo leans his head back against Kenma, his hair touching his lover’s stomach, and Kenma stands still as he applies the white shaving foam to Kuroo’s jaw, neck, the calm line of his throat.

His eyes are closed when Kenma pulls the blade over his skin. It feels like nothing, barely a touch. Kuroo’s universe narrows down to the symphony of metal kissing his bare skin, and Kenma’s free hand tilts his head and turns his jaw, morphing Kuroo into the position he wants him in.

When the razor’s song of silence is over, Kenma will set it down and carefully take the balm to soothe Kuroo’s face with. His fingers dance, a choreography Kuroo will never get tired of feeling deep down to his bones as Kenma kisses his forehead and rubs the cooling balm over Kuroo’s soft neck. “All done,” Kenma would whisper then, and Kuroo would stand only then to turn and catch his mouth, to murmur “kitten” into his lips and –

“Kuroo?” Bokuto shakes his shoulder. “You alright there? We gotta go.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo says and touches his jaw. It’s three days until Kenma returns. “Let’s go.”

The storm inside his head begins to rise in the last minutes of class.

Kenma stares down at his notes, at the pen in his fingers that has stopped writing. The professor says something. He doesn’t hear it. There is thunder in his ears, lightning curling into a monster’s white teeth behind his eyes. He’s had eight hours of class. Home, home, he needs to go home.

There are too many people, the world roars around him, too much and loud and everything screams, bright and sharp and no, no, he packs his things and the class is over and he runs. Words fly around him, he runs, the dorm, please –

When the door slams shut behind him, silence comes down like a wave of pure white. His dorm is quiet. Tetsurou’s on the couch, stretched out like a lazy cat with its belly turned to the sun, a book in one hand and the other behind his head. He looks over the rim of his glasses when Kenma drops his bag.

“Bad day?” He asks, soft. Kenma takes a step. It’s hard. He has no energy. Everything is quiet, and that’s good. Tetsurou puts the book away and opens his arms. “Cuddling? Alone-time? Should I – “

Kenma doesn’t know how he’s doing it, but he flings himself onto the couch and into the warm hug of his boyfriend. “There you are,” a gentle whisper into his hair, Tetsurou’s hands sliding carefully to rest on his ribs, the small of his back. “I’m here. It’s okay. What do you need?”

He can’t speak. “Okay then. You’re safe.” His body keeps trembling. Tetsurou doesn’t press, doesn’t ask again. But when Kenma reaches to touch his mouth, a shivering finger tracing his lips, Tetsurou tilts his head down. “Want a kiss?”

Kenma finds that he can still nod. And Tetsurou rests a warm hand in his neck, thumb caressing the pulse of blood at its side, and gives him a kiss.

He doesn’t know when he’s fallen asleep after that. But when he blinks, it’s dark outside, and Tetsurou’s back to reading his book. He smiles at Kenma when he sneaks his mouth to nuzzle it against Tetsurou’s jaw.

“Dinner?” – “Yes,” Kenma says, and smiles a tiny bit. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Kitten?” Tetsurou carefully pushes the door of Kenma’s room open, just a few centimeters, and smiles at him. “Hey, do you wanna – oh, sorry. I’ll come back later.” Kenma doesn’t look up at him, but he nods a bit underneath the hood of his sweatshirt. It’s pulled over his head, up to his downcast eyes that are fixed on the game in his soft hands. Tetsurou knows the secret signal between them by heart, with all his soul, would recognise it in dream and fear and fog.

He returns an hour later. Kenma puts the game away when he peeks through the door, and gives Tetsurou a tiny smile.

“Alone time’s over?” Tetsurou says, and makes a small step inside.

“Mhm. I’m hungry.” – “Good. I brought some chocolate. Wanna cuddle?”

The answer is a shy nod and fingers reaching out to Tetsurou, brushing along his wrist. When he follows the gentle invitation and lies down, Kenma curls against his waist and rests his head on Tetsurou’s chest. He takes a last deep breath. And before Tetsurou can say anything else, Kenma kisses his mouth, quick, and begins to search his pockets for the chocolate.

The hood of Kenma’s sweatshirt is down now.

daniiuxdoodles:

💖💖💖

This is infinitely gorgeous.

When the numbers on his watch click to a weak shimmer of 12:00, Kenma pushes the window of his room open and jumps.

The bushes on the ground soften his fall, the backpack he’s hidden underneath dried leaves pressing into his ribs as he crashes onto it. Kenma lies there for a few breathless, horrible moments, and listens. The silence is overwhelming. No noise from the house, no dangerous growl of his name. Kenma exhales, slow. His phone chimes.

He gets up, snatches his backpack, and runs.

The train ticket costs all of the money he’s been able to save up and steal away from his father’s wallet. It’s just enough, and he prays that the ticket inspector won’t throw him out because he’s wet and there’s dirt on his shoes and mud splattered over his pants. But tonight, Kenma is lucky. The night is black as ink, stars blurring into white asteroids as he curls on his seat in the late night train.

He runs the rest of the way as fast as he can. His lungs burn like acid, his feet and fingers are frozen blue, but it’s all worth it when he presses the door bell and someone opens.
Kuroo smiles when he sees Kenma stand there. “Hi,” he begins, “you’re – “

“I’m eighteen,” Kenma says, breathless. “He can’t – can’t tell me what to do anymore. I’m free. I don’t have to – “ The words tumble out of his mouth, useless fragments, and then he tastes salt on his lips because he’s started to cry. “Tetsurou.”

And Kuroo, perfect, wonderful Kuroo, slides Kenma inside and hugs him so tight that a broken sob falls out of Kenma’s throat. He can see a faint light from the kitchen, hears the quiet whisper of Kuroo’s parents. They’ve been waiting, Kenma realizes, and then he cries into Kuroo’s shirt and his knees gave in. They waited for him.

“You’re home now,” Kuroo says. “It’s okay.”

The Alchemist of a Thousand Eyes. || iwaoi. fma crossover.

The darkness around him is four weeks old. They give him food and water, pull the chains around his ankles and wrists so tight that his skin bleeds underneath the fur. Every day, a man with yellow eyes visits him. He touches Hajime’s forehead, and a searing pain twitches through his head. He knows what this is, and when a cruel, sharp mind pierces into his own thoughts, he screams for help, begs, promises anything and everything. Help me, God, please.

“He’s still human, in there,” the man says one day. Hajime whimpers. Finally, he’s heard him. The guard standing outside the cell smiles; he’s all ink-black hair that sticks into the shadow above his head in the light of the lantern. Both wear the badge of a state alchemist. They’ll help him, right? The man with the yellow eyes – he looks like a cat, Hajime thinks, licking his mouth in the hope of more water – steps out of his prison cell. He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, he turns to the guard. “Kuroo, we need him. This could be it. Tell him that we got a chimera that’s been made by his old teacher.” And before Hajime can even open his jaws in an attempt to growl out words, the lantern goes out and darkness engulfs him yet again.

In the three hours that pass, he lives through everything all over again. The man luring him into a house in the forest with a promise for food and money; Hajime’s stomach growling, the hunger in his chest, he hadn’t eaten since his village had burnt down in the war. Everyone dead, dead, dead, corpses in the wet, red darkness of the ruins, lingering, watching him. The man had taken him in. And when Hajime woke, he’d been in chains, and his mind had howled at the sight of his body, transformed, bleeding and there were claws, teeth, fur –

“Is that him, sweetheart?” – “Do not call me that. Yes. We think the body’s a bear, the horns seem to be from a bull or something. Excellent nose from a dog. He’s got some humanity left in his head, so we didn’t cut him open to see if – “

“God, he’s… yeah, he’ll do. Let me in.” A soft chuckle. “Finally.”

Hajime barely hears the voices whispering around him. The cell door creaks, light casts over his face. He blinks, chains rattling, a growl in his chest, and then there’s a man standing before him. His eyes are dark, a glint of fire sparking in them as he leans down to touch Hajime’s nose.

“Hello, sweetheart,” the man says. “My, what did this monster do to you, hm? You can tell me later. First, I’ll get you your voice back.” Hajime’s eyes go wide. He roars, struggles against the chains, and the man raises a hand to hold the guards back from storming into the cell.

“Relax. This’ll only hurt a bit. I cannot turn you back into who you were. But we’ll make a deal.” Hajime hears a metallic sound. The man pushes up his sleeves, the state alchemist’s watch dangling on his hip. And then, Hajime sees his skin, and he whimpers in sheer horror. Oh God.

“You see,” the man smiles, smiles, his lean arm flexing in the lantern’s light. His skin is covered in human eyes. Their lids open to stare at Hajime, life pulsing inside them, pupils wide in silent terror. And when a hand grips his throat and the blue light of transmutation twitches through the cell, he hears the man say:

“The man who did this to you is the same who did this to me. I’ll give you back your voice, sweetheart, for a few of my eyes. And in exchange you’ll lend me your nose to find the man who made me the Alchemist of a Thousand Eyes.”

When the blue lightning dies, Hajime’s throat burns like hell. The man stands and turns to leave, pushing his sleeve back down. Hajime gets up and follows him, not paying any attention to Kuroo or the yellow-eyed alchemist.

“Who are you?”

The man looks at him over his shoulder. His collar slides down a bit, and a row of tiny, sad children’s eyes stares at Hajime from the alchemist’s neck. The smile on his lips is dangerous, sharp enough to cut. “I’m Tooru Oikawa. You coming?”

And Hajime follows him.

The young men that approach Kenma with slick smiles and confident hands full of gestures bring hundreds and thousands of words with them. They are taller than him, dark or light hair, eyes that glint and stare at his body like he’s fresh meat or soft, warm prey to bite into.

They pour pet names over him and try to weave a tooth-rotting sweetness underneath his skin. Oh, you are such a pretty one. What is a cute thing like you doing, in a big city like Tokyo? You study – what? Computer sciences? A face like yours could do model jobs, sweetheart. Can you smile for me? I can walk you home. Hey, come on, talk to me. Hey, cutie. Come on. Don’t ignore me. What’s wrong with you? Slut. Tease.

He doesn’t lower his head. He doesn’t duck or run. He looks at them, into the blackness of their greedy eyes, and counts to five. Then, he walks off, slowly. The only thing he ever mentions is what he studies. And, sometimes: “I have a boyfriend. Do not touch me.” Kenma isn’t scared. His heart belongs somewhere.

When he drives home for the weekend, in a train that’s fast enough to blur the world into a maelstrom of colours outside, he’s already on the phone. His boyfriend’s voice is soothing, his laughter kind, happy, sometimes teasing.

And when Kenma is curled against Kuroo’s chest at night, he traces his fingers over that pale throat until his nails leave a soft streak, painless, barely there. Kuroo’s head then drops back, his body tensing.

“God, Kenma,” a mumble into the darkness of Kenma’s hair. “Yours. All yours.”

Kenma smiles, only then, for him. His heart belongs. He belongs, and owns.

“You’re mine.”

And Kuroo nods, whimpers softly when Kenma’s teeth scrape along his collarbone, until he sucks at his skin and paints him a careful, gentle blue.

Kenma is similar to a cat in many ways. When expressing curiosity and gentle interest, a cat would curl the tip of its tail in a questioning way, maybe brushing along the legs of a person it intends to befriend, accompanied by a soft nudge of its head against its new friend’s calf.

Kenma however curls the tips of his fingers around Kuroo’s wrist instead, burying his head into the curve of his warm chest, and wiggles softly until the desired arm of his friend wraps around his waist.

And only as Kuroo rests his chin on top of Kenma’s head and pets his hair with infinite reverence, Kenma slowly closes his eyes and blinks at his friend – wordless, but saying more than any language could tell in a thousand books.

A Witch’s Kiss. || kurooken.

His father had only taught Kuroo three things before he vanished into the night to get cigarettes and never returned.

“Don’t trust women who are too beautiful. Don’t go out during thunderstorms. And whatever you do, never – never – fall in love with a witch.”

Kuroo’s mother had laughed when he’d told her that. She had kissed Kuroo’s hair and traced his neck until sparks flew and dark letters appeared on his skin, and Kuroo smiled because even though they always vanished after a few days, he loved the tingling they left on his skin, and how they protected him from the sadness.

And then, Kuroo’s world shatters in a night years later, where the sky is white from lightning and his bones echo from the roar of thunder. The lithe figure that pulls him off the street just before the car hits him is soaked in rain, their hand tiny and pale inside Kuroo’s. He stares at the now-empty street for a moment, heart storming behind his ribs. When he turns around, the thin shadow that tore him out of death’s grip is gone.

The shadow finds him again one week later. He keeps appearing on the balcony of Kuroo’s flat over and over again, every night, dark clothes wet from the rain and lightning reflecting in his eyes. When Kuroo comes closer, he vanishes, but only after Kuroo’s been near enough to stare into his eyes.

The irises are golden, light-spun and sunshine-bright. Kuroo finds stars around the darkness of that young man’s pupils, and maybe it’s not only beautiful women who are dangerous. The man has soft-golden hair, fading into black halfway, and his lips are always thin, pale, tinted with blue on the edges. Kuroo starts to wait for him, begins to sit on his bed and soak up the darkness with his glare until the soft thud tells him that the young man is back.

“Can I come inside?” The golden shadow says one night. It’s the first time he speaks. Kuroo doesn’t know why he nods, why he opens the door or why he offers him a blanket, some tea, warm clothes. He has so many questions, but none are answered. As soon as he puts the blanket around the man’s shoulders, as soon as a gentle finger traces his jaw and pale lips whisper “Tetsurou”, his mind fades to black.

The next morning, the figure is gone and the flowers on Kuroo’s windowsill bloom purple and crimson red, and a coin of pure gold hides under each of their petals.

Kuroo reaches out to touch one of the flowers, and stops. The back of his left hand is decorated with black ink, elegant swirls forming a name – “Kenma”. Kuroo traces his fingers along the outlines, and jolts as it vanishes.

Don’t fall in love with a witch, his father had told him.

“Thank you for letting me in,” the golden shadow says when Kuroo opens the door for him the next night. “Hello, Tetsurou.”

The other team’s setter is, apparently, both a sore loser and an asshole. When Kenma has to shake his hand after the game, the guy leans over with a slick grin, tongue darting over his teeth, licking his lips like he’s preparing to eat.

“If you play in the bedroom like you do on the court, I’d love to get a rematch. Are you in, kitten?”

Kuroo has to hold back Lev and Yamamoto all at once, Yaku growling next to him, Inuoka cracking his knuckles. But even though his own blood goes boiling with fucking rage, Kuroo snaps “let him handle this on his own” back at them. If it had just been the sexual implication, maybe Kenma would’ve ignored that guy. Maybe he would’ve walked off.

But there is only one person in the world who gets to call him kitten.

Kenma tilts his head at the other setter. He pulls his hand back, runs it through his hair, taking a slow, deep breath – and gifts the guy with a smile that has this asshole swallow hard and stumble back.

“Cats don’t play with dirty mutts.”

Kenma doesn’t know if the guy replies or not. The hollering of Nekoma’s whole team is drowning out all other noises, and Kenma’s little smile stays until the late evening, when he’s nuzzled into Kuroo’s embrace and slaying a demon king in his favourite PS3 game.