suna blurb based on some selfshippy stuff :3 360 words
you can feel a pair of eyes burning a hole in the back of your head, like they’re looking into the depths of your soul. you swallow your bite of food and then sigh, turning around in your seat to meet the gaze of the boy staring at you. your attention gives suna the courage to speak. “are you still mad?”
“do i look mad?”
he pauses for a moment to take in your expression. you certainly don’t seem happy. “yeah.”
“then i guess i’m still mad,” you tell him, shrugging your shoulders and facing forward once more.
maybe it’s trivial, but you’d expect that the guy who you thought was your boyfriend to have you saved as something more sweet than your whole name in his phone. you’d updated your contact name for him forever ago—a week after the two of you made it official. maybe that was a bit soon but it’s been months since then.
a pout overtakes your lips as you mull over the matter but a poke on your shoulder keeps your from dwelling too long. you know it’s suna and you contemplate ignoring him before he pokes you again. an annoyed groan rumbles in your chest as you turn around for the second time to see what he wants.
only, you aren’t faced with him, but his phone. it’s pulled up to your contact. instead of being met with the sight of your full name typed out across the screen, you see that he’s exchanged it for just your first—and it’s followed by a heart. its such a small thing that might mean nothing to someone else but the gesture means almost the world to you.
suna must sense a change in the air that surrounds you. he asks, “am i forgiven?”
you give him a short nod and an excited smile. “you are forgiven.”
his next question feels silly to ask, but he needs to know if the two of you are on good terms—the way you had been before your discovery of what might as well have been a crime. “are we dating again?”
“yeah,” you laugh, “i kinda missed calling you my boyfriend.”
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Hi my name is Jared Gold'smith William Frederick Roland Kleinman and I have short ebony dark hair with curls that reaches my lower-head and warm brown eyes like the Hudson river and a sweet nasal voice and lot of people tell me I sound like Weird Al Yankovic (AN: if u don't know who he is get da hell out of here!). I'm family friends with Evan Hansen but I’m not related to him and I’m glad I’m not because he's a major fucking loser. I'm a vampire but my teeth are straight and white cus I wear braces. I have pale white skin. I'm also a student, and I go to a school called Westview High in Bethesda, Maryland where I'm in my senior year (I'm seventeen) and I'm Jewish (in case you couldn't tell). I love Spencer’s and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing my prescription glasses, my favorite graphic tee crop top that says “POKEMON MADE ME DO IT” in big bold letters, a colorful matching button-up shirt over it, sexy low-cut khaki shorts with pink fishnets, and platform Adidas tennis shoes. I was wearing white foundation I stole from my mom to cover up my acne. I was walking outside school. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which was weird cause it was like August. A freaky emo kid stared at me. I put up my middle finger at him.
Why would you make me look at this? What did I do to you? 😔
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echoing with the clamor.
a drabble: following round 2 of boel this year.
word count: 492 words
// cw: kinda visceral description of injury just the once.
He had chosen to fall with grace.
Though defeat was always bitter, it was better to choose it than to have it forced upon you. The little deer had been strong—that much he recognized—and if the stakes were naught more than a mock battle, the only thing on the line was his reputation: so he would maintain it, even at the cost of this battle.
Tch. (Though he very much would’ve liked to have won.) Even now, he still feels the lingering cold numbness, the sting of an axe not once, but twice. He’d traveled far into Gronder to get to that battle too—to think that so much of his blood would remain here–
No matter. (No matter.)
He breathes, a spiteful, agonizing thing; wound opens on inhales, bleeding—then it tightens on exhale, earning a mite of a cough. Beneath it, there is a quiet rage, boiling and bubbling like magma. (At the very minimum, there was no one around to watch him—to witness his retreat: this momentary weakness of his.) He had sheer will enough to avoid shattering into pieces, but only just so. At any point now, his strength could (and would) give way—the objective was to maintain composure until he could fall apart reasonably.
(What a sour goal that was.)
Last year, it had been raining—a dark, soaking mess of battle that obscured his wings until a little Deer boy had shot him down. Even now, a year later, he could recall where that fight was; point it out on the field and remember clearly just what it had been like. A year later, his fight had raged further, undamped by the autumn rains, but even still, he was forced to retreat—by the hand of another prey animal, no less. (So what if it was a collaborative effort—that is nothing to a hunter; a predator; a killer.)
But all the same, he had chosen defeat. (Because it is better chosen than forced.)
Another exhale, weary, and he imagines he’s drawn near enough to the medical tents at this point—within the next minute or so, they’d enter view. Until then, he had naught but to keep moving.
Not entirely terrible advice. So long as he kept moving, growing, fighting—he might one day be satisfied. (Not that he was the type to ever be.)
This year, the skies are clear, echoing with the clamor of battle, a frequency akin to his soul’s—it was his element to remain, to fight on as he desired. All the same, he has the sense not to—metals and minerals dull over time, and to remain of finer quality, they require maintenance and care. It was in Valter’s best interests to maintain his sharpness and luster.
Just keep moving. (And fight the desire to rend the earth in two.) These emotions would pass no doubt—some of them, at least—given enough time. Then, it would all be manageable; he just needed time.
And rest. (Damn, he was broken.)
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*kicks down the door* here's the terushima/atsumu smut content that no one asked for and yet everyone seems deeply intrigued by
BEHOLD! THE MIYA ATSUMU HUMILIATION SHOW
Terushima lowers himself down until his mouth hovers inches from Atsumu's. "And you loved every second of it, didn't you?"
The denial dies on Atsumu's lips.
Because whilst he did hate it, whilst it drove him insane and made him want to waltz right up to Terushima and punch him in that damn smarmy face of his, there’s a part of him that did maybe… sorta… kinda… like it too.
He tells himself that it’s because he likes attention and yeah, okay, he might even go so far as to admit that he kinda gets off on it. He likes being appreciated and desired, and all of the enjoyable things that come with it.
But it has absolutely nothing to do with it being attention from Terushima; cocky, arrogant, blonde-haired, brown-eyed Terushima.
Atsumu considers that part to be irrelevant.
Gird your loins for 17k of banter, absurdity and smut of the comedic variety as dumb blonde Atsumu meets his match in dumb blonde Terushima at a college house party, and gets himself absolutely clowned in the process. Spoiler: he loves it
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