write me the fic on makishima and ko and their daughter we talked abt the other day and auntie akane and the big happy crazy family i need a bandaid
When Akari is six years old, she learns two things: a) Auntie Akane is the most frightening person in the world (she hopes she can grow up to be just like her), and b) having two fathers means she is different from the rest of her classmates, and being different means being set apart and isolated.
When Akari is six years and two months old, her father stomps into the principal’s office to file a complaint because he knows the bruises on his daughter’s arms aren’t from ‘falling down during recess’, her dad teaches her the vulnerable areas to pinch to get the mean boys to leave her alone (the underside of the arm, the inside of the thigh, the tender skin at the waist), and Auntie Akane drives up to join them in her patrol car. Akari’s dad says something about ‘off-duty’ and ‘permission’, but Auntie Akane smiles and his mouth closes fast as lightning.
On her seventh birthday, Uncle Ginoza hands her a gift-wrapped package that she hopes contains another toy gun but instead turns out to be a magnifying glass cradled in white plastic foam. Her dad needs to pry it from her hands when she falls asleep to avoid injury and her father looks duly dejected when she ignores the set of Nerf guns sitting abandoned in a corner of her room.
When she is eight, Auntie Yayoi teaches her how to paint her nails, all the time batting away Auntie Shion who keeps mumbling about how she would just like to kidnap Akari and lock her up, although to Akari’s notion only bad guys do that and Auntie Shion is nice and always buys her sweets behind her parents’ backs. She tells Auntie Shion she wouldn’t mind being kidnapped by her (if it meant she would get to eat all the candy she wanted) and Auntie Yayoi has to threaten her into leaving the room, something about sleeping on the couch that Akari doesn’t understand.
(Auntie Yayoi is really cool and Akari thinks she might want to grow up to be like her a little more than she wants to grow up to be like Auntie Akane, but she doesn’t want to upset Auntie Akane so she doesn’t say so. She does, however, ask her father if she could dress like Auntie Yayoi, and her dad laughs too loud for her to hear the answer.)
When she is ten, Akari pulls Uncle Kagari aside while the adults are talking and, abashed, asks if he can teach her how to bake cookies, because there’s this cute boy in her class and it’s almost Valentines day and she doesn’t want her parents to know, because if they did, her father would start fishing for the hunting rifle her dad hid the last time she told them she had a crush. Uncle Kagari ruffles her hair and agrees to show her the ropes, and in three years’ time, he asks if she wants to come work at his restaurant because, wow, she’s a natural.
Sometimes, she goes with her dad and Uncle Ginoza to visit the grave of Grandpa Masaoka, and sometimes they cry and she pretends not to see.
When Auntie Yayoi and Auntie Shion adopt a daughter, Akari is twelve, and she decides that she’ll teach little Saya how having two mothers is unusual but completely alright, and being different doesn’t mean being alone.
And when she brings home her first boyfriend, her dad sits her father down, makes him swallow a glass of something alcoholic (she can smell it from all the way here), and turns around to describe, in-depth, the various capabilities of their family members. Although the part about Auntie Akane shooting three men in the span of thirty seconds might have been embellished and highly unnecessary.
Needless to say, her first relationship lasted a grand total of two weeks and five days.
(im sorry this sucks so much omfg)
1. Kise is awkward around girls who try to flirt with him—awkward because his smile cracks at the seams and he is suddenly too suave, too perfect and without blemish, discolored and foreign, his speech like a rivulet of clever words that slides over the rocky riverbed. If anyone cared to look a little closer, they would notice the glass walls he hides behind. But that’s just another string of small-print attached to the fame that comes with having a pretty face; it’s so very easy to devolve from a person to a persona.
It was one of those spring days where winter lingered in the shade of half-clothed branches and glass skyscrapers, when a cold became easier to catch because the sun was in the sky but hadn’t yet filled the air, and the entire population of the metropolis seemed waist-deep in lethargy, as though they were wading through the mist and sleep clung to their ankles like old ghosts. When he pushed open the door and entered the empty cafe, he brought morning in with him, a slight humid chill and the faint smell of roses, and he stood in the wooden frame for a second, surrounded by a wilting darkness as light crept onto the floorboards from behind him. The place looked exactly how he’d left it yesterday evening, the chairs atop the round tables and the counter impeccably clean, as though time had frozen within the cafe’s walls and he were walking into a snapshot of Wednesday, 8PM.
He dwelled a little longer in this atmosphere charged with a strange nostalgia of unknown origin, because he wasn’t one to reminisce and he harbored no special regrets, before he flipped the switch and the lights came on, and the magic dissipated alongside the obscurity. Soon, all the curtains were drawn and the thick smell of coffee wafted through the shop, and by the time the first batch of croissants were ready, the street outside was already bustling with traffic and the city was wide awake, alive and almost breathing, full with a calm claustrophobia unique to Tokyo.
The birds sang in a language only the trees could understand, and Makishima Shougo hummed a tune that was probably a lullaby; ill-suited to the setting, but he didn’t know, and nobody was there to tell him.
IM DOING THIS GUYS
I’M REALLY DOING THIS
in which makishima owns a cafe and the public safety bureau is right next doors but he doesnt know and he has no idea the noisy gang that always stumbles in around 1PM are detectives
inspired by the fact takahiro sakurai voices shirokuma in polar bear cafe and i can’t stop hearing makishima and i had to write this im not sorry
Around the same time each year, they go out drinking.
There isn’t a fixed date because they’re all working different jobs now and it was hard enough to schedule a get-together when they lived in the same city; now that Akane regularly leaves on business trips overseas, they’re lucky if they at least get the month right.
i. when he was four years old and fearless in the way only children can be, nobuchika sneaked into his father’s study while the latter was asleep on his desk, a puddle of drool spreading across a stack of overdue paperwork. the place was in its usual chaotic state, the worn wooden floorboards covered in a maze of cardboard boxes piled like a game of jenga, and empty coffee mugs lied scattered about, crusted in a dried brown substance.
by some kind of miracle, he managed to dig through the mess until he found, to his surprise, a book he could actually read—a picture book.
that day, nobuchika discovered the sea.
for the record, here is my un-winning piece.
perhaps that is, in itself, an accomplishment? maybe it means i’m not cardboard enough to fit into their little papier-mashe club.
idk this means so much to me because it tells how i fucking came to be, what got me into writing, and nobody knows this story, not you, not until this. not even me, sometimes.
the fucking word limit was 250 i wanted to burn my house down at the end oh god
listen to what? everything is silence in this place. the way the leaves rustle when the wind whispers a little too loud, the way the sun deserts the cracked stone steps and the lack of light casts an eerie blue over the landscape—the way whatever words you don’t mean to say lose themselves in the crisp air and death flickers in between the shadows of the trees.
silence is comfortable. there’s a strange breed of calm that comes with the prospect of not existing, the thought that, perhaps, your worries are empty and your crumbling heart is a superficial wound. if you close your eyes, you can hear the clouds begin to fade and the world melt away.
it’s all your imagination, of course. because everything is silence here.
but your mind has become your only sanctuary nowadays, and it’s better than clinging to rotten flotsam, trying to keep your head above sea-level—sometimes it’s better to let go, you know? so you let your fingers slip over the moss-covered wood and you feel the ocean cup your face, then close in over the tip of your nose, and you’re floating. gently. sinking ever so slowly, the sweetest slumber a lovely weight in your limbs as it drags you down, further, further, until you reach the end of sunlight’s rope.
and then there is silence. blissful, as usual, like staring at a blank wall.
that’s enough of that metaphor. you’re back on the stairs, remember? you’re not actually poetically drowning in some blue-water sea, because autumn tickles your ear with a breeze and now you’re back, back on this earth you oftentimes try to leave, gravel dug into the heels of your hands. deep, dark trees with branches weaved together create a corridor that spills onto the washed-out roofs of a small town, and there are yellow lights in the windows now, and it’s getting late.
there was never silence, you know. the world is too damn full and busy to give you even a second of repose. there’s always traffic, always birds, always mother nature playing her out-of-tune symphony of bees and twigs and crickets. you made yourself believe there was nothing because nothing is a beautiful concept, and sometimes one just needs to be left alone, needs a bit of nothingness to counterbalance the pressure of the atmosphere on their shoulders.
in the end, it’s reassuring to know we all have someplace we belong, someplace to return to, even those who haven’t found it yet.
until then, though, you have your mind and the vastness of the world of dreams, which will never be too small for whatever you pour into it, and the stars still come on at night, each night, without fail. if you stare long enough, you can spot the moon lurking about in daytime, and you wonder if it escapes to your skies when the emptiness of outer space is too much to bear.
this place is silence.
what is there to listen to, if this place is silence?
listen to the silence. this is a place full of promise.
and, if you’re courageous enough, one day, it can be full of you.
So here’s a thing about hearts that break: they’re hard to love. They’ll end up resembling mosaics and they remind Tino of the tall stained-glass windows of a distant, blurred church hall, the altar haloed in liquid sunlight and the benches stoic and empty like cobwebs in a fairytale.
His mother was being buried outside, and because his father is a sadist, her corpse was dressed in her wedding gown, all white lace and immaculate pearls. Even now, Tino refuses to delve into the symbolism of that particularly decision. He adheres to the principle of leaving old ghosts to their rest.
Tino cannot love hearts that break because he is a chronic heartbreaker, he knows, just ask Phoebe or Michael or Andy or Lucy.
(Well, you can’t really ask Michael, unless you dig six feet into the ground or consult a medium. But that’s his fault too, somehow.)
So that’s the thing about hearts that break. Tino just can’t have them. He’s tired of relapsing into this sickness people call love and so he buries himself in his filial duties, occupies his idle mind with outwitting Thaniel, which is a big joke really, no one can outwit a genius. There’s comfort in being a cog in Thaniel’s master scheme, though; loyalty is a game he can play.
Tino spends most of his free time trying his damned hardest to forget about a redhead with eyes to drown the world for.
But here’s the thing about hearts that don’t break: they don’t beat, either.
i oc’ed. but yes. tino is my baby and i’ve neglected him, although paying attention to him is basically finding different ways to torture him emotionally.
it’s a study in character, munakata convinces himself. nothing more, nothing less.
the echo of leaking water as it hits the bottom of the sink; the flutter of grayed wings beyond his windowpane; the red numerals encased in his alarm; the silence that shivers through impersonal floorboards and bare, naked walls.
these are the semantics of waiting, time slowly dragging past, and he feels like drowning.
“Why do we follow his orders despite knowing his intentions?” Kuroko says, words hollow, an eerie echo of the thoughts Kagami dares not voice because it’s not his place, it’s none of his fucking business what these murderers—
Not a murderer. He’s not a murderer. He’s an assassin but he’s not a murderer and how does that even fucking work—
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I do that, again, Kagami-san?” his uninvited guest who’s outlived his stay breathes, flickers like the flame of a candle before it’s snuffed or the shadow of a passing carriage under lamplight, and before he can raise his walls and call up his strongholds Kuroko is already there, in front of him, so close, too close to all these vital organs he can so easily pinpoint and destroy with bare hands and no remorse. And it’s mesmerizing to witness—to spot the air rippling the fabric of his colorless clothes as he moves with such fluidity, borderline ethereal, because no one should be able to demonstrate such grace when a large man like Aomine Daiki is slumped, unconscious, against their shoulder.
Kagami breathes, a sharp noise from his nose, chest rising and shoulders tensing. “Get out of my house.” The syllables cut against his tongue as he flings them out, the same harsh and jaded inflections he wields like knives against his father’s stern admonitions and senseless expectations, the tone he employs when he deals with bullheaded stupidity, and it’s stupid, this kind of blind and selfless faith, the belief that one man can right all the wrongs the world has done unto them.
“No riddles this time,” says Kuroko, his words like a spell, his eyes unreadable and no ticks or sudden changes Kagami can use to fathom his true emotions. “I’ll answer your truthfully. Upfront. No more games.”
No more time. This is good-bye.
“We follow the captain because we know he is the only one suited to rule this world. He is the only one capable of doing so. He is the only Emperor we recognize. Believe what you will, we are the biggest skeptics you will ever encounter—our trust is not so cheap we would throw it in the hands of an incompetent fool. The captain is worthy and he will have nothing less than a perfect reign.”
Kagami feels his throat run dry and he makes the mistake of blinking—when his eyes flutter open again, Kuroko is gone, black hood and sullen smiles and soundless footsteps and all. When he disposes of the dirty bandages and the bloodied sheets still wafting a foul stench from his room, there truly will be no traces left of his encounter with the elusive Kiseki no Sedai, the blank-eyed spy and the rowdy asshole who called him Tetsu.
Kuroko Tetsuya. Another name he’ll have to forget.
ok this is getting out of control im sorry
but yeah akashi still wants world domination he will be the legit emperor yay also kuroko in a ninja outfit gives me the tingles
au wherein everyone is a badass ninja and kagami is the justice-seeking protagonist like gintoki but without the perm and the kiseki no sedai are out to save their MIA operative ahomine daiki who got himself ambushed on his way back from a mission or during a mission idk yet
so i took the shinsengumi aokise strip and my imagination ran away with it
The clouds are foreign as they crawl across the blue sky, the blades of grass bent in reverence to the sun glaring like a guillotine over the horizon, and the tatami mats feel damp under his bare feet. It’s a chilly morning and the cold seeps through the thin layers of his sleepwear, the breeze a thin whisper among the bells that chime in laughter as though they share a secret only they can understand. He touches the polished wooden banister with idle fingertips and looks down at the pond with the flickering silver koi fish, spots Akashi-taichou’s unmistakeable red hair while his head is bowed in meditation. He isn’t the only one awake at this ungodly hour, and he doesn’t know whether to feel relieved at the illusion of normality the realization bestows upon him or distressed because this means no form of updated intelligence has arrived while he was asleep. For missiles and reports, good and bad news alike, always go through Akashi first.
When the captain calls a meeting after breakfast, it has officially been forty-seven hours since Aomine Daiki, second seat of the Kiseki no Sedai, dropped off the radar.
i might write more????????????????????????????????
au wherein the gom are these secret super spies ninja thingies working ‘for’/with momoi who is a princess but not and captain!akashi who is an illegitimate prince and kise who’s mommy was a concubine and aomine who is originally a normal peasant and murasakibara is an orphan and midorima is a scholar who got framed and kuroko is ~mysterious~ and kagami just wants JUSTICE AND PEACE but gets dragged into it all when injured!aomine bleeds all over his front door after a mission gone wrong.
Here is what Tatara Totsuka leaves when he dies:
a seven-year-old guitar;
approximately fifty-four reels of film, dug out from three dusty cardboard boxes;
a small studio apartment, empty for the most part;
an older sister whose name he forgot years ago and parents he’d not seen in longer;
an empty seat on the couch;
a few dozen distressed and vengeful clansmen;
a single tape where his face is captured onscreen;
a lonely king to whom he once said, “your power is for the sake of protecting others” (others: every soul that needs a home, and HOMRA has always been a shelter)
and a family.
1. he was sincere when he told munakata he was sorry—because it was a cowardly thing to do, in a sense, to have someone other than himself dirty their hands for his revenge.
fushimi saruhiko watches his best friend sling his schoolbag over a shoulder and push his chair under the desk with a dry kick.
“you comin’?” misaki growls, his sour mood a crown of grey clouds overhead, and the tension is borderline tangible, static raising the hackles on the back of saru’s neck. the curt inquiry is punctuated by a barely audible crack as the lollipop in the redhead’s mouth splits into fragments. before saru can vocalize his suspicions, misaki is out the door and speeding down the empty hallway.
a tombstone buried under countless bouquets and a stray thought, borderline a confession:
you died a hero like you’ve always wanted to and i failed like the coward i refused to acknowledge i am.