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fushiguruuzzzz · 7 days ago

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❥ this feeling will pass ( as will I )

゛ aki hayakawa had always been the most loyal of knights—to his duty, to the kingdom, to you. in his final moments, he allows himself the slightest of indulgences, and perhaps even acceptance of the burden that comes with mortality. loving you from afar, always, but loving you at all is a blessing.゛

➥ major character death. descriptions of blood, violence, and death. angst. aki is such a devoted lover but by God he will do it in silence until his last breath. inspo from the 5k+ word doc may and I have about knight aki (don’t fret; there are many timelines of this that end happily). word count of 2570

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he had never meant for it to end like this. not here, not alone, not with blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and spilling out with greater ease than words ever had when it came to you. the wound on his leg (the back of his thigh, a weak spot left open for the sake of mobility) throbbed and ached, pouring enough blood to fill every wine bottle in the royal palace. each step was shaky, each inch forward sending waves of agony through his every nerve until his impaired limbs finally gave out. his helmet fell to the ground with a thunk, rolling to the side—it faced South, toward home. what he would not give to follow that gaze; if he were a luckier man, he most certainly would have. he crumpled into a mass of tremors and gasps for air even as his airways were flooded with crimson, forehead bowing into the patch of grass his body had led him to. it was soft, he noted. far too soft for a man facing a demise such as his. if he let himself get delirious enough, he could almost compare it to the silkiness of our gowns—something he was equally inadequate to feel; his hands were made for holding a sword, for battle, never for something tender as a caress. he knew the feel of iron and leather, but the warmth of a hand? how ridiculous. preposterous, even. a man had a choice between violence and gentleness, did he not? Aki was not willing to stain purity with the blood on his hands. duty, although cold and merciless, would have to do. he could be content knowing he had a purpose at all, if not fulfilled.

however, as wisps of grass tickled his paling cheeks, he could not ignore the sense of nonfruition within him. not from blood loss or gaping injuries, though there was definitely that, but the unfinished business that was you. Aki had never been naive to the likelihood of his death, but he had always hoped to go out with no regrets. he wished to please his superiors, to rein victory for the kingdom, to live knowing he had done something good. he wanted to take his last breath knowing every one previous had been with intent. most of all, he wanted you to see it all, to bear witness to the lengths he was willing to go to protect—whether that be the kingdom, the name of your family, or simply you was up for interpretation, though deep within him he knew what the answer was. had he been so entranced in his false sense of righteousness, so carried away by the false notion that he was able to live being nothing but your loyal knight, that he did not realize his mistake until his lungs gave out and took his vocals with him? until he was bleeding out before he could tell you it was all for you in the first place?

perhaps. he was not quite that vain, but in the midst of his hazed mind and broken fragments of thoughts, it seemed that way. his awareness was forgotten in the face of his cowardice. truly, he feared his own circumstances, so much so that it consumed him to the point of silence. what is not spoken aloud is not real enough to fear—to hate. he hated how he had ended up, hated whatever path he was going down because it had him making the choice between East and West just about every five minutes. Aki was complacent in both his role and his feelings, yes, but when the two were united, that was not the case. he knew that. he knew that, and yet he kept telling himself it was only temporary. this feeling will pass, he said. and if it does not, I will wait until it does not feel so agonizing to say aloud.

sentiments such as that were undeserved by him. knights were always just that, even now; even when they were buried.

a shaking hand fumbled, and in his last efforts, he pulled a worn photo of you from where it was tucked in a slit of his armour. it was a secret of his, old and one of few. he cut it out of an article in the paper when he found out he was to be on the front lines again; kept it tucked deep in his belongings beside his quill as he and the other warriors prepared for what was inevitably looming over the forecast of his future like a cloud promising lightning. it was bound to strike, but the only question was where. now Aki felt tingly all over like electricity had ricocheted off his chest and his skin was burnt with traces of touch that were never there at all and fuck, he knew it was pathetic but he only wished to hear your voice in his last moments rather than the convulsive explosions from the battlefield. would you hold him like he never let you—like he had pushed away with dismissive hums and squared shoulders? would you tell him it would all be okay, that you would see him soon? he could almost see it now.

(the marrow of his very bones ached to bend and move and perhaps, selfishly, even wrap around you. Aki tucked the photo to his chest and decided that could be enough for now.)

a shudder racked through him. the throbbing in his leg intensified, staining the ground beneath him with evidence of failure—of a life under-accomplished. the number of lives slain meant nothing when compared to the number of hearts given—a shameful, pitiful, agonizingly lonely zero. the edges of his mind grew to nothing but static until all that was left was you, you, you, and suddenly the pain numbed and the metallic taste on his tongue faded; all that was left was the feeling of paper in his grasp and the distant (still so incredibly cherished, however) memories of you. he remembered every time he lingered near your quarters, the suppressed bud of hope gnawing at the deep layers of his being; how close you would stand as he stood dutifully at your side (fuck, why had he never reached out?); the heat that would flush his cheeks every time you spoke softly to him. he felt so warm then. he felt cold now.

as his body finally gave up on him, the determination to keep his heart beating for you no longer enough, he breathed your name. it was raw and quiet and so achingly real, like proof he was ever here at all—putting something into the air so it would remember the shape of his breath even as he decomposed.

(he was sure that as the ground consumed him, he would not reek of decay, but of the scent of the perfumes you kept prettily sat on your vanity. your favourite flower would sprout over his grave.)

how cruel, this world was. he still had confessions to make, letters to write. unfortunately, a blade was nothing kind, and he could only hope that the afterlife was. maybe this was better for him; he could see his family, stop fighting.

(he would have fought forever if it was for you.)

(waiting for you at the gates would have to suffice as the next best thing.)

when Denji Hayakawa knocked on the door to your quarters in the royal palace, you were nothing if not confused. you knew of the demise of Aki by now—you had known as soon as the rest of his squad had returned without him, and even more when you had waited for nearly a half hour after they cleared out from the streets (denial, always denial when it came to him) and seen absolutely no sign of return. the hours after had been spent curled pathetically into your covers, face streaked with tears that never seemed to stop flowing. your entire chest ached, like the pain in your heart was a contagious disease. it felt as though the grief contaminated every cell in your body until you were incapable of nothing but wailing. so yes, when Denji showed up—puffy-eyed and gaze downcast, looking like he was seconds away from being tackled by the king himself, you were sad and disoriented and perplexed.

he did not bother with pleasantries. who really did, when everything that came out screamed the name of Aki Hayakawa. he just held out a folded paper to you, worn and crumpled like it had been grabbed in a haste. shoved into his pockets, perhaps—he did look a bit out of breath. in a rush, maybe.

"what is that?" you asked. the rasp in your voice was a painful reminder of the circumstances.

"I, uh… thought it'd be best if you had it. the royal officers would burn it if they got to it first."

not quite an answer, but the implication was clear. speaking his name was not necessary, or perhaps it just made your throat close up when you went to voice the syllables. you said nothing, taking the paper with trembling hands.

"that's all." he turned on his heel and started down the hall. momentarily, he paused, just to say, "know it's not my business, but keep it safe, okay? he-" a pause. "never mind. goodbye, your Highness."

you nodded, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to fade before shutting the door behind you with a soft click. the walk from the entrance to your room to your bed felt horribly long, each step drawn out and unsteady like you were learning how to walk without having Aki there to catch you should you fall. when you finally reached your bed, you did not sit. what made you worthy? it felt too plush, too lavish to lounge in when Aki had died on hard, cold ground, nothing to warm or comfort him in his final moments.

(you did not know that the thoughts of you had been enough.)

when you flattened the paper—you had come to recognize it as a letter now—in your lap, you were met with scrawled ink and sentences never quite finished. the handwriting was neat and simple and so incredibly him that it had you feeling nauseous all over again.

My Dear Y/N,

though I sincerely doubt this message will ever be received, I find myself unable to go another moment without writing to you. I have long since stopped allowing such treacherous urges to be acted upon, but there is no harm done so long as this does not surface until long after I—or, perhaps, my fear—pass. can a man as lowly as I be punished for feelings that are never voiced?

tonight, I am alone, the night is dark, and it is quiet. tomorrow this serene atmosphere will become a place of battle. I have learned not to dread it—to take things as they come; never let things linger. nothing except for you, of course. many things stick with me more than I care to admit, but nothing has embedded itself into my conscience quite like you have. how unfortunate it is that I am condemned to silence by a steel helmet—by titles, both mine and yours. if I were a bolder man, I'd have shouted confessions from rooftops long ago, guillotine be damned. however, impulse has never been an incredible taunt in my eyes. I will settle for watching you from afar, whether that means the front lines or a coffin. I hope it is the former. as foolish as it may be for a man of my profession, I wish not to die. I wish for another life. a kinder one. would we have met?

there are fireflies out tonight. I'm not sure if you recall, but in your youth (back when I was a naive knight in training, enamoured by thoughts of duty and royalty) you would occasionally chase fireflies in the royal gardens. on the days the other knights-in-making and I were brought to the palace, I would be unable to look away from you. I once missed an entire speech because I was lost in thought about how the face of the Princess looked in the evening light. they would have absolutely killed me if i told them why I had been so distracted (I lied and said I was under the weather). I doubt you knew of me then, but I think that was the first time I had ever felt so… warm. not since the days where my mother would sing over porridge in the kitchen. she had been gone for years by then.

I apologize for my rambling—I'm sure princesses have far greater duties to attend than indulge the weltering of a pitiful knight. I only ask you to indulge me now, if ever.

I believe my point has been relatively clear, but I must get it off my chest; I

a smear of ink. the handwriting grew messier at the end; rushed. it ended. you checked the back, then the front again, hoping—praying—that you had simply missed something. hoping that he had finished his letter. hoping that he had not died with weight in his chest and unfinished business, but your efforts proved fruitless. Aki was gone, and the letter would remain unfinished. life would move on and the paper would age and his body would return to the Earth as if it had never been there at all.

you would know, though. you would know that Aki Hayakawa had been real, that he liked seeing fireflies in the gardens and took his coffee black and wrote pristine as though he feared being anything too human. you would know that he had loved you until his last written word and his last rattling breath. you would know, dolorously, that he had never truly known you loved him back. that you had searched for him in fields of glinting armour and thought of him every moment he was not at your side (although he was usually silent, having him there at all was embarrassingly soothing. now your heart raced and your eyes burned and nobody was there to break his facade just to hold you in the moments your knees gave out). he would hate how much you cried for him, you knew, but you simply could not help it. the absence of him left a gaping wound in your chest that you tried desperately to fill with the volume of your tears.

it did not work, of course. Aki was dead and his letter was smeared and you could feel him panicking from the afterlife because, for once, he could not find a way to save you. please don't cry. if you squeezed your eyes shut, you could pretend he was here—hear the way he would scold you for being so shaken up over a man of his status.

(it was never about the status. it was about the soul.)

a distant clatter. a moment broken. you were back in our room, his blood staining every corner of your vision.

he would hate this, you repeated internally. you curled into yourself and cried for a life that you should not have valued at all anyway.

a/n — heyyy 😊😊😊✌️✌️✌️ I wrote 2k of this in one sitting and it made my mom tear up uhhhh hello… okay sorry I should be writing BTHOC but we are still in the intro stage and I needed EMOTION 😷😷😷 okay RIP aki… sorry… put the knife down 😕 sia always talking bout some “shut up or i’ll write angst about ur favs” well guess what

@sh0ot1ngst4r @azinniyaa @fiannee @bubybubsters @lizbix @mayyhaps @adoresia @xianji @cinnamxnangel @sickpatientt @megapteraurelia @rustymind @xo-nyx @reverd-ck

#srb #aki hayakawa x reader #does nobody fuck with anguish or anything anymore

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fushiguruuzzzz · 10 days ago

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❥ this feeling will pass ( as will I )

masterlist • join the taglist

sentiments such as that were undeserved by him. knights were always just that, even now; even when they were buried.

(the marrow of his very bones ached to bend and move and perhaps, selfishly, even wrap around you. Aki tucked the photo to his chest and decided that could be enough for now.)

(he was sure that as the ground consumed him, he would not reek of decay, but of the scent of the perfumes you kept prettily sat on your vanity. your favourite flower would sprout over his grave.)

(he would have fought forever if it was for you.)

(waiting for you at the gates would have to suffice as the next best thing.)

"what is that?" you asked. the rasp in your voice was a painful reminder of the circumstances.

"I, uh… thought it'd be best if you had it. the royal officers would burn it if they got to it first."

(you did not know that the thoughts of you had been enough.)

My Dear Y/N,

I apologize for my rambling—I'm sure princesses have far greater duties to attend than indulge the weltering of a pitiful knight. I only ask you to indulge me now, if ever.

I believe my point has been relatively clear, but I must get it off my chest; I

(it was never about the status. it was about the soul.)

a distant clatter. a moment broken. you were back in our room, his blood staining every corner of your vision.

he would hate this, you repeated internally. you curled into yourself and cried for a life that you should not have valued at all anyway.

@sh0ot1ngst4r @azinniyaa @fiannee @bubybubsters @lizbix @mayyhaps @adoresia @xianji @cinnamxnangel @sickpatientt @megapteraurelia @rustymind @xo-nyx @reverd-ck

#🪶. . . jabberjay song #aki chainsaw man #chainsaw man aki #hayakawa aki #aki hayakawa #aki hayakawa x reader #hayakawa aki x reader #aki csm #csm aki #chainsaw man x reader #chainsaw man #csm x reader #csm x you #denji hayakawa #💫 . . . welcome package

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fushiguruuzzzz · 15 days ago

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I already hate this theme with a passion bai

#🎭 . . . who’s the yappiest of them all .ᐣ

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fushiguruuzzzz · 19 days ago

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“tuck your elbows, baby. you’re leaving weak spots.” a poke to your side. you yelped, shooting him a narrow eyed look over your shoulder. he just grinned—that tug of his lips that could easily be mistaken as vain if you did not know him so well—like he knew exactly what was going on inside your head. like he knew you could never stay mad at him when he was looking at you like that, holding you like that, all warmth and firm muscle and big hands on your skin.

tetsuro kuroo had been at this for a long while yet. it had been spoken of by the two of you in passing, suggested, but only today had he coaxed you into accompanying him to the boxing studio he trained at.

he had taken up boxing a long time ago, the call of the leather glove having echoed in his ears since deep into his youth. it suited him, you thought; the firm land of a fist on the punching back, the sheen of sweat over the carved ridges of his back as you ogled watched from behind, the trickle of crimson that coated his lips like a violent kiss on the occasion that an opponent made him bleed. it was his outlet—his space. his way to get the force in those knuckles out so that he could touch you afterward with a gentleness that the ring did not allow.

even then, as he positioned your elbows further toward your abdomen with calloused hands capable of breaking, not a single dent was left in the delicate silhouette that was you. he knew you were strong, and yet he held you as if you were not even to be at risk of breaking under his watch.

“there you go,” he said, slipping his own gloves—taken off for the convenience of correcting your sloppy figure—back on. “come at me again. just like that.”

he readied before you, arms raised. for a brief moment, lenses that corrected him as your boyfriend rather than the fighter that was kuroo, fell. you could hardly empathize with the men that faced him like it was second nature. he looked strong. you would never tell him quite how attractive you found that.

“yeah, yeah. i’ll be better at this than you soon, I bet.”

he raised a brow. “yeah? that a challenge or a promise?”

“it’s whatever you take it as.”

a punch, a dodge, and then another. he kept that stupid, stupid smirk on his face for all of it, like this was breathing for him. violence was not in his nature, but technique was. strategy. skill. tetsuro kuroo was nothing if not scheming.

somehow, in a manner you were sure was entirely against the rules of boxing, you ended up on the ground. he was above you, slightly damp strands of raven hair mussed from exertion (even his stamina could only last so long—this little lesson of his had taken a bit longer than you anticipated) as he pinned you down.

for a moment, it went silent. just the sound of his ragged breathing accompanied by your own, the feeling of his gloved hands on your shoulders the single grounding force in the midst of the interaction.

then, “I think you’re dipping your toes into the wrong sport, tetsu. disqualified.”

the silence lightened. he laughed, hearty and straight from the chest. it rumbled through the both of you as he dipped his head, nose nudging the junction of your neck in the brief moment he tried to hide how his ears had gone red and pretended he was chuckling as always. finding balance was what the two of you did best. not intense. not too flat, either. simply somewhere floating blissfully in the middle of fun and want.

“save it for the ringsides. you still lost anyway.”

you swatted at him. he barely even flinched. “you’ll get me next time, i’m sure. the student becomes the teacher or whatever.”

“that sounded really deceptive, kuroo.”

“doubting my faith in you?”

“entirely.”

“land a punch on me and prove me wrong, then.”

you huffed. “don’t tempt me.”

you felt him smile against your shoulder. then, he was peeling himself off of you, hopping to his feet with an agility you could only envy. “forbidden fruit, babe. come and get it.”

idiot.

you hopped up and went for it again anyway.

a/n: heyyyyy haikyuu I am Not Back I think but I wanted to write this. I miss kuroo ngl. anyway chipping away at both bthoc and aki vamp hunter fic in the meantime as well as a few different drabbles but take this!!!! written in twenty minutes as I contemplate folding my laundry.

@sh0ot1ngst4r @azinniyaa @fiannee @bubybubsters @lizbix @mayyhaps @adoresia @xianji @cinnamxnangel @sickpatientt @megapteraurelia @aldebrana @cancelledkat @wizzzierr @jadeyaps @evesfairytale @nishislcve @grndz3r000 @reverd-ck @yshzai07

#srb #tetsurou kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #tetsuro kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsurou x reader #haikyuu x reader

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