#ALSO SHOUT OUT TO MY FRIEND STAR FOR THE ANATOMY TIPS

[ofukitty]

THERES A CATS DONT DANCE AU MADE BY thehumanblob1 AND I HAD TO DOODLE SOMETHING FOR IT!! ITS MY CHILDHOOD MOVIE!!

[kkusuka]

Body of Glass <3

Iwaizumi Hajime x Reader 

genre: smut 

words: 1.8k

synopsis: hajime treats you like glass and all you want to do is get fucked. 

a/n: this was hella fun to write LMAO, let me know what you think <3 

 based on this request: Iwa, Maroon 5 - One More Night. He’s afraid he’ll hurt you. Sometimes he doesn’t know his own strength so he holds himself back but y/n can tell so they grip his hair hard making him look at them “Hajime stop tiptoeing around me” they bring their lips closer to his “wreck me, I want bruises, hand prints, bite marks. I want you to man handle me I want you to leave your mark on me so everyone knows who I belong to, I’m not a piece of glass baby boy” they bite and suck on his bottom lip “go ahead, break me” -✨Puppy🤩

Cw: Fem anatomy, degradation, hard dom iwa-chan, Daddy kink

In a way, you regret not listening to your friends sooner.

Of course, any advice they had given you was after a lengthy explanation of how sexually frustrated you were. Of course, it was mostly of your own fault.

Hajime was great -- he always was -- he made you cum and you both felt satisfied by the end of the night. He was wonderful, sweet, and treated you like a queen-- it was every girl's dream for a guy to treat them like that so what was your problem?

He was sweet, wonderful, and kind, that was your problem.

And you felt more guilt about it. He couldn’t be a better boyfriend and it wasn't like he never satisfied you. Bot, in turn, was it so bad for you to want him to throw you onto a mattress and put you in your place?

“No, it most certainly is not! Y/n, you have to talk to him, it will never get better if you just sit and sulk about this!” your friend yelled, gaining more than a few heads thrown in your direction. And you're sure if it happens one more time the manager will be having a word with you.

It's been like this for the past 45 minutes as you waited for Hajimes practice game to start. Which, instead of standing in the gym for an hour, your friends decided to head to a small cafe to pass time.

“Think about it, when was the last time you were completely satisfied with sex?”

That's the problem, you always are satisfied, in the orgasmic sense that is. Hajime is talented, that’s not the issue, you're sick of being treated like a doll. You aren't made of glass, you can handle a bit of roughness from your boyfriend.

Of course, you love the soft kisses on your jaw, and Hajime telling you how amazing you are and how you fit perfectly against him. It’s very hard to hate, you love how soft his eyes look as he makes you cum around him.

Apparently, you had taken too long to answer your friend's question as she starts shouting ‘i told you so’ ‘s and telling you to either dump him or fix this because she’s sick of seeing you miserable. (which you are not)

“I am not going to break up with him, I’ll talk to him, ok? That should be good enough.” you resolved, and your friends expressed her happiness at the idea, rushing to get back to your school as the game would start in ten minutes.

Walking into the gym you could see the warmups still taking place. As you looked over the team, Hajime caught your gaze sending a small smile your way as he went up for a spike, hitting it with unimaginable force.

As you sat, letting your mind wander was a challenge. His hands, the veins in arms, the strength he had. Your ass sting just thinking about what his palm could do if he just let it, replaying it in your head sending waves of warmth to your core.

A bad thought to have right before a game where your boyfriend, the ace who gets most of the balls sent to him, would be playing almost the whole time.

A thought proven by the wave of heat to your clit every time he spiked that ball, amplified by the concentrated look on his face every time he jumped for a spike. This was probably the most honed in you've ever been at one of his games, and it was just because you were getting off.

It was no surprise the Aoba Johsai team won, and that meant a happy Iwa-chan. Which also meant that you could spend all of tonight with him. As your friend put it, “a perfect night for you to get railed the way you want!”

The problem? There was apparently no good way to start this conversation. You were having a good time with Hajime, you don't want to potentially ruin it while eating dinner, or watching a movie, or when he started to rub your thigh.

It was only when he began to softly kiss up to your jaw like he had done hundreds of times before, that you just blurted something out.

“You’re always too soft!” It was a moment that you wanted to slap a hand over your mouth and never speak again, especially when Iwaizumi froze and pulled his head from your neck.

“What?” he seemed to be in shock, staring eyes wide in confusion. Now there was no possible turning back, you had to tell him. Letting out a sigh, you sat back and let him do the same.

“You're so soft with me, I’m not made of glass love. You can be a bit rough, I want- I want you to be rough with me! You treat me like glass and, and I- it’s just too soft sometimes!” you spoke, it was like your shoulders were ten pounds lighter, until you opened your eyes to his face.

“You don't like it? I’m sorr-” he sounded so hurt and you felt ten times worse about this.

“No, No! I love it, it’s great- you’re great Haj!-” you turned to grab his cheeks forcing him to look at you, “But sometimes I want you to bend me over and tell me my place! Oh god! I want you to spank me and fuck me ‘till I can’t walk for a week! Edge me until I'm a mumbling mess. Treat me like a bitch- your bitch! I adore making love to you, but Goddamit I want you to fuck me like a whore!”

By the time you finished Hajime’s mouth gaped and he looked as if you punched him. Then in a second, he was hovering over your body, a hand on your throat pinning you to the couch.

He straddled your hips, keeping you in place as he used a hand to shed his sweatshirt, leaving him in a pair of grey sweats, your favorite pair nonetheless.

“You wanna be fucked like a street whore, huh? You want to be used like a hole for my amusement, don't you? Go on, tell me what you want.” he growled working his other hand to the buttons of your shorts. “Say it, Slut.”

You were about to cum and he hasn't even touched you yet, you had no idea how quickly he would change and you had no idea just how much it would turn you on.

“You beg to be my whore but can follow direction? I should just stop here.” he took the handoff of your neck and made a move to get off your body.

“No! Want to be your whore” use me like a slut! Please, I'll be good for you!”  Your begging made him resume his position. Not before throwing away your shirt.

“Alright, knees now. Let’s see how good you can be.” pulling you up by your neck, he sat back, spreading his legs to let you settle between them. It was either shock or you went brain dead, but all you could do was stare at the growing bulge in his pants.

“Are you going to start or do I have to do everything?” his voice shakes you out of your trance as you reach past his waistband. Only a second later your hand ran over something hard and sweltering.

From the small hiss Iwaizumi let out, you knew what that was. Pulling his cock out of its refines, you watched a bead of precum drip down the tip, following it across the veins of his hardening dick.

“Get on with it.”

Taking his tip into your mouth, you circled your tongue collecting the salty wetness. Pulling off, licked your way down to the base of his cock, letting it harden even further. Taking your head back you took a breath before putting as much of his dick in your mouth as you could.

Softly bobbing on him, you tried to take more of him taking whatever you couldn’t into your hand. You went until Hajime grabbed the back of your head, holding you on his cock. Before he shoved his entire length down your throat, grunting at your gag.

“Let’s get this out of the way, first, you call me Daddy or Sir, that’s it. Anything else and you don't get to cum for a week. Second, you do what I tell you, Third, no talking back. Both get you the same place, no cumming. Understand?” he didn't ask you to comply, he demanded you follow him.

He released your head, allowing you to come up for air, “yes, I understand.”

“I understand……?”  Oh!

“I understand, Daddy.”

“Good baby, now stand up.” he stood after you, pulling his sweats down as you stripped yourself of your clothes. “Hands and knees”

Pressing against you, his tip lined up with your dripping cunt as he latched a thumb to your clit, “I haven't touched you and you're dripping, you really are a whore.”

You couldn’t take his teasing, his tip running along your folds lubing his cock at a maddening pace. Removing his hand from your clit, he pressed against your back forcing your chest to the fabric of the couch and pushing your ass higher in the air.

Without warning, he thrusted his entire length into your walls. Feeling your walls pulse around him, Hajime let out a groan of your name.

Not giving you a chance to adjust, he pulled out to the tip before slamming back into your depths, sending you ford onto the couch.

“Feel good, slut?” he growled out, grabbing a handful of hair to pull your eyes towards him. Using your body as leverage to fuck you harder.

“I- Yes i-” you struggled to get out, as he barked out a laugh, thrusts never faltering as he pounded your g-spot.

“I haven’t even been fucking you for five minutes and you’re already all fucked out? A few harsh words and you become a bimbo? You really are just a street whore.”

Not giving you a chance to think as he sped his thrusts, fingers coming to circle your clit aiding in the growing sensation in your abdomen. Humping back to try and desperately meet his pounding.

A harsh thrust to your cervix had you seeing stars, collapsing into the couch as Hajime continued to use you like a hole until you zoned back into reality.

Pulling your back to his chest, your second orgasm already growing, “You better suck it up, I'm nowhere near done, Whore.”

[aitarose]

AKAIBARA (T.KUROO) pairing: kuroo tetsurou x fem!reader

synopsis: he was everything, her entire world. y/n didn’t know love without kuroo, but she also didn’t know if he knew any love for her—any love at all.

word count: 5.6k

genre: hanahaki au, unrequited love, mutual pining, fluff, angst

warnings: blood, mentions of death, terminal illness?

notes: this is for my muse, lina-chan, since she’s my love—and i catered y/n to her exact personality traits..so you’re welcome loser-chan!

↳ DIRECTORY

Nine petals and counting.

Y/N rested her hands on the sides of the vinyl bathroom sink, head tilted downwards, towards the view of red. Solids and liquids approached the drain, a mix of flowers and blood escaping from her body.

Ten, eleven, twelve. It was unstoppable, the amount of love she was losing, the amount of strength she had to go on. Her legs felt weak, frail in comparison to her usual tenacity and vigor on the side of the court.

She hadn’t been able to manage the volleyball team in weeks, nearing months. Her physical health had wavered, forcing her to resign from her post. Forcing her responsibilities on their coach, her boys having to fend for themselves for the first time since she was fifteen.

Loneliness was all Y/N knew, though she was still an avid student and classmate. It was all she’d felt in the past days, isolated from her friends, her classmates, even him.

Even Kuroo.

It wasn’t that she wanted to be apart from him, from his humor, his laugh, the overwhelming feeling of warmth that he brought to her life. He was her sun amongst Toyko’s sea of stars—but he couldn’t see her like this.

He couldn’t see the blood stains, the coughing fits, the garden of flowers that grew from her throat. She was a mess and he was him, the very person that caused her this horrid disease. The very person that she loved more than anyone in the entire world.

Hanahaki wasn’t uncommon in their town, nearly a quarter of Nekoma High suffered from it in some type of way. It was truly an enigma, a confusion turned infection that made no sense to the human mind.

Y/N had tried to re-work her diagnosis for years, since the first few weeks she’d had it—and despite her knowledge of anatomy and biology, there was no solution to her dilemma, there was no true scientific cure.

And over time, she and Kuroo had come to realize that. While they worked and worked for a way to rid her of the thorns, there was nothing they could do as he didn’t know who her love was.

He didn’t know that no matter how many nights he stayed up beside her, chin rested over her shoulder, arms wrapped around her torso—no matter how much he tried to relieve her of her pain, he only made it worse.

He wanted to help, she knew that he wanted to help in any way that he could—but it was no use. All he’d ever be able to do is watch in sympathy as she’d run out of their classroom and back into the hole that was the public girl’s restroom.

Kuroo was the best person Y/N knew, which was all the more reason that he had to stay out, that he needed to give her space during this time. The disaster that was hanahaki couldn’t infiltrate his life, Y/N wouldn’t let it, he didn’t deserve the pressure—the pressure of loving her.

Thirteen, fourteen, to nothing.

Relief began to overcome her lungs, oxygen filling her veins, the thorn-covered vines retreated back to the place in which they came. It was as if the sun had finally showered through the clouds, giving Y/N the light that she so desperately needed.

Her flowers were strange in comparison to the stories she and Kuroo had read online. Rather than continuous, straight lines of blood and blossoms—her roses were sporadic and unpredictable.

There’d be times where she’d be stuck in the restroom for the entirety of the day, throwing up due to her rib cage cramping and rolling over itself—or she’d be perfectly fine, with all the energy in the world.

Those days were her favorite. The day’s where she and Kuroo would scream at the top of their lungs. Where he’d spin her around and wrap her up in the tightest hug he could muster. Where he’d smile at her as if she wasn’t only his best friend—as if he loved her.

But he didn’t. He didn’t love her, not in the way she wanted at least.

A light sigh escaped Y/N’s lips, her quivering body stilling as she finally took a look towards her reflection. She’d been staring at the pile of scarlet for nearly a half-an-hour, trying her best not to lose count of her trauma.

Fifteen petals was all it took to uproot her day, dwindle her time with Kuroo down to nothing. It was embarrassing, truly.—that her soul was controlled by a mere rose.

Color slowly returned to her cheeks, flushed shades of pink mocking her with their rosy hue, red lighting up the tip of her nose. Her eyes were weary, blurry from the amount of tears she’d shed, the same tears that had meshed with the running tap water. 

Taking a deep breath, Y/N let go of the sink. She let go of the safety of her reflection, the safety of knowing that she was the only person who’d ever see herself this way, completely derailed by love.

Stepping into the real world, the world of judgement from classmates and concerned advisors, she hastily left the bathroom—only for a large, calloused hand to wrap itself around her forearm.

As she rolled her eyes, turning to face her captor, Y/N raised her palm and flicked her best friend right between his eyebrows. “You waited?” She suppressed a grin, stifling a laugh at the sight of his mocking pout. 

“Seems like fan behavior to me, Kuroo.”

He frowned at her words, picking her up with ease as he made his way down the now empty hallways. Y/N squealed, despite being used to his relentless strength, there would never be a time in which she’d expect him to throw her over his shoulder. 

Holding her legs whilst supporting her waist, he nodded with a troublesome smile at any of their classmates who’d so happened to remain after the school bell had rung—to which they’d respond with a simple shake of the head, amused at the sight of Nekoma High’s infamous best friends.

“Fan behavior, huh?” Kuroo spun dramatically as they reached the parking lot, nearly throwing Y/N into the passenger seat of his car, her designated spot. The place where no person, not even Kenma, was allowed to sit.

He instinctively buckled her seatbelt, knowing that she must’ve felt weak and nauseous due to the stress her body had been under only ten minutes prior, before settling himself behind the wheel.

A bright beam overcame his features, practically spreading across his entire face as her eyes met his. “Where to next?” Y/N asked, fingers fiddling with the different radio channels, deciding on a soft indie-station.

“Home.” He replied, taking a hold of the hand she’d placed over the volume nozzle, allowing them to turn up the song together. Though it was brief, him releasing her touch after seconds, it was moments like this where she considered the theory that perhaps she did hold a place in his heart. 

She shook her head, forcing the absurd thought away and rolling her eyes once again at the utter ridiculousness that was Kuroo Tetsurou. She leaned back into the soft leather of her seat, deadpanning at his words. “Your home. You act as if I live there.”

“You practically do,” he quipped back with ease, hair pressed against the chair’s headrest, smothering the thick black peaks, “What’s mine is yours, Y/N. There’s nothing I’d ever keep from you.”

“You deserve the world, and I’m going to give you every little bit of this world that I can.”

Her lips pursed into a tight smile, internally punching herself at the sweetness in his voice, the purity that he managed to sop into every word. Looking away from his gorgeous face, gaze retreating to the bustling city around them, Y/N contemplated his promise. 

It was impossible, the idea that he’d proposed. The thing that he vowed to her in the mornings, afternoons, and nights. The concept that she always loved to hear roll off of his tongue, but also wanted to throw out her open window. 

After all, how would Kuroo ever be able to give her the world—when her world was entirely him?

While his house was practically her second home, Y/N always seemed to notice the residence beside it before anything else.

As they pulled up in the driveway, Kuroo carefully parking his car between the stone gate and his grandfather’s buggy, both of their ears perked to the familiar sound of none other than Kozume Kenma. 

“You’re spending the night again?” He questioned peering over the fence, recognizing the extra duffel packed along with Y/N’s school bag. “You were just over last week. You’d think you guys would be sick of each other by now.”

Kuroo shook his head, making his way around the hood and opening the passenger door. “No way, pudding head.” He shouted, resting his elbow on the roof whilst slinging the small pack over his shoulder. “Only thing I’d ever get sick of is your cute little attitude.”

Y/N giggled, squinting her eyes to see the nonchalant expression that was undoubtedly gracing Kenma’s features. She wasn’t exactly close with him, having little to nothing in common other than their giant of a friend, but still held great respect for his dedication. 

Dedication as in the value to which he held his friendship with Kuroo.

Though she’d known their captain longer, there were times in which she wasn’t able to be by his side during matches or breakdowns. This usually having to do with her hanahaki forcing her to be immobile.

But it always turned out alright, since Kenma was there. He was always there to help, even when she’d forget to send him a warning text message or quick heads up. He was reliable as he was pessimistic, a truly unconventional friend that Y/N would be grateful for until the very end.

As Kuroo took her bags inside the house, insisting that he had to help even though she claimed that her muscles were feeling perfectly fine, Y/N waved to the younger boy, casually approaching his small figure.

Her steps were small, fallen leaves crunching beneath the soles of her sneakers. Autumn was beautiful this year, the oranges and yellows mixing together like the perfect sunset.

It was complementary, the colors—they reflected the sky in a dream-like synchronization. The last time fall had landed upon Japan, she and Kuroo had spent the entire day nestled together, jumping in the multiple piles of leaves and sipping spiced drinks by the fireplace.

While the memories were happy and nostalgic, they were a distraction. Nothing but recollections of false hope and ideologies that she’d ingrained into her brain as convincing factors that he did indeed love her—that he had just an inch of his heart that was completely reserved for her.

Kenma immediately opened his mouth, interrupting Y/N before she could ask him all about how his school day had gone. Her jaw dropped, the statement being said was unexpected, out of box in the current moment of relaxation.

“You still have hanahaki.” He looked straight into her eyes as if he were challenging her. If Y/N could see into his brain, there was no doubt that the gears would be turning rapidly in synchrony. “You’ve had it for years, Y/N. A normal person would’ve given up by now.”

She frowned, her lips curving into a downward arc, slightly appalled by the bluntness of his words, before furrowing her brows while she came up with an understandable response.

Her relationship with Kenma was civil, never straying from one of acquaintances, but there were sparse moments like this in which he’d blatantly say something personal—something that made her think that he knew more than he was letting on.

“I don’t think my case falls under the normal category.” Y/N whispered, choosing to reply with honesty over falsehood, while both of their gazes fled to Kuroo, who’d cheered as he successfully managed to unlock the front door with his hands full of bags. 

“You don’t have to worry about him,” she continued with a love-struck radiance. As if on natural instinct, her legs began to move towards the person that was her heart, abandoning Kenma to his side of the fence. 

With one final glance, she saw him nod at her last words. The words that she repeated to herself every time her flowers became too much, every time she needed to remember why she was here in the first place.

“As long as I’m still breathing, he’s got me.” She called out, chest warming at the sight of her little friend’s approval. The approval that meant more to her than any test grade or big win. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Heads up!” 

Before she could blink an eye, Y/N’s vision was covered by the thin grey fabric of Kuroo’s massive t-shirt. It draped over her head like a sheet in the night, the smell being clean and comforting, completely and utterly him.

Reaching up to take hold of the borrowed garment, she shoved his chest, feeling the vibrations of laughter rolling off of him in contagious waves. Despite how much he annoyed her, he could be quite amusing at times.

Their dynamic had always been an interesting one. Her being more logical and serious, whilst he was carefree and witty. They weren’t an obvious pair of best friends, but they did have the important things in common.

That being the value of hard work and dedication, whether that came to school assignments or volleyball—they both knew the true meaning of ambition and success, and would do anything to help the other achieve their dreams.

Opening the door to the guest bathroom, Y/N slipped Kuroo’s shirt over the tank top she’d been wearing, stripping herself of her undergarments beneath the endless fabric. She tossed her clothes into her duffel, zipping it tightly and placing it on the floor.

The Kuroo household was a place she was comfortable in, having been friends with the boy for nearly all of her life. It wasn’t uncommon for her to stop by and stay for dinner or overnight, considering his family adored her and considered her one of their own.

In their first year of high school, she’d spent a total of one-hundred and twenty nights wrapped up in his arms before his grandparents had decided to permanently mark the guest bedroom as her’s. 

Though she’d grown accustomed to the warmth of her best friend’s comforter, Y/N did have to admit that it was nice to have her own space. Her own space that also gave her the luxury of having the person she loved only one wall away.

As she dug through the right-hand drawer for the toothbrush and toothpaste that she always stored in the case that she’d be staying overnight, a rhythm of knocks ricocheted off of the hard wood.

“You ready?” She called out, walking past the sliding shower doors and turning the small door-knob. “I was just about to brush my teeth,” her words continued, stopping as she came face-to-face with her favorite giant. 

His smile was cheeky, mischief seemingly on his mind as he held up his own set of tools. “You waited for me, Y/N?” A sly smirk crept on his face, her words from earlier coming back to bite her in the butt. “Seems a little like fan behavior to me.”

Rolling her eyes, Y/N stepped aside, making room for his ginormous body in the quaint bathroom. The countertop wasn’t exactly large, having just enough space for the two of them to stand beside one another with their arms touching as they looked into their reflections.

Her eyes seemed distant, even to herself. The usual livelihood that inhabited her irises was absent, replaced with fragments of the person she once was, the person that had been overshadowed by dirt and disease.

Resentment was the only emotion she displayed, hatred for the pathetic reasoning behind her pain, the putrid dreams she wished would come true—but as Y/N looked away from the stress and worry, she saw him. She saw Kuroo.

Unlike her, his gaze wasn’t resting on himself. His eyes weren’t immediately attracted to his own appearance, choosing to lay on Y/N instead. His neck was angled down, a soft expression gracing his face while he simply admired her.

While he admired her like a boy in love.

They held eye contact for a brief moment, neither one wanting to end the intimate interaction, before he broke away. He snapped out of his trance, hands subconsciously reaching for the tube of toothpaste that had been forgotten by both minds. 

As they began to brush their teeth, Kuroo played troublemaker. Whether that meant making faces or mimicking Y/N’s actions, he found endless ways to humor her, wanting to see the smile on her face as she flipped him off.

The laughter wheezing from her lips was infectious, her body doubling over, forcing heavy chuckles from her love as well. It was a sight to see, two high schoolers in a minimal-sized bathroom, overcome with a fit of giggles—but that was simply them. It was simply Y/N and Kuroo.

With a mouth full of foam, she leaned past him and over the sink, expecting to see a mix of bubbles and white—only to be gifted with the mood-killing sight of blood and blossoms. 

She choked, gasping for air as the small roses fell from her throat. “Please,” she cried, gripping the ledge of the counter with a killer grasp, gesturing for Kuroo to leave the room. “I can’t breathe.”

But he didn’t listen, he didn’t leave. He didn’t cover his eyes and walk away like he normally did, respecting her wishes that he would never see her like this—like a complete and utter mess.

As her airway began to clear, her smiles turned to frowns, embarrassed of what he’d seen, the proof of her never-ending infatuation. However, Kuroo didn’t seem phased. He glanced at the flowers as if they were nothing, as if they weren’t a foul sight in itself.

He turned the faucet on, washing them away from her view, forcing the spray roses to dissolve and wither above the drain—and for some odd reason, Y/N’s heart hurt at his actions. 

It was the first time in months that he’d been present during one of her uproars. The first time in months that he had to see what she went through on a nearly daily basis, and he didn’t even blink an eye.

He looked at the physical representation of her love like it didn’t matter, like it was a pest that he had to kill. Like an unintentional rejection that his instincts dictated, a rejection that she feared for every moment of every day.

“I’m sorry.” Y/N muttered, refusing to meet the concern in his gaze. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the inevitable judgement that she expected to come from his way—only to feel his rough hand take a hold of her chin, tilting it upwards towards his face.

Nothing was said, no remarks came from his end. Instead, he wordlessly stole the hand towel that’d been hanging on the shower door and dabbed away the blood that had soaked into the skin beneath her lips. 

He was unreadable.

No matter how hard she tried to analyze his thoughts, his actions, his posture; a blank canvas was all she’d painted. She wanted to keep apologizing for the things that were out of her control, but as she opened her mouth to speak, he interrupted with a question that she’d never expected to hear.

“If it weren’t for your hanahaki,” he began, brows furrowed in concentration, not allowing Y/N to pin-point what he was so focused on, if it was the disease or herself. “Do you think you’d know that you love them?”

“You know, your person?”

Her response was momentary, the gears in her brain working on overtime as she tried to find the meaning behind his words. Why the sudden curiosity? Did he have hanahaki? Was there someone he loved? 

Clearing her throat, making sure that there was no evidence of her accident, Y/N began to speak slowly. “Being in love is more than just a disease, Kuroo. It can’t be dimmed down to a single flower or infection.”

“I love him enough to put myself through pressure every day. I love him so much that it physically hurts me to think about him. He brings a light to this darkness that no other person can outshine—”

“—and I’d never give up on him.” Glass covered her eyes, tears struggling to roll down her cheeks as her peripheral vision grew blurry. In the midst of her tangent, Kuroo had pressed Y/N against his chest, rubbing her back in soft circles.

“He’s the other half of me, my true equal.” Bitterness was being laced in her tone, the irony of it all settling in. It was unfair. Her describing her everlasting love for the boy she’d do anything for. He was right beside her, and yet he seemed miles away.

“I’d know love for him even if I was healthy. Even if we were strangers, worlds apart.” Choking back the last of her cries, Y/N bit her lip, pushing away the warmth of his chest. “Trust me, Kuroo. You’d know if you were in love.”

For once in his life, he had no words. No comments or remarks that he was dying to say. His only response was a nod of the head, a curt acknowledgement of her feelings, before he turned and said a brief goodnight.

Before he turned and left Y/N with nothing but confusion, thoughts that would keep her restless and awake throughout the night. Itching concerns to creep up her veins and into her dreams.

If only he loved her, then all of this could’ve been avoided. If only he had asked her who her hanahaki was for, then maybe she would’ve confessed. Perhaps she’d be free and untethered from her illness. 

But he didn’t ask, and she didn’t confess. All she was left with was broken fragments of care, leftovers of love that she received through twisted questions and wonder. 

All she was left with was half of a heart, that would never find its whole.

2AM.

It was nearly two in the morning and Y/N was restless, chasing sleep like it was an everlasting punishment. Slumber being within her grasp, but stolen, kidnapped by the stress and worries that were Kuroo Tetsurou. 

Her mind was moving at a million miles per hour, overthinking and overworking the question that he’d asked her in the midst of their nightly routine. The curiosity that had somehow overcome his usual vigor and happiness. 

Panic settled in her throat, the feeling of thorns and stems inching their way up her neck and touching her tongue. She needed water, anything that could suppress the punishment for feeling love. 

Swinging her legs over the side of the queen-sized mattress, Y/N shivered as her feet touched the cold floor. Her steps were light, trying her best to be completely silent, not wanting to disturb the actual members of the household.

The trip to the kitchen was short. An easy route for her after having taken many midnights trips before, since her hanahaki always seemed to act up whenever she stayed overnight. 

Finding a small glass and filling it to the brim with tap water, Y/N gulped it down, savoring every last bit as if there was no other substance on Earth. The liquid ran down her throat, pushing past the vines and forcing them into their home that was her heart. 

“You’re up late.” 

Y/N jumped, nearly smashing the cup on the counter as the familiar voice of Kuroo’s obaachan crept up from behind her. She sighed, taking a deep breath before facing the old woman.

Her relationship with his family had grown extremely close in the years that they’d known each other. She was practically considered a member of the family, them always wanting her around no matter what the circumstances were.

But she and obaachan were different compared to how she bonded with the Kuroo men. Unlike the others, his grandmother was observant, knowing of the love that Y/N had for her favorite boy. Knowing of the cause of her hanahaki.

“Obaachan.” She greeted her weakly, holding up the glass as an excuse for the timing of their interaction. “I’m sorry if I woke you, I didn’t mean to cause any havoc.”

The old woman simply smiled, approaching Y/N with a loving hand and placing it on her shoulder in comfort. “It’s alright dear,” she squeezed her palm, feeling the younger girl’s struggling heartbeat. “It’s not your fault.”

Y/N grimaced, shaking her head in defeat. “But it is,” she admitted. She’d always take blame for her hanahaki. It was a virus in not only her life, but everyone around her. “It’s my fault that I’m unwell.”

“No, dear.” Obaachan cupped her hands around her cheeks, challenging her eyes, not taking her answer or excuses. A sad smile graced her lips, sorrow in her irises. “You’re not unwell..you’re in love.”

Tears grew from the corners of Y/N’s sockets, waterworks beginning to roll down her cheeks at the familiar feeling of the comforting touch of a Kuroo. She broke down, her walls shattering in front of the only person who understood. The only person who would truly listen. 

“Why won’t he love me?” She cried out, pain overtaking her whole body. The pent up emotions were collapsing like tidal waves, storming throughout her heart. “Why won’t I ever deserve him?”

Concern furrowed in the older woman’s brows at the sight of Y/N breaking down. Her grandson’s best friend was one of the strongest people she knew, and knowing that her struggles were this great was indescribably disheartening. 

“My Tetsurou has been a caretaker all of his life,” she started, gently speaking in languid sentences, doing her best to keep Y/N’s attention on her and not her pain. “Whether it was for me, my husband, or Kenma—he takes on more responsibility than he can handle.”

“His heart is so big, so full of love for everyone other than himself.” She continued, her words beginning to settle in Y/N’s mind. “And in the midst of that, I don’t think he realizes that he’s capable of experiencing love as well.”

“He doesn’t realize that everything he could ever want is standing right in front of him.”

Obaachan was whispering now, her voice being soft but commanding. It was frightening, the passion that she held for her grandson. The passion that she held for her dreams of his happiness. Her dreams of him finding his true love.

“While love is a chemical feeling, it has no chemical solution.” Y/N swallowed hard, taking in every single thing she was saying. Letting her statements ingrain themselves into her memory. “This disease doesn’t define your future, my dear.”

“Whomever you choose to love will be lucky, Y/N—but I have to say, I truly hope that my Tetsurou has luck on his side.”

It’d been almost a month since the fateful overnight encounter, Obbachan’s words playing on repeat, over and over again until they grew tiresome. The idea that Kuroo could perhaps love her was haunting, terrorizing her very soul. 

Despite the shift in their energy, the elephant in the room being his unexpected question and her never ending response, their friendship continued on like normal.

They’d go to school, spend time together afterwards, perhaps even have a sleepover, and repeat. It was all the same, not a thing out of place except for a major detail that couldn’t be explained. 

The presence of Y/N’s hanahaki was little to none.

Her flowers decreased, the numbers becoming smaller and smaller every single time she took the time to count. The disease that had become a constant in her life had suddenly disappeared, confusing her to a maximum.

She didn’t feel like she’d fallen out of love for Kuroo, there was still a large part of her heart that was reserved for him and only him—yet her roses were invisible, the trips to the bathroom were down to none. 

And while those statistics had fallen, the number of quick glances, stolen touches, and late night conversations had increased. She and Kuroo did everything together before, but now it was as if they were inseparable at all times.

It was as if his heart had finally opened up, accepted her presence and locked it into place, never wanting to let it go. Y/N couldn’t determine what had gotten into him, what made the sudden change in behavior.

But her flowers were gone and her love still remained. All that needed to be said was a confession, a confession of the love that she hoped was mutual. The one-sided love that she’d secretly harbored for years on years.

Mindlessly walking down the school hallway, passing by classmates and advisors, Y/N contemplated the future of her and Kuroo’s relationship. The future of her heart and if it would ever find its other half. The other half that so happened to take a hold of her hand at that very moment.

Kuroo seemed on edge, his heartbeat was quick, throbbing against Y/N’s palm as he dragged her towards the closest empty classroom. Without warning he closed the door, drowning out the scattered noises of everyone on the other side of the wall.

“Hey.” He said, breathing heavily. His shoulders were rising and falling, his breaths deep as if he’d just ran a marathon on his path to retrieve her. “I really needed to talk to you.”

Y/N almost toppled over, the strength of his grasp tripping and unbalancing her body. As her vision began to stabilize, wobbly from the sprint, she took notice of the classroom he’d brought her to.

Flowers lined the walls and ceilings, potted plants hanging from the wooden beams and arches. Soil was sprinkled over the floorboards, various footprints etched into the dirt. 

He’d taken her to the floriculture classroom—the classroom for the study of flowers.

Silence overcame them for a moment, neither one speaking a single word as they stared deeply into each other’s eyes. Her confession was at the tip of her tongue, ready to be said, ready to be spoken into existence—but Kuroo spoke first.

“I’ve never had it.” He simply said, his mouth pursed and head towering over her. Before she could respond, asking him what in the world he was talking about, he continued. “Hanahaki. I’ve never had it.”

Biting his lips, Kuroo took her hands in his once more. Rubbing her palms with his calloused fingertips, easing away her confusion and speaking his feelings with his entire heart weighed into them.

“All this time, for all these years, I thought that I’d never known love.” His brows furrowed in concentration, and for the first time, Y/N could tell what he was so focused on. It was her. 

“I asked you how you knew that you were in love, flowers or not, and the way you described that feeling..it was familiar. It was something that I’d felt before, something that I felt all of the time.”

“Something that I felt all of the time for you.”

Y/N was at a loss for words, the confession that she’d always wanted to say being said to her. The very moment that she’d dreamed of was actually coming true, it was actually happening right in front of her eyes. It wasn’t her imagination—it was real. Kuroo loved her.

The smile spread across her face was more than enough to ease his nerves, her teeth were so bright they could’ve been compared to the sun. He couldn’t help but think of how beautiful she looked, how she was his sun.

“I’m so sorry my love hasn’t been constant, Y/N. It shouldn’t have taken me this long to realize the patterns, how your hanahaki came and went. It was my fault you’ve gone through so much pain.”

“But even here,” he whispered, pulling her close. His arms wrapped themselves around her body, his nose being mere inches away from hers. “With all of the flowers anyone could ever ask for, the only one that matters is you.”

She could feel his breath now, the soft breeze against her cheeks. Her body wanted to surge forward, connect their lips in a final confirmation of their feelings. She wanted the kiss with Kuroo that she’d been waiting for for her entire life. 

“I love you.” He admitted, not waiting for her response before pressing his mouth to hers.

His smile could be felt between their lips, moving continuously as if they didn’t need any air to breathe. After all, they really only needed each other—Kuroo was the missing piece to Y/N’s puzzle, her heart was finally whole.

As they broke apart, love radiating off of them in contagious waves, overwhelming the room, igniting the aura—a cheeky grin grew on her new lover’s face. 

He plucked a flower from the pot behind her head, presenting it with a laugh at the sight of her rolling her eyes in mock annoyance. Although she found him to be ridiculous, she accepted it gratefully—loving the new chapter that they were about to embark on.

“I heard you like roses?”

© aitarose.tumblr 2021. do not copy or claim my writing, works, themes, copy and paste my words, or headers as your own

[love-amihan]

✧ masterlists ✧

SOMETHING NEW // TERUSHIMA YUJI

word count: 0.8k

warning: is yuji being a bad influence to reader a warning?? if so, then there :D also implied female body reader

amihan’s note: this was supposed to be included in my 300 milestone event but my friend and i ended up creating a drabble instead of a prompt, n e ways happy reading!

hs!yuji x school president!reader

“mister terushima!” you shout in frustration, yuji flinches and slowly turns around with a sheepish smile. “prez, heyyy!” he waves a little, his other hand rubbing the back of his head. “it's a beautiful day isn't it?” he says in a sing-song tone.

he thinks he's sneaky with those little step backs of his, you fold your arms over your chest, impatiently tapping your foot on the ground. his eyes fleeting down like it’s his second nature of being hyper aware anything that involves anatomy.

you scoff, snapping your fingers, “eyes are up here,” you point to your own eyes as he snaps out of his little daydream. “rightt,” he chuckles, “look prez, i’m running late, let's do this later, yeah?” he winks while smirking.

you deeply sigh, rolling your eyes in the process. you shake your head at him, “hands up,” he groans in disappointment, following your instructions regardless. you pat around his upper body checking for anything sharp.

he once got caught flaunting a butterfly knife around the campus, you got a handful that day and you will never let that happen again, “if you wanna hug me so bad, you could’ve asked.”

you pull away hitting him hard in the chest, he hisses in pain rubbing the sore spot. “tie?” you boredly ask pointing at where it should be, he fakes a gasp “i.. forgot it in our classroom,” he lamely excuses. you click your tongue at him, his jaw dropping at your irritated reaction.

you furrow in focus, seeing the glint that came from his tongue, “it’s the-” he stops his words seeing your expression, “what?” you didn’t answer him instead you rest your thumb on his chin, forcing him to open his mouth. “didn’t know you like it rough prez,” he can’t help but comment.

confirming your theory, you look at him dead in the eyes. “you do know the policy right?” piercing eyes gazing back at him, he audibly gulps feeling the change of atmosphere. “let’s compromise,” yuji slowly says, his hands clasped together.

"how about…" he pauses checking if you're listening, "go on," you nod at him. he clears his throat, "as i was saying, how about we get you pierced too?" he puffs out his chest, claiming victory with his suggestion.

"and you think i will agree because?" he gives you a lazy smile tapping the tip of your nose, "because we gotta have fun once in a while" he reasons out. standing by your choice you told him "no."

yuji babbles out incoherent words, "but you'll be known as the cool president! everyone will love you..” he continues listing, as tempting those may sound, you continue to drag him to where the principal office is.

"i'll pay for it! it's a good place, considered a 5 star for all customers!" you halt midway from the office, yuji mirroring your movements. "is it a deal?" he asks as you stare at him one last time, contemplating your choices.

terushima yuji enters the campus, a joyful feeling surging through his entire body. he’s having a great day so far, woke up with a smile on his face, ate his breakfast peacefully, all his requirements already done and ready to be pass. that was until he’s called to the principal’s office.

yuji enters the office, cold sweat running down the back of his neck. upon entering, he feels the temperature drop coming eye to eye with the principal. he looks around avoiding their gaze, he zeroes on your back frame confused on why you’re here too.

“mister terushima,” he straightens up at the mention of his surname, “y-yes mx?” the principal lets out a disappointed sigh, “mx l/n here told me you have a tongue piercing?” his eyes quickly avert to where you’re seated.

"mx l/n has a piercing too!!" yuji complains pointing in your direction while you quietly sit there, looking like the role model student you are. the principal, once again, shakes their head, "no pointing fingers."

after the confrontation, yuji ushers behind you. he grabs your arm and turns you around, “what the hell?!” you look up at him with faux innocence, “huh?” you tilt your head to the side, “what about ‘it’s our little secret’?” he air-quotes.

he huffs crossing his arms, “here i thought we were friends,” he says in a childlike manner. you crack up at his claim, hitting his arm like he just told you the funniest joke. “when did i say that?” you wipe the tears in the corner of your eyes, smiling at him.

he looks back at you, jaw slacking in disbelief. "for that bad boy reputation you have..." you say while fixing his tie, "you can be gullible sometimes, mister terushima" you sweetly point out, walking past him.

copyright © 2021 by love-amihan all rights reserved. do not repost in other platforms. reblogs are welcome and highly appreciated! <33

gen taglist; @lumpiang-toge @chibishae34 @kirakirasaku @kenmakeii @foxxtrot-116

[mmymoon]

So there’s a goth meme from several years past that @spookyloop revived, so why not.

Intro:

Name? Mmy

Star sign? Capricorn

Height? 180 cm/5′ 9′’

Nationality? American

Things you post? Aesthetic things, memes, and rambling responses to friends, I think. I would probably just be an aesthetic blog if my personality didn’t ruin it, ohohohoho...

Favourite artists/bands? Goth/darkwave bands...? Ego Likeness and Hannah Fury are my favorite ones both musically and as people. I’m a club organizer type of person so the fact I like listening to All Your Favorite Club Hits On Endless Repeat after twenty-odd years helps. I just did an all-female-fronted (and largely all female musician) set recently that I was proud of.  Army of Lovers probably says the most about me as a person. Oh, and Marina and the Diamonds.

Favourite movies/TV shows? Right now, Grey’s Anatomy, Queer Eye, and the modern sitcom renaissance that’s happening because I love sitcoms. Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries. Twin Peaks forever. (Black Mirror for an edgyyyy answer; I wanted to like the Philip K. Dick one but the bad false eyelashes on all the lead females was so distracting I couldn’t focus, costuming matterrrrs and overly long eyelashes are going to look like overly big shoulderpads in ten years) In terms of movies, I like both hardcore surrealism (Solaris, Boxing Helena) and fun cheesy things (Zoolander, Muppet Treasure Island) and action movies as a genre (Fury Road was great!). I had a lot of film classes in undergrad, plus we have the Library of Congress’ film campus and get to watch a lot of interesting silent, so it really depends on the genre and mood.

Follower count? I think over 600 woooooo big monsters, big prizes

Simple Questions:

What is your favorite candle scent? LED, I wish they’d make some Alexa compatible ones so I could live out my Phantom of the Opera sewer decor fantasies

Do you have a favorite book? Alice Walker’s entire body of work. (The Last Unicorn for the nerd stuff, although reading a lot of Piers Anthony and Pratchett growing up probably says more about me as a person. Read a lot of Erma Bombeck, too, come to think of it. Sure, I read and enjoyed all that Russian literature as a moody teen, but I also liked ALL THE JOKES. Which is why I like Philip K. Dick, although the comedy is never preserved in film adaptation and I can whine about it like the critical snob I truly am.)

Are you a tea or coffee person? Yes, keep it coming. I am pan-beverage and constantly need to hydrate and and require at least two drinks on my person at all times.

What is your favorite brand and color of lipstick? Beauty Bakerie whatever the dark purple is, although I’m getting into the Sephora brand “lip stain” (actually longwear) wines and dark purples which I think are just numbers. Shout out to the NYX  “Transylvania” and Max Factor “Frivolous” I used to wear for their good names.

What is your favorite perfume/cologne? Pure rose absolute, which, judging by everyone’s reaction, makes me smell like a Riyoko Ikeda illustration. (I’m allergic to most commercial scents, but rose absolute does not fail me!)

Do you have a celebrity crush? Usually the perky girl character, Leisha Hailey (OG teenage crush just got better through the years), Jameela Jamil, probably a bunch of people I can’t think of right now

If you had to give up the color black, what color would you choose instead? Leopard print and hot pink

If you could change your name to a stereotypical 90s/2000s gothy name, what would it be? I grew up in a hippie area so I know far too many kids legitimately named a lot of those things. I always liked the names Violent and Prudence, though, if I was going to do a fake name.

What are your top three tips for surviving hot weather while black clad? Just wear natural fibers, you’ll be fine and your skin will thank you anyway. I’m already drinking two drinks anyway, so.

What song will always make you happy (doesn’t have to be a goth band)? Bjork - All Is Full of Love

Are you active in the arts (ex. Play an instrument, paint, write, etc)? I GUESS

If you had a teacup or mug made inscribed just for you, what would you have it say? I have a wholesale account for those black rose ones!  I like plain black cauldron mugs the best for real usage and solid black china teacups with floral interior prints.

What is your number one non-gothy hobby? Subculture has taught me that the Venn Diagrams of hobbies overlap too much for this to be a real question. GARDENING IS FULL OF GOTHS. DOLLS ARE FULL OF GOTHS. PLENTY OF GOTHS ALSO LIKE READING ABOUT RANDOM LEGAL AND TAX CODES.

Thought Provokers:

If you could be a supernatural creature, what would it be and why? Maenad, the literal party bully

What horror monster-based super power would you have? Maenads have a pretty definited skillset, but like... I feel like most horror monsters have fairly broad ill-defined ones. Seems like John Carpenter’s The Thing is kind of overpowered.

Do you feel confident or comfortable interacting with other Goths or gothy people (online or irl)? Why or why not? HELLO NEW PEOPLE, YOU LOOK VAGUELY AWKWARD SO MIGHT NEED TO BE FRIENDS WITH US; COME TO ALL MY FRIENDS’ EVENTS IF MY FRIENDS’ EVENTS ARE NOT LOCAL TO YOU I CAN HELP YOU FIND OUT WHICH CLUBS ARE CONVENTIONS ARE AND MIGHT INTEREST YOU SO ANYWAY LET ME INTRODUCE YOU TO SOME PEOPLE

Which is more important for a look: Great hair or great makeup? Probably make-up, but overall effect is always most important in truly great aesthetic~

Is there something you wish there was more of in your subculture? Accountability, although I’m proud of those of us who are always working on that. (The secret matriarchy is watching.)

Care to share an embarrassing story related to your “darkliness“? No one told me I was Far Too Tall to be wearing Lip Service miniskirts

How are you at DIY? aaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahah; let me tell you about various epoxies

Quickly describe your ideal wedding. One where I am not expected to attend, or barring that, they have an open bar and friends with quick wits and quiet voices.

Confessional (aka True or False):

I love watching cheesy romance films. Eh -- I love cheesy COMEDIES, so there’s some overlap, but eh.

I ALWAYS remember to wash off my makeup at night VERY TRUE. I always wash my face, comb out my hair, brush my teeth, and moisturize. EVERY NIGHT. NO MATTER HOW LATE IT IS AND EXHAUSTED I AM.

I sleep with plushies. True, if I haven’t kicked them off of the bed by accident.

I wear non-black pajamas most nights. False, I don’t own anything that isn’t black. (Night-time is for novelty tee shirts and threadbare Old Navy Halloween prints, or else long flowy black night-dresses.)

I still listen to a boy band that had disbanded years ago. Sure, I listen to [insert name of some synthpop band as a joke]

I think Andrew Eldritch is overrated. False, I feel like he gets rated pretty fairly.

I don’t like vampires. False. I mean, I find other aspects of folklore more interesting academically, but I feel like vampire aesthetic is pretty crucial to gothdom in general. Also, there’s some great chronic illness metaphor in there.

I don’t like clubs. THE MOST FALSE STATEMENT EVER TO APPLY TO MY PERSON -- ALSO HELLO WOULD YOU LIKE TO COME TO AN EVENT? Y’ALL NEED REAL LIFE FRIENDS AND I CAN HELP MAKE THAT HAPPEN FOR YOU, LET ME JUST GOOGLE YOUR AREA AND CONTACT THE ELDERS TO LOOK AFTER YOU--

I’m dating a goth/darkly-inclined person. I think I talk about death and various cool diseases/medical problems too much for non-goths (taking a broad view and including lolitas and broader subcultural people). It privately irritates me when people put a burden of expecting women to content themselves with inferior aesthetics while everyone wants a “goth gf” or whatnot. (Yes, rarely it’s vice versa, but the societal burden of beautywork, even subcultural, is on women.)

I don’t enjoy graveyards. False! I love them.

Blood makes me queasy. False, high risk behaviour and bad financial decisions are pretty much the only things that make me queasy (also allergens).

I’d sooner faint than pet a spider. False, done that a bunch. I’m not afraid of any creatures that aren’t poisonous or infectious really. (Bats are amazing and beautiful but pretty likely to be rabies carriers, so goths should not pet them.  I used to preserve dead ones I found and that was a Bad Idea, but such is the folly of youth.)

I don’t like haunted houses. Eh -- I mean, it’s a gig. I don’t get off on the occult to the extent a lot of goths do, but I suppose it depends on if one means Haunted Houses (the theatrical experience) or haunted houses (the overwrought local ghost stories experience).

I still browse Hot Topic’s clearance racks. True; I hadn’t been to one in years but my friend and I just went and I totally did, although I remain Entirely Too Tall For Those Miniskirts. But I got my first Demonias from HT clearance, precious memories.

I’ve never read Dracula. False.

I think “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” is a long and boring song. False! Blasphemy!

[yusselah]

Draw Well, Be Well

My Daughter’s Reminders

My daughter Jenny grew up falling down, with a fractured tibia here and a black eye there. Injuries stemming from a central nervous system disorder with a  hard to pronounce name: Incontinentia Pigmenti. After 32 years, the words still freeze on my tongue. 

I.P. is not a one-size-fits-all genetic disorder in the ways it affects the lives of the baby girls who are born with it. For Jenny, a woman with a girlish face and a small body, this rare neurocutaneous condition deprives her of many things: the balance to stand, walk, or enjoy the kind of grapho-motor control that enables her mother and brother, both formally trained artists, to draw with precision. 

Precision can be very appealing in the right hands. But my daughter doesn’t draw for appeal, or approval. She draws to be well; to feel well; and for her, thank goodness, the very act of picture-making has for decades now afforded her a pleasurable way of breaking past the gravity of her immense motor and cognitive challenges. The story of Jenny’s love of picture-making and the goodness she’s drawn from pictures are perhaps best illustrated in the images she paraded through my old appointment book in a furious sprint over a cold winter’s night when she was 16. As they remind me, indeed I cannot forget them, she was quite ill in body and mind following a mind-shattering fall after becoming severely sleep deprived at a special summer camp. Had the staff been trained to detect and act on the signs of her obvious sleep deprivation, she might have been spared the half year she lost while living in the painful limbo in her shattered consciousness, where unrecoverable sleep falls. She might have avoided her hallucinations, and the dreadful fear of being swallowed back into the jaws of the seizure monsters that ripped entire pages from her school calendar while she was a little girl. 

I refer to these images as my daughter’s reminders, in part because she made them in an old datebook of mine, drawing freely over pages containing handwritten reminders of my appointments and tasks to be completed. But even more so because her images like the fast-falling peanut shell and winged red horse she drew there remind me of the importance picture-making has played in our lives. They remind me how reliably Jenny Lily Gordon, now 32, has piloted herself through dark times on the tip of a pen. How she’s drawn genies back into fallen bottles. And created a hearth of warm friction when her off-kilter body ran a little too cold - as it often does when her neurological temperatures flowed in different directions. Warm on her left, frosty along her right. But “just right” — like a fairy tale porridge — when her busy left hand is working with her eyes to make a new picture.

From the moment she was able to pick up and hold onto a crayon at the age of three, which was not easy for her, drawing has given my daughter a trustworthy way to communicate when words failed her. You see, Jenny’s thoughts get stuck in the upper shelves of her fragile brain’s speech and language freezer. She finds it easier to produce certain kinds of ideas using ink and lead pigments which fly effortlessly from her drawing instruments without a lot of words weighing them down.

Making pictures offers her a profound well-spring of wellness because the activity also provides a fount of liberating physical release. For although she can’t ice-skate or play soccer, she can take great speed on the point of a No. 2 pencil. And the rhythmic sound the lead tip makes against a sheet of paper is music to her ears. “The paper is a mountain I can climb, where you and me can go up to anywhere, we can fly away,” she once told me as we drew beneath a star-studded August sky . To Jenny, the earth’s gravity can be supremely limiting while her paper universe is boundless.

Since her earliest years, our curly-headed, cognitively- and visually-impaired daughter, has been drawn to our home’s bright, white shelves. They’re packed with paper, old calendars, new and used sketchbooks, fat patches of fabric and pens and inkwells of tangy colors: raspberry, lemon, blueberry, carrot, eggplant and chocolate. She continues to reach for these colorful supplies to flavor her way over the bitter aftertaste of some pretty potent medicines.

These particular reminders of Jenny’s scratch deeply into my memories --and my wife’s -- of many of her hardest times. Times when she lost her appetite completely. Times when she couldn’t grip a spoon or hold a cup of milk; night times when repeated falls from her consciousness — sparked by uncontrollable seizures — ripped entire pages out of her school calendar. These are the kinds of drawn reminders I kept hidden in a desk drawer for years even though I cherished them as visual celebrations of Jenny’s remarkable tenacity and strong desire not to be counted out.

When the tornado side effects of her powerful anti-convulsants began to lighten, she immediately reached for her friction sticks to draw her way back to a steadier state of mind. Her pens and pencils were like a conductors’ baton with which to find the music to lift up and re-organize her disordered mind. The pictures were dance partners to her songs. Pictures went hand and hand with singing. They were dance partners that came together over many hours, across many days, until a new destination appeared. These pictures trigger my gratitude for the ancient red line of drawing - the pulsating, sanguine line which runs like the Hudson River through all of human time. Drawing has also given me a way to express gratitude everyday for a piece of chalk, for a circle, or those beautiful, swift lines that drive comic books.

But I have a special gratitude for these images she paraded across the grey pinstriped pages of my old 2007 appointment calendar. They remind me how drawing alongside her for over three decades has again and again restored our hope of finding some joy in the next five, ten or fifteen minutes. The hope that drawing provides is coming in very handy right now as we live through this vaccine-less pandemic.

It is often said that a picture is worth a thousand words, but to me these pictures are worth a thousand pictures each. An entire year can be glanced in a solitary image: like that long stretch of time when Jenny’s leg was broken in a completely preventable fall. Thank goodness her hands weren’t hurt. She could still wield magic markers, whose bright, magical colors and pungent scents helped lessen her pain.

“My leg hurts, but the itching is worse,” she told me as we drew cats’ faces over the dense, white cast that stretched from her foot all the way up her thigh. She had injured her right leg during a fall from a rowing machine in a health club. The “trainer” had not remembered to fasten the seat belt, but left Jenny’s right foot tightly fastened to the binding in machine’s pedal; when she slid unattended from the seat and struck the floor, her bound leg twisted radically, resulting in what her orthopedist reassured us was “just a skier’s fracture.” But “just” to Jenny is not really any old just. The fracture healed fine, but the surrounding anatomy never quite restored.

I’m reminded how at night her swollen limb throbbed with blue pain - and that the little balance she had before, enabling her to stand up and pivot with our support, was gone. So we carried her.

One night as we drew more icons over the rock-hard plaster, she paused to say, “Joseph, did you know I am drawing-able? I am very, very able to draw. I can draw all day. I’m never afraid. I have zero paper fright.”

“So you have no ‘stage fright’ when you draw?,” I clarified.

“Zero!” she shot back. “It never hurts to draw, it’s never scary so don’t be scared, dad, ok?”

Ever since, I have tried to take her word for it. Not fearing how a picture might be seen or judged by others is a freedom few of us carry over from childhood.

“Jenny doesn’t draw for anyone’s sake but her own, does she?” an artist friend John asked me as they sat together at a tall window overlooking a row of massive trees outside our Bronx apartment.

She had been drawing at that sill for several hours, filling the pages of an old composition book that once belonged to her brother. Old sketchbooks, spiral notebooks or other semi-used booklets of paper held a special allure because they contained the appealing marks of people whose drawings she loved.

“What are you drawing?” John asked. “The birds, the squirrels?”

The animals were busy that afternoon, flying between branches which dropped red and yellow leafs

“I’m just drawing a picture, John,” she replied. “You want to make one?”

“I once just drew lots of pictures, too, Jenny. On the farm where we all grew up. I drew between my chores and homework.”

“You weren’t scared right?”

“Not a bit,” he replied, as he grabbed a pencil.

Picture-making’s reliability in shifting one’s vantage point is helpful when you’re perpetually sitting on the edge of your next fall. For eleven years she was besieged by seizures while transitioning into and out of sleep. I am reminded of those nights by her image of the hovering “seizure monster” who, she said, was like “crocodiles biting through her pillows.” They flew off with her voice. “I couldn’t speak when they came.” Examining her picture several years later, she told me “I’m glad that bitch is gone.”

Many of our hardest falls are lurking just around the corner, yet we don’t see them even as we’re heading towards them. Like that tree branch snaking beneath the cement sidewalk, opening up a crack that swallows the wheel of your wheelchair, sending you crashing. A collision with asphalt can mark up your porcelain face with alarming exclamation points. These shout out your extreme vulnerability to your neighbors when they see you in the lobby of the 14-story, red-brick high-rise you call home. 

“The colors hurt a lot more than my face does” she once confided, referring to the attention that comes with every bloom of these dreaded color palettes. The hues of purple, crimson, curry yellow, and cloudy grey can take weeks to fade. These are times to stay clear of windows and mirrors, because the reflections really do hurt. Whenever she got slammed she reflexively turned to picture-making, selecting and blending soothing colors and picturing a reassuring and perhaps more stable landscape.

All of this is to remind me how I am deeply grateful for these particular pictures made in her fierce sprint to recover herself from the calamitous fall she took when she was 16. These are the book of pictures I hid away for years. I just couldn’t bare to look at them. They were too potent, too illustrative of that most shattering fall that I should have seen coming. I felt guilty for having placed my paternal trust in that Godforsaken sleep away camp; a sailing camp stationed in a former nunnery in picturesque Newport, Rhode Island. It was there that she fell unnoticed through her REM cycle into the depths of the most severe sleep deprivation. A clueless trio of camp nurses were simply too untrained to see what had happened to her, even though she was unable to speak, sit, eat or  recognize her own parents. “Oh, she’ll be just fine,” the smiling nurse told us, having no idea that Jenny’s severe sleep loss had disorganized her brain so profoundly that she took a year to fully recover. She lingered in that place where unrecoverable sleep falls, alone and lonely, a lost soul in a song-less, picture-less limbo. She dwelled in that nowhere space from late August through late December.

It was a hellish period during which time I soon came tumbling down my own mental hill, like Jack following Jill. Which is why these images remain such vivid reminders of that night in late December as Jenny’s recovery began to take shape in this remarkable parade of pictures, which sprouted fruits, and birds, and rivers, and strange bits of self-portraiture, like that disembodied head rolling down August.

They are still dancing in my old datebook with the red ribbon place mark. Her quickly drawn bright plumes of birds feathers and her fast-falling orange peanut shell all poured forth one winter’s night and morning four months after her August fall. They flowed swiftly when just a few hours before she could barely lift a pencil. After so many painful days of passivity, depression, and sleep disturbed nights, they took form through her tired fingers onto the grey pinstriped pages of my old Lettes of London appointment book. And as she drew I knew as only a parent can know that our daughter was surely on her way back to her steadier self again.

I saw the sparkle return to her wan, brown eyes; and the red rouge come back to her pale cheeks. Should I ever forget what drawing can do for a human being  I will look at these pictures once again. 

When she first reached for the place-mark of that old appointment book, I was annoyed with her lingering illness and with myself for having held onto all these dozens of outdated appointment books - paper objects that had left me bound to the past, and clinging hopelessly to the idea that if I could just plan my days carefully enough that I might not be so fearful of the future. I had gritted my teeth as I began tossing the red- and black-covered journals into the trash. But when the red ribbon danced from the Lettes’ binding it lit Jenny up like a fuse. “Please give it to me, I want to draw in it,” she said as I handed the book over and helped her gather up her markers. 

She quickly began charting her way across the meridian of reminders cluttered with notes of my old appointments. Several hours later, she was still going strong, but I insisted that she stop and try to get some sleep. As sound sleep cycle was still eluding us. She nonetheless awoke early the next morning to continue drawing. 

“Look at all of these wonderful pictures you made. You draw so well,” I said as she moved her friction sticks swiftly over the pin-striped pages like a wind-filled sailboat cutting across Naragansett Bay.

“Well, dad, you know,” she replied, “Draw well, be well.”  She lifted her head to survey the colors of her many pens that lay before her, picked out several reds and oranges, and drew on fearlessly for hours. 

- Joe Gordon