All Me

I finally made a title page! And the comic finally has an official name would you look at that high fives all around

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HEY I’m starting a comic! I’m not sure how long it’s going to be, but I CAN tell you it’s going to be so cheesy, like picture the cheesiest mac and cheese you’ve ever eaten- cheesier than that. I’m going to try to update once a week, so here we go!

This is her second year in the role, but he missed last time, so he’s so excited! He can’t wait to see his big sister dance! 

And then he sees him. 

In the role of the Snow King is a young prodigy named Akaashi Keiji. He’s a year younger than Koutarou, and his sister says Akaashi is “the best dance partner she’s ever had.”

Koutarou is immediately enamored. His eyes follow Akaashi wherever he goes on stage, despite Kai being the focal point of the routine. He’s lean, but obviously so strong, capable of lifting, throwing and catching his sister flawlessly. Effortlessly.

(Also, those tights look so good on him.)

Koutarou pretty much begs his sister to introduce them. “Please! I’ll do anything!” He cries as he unleashes the full force of his pout. “I don’t even care if he’s not available or interested in me! I just want to meet him!”

She finally relents after a week of his hassling. Koutarou attends the show again on closing night. He’s a bit nervous. The Nutcracker has been a huge hit, with critics and audiences alike praising the Snow Queen and King specifically. Akaashi’s name is on everyone’s lips; he's “the next big thing” in the Tokyo dance scene.

“Calm down, Kou,” Kai hisses as she leads him down the hall and towards the theater’s green room. “He’s just a person just like you. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”

Koutarou nods. Swallows. He holds his breath as they finally step into the room.

She's probably really relieved that they both also found special people who will look after them when she's gone. But for the time being, she's happy to still kiss their booboos and make them her special chikuzenni cause no one does it the way she does (or so Osamu says).

And as the years pass and she gets too old, her dear Atsumu and Osamu insist that she has to come and live with them, so she divides her time between the two.

She bonds with Rin over all the TV dramas when she stays with Osamu. He even sets up an IG account of her cooking. When it first started, she was known as Miya Osamu's mother, but lately Osamu has been known as Mama Miya's Baby instead. She has more followers than he does.

Sweet Omi spoils her like a princess when she stays with Atsumu. He also takes charge when she's feeling poorly. Atsumu frets on the verge of barely controlled panic, but Omi listens calmly and talks with the doctor. She reckons he knows her medical history better than she does.

Atsumu: Yer my moon

Kiyoomi, flushing and turning away: And you are my stars…

🐺😺 kghn abo hybrid au

Literally had a feral moment and had to sketch this out before I forget it-

There was more than a bit of irony in it, Harry thought, in dying this way.

Surviving six years of plots, a resurrected Dark Lord, and a bloody War. All for him to die in a Quidditch accident. The Boy Who Lived taken out by just a little bit of hubris and quite a lot of gravity.

McGonagall had finally been worn down by Harry’s excessive whinging about Eighth Years not being permitted to play on House teams. “But Professor,” he’d moped on more than one occasion, “don’t we deserve to have some fun after everything we’ve been through?” The stern lines of her face had slowly drooped into fond exasperation, allowing Harry—all Eighth Years, rather—this silver lining.

It was only now, his fingers slipping off the sweaty, glistening wooden handle of his Firebolt, a cry of “Fuck!” tumbling from his lips, that Harry wished he’d just let it go and committed himself to a year of diligent study like Hermione had suggested.

The snitch had pulled down at the last moment, and Harry — overconfident, overeager, and very much underprepared — had tried a move he was a good month or so away from having back in his arsenal. Biting November wind nipped at his cheeks, thrashing against his ribs and burrowing in his bones as he hung there. There’d be no Dumbledore to stop his descent this time.

Harry’s fingers cramped and he knew he’d fall, could feel the realization settle over him like some macabre veil. He felt the air rush through the still-growing gap that now existed between his fingers and his broom. He squeezed his eyes shut, flinching away from the sunlight that shone directly into his eyes, when he felt a pressure on his forearm.

Opening his eyes, Harry peered up, gaze zeroing in immediately on the long, nimble, fingers wrapped firmly around him. Sliding up further, he felt his eyes widen at the sight that greeted him: a similarly wide-eyed Draco Malfoy, ruddy and panting, shoulders and chest heaving under the leathers of his kit. His hair glowed against the backdrop of the sun and clouds behind him, illuminating his face like some kind of god, or at least the subject of a revered renaissance painting.

Harry swallowed, mouth suddenly very dry. “Malfoy…?”

Malfoy said nothing, opting to stare at Harry for a few raw seconds before he began lifting. Dance with Death evaded, Harry jolted into action, extending his free arm towards the free space at the back of Malfoy’s broom. They managed to pull him up onto the broom where Harry lunged forward, wrapping his arms frighteningly tight around Malfoy’s waist, cheek and ear pressed up against his back.

Eyes screwed shut once again, Harry heard only the gasping of his own shallow breaths and the thundering heartbeat of the body against his. He shivered, images rushing in unbidden of the reverse from only five months ago. A room aflame with acrid air.

Wind stung his cheeks, his nose. They were moving. After some indeterminate amount of time, he felt the gentle press of a hand against his knee pad. He opened his eyes to Malfoy’s head angled back towards him. He jerked his chin towards the unassuming Firebolt hovering in the air next to them, as if the blasted twig hadn’t just thrown Harry off.

Harry nodded against the solid muscle of Malfoy’s back before he carefully got back on his broom. The place where Mafloy’s fingers had been burned under the layers of protective gear and robes. They stared at each other, unblinkingly. No words passed between them. The air felt heavy between them, charged with something Harry couldn’t name.

Before long, the fickle snitch appeared in the small space between them, but neither of their gazes faltered.

Harry couldn’t remember how the game ended, couldn’t have been bothered to try, either. He must’ve caught the snitch, though, because he was aware of some hearty back slaps and congratulations among the crowd of mostly worried Professors and students. He barely registered the presence of Hermione and Ron at one elbow, a frazzled Professor McGonagall at his other.