#shimzus

 tanaka knows he’s a catch. it’s not arrogance if it’s a dream. 

quiet mornings are too easy to interrupt - tanaka never makes the effort to walk with lightfoot steps, so he knows kiyoko can hear him & smell his cooking. It smells better than it tastes, probably. or vice versa. 

a precarious cup of green tea rattles on the tray he carries; the cup is a little overfull, but the tea the perfect temperature. 

four more step brings him into the bedroom; five makes him stub his foot on the corner of the bed  - like he always does. the rattling teacup falls & drops perfect-temperature tea over the comforter. somehow it doesn’t shatter. nice. 

‘ well, the tea got overexcited, but the rest is all right - ‘ a bark of sheepish laughter escapes him. tanaka would rub at the back of his neck, but . . . his hands are still occupied. 

whoops.

since  joining  the  jackals,  he  had,  unfortunately,  become  accustomed  to  strange  questions  (  for  example  –  is  your  wrist  fake,  can  you  eat  soap,  do  you  think  i  can  successfully  achieve  this  backflip  i’ve  never  tried  –  you  know,  the  usual  ).

subsequently,  it  means  that  sakusa,  for  the  most  part,  has  began  to  stop  questioning  the  questions;  it  wasn’t  by  any  means  the  weirdest  he’s  been  asked.  instead,  he  merely  blinks  at  his  manager,  as  if  there  was  a  hidden  piece  to  this  puzzle  that  he  hadn’t  quite  noticed  yet.

@shimzus​​ said: “ " ushijima-san , down here , " shimizu gestures with her hand for him to lower down closer to her level , since she can't very well grow to his. she blinks , and wordlessly outstretches her fingers to pinch a bit of fluff from his hair. pulling softly —— not hard enough to rip out his hair , which she might have caught , too —— shimizu grasps it between her thumb and forefinger and flicks the fluff aside. " are your sweatshirts cotton ? you had a bit of what looked like it on your head ... " maybe he'd gotten it on him when he'd pulled his sweatshirt on and off , she thinks. but for little bits of fluff , sometimes it's difficult to understand where they really come from ... “

For many, Ushijima Wakatoshi is comparable to a rock, or a mountain. Huge, immovable, heavy, unbent, unbowed and unbreakable. The aura he projects is that of a force of nature - and that, he is, and aware of it too. What you see is what you get, most of the times, wherever Ushijima is concerned. But if he is a force of nature, perhaps he is more akin to a balsa tree than a mountain; and even the sturdiest bark nature has to offer can, under the right circumstances, bend and show a more supple side than its reputation affords it.

Like an old tree lending a close ear to a dryad, Wakatoshi lowers his high stature, so Shimizu can reach more easily. A small part of him whispers that Tendou would smile at his easy compliance - her intentions go completely unquestioned, even in the confines of his own mind. Wakatoshi is not exactly a trusting person - but perhaps there is a bit of candid naiveté to him that takes others at face value. No reason to doubt them until proven wrong. Shimizu has yet to prove him wrong. 

Delicate fingers brush against his hair, and he lets out a short “oh.” of realisation. “Thank you.” The slightest flash of surprise flickers in his eyes for a fraction of a second as she picks the fluff from his hair; a grateful nod granted to her as she discards it. “They are, but...” Uncharacteristically, Wakatoshi lets the words die on his lips, eyes trained on the bit of fluff carried away by the gentle autumn breeze. In someone else’s company, perhaps he would have left it at that; especially in the company of anyone from the unpredictable team of crows. But there is a quiet stillness to Shimizu that singles her out in the flock; that even their few quiet players do not possess. Appeasing. Inviting. 

shimizu quietly slips her hands around iwaizumi's midsection , drawing them tight around his waist as she presses the side of her cheek flat against his back. she can feel her glasses shift over her nose from the pose , but she doesn't particularly care. in fact , she says nothing and barely moves at all ... save for her hands , which flatten against his stomach and pat and rub it gently. pat pat , like a little drum. pat pat. her eyes close , and she settles her hands flat against him once more. if she knew morse code , then perhaps those little pats could have been something like a HELLO.

     sometimes, kiyoko is like a ghost. her footsteps disappear into the carpet, breath quieter than a whisper; and when you look away, she’s gone. even hajime gets a little apprehensive about letting her out of his sighs -- partially for fear that he may turn around and she really wouldn’t be there anymore. but instead of her absence, she gives him her affections. 

     he looks down, watching her lands lightly clap down on his stomach. rhythmic - but at the same time, absent. he places her hands over hers, warming her thin fingers with his own. he doesn’t move, knowing that she is comfortable here.

          ❛   — ? ! ? ! What the fuck was that for ?   ❜