unstoppable force (desire to write) vs immovable object (tired)

I write for myself

*checks AO3 every few hours to see if I got any new kudos, comments or subscriptions*

nonstop

Nationals Semifinals - Women’s Category

Kuroo Tetsurou prides himself on being observant.

"Mine!"

The scream echoes through the volleyball court. The sound travels around the space like a bullet, piercing through. He can feel it with the buzzing on his ears, the prickling of his arm hairs, the taut of his abdomen. There's very little room in this large gymnasium for anything other than your voice.

Right behind the court, Kuroo watches you as you spread your arms out, demanding room and stopping other players from trying to take the ball. The high ball gets caught in your expert hands, landing perfectly on the spiker’s hand near the net. Setting on the first touch is a risk. He can feel a tiny bead of sweat on his own forehead.

Kuroo Tetsurou loves volleyball.

He's also an excellent student, son and grandson, captain.

To him, all those things are real. Concrete.

He enjoys the game itself, the tactics, discussing new plays, trying to defeat the competition, improve his team. Being a captain is also important to him and he does it well, comforting the players when all they need are gentle words and confronting them when a firm stance is demanded. And he takes care of them.

He also likes studying. The comfort of providing right answers to tough questions proves in and of itself enough reward to someone who's so analytical, observant, smart. Opening up a book, gathering knowledge, putting that to the test—it's grounding and, god forbid, fun for him.

He's also someone one can rely on. The way his obaa-chan dotes on him, his dad prides himself on calling him "his son". An excellent friend too, with the way he watches over Kenma, always concerned with the younger boy—his eating and sleeping habits, his ability to communicate with the other players of the Nekoma volleyball team. He's the caring kind and, if you ask his obaa-chan, has always been this way, ever since he was a little kid.

So, it makes sense that there's little room for other things. Like, say, romance.

Kuroo Tetsurou is observant so, naturally, he knows.

He knows about the girls who swoon over him, whether they confess it on the hallway, with a letter or even an onigiri atop his desk every Friday for three months. The ones who don't say anything are only being slightly less obvious. The flitting of their eyes, blushing of their cheeks, twirling of their hands—it all points towards something that he's, by now, on his third year of high school, well aware of.

Kuroo supposes it makes sense. He is tall, with an athletic, muscly build, even if his body is more towards the lean side. He can't fix his hair for his life, but the more obvious girls have already pointed out to him that it's part of his charm. Plus, he is genuinely nice and tries to get along with everyone, shining his smirk to whomever crosses his path. So, yeah. It makes sense.

Kuroo Tetsurou, however, finds it all too abstract.

Maybe because he doesn't have the time, maybe because this romantic inclination has never hit him. Being a child of divorce might also factor in.

Still, there seems to be no substance to it, though.

Not that he doesn't get it, because he does. He thinks some of his suitors are pretty, there's a poster of a sake ad with a particularly busty lady in the boy's clubroom that catches his eye and he is, after all, high-schooler. But it remains too abstract.

The volleyball club, his almost spotless track record as a student, his home life. That's real, that's concrete.

The opposing team strikes and the ball hits Nekoma's blockers, flying to the end of the court. His eyes are now watching you, sprinting with all your might to catch the ball from the libero, sending in flying toward the ace.

Kuroo Tetsurou feels tethered.

This is also real. The way he can feel himself grounded, glued to the floor, like his own weight could be enough to open up a hole underneath him. The strap of his gym bag weighs on his shoulders, his hand griping it until it pales, his fingernails piercing the fabric. He can't tell if he's breathing too fast or not at all. His heart sits heavy on his chest, watching you.

Nekoma's match point has turned into a rally and god, this point belongs to this team. He's been watching them for a while now and knows how much they've grown, how they've improved into this well-oiled machine, the most important piece being, of course, you. The new setter.

With a philosophy that focuses on receiving and connecting, the women’s team had been suffering in the past two years when its former setter graduated high school. The backup only played volleyball for fun and as such, wouldn’t and couldn’t lead the team to Nationals. Now, it's only natural that Nekoma would rely so much on a player that managed to turn their last bad years around and bring them back to the basics: connection.

One of Nekoma's wing spiker strikes, but the ball gets stopped by the blockers on the other side. The libero digs, barely managing to catch it with an underarm pass, sending it high up and towards the other team’s side. It’s gonna be an out, Nekoma will lose this point, he thinks. Then, she shouts your name.

Kuroo holds his breath as he watches you run from the front of the court, under the net and onto the other side, your sneakers squeaking when you jump off the ground. You look like you're flying, both hands above making their way to the moving ball. You're untethered, he thinks, feeling himself get heavier. You make a pass to a spiker coming from the back, catching the opposing team by surprise, ball landing heavily on the ground, finally claiming this long rally and, with it, the match.

He closes his eyes and exhales, his grip going slack. When he opens them again, you're on the ground looking up, breathing heavily, clenching your firsts. Then you punch the court and let out a scream, being followed by your teammates as they pile on top of you, the backups running from the back of the court to celebrate with everyone.

Kuroo Tetsurou prides himself on being observant.

Yet a part of him feels like he's only now seeing things clearly.

taking your own advice is so hard. it’s “make bad art” this and “kill your perfectionism” that until i sit down with an idea i like. the i have to execute it perfectly Or Else

his beautiful brown eyes and big nose have bewitched me body and soul

Ocean Vuong, from “Eurydice”, Night Sky with Exit Wounds

y/n this y/n that how about your/nuts in my mouth shut up

Drawing a randomly generated Haikyuu character (almost) every day until I give up  

55. Kuroo Tetsurou

at least once a day you should read a poem that slices you clean in half. and then you go to the post office or something