and it still looks gross i'm sorry

Contrary to popular beliefs about Oikawa’s self-centered personality, he’s not the type to really take care of himself. He’s got naturally pretty hair and pretty skin and pretty face - he says he’s blessed by the Oikawa genes, everyone believes it to be true. 

But, again, he’s not the type to take time out for himself. He’ll cut his fingernails really short to handle the ball better and subconsciously bites what’s left out of anxiety. His hands are normally dry and rough, sometimes scraped if he landed wrongly on the ground from going after a ball; it’s a sad sight when you look at the bony structures of his wrists and his slender fingers that would, without a doubt, make his hands look beautiful if it weren’t for his lack of care towards them. 

The thing is that he doesn’t care what happens to his hands or his knees or his legs or his ankles - he’s focused on one goal and that’s to improve himself. He thinks he just needs his pretty face to get by so that his other imperfections are overlooked - and he manages to get by too, except with one person.

That one person that carries moisturizers and lotions in his bag, along with polysporin and bandages and tylenol and protein bars (and maybe milk bread, if he’s got the time to get some). He watches Oikawa flirt with danger, serve after serve, set after set, spike after spike. All until he feels it right in his bones that Oikawa’s about to hit his limit and he drags him out of the court, anxious but relieved. 

And in the silence of the locker room, Oikawa sits there in a blissful peace, letting Iwaizumi take his hands in his own and attempting to moisturize them, rubbing polysporin on the scrapes and cuts, whispering little warnings about overworking and not taking care of his body enough with furrowed brows. Oikawa lets his fingers wander around Iwaizumi’s jaw until his lips are kissing Oikawa’s hands - one by one, each finger, his palms, his knuckles. 

“Do they feel better?”

“Mhm, much better.”

Oikawa doesn’t really take care of himself, but he’s glad there’s someone out there that’s willing to take up the challenge. One day, he thinks, he’ll learn to love himself just as much as Iwaizumi loves him. 

 I think i finally found an official concept for my version of Manwë /Súlimo/ Mânawenûz Valahiru / Aran Einior/ Airbending master wait wrong universe nvm

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Look, I did a comic on the AMA! Factoring school and cosplay making in, this took me 2 weeks to finish. I am always super busy for some reason (yet i still get on here?). Anyway, If interested, I am selling prints of these! 1 for $5 and both for $8!

Sorry the occasional letter got cut off, the library scanners are gross

Don’t pick it.

You got hurt.

The wound slowly started to heal, but there was a scab.  And under the scab, there was pus.

You knew it would be better to let it simply heal.  But the pus was still there, and it made the scab hurt.  So you picked the scab off to let the pus out.  It looked gross, and you were kind of ashamed of what you’d done.  But then it didn’t hurt as bad.

Then it formed another scab.  Again, it started to heal, but there was pus, and the pressure hurt.  So you picked at it again.  The edge of the scab that you used last time wasn’t as raised this time, so you had to find another purchase.  Again, you picked it off, and let the pus out.  And it soothed the pain again, a little.

Then it formed another scab.  This time, it was flat, barely there.  There was no tangible purchase.  Nobody could see but a small red mark.  But it still hurt, so you picked and picked and picked to release the pus.  Eventually you tore the scab off, along with some surrounding skin, making the wound a little bigger than it was.  But there was no pus this time.  It just hurt.

Then it formed another scab.

This time, you picked it all clean.  The scab came off, exposing raw, wet flesh beneath.  You tore off the bits of loose skin that had been holding the scab, tore them like bits of shell off a hard-boiled egg until it was all flat.  Wet, raw, painful, and oozing, but flat.

There was no doubt this time that people could see what you had done to yourself. But it was flat.

And then it formed no scab.  The wound eventually healed without one.  But now there’s a scar, and you can’t help but remember how much it once hurt.

And the scar is raised, and you can find a purchase.

But please.  Don’t pick it.