Good afternoon! Here’s another one of my notes. Sorry for being inactive lately, I’ve been so unproductive sobs (´；Д；`) hope everyone’s having a lovely day. 💞
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Summary: Kuroko wasn’t sure when Kagami had become synonymous with home,
but at that moment, all he knew was that he always wanted dinner with this man.
Rating: G for good try Kuroko
Word Count: 1300+
A/N: This is my first fic for the Weekend At Home event!! It doesn’t follow any of the prompts, but I figured there’s nothing more domestic than cooking at home, so yeah~ Anyhow! I hope you all have been enjoying the works for the event so far, and I’m gonna try to get another fic posted tonight!! <3
The sizzling of the pan on the stove filled the kitchen,
along with steaming heat and popping grease. Mushrooms were gently sliced by a
careful hand, the tapping of the knife on the cutting board monotonous,
rhythmic. Nigou watched from his place on the floor, patient for scraps.
Kuroko paused in his cooking to smile down at him, wiping
his hands on the apron he borrowed from Kagami to scratch behind fuzzy ears.
In all honesty, Kuroko wasn’t really one for cooking. He
wasn’t particularly bad at it, but he also wasn’t particularly good at it. If
he had a recipe in front of him, then he could make simple dishes and decent
desserts. He just didn’t enjoy mixing ingredients, or stirring things in pots
and pans, or watching the gentle rise of a cake.
But sometimes he wanted to cook. It’s just that he
didn’t get much of an opportunity to cook. Not with Kagami living in the same
I can’t remember when I started to write out these little narratives. Concocted scenarios that never happened. Looking for just the right opening line, one with a sublime narrative hook. This doesn’t feel like art to me. I’m just making things harder than they have to be by mulling this over, replaying unwanted memories in an attempt to reshape the past. I guess that this is something that anyone who attempts to write does on one level or another. There are so many true stories from my past that I could never share, places I have found myself, that I cannot escape from still. And no amount of story telling will ever change them.
I’ve noticed that the older I get, the better I get at procrastination. Not that I put things off more than I used to, but that I have refined the process to the point that It almost appears that I am simply being patient rather than lazy. There is a common misconception that as people get older they somehow age like fine wine. This is such bullshit. As we get older, we perfect the skills acquired over a lifetime to hide our inadequacies. Turn our defects into some sort of pseudo eccentricities that we then pawn off on people who don’t really know us that well. We play the part of the patriarch or matriarch, in this bewildering role as an elder person. Wisdom does not come with the passing of years, but with the passing of vanity and diminishing ego.
It’s Camp Nanowrimo and I pledged to write 50k this month. After finishing one original novella length thing and almost finishing another, I realised my word count was flagging…time to turn to fic, where at least I wouldn’t have to do any worldbuilding.
Friends, I am writing the angstiest thing I’ve ever written. The experience of viewing s4 might have been terrible, but those leftover feelings of discontent and unfinishedness and the general sensation of having been treated badly is proving very productive, for me, at least.
I’ve also completed drafts of the next update on all my open WiPs, so come May, I’m going to be posting quite a bit, I think.