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aclowntiny · 8 months

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Love is Blind- Joshua x Gender Neutral Reader

Word Count: 2130 | Blind Date, Fluff | Warnings: none hehe

"You're walking through a market, not going over your resume." Such were Seokmin's words as he tried to cut through your unease about the blind date he’d set you up on.

Shading your eyes against the sun, you sighed, your other hand falling into your pocket. "I know, I've just never done anything like this before, like how romantic can it be if-"

"Hey," Seokmin held up his hands, voice gentle, "don't pressure him or yourself too much, ok? It doesn't have to be romantic, especially if you don't want it to be. And hey, maybe you will." Such confidence flooded his smile, it was almost enough to ease your heart.

"Yeah, I know you're right, it's just weird to call it a date if it's basically just hanging out with a friend of a friend. Feels like making it romantic is the only thing that would....oh, I don't know," you gave up, unsure how to explain your confusion at the blind date concept.

"Trust me," Seokmin continued, this time rotating to face you and all but stopping you from walking with a hand placed on either of your shoulders, "he's a great guy and I'm ninety-nine percent sure you're going to super like him and I'm still convinced he's the one for you and when I'm right I'll be your best man and in my speech I'll say 'I told (y/n) so!'"

Shaking your head, you couldn't help but drop your gaze from your friend's smiling eyes with some small laughs. "Alright, alright, I'll trust you. But what do we talk about?"

"Anything you want!"

"That's not helpful," you playfully shoved Seokmin back off of you, his hands finally separating from your shoulders as they left warm prints, "what does he like?"

"Well, he likes to sing..."

"Ooh."

"See, I told you," Seokmin grinned at you.

What to wear? Blind date, so you don't know this guy's taste. Well, Seokmin did tell you he likes black and white. Not that you're going to deck out in a monochrome getup just to impress your blind date. That would probably have the opposite effect. But you did have a nice black shirt.

At least the weather was going to be perfect, you reflected as you pulled the shirt on, a beautiful sunny-with-a-breeze early fall day just designed to stroll through the market like you’d been set up to do with Joshua.

Joshua. That was the guy he said you'd be hanging out with. You and him had both almost in the same day whined about being single to Seokmin, who gasped and clapped his hands to his face and declared that you two were perfect for each other, how had he not seen it before??? Or at least that was how you and your date's mutual friend reenacted it.

Pretty much all you knew about the mysterious Joshua was his name, he was Seokmin’s friend, and that he liked to sing. No pictures, so you didn’t know if he was tall or short, if he had long hair or close-cut, dark or bleached or bright green. For all you knew, you’d sat next to each other in silence on a train before and now you were going on a date. Kinda weird. What if he took one look at you and didn’t want to give you the time of day? What if you felt that way after you met him? Would anyone be hurt?

Seokmin said Joshua was a great guy though, a total sweetheart and if that was true, he did sound like he might be your type. You always fell for the sweet ones and well, you had a thing for musicians. All he needed was long hair and a turtleneck and your cute guy fantasy was complete.

You snickered at your own mental joke as you laced up your shoes, grabbed your bag and keys, and made your way out of the comfort of your home and into your car.

“Well,” you commented to no one in particular, “it’s now or never.”

Heart pounding with the anticipation of meeting a stranger, having all those platitudinous interactions necessary of first introductions, you turned the key and pulled out of the driveway. Ready to stand outside the market until a stranger tapped your shoulder or held a sign with your name on it or something of the like.

You sighed. Why hadn’t Seokmin given you and Joshua each other’s number?

“Dork,” you commented as your hands turned the steering wheel, still smiling and shaking your head fondly at your friend through your faint fog of nerve-induced frustration.

When you arrived at the market, a bustle of popped umbrellas and fluttering awnings of every color, no one approached you, so you sat down on the fountain’s edge just outside the commotion, sighing beneath the crash of water as you watched a happy couple stroll past arm in arm.

Why couldn’t you do that? How was it so easy for them? Or had they been strangers once, meeting by chance or even by force as love crept into their eyes?

Your heart was really pumping. You sat up slightly, just enough to slide your phone out of your pocket, fingers gripping its flat surface with uncertainty. Should you text Seokmin? Confirm the four o’clock timeframe you’d been told again and again? Tell him to tell Joshua you were the nervous-looking fountain sitter in black, feel free to say-

“Ah, hello.”

How you avoided jumping you’d never know, but your head shot up from your stare at your still-locked phone to gaze upon an unfamiliar face. Black hair fell on either side of the most adorable smile you’d ever seen, cascading a bit down his neck. His eyes were beautiful, kind but bashful as he bowed. And he was wearing a white turtleneck of all things.

“My name is Joshua. Are you (y/n)? Seokmin told me to look for you outside the market.”

What was your name again? Who was Seokmin? “Oh, uh, yes, that’s me! I’m glad I wasn’t too hard to find,” you chuckled nervously.

“Not at all,” Joshua continued smiling brightly, oblivious to the butterflies bursting into flight inside of you, “you could have disappeared into the market already!”

“I wanted to wait for you,” you said, palming the bench’s wooden slats and cursing your slightly-too-quiet tone though you couldn’t help feeling a bit shy.

“Well I’m glad. I would have done the same,” Joshua chuckled, “no spoilers!”

“Y-yeah, exactly!” You stuttered, sliding your phone into your pocket and standing up. “Do you want to go now?”

“Of course! Anything you’d like to check out first?”

Such a gentleman, part of your brain said. Shush, you replied, weirdo. “How about all of it?”

“Sounds good to me!” Joshua agreed before continuing in a softer voice. “I just want this to be fun.”

He sounded legitimately concerned. Maybe he felt as weird about all this as you did, you reflected as your eyes flicked up, searched his. Perhaps you weren’t the only one who could do with the easing of some tension, you considered as you strolled down the sidewalk and past the first tent at Joshua’s side. For both of your sakes, you could provide that. Break up that monotony you’d been imagining, shatter the platitudes.

“It will be,” you reassured him with a smile, “we can do that. For example, let’s go loose at this person’s stall and find our favorite thing to show each other!”

Joshua’s expression eased. “Let’s do it!" He pointed one direction with each hand. "You go this way and I'll go that way!"

Agreeing, you took off toward some beautifully painted fans, pulling a couple of them out to peer at the gold detailing, but as your eyes drifted slightly upwards you saw them.

Little hand-painted cat figurines, each brightly colored, seated on their own cushion, and detailed with the same shining gold paint as the fans as they looked at you with angled, almost pleading eyes. You walked over and grabbed one on your favorite color of the cushions, convinced nothing at the stall would compare, not even the ornate water and wine glasses. You still looked through those just in case, though.

After walking all the way around the shelves of wares, you saw Joshua’s white-clad back and strode back over, tapping his shoulder. He jumped at first, but immediately smiled when he saw it was you. Warmth crept into your face at the expression.

“I found something,” you told him.

“I think I did too!”

“Alright, let’s show them off! One, two, three!” You count down before whipping out your tiny figurine sitting plaintively on the cushion it was glued on.

Joshua held up the very same thing, a little blue cat with round eyes laying like a loaf on a red cushion, all its tabby stripes lovingly added on in gold. Just like yours. He giggled.

“And here we thought we’d find something the other hasn’t seen!”

You couldn’t help but laugh a bit, too, unable to hold back your smile at the way you’d both relaxed. You could do this- you could make a great evening together, you and Joshua. “Let’s get them! We’ll have a matching set!”

Joshua lit up. “And we can give them matching names?”

“Of course!” You agreed as you started heading toward the register.

The lady who ran the stall glanced between you with very amused looks as Joshua plucked the cat from your hands and insisted on paying for it, which left you stuttering weak protests followed by flustered thanks. As you strolled back into the colorful fray, you and Joshua named the cats Kiki and Lala after Sanrio’s Little Twin Stars and decided they were best friends.

“Look, (y/n)! This stand is selling clothes!” In his excitement, Joshua grabbed your hand and all but yanked you over to a stand with a fancy purple awning, bringing you over to a rack of fine silks as he greeted the older couple standing guard over their wares. They smiled and waved back, chuckling in amusement as Joshua immediately took a hanbok off the rack and held it up by the hanger to himself. “What do you think, is this my color?”

The part held to his chest was a deep blue that did, in fact, somehow bring out his eyes in your mind. You nodded. “Totally. What’s my color, do you think?”

“Hmmm….” Joshua hummed in thought, shuffling gently through the rack until his fingers closed around another hanger. “What about this one?”

The set he’d pulled out for you was, coincidentally, your favorite color.

“Though I like just a simple black on you quite a bit, too,” he added with a nod toward your shirt.

Smiling, you thanked him and accepted the hanger, telling him of the coincidence as you held the garment up to your body.

“Looks like you can read me pretty well, huh?” You smile beneath the flowing fabric, nodding down to where it’s held. “What do you think?”

“Looks like it,” Joshua replied with a warm smile, “and I can tell that would look great on you.”

“…Yeah, so like beside that one professor, my major is pretty great,” you wrap up answering Joshua’s question about what you’re studying at the same time as you lower your chopsticks, meal complete.

After leaving a little food mart stall with plastic bags chock full of snacks to take home and try, the two of you went for a real meal, anxious to have time to set everything in your hands down as you were to share a treat.

Luckily for all your worries, the conversation had flowed nicely. Even the small talk felt natural, almost as if you were catching up, not first meeting. Joshua didn't leave you feeling awkward as you explained your studies, not like the campus video robot you usually felt like, describing the same things again and again like a broken record. Maybe it was the desire to satisfy that little spark you saw in his pretty eyes- somehow it didn't embarrass you, but encouraged you forward instead.

Joshua described being a part of his and Seokmin's group so maturely, with so much kindness and understanding and responding with wisdom even to hypothetical detractors as he said those words only gave them fuel to prove them wrong.

"I just want to help everyone do their best," he commented, eyes drifting off wistfully, "and I can't wait to see the amazing things you'll do in your future, too."

A flush rose to your cheeks at that. Joshua’s words felt so genuine, your hand reached up to your chest. “You really think so?”

He reached out with one hand, seemingly thought better of it, tugging on the collar of his turtleneck and burying cozily into the white knit with an upward quirk of his lips. Was he reaching for your hand on the table?

“I know so.”

“Seokmin thought you made up the little dipper?” Chest seizing with laughter, you peered at Joshua’s smiling face, the way he nodded.

“Yep. He thought I was trying to trick him,” your blind date responded, “said there was no way he’d fall for something that dumb. Well, imagine how our planetarium trip went.”

“He embarrassed himself in front of the docent, didn’t he?”

“He embarrassed himself in front of the docent,” Joshua repeated with a confirming nod and a giggle of amusement, “I forget about that sometimes. Great for when I need a laugh, though.”

“Oh, me too,” you added, “I am never letting him live this one down. Well, I’m really glad I brought up how pretty the stars were, then.”

“Me, too,” Joshua smiled, hand falling into, then back out of, his pocket, “I’m…well, I’m glad for all of this.”

“Like, life?” You asked, gaze rising back to the stars, flames of beauty dangling from inky black. They kind of reminded you of the reflections of the mist sprayed on Joshua’s dark hair by the fountain.

“Well, that too,” he smiled at you as your sudden thought had you venturing a glance back his way, “but I was talking about today.”

“I had a great time, too,” you replied, heart rate suddenly rising beneath you like a rug had been pulled out from your chest, “to be honest, I had no idea what to expect, but the moment I saw you, I knew it was going to be ok. And it was. Well, it was more than ok.”

“So you’d think about doing it again?” Joshua asked, smile widening with excitement so palpable it almost blew you away.

“I already have,” you said, hoping you looked as smooth as you felt. Probably not, but hey, the bridge and the stars and every little coincidence that had fallen into place between you two had to give you some points.

“That makes me really happy,” Joshua breathed, eyes shining as he shyly reached out, fingers brushing yours and gripping tighter when they felt yours offer access.

So maybe he had almost gone for it at the table. Like the strongest of makeup all the youtube people made videos on, nothing could wipe the smile off your face then.

You opened your mouth to speak, to reach for some joyful words of your own, but before you could, your phone gave the unmistakable chirp of a text. Eyebrows raising, you pulled your phone out of your pocket with the hand that wasn’t holding Joshua’s.

Text message

Seokmin ☀️: Well, was I right or was I right? 😏

Me: Righter than you were about the little dipper 👀 Seokmin ☀️: alright forget the best man speech this means war Joshua 😤

You looked back to the stars, the distant streetlamp light descending upon your walkway, the former bustle that was the marketplace, and all your worries of the morning floated away, lodging their place in all the other memories the day had made.

#seventeen #seventeen imagines #seventeen reactions #seventeen x reader #seventeen scenarios #joshua #joshua x reader #joshua x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #blind date #fluff

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 10 months

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Every Color Illuminates

1200 Words for 1200 Followers #1

A/N: Hi friends! Welcome to the 12-A-Palooza! This event is my way of saying thank you for sticking with me. Your support and kindness toward me and my writing is out of this world and I’m grateful for every last one of you! Kicking it off with a fun one today. I definitely just leaned HARD into this AU, so I hope you all enjoy!

Warnings: none really, just a smidge of angst

Requested by: @haylzcyon - Song Choice: Spectrum - Character Choice: Marcus Pike (thank you SO MUCH for this one, Hayley!! I know he’s your numero uno, so I hope you enjoy this! 💚)

Summary: Your job keeps you surrounded by some of the most stunning pieces of art known to man. Too bad you can only see them - and the whole world for that matter - in black and white.

I need a break.

Closing your eyes, you sank into your chair and sighed. It was only 11:30, but you were considering taking your lunch an hour early. You had no meetings that day, and your next tour wasn’t until 2. None of the emails in your inbox were so time sensitive that they couldn’t wait for you to get back.

I need to clear my head.

The morning tour had been an inquisitive group, wringing you dry with questions and requests for detailed descriptions. They were precisely the kind of guests that you took the job as CA to accommodate - passionate, longing for connection, searching for understanding, new means of expression. You were proud to be the one to guide them, privileged to be the one that got to see them moved to tears when they found what they were looking for in the works in gilded frames or on marble pedestals. Art was a wide, wild world of beauty and sorrow, romance, revolution, pain and pleasure. The waters were deep for anyone to navigate, especially those who hadn’t matched and were limited to shades of gray.

You were grateful to be able to gift them color, even if only for a few moments. Even if it left you feeling drained and achingly alone sometimes.

As someone who still saw the world in grayscale, you were uniquely suited for the position. Everything that you knew about color had been painted for you by someone else, too. You were the first Graysight Color Ambassador that the National Gallery of Art had ever employed. If guest satisfaction surveys were any indication, you were also the best, Graysight or not.

You loved your job, even when it reminded you that out of everyone you’d ever met, none of them had been your match. None of them had made such an impact on your life that your eyes had opened to the full spectrum of light and color. For as good as you were at translating hues into feelings, you’d never actually seen or felt them yourself.

There were some days when you wondered if you ever would, or if you would remain in monochrome solitude forever.

Not all matches were romantic. They happened whenever two souls that were meant to share their lives with one another met. Sometimes they were instantaneous, a flood of shining color crashing through both of you the moment your match said your name or touched your skin for the first time. Other times it was gradual, grays giving way to muted tints until eventually they became red, blue, orange, green and every variation and combination.

You’d witnessed it happen, two people meeting for the first time at the museum - whether predetermined or by chance - and immediately being surrounded by colors, swaths of new sensations. You watched as people fell into one another’s arms, their faces seeming to glow with the knowledge that they had found their match, they had colored their world. And you were overjoyed for them when it happened - like it had that morning in your Graysight tour of the Rothko exhibit.

That didn’t make it easier, that happiness you felt for others who found their way out of the shadows while you were still relegated to them.

I just need to go for a walk.

You’d been in your office for less than five minutes, and were about to leave it again to take your break when you heard a knock. The director’s voice accompanied the sound, your name coming through the mahogany door that you knew was a reddish brown but could only see as grayish black. “Are you in there?”

Yes, but I don’t want to be.

Trying not to groan, you rubbed your eyes and nodded, giving your response. “Yeah, Michelle.” You dropped your hands to your desktop, releasing a breath.”Come on in.”

“Oh, good, I-” The door swung open and your boss appeared, her face falling when her eyes landed on yours. “You okay?” She came into your office and closed the door behind her, forehead furrowed in concern. “Your eyes are red.”

You waved one hand and gave her a smile that you hoped would cover the sting you still felt. “There was a match on the morning tour.” Rolling your still-watery eyes, you let out a stunted laugh. “Always gets me, you know?”

That seemed to be a good enough response, Michelle’s lop-sided frown being replaced by a grin. “Oh! Wonderful!”

“Yeah.” You nodded, melancholy still lingering in your chest. “It was.” Clearing your throat, you blinked. “I was thinking of taking my break early today, unless you needed something?”

Please say no.

“Actually-”

Fuck.

“I know you just finished the Rothko exhibit, and I know it’s hard for you to dive right back in, but-” She sucked air through her teeth. “There’s someone who needs a private tour ASAP, and I need you on this one.”

Your silence spoke for you, so she went on.

“The FBI is sending someone from their art crimes department.” She shook her head, gesturing with one hand. “They’re investigating a fraud case, but the Agent in charge isn’t familiar enough with real Rothkos to be able to spot the fakes, so he needs a crash course. Since we’re the closest museum currently showing the collection…” She trailed off, shrugging.

You tried not to wince. “Michelle, can’t Charlie or one of the regular guides take him through?”

She clicked her tongue. “Sorry, but it has to be you.” Before you could ask why, she continued. “The Agent requested our Graysight CA.”

That means…

You assumed someone working for the FBI’s art crimes division would have to have matched, would need to see color. But then, most people would say the same about you and your profession. It seemed that you had at least one thing in common.

“O-okay. What time?”

She tilted her head from one side to the other, giving you a sheepish look. “He’s here now.”

Oh.

Standing, you smoothed out your top - a blue one, or so the label told you. “Well, can’t keep the FBI waiting, right?”

You followed Michelle down to the roped off exhibit. “He’s right through there. When you’re finished, take the rest of the day off. Charlie can do your 2:00.”

With that she left, and then you saw him.

A tall, broad shouldered man in a dark suit walked towards you. Even from a distance you could tell that he had a kind face. His eyes started smiling before his lips did, but they caught up as soon as he was in front of you.

“Agent Marcus Pike.” He introduced himself, right hand extended for you to shake.

You smiled and told him your name.

But the moment he repeated it back to you, when your palms met, both of you gasped as the room around you exploded in prismatic color.

Brown. His eyes are brown.

“Marcus?” You whispered his name as purple and red swam in your peripheral, safe and warm overwhelming your thoughts. “I… don’t think you need me to-“

“No. I do.” He said your name again to send another shimmering rush through you. “I definitely do.”

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be added to or removed from the tag list, please feel free to let me know. You can also fill out the form on my Masterlist! :)

Tags: @something-tofightfor @littlemisspascal @mishasminion360 @nyctophiliiiiaaa @alraedesigns @practicalghost @tanzthompson @amb11 @harriedandharassed @woodlandmouth @swtaura @thescarletfang @trickstersp8 @princessxkenobi @imtryingmybeskar @wildmoonflower @mswarriorbabe80 @theredwritingwitch @silverstarsandsuns @pedro-pedrito-pascalito @jedi-in-crocs @hannahkatharinee

#12 a palooza!#1200 followers 1200 words #marcus pike x female reader #marcus pike x f!reader #pedrostories #marcus pike x you #soulmate au #marcus pike the mentalist #marcus pike fic #pedro pascal character #every color illuminates #SoundCloud

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not-poignant · 1 year

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PIA. WHAT. please tell us about being a professional tea taster!!!!

Ahahaha, there's honestly not much to tell!

I fell into it completely by accident. I didn't actually even used to like tea, but that was because my only exposure was like, the milky sugary shit my english side of the family used to give me, and turns out, I don't like milk or sugar in my tea! I would've liked it just fine if they'd given it to me without those things.

(No shade to people who like milky sugary tea, I believe that stuff is the bomb if you love it, especially with biscuits).

However, a friend's older brother was just starting to be the first place in Western Australia to import in very high quality green, white, oolong and pu-erh teas into the state, and would do so by touring through China first, etc. This was before green tea drinking was really a 'thing' here (late 90s, early 00s), so they were here before any of the 'boutique' tea shops etc.

I started getting involved in tea ceremonies through said friend, started tasting the teas, and eventually we all realised I had a pretty good palate for it, and so I engaged in further training to help them write out their labels / brands etc. and eventually became a tea taster. I specialise in green and oolong, and started to get into white, but I think I miss too much of the nuance to do much more except enjoy it, lol.

Unfortunately their company never went far, they were outcompeted due to being at the crest of the 'green tea drinking is a thing' and while I kept it up for a while, I decided I didn't want to go the tea sommelier route (pairing tea with food), and just kept it up as a general skill, doing tea reviews for a couple of websites.

When I developed anemia, I had to stop drinking tea for a long time, because tea is actually one of the worst things you can drink if you have iron deficiency or any kind of anemia (yes, really, ask your hematologist if you don't believe me).

I can probably have about one/two cups a day now, and I'm one of those elitist bitches who has the temperature kettle (certain teas are best brewed at specific lower temperatures), and only drinks loose leaf tea with no milk, honey, lemon or sugar in sight and sets all my brewings to strict temperatures. But that's just because that's the way I like it. I can't stand matcha, unless it's in a matcha tiramisu. And my personal taste means nothing, because it's about other people's personal tastes. The tea you like says nothing in particular about you, except that you like it. :)

I once had a moment when we had some tradespeople come over and I offered them coffee/tea, and when they said tea, I realised they wanted like... a teabag brewed tea with milk and sugar and on the day we had no milk (I'm lactose intolerant) and only had green teas and I felt so embarrassed, lmao, so now I always carry some teabag tea for guests.

This is now my favourite brand:

And this is what they all look like.

I go through them a lot more slowly than I used to! And I don't drink much black tea anymore sadly due to reflux, but I'll still make time for it.

I can talk a little too much about different provinces, aging techniques, and more, but not enough to do it as a job anymore. But I loved it when I did it and I still love sharing green tea with the friends who love it these days.

Lmao me like 'there's not much to tell' but still manages to turn it into like 100 paragraphds fasdlkjfsa

#asks and answers #personal #i don't make tea enough to be honest #valley green tea are a lovely company #and for the australians #T2 is bullshit lmao #if you like it that's cool but don't say it's fancy or high grade tea #because it's not lmao #it wasn't when it started and it's gotten worse with time #anyway yeah so my family are big tea drinkers #but i used to be like 'i HATE tea' all my life #and then one day i had an oolong on its own #properly brewed #and my entire life changed fdsalkfjsa

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percervall · 1 year

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what if I love you?

Player: Jordan henderson Words: 870 Warnings: Fluff Request: Receiving flowers - Maybe one where the Reader is a younger physio who doesn't think he notices her until he sends her flowers on Valentine's day? A/N: Asndsd i love this idea so much??? hope I did it justice!

title from Gatlin's What If I Love You?

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Seeing the vase on top of her desk made her stop in her tracks. She quickly looked around to see if the person who left them was still around, but the corridor leading to her office was empty. Dropping her keys and tablet onto her desk, she took in the bouquet. The majority of the flowers were in similar shades of pink, very close to her favourite hue, mixed with a few white and cream ones. She ran a finger over the petals of one of the peonies and felt her lips tug up in a smile. Turning the vase around she looked for a card, finding it tucked away between two roses.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” a voice came from the open door. She felt her cheeks heat up as her best friend and colleague Jess stood in the doorway.

“I’m sure it’s just someone being nice, I did just get my Masters in Sports Medicine,” she replied, not fully believing her own explanation. Jess hummed in a way as if to say yeah, sure. Even though they’d only been working together for six months, she and Jess had hit it off from the moment she became part of the medical staff at Liverpool.

“I doubt Klopp would send you pink flowers to congratulate you, babe. What does the card say?” She had to admit Jess had a point there. Although the Liverpool manager sometimes acted like a dad for everyone he employed, she too doubted he’d send her this type of bouquet. She slid the envelope open and pulled out the thick cardstock.

Happy Valentine’s Day! I didn’t know how to tell you in person without losing my nerve, but I’ve had a crush on you from the moment we met that day in the foyer of the AXA. Been trying to ask you out for months, but instead I’d end up making up some vague injury that needed looking at because the moment you look at me, I’m gone. So here goes: Can I take you out for dinner? Tonight maybe?

She read the card and then re-read it a second and third time, just to make sure it actually said what it said. She felt her cheeks heat up at the memory of the first time she met him. She had just joined the club and was still trying to find her way around the training grounds. Her arms had been full with supplies for the treatment room and she didn’t notice she still had one more step to go coming down the stairs. “Careful!” someone had said, as she collided against him with a tiny shriek. The boxes had fallen, but luckily he had caught her.

“S-so sorry!” she had tried to apologise, momentarily forgetting what else she was going to say when she looked in those bright blue eyes. Jordan had chuckled, making sure she was okay as his hands lingered a little longer than perhaps necessary on her waist. When his fingers brushed against hers as he handed her the fallen boxes, she could’ve sworn she felt a spark of something pass between them. And this remained in the weeks and months that followed. They’d steal glances at one another when they thought the other wasn’t looking, hands would linger a little longer than needed when hugging or when she treated his injuries. She thought it had all been in her head, but now to see it written quite literally in black and white, it took her a while to let it sink in that all this time he had felt the same way.

“You okay?” Jess asked, pulling her from her thoughts. She blinked, trying to clear the fog of memories.

“Y-yeah. Sorry, I have to go,” she mumbled and left her office, still clutching the note to her chest. She made her way down the corridor and saw the team was wrapping up training. Pulling on her puffer coat, she walked outside. Nervous butterflies settled in the hollow of her chest as she spotted the Liverpool captain. She swallowed hard and kept walking until she was almost in front of him.

“Hey,” she said, fidgeting with the note.

“Hey,” Jordan echoed, cheeks flushed. She wondered whether that was just because of the cold.

“I-.. Thank you. F-for the flowers I mean. How did you know peonies are my favourite?” Jordan shrugged. “I might’ve overheard you mention it to Jess once,” he said quietly, not quite meeting her eyes now. She was quiet for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. She had not thought this through when she left her office.

“Also found your note,” she all but whispered, looking down at her hands that were fidgeting with the folded piece of cardstock.

“You did?” She nodded, meeting his eyes. He looked at her, eyes full of hope.

“To answer your question, yes. Yes, I’d like that very much.” The smile that tugged at his lips squeezed her heart. He brushed his lips against her cheek, making her stomach fill with butterflies.

“Pick you up at 7?” he asked. She nodded, skin burning where his lips had touched.

“Great,” Jordan said, grinning now, “It’s a date.”

She couldn’t wait.

Tags @football-and-fanfics @kostasstsimikass @lfc21

If you want to be added to the tag list click here

#football fanfic #football oneshot #football drabble #jordan henderson fanfic #jordan henderson oneshot #jordan henderson drabble #liverpool fc fanfic #liverpool fc oneshot #lfc fanfic #lfc oneshot #lfc drabble #boyfriend material fics

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shions-new-blog-of-stuff · 7 months

Text

"The New Host"

Plaga Leon x OC, CW: Suicide mention/thoughts

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

The next night

Catherine walked out of the bathroom, in cow print pajamas, brushing her hair. Leon had his back turned to her, watching something on the black and white TV. He had showered before her, and was given a box of clothes, a gift from her uncle. Mainly plain t shirts and pants, plus some undergarments and sleepwear. Anything was better than those hospital clothes that always smelled of antiseptic. He was wearing a slightly oversized plain blue T-shirt and baggy white shorts.

Leon was now more active at night, due to the parasite. The sedatives finally wore off, and the marks from where an IV was placed in his arm had long since closed up.

"Hey..." Catherine called out, "Mind if I...ask you something?"

Leon turned to face her as she sat close to him on the bed, "Yeah. It's about me, isn't it?"

"You could tell, huh?"

"It was gonna happen eventually."

"How exactly did you get infected...I was there with Ashley, when we used Luis' machine."

Leon reached to hold Catherine's hand.

"The ones we had, we did get rid of them," he replied, "However, Saddler had one last trick up his sleeve. When I tried to retrieve the sample everyone was after, something from his corpse stung my arm. Like how a jellyfish does even if it's dead, best I can put it."

Leon sighed, "Remember when we got back to land, the blood tests and all? We came out healthy. I felt completely fine...until after the concert sometime afterwards."

He continued to retell the events surrounding his infection. The symptoms were more or less the same--loss of consciousness, convulsions, and coughing up blood. This particular strain of the parasite had essentially hidden within his body for a while, waiting for just the right time to reveal itself.

Osmund Saddler must be laughing from beyond the grave.

And so Leon was confined to a sterile room, his only company was a parade of people in surgical masks and gowns, occasionally being wheeled around for X-rays and injections. Though the lab could recreate Luis' suppressant pills, they had little to no effect. Surgery would mean that while the parasite would die, its host would die along with it.

Leon wanted to end it all, while he was still himself. He never wanted to become the very thing he had been sent out to destroy.

During the last days before he felt his body change completely, his hearing had sharpened, and could catch almost entire conversations outside his room. He could hear Morgan arguing with other lab staff.

Then came the fateful night--Leon felt his body grow unbearably hot, and freeing himself from his restraints he found himself on his knees in the middle of his room. It felt like a repeat of his dream in the cabin by the lake, but this time it was real.

Lying on the floor, hand twitching, his surroundings being washed over by shades of red. He saw familiar faces flash before his eyes, and then everything went black.

Catherine raised her free hand, "Th-that's enough for now..."

"It's a lot to take in, I know," Leon replied, holding her close.

"I'm okay, I am..."

Parasite or no, I'm glad you never forgot about me.

@squashfics @mishwanders @notrattus

#infected Leon x OC

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micahthemoon · 7 months

Text

September 17 2023 My last living grandparent passed away today. The day Billie Joe Armstrong’s dad passed away as well. It just occurred to me while writing this entry that this is the case. But that is not what I want to talk about.

Let’s have a disclaimer here: I will NOT be limiting my words for this one. I will just type/say what I need to say. It will turn as long or as short as it needs to be. Because today I want to talk about the conflicting feelings, I have about my grandmother not being with us anymore.

We were close when I was younger. Yet when she was diagnosed with dementia I must admit I tapped out. It didn’t help that she was one of the few not knowing about my new name or identity since my mother made me keep it a secret since “my grandmother just wouldn’t understand at her age and with dementia and all that”.

The few times I then visited my grandmother I was constantly waiting to be misgendered, hearing my deadname and getting talked to and about like I was still the little girl, my grandmother knew. The best days where those she didn’t mentioned my name at all. Or acknowledge my presence, really. So why even be there if I felt it better that I wasn’t? It is a horrible way of thinking about it, but this is the truth. I didn’t want to be there even if she was still the happy and amazing self she had always was if only a bit more confused and stuck in the past. I didn’t want to be reminded that I could never be honest with her and that she would never get to know me.

All this has culminated in my feelings at her passing being a tumbled mess.

I am sad to know that a person I loved and cherished is no longer with us. At the same time, I am happy that she got her peace. She hasn’t had it easy the last few years. I have been told recently that she was fading away and couldn’t stay away for more than a few hours at the time up to her passing.

I feel shameful for not doing more for her and for not being a better grandchild. And yet I also feel relieved not to keep up this façade anymore and that now everybody in my family still alive knows who I am and the journey I’m about to embark on.

I feel sad that I didn’t get to show her my authentic self although I understand that this might not have done anything good either way. New information is near impossible to take in when you have dementia so me trying had a possibility to just hurting both me and my grandmother more in the process. But because I didn’t tell her I feel selfish, and I feel selfish for now feeling a burden is off my shoulder, and I feel selfish for not feeling more sadness outside of myself and my stupid gender identity.

I am wearing all black today. I have been making an Instagram story dressing up to Welcome to the Black Parade. I will probably blast Wake Me Up When September Ends after writing this. This are all ways I feel like grieving. Yet I also feel horrible for doing this because this is all things connected to me and not to my grandmother. My grandmother had no clue who either My Chemical Romance or Green Day were. Would she even care if I had told her this was what I was going to do? Shouldn’t I instead look back on old photos and smile and cry and remember all the great times we had together? Making the day about her instead of me?

And yet when I look back at old pictures, I see the lie. I see the girl my grandmother thought I was up to the very end.

Life is not black and white. It is shades of grey. While today I wear black and try to keep my thoughts about my grandmother as white as I can, I know this isn’t the case for life or for my feelings themselves. Every bright memory has a shadow side.

Yes, I am sad to say goodbye to her. But I am also relieved that she is gone. In all this emotional mess, I mostly just feel numb.

#transgender #transmasc #nonbinary #gender identity #deadname #misgendering #passing of loved one #entry #findingmicah

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hellobunny044 · 8 months

Text

Panels. | Series

panel. in manga art, panels refers to the frame that wraps around one moment in time.

********************************************************

an original Haikyu AU pairing Udai Tenma (the og little giant

warning!!: containing some manga content.

word count: 5190

********************************************************

Panel - 5

“Udai-san,” From across the table somewhere in weekly shonen building, Akaashi’s voice rang greeting him, “I hope you've been well.”

Udai had come to the office to show Akaashi the rough sketch of the 24th volume of Zombie Knight Zomb'ish.

“Yes, Akaashi-san. I’ve been doing very well.”

“With the manga?”

“Yes.”

Catching the way the editor glanced briefly with a judgmental look so loud in his face, Udai immediately added more weight to his claim. “I mean, I came here a day before the deadline, right? Let’s firstly agree to that, please?”

“Well… that one’s right, so,”

Udai grinned, “That’s more like it.”

Akaashi did not give any formal sign when he began.

It’s not a secret anymore that the very man sitting before him is—and he bet will forever be—a strict editor.

Critical, thorough, perfectionist, and sometimes demanding, would be some of those perfect terms to describe Akaashi Keiji as his editor. His precision in work could sometimes be so overwhelming, but in some parts of the story, he was probably the most befitting person there is to fill the role of Udai’s editor.

The room hung heavy with anticipation as Akaashi immersed himself in the macabre pages that Udai had sacrificed countless hours to birth. His eyes scrutinized the black and white strokes, carefully etched with an almost ethereal precision.

For a long time the room was filled only with the denseness of Akaashi’s silence as he struggled with the rough manuscript Udai had brought to her. On the other side of the manuscript where his hands were quite free, he occasionally fiddled with the pen between his fingers. His eyes, rather than those of a young owl, looked more like those of a young hawk.

That was Akaashi Keiji on days like this from Udai’s perspective.

“So, what do you think about it, Akaashi-san?”

“The shading on this panel is uneven, the proportions on this character are off on this and this panel.” Akaashi criticized, not mincing his words.

Udai felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He had poured his heart into this volume, spending countless hours carefully crafting each panel, yet it seemed it wasn’t good enough.

Laughing that one off bitterly, he said, “As always expected from your words, super sharp, super precise.”

“I only gave necessary critics to make sure that the manga is doing well.”

“Then I suppose I am to make the necessary changes,” Udai replied, nodding.

“That goes without words.”

“Geh!”

Akaashi sighed, taking off her glasses for a moment after struggling with the rough sketch script.

“The overall plot in this volume is very interesting. ”

Udai sighed almost like someone in pain, “Of course. I literally poured my heart, soul, and body into this.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course!”

“In that case, how about starting the same thing about your time management, Udai-san?”

Udai seemed to be slapped by Akaashi’s question coming at him. Half defending himself, he said, “I’m on time.”

But when Akaashi looked at him, he immediately continued with. “Though not always.”

Akaashi sighed.

“However,” Udai then quickly continued before Akaashi could do anything. “At the very least, I’m always trying my best. But, you know, out of ten attempts made, it is very rare that the success rate would go for 10/10, right?”

“You can, if you apply a task-focus on every attempt.”

“Geh!” Udai gave an expression of dislike listening to what Akaashi had to say, bored by something about the editor's task focus. “After all, it’s all about that task-focus thing, huh?”

Udai sighed, “Akaashi-san, you really are so demanding.”

Akaashi wiped his glasses carefully and distractedly, once in a while, responding to Udai’s words.

“Anyway, I’ll try to give it my best for the last five volumes, and more than anything, I’ll give Zomb'ish the best ending.”

“Right.”

“Then after that, when Zomb'ish ends, I’ll start drawing storyboards for my next work.” Udai’s eyes sparkled with determination. The smile that bloomed on his face laced with confidence.

Just before putting her glasses back on, Akaashi had smiled. A curved line that remained a 1% part of Akaashi Keiji, a young weekly shonen jump editor who was known for being strict and perfectionist.

“You look so pumped up about that, Udai-san.”

“Of course!”

Sometimes, at certain times, Udai’s fiery spirit reminded him of Bokuto Koutarou. Traveling back to high school days in a split second through the artist’s behavior made Akaashi feel quite sentimental. However, Akaashi Keiji is still Akaashi Keiji.

Udai turned to Akaashi, “I’ll start working hard from now on, so please be prepared because I’ll be coming nonstop for consultations. This time it will be more frequent!”

“I’ll be really grateful if that really happens.”

Udai almost choked on his own breath. Quickly coming out of his embarrassment by Akaashi’s point, Udai immediately exclaimed, almost scowling if he did not remember that he was an adult, a grown-ass man.

“Akaashi-san, you shouldn’t look down on me like that! If you continue like that, I’ll really teach you a lesson!”

“I’ve prepared myself for that, Udai Sensei.”

Udai was stunned to hear the formal calling that came only whenever Akaashi was in his most serious editor mode. Sure enough, this time Akaashi looked serious as he carry on.

“Knowing that an end must come is all the more reason to begin anew.”

The editor’s hand adjusted his glasses in the closing sentence.

“Let’s keep giving it our very best, Udai Sensei.”

Udai then responded politely to that sentence. “Yes, sir.”

“Regarding your next work,” Akaashi continued, “first of all, rather than anything about your next works, you should finish Zomb'ish first. Let’s give our best for every last volume that will be published.”

A smile gradually spread across Udai’s face, its curves askew. Perhaps this time, with Akaashi’s encouragement, Udai felt a greater sense of confidence. “That goes without saying. After all, Akaashi-san, didn’t I tell you? I will work hard seriously after this. You’ll soon understand how serious I am!”

Udai looked up at the sky from the window. Akaashi no longer attacked him with criticism or other insinuations. It was quiet, and Udai could clearly hear the rumbling of his passion to give his best on the last five volumes left to finish Zombie Knight Zomb'ish.

Having had enough of gazing up at the sky, letting his hopes for the final five volumes of the manga fly, Udai moved on. He returned to Akaashi who still had a bit of work to do, diligent as always. For a moment, he peered at something Akaashi had written on the stack of papers he was reading, completely uninterested in whatever it was. Then, his gaze wandered and stopped on the analog clock on the editor’s desk that was still neat despite the several stacks of papers on it. A total contrast to Udai’s kind of tidy desk at home.

Looking at the clock reading eleven o’clock, Udai muttered something about Oh? It’s almost lunchtime.

“Akaashi-san,”

Akaashi paused.

“It’s almost lunch time.”

Choosing to look at her watch, Akaashi also muttered something about oh? It's lunch time already.

After reading Akaashi’s gesture, Udai pointed behind him while saying, “I know a good restaurant nearby. Want to try have lunch there?”

“Although I appreciate your offer, I have to pass this time.”

“Heee? What’s with your answer? You’re so weird, Akaashi-san.” Udai almost pouting.

“As you can see, I’ll be a little busy.”

“They don’t always pay you extra for working an extra hour, you know.”

“That is indeed true.”

“Then?”

“I will stay in my office for some time. I’m afraid that someone will make a last-minute surprise visit at lunchtime.”

Although Akaashi’s last sentence was spoken almost half-mumbled, Udai managed to catch a few things.

“Huh?”

Akaashi looked at Udai and said, “I’ll join next time, Udai-san. Thank you.”

Udai sighed then got up. “Okay.”

Akaashi, who probably noticed how Udai wiped his already quite long hair behind his ears as he packed up his things, said something.

“Udai-san,”

Udai turned briefly at Akaashi, and replied with a hum.

“Just wondering,”

“About what?”

“If you ever consider tying your hair.”

Udai did not immediately stop, but his attention was drawn to Akaashi’s words about tying his hair. He was also quite surprised that there was something else—beside his obsession with chips that could not be helped—that Akaashi also noticed outside of their professional relationship as a manga artist and editor.

They were definitely two different person when it came to things like this. If Udai was the as long as it doesn’t get in the way —type, then it was clear that Akaashi Keiji was the before it gets in the way —type.

“Also, Udai-san,”

“Hm?”

“Schweiden Adlers have a match scheduled for later this month.”

“Oh? They have?” Udai’s eyes lit up.

“Yeah. You’ve been watching Hoshiumi Senshu’s matches all this time. Why don’t you try going to see it in person once in a while?”

Udai returned the question, “What about you, Akaashi-san?”

“Watching the combination of Kageyama, Hoshiumi and Ushijima is satisfying, but I’d rather not being called a traitor.”

Udai’s laughter broke out at Akaashi’s words, “It’s true! If I’m not mistaken, Akaashi-san and Bokuto Koutarou from Black Jackals were partners during high school, right?”

Akaashi answered briefly.

“They were all feisty, Black Jackals or Adlers.” Udai smiled.

“Someone from Black Jackals, if I’m not mistaken, once idolized you a lot, right, Udai-san?”

“Ah— him? Yeah. Hinata Shouyou. Right. Kind of.” Udai smiled, remembering a particular person with distinguished orange hair. Someone whose wings were ten times stronger than his when he was his age.

The atmosphere was awkward and silent. For a moment, Akaashi thought that this would be a situation where Udai would get sentimental about his volleyball career stalling out. But no. Udai smiled at Akaashi and said, “I’ll watch the match from home. After all, I’ve given my word to my esteemed, strict editor to work harder on the last five volumes. Task focus.”

Udai studied how Akaashi looked off-guard in the last part where he quoted something that was his trademark, obviously not expecting it to come.

Udai grinned, “This time, I’ll teach you a lesson for underestimating someone older, editor-kun.”

Akaashi let out a sigh of relief, tugging slightly at the corners of his lips to simply smile. “Alright, then. Good luck with the hard work, Udai-san.”

“Yes. Be prepared, Akaashi-san! There will be no mercy when I get serious.”

Udai no longer cared about Akaashi’s response as he turned and left the room.

********************************************************

Udai left the Weekly Shonen Jump’s office feeling both relieved and exhausted. The meeting with Akaashi had been productive, but it had also been tiring. He needed to rest, to have a little break. So he decided to go to a restaurant nearby, hoping to find some solace in a good meal.

He decided to treat himself to lunch at a nearby restaurant, a small place he had always come to when he stopped by at the office.

This restaurant was apparently not quite the favorite in the neighborhood despite the good trademark of each one of their menu and there weren’t many people coming on each day he stopped by. Same goes for today.

As he walked in, he was surprised to see that the restaurant was playing some volleyball tournament on their giant TV screen.

The teams on the screen were Japan and Brazil, two powerhouses in the world of volleyball. The match was intense, with both teams fighting fiercely for every point. Some people, especially the waitresses, were cheering, clapping, and shouting, hyping themselves up

Udai found himself smiling, caught up in the excitement of the game. It was contagious.

“Welcome! Good afternoon, Sir. What would you like to have?”

Udai took a seat at a small table near the wall, still watching the match with a distant gaze. His mind was wandering far back, to his high school days, when he was the ace of Karasuno’s volleyball team. The memories came flooding back, the adrenaline, the sweat, the tears, the ecstasy when his team won.

He remembered how he used to practice for hours, perfecting his techniques, his jumps, his spikes. He remembered the excitement of the matches, how they’d spent hours analyzing their opponents, trying to find their weak spots. He’d never felt more alive back then, more passionate, more driven.

The match on TV was intense, and Udai found himself slowly getting caught up in the excitement.

Even though he knew it was probably a rebroadcasted match, he felt like he was there, in the thick of the action, sweating and jumping, just like back in the day.

The crowd in the restaurant was going wild as Japan scored a point.

Udai smiled watching the enthusiasm.

He remembered the satisfaction of a well-placed spike, the feeling of the ball hitting the ground on his opponent’s side of the court. He remembered the exhilaration he felt when he heard the crowd cheering, the smile on his face as he high-fived his teammates.

Watching the match now, Udai realized how much he’d missed the game. He felt like he’d lost a part of himself, a part that he hadn’t realized was missing until now. He realized that there’s still a part of him that strangled on the court, yearning to the feeling of being there. Yearning of the thrill, the joy, the pressure, he started to yearn for all of it to the past he knew he had left with a big heart.

While Udai Tenma might be content living in a life where he is the creator of one of the best selling manga series, the Little Giant inside him was yearning to be taken back to his nature. Right there. On the court.

This might look painful for some people, but he had realized it since long long ago, that there was another thing that he wanted to try—and probably would do better than—than volleyball.

He had given up his youth for volleyball, and was given more than enough chances to play his best, to see what lies on the other side of the foreign ocean of volleyball. Now, it’s time for another version of himself to be given a chance to fly.

Sendai City Gymnasium, Nine years ago

Udai’s muscles were on fire, his heart pounding in his chest as he stood on the court. He could feel the energy of the crowd, the pressure bearing down on him like a weight. But Udai was in his element, the sweat on his skin cooling in the crisp air of the gymnasium.

This year prefectural tournament’s semi-final match was between Karasuno High School and Aoba Johsai Private High School was one of the most anticipated match. The bleachers were packed with supporters from both sides, cheering loudly for their teams in their own cheering trademark.

The stakes were high, and the tension could be felt all around.

Udai stood ready, his eyes locked on his opponents. He could see the determination in their faces, their muscles tense as they waited for the ball to be served. Karasuno was having their breakpoint as they took the lead with 19-19 and Udai was on top of his game, scoring point after point for his team.

The air was filled with the sound of sneakers squeaking on the polished floor, and the occasional grunt as players leapt into the air to spike the ball.

Both of the teams were evenly matched, but Karasuno had their most reliable weapon being on top of his game, their little ace.

The ball flew high and Udai jumped, his fingers brushing the ball as he sent it rocketing towards the opposite side of the court. The crowd erupted into cheers as the ball slammed into the floor, just out of reach of Aoba Johsai’s players.

Aoba Johsai called for a time out, their coach trying to rally his team. Udai looked around, his eyes flickering over his teammates. They were all sweating profusely, but they looked determined, their eyes locked on the ball as it was passed between them.

Udai knew they needed to keep up the pressure on Aoba Johsai, to keep pushing until they won the match.

The gymnasium was charged with energy, each player on the court pushing their bodies to the ultimate limit, sweat droplets beading down their foreheads, and muscles screaming in agony.

As the whistle blew across the gymnasium, Udai’s eyes shone with determination, and his breathing was calm and steady, even when he knew that the pressure was on his shoulders.

The ball was served, and both of the team sprang into action. The ball flew back and forth across the net, each team trying to gain the upper hand. Udai felt his frustration growing as the ball bounced back to Karasuno’s side, but he was ready.

The ball was passed quickly between his teammates, and Udai made his move, charging to the net with the ball in his hands, ready for impact. At this point, he knew that nothing but a top-class block would be there to block his view to the summit, ready to tackle every possibility of a no-touch spike, and with the ball now in his control, he had every responsibility to make it count.

As he rose, his eyes scanned the court, searching for the perfect opening. In his mind, he was already mapping out his path, calculating the best possible angle to use Aoba Johsai’s blockers as his tools to score.

With a mighty roar, he spiked the ball towards his opponents, aiming to the nastiest spot in between the blocker’s awaiting fingers.

Udai’s block out was not only accurate but driven with so much force that it left Aoba Johsai’s players unable to do anything but stand there in utter disbelief as they watched the ball sail past them.

The sound of the impact echoed through the gymnasium, and Udai watched as the ball dug into the floor. The crowd was on their feet, screaming and cheering as Karasuno took another point, bringing the score to 21-19.

Aoba Johsai’s players were relentless, refusing to let Karasuno get too far ahead.

The crowd roared as the ball flew over the net, the players on both sides leaping up to spike it down.

As the ball sailed towards him, Udai could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He had to make this one count. He leapt into the air, his arm outstretched, and connected with the ball.

It flew towards Aoba Johsai’s blockers, but they were ready for it. Their hands rose up to meet the ball, but Udai was too quick. He angled his hit just right, and the ball went sailing out of bounds.

Karasuno’s cheering section erupted into cheers as the referee blew his whistle, signaling the point. Udai could feel a rush of exhilaration as he landed back on the court.

But Aoba Johsai’s players weren’t going down without a fight. They regrouped quickly and came back strong, their own ace spiking the ball with incredible force. The ball smacked into the Karasuno blockers, and for a moment it seemed like it might be a point for Aoba Johsai.

Karasuno was also prepared. Their blockers pushed back, using the force of the spike to redirect the ball back towards Aoba Johsai’s side. And once again, Udai was ready.

He dashed towards the net, leaping up to meet the ball as it came over. There was a split second of hesitation as he calculated the angle, the force, the position of the blockers. And then he struck.

The ball hit Aoba Johsai’s blockers, then bounced off at an unexpected angle. It careened towards the back of the court, just out of reach of their defense. The scoreboard beeped again, calling another point for Karasuno.

The crowd was going wild now, the sound of Karasuno’s cheering section echoing throughout the gymnasium. Udai felt a jolt of pride as he high-fived his teammates, the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

The rest of the match was a blur of spikes, blocks, and dives. Karasuno and Aoba Johsai exchanged leads several times, each team pushing themselves to the limit.

The prefectural volleyball tournament match between the two powerschool of Miyagi Prefecture was reaching its climax with an intense battle that had the crowds on the edge of their seats.

The score was 24-21 with Karasuno edging ahead with match point. Udai rose to the occasion and delivered a powerful strike. The ball sailed over the net, bouncing off the outstretched fingers of Aoba Johsai’s blockers. The ecstatic fans erupted in unison.

With a collective roar, Karasuno had sealed their victory and secured their place in the finals.

For Udai, standing amidst the celebrations, his eyes were still on the game. It wasn’t just about winning, it was about giving it his all, pushing his limits to the max, connecting with his team and returning their trust.

As the excitement died and the crowds dispersed, Udai knew that the victory had been one to remember, and he would forever cherish this moment, a lingering triumph, in his heart.

He looked up at the scoreboard, he saw that the final score was 25-22 in Karasuno’s favor.

But he also felt a deep sense of respect for Aoba Johsai. They were a formidable opponent.

Udai looked across the court, locking eyes with Aoba Johsai’s ace.

“We have a great match, thank you very much!”

As the two teams exchanged a congratulatory handshake, Udai locked eyes with Aoba Johsai’s ace. There was a sense of mutual understanding between them, a shared appreciation for the game and the competition.

“You played a great game!” Udai said, admiring the other player’s composure and skill.

The ace of Aoba Johsai team nodded gratefully and replied. “So did you, number 10. You really pushed us to our limits out there. It almost feels like we’re facing a giant in the mid-air. A Little Giant.”

The Little Giant. Right. He remembered that name. A nickname so foreign, cringe, yet it clicked so much with him, so befitting like a missing puzzle to his nature.

“It was a great game! Next year. I’ll make sure to take our revenge on you, number 10.”

Udai smiled, feeling a sense of a good-rivalry with his opponent.

“Sure! We’ll accept the challenge with an open arm.”

As they walked away from each other, he couldn’t help but be grateful for the opportunity to test himself against such a talented adversary.

The gymnasium reverberated with cheers as Karasuno emerged victorious against Aoba Johsai. Kawada, the captain, led the team in a graceful bow towards the supporters in the cheering section. The entire team then surged towards the audience, as they felt humbled by the overwhelming support that fueled their victory.

“Thank you very much!”

As Udai caught his breath on the court, his eyes swept over the crowd of cheering Karasuno supporters.

Udai accidentally saw Phone—Sasaki Tsubasa—in the crowd, her eyes ablaze with admiration and awe.

She was there. Well, nothing is wrong about that.

“Let’s get back and stretch!”

“Alright, Sir!”

********************************************************

As the game ended, Udai walked down the hallway of Sendai City Gymnasium, lost in his thoughts. Suddenly, he heard someone calling him.

“Udai Senpai!”

He turned around and saw Sasaki Tsubasa—again—catching up to him, almost running.

Smiling, she greeted Udai with politeness and a glimmer in her eyes. A pure form of admiration, awe.

You again, but Udai couldn’t bring himself to utter such words. Suddenly afraid of being too impertinent or perhaps… would sound familiar somehow.

In the midst of their colliding world, Udai could hear some whispers passing through, recognizing him with the new calling, apparently perfectly retrieved among the cheering section and he wondered if his classmate, the genius inventor of the nickname would show up any moment now.

Those whispers were merely something but:

That’s him, that’s him! The little ace of our school! The cool hitter!

That’s the Little Giant, right there!

He’s really The Little Giant! He’s really that little…

Suddenly, when his world had become too noisy of those whispers, another voice rang clearly to clear everything out of his hearing. Almost as clear as the sound of a summer rain.

“You were amazing!”

Sasaki Tsubasa… he almost forgot that the girl was right there. Eyes still ablaze with admiration.

“That spike in the end was incredible! What was that?” Tsubasa exclaimed, a glimmer in her eyes.

“What was that? Are we supposed to call it a flying spike?”

“Flying—”

“You really can fly, Senpai! You’re above the net for some time like in slow motion!”

Udai was surprised by her sudden compliment, yet… It felt odd. It does feel odd when you’re not expecting something at all.

Thank you—would be enough to end this little commotion, wouldn’t it?

“I’m sorry for being snotty—”

Snotty?

A few crowds that passed by them brought along some whispers about Udai’s new nickname. Tsubasa followed them with her gaze, her mouth echoing the new calling in an audible utter.

“The Little Giant.”

Her gaze returned to Udai, scrutinizing the athlete with a shadow of a smile in her gaze. Her admiration was still there.

“Oh, right. You’re the giant-power-in-a-small-body, The Little Giant of Karasuno!”

Her smile blooming, surprising to Udai. Once again, odd.

“You even have a cool nickname! The new idol Of the whole school! Good for you, Senpai!”

“Thank you.”

No. Wait— what? Thank you?

Sasaki Tsubasa gave two thumbs up to Udai, almost making him flinch.

“Looks like I’ll have to ask for your autograph soon.”

Udai frowned, unfamiliar with long interactions like this.

He already said his Thank you, but why wasn’t this little commotion over?

“Oh- or perhaps, instead of an autograph, Senpai, should I just ask for one of your sketches?”

Sasaki Tsubasa returned with a look on his face that seemed to strike something in Udai, something he hadn’t realized was there all along. Something... odd.

“Senpai, you can draw, can you? Not to mention being unfairly good about it either. Instead of just a signature, it’s better if I get one of your sketches and sell it as A drawing by The Little Giant of Karasuno.”

Studying the look on Udai’s face, Sasaki Tsubasa immediately continued, “Kidding! There’s no way I would do something like that.”

Sasaki Tsubasa’s smile blossomed. For Udai, it was as if he was being stranded in a foreign land he had never been to before.

Just as the world was about to fall silent in his senses, a voice returned him to the present day.

“Udai-kun!”

Udai, recognizing that voice, reacted almost in surprise. He turned his head. From his right, a blonde teammate, third year Tsukishima Akiteru, approached him. He came with a face that has I have something to scold you about because you’re wandering too much and now’s the right time to move you ass before Kawada scolding both of us when his eyes caught the other presence that was there with Udai.

Udai grew restless to the way Tsukishima Akiteru smiled understandingly at Sasaki Tsubasa.

The blonde finally turned to Udai after greeting Sasaki Tsubasa, delivering the expected words with, inexplicably, a more subtle tone.

“It’s time to gather. Kawada and the others are waiting.”

Udai replied formally.

His eyes greeted Sasaki Tsubasa briefly and muttered something like then, almost under his breath.

Walking with Tsukishima Akiteru in a content silence for a while, Udai could not expect that the question that came to him was as silly as, “Was that your girlfriend, Udai-kun?”

He hoped that Tsukishima Akiteru was joking when he said that, but he was serious.

“No.”

Present day, Tokyo

Obviously, no was better than a hurtful yes after all.

Eventually, the match ended, and Udai realized he had been sitting in the restaurant for over an hour. He paid his bill and left, the sounds of the cheering still ringing in his ears. He felt rejuvenated, refreshed, and rather, quite ready to go back being the manga artist that he is.

As he walked to the station, Udai found himself humming a tune he couldn’t quite place. It was a song from his high school days, something he hadn’t thought about in years.

Udai had agreed that the past is in the past, content with what the present provides him with. This sky-rocketing career as a successful manga artist, a well-planned future down the road… but ever since the unexpected encounter with Tsubasa, he started to long for the past.

It almost feels like he was convinced to reopen the locked box packed with the memory of his youth, in contrast to what he had promised himself.

Udai remembers that their story didn’t end perfectly, almost like a manuscript that was left behind because the writer no longer found the resonance to fill the pages with. Their story ended on a blank page.

Now, in the present day where Udai has left that page behind, even believing that he has almost completely abandoned the whole book, questions arise in his mind about whether it is true that his feelings have died since the last word of their story was written? Was it true that all his hopes about them had been dashed since they stopped halfway?

His promise was about to keep going further. Halting midway was okay but turning back was not. It’s not that he is okay reading his book backward, isn’t he?

Her eyes whispered that it was okay to go back. In the end, he halted. Regret covering the walls of his heart.

Before him, after a long time, memories rang.

“Udai-san?”

Her voice warm, as was her gaze. It seemed like only yesterday that they first met as two strangers when Tsubasa’s phone was suddenly there in his bag.

She waved, just like the first-year student he met nine years ago in high school. Her smile was full of the friendliness he had almost forgotten, almost like a warm greetings of spring after the cold melted into the ground.

Nine years have passed. Is he being greedy if he was looking forward to this meeting too much? Is he being greedy if he started hoping for something he had destroyed eight years ago?

But this one’s on the fate, isn’t it?

Udai had never expected anything like this before. If only that day fate had not brought them into an unexpected encounter, then he might have continued to move further into the future he had planned without having to halt midway like this.

Udai had never invited her even in his hopes. Let alone hope, he knew that he had no right to invite her back again.

If after this his heart was filled with greed, it’s on the fate. It’s on the fate for bringing her back.

Before him, Tsubasa’s pace halted. She smiled, friendly greeting the only man responsible for the worst thing that ever happened in her youth.

“What a coincidence that I ran into you here.”

Oh, what a coincidence.

—

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belltrigger · 2 years

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Submastober Day 01 - All Black

Hello and hi friends! *★,°*:.☆(￣▽￣)/:*.°★* 。

This is my first entry for me and Riso's Submastober event! You can find the main post on my blog! Feel free to join us if any of the prompts catch your interest. The prompts are not in any particular order, but if you do want to participate, feel free to do them however you'd like!

Our goal is just to make fun little things every day with no stress or obligation! So, you can do one prompt or them all, or feel free to just enjoy what we put out together! 💜(❁´◡`❁)

Title: All Black Word count: 626

Kudari stood in front of the closet in his brother's room, fingers of one hand hesitating on the golden door pull.

It had been three weeks and four days (and eight hours, forty two minutes) since an otherwise regular day ended with one of the most well known people in all of Unova disappearing. Gone without a trace, Nobori had simply just vanished into thin air. No one saw anything out of the ordinary nor heard anything suspicious. No one could recall Nobori being distressed or worried, and he had spoken about plans with Kudari at the end of their shift.

Rumors circulated endlessly. A prevailing theory for the police was that an underground organization had targeted the Subway Masters, and taking Nobori had just been the first half of the plan. Kudari had been told to act normally so as to not hinder the investigation.

How they expected him to act normally when their best *guess* was that Nobori had been kidnapped was beyond his imagining.

He'd worked himself to exhaustion in the first two weeks, and collapsed running between his and Nobori's trains. Eelektross had wrapped itself around him as Gavantula went to summon Cloud. Since then, the other depot agents had been keeping an eye on him, shoving him into office work when he refused to go home on time. Although he appreciated their concern and care for him, he felt it inappropriate to ask them to help search for his brother.

If the police would even allow them to... He had his own investigation going on, and Ramses had more than once warned him of the officials showing up with enough time to hide his 'interference.'

Finally sliding his brother's closet open, he stared hard at the all black clothing lined neatly on hooks. His older brother was fastidious, and had very particular habits.

Kudari had various shades of white clothing, with very light grey mixed in for minor contrast. Because there was no real need to separate by color, he kept everything except shirts and undergarments in his closet. And those were just neatly put away in his dresser.

Nobori, however, had a preference to black clothing, but wore white or varying shades of gray depending on where he was. He felt a white shirt looked most professional with his uniform. Nobori enjoyed little hints of white in his civilian clothing, to 'remind him of his precious brother.' Such a thing made him blush even now.

Due to the variation in Nobori's wardrobe, he had a particular way of storing his clothes. The closet that he had just opened held all of Nobori's black clothing. White and grey clothing were in his wardrobe, either hanging or in the drawers within. It had been a gift from their uncle, who was just as particular with his clothing as Nobori. (For the record, Kudari had been given a loft bed with a desk beneath it. A clear effort to get him and Nobori into separate rooms when they were younger and inseparable. As an addendum to that record, it had only encouraged them both to sleep in it.)

Reaching forward, he gently took the sleeve of one of the all black shirts in his hand, holding it out from the body of the garment. Rubbing the fabric between his fingers, he felt his throat tighten and his eyes burn. He brought the sleeve up to his forehead, pose almost mimicking the act of kissing a hand, and he shut his eyes before any tears could fall to stain the fabric.

It used to be that black clothes were a welcome sight, bringing with them a feeling of joy and stability unrivaled.

But now, just like to everyone else, they were clothes of mourning.

#Blankshipping #RS Submastober #Bell fic #Angst

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bear-cubs-art-things · 6 months

Text

PART ONE LETS GOOOOOOO

Super nervous very nervous hngjbghngbg

I have no idea how England works so just. Bear with me as an American. Fhshshsusudhfjdndg (it's not like this takes place in any place in particular, and I'll do my best to make it as reminiscent to England/Britain as possible, but if there are any discrepancies please let me know :)) )

Okay!:

○°-_-*×-_-○°♡°○-_-×*-_-°○

It was very early on a Monday morning. The sun was barely up, merely a bold orange-pink stripe across a dark blue grey horizon. Birds softly chirped their morning song, speaking of (that is, if they COULD speak) endless blue skies and soft yet cold bread crumbs.

Houses could be seen. Nice, orderly houses, all identical as houses go. The only way one could be distinguished from the other were porch decorations on what could be called the porch. Then, of course, the house numbers.

In house 236, off the corner of Orchid Street and Daragon Fly Avenue, a slumbering teen stirs in his bed.

Downstairs, a quiet sizzling of bacon in a pan cooks on the stove, eggs in a carton sitting politely beside the stove a few inches away. A toaster spits out two slices of white bread, toasted of course. A man wearing a white apron and business work clothes hums a tune on the radio. This man is Mel A. Traunn.

Mel Traunn is an officer worker at a financial firm, with highly regarded banks across the country. He works with the big heads, the head men, the CEOs. He may be rather small on the business food chain, and probably not as high as he wants to be, but at least he can feed him and his son.

Upstairs, in a dark, tidy bedroom, slept Azira Fell, 15 year old boy and currently attending Eldritch High. He's short, with a wide, somewhat thick build, and soft. Currently, short, white (in all technicality, it was a very pale shade of blonde) was a mess atop his head. He was sleeping soundly.

Bee-ba-ba-beep! Bee-ba-ba-beep! Bee-ba-ba-beep!

"Hrrng..."

Azira turned over, and felt around his nightstand for his alarm clock, turning it off once he did. Then he felt around for his glasses.

His glasses were small framed and circular, the kind of old frames those in the later 1800s would wear.

He liked the 1800s, actually. Their clothing was quite nice.

With some early morning bitterness (the kind when you have to get out of bed on an early Monday morning), and grogginess, Azira got out of bed.

It was the first day of school. You know how it is. Same routine of waking up at what felt like dawn, dressing in your most impressive outfits, and going to school only to neglect your studies.

Azira had a... put it this way, it wasn't exactly a stylish fashion sense by today's standards. He wore button up dress shirts underneath plaid sweater vests, slacks and shoes (may I add, his shoes were more in today's fashion than the rest of his wardrobe, though still worn out and one may say outdated). He owned a wristwatch as well, which fitted everything together. It was his father's, which is not to be confused with Mr. Traunn. (Traunn was actually his uncle, but since Azira had been living with him since early childhood, with no real recollection of his birth parents, it was easier and much simpler to call Traunn his father.)

Today, he wore a light blue shirt, with a plaid sweater vest of various shades of brown. He wore khaki slacks, and his slightly worn out black Converses (like I said, the only modern fashion item in his closet). He brushed his hair out, styling it up with some hair gel. It looked no more than a weightless tuft atop his head.

Traunn heard Azira's footsteps from downstairs- light, but still audible- and decided to make him a plate. Breakfast was still hot.

Azira went through his typical morning routine... brushing hair and teeth, deodorant, finding that one book to read at school (today it was A Tale of Two Cities), you know the drill.

The smell of bacon wafted upstairs, and Aziras stomach rumbled with hunger.

Azira grabbed his bag (a single strap satchel that gave off the vibe of some high end scholar) and went downstairs.

The kitchen was a homey one; kept clean and organized, and photos of Azira and Traunn were hung up on the wall. The counter was a polished white and grey marble, the cabinets a matching white. The appliances were a stainless steel silver, the floor a walnut wood.

The whole house, in fact, was a clean, white one. It wasn't exactly all white, but most of its furnishing and detail were on the lighter side. The walls were a light grey-blue, the trimming white, most of the furniture was white or pale cream. The only dark accent was the floor; it was the same walnut wood throughout. The carpet was a color between grey and beige, which could be either considered on the lighter side or the dark accents.

Azira took a seat at the island on one of the beige barstools, greeted by a plate of continental breakfast.

"Gooood morning," Traunn said.

"Good morning," Azira replied.

"Excited?"

Traunn was referring to the first day back at school.

Azira shrugged. "Not really."

"Aw, you gotta be at least a little excited!"

At this point, they were both eating at the island. The stove was off, and Traunn had taken off his apron. Not a single food stain.

"Ehh..." Azira trailed off, shrugging a little more.

"Not one to get excited over school?" Traunn teased.

"I like school," Azira started, "it's just gotten to the point where I don't get excited over it anymore."

"Mm," Traunn nodded in acknowledgement.

The two ate I silence briefly.

"Know who your teachers are?" Traunn asked.

"Erm..." Azira set down his fork and fumbled through his bag for his schedule. "Not really."

Azira found his schedule, and read through it once more. He nearly had it committed to memory.

First period, history. Second period, English. Third period, PE. Fourth period, chemistry. Lunch. Fifth period, art. Sixth period, study hall. Seventh period, algebra 2.

Not very spectacular or special.

The teachers' names and rooms were written on the schedule, under their respective subjects. So yes, Azira knew their names and where to find them, but aside that he didn't know them.

He slid his schedule over to his dad, and he took a look at it.

"Huh," Traunn said, sliding Azira's schedule back to him.

Azira put away his schedule, and caught a glimpse of the time on his wristwatch.

"Oh!" He got up with a start. He could still catch the bus, if he hurried.

He gathered all his stuff (his bag and phone) and hurried out the door. He was two steps out the door when he felt something was off

Wait a minute. He felt his upper chest, where a ring should be.

Oh how could forget!

He ran back inside and dashed up to his room to grab the ring.

The ring was his late mother's ring, made of gold and with beautiful craftsmanship. It had ornate details of flowers and butterflies. It was her most prized possession. Now it was Azira's. He never wore it on his finger, but instead kept it on a necklace chain and wore it as such.

He once more left the house, barely hearing Traunn's "Have a good day!" on his way out.

He knew that if he ran, he would make it to the bus stop on time. He still had 15 minutes.

He could make it. So he ran.

And just as his calculations predicted, he caught the public transit bus loading its last passengers for that stop.

he got on the bus, winded and slightly sore from running. He found an empty seat and sat down.

He was at least awake. And on a more negative note, slightly sweaty.

Definitely need to get in shape, he thought retrospectively.

The bus engine shivered and went along its way. The next stop was, more or less, 20 minutes away. The stop that Azira needed to get off of anyway. Then it was roughly a 15 minute walk from there to the school.

Azira decided to read.

~~~

The school was a nice one. The exterior of the building itself was red brick, each one nearly fitted into its space. Cobblestone steps led up to the main entry doors. There was brilliant green grass, neatly trimmed and maintained. A raised garden bed were on either side of the steps, with flourishing flowers of many colors. The school was a university campus at one point, but then it was remodeled as a high school. It even had a library on campus that was it's own separate facility. The campus was expansive (more so, expensive).

Azira felt slightly overwhelmed every time he saw it. It wasn't the first time he saw it, but you can't help but feel as though the schools too big.

He walked through the hallway leading to his history class. They were wide and spacious by nature, but with all the students in the halls, it sure damn didn't feel like it.

Azira made himself small and unnoticeable. No one will remember you if you didn't stand out and make a presence. Life was easier that way.

He swerved and dodged his way through the hall, and eventually Azira found the history classroom. It was mostly empty, aside from a few desks with students in them. All of which were busy with their own entertainment... mostly playing their phones.

Azira found a seat close in the back.

He put down his stuff, and continued reading his book.

It felt like a second until the bell rang for school to start. It may have been about 5 minutes, and it had been, but time flies when you're occupied.

Nonetheless, the hallways got even busier as students scrambled to find their classes. Footsteps echoed a cacophony, and chatter was no more than useless noise. The world seemed to rush by in the doorway, between the students filing in the classroom and the students walking outside.

Azira paid no mind to anyone or anything. He simply kept reading.

The warning bell rang once, then again as classes began. The room, at this point, was quite full, both with students and with chatter.

"Okay!"

The teacher rose from his desk in the corner of the room, and the class hushed.

"Good morning, everyone," he walked over to the center of the room, in front of his whiteboard. A few "good mornings" echoed quietly in response.

Azira bookmarked the page he was reading and put it away.

"I'm Professor Wensleydale, and welcome to history class!"

Professor Wensleydale had light, nearly golden brown hair and dark brown eyes. He wore an outfit that screamed his profession - a white dress shirt, buttoned up to the throat, and khaki pants. He had dress shoes that were a common shade of mid-range brown, the kind you see oh so often in the men's formal wear section of a department store. The only splash of color was his tie, a subdued reddish-pink. Thick, round, black glasses sat on the nose of his pale, freckled face. He looks like the type of person who'd read thick books of law for leisure. Bookish, you'd say.

The whole class period was spent on a "get-to-know-you" activity, where you would research your name and write the origins of your name on a piece of printer paper. Azira was a little enthusiastic about this, since he was artistic by nature. He could draw very well, and kept a sketchbook (he has a collection of all his sketchbooks, in fact). Other than that, the class was mostly uneventful.

The bell for second period rang.

"Be sure to bring your posters tomorrow!" Professor Wensleydale called out to the quickly exiting students. "Make them colorful and pretty! We will present them!"

On to second period then, Azira thought.

The school floor plan, it should be noted, was a two story building, plus a library (also two floors) and a separate performing arts wing (technically it was a one story building, but there is an upstairs overheard light control for the theater spotlights). The science and history classrooms were, for the most part, on the bottom floor, plus the cafeteria (foods class is also here). Upstairs were the language arts, math, and non-performing arts electives classes (such as art, pottery, speech and debate, etc).

This is to say that Azira was going from the downstairs history class to an upstairs English class.

The class was half full, most of the desks in the back corner of the room were filled. A few in the front were also filled, but not as such.

Azira found another desk in the back. It was closer to the center of the classroom, but still. The room was filling up rather quickly

Azira didn't particularly notice, because he was reading. Again.

"Excuse me," a voice asked.

It seemed directed to him. Azira looked up.

A tall, thin figure stood over him. Well, over the desk in front of him anyway.

The figure had long crimson hair, wavy and pulled back in a loose pony tail. He wore dark, dark sunglasses, so dark Azira could barely make out his golden-yellow eyes. He wore a leather jacket, a grey tank-top, and baggy jeans with one of those black belts all the queer kids seem to wear. You know the ones. He also wore black boots with a slight heel.

He was good-looking, charming even. There was this energy around him that made him seem more intimidating than he let on, and he definitely looked like he didn't care about anyone's opinion about him.

Azira went warm in the ears.

"'S anyone sittin' here?" He nodded to the desk he was hovering over.

"N-no..." Azira answered quickly, and lowered his eyes back to his book.

"Hm."

The boy sat down at the desk, lazily draping himself over the seat.

Azira glanced back up at the boy. He could only see the back of his red head. He swallowed.

Warmth crept from his ears to his cheeks.

Oh dear...

Azira looked down at his book again, trying to shake off his blush.

The bell rang.

The teacher, Miss Device, stood up and took attendance. Each student said (or at least, something along the lines of) "here" as their names were called.

"Next..." Miss Device thumbed the next name on her roster. "Anthony Crowley?"

She looked up and scanned the room for Anthony Crowley.

The boy in front of Azira rose a nonchalant hand, silent.

"Right," Device thumbed the next name.

So that's his name, Azira thought. It suit him, if he was being honest. He definitely looked like an Anthony...

"Azira Fell?"

Azira looked up with a start, caught off guard.

"Here." Azira raised a hand to make his location within the class known.

He glanced back at Anthony. Then back down at his book. He thought it was best if he continued reading.

"So," Miss Device set down her roster, "We're going to a little activity in pairs, and I'm going to assign partners for you to work with."

She started assigning partners, which was simple and straightforward. The desks were organized in rows of five, and she assigned them within those rows. The first and second desks in that row were partners, the third and fourth desks were partners, and the back two desks were partners. The next row, the fourth and third desks were partners, so on and so forth.

There was one desk left empty, so everyone got a partner, with no odd groups of three.

As it turns out, Azira was paired up with Anthony. Wa-hoo.

The activity was another get-to-know-you activity, but it was the slightly cheesy questionnaire type. It was fun enough, one would think.

Miss Device passed out the papers with the questions on it, and everyone had started once they got their papers.

"So, who's gonna go first?" Anthony asked, turned the wrong way in his chair (sitting chest to the back of the chair).

Azira straightened up a little bit. "I suppose I will."

"Mmkay," Anthony looked down at his paper. "Question one; what's y'name?"

"Azira," He responded. "I can spell it if you want."

"'S all good," Anthony wrote down "Azira" under question one on Azira's desk. "Favorite color."

"I do like yellow quite a bit."

Anthony raised his eyebrows in interest. Or acknowledgement, either one. He continued.

"Favorite school subject?"

"Art, I suppose."

Anthony looked up. "You're an artist, I take?"

Azira nodded.

"Hm," Anthony nodded. "Favorite food."

"I don't really have a favorite."

"Well ya gotta have a favorite," Anthony looked up again, grinning. "Everyone has a favorite food."

"Well..." Azira trailed off, thinking of a meal he enjoyed most.

"Eh, don't matter," Anthony continued on. "How 'bout favorite hobby?"

"Reading," Azira said, before quickly adding, "And drawing too, if you'd like to write that down."

"Hmm," Anthony wrote down both.

There were more questions, about 10 in all, and Azira answered all of them. The rest of the questions included favorite movie/tv show, place, celebrity, book, and animal. They were, as aforementioned, cheesy, but who's one to judge.

It was Azira's turn to ask questions.

"Your name?"

"Y'can put down Crowley."

So he did.

Why his last name? Azira decided not to ask.

"Favorite color?"

"Eh..." Anthony thought some. "I think red. Red."

"Favorite subject?"

"Band, prolly."

Azira looked up with mild surprise. "You're in band?"

"Yeah."

"You don't strike me as the type."

Anthony smiled. "I tend to defy expectations."

"I suppose..."

The two went back and forth, answering the questions for Anthony.

Curiousity got the best of Azira.

"Erm, Anthony-" Azira asked.

"You can just call me Crowley."

"Yes- uh, Crowley," Azira folded his hands together somewhat nervously, afraid he was going to over boundaries with his next question. "Why do you prefer to be called by your last name?"

Crowley gave an amused snort.

"Funny story. Basically, when people want t' really vocalize their hatred or disgust f'r me, they resort to sayin' my last name. Like, oozing with vile hatred sayin' it. It kinda stuck. I like the ring t' it."

"Hmm..." Azira nodded in acknowledgement.

"Okay," Miss Device stood up from her desk. "We're now going to share our answers."

She looked at the class. "Does anyone want to go first?"

~~~

The day went by fairly quickly. Each class was relatively easy to find, and come to find out, Crowley was in most of Azira's classes.

Azira was at home sitting at his desk, drawing. He enjoyed drawing, quite a lot, actually. He felt as though drawing was more of a way to explain many feelings at once in an abstract form, rather than writing paragraphs of diary entries. He did have a journal, but more or less to keep important notes.

He was drawing a portrait of a fictional character. Not any particular character, just one that came to his mind as he went along.

"Azira! Dinner!"

"One moment!"

He closed his sketchbook and put it away in a drawer. He would come back to it, for sure, to finish his drawing. He always does.

He thought about the day at school.

And with that, he thought of crimson hair and yellow eyes, and their unintentional beauty. The image of a what Azira thought was a handsome face came to his mind; the edges of his jawline, the large, slightly pointed nose.

He shoved those thoughts away. He didn't think like that, right? How embarrassing.

Azira went downstairs and sat at the table, where dinner lay waiting and hot.

A steak dinner with potatoes and green beans.

"How was school?"

"Good, I suppose."

Traunn had changed from a full suit to just his shirt and pants. He had already started working on his plate.

"Anything interesting?"

"Not really."

"Oh."

The two mostly ate in silence for the rest of the meal.

~~~

Azira lay in bed, awake even after he was supposed to be asleep. He was just staring at the ceiling. Crowley's face flickered in and out his thoughts.

Wavy locks framing the face. Dark sunglasses hiding barely visible yellow eyes; you really had to look to see em. A grin that radiated smug energy. Surprisingly enough, a band kid. I wonder what instrument he plays...

He really did try not to think about it. But, God damn it, what was the point in trying.

He was thinking on how he would see him again tomorrow. Admittingly, he was looking forward to it. Even just a glance at him, he was looking forward to it.

Well... this certainly isn't unfamiliar territory.

Bugger, Azira thought as he turned over to try and get some sleep. Here we go again.

He closed his eyes, and sleep came to him.

#fhshdjdjsjdjsjdjfhdhdhdhdhg #I'm not much of a writer but I try XDD #good omens #good omens au #hs!au #high school au #ain't no way I'm gonna tag characters 💀#hs!go #high school!good omens #God I'm so cringe 🤣🤣#also if the endings a bit wonky it's because I couldn't just ramble on and on its long enough already.#fuck I'm horrible at this (I'm getting better every time I wrote hush)#RHDHDHSJDJDJFJDJFIFJFUFJ

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day0walkersdrafts · 7 months

Text

kinktober day five - restraint

“Goin’ to think you have a crush on me, Wolffe.”

Xavier peels away the gauze from his lip and looks up. Benji seems to have waited for that exact moment to snap the black glove down on his hand and the echo of it sits inside Xavier’s chest, heavy. He stands there, infirmary lights bright against his inky black stain of a silhouette. Benji hadn’t joined them out on the field for this recon mission gone fucking wrong, so he’s not fully tac’d. Shame. But he has that dark cotton shirt, stretching across his chest, his biceps. Keeps his camo pants military tucked into the tops of his boots and those fit just as nice around his thighs.

There’s a moment of pure absolute annoyance and hate that Xavier recognizes Benji’s done something different with his hair. Pulled it back, so it doesn’t fall around his face as much—but black curls have escaped here and there. They make him look boyish and sweet.

Xavier licks his lip, out of habit, or because there’s blood all over his face—regrets it, either way. He winces and that small show of pain makes Benji step forward. The sound of his heavy combat boots is loud. Pressing.

“If you fuck with me tonight, I’m going to actually hurt you,” Xavier swears, muffling himself with the gauze pad. He presses it down tight against the slash across the corner of his lips, the pain making his head go light. Good. It keeps him focused around the medic—he needs focus. On anything other than that one curl that keeps brushing Benji’s eyebrow, teasing him. He knows how much I like his hair. He knew I’d be here after the fight.

“Promise?” Benji practically pouts the word as he takes another step closer.

“Fuck you.”

He slips his hand around Xavier’s wrist. The fact that it’s light and not a hard yank, is what disarms Xavier enough that he’s pliable and easily moved. That’s what he tells himself anyway. Benji gets his hand away from his face to reveal the new wound that’ll likely scar something disgusting. Xavier keeps trying not to think of it, trying not to imagine what he’ll look like with something so garish and cruel.

Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe if he looked a little uglier things would be easier.

“Coulda waited for Rodriguez—wanted my attention bad enough you caught an enemy Ka-Bar to the face?” Benji uses his other hand to tilt Xavier’s head back, presses it to his forehead to keep him where he wants him. His eyes have gone flinty and dark, like a birds. Xavier knew that wounds were a special interest for Benji. Had caught him, on more than one occasion flicking through patient files to look at ones he didn’t personally treat.

“Wasn’t on my best behavior,” Xavier mutters and then feels the heavy oily cold settle in his stomach. He wants to backtrack the statement immediately, because that was Tillman’s phrase for it. A mission went wrong, or someone fucked up, things went FUBAR or someone died. They weren’t on their best behavior, Tillman would say, in his southern drawl. It was such a well known phrase on base that some people used it as a joke—Xavier didn’t. Sometimes it felt branded into his skin.

Benji’s eyes move from the wound up to Xavier’s. It isn’t often Xavier can discern what’s happening behind the medic’s eyes. They are liquid dark and constantly changing, the most beautiful shade of brown he’s ever looked at, especially when light hits them in a certain way—but they rarely ever tell Benji’s secrets. Now isn’t an exception. They’ve changed somehow, but Xavier can’t figure out what that means. Green or red flag, danger or not. His hands shake a little bit.

Then Benji’s finger presses against the slash on his mouth and Xavier’s entire body flinches. The pain explodes immediate, hot and white inside his head and across his face, which had slowly started to numb. He’d started to grow used to that pain and had already filed it away. His hands reach up and snatch at Benji’s waist as he stands in front of him, eyes narrowed to angry, hot slits.

“I’m not fuckin’ kidding, Benji—”

“It needs a butterfly stitch, s’all.” Benji cups Xavier’s cheek and that gesture is so oddly soothing that it makes him deflate. His hands aren’t grabbing any longer, but holding on. He’s sitting there, head tilted back to stare up at the rotten medic, dried blood crusting over his mouth and chin, and thinking, thank you.

Benji’s thumb touches the wound again and makes Xavier jerk away.

“Dickhead,” he seethes, slumping in the chair as the medic turns toward his supplies. For just an instant—so quick that he could only be imagining it, seeing things he wants to see, or making things up because of the pain, Benji has a smile on his face that is softer. That’s just amused, instead of dangerous and sick. But it’s gone so quick that Xavier has to admit, it likely wasn’t ever there at all.

—

The whole procedure takes less than a minute, because Benji is a sick piece of shit, but he’s well trained. No one on base could ever take that from him, no matter how widely disliked he was among others. Or widely liked among some (and Xavier burned at that, a possessive hot coal wedged between his ribs, making him want to close teeth around throats).

It’s the clean up that shocks Xavier, because it’s Benji who does it. He uses a fresh rag, with water and soap. He taps Xavier’s chin with his fingers to make him tilt his head back again and then begins. It’s the most gentle he’s ever been, if the word could even be used to describe Benji. His eyes never stray from his work, never once flick up to meet Xavier’s, who continues staring right at them. Xavier shivers every time he comes close to the wound, but Benji never does more than slowly wash off the dried blood.

When he’s done and the white rag has turned pink, Benji curls fingers into Xavier’s hair. He forces his head to stay just like that, tilted back, staring up.

“Come back later,” Benji says. Later. Alone. After hours. Xavier’s belly floods with heat. The fingers move from his hair, down. They touch his reddened cheekbone, continue further, tap his throat. “Yeah?”

He’s shocked by that, because Benji has a way of being in control. Ordering things happen. Sit, stay, heel. Yeah?

“Yes,” Xavier says in reply, finding his voice breathy.

—

He can’t put together a timeline of how long they’ve been together like this. If together is the right word—it is to Xavier. It feels right, even when it also feels so fucking wrong. But it works in his head; when he thinks of himself and Benji, he thinks together. It doesn’t matter if it’s wrong either, if it’s like two sick dogs in a kennel staring each other down, knowing this is it. They’re still together, in the end. Like a star exploding, sucking in another, right into the black hole so they die at the same time—together.

The funny thing is, they’ve still not fucked.

There’s been opportunity. Xavier comes back to his room sometimes and finds Benji already there, sitting on his bed, leaned back and expectant with a wide slash of a grin. No, they don’t fuck. Benji turns Xavier onto his stomach and does things that make the star explosion metaphor go nuclear. They find each other in empty hallways, or out on the field, covered in blood and keyed up in ways they shouldn’t be (Xavier, shouldn’t be, he shouldn’t like the way their sweat slicked bodies come together when there’s a layer of gore added to it).

But they don’t fuck.

Xavier’s never asked. He thinks sometimes, if he crawled across the bed, if he looked over his shoulder, if he directly told Benji, fuck me, it would happen. But…

Benji’s hands have hurt him plenty—that slap lives in his memory rent fucking free. The cut inside his mouth that healed to a scar, remembers the feel of fingertips prodding, so bad that saliva will pool automatically if he thinks on it. His bruised eye for a solid month took more than a few kisses from Benji that were aimed for pain rather than pleasure. His thumb, earlier that day, digging into the gash in his lip—and yet, when Xavier thinks about it. When he really thinks about it.

Benji would leave him alone, if he ever actually wanted him to. Benji would stop. If Xavier walked into the infirmary, he’d not even need to threaten him, he’d not even need to raise his voice. He’d say, it ends here and now and Benji might pout. Might make that condescending, snide face. Might look lethal and terrifying. But, he’d stop. Xavier knows that, somehow. There is a blanket of safety in realizing that—

Xavier pursues Benji. Wants him. Together. Involved. His choice. Make it hurt, make it feel good after. Xavier’s choice.

So they don’t fuck yet. Because Xavier hasn’t made that choice yet.

—

He is desperately close to that choice now, however.

Xavier breathes heavy, forehead pressed to Benji’s shoulder. His shoulders quiver, his body one tightly clenched muscle. His cock strains against the soft material of his sweatpants—he’d come to the infirmary in his dress down clothes. Benji was still in his military issue pants and shirt. The difference made his mouth dry, head dizzy.

“Good boy,” Benji purrs, making Xavier tremble harder, making him press his forehead harder. Xavier whimpers a bit when a strong, gloved hand takes hold of the zipties holding his hands behind his back. Benji jerks cruelly, making Xavier’s entire body arch—his head falls, his mouth open and panting, wet eyes blinking at the ceiling. He squirms his hips forward so he doesn’t slip from Benji’s lap.

“Look at you,” Benji continues, voice dark and husky. “Had a feelin’ you’d like that, Xavier.” Hearing his name makes him even more supple, his hips lifting and gyrating up in a desperate attempt to make Benji pay attention there to. He doesn’t.

“Fuck you,” Xavier weakly protests, his eyes blinking. He wants to grind back down—the sensation of Benji, hard in his tac pants, was everything. Knowing he was just as aroused, as into this—he can almost imagine being fucked in this position too. Bouncing on Benji, with his hands tied behind his back, looking down into those gorgeous, cruel eyes. But this is fucking fun, he can’t pretend it isn’t.

He continues thrusting his hips back and forth, grinding himself down as hard as he can, with Benji keeping his hands tight behind his back. The mean pull of his body is good. The stretch of him. Xavier tucks his chin down and is shocked to find Benji staring at the outline of his erection in his sweatpants. He’s never been so obvious about it before. He keeps a thin, veneer of control, of making it all seem like a fun game. Xavier can see those dark eyes, hooded and wanting. Watches Benji’s tongue cross over his lip, as if he can taste Xavier there.

“Benji.”

Dark eyes rise to his face. He feels the heat coalesce inside him like a category five hurricane, ripping apart his insides in random acts of fury. Xavier wiggles again and smiles. It’s boyish and sweet, a stark contrast to Benji’s expression, which feels worse than the hurricane. More dangerous, more vicious, more unpredictable. Insanely beautiful.

“Take the clip out your hair,” Xavier softly requests.

For a moment, he wonders if that’s a step too far. If he’ll get shoved off Benji’s lap and left to his own devices to find a way out the zipties and back to his room. There is no way to determine the expression on Benji’s face, no way to figure out what it means, until his hand lifts. He unclips his hair, lets it fall down around his face. He tosses the clip across the infirmary. The skittering sound of it feels like the teeth of a comb being plucked—it’s run right along Xavier’s spine.

He smiles again, wide and toothy and happy. Benji, in response, tightens his hand around the zipties and tugs harsher. Xavier whimpers, hips bucking forward. All at once the tension is released—without Benji’s hand on the ties, he nearly falls backward. He has to use the strength of his abdomen to right himself, pull his upper body forward.

“Make yourself cum,” Benji says, leaning back in the chair. His hands settle on Xavier’s thighs, but don’t move. They don’t even give a tantalizing squeeze. His eyes are sleepy, but bore into him. “Wanna see it, Xavier. Wanna see you get yourself off, yeah? You look fuckin’ pretty when you do it. So fuckin’ do it.”

That throaty, rough command knives into Xavier’s stomach. Punches up inside him and makes his brows slant, his whole body go submissive and loose. He presses his body forward, puts his forehead to Benji’s and begins thrusting himself back and forth. The rubbing sensation of their bodies is so close to enough. He moans and whimpers on every harsh dig of his hips forward, his body rolling back and forth. He pants breathy and soft against Benji’s face.

“Please,” Xavier begs. His eyes flicker across Benji’s face. That dark unknowing chasm closes a little. He sees a reflection of desire that is so bright it almost hurts. “I want to kiss—”

His hair is snatched, black gloved fingers winding through red strands. He’s yanked in for it. Their mouthes crush together. The cut on his lip reopens painfully, but Xavier doesn’t even care. He can barely feel it, with the way hes thrusting himself back and forth, frantic and hard now. Their lips part, tongues sliding together, filthy and messy. Xavier moans loudly and hears Benji’s echo. The kiss is hungry and devouring and nasty, their heads twisting back and forth. Xavier can barely keep himself upright, his hands numb and cold with the restraint. His shoulders burn with it.

It feels so good.

Benji’s hands clasp around Xavier’s ass, dragging him in tighter. He’s rough with it, his hips digging upward. Together, now, they roughly thrust against one another. Xavier realizes he’s speaking into the kiss, asking for more, begging desperately for it, blood from his cut slipping between their tongues. He licks hungrily at the inside of Benji’s mouth.

“C’mon, Xavier,” Benji’s harsh, deep voice brings him closer and closer still. “Xavier.”

The orgasm pulls him open, makes him slump across Benji. Wet tears spill out his eyes, his entire body shivering. He can’t catch his breath, shoulders shaking. Xavier makes a soft, pathetic sound as his hips give tiny stutters, work himself through the end of his release. He closes his eyes, blood dripping off his chin. He buries himself into Benji’s neck and feels oddly safe for a moment. Like a tiger has settled over top of him, claws outstretched, painfully dangerous to everyone near it. Including him.

He feels hands touching his face, angling it up. Benji’s warm, flat tongue licks the blood trail from his chin up to his mouth. He trembles and parts his lips to invite him back in.

—

“Is it going to scar?” Xavier asks. He’s freshly changed into a new pair of sweatpants from the supply closet. He looks at himself in the hand mirror, face tilted so that angry red gash is all he can see. His stomach turns cold at the thought of it.

“Somethin’ wrong with scars?” Benji asks, tapping his own, across his eye. It’s gnarled and messy, like someone hadn’t patched it right—but it doesn’t make him less handsome. Not to Xavier, anyway. He swallows and looks back to his own reflection.

“Don’t be so vain.” Benji snatches the mirror and cracks it down on the desk. It shatters, pieces scattering bright reflective everywhere and makes Xavier jump in surprise. “You’re more than a pretty face.”

A shard from the ground is cracked enough to have both their reflections in it. Xavier stares for a long moment before leaning in to try and kiss Benji one last time. He gets a hand to his face, pushing him away.

“I just fuckin’ put that stitch back on.”

“You suck.”

“You wish,” Benji replies, making an obscene gesture with his hand and turning on his boot.

#xavier #benji #xavier x benji #evil bastard au #oh to return to these slimy bastards

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