#Second panel is from last year;coloured it recently

[russellsppttemplates]

From the start, it was you (George Russell)

The heart doesn't seem to choose by team colours

Note: english is not my first language. This is the first driver!reader I've ever written, so I hope I've done a good job. Also, I did not plan to post this piece specifically now, but seems fitting with the whole shitshow that has been going on the past couple of days. Also, this is a plot I've seen written a lot, so I know there are many other pieces that are way better, and hopefully my take on it isn't too bad!

Thank you so much to everyone who likes and reblogs, your feedback is appreciated 🤍 and I'm taking requests so if you have any ideas or concepts you want to share, feel free to do so as I'll try to get to them the best I can!

my masterlist

Tw: race collision, medical exams, curse words, gender inequality comments

Tag list: @myloverjk-blog

Your purple race suit made you stand out amongst all of the other kids as you walked back from the podium, proudly smiling at your trophy, "Y/N! We're here!", you heard your father as he waved so you'd know where they stood, "congratulations, darling! That was an impressive overtake you did there in the last lap!", he praised, scratching your head before placing a kiss there, "I was trying to get first, but I couldn't get it", you admitted it, looking sideways at the boy who you couldn't take the first place from.

George Russell was a tall boy, same age as you, so you often raced against eachother. While you had become friends with some of the other kids, Russell wasn't one of them. It began when you tried to congratulate him for his P3 a few years ago, stretching your hand out politely, a smile on your face as he turned his back to you, mumbling something as he walked towards his parents. So, you weren't the best of friends if anyone asked.

"Y/N, darling, go stand next to the boys so I can take a picture of you! It will be such a good memory for when you're older!", your mother said excitedly, making you, George and the boy that finished his race behind you on each of your sides, smiling at the camera and hoping it would be as quick as possible, not wanting to stand next to him for a second longer than you should.

.

"I have your media day schedules here", Mary said as she handed you and Oscar your respective schedules, "Y/N, you're going to get interviewed with Charles, Yuki, George and Fernando", she stated as she then moved on to Oscar, explaing a few things to him since he was going first.

"And Y/N, while you're in there, try not to kill George, even with your eyes, okay?", she advised, tapping your shoulder softly as you looked at her sideways, "last time you were both in the same panel, you managed to be out of qualifying", she nodded, "only because our car wasn't that reliable, and we all know how theirs is", you pointed out, smiling sweetly and hoping to get on her side, "you're lucky you don't annoy me too much, Y/N", she smiled back.

The team had made many improvements to the car, granting you and Oscar the possibility to aim for higher places on the grid, and since you were a nerd about all things engineering, too, you loved when you were asked about the topic. But lately, the questions about the car seemed to get asked to your teammate Oscar, leaving the excuse that "the journalists already have the information they need", and because they didn't want to be accused of not asking you questions like it had happened before, it seemed to divert to other topics.

"Y/N, here", one of the journalists waved, grabbing your attention, "With the recent events and new propositions from the F1 Academy, do you think the sport is going to suffer from having a bigger opportunity that's being given to women in motorsport?", your heard him say, making your blood boil.

Despite the constant raised awareness for gender discrimination and discrimination in motorsport, especially in the last couple of years, some people still had it pretty engraved in their system, and while sometimes it came out looking a little bit more subtle, this one didn't even bother to soften the edges.

You'd be lying if you said this was the first time you heard these comments directed at you, or that you thought it would be the last, no matter how much you wished some sort of disciplinary measure was taken, "I woul-", you began before you heard a loud clash on the floor and felt water on your legs. The trousers you were wearing were soaked around your thighs and knees as George got up to grab the bottle that belonged to him, "I'm so sorry, Y/N", he apoligised as he put the lid back on, "I think it's best if we call it a day, hm? The next group needs to have this cleaned before they come in here", the Mercedes driver said as everyone seemed to agree and get up, bidding goodbye as Charles and George stayed until the end.

"Careful, don't slip", the monegasque driver said, making sure you wouldn't fall and walking out of the room with you, "figures the guy wouldn't even be here to check if everything's fine", you muttered as Charles chuckled, "you two really are like the cat and the mouse".

"He's not even here! He just flew off to his fancy room to delight in the joy of making fun of me", you grumbled, bidding goodbye to Charles as you found yourself by the entrance of Ferrari.

Walking the distance to meet your team, Mary was the first to get you, "I'm sorry they asked that", she said, "it's a good thing Russell spilled his drink", she teased, knowing you wouldn't want to dwell on the comments for long. It hardly solved the problem and you'd look into it in the team meeting when the time called for it, "promise you won't take him out in the race?".

Laughingly at her assumption and the fact that she had managed to pull you out of your misery as you walked to you driver's room, "don't worry, and tell the guys downstairs to now worry either, they're not going to have to build me a new car either", you flashed a smile before closing the door, changing into another pair of trousers you had brought with you.

.

"You're starting P4, Y/N", your race engineer said over the radio, "we are going to give it our all to support you and help you".

"And I'm going to drive the beat I can for you guys. Today, we get orange flying around and its going to be because of the Papaya team", you smiled under your helmet, "Oscar is P6, so I think we can even aim for a Podium, depends on how things go", you said.

As soon as the lights went out, you reacted quickly and passed the car that had been sitting next to yours, your race engineer confirming your third place and giving you a run down of all the grid changes.

"Do us proud, you're doing well, good pace", you heard on your speakers. You were enjoying the drive, analysing the data without team and looking for the right opportunity to overtake Charles, "go after the next turn, Y/N. Charles' tyres are not looking so good, so we think you have the upper hand there. George's car seems to be having some issues, too, he won't go after you", the pit wall channeled in your radio.

You looked in your mirrors as you were about to make the overtake, having patiently waited to reach the specific turn and going with it, confident that you would be able to overtake the red car.

A fraction of a second, you would always say, was game changing in Formula One. A decision to overtake or stay back, to accept the call to the pits or a new strategy, sometimes all it took was less than a second. And it also took less than a second for your car to start spinning, making you remove your hands from your steering wheel and brace yourself for the collision that would soon enough happen.

The impact wasn't as hard as you had expected, having felt most of it in your hips and shoulders. Groaning, you opened your eyes to see the damage, hearing "Y/N, can you tell us if you are okay?" over the radio.

Pressing the button, you heard the equipment's buzz, "I'm okay. I'm sorry about the car, guys", you gulped, adjusting yourself, "another car tapped me, right? Are they okay?", you asked, "George's fine from what we've heard".

After the marshalls confirmed you were free to go with the medical car to get checked over, you were back in the hospitality as the race continued, "doctor said I'll have some bruises, nothing too bad though", you gave them the report as you apoligised and thanked everyone on your side of the garage.

"Turns out they'll have to build you a new car after all", Mary offered as she hugged you, "if Russell had been more careful, this could've ended differently", you groaned.

"From what I've heard, he was trying a risky move and the car had an issue and locked up. He lost control of it and his front wing tapped your rear wheels just about enough to cause the crash", she explained, "it's not like he purposefully wanted to take you out", she reasoned.

"I know, it's just not ideal", you sighed, "we could both be in there". On the screen, Oscar was sitting P2, having successfully overtaken Charles a few laps in after the race resumed.

Even though George was far from your friend, you still wanted to check if he was okay, specially after seeing the impact the crash had on his car, too.

Walking to the Mercedes hospitality, a few people stopped you on your tracks briefly to express their relief on seeing you up and about and wishing you well before you found yourself by the glass doors.

"Is George here? I'd like to see if he's doing alright, but only if that's okay, I'm sure you're busy", you asked one of the media girls, Holly, recognising her from previous encounters.

"He's in his driver's room, yes, let me walk you there", she smiled, walking with you and knocking on the door, "George, may I come in?", she asked before he gave a positive answer, "Y/N is here, she wanted to talk to you", she stated, backing up so you could be seen, "yes, that's alright", the tall man said as Holly held out her arm, gesturing you to walk inside the room as she closed the door behind her, most likely going back to work on the race content.

"Hey", you waved awkwardly, "I don't have any other way to contact you, and asking your team how you were didn't seem... right? So, yeah, I came here", you gulped, suddenly feeling a weird pressure to act properly, whatever that meant.

"I'm good, barely got a scratch since I was able to stop the car before it hit the barriers", George explained, "and you? It looked pretty bad", he checked.

"I have some bruises, I think the adrenaline is slowing down now, so it's a bit painful, but nothing major", you clarified.

"The car had some issue and there was not way to control it, I just let it go because there wasn't anything I could do. I'm very glad you're okay", he half smiled as he looked at you.

In all the years you've known him and interacted with him, there had never been a time where he was this relaxed and smiley around you, not even when he had overtaken you in the last lap of the race. And while it was new, it was also comfortable.

"Me too, it looked scarier than it felt, though", you offered as he grabbed his water bottle to take a sip from it, "Oh, close the lid properly on that one", you chuckled playfully, not imagining the backlash and reaction it would have.

The new and comfortable mood turned back to the old and expecting one.

"Do you really think I'm that clumsy to drop a bottle like that? I wanted to get us out of there, to get you out of there because they were asking sexist questions", he stated, "and I didn't do it because I thought you couldn't defend yourself, because you sure know how to stop your foot and put it down, but because they don't deserve your time like that. Hell, I wish you spent that little time with me instead!", George yelled out, not missing your shocked expression, "maybe there was a time that I didn't like how you just showed up and got things done, but in the end, it's not because it's you, or because you're a woman. I wanted to be the one to show up and get things done, because I admire you so much", he gulped.

"So you're saying it's my fault that I've been labelled a bad sport because we constantly fight out there? That's why you've hated me?", your defensive side turned up, not dwelling on his kind words.

"I'm not saying it is either of our fault! I'm just trying to explain to you that I don't hate you like you think I do", he put his hands on his hips, walking around his room, "you might hate me, and that's fine, you know? I'm not going to be the one to tell you how you should feel, that's not how it works, but I have never hate you.

"I might've said I hated you when we were little, but that's because you probably stole my place on the podium, and even that was probably well deserved. I never thought I'd feel like this about you", he concluded.

"And what is it that you feel about me? Because I would like a warning should you want to beat me up to deal with all it is that you're feeling...?", you gestured to his stance. Was he saying he didn't hate you? Did he have other feelings that were actually in the happiness section of the emotion wheel and not near the anger section?

Chuckling, he approached you, "I have had feelings for you since we started driving in F2. At first I thought it was just the thrill of the competition and of having someone to challenge me, and when you got the Mclaren seat, I was so happy that you'd be racing against me", he further offered, "I don't know when it came out that we hated eachother, and when you didn't seem to feel otherwise, I tried to hate you, or at least dislike you, and it wasn't working, so I just let it go however it went, and it's led me here. And I'm being honest with you, so laugh all you want, or deal with it however you want to", he raised his hands as he excused himself.

"George, I nerve said anything because I can't afford to say those things. How many rivalries have you seen in motorsport? So many, and many more that are not written in books and shown off in videos. And none of them have apoligies to offer, or rather, the very few that have done it, turned out okay. But if I was the one to talk about it? A female driver talking about how she cares that her colleagues and her have a good relation and that they don't hate eachother like the press wants people to believe?", you scoffed, "That's not on my books, that's not something I can consider.

"And I don't hate you, George. For Goodness' sake, I came here to see of you were alright. Any other person would've yelled that you ruined their race, but I understand that there are things we can't control and shit like this happens. It sucks, but that's how it is. Like Charles says all the time, 'sometimes it's like this'", you giggled, "I actually think you're a pretty decent guy", you blushed.

Over the years, the bickering had only spurred you on even more, and maybe it wasn't just the thrill of seeing him so on edge that made you continue to do so.

"So you're saying you've never hated me?",

George said as he offered you his chair to sit down as he prepared tea for both of you, "Maybe I didn't like you so much when we did karting, but that was just because you were really tall and actually gave me fair competition", you winked.

#george russell imagine #george russell x reader #george russell fluff #george russell fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

[laspocelliere]

Day Three: Painting

(Free day, randomly sourced prompt.)

Ishgard was stifling.

Estinien moved through its streets like a ghost, aware of his recovering body and mind, but unfettered by both at last. The city’s streets were clean and bright in a way that he wasn’t certain he remembered before, during the war; something had changed in the stones themselves, something that allowed them to reflect sunlight properly for the first time in two thousand years.

Light, he mused to himself, keeping his head bowed as he moved through the misty underbelly of the Brume, that had come in a form that none of them could ever have predicted. Light that would most certainly move on from their city, but leave her undeniable traces nevertheless.

Around him, the city moved forwards. Lips that had once whispered illicit secrets and tidings of war now found new scandal in the development of the new government, the disillusionment of the church, the endless stretch ahead them to rebuild after the war, and the Warrior of Light.

Especially the Warrior of Light.

The former Azure Dragoon’s own words, by comparison, had gone dry once more after using up so many in his revelation after awakening in the infirmary. His mind, however, was sharp as ever, and he had been turning the events and life of the former Fortemp’s ward fervently around in his mind for several moons. She’d arrived in storm and snow with those companions of hers in tow, and had faced war and bloodshed with a steely eyed determination he’d never seen the equal of. Not even in his own reflection, as he sought revenge in dragonfire and violence for what had been done to his family.

And that, he supposed, was where the difference lay. His motives had lain steeped in rage, revenge, and retribution. Hers, meanwhile…hers, he’d yet to suss out. She moved through the world like a slash of colour or a bolt of light, irrevocably changing lives as she went and yet with narry a single word to be spoken on her own wants, or needs, during the entire affair.

It was perhaps that he was thinking on her at all that he found himself, suddenly and without warning, confronted with her face.

Or, at least, a rough approximation of her face. Peering out from a portraiture’s stall, the Warrior of Light’s eyes burned, fixed and unblinking, from a dozen different versions of her profile. Each painting was carefully brushed upon decorative wooden panels, porcelain icons, or delicate bronze pendants. The portraits depicted something close to her true appearance – enough to be unsettling – but nowhere close to capturing her true face. 

Immediately, Estinien understood two things about the peddler’s sales pitch: First, this man intended to sell the likeness of the Warrior of Light as a Saint for a new age, in the same way Aymeric was already being hailed as a new definition of what it meant to be the Azure Dragoon. 

Second, she would be absolutely livid if she knew of their existence.

“Interested?” The merchant’s smile was bright, if a little naive, and peering out from cheeks roughened red and raw from the relentless winter winds. A recent arrival to the city, then, trying to scrape together mostly-honest gil by taking advantage of the changing signs of the times. 

Rather than reply immediately, Estinien took a moment longer to look at the various versions of the Warrior’s face, each one not managing to fully capture exactly her likeness. Once by one, the renderings missed the elusive way her emotions played across her eyes if you knew how to look, or the particular tilt of her chin when she was unsatisfied with the way a conversation was turning, all of which composed features that no one who met her could ever seem to decide were attractive or not. 

He saw nothing of the woman he knew in this soft, Madonna-like figure portrayed before him.

For one brief, foolish moment, Estinien considered purchasing one, if only to give to the only person who would have benefitted from seeing her face again once she inevitably left.

Instead, he levelled his gaze at the merchant. “You would blaspheme this blatantly, then? By turning her likeness into holy mockery?”

“Not mockery, ser!” The man’s face was earnest, even as it betrayed a flicker of doubt. “She is a Saint, as surely as Halone is righteous. She came in from the wilderness and brought Nidhogg low, granting us new peace and everlasting serenity in a new age under the heavens!”

Something like his old bitterness and resentment, newly cooled and all the more unfamiliar for it, rose painfully in Estinien’s throat. His hands itched for his lance, and his muscles burned with restrained anger at his friend’s likeness – for friend, surely, was now what she had become against all odds – being used in a way that would cause her so much upset. Few who knew her name actually knew her, and few still knew the sort of resentment and rage that she carried so very close to her chest. It was a particular flavour of self loathing that Estinien was all too familiar with, and left him wanting to tear down this man’s vulgar likenesses of her with his bare hands.

Instead, he made a low sound of disdain in the back of his throat, crossing his arms as he regarded the peddler. “Shall I fetch her, then?” He asked, danger lacing through his words. “Bring her here, and tell her that you’re using her face for your own gain? Let you tell her how you’re defacing the Fury herself by trying to raise the Warrior of Light higher in the people’s regard, and upset the Church even further by your arrogance?”

The man’s eyes widened, and Estinien took no pleasure from it. “Or shall I tell her myself?” He continued. “That you’ve defaced her likeness so blatantly that her name will be twisted further beyond her control, and you’ve left her to explain herself when these reach the masses, when she had never been involved in, nor agreed to, your sordid business to begin with?”

The man began to speak, but Estinien was already gone. His irritation with himself had only grown, even as he spoke, and it was all adding to the claustrophobic sensation that had already been growing in him about Ishgard and its new state of being. The Warrior of Light was always going to move on – that much was a given – but he was starting to understand for himself exactly why. Who would want to shoulder a mantle like that one she’d taken on?

And where could one go, to escape it and still manage to sleep at night?

Snow began softly falling on Ishgard as the once-famed dragoon made his way back to his quarters. It was an uncomfortable place, not in luxury or amenities, but only for it being somewhere between the barracks he’d grown used to and the infirmary he’d been so recently released from. There was no place left for him here in Ishgard, it seemed, particularly if this was the type of fanatical hope that some of its people were going to cling to.

She wasn’t a holy icon to be traded cheaply for gil and notoriety. She was a woman – a deeply damaged woman – simply trying to turn her skills towards good, wherever she could. And the public took that and twisted it into something disgraceful and mocking. She was a legend, yes, but she was also…she was also a friend. An unexpected one, but a friend nevertheless, and one that Estinien knew would now be intrinsically tied into his life in more ways than one, wherever she might roam.

Wherever they both might roam. War and historical events in unprecedented times were wearying, Estinien thought to himself as he walked.

He wanted humanity.

He wanted rest.

He wanted so many things that he was increasingly realising were impossible to find here in his homeland.

Mind turning these thoughts over and over, Estinien slipped back into the shadows, facing forwards towards the clean, unblemished landscape beyond the city. 

A landscape that, perhaps, released and unsteady in himself and his purpose, it was finally time to set out into once more.

It’s what she would do, after all.

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2023 #ffxiv #ffxiv fanfiction #Estinien #Estinien POV #heavensward #heavensward spoilers #heavensward patches #heavensward patches spoilers #I don't talk enough about how Estinien and Thorne are best friends #and this was a fun prompt to explore that a bit #there's also the barest hint of my beloved wolmeric ship #if you squint #Estinien's the only person in the world who knows about them

[salty-protagonist]

Determining Star Lords with Astrology (Part 2)

This post references back to Part 1 and includes the analysis for Polaris and Canopus.

Polaris ****

Polaris is the most common blood type in the series. But what makes it special is the fact that we actually met Lord Polaris (with his identity concealed)!

I assume that Lord Polaris is male because he is/was a butler and it is traditionally a masculine role.

Polaris is the “Pole Star” that moves around very slightly compared to the average star movement has has been used as a guide to determine the direction of north over many centuries. It’s part of the Ursa Minor (Little Bear) constellation.

Polaris is known for being a trusty guidepost that leads people with a purpose. These qualities are shared with his identities as butler.

The second thing we know about Lord Polaris is that he is dead. When did he die? Was he always dead? Well, according to the fan translation I’m putting here, he was alive until very recently. (If anyone has the official copies, it would be great if you’d share your wisdom because the English translations are not sold in my region and I have no means to look for one at the moment)

Blue stars are the hottest stars (simply due to the electron jumps in their atomic levels). Here, I’m guessing it’s either to talk about Lord Sirius because he is more powerful compared to the other Lords, or to talk about Lord Sirius because it is associated with the Phantomhives who’s trademark colour is blue. (Ciel means sky in French as you all know, which is blue). A third possibility would be to talk about Lord Sirius, since it’s a white-blue star (sourced from the internet).

I would like to elaborate more on this but I will do so regarding chapter 169 in the future when Polaris becomes relevant again. I was busy at the time 169 came out so I couldn’t directly comment on it at the time.

Moving on, the reason why I mentioned the official translation is because how I understand the panel above is as he wasn’t dead at the time. So I want to make sure the meaning is as close to that as possible. Nevertheless, something has happened between RC reveal and ch169 for Polaris to have died. Perhaps when RC stopped being Lord Sirius, it also meant the fall of the Blue Star that led Polaris to sacrifice himself in a cultish way? Or RC needed an organ and Undertaker took it from Polaris?

Still, I don’t think we can create solid connections between any butler character we already know and Lord Polaris. Many new characters were introduced during the last few years so it would be safe to assume he hasn’t been seen in the story before this.

(Disclaimer: Most if this is regarding ch 169, so if any of this has been mentioned by someone else before, original credits are directed to them)

Canopus** (Doll)

This is where the theories for the orphanage arc start

I will be connecting Canopus to the dog orphanage because all the other Lord seem to have connections to one of the new settings. Although orphanage is the only one left (process of elimination), there are still some connections between Canopus and Lord Canopus who I think is Doll.

Canopus is the second brightest star in the sky (1st is obviously Sirius) and it is a part of the Carina constellation, which stands for the lower part of a ship. Carina used to be a part of the Argo Navis ex-constellation until it was divided into 3 others. Argo Navis means Argo Ship. It is the ship used for the quest for the Golden Fleece. Carina doesn’t have a legend for itself so it ties with the myth for Argo Navis. Other 2 constellations that were a part of Argo Navis are Vela and Puppis, whose names also stand for parts of a ship.

How ships and sailors tie in with Doll is through the circus which was named “Noah’s Ark Circus”. To summarize, Noah had a boat (Ark) which carried 2 of each species on Earth to conserve life after God flooded everything else.

If we consider Argo Navis as Noah’s Ark Circus, we can relate Carina, Vela and Puppis to the 3 pieces of the circus. Carina is Doll, Snake is Vela and the deceased circus members are Puppis (meaning back of the ship therefore making it seem like they’re left behind in a roundabout way).

We already know that Doll is a bizarre doll and a newer model too. So, it corresponds with the other confirmed Lord Polaris, and relates to Layla as Vega. It would make sense for Undertaker to have revived someone without any family to look for them and to have given them command over a blood collection operation.

Let’s look at the Canopus bedroom in Sphere Music Hall blood experiments wing.

Compared to the rooms of all the other star lords, it doesn’t have any personal decoration or belonging of any kind. Much like a hospital or a hotel room, it seems to be for temporary residence. A logical explanation regarding Doll would be that she was only kept here until she was able to move on her own. The bandages could be from the injuries Sebastian gave her.

The lack of any personal belonging could be because Doll is used to frequently moving around rooms in the circus. She didn’t do anything special to settle in with OC when they were roommates too.

The placement of the stool doesn’t match either object in the room. It’s too far back for anyone to have looked into the mirror (for makeup or sth you know) or for someone to have helped whoever was on the bed to take of the bandages in the orientation shown above. Maybe it was pushed away as Doll went up to the mirror and saw that Undertaker fixed her eye after ripping off her bandages by herself. (This is very deep speculation without any concrete proof)

The speech bubble belonging to Lord Canopus is impatient, wanting to begin the plan for bringing back RC. This could be about Doll wanting to take revenge on OC as soon as possible.

I would also like imagine Doll’s real name is Carina, because it’s a great name with a beautiful meaning. It peaked in the era that she is living in as well.

——————————

Thank you for reading!

#black butler #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji manga #black butler manga #kuroshitsuji theory #kuroshitsuji fandom #black butler theory

[elen-aranel]

Curtain Call - Act 1

For: @writer-wednesday, but week 16... yes this took that long Pairing: Captain Christopher Pike x F!Reader (no Y/N) Warnings: None! WC: 3k Rating: Teen Notes: People keep telling me, "Take your time, Elen", and I say, "but I don't want to!" But I needed this story to keep me company this summer. There's a further act to come! Summary: Chris is there. He catches your eye and tilts his head, a small, sheepish smile on his face, and time almost stands still for a second as you stare back at him.

Masterlist • Act 2 >

In space, no one can hear you sing.

One of your teachers at the conservatoire told you that, years ago, and somehow it stuck with you, along with how to use your stomach muscles to support your breath, and what to picture in your mind as you reach for a high note.

You never questioned her about why she said it; you don’t know if she thought space travel could be bad for your voice, or whether she thought Earth music belonged on Earth. But either way, you’ve only sung off-world a couple of times.

Work on Earth has been plentiful, though, so you never had a reason to think about it. You’ve been all over the planet: Europe, Asia, a stint at the Sydney Opera House which was magical… And you like this gig, a few more weeks in a theatre in your current home city of San Francisco, a lot. It’s where the Federation brass bring dignitaries to give them a flavour of human music, and you’ve sung for admirals, ambassadors, members of the Federation council, even the president.

Your numbers aren’t until the second half, so before the show you can mingle with the audience. And recently you’ve found yourself wondering. Feeling a little restless. Pretending to yourself you’re on a starbase somewhere, or maybe Kasseelia, at one of the opera houses.

Maybe one day, when the right opportunity comes up, you’ll perform off Earth again.

For all of your thinking about space, you have to appreciate the historic building that you get to perform in on Earth. The crystal chandeliers that cast a soft warm glow and the polished wood panelling aren’t actually hundreds of years old, but they’re a re-creation of the theatre’s original design. You wonder what it would have been like, when you couldn’t get on a starship to go to another world. When a place like this might have been your only escape from a mundane life on Earth.

There are a lot of Starfleet uniforms in the foyer this evening among the suits, dresses and alien robes; even more than usual. Some are the older style navy blue, but a lot of the newer, more colourful uniforms are dotted about the crowd. Reds, blues and golds. There are aliens of a species you’ve never seen before too, taller than humans with a sparkling stone which may be jewellery in the middle of their foreheads. You smile to yourself as you push your way toward the stairs, taking care, as you always do, that no one steps on your dress. There’s something about getting to witness the crowd, and their sense of anticipation.

Your other pre-show ritual is going up to the circle level bar for a drink. You pause at the turn in the stairs for one last look at the crowd before you perform to them later, then head the rest of the way up.

It’s quieter up here. You’ve noticed during the season that the bars on the ground floor are more popular pre-show, and patrons tend not to come upstairs as much until right before the performance starts. There are a few people at tables, but no one right at the bar. It’s as picturesque as the rest of the theatre, with walls covered with vintage posters advertising operas, plays and musicals that were staged here in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.

You slide onto your stool, beneath the black and white girl on the poster of Les Misérables.

“The usual?”

“Hey, S’nera, yes please.” You smile at the Caitian bartender, ginger fur glossy under the bar’s spotlights, who already has a highball glass in hand.

“Let’s make that two,” a deep voice says, and you and S’nera share a doubtful look before you turn to see who’s spoken.

“All right,” she says, and you hear ‘your funeral’, but you forget that as you look at the stranger sitting down next to you, and your breath catches just a little. He is handsome, with a square jaw, mouth pulled into a small smile, perfectly styled greying hair and blue eyes, made bluer by the green wrap-around top he wears. He has a Starfleet badge so must be an officer, but that’s not a uniform colour you recognise. He wears it well, though. And it does nothing to hide his broad shoulders and muscled arms.

You’re jolted out of your admiration by the sound of the glasses hitting the bar, and you turn to pick one up.

“Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass with yours, and you both take a sip. His confident expression falters. “Room temperature pineapple juice? Really?”

“It’s what I always drink.” You shrug, grinning. “First time anyone’s joined me, though.” You take another sip, the fruity flavour soothing you as it always does.

“Well, guess I walked into that one. Figures, the day I’m having. I hate these things.” He gestures, somehow encompassing the whole theatre, and sighs, and you have to stop yourself watching his mouth on the glass when he takes a drink.

“You hate concerts? Music?”

“I’m not sure the music will really be my thing, but... it’s the having to be here to see and be seen. Being here because of who I am and what I represent. It feels... inauthentic. If—” He pauses. “I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to complain about my troubles to you.”

“No, that’s all right. Sometimes we just need someone to hear us.” You tilt your head. “Let me get you a proper drink. S’nera?” You reach over and take the glass from his hands, your fingers accidentally-on-purpose brushing against his. You clock his eyes widening just a fraction. “I’m putting it on my tab. What’ll it be?”

“Whiskey on the rocks. But won’t you join me?”

You shake your head – alcohol is bad for your voice, pre-performance, and so is ice. “I’m good. Perhaps later, though? After the show?”

“I hope so.” S’nera places his new drink on the bar, and he picks it up and raises it to you.

“So what brings you here, officer?” You ask. “I’m guessing work, but your uniform, I—”

“Chris, there you are. I knew I’d find you hiding out somewhere. Finish that, and come back with me.” The newcomer is also wearing a Starfleet uniform, dark blue with elaborate gold epaulets and badge. His dark eyes are equal parts amused and frustrated, and you’d bet he’s Chris’ superior. “I had to leave Sarah on her own with two of our guests; I’m hoping there won’t be a diplomatic incident by the time we get back.”

“Admiral, I—”

“Good evening and welcome. If you wish to take your seat for tonight’s performance, the auditorium is now open. May I please remind guests—”

You look at the antique clock above the bar. Somehow it’s already 7:15pm, and even though it’s much too early for your call, people start getting antsy if you’re not in your dressing room before the show starts. You step down off your stool, and pat Chris’ shoulder.

“I’ve got to get going now too. It was nice to meet you, Chris. Hope the show’s not as bad as you think.” You nod to the admiral on your way past, and smile at Chris, now standing, as you leave the bar.

“Anyone interesting out there tonight?” the principal ’cellist asks you as you pass her in the narrow corridor backstage, making sure to give her cello as wide a berth as possible.

“Mostly the usual, but there’s a diplomatic party. Some folks the Starfleet brass want to impress.”

“They came to the right place. We’re gonna blow them away.” Ayre, the tenor soloist, looking smart in a dark gold suit which sets off their golden-brown skin and close-cropped bleached gold curls gives a smug grin as they emerge from the door next to yours. “You coming out for drinks after?”

You open your mouth to reply, but an image of Chris floats in front of your eyes, and how you said you might meet him later. But you’ll never be able to find him—

“Hesitation is not like you.” Ayre’s expression turns suspicious. “Did you have other plans? Did you meet someone?”

You shrug. “Kind of? But no. No plans. Drinks sound great. And if I’m remembering right, you owe me, from—”

They laugh. “Yeah yeah, whatever.”

“Performers this is your five-minute call. Beginners, please stand by.”

“Break a leg,” you wave as you open the door to your dressing room.

Inside you flip on the humidifier, check your appearance and read for a bit before you start your warm-ups. At least your routine is well established, so it doesn’t matter if you can’t quite put a handsome Starfleet officer completely out of mind...

The thing you love about singing is that it’s just you. There’s nothing standing between the music and your audience; it’s your artistry, your emotion, your soul, direct from you to them. There are no instruments to get in the way, no keys to get stiff, no strings to break.

That’s not to say you don’t have to take care of your voice. You were tired and run down at the end of a semester at the conservatoire in your first year and you overdid it. You spent that entire summer resting, and praying that the doctors were right, and that your voice would come back by itself.

But as you step out onto the stage, hear the strings play that first soft chord, there’s only you, the audience, and the direct connection between you.

That’s part of why you like to mingle with the crowd before the show. The house lights are down and the stage lights are bright so you can’t make out anyone clearly, but you can picture who you’re singing for. You can see the faces, in your mind’s eye, of the regulars who you’ve seen at multiple performances. The aliens who you’d never seen before today. The Starfleet officers, including that admiral. And Chris.

You take a deep breath, and sing.

Another nice thing about being a singer is after your warm down, which only takes a few minutes, you’re done. You don’t have to drag your instrument in a case along with you if you go out, or stress about whether you’ve left it somewhere safe. And, while this run is going on, you can keep your fancy dresses at the theatre.

As quick as you are to leave your dressing room, Ayre is quicker.

“Leda said you were special tonight, you know.” They say as you fall into step with them.

“Wait really?” Leda is director of music at the theatre, among other things, and her good opinion matters.

“Of course really. I might get jealous. I’m supposed to be her favourite.”

You laugh. “Only because you dedicated Nessun Dorma to her that one time—”

“Shush. Piacere for drinks?”

“Sure.”

By the time you make it to the stage door there’s a good size group of your friends heading to the bar, and you’re looking forward to a couple of drinks before turning in.

But as you exit the theatre, stepping out into the fresh evening air, Chris is there. He catches your eye and tilts his head, a small, sheepish smile on his face, and time almost stands still for a second as you stare back at him.

Ayre nudges your shoulder, speaking in an undertone. “Guess you’re not coming after all? Make good choices, babe. “And they somehow manage to herd everyone else away before you can react.

“Hi,” you say, suddenly feeling a little nervous, a little exposed. “You enjoy the show?”

“I did. You were—” he shakes his head a little. “You were sublime, and I... I owe you an apology. I said a few things back there that were… ill-considered.”

“All you said was you didn’t expect you’d enjoy the music.” You shrug. “And that’s fair – not everything is for everyone. Mostly you seemed unhappy about your situation, not the concert. So no apology necessary. But… if you really want to apologise, you can buy me a drink?” You take a step towards him, smiling. “After a performance I can even have ice.”

“It’s the least I can do.” He grins as he offers you his arm. “So why do you drink warm pineapple juice before shows?”

“It’s a placebo, really. But I like the taste and it doesn’t do any harm, so I grab one pre-show while I’m sizing up the audience. Really you have to keep yourself hydrated all the time. And humid atmospheres help.”

You finger his jacket with your free hand. “My turn: why haven’t I seen a green Starfleet uniform before now?”

Conversation flows easily as you walk, and he’s happy to let you steer him to one of your favourite bars. It’s a bit of a hidden gem – by the bay, small but not crowded, and sleek and modern, unlike the theatre.

You like it because you can see out across the water as you sit with your drinks, to the Golden Gate Bridge in one direction, and lights on Alcatraz in another.

Above the water is the new moon, bright enough to reflect off the waves. And above that, stars.

Discussions of uniforms naturally lead to talking about space, and you question Chris on life as a starship captain, the places he’s been and the things he’s seen. His stories fascinate you, even if you’re not entirely sure you believe them all.

“You ever think about travelling? Seeing the stars?” he asks as you start in on the second round of drinks.

“Actually yes. More and more, recently. I was in a tour commemorating the founding of the Federation a few years ago. The concert on Vulcan... that was fun.”

“Oh?”

“A couple of Vulcan musicians caught up with me after the show, asking about the logic of conveying emotion in music, and why I didn’t just showcase the beauty of the mathematical structure underpinning it all.”

“That sounds very Vulcan. I have some experience with them.” He smiles, there’s something fond in his expression as it goes distant for a moment. “My chief science officer is Vulcan. He can sometimes be... blunt.”

“Yes, blunt.” You nod. “I knew they were asking in good faith, and after I got over my surprise it led to an interesting conversation. It was good to look at things from a viewpoint I hadn’t considered before.”

“That part of exploration... the way it challenges our perspective? That’s one of the things that keeps me going back out there.”

“Plus the things you get to see... the crystal formations on Iyer sound amazing. I want to see those. Shame Starfleet doesn’t take passengers.”

He laughs at that. “If I could I’d take you in a heartbeat.” He pauses, then reaches out to touch your hand. “You should go, though. To Iyer. Hell, you should travel the galaxy, if you want to. You can. Earth will still be here when you want to come home.”

“I should, huh. I still have a few weeks to go here, but after that... I was waiting for the right opportunity, to sing somewhere? But maybe I should just go explore.”

You sip your drink, feeling thoughtful. “So how long are you planetside?”

“Until tomorrow. Afternoon.” He smiles, lopsided and utterly charming, and you feel flutters inside you as you make your decision.

The corners of your mouth turn up, and you look him in the eye. “It’s a bit too late for food now, but would it be forward of me to ask you to—”

Your communicator beeps, and you frown, pulled out of the moment.

“You gonna get that?” He asks, expression gone amused.

You pull the communicator out and stare at it a moment, wondering if you can make it go quiet by force of will. But anyone calling this late must have a particular reason; it’s probably just Ayre wanting to give you an out from your date if you need one. You pull a face, and stand.

“I’d better. I’ll just be a minute.”

The breeze coming off the bay is chilly, and you feel goosebumps raise on your arms as you activate the communicator one handed, hugging the other across your stomach.

“Hello?”

“Oh thank God, I thought you were never going to pick up. It’s Leda. You need to come back to the theatre, now. It’s nothing bad, but we’re having a meeting. The others are here already, but you weren’t with them.”

“Um... now now? I’m sorry Leda, can’t whatever it is wait? I—I’m on a date...”

You hear her take a breath, and you can picture her in your mind’s eye, pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to slow down. “I’m sorry about that, but I wouldn’t call you in if the matter wasn’t of the utmost importance. Time is a factor, too. When will you be here?”

You stifle your sigh.

“Give me fifteen.”

Chris must pick up something in your expression as you return to him.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, but no. Leda – Leda Lau, director of music – has summoned me back to the theatre for a meeting. I tried to tell her I was otherwise engaged, but she was insistent.” You sigh. “I’m so sorry, I was really enjoying our evening, but I’m going to have to abandon you.”

Chris stands and picks up your jacket, expression sympathetic. “Orders are orders. I understand. Let me walk you back.”

You take your jacket from him as you get to the door, and put it on before stepping outside.

“No, I’ll be fine. It’s way out of your way, if you’re staying at HQ.”

“I insist.” His small half-smile is back, and he holds out his arm for you. “My parents didn’t raise me to let a date walk back alone.”

The streets are quiet on your way to the theatre, stars glimmering above you, and it seems like no time before you’re coming up to the stage door again.

“Thank you for tonight.” You turn to face Chris, staring up into his blue eyes. “I’m sorry I had to bail on you. But... if you find yourself back on Earth again, feel free to look me up.”

He stares back down at you, and something in his blue eyes is searching. You know he’s going to kiss you—

“—don’t want you to worry, that’s all. I’ll be back soon. Yeah, see you later. Oh, hi—” Edward, a violinist, waves at you as he walks up to the door. “You here for the…? I’ll, uh… see you inside.” He gives you an apologetic glance, having just noticed Chris.

But the moment is broken, and Chris has already moved away.

“If you find yourself in space, feel free to look me up,” he says.

You smile, wistful. “I will.”

Somehow you make it through the door without looking back.

#writer wednesday #Christopher Pike #Christopher Pike x Reader #Christopher Pike x You #Captain Pike #Christopher Pike Imagine #star trek strange new worlds #star trek discovery #fanfic #writings of the girl from outer space #Curtain Call

[cafemagie-magie]

Howdy! First I just wanna say you're a really great artist, one of the best I've ever seen, and I love every single one of your LWA fanarts! And if you don't mind, I just wanted to ask how you learned to draw? I've always wanted to learn, but I'm not sure how to learn the fundamentals and progressively get better until I'm as great as someone like you. If you know any books, videos online, exercises/habits, or any resource to look up and learn how to draw and slowly get better, that'd be great!

Hi! Thank you very much, I’m touched by your kind words ^^

I give you Diakko but theyre motivation coaches to wish you the best ! Have fun with drawing, it's one of the best thing on Earth!

It took some time to answer because I wanted to write a document with a lot of resources, so you and other fellows can use it :

To answer the first part of the question, I always loved doodling with a pencil and replicating manga panels like Dragon Ball, Naruto... also I love scientific illustration and fashion design! Never took art classes, but went to an art club in high school^^

I have a pencil and watercolour self taught art background, drew since 9 but with a lot of art breaks (the most recent one lasted 4 years because of pharmacy studies), digital art came very late when I hit 23 (January of this year, got an iPad!🥳🎂) and I learned it with the resources stated in this shared document :D

Now for the second part, let's say every artist have their own art planet, like the Little Prince 😊

You have your art home,  and realism is the house foundation to you build up other skills on it. The first skill associatied with foundation is observation : when you look at something...how does it work? Why is this moving like that? What are the simplified shapes of it? 

Near you home, you can plant your favourite artists seeds from other art planets in your own art garden to be inspired by them. They'll bloom into different flowers, scents and colors... they'll inspire your work as you progress :D it's like pretty things to admire and look up to! To keep you on the go and learn from them! (It works with the library metaphor too, like having a collection of your fav artists, subjects, reference...)

 Then you build up solid walls for your house, by learning/practicing technical things like figure drawing, life drawing, drapery... with these, you can already have a lot of fun!

Adding windows will bring you some fresh air as you'll explore colour theory, light and shadow... at this stage, traditionally or digitally, you'll be able to create really cool sketches/llustrations! You can always use references and observe them to understand the light source, a particular scenery, or some tricky anatomy position, etc...so you can incorporate it in your drawing.

Then you can make your house bigger by adding new rooms: learning how to draw specific things like detailed backrounds, animals, weapons, machinery, everything you'll be interested in...if you started with humans only for example.

Later on, you can decor your house with things like art style, aesthetics, that little somtheing that makes people recognize your works...these come naturally as you progress so dont worry too much about it!

Building a comfy house takes time but it's your home and even if there will be struggles/frustration... enjoying the process is key to a happy artist journey ^^

Hope this helped, and you can always dm for more specific things, if needed (or ask anonymously again, I’m shy so I’ll understand lol)

#ask solace #art advice #art resources #artist help

[earaercircular]

Kairlin flax fibre furniture equips Bureau Vallée stores

Kairlin was born from the work of navigator Roland Jourdain and his partner Sophie Vercelletto. The brand deploys the bio sourced material called Kairlin, made from flax fibre and glue from sugar beet or corn.

"A natural material that resists the force of the sea has its place on land," says skipper Roland Jourdain[1]. He experimented life-size with the solidity of Kairlin[2] - a material made from flax fibre and a bio sourced glue from sugar beet or corn - that was made up of several elements of his sailboat "We Explore", which took part in the last edition of the Route du Rhum[3]. The two associates, Roland Jourdain and Sophie Vercelletto, his companion, who are behind this innovation, moreover have every intention of gradually imposing Kairlin - a patented product - in various sectors, such as furniture manufacturing.

A bet supported by Bruno Peyroles, the president of the distribution group of office equipment Bureau Vallée[4], also sponsor of We Explore. It has designed and installed linen furniture in 80 of its 400 stores for the recovery of recyclable office items, such as ink cartridges. Consisting of several bins, the set is 1.50 meters long.

Signage at the point of sale informs Bureau Vallée customers of its natural composition. "Each piece of furniture requires an investment of 750 euros," says Bruno Peyroles. Through this initiative, we want to demonstrate that this material will gradually obtain its place in industry. He is thinking, for example, of ballpoint manufacturers who all use plastic derived from petroleum and could easily switch to a bio-sourced and recyclable product like Kairlin.

A manufacturer located in Normandy

“Printers, signage manufacturers, designers are starting to contact us. We are already working with two distributors”, indicates for his part Xavier Baris, member of the Kaïros strategic committee, whose team is based in Concarneau (Finistère)[5]. The turnover generated by the Kairlin has not yet reached one million euros, "but it has tripled in recent months", continues Xavier Baris.

For more use of the material, the team of Roland Jourdain and Sophie Vercelletto must still work on different possibilities of colour - currently, brown, black and white - and its resistance to fire. The plates are manufactured in the form of sheets and panels by an industrialist based in Normandy, from flax grown and harvested only by local farmers.

While Kairlin is currently more expensive than plastic-based materials derived from petrochemicals, the ramp-up in volumes will necessarily lower flax fibre manufacturing prices. Regarding its recycling, it is particularly possible to give a second life to Kairlin-based materials in the form of granules for bio-sourced plastic injection.

Source

Stanislas du Guerny, Les meubles en fibre de lin de Kaïros équipent des magasins Bureau Vallée, in Les Echos, 8-06-2023 ; https://www.lesechos.fr/thema/articles/les-meubles-en-fibre-de-lin-de-kairos-equipent-des-magasins-bureau-vallee-1950233

[1] The famous French sailor Roland Jourdain has launched the construction of We Explore, a flax fiber catamaran with which he intends to take part in the next Route du Rhum, in November, departing from Saint-Malo.

[2] Kairlin® is an innovative and elegant biocomposite material made from flax fibers and 100% vegetable components. Developed and patented by Kaïros Environnement, Kairlin® follows a manufacturing technique that makes it possible to obtain recyclable and compostable sheets, plates or panels in industrial compost. Made in France, Kairlin® can be of different composition then machined and thermoformed to adapt to your desires and technical or aesthetic needs. https://www.kairos-jourdain.com/fr/environnement/kairlin

[3] Created in 1978 by Michel Etevenon, La Route du Rhum-Destination Guadeloupe is the queen of solo transatlantic races. For 44 years, it has linked Saint-Malo in Brittany to Pointe-à-Pitre in Guadeloupe, and brings together on the same starting line the largest plateau in ocean sailing. This transatlantic, with a total distance of 3542 miles, has become legendary and its magic operates in the diversity of classes and the mixture of genres. Great figures of sailing, professionals and amateurs meet every 4 years to taste "the magic of Rum".

[4] Since 1990, Bureau Vallée has been a specialized brand offering a wide choice of products from the world of stationery, office automation, high-tech, office supplies and furniture at discount prices. We address both individuals and professionals. The Bureau Vallée brand stands out by expressing its vocation around a base of authentic values that are embodied in each store. Its 240 stores are present everywhere in France but also in Spain and Belgium.

[5] Concarneau (Breton: Konk-Kerne, meaning "Bay of Cornwales") is a commune in the Finistère department of Brittany in Northwestern France.[3] In 2019, it had a population of 19,816. Concarneau is bordered to the west by the Baie de La Forêt.

#bio sourced material

[lauesen64korsholm]

hermes ostrich bag 27

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Potential sizing difference between zero.5cm to 1cm for luggage and equipment, and up to 0.5cm distinction for footwear could occur as nicely. There are just a few precautions you should take if you need to maintain your bag in nice situation. Even although it’s very sturdy, Hermes Ostrich leather can nonetheless get scratched. So simply attempt to forestall the color zoning impact by storing the bag away from light. This is when parts of your bag which are uncovered to the sunshine get bleached out and elements which would possibly be hidden retain their original colour. You’ll at all times should store your bag away from the light, heat, and sunlight or it's going to fade. This Himalaya Birkin is in Niloticus crocodile with palladium hardware and has tonal stitching, entrance flap, two straps with heart toggle closure, clochette with lock and two keys, and double rolled handles. A 2017 examine revealed that the worth of Hermès Birkin bags has elevated 500% in the last 35 years, an increase of 14% per year. One of the most coveted models comes from Hermès' Himalaya collection, which is available in three sizes. Often known as the holy grail of handbags, the white Himalaya Birkin bag options 18-karat white gold hardware and more than 200 diamonds. The 35-centimeter mannequin in particular may be very rare and has bought at record costs year after yr. If the file has been modified from its original state, some particulars such as the timestamp might not absolutely reflect these of the unique file. The timestamp is only as correct because the clock within the digital camera, and it may be fully mistaken. Hermes Birkin Bag prices change consistently, but show to be a worthy funding for years to come. Dependent on the leather-based and if any particular stones are used, it could rise to $200,000 AUD, if not higher. The Birkin bag is distributed in restricted portions and sometimes with unpredictable timings, requires customers to hitch a waitlist rumoured to be of hundreds. This exclusivity of the Hermes Birkin bag is rooted in storied tradition, affect and craftsmanship.

#ostrich birkin #birkin ostrich bag #hermes ostrich bag #hermes ostrich birkin #hermes kelly ostrich #hermes birkin ostrich bag #pink ostrich birkin bag #ostrich kelly bag #mini kelly ostrich #birkin 25 ostrich #kelly ostrich #replica hermes ostrich bag

[sarmaleattheseaside]

#Second panel is from last year;coloured it recently #cry of fear #cof #simon henriksson #afraid of monsters #aom #david leatherhoff #salmonart #Imagine them being happy #That would be cool

[misfireanon]

61

Nihlus paused at the foot of the stairs and waved the plastic tube. “I’m looking for a replacement water filter. The small ones, for the tap.”

“They’re on the third row.” Saren’s eyes narrowed as Nihlus padded his way across the vehicle bay. “Use a ladder.”

There were perfectly sturdy crates lined up in the bottom row. But still, the ladders were just a few steps away from the workbench, and it gave him an excuse to peer over Saren’s shoulder. Saren was poking at something small, and the panels overhead were set to maximum brightness. Maybe he’d picked up that targeting system from Ilium after all.

Nihlus spotted the cushioned case, hidden behind a tri-tiered toolbox. Wasn’t the targeting system. He whistled. 

“So that’s the new pair. How do they fit?”

Saren set the pointed steel tweezers aside. He picked up a can of DFE and tossed it lightly, testing its weight. “Need some adjustments. Get me another can, Nihlus. Second row, fifth bin from the left.”

Aside from the tweezers, there were an assortment of screwdrivers and little flat knives resting in the gullies surrounding the antistatic mat. Nihlus stopped by the far end of the bench and leaned over, studying the amps. They were unblemished. Newer than others he’d seen, including the ones Saren kept in the red box, but that was all he could tell. There were two smooth bumps, or contact nodes, at the end of each amp; the rest of the metal was matte, including the familiar latches that would adhere to the waterproof seals. The metal was faintly teal in colour. He wanted to turn them over, but Saren’s eyes flashed a bright warning in the fluorescent light. 

“Ever since you showed me that Deccretion Disk, I’ve been reading about biotics,” he said, retracting his hand. He crossed his legs under the table, putting a bit more weight on his folded arms. Nice and casual. I mean confident. Ah, fuck it. Left mandible twitching, he studied Saren’s expression. It was blank, but strained. Not in a bad way. 

“Have you,” Saren muttered.

“Yeah. The asari are the experts when it comes to making amps -- big surprise there -- but I read it’s specifically the Serrice Council that’s considered the industry leader. Has been for three centuries. The Armali Council and the Zhirian Collective are the runner-ups. They’ve got products for practically all races, but they aren’t cheap, and they’re choosy about their clients.” He skewed his brows. “Bet Spectre privileges come in handy there.”

“They might.” Saren was distracted, untangling the wires on a voltmeter. Weird. Nihlus swore he’d folded those properly when he’d put it away a couple of days ago. 

“I’ll wager the salarians must be close behind, even though they haven’t gone public with any of their work. The krogan are the best evidence. Models developed for krogan shock troops back during the Rachni Wars are still in use in the hinterlands, so imagine what they’re doing for their own operatives back home. Gotta give the asari a run for their money.

“And the Hierarchy… The Hierarchy isn’t the most transparent about this. Even less than the salarians, if you can imagine. But I do know that Armax has a basic line, probably a separate experimental one, too, that’s limited to troops on active duty. Osanus Group and Lantiirix Medical partner with the Cabals. Must be a few other state-owned companies out there who want to keep a low profile. Would you happen to know them?”

Saren gave a noncommittal harrumph. “Have you seen the rubber ties for these?”

“They’re grey, right?” Nihlus rubbed the back of his head. Play it cool. “Same as the bench. And most of the floor. Look,” he added quickly, ducking out of the way of a metaphorical bullet, “just tie the ends around the whole bunch. No fiddling with the tiny-ass button, saves mass…”

Clank. 

The gas-duster can was set before him. He picked it up, stuffed it inside the dirty water filter, and sighed. “I’ll get you another. I wanted to see what make your amp was, all right? But it’s none of the ones I know. Definitely not asari.”

“You can tell?” Saren asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“Yeah. I’ve flipped through a lot of catalogues recently. I’m not surprised, really. Every mercenary I know swears by their personal supplier, usually some license-less fixer out in the Traverse running their business out of a freighter. I heard there’re a lot of geniuses out there, and just as many crooks. Still, that’s how they like it.” He glanced at Saren’s amps again, then at his face. Their eyes did not meet. “Not that I’m suggesting yours are illicit, but…”

“Spectre privileges can extend to many areas.”

“Basically.”

“Were these mercenaries turian?”

“No -- mostly. First biotics I remember seeing were a pair of asari maidens, waiting outside the door while my dad grabbed an omni and a drink from our prefab. I was six, I think. I never spoke with them, but my dad talked about them a lot after the job was done. It was a hit on a sand shipment; the competition wanted their own people on the squad. He complained about ‘the xenos’ taking a big cut of the payout, but still praised them for ‘nice supportive waists’.” Nihus shook his head. “Back then, I didn’t even know what that meant.

“But I’ve met a turian, just the one. At a bar on Invictus, in fact. He said he used to be in the Cabals, but he quit as soon as his service was up. I didn’t know mandatory service lasted six years longer for biotics. No waivers. Considering everything, it seems unfair.”

Saren was looking at him. Nihlus scrutinised the inscrutable. Not anger, definitely not anger. Exhaustion?

“The Cabals are the only branch where soldiers are admitted by birth, not by merit,” Saren said at last. He nudged the twin leads with the back of his hand, pushing them parallel to one another.

His tone was strange. Mechanical, yet unsteady somehow. Familiar, like an echo of Nihlus himself. Nihlus stood up, arms folded, legs straight, and loudly cleared his throat. “Pardon me, sir, but that’s a load of crap.” 

There was another long pause. Nihlus didn’t so much as shuffle his feet.

“You’re right,” Saren whispered.

#fanfiction #Saren Arterius #Nihlus Kryik #Mass Effect

[writingsbychlo]

starry night | chris beck

word count; 9241

summary; chris beck delivers flowers to you five times.

notes; this was originally called ‘candy cane lane’, but I changed it up a little.

warnings; none!

When Chris had started working in a flower shop, it was to pay his way through college. He was getting a degree in medicine and it wasn't cheap, and he needed a simple and easy way to make cash that wouldn't take too much out of him. He wasn’t big on anything social, and so working in a bar or restaurant didn’t seem like the best fit, and unfortunately for him, all the library jobs had been snapped up at the beginning of the year. Supermarkets were a no go, he hated the people that came through and how rude some of them could be, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to get a job in a coffee shop.

Working those machines might as well be rocket science.

The little flower store on the end of his campus road had been hiring, and eventually, he’d become desperate. It wasn’t his usual gig, he wasn’t sure how he felt about it, to begin with, but it offered decent money, reasonably flexible hours, and the boss actually let him study on shift when it was quiet, and so it actually gave him more free time than he had before getting a job.

Then, he’d started to warm up to it. It was always cool in the summer and warmer in the winter, keeping it temperate for the plants, and it always smelt good. He made friends with a man named Mark who came in every so often to buy new plants to study, he was becoming a botanist, and they bonded over the serene quietness of flower shops for studying and bad jokes.

Little old ladies pinched his cheeks, the tips were good, and it helped him clear his thoughts to be able to do menial tasks like spray the flowers with water every other hour to keep them wet enough, and to sit behind the cash registers. It was a simple Christmas present from said botanist friend that really inspired his passion, though. More of a gag gift, he was sure that was its intention, but he’d started to take it seriously. Chapter after chapter on the meanings of flowers, how to send hidden messages through plants, and something about the way of communicating in ways other than words had spoken to him.

After that, he’d been able to offer a service of sending messages through flowers. He’d become a more popular salesperson, and he’s shifts had increased, and he loved doing it. He loved the physical way that a message could be conveyed, beautiful explosions of colour to mean ‘I love you’ or ‘Happy Anniversary’, and so he’d started to invest his time in that. Nobody had been all that surprised when the older man who ran the shop had left it to him when he passed, not even Chris himself, and so he’d finished up his degree and started working at the flower shop full time.

Mark had taken on a part-time job there, as well as his internship in a clinical research lab, and they’d hired an extra hand at the register. It made him happy.

Less so, when he had an influx of orders overnight, and instead had to focus on building bouquets to be shipped instead of the garden expansion he was making, but happy nonetheless.

He was twenty-seven custom orders in, Mark already out running the standard bouquets for delivery, and he was stacking them by the garage door, wrapped in ribs and pretty vase-boxes, all ready to go. Licking the tip of his finger to flick the paper over, he let out a sigh, two sets of flowers on one page, his rows raising. It wasn’t unusual for there to be multiple sets on one order form, but as his eyes scanned over the list of preferences, scents and colours, as well as the messages they were wishing to convey, one of his brows rose up.

One request for the pretty set of pink roses and lilies that he’d loving crafted himself, a collection of flowers that signified an apology, and he was always happy to offer advice to any guys who came into the store to buy that set. It was usually a guy fresh to a relationship, messed something up by refusing to unfollow another girl on Instagram, or just saying the wrong thing in front of his friends, introducing a girl as his friend, that one always made him giggle. The second was curious, though, and it made his lips quirk up in a slight smirk at the insinuation of it. Red roses and tulips, a darker and more seductive bunch; new beginnings and early love, and he was willing to place his last dollar on it being an affair.

It felt even more sure when he noticed that the delivery address was that of an office block, and not a home address, a man’s name instead of a woman’s. In the personal notes section, there were no names, and so that was an option ruled out for getting to the bottom of the situation, but he wrote out gift cards, one with swirling writing for a heartfelt apology and the other with a sickly-sweet pick-up line and what he assumed to be an inside joke.

Curled ribbons and plastic wrapping, and the two bouquet were standing side by side for delivery, the van chugging as it was pulled back into the driveway, reversed up, and his blond-haired friend rounding the vehicle, looking utterly worn out, and it was only halfway through the day.

“You’d think it was Valentine’s Day, or something. This is crazy, it’s November!”

He took off his cap, running a hand over his hair and scratching lightly at his scalp, before placing the embroidered garment with the company logo back onto his head. “I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up!”

“Oh, yeah? Is it the rest of the day off?”

“Uh, no.” He deadpanned, his friend laughing as he came to stand by him, and he motioned towards the collection. “However, it is a rather exciting combination. These two-” He tapped at the boxes holding them firm at the base. “-are going to the same place.”

“And that is exciting why, exactly?”

“Because one is supposed to symbolise asking for forgiveness and all that, and the other symbolises new love and beginnings and all that. They’re being delivered to an office block, not a home address.” It took Mark a minute to process it, and Chris watched the gears turn in his friend’s head, before his jaw was dropping, and he let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Oh, and you think it’s a.. y’know.” He only nodded, and he began to load up the other orders into the van, a printout sheet of new addresses and order numbers on the tags, the delivery sheets loaded onto a clipboard to be signed for at each location. The empty van was once again teeming with bright flowers and artfully arranged bundles. Securing them all down and making sure they wouldn't tip over or get crushed during the ride there, he was confident they were ready to go, almost all of them set up, before he was staring at the two he’d recently made once again, his curiosity getting the better of him. “You want me to try and find out while I’m there?”

He almost agreed, it would have been so easy, a simple way to put his questions to rest, but he was invested in it now, and so he already knew what was coming. “No, I’ll deliver these ones myself.

Mark only nodded, slamming and locking the back of the van doors, double-checking the hatches for fresh air were open to stop them from wilting in transit, and then he was back up into the main cabin. The loud sounds of disco music exploding from the van radio as he started it back up, reversing from the driveway and setting off on his next round of deliveries.

Scooping up the first set in his arms, Chris patted down his pockets in search for his keys, finding them in his left side back pocket, unlocking his car with a click of a button, and setting the first batch on the passenger seat. The second soon followed, and he used the seatbelt to secure them in place, rolling the windows down as he set off, programming the address into his SatNav.

It was a short drive, twenty minutes maximum, even with traffic, the tall and shining office building one that he was vaguely familiar with towards the inside of the city, harsh rays of winter sun reflecting off of clean glass windows, all the way up to the top floor, and it was so tall that as he stared at it, he swore the building was swaying. With a bouquet in each arm and the clipboard tucked under one, he backed his way through the polished glass doors, a company insignia printed onto the glass, and he almost wanted to check his shoes for traces of at the appearance of the clean white lobby.

Large tiles of marble flooring, specks of grey flickering throughout them, and white leather couches along some of the walls on one side of the lobby, a waiting room. The other had various coffee and tea machines, recyclable cups and sugar packets, as well as a range of fruits and muffins, and he wanted to scoff a little at the ostentatious nature of it all. The desk was empty as he finally approached, though he could hear chatter in the background, behind reflective glass panels that he couldn’t see through, one-way glass he assumed, and as he balanced the bouquets up on the counter, an older woman, approaching her fifties he presumed, came out, a wide smile on her face as she brushed down the material of her skirt.

“My, my, aren’t those beautiful? Unfortunately, I don’t think they’re for me.”

“Well, ma’am, unless you’re a ‘Mr Robert McKinley’, I’d have to agree.” She chuckled, nodding her head as she looked at them before picking up the phone, and typing in an extension. Lifting it to her ear, she balanced it there against her shoulder, smiling at him once again.

“I’ll just have his assistant come down to collect them and sign for them for you, lovely.” He nodded his head, turning away to be polite as she chatted away on the phone for only a moment, confirming that there was a package to be sorted out, and he twisted back to look at her as she put the phone down. Manicured nails tapped at the desk for only as second, an awkward silence forming, and one of the elevators let out a small ‘dinging’ sound as it was clicked into use, the numbers on the screen above the floor counting down, coming all the way from the twenty-eighth floor. “Would you like a candy?”

He jumped a little, turning back to look at the woman who had now sat down a little distance from him, behind the computer at the desk, and she turned to him, raising up a bowl of neatly wrapped candies, and placing it up on the glass counter for him to reach. He didn’t, but she was staring at him expectantly, and so he plucked the first one from the bowl, offering her a simple nod of his head, and tucking it into the pocket on his shirt.

When a chime sounded throughout the lobby, the sound echoing off of every hard surface, Chris’ attention was drawn to the clicking of heels on the smooth stone flooring. A pretty blouse that looked like it cost more than his entire outfit and a fitted pencil skirt that was sitting just below your knees, your were a professional vision. Except, your hair was a little messy, and there was a wide grin on your face as you typed rapidly on your phone, not even needing to look up to do the walk, but your expression made you look much more approachable than the usual businesswoman.

You clicked off your phone only a few feet away from him, looking up as your gaze went straight to the flowers at his side instead of him, but it gave Chris the chance to take you in just for a moment, and fully observe you, Up close, you were even prettier, soft skin and pretty hair that shined under the lights, and whatever the shade of lipstick was that you were wearing was perfect, because it suited you like it had been made for you.

You reached out, straight past him for a second, and the receptionist gasped, reaching for the bowl of candy, but you were quicker, your hand scooping up a little collection of the sweets and pulling them back, a sound of victory sounding from you, and she mumbled under her breath playfully, rolling her eyes and threatening to start hiding the treats before she ran out, but you only chuckled, unwrapping one and placing it against your tongue, lips brushing your fingers as you turned to him, and he forced his eyes away from your mouth, a blush on his cheeks.

“Oh, wow. Check these out.” You turned to the receptionist, motioning to them, and she only nodded her head, the sounds of a printer firing up in the back room, and she disappeared to collect the sheets, leaving the pair of you alone. “For Mr McKinley?”

You leaned over the counter, snatching up a pen from the other side, and he only nodded, producing the collection sheet, and pointing out the spot that needed singing, the scraping of the pen on paper filling the silence as you signed in both boxes, handing it back to him and tucking the pen behind your ear. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Fire away.” You grinned, unwrapping another candy, leaving the wrapper on the glass alongside the other one, a cheeky move he was sure you’d get reprimanded for by the receptionist who kept a beautifully organised and clean desk and foyer.

“There are two bouquets here, both with flowers that have very different meanings. Can I ask why?”

You hummed, staring at him for a minute as you chewed slowly, before swallowing the sweet in your mouth and smirking slightly. “I’ll answer your question, but only if you answer mine first; what do the flowers mean?”

Chris grinned, unable to hold it in, because he loved getting to talk about his passions, especially when he could show off a little in front of a pretty lady, and he nodded his head. “Pink roses and lilies are an apology, but red roses with tulips are for new love.”

“And do you have any theories?”

“Just the one, but I’m waiting for it to be confirmed.” He chuckled a little at the devious look that flashed over your features as you pulled the red roses bundle toward you, nose pressed into them for a second as you inhaled deeply, a little sigh leaving you afterwards.

“I’m trusting you here, but you’re cute, so I’ll tell you.” Heat rushed to his cheeks, head ducking for just a second, before he was looking back up to catch your gaze, brows raised as he waited excitedly, leaning in to meet you as though a scandalous secret was about to be told, and he supposed that’s exactly what it was. “There’s another receptionist, and intern back in there, fresh out of college, just a year below me, and he’s definitely fucking her.” You tapped a finger against the red roses, before your gaze was flicking to the second bunch, still by his arm as he leaned on the counter. “However, a couple of days ago he had a lunch date scheduled with his wife, and he missed it. I couldn’t find him anywhere, and I couldn’t find the intern either. Not hard to connect the dots.”

“Oh, so he’s covering both of his bases?”

“For sure.” You grinned, backing up a little bit to grab the second bundle, and adjusting them in your arms for balance. “Angie had probably realised too, and dashed in there to tell the girl that she’s got flowers coming.”

You were making your way over to the elevators, and he followed after you, pressing the button to summon the lift, and it hummed to life behind closed metal doors. “You know, since we just became partners in crime, maybe I should get to know your name?”

“Well, that was smooth.” You laughed, the doors opening up, and you stepped inside, placing one bouquet on the floor at your feet and holding onto the other. You caved, giving him your name as he placed his hand over the door to stop them from closing, ad he repeated the name to you, testing it on his tongue as he learnt it. He gave you his own in return when he asked, and when you said it back, his smile widened, already liking the way his name sounded coming for you.

You typed a code into the pad on the wall of the elevator, the screen flashing green as your programming was accepted, and he stepped back, grinning as you waved your fingers at him, the doors closing as you disappeared from view. He snatched up his clipboard on the way out, unable to contain the smile on his face.

Chris Beck hated making deliveries, but this one hadn't been so bad.

There was a genuine smile on his face as he stepped through the glass doors of the lobby, smaller and simpler bouquets this time, both matching and nothing special, but he’d tasked himself with delivering them personally because he’d recognised the name and address immediately, his encounter with the cute assistant he’d met only two weeks prior flashing through his mind as he’d insisted on delivering this order himself, Mark smirking and helping him gather the flowers as soon as he’d spilled all about you.

Now, he had two sets of pretty pink flowers in different shades, and a single red rose in a sleek plastic wrapping, all wraith ribbons wrapped around them were bundled in one arm, the other holding onto his clipboard, and the desk was once again empty as he approached. A bell, sleek and shining silver, and it was a new addition, definitely not present last time, and he eyes it suspiciously for a moment, before pressing a finger against the top lightly, just twice, a little ringing sounding out around the lobby.

A head of curly hair popped out from around the glass, much younger than the previous assistant, and wearing a much tighter skirt, and she grinned widely as she stepped forwards. He couldn’t deny that she was beautiful, fiery red hair and a wide smile, lips painted with red lipstick, and she seemed sweet, but far too intimidating for him to ever consider. Her heels were so tall that he wondered how she even walked in them, long and thin points creating the stilettos.

“Flowers?”

There was an eager tone to her voice, and he put the pieces of the puzzle together, assuming this to be the intern, his eyes flicking down to her name badge for a second, reading it as ‘Clara’. “For Mr McKinley. Is his assistant free tom come and sign for them?”

The woman paused, rolling her lips a little and nodding her head, a coy look on her features before sitting down in the chair and spinning in it to face the phone, lifting it up to her ear and dialling a short connection number. He didn’t seem to need to wait long, before she was summoning you, a ‘flower delivery’ to be claimed, and she was far too excited, only confirming his doubts that this was definitely the mistress. “She’ll be right down.”

“Fantastic.” He wasn’t sure she even processed his words, before her eyes were closing in on the flowers, and he ignored it, turning back to look at the elevator, waiting for the number on the twenty-eighth floor to light up, a number flashing over the screen. It paused on its descent this time, stopping at the eighteenth floor, and then again at the twelfth, and he assumed that somebody else had joined the journey for a short while.

When the doors finally opened, you weren’t built typing away this time, a grin on your face as your eyes swept over the entrance for him, and he waved his fingers again, straightening up from the desk.

“It’s my partner in crime, back again.”

“Missed you too much, just had to return.”

“Of course, you did, because I’m awesome.” You came to a stop before him, peering up at him through bright eyes, and he swallowed thickly, a little nervous but very excited, and he tried to remember any of what Mark had taught him, his friend being far better with the women than he was, and everything from the last-minute crash course he’d been given upon leaving the shop forty-five minutes ago seemed to have gone blank. “So, what really brings you here today?”

You gasped a little as he shifted to show you the collection, sliding the clipboard closer, and you were presented with a pen from him, floral patterning woven along the body, your thumb clicking it on to sign for them. When you passed it back, you shared a look with him, both of your glances flicking over to the intern who was still admiring the flowers, completely oblivious.

“Hey, Clara?” Her head snapped up, pale skin heating with colour as she flushed, and he suppressed a chuckle. “Mr McKinley is in meetings all afternoon, but he’ll want to approve these flowers. Can you put them in water, and I’ll call to have them sent up when he’s ready?”

She only nodded, more than happy to take a gift that she knew one of was for her into the back, hands reaching over to gather them all up. He almost missed it, watching as all of the flowers were taken, too busy watching the way you rolled your eyes at her when she looked away, fond but still a little cool, and he bit at the inside of his cheek to contain his amusement. It was just as she was leaving that his mind cleared, and he cleared his throat.

“Wait, wait, hold on!” She turned back, brows raised, and he reached over, letting her take a step forwards so that he could reach, plucking the single rose from where it was laying over the top of the two. “This, uh, this is actually for you.”

He presented it to you, your eyes widening a little, and you looked between him and the flower several times. His heart was in his throat, worry you were going to reject it, before you were giving him a different smile than he had seen yet, something softer and more endearing, and you plucked it from his hands, bringing it to your nose. “You’re just a big flirt, huh, Chris?” Your eyes fluttered for a moment, before you were looking back up to him through your lashes. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem, honestly. I own the shop, the least I can do is give my partner in crime a pretty flower.”

You scoffed, but it was out of friendship and playfulness, not judgement or rejection, and silence fell between you both once again. The plastic in your hands wrinkled as you twirled it, wrapping the curled ribbon around your finger for a second, and letting it jump back into place when you let it go. “You busy? Got a packed store to run back to?”

Your question caught him off-guard, and he struggled to find words for a second, before clearing his throat and shaking his head. “No, uh, no. Clear day, actually. This was the last order.”

“So, you’re free for an hour or so?” Chris nodded his head, licking at his lips as he became a little nervous once again. “Well, why don’t I give you a tour? We’ve got some pretty cool stuff here, and I’ll fix you up with a drink from the coffee bar before you go.”

“This building has a coffee bar?”

“You bet it does.” You teased, turning on your heel as you took his question as acceptance, and he scooped up the clipboard, following after you as you made your way to the elevator, and this time when it opened, he stepped inside with you. As soon as the keypad lit up, prompting you to enter your four-digit authorisation code and make a floor selection, and you paused, finger hovering over the electronic selections. “What do you wanna’ see first, then?”

“You got an office?”

“I sure do.” You grinned, tapping for the twenty-eighth floor, and the machinery soon hummed into life, gears jerking smoothly into motion and soft music playing over the speakers in the background.

The ride was quiet, and he twisted his head as though the walls were interesting, just to take them in and hide the expression on his face as he watched you twirl the rose he’d given you between your fingers. There was a tag, one that he hadn't yet seen you read, and while all it contained was his number and a sign of his name, he was still a little nervous for your reaction to it, so he was glad to watch you place it onto your desk to be returned to later as you showed him around.

The building truly was impressive, large floor to ceiling glass windows on one wall of your office, staring out at the city below and giving a view so stunning and far that he could see all the way out to where the concrete faded away into greenery along the horizon, and he was a little taken aback by it all. Dipping the rose into a mug of water from the office kitchen, you promised to transfer it to a vase when you got home that evening, and you showed him all around.

Up and down on the elevator, proudly showing him every aspect of your workplace, and somewhere between the in-house gym and the coffee bar you’d boasted of in the staff food courts, you’d made him promise a tour of the flower shop sometime.

Way over an hour had passed in total, and he would’ve been more than happy to let that go on and on, for the rest of the day until the sun was setting, just to sit on the stools at the high tables at the coffee bar, getting refills on his coffee as he watched you drink herbals teas and chat about everything you got up to in the day, but your boss was paging you again to ask where you were, and he had his own job to return to at some point. You seemed hesitant at first, but had eventually divulged him with a guest security code for the elevator, logging him under your name, so that in future, he would be able to bring the flowers straight upstairs to you, and come and see you whenever he stopped by.

With a to-go cup in hand that had your number written on the cardboard holder, you’d escorted him all the way back to the lobby, pressing a friendly kiss to his cheek as he stepped between the doors, waving a little with what he knew was a goofy smile, waiting until he could no longer see you as the metal doors slid shut to reflect his image back at him, before he was bidding the two women at the reception desk a goodbye, and pretending not to know that they were eavesdropping, because he was floating far too high to care right now.

Chris hadn't been surprised at all when the next batch of flowers had come through, because you’d told him days prior that he could be expecting another batch of apology flowers to come through. Your work had been busy lately, you’d told him so yourself the few weeks that had slid past since you’d exchanged numbers had been filled with an abundance of texts.

Sharing texts had rapidly become phone calls in downtime, exchanging social media and sending one another dumb jokes and funny pictures throughout your workdays. He knew that your job had been getting harder lately, the run down to Christmas making everything a little more difficult, and that you’d been swept off of your feet because your boss had been, too. Eight-hour shifts had become twelve, day through to night, never seeing the light of a winter day unless it was through the windows of your office as you worked, and he had a sympathetic guilt twisting in his gut.

Two bouquets to make up for the lack of time that your boss had been able to spare for either of the women in his life and you’d looked positively exhausted as you came out of your office to greet him at the top of the elevator. You had a frown on your face that barely lifted into a smile as you saw him, even though he knew you were happy to catch sight of him. The usual shade of lipstick that projected boldness and power was gone, your face free of makeup entirely, and styled hair now just pulled up into a bun.

He wondered how long it had been since you’d had a full night’s sleep.

“Hey, sweetheart. How’re you feeling?” You only shook your head, sniffling a little as you suppressed a yawn, before taking one of the bouquets from his arms, and inspecting it carefully.

“These are beautiful.”

“I put a little extra ribbon on them, just for you.” He winked, and that had earned him a little chuckle, glancing at him over your shoulder as he followed you through to your office, and placing them down on the cabinet near the doorway to be distributed when your boss had a free second to look at them. Chris felt his own eyes widen in shock as he looked around, the stacks of paperwork littered around the surfaces were astonishing, and there was other mess scattered among that.

Stationary littered the desk, clearly trying to get everything sorted, and almost every draw in the room was half-open, your heels kicked off by the edge of the desk and there was a clear spot against one of the walls where you’d been sitting, a patch clear with papers spread out around you, wording and statements on them that made his head spin as he looked at them. Business definitely wasn’t his forte.

You rubbed a hand over your forehead, cursing a little as you tried to find a pen that wasn't a highlighter, and he didn’t miss the crack in your voice as you scoured the paper stacks. Leaning down to pick one up from the dropped pen pot on the floor, and offering it to you. A little sigh passed your lips, before you were taking it from him, clicking it into action and signing your name on both of the forms to confirm the delivery, a simple ritual of habit by this stage, as he knew that even if you didn’t he wasn’t risking any legal action from you.

You rubbed a hand over your forehead afterwards, rolling your shoulders and shaking yourself down as you tried to hit that reset button on your mood, but it wasn't working, it didn’t take a genius to see it, and so he reached out, placing a comforting squeeze to your forearm, fingers slipping a little lower to latch onto your wrist loosely.

“Okay, you’re a little overwhelmed in here, huh?” You let out a weak laugh, glancing around yourself and nodding. “It’s time for a break. Take your lunch break now, we’re getting out of here.”

“I can’t leave, I have too much to do. I’ll just get something from the food courts, a sandwich, maybe.” You slumped down into your desk chairs, the wheels on it carrying you backwards slightly, and he placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head at you.

“You have to go. It’s doctor’s orders.”

“Which doctor?” You scoffed, rolling your eyes at him, and he gasped a little, hands finding your own and pulling you to your feet, despite the whine that you let out.

“This doctor. I went to medical school, I get to give the orders. You, my dear, need one hour of rest and relaxation from your workplace, stat.” You started up at him for a second, seeming to weigh it out in your mind, but he wasn’t backing down, and he swore he saw that realisation click within your eyes, because you caved.

Slipping your heels on and grabbing your jacket from the back of the door, you logged your timeout of the building in the lobby with Angie, who cooed at you a little as she watched you go, a pitiful look on her face as she knew just how hard you were working too, before his hand was settling on your lower back.

A ten-minute walk, finding a table in a small pizzeria on the corner of a street, one that he’d been dying to try for months now, and a quick order, and you were slumping down tiredly against the table. The workload always increased at Christmas, sales shot through the roof, all the expansions of your company were filing for Christmas bonuses, parties, annual reports and then, of course, there were the usual rises and falls in statistics over the year that needed to be dealt with.

It was chaotic, to say the least.

Over a hot and freshly baked pizza, your selection of toppings, and a soda that made you wrinkle your nose from the fizziness within, you looked like there was a little more life within you when you’d been leaving.

You spilled it all to him, telling him every struggle you’d been facing, and while he didn't understand half of what you were saying, he was more than happy to just to listen. He couldn't offer much advice, or anything of the sort that might be helpful, but it seemed that just being able to talk to someone had made the day a little brighter.

The chill in the air and the biting winds had made you wrap your coat around yourself even tighter on the walk back to your work, but there was more of a pep in your step and a lighter tone to your voice, a little more chipper and slightly less drained as you began to make your way back across the carpark. His arm was sitting around your waist, keeping you pulled up to his side against the cold of the winter. Instead of guiding you over to the door, though, his first stop was his car, ensuring that you couldn't see what he had placed on the passenger seat until he was ready for you to see it.

Leaning yo back against the cold metal, he unlocked the car, making you promise to cover your eyes, and while making a few jokes about how you were sure this was how friendly guys would kidnap a girl, you did as he’d asked. You gasped a little at the rustling of fabric in the wind and under his hands, seeming to guess what it was before ever seeing the gift, because a wide smile spread over your features.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Depends, what do you think it is?” He teased, making you wait a little longer, and you dragged your lower lip through your teeth, a hopefully look spreading over what half of your face he could actually see.

“Flowers, maybe?”

“Then you would be correct!” Your hand fell away from your eyes, taking a second to blink back into adjustment of the rays the winter sun gave off, before you were brightening up even further at the bundle he was holding in his hands.

Soft petals in different shades of yellow, some duller and some standing out to shine like the sun, but it was a stunning bunch all over, and he’d been sure to pick the freshest and best-looking plants from each pot as he built the bouquet especially for you before leaving for his delivery. He let you stare at them for a second, running a finger over some of the petals, sniffling the collection carefully, and admiring each individual plant, before finally looking back up to him, a brow raising as you waited for an explanation on the plants.

“I just thought yellow was a bright colour. Nothing particularly special about these ones, I wanted to cheer you up.”

He scratched nervously at the back of his neck, and you hummed happily, bringing them up to admire once again, before letting out a happy little sound from the back of your throat, one that made his cheeks flush with embarrassed warmth, bringing a pink tinge to the pale skin. “Don’t yellow roses mean friendship?”

His stomach dropped a little, but he swallowed thickly, and nodded. He was impressed that you knew that, a random fact to know, but he almost felt like he was being friend-zoned by the statement, even though he was the one who’d given you the flowers. It was only a few days ago that he’d realised he might have feelings that weren’t going away any time soon, the original fascination and infatuation was becoming something a little deeper, he often found himself thinking of you when he was at work and filling or orders, or at home cooking, or even letting his morning coffee. You seemed to be on his mind a lot nowadays, and he was beginning to regret the yellow rose choice, worried he’d sent the wrong message. How ironic.

“Well, I’m really glad you consider us friends, Chris. I think you’re great, and I hope we’re friends for a long time.”

He tried to contain his disappointment, nodding his head as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. Walking you up to the front door, both of the receptionists made a point of fawning dramatically over the flowers in your arms as you signed back in, exactly an hour later and perfectly on time for the end of your lunch break, but with a lot more joy and a rejuvenation for the work you were doing, enough to carry you through the rest of your day.

Standing at the elevator and waiting for it to arrive, his cheeks were warm enough as it was, the attention you were getting front he not-so-discreet spying of the receptionists making him even more nervous, but if Angie and Clara were watching then that's their choice, because he didn’t have much left to lose, now.

Cupping your cheeks in his hands, he made sure that you were looking at him, a soft and shy smile on your lips as he thumbs smoothed over your skin, trying to reassure you without using words. “Chin up, sweetheart. You’re gonna’ be just fine, okay?”

“Okay, Chris.” You nodded your head, words whispered as you agreed with him, and when he pulled you a little closer, you tipped your head to meet him, his lips pressing to your forehead in a tender kiss, his heart leaping in his chest as you did. The elevator dinged, and he snapped away from you, both of you lingering for a moment longer, something unspoken laying between you, but it was broken as a colleague stepped out of the box, excusing himself as he squeezed past you, and the moment was over.

Waving goodbye, he wiggled his fingers in response to you, and he took a moment to himself to steady his racing heart once the doors had closed with you inside. He bid his farewell to the two women ogling him with wide eyes from behind the desk, trying not to let his nervousness show, to be confident like Mark had taught him to be, and it lasted all the way to the car, before he broke it with a ragged sigh and a little cheer to himself, immediately dialling his best friend on the car’s phone as he pulled out of the parking lot.

It was the kind eyes of Angie that met him as he stepped into the building, palms sweating a little and a shake to his breath, and the flowers in his arms were practically vibrating with nerves as he approached the front desk. Placing them down on the glass surface, she admired them quietly, taking a look at them all before he was being offered the candy dish that she usually had hidden, and he took a peppermint gratefully, red and green swirls along it through the clear wrapping, the festive theme of the late December days was shining through.

“Only the one bouquet this time?”

“They, uh, they aren’t for Mr McKinley.” He mumbled, unwrapping the hard sweet and shoving it wrapped into his pocket, placing the treat on his tongue and sucking on it lightly for something to do, sweetened mint flavours exploding over his senses.

“Oh, so these are a pretty bouquet for our lovely (Y/N), then?”

He could only nod, wondering absently whether or not sweat was beginning to physically show through his shirt, and just how fast his heart was going, because he felt like he was about to pass out. “I think she’s in a meeting right now, but I can get them sent up for her, if that works for you, my dear?”

“Can I just go and drop them off in her office? It’ll make a nice surprise for her to come back to.”

She considered it for a moment, mulling over the security risk and all other options, and he was ready to give up, before she eventually agreed. “Alright, but only if you tell me about the flowers. She’s been telling me all about the pretty bouquet you make with meanings, even showed me your website.”

“She did? She does?”

Pride flushed through his system at that knowledge, and Angie seemed to pick up on it, her face cracking in an even wider smile. “Yes, and they were all beautiful, but I don’t remember this set on there.”

“It’s new, I made it. It’s a personal one, I suppose.”

“It got a name, yet?” He mulled it over, staring down at the pretty bunch in his hands. Dark shades of blue and black, splashes of purple that were speckled with white, and he decided it resembled the night sky rather nicely.

“What do you think of ‘Starry Night’?”

“Very fitting.” She confirmed, and his heart managed to slow a little in his chest as at least one thing on his to-do list became sorted. “So, blue roses, but what are the rest?”

“They would be black pansies and gypsophila.” She hummed, continuing to fix him with that curious gaze, and he knew that wasn't going to cut it. “The blue roses are for mystery, and gaining the impossible. I dye them myself. Black pansies mean broken love, which, I guess isn’t totally suitable here, but combined with the gypsophila, it’s more like the chance of a new beginning, and not necessarily unrequited feelings.”

“You really like her, huh?”

“That obvious?” He grinned, knowing that his feelings may as well be lit up with a neon sign above his head. “You’ll get them to her after her meeting, then?”

“Of course, I will.” She took them over the desk, writing down a memo on her notepad so that she didn't forget, and he watched as the pretty bundle was carried away. “Did you leave a card, or do you want to write a note?”

“Just tell her to text me if she likes them?” She beamed, nodding her head, and he backed away, turning on his heel, a little disappointed that he didn’t get to give them to you himself, but simultaneously relieved at the fact, because he could feel his pulse racing right to the tips of his fingers with how intense it was.

You’d clearly had a busy day, because it wasn’t until Chris was shutting up shop that he finally felt his phone buzz, doing his last check over of all the systems and machines, when a text from you came in, diverting every ounce of attention that he had.

[stardust 🌌 ✨] so, do these flowers have a hidden meaning, or did you just put them together because they look good?

He grinned at his phone, shaking his head slightly as a laugh left his lips, and he leaned on the wall, fingers hovering over the keyboard as he thought out his response.

> a little bit of both.

It was a few minutes before you replied, this time, a photograph coming through, of you carrying your flower out of the building, setting off towards the elevators from your office, if he was depicting the background correctly.

[stardust 🌌 ✨] gonna tell me what it is, or do I have to google it?

He paused, not quite having got that far, and the relief of not having to explain his feelings or you before had drowned out the fact that he’d have to tell you at some point, and his heart was leaping into his throat.

He gave himself a minute, checking over the locks and windows to make sure everything was sealed up, setting the thermostat and setting the alarm, not yet activating it, but making sure that everything was done, right down to holding his keys for the main door in his hands. Locking up the building, he sealed down the metal guard, triple checking the padlock, and making his way to the car.

Engine on, heaters up, his lights being the last to flood the parking lot as he tried to man up, before finally bringing back up the unopened message, taking the notifications and opening his texts.

> long story short, I’m trying to ask you out. using flowers, because words normally fail me in times of importance.

He let out a slow breath, running a hand over his face and just hoping that it was acceptable, his phone buzzing before he’d even managed to start up the car property for his journey home. His hand hovered over where it was laying on the passenger seat, considering whether or not to pick it up, before forcing down his nerves and reaching for it.

[stardust 🌌 ✨] friday night work for you?

He stared at the message for a few seconds, confirming that they were real, and he wasn’t just making it up because it’s what he wanted to read, before letting out a loud and victorious set of cheers for only him to ever know about.

> I’ll pick you up from your work at 5.

Chris was sitting in one of the white leather chairs that had been scattered around the lobby, shifting slightly awkwardly, nerves getting the best of him. He knew you wouldn't stand him up, but as the clock ticked over past 5:10 PM, he worried a little that you were trying to find a way to let him down, having decided that you’d changed your mind on wanting to go out with him, and he tried to steady his nerves.

Brushing over the flowers in his hands, he adjusted his grip on them a little, not wanting the plastic to become damp with his sweaty palms, and swallowing thickly again. Finally, the elevator doors chimed, and he let out a nervous sigh, taking a deep breath and sliding his eyes shut as he calmed himself down, certain that his heart no longer had a rhythm and was just beating erratically and rapidly like the seismograph in a disaster movie.

Twisting his head a little, he let out a deep breath, watching as you came toward him, looking far more casual than he had ever seen you ever had before. Jeans and jumper, a striped scarf that looked suspiciously handmade in the sweetest of ways, and sneakers on your feet instead of heels, dropping your height down by a few inches, and he was so used to looking straight at you, never needing to look down, that it caught him a little by surprise.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” You looked a little flushed, sounded slightly out of breath, and he realised you must’ve been rushing, not stalling, and he felt a little calmer at that thought. Placing down the flowers on the chairs, he stood up properly, letting out a slow breath.

“Don’t worry about it. You look beautiful.”

“I thought I’d change, heels and pencil skirts are great for work, but not so comfy for a first date.” There was a bag on your arm, which he assumed your business-wear was stuffed in, and he gave himself a moment to take you in. He liked you better this way, you looked more like yourself, the version of you that he knew you to be from hours of late-night calls and texting, weeks of getting to know one another, both in-person and via messages, and the formal outfits he was so used to seeing you in were just a cover for the real you.

He realised he’d been staring too long, jumping slightly in his panic, before turning away and grabbing the bundle that he’d brought with him. “I brought you flowers. Not as special as normal guys, since I own the flower shop and it's not the first time, but I did create this bouquet design just for you.”

“I think it’s pretty special.” Your words were whispered, taking the bundle of flowers and bringing them into yourself to admire delicately, a combination of red and white roses, with green bells peppered throughout. “Okay, so, let me guess on this one.”

He only nodded his head, watching as you considered the bundle, licking over your lower lip and taking it hostage between your teeth as your thoughts whirled before his very eyes.

“White roses are innocence, right? Seems fitting for a first date. Red roses are romance, of course.” You smirked a little then, glancing up at him through your lashes, and he grinned, feeling totally at ease now that he was under your gaze. “What about the green ones?”

“Green bells. They’re for good luck.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll need any luck, you’ve pretty much already got me wrapped around your little finger, Chris Beck.” You adjusted the flowers in your arms, taking his hand with your other one, and lacing your fingers together, and he squeezed back in security as heat flooded over his face in a warm blush. “However, I do think it’s sweet, so I’ll accept it.”

“I wanted to do something Christmassy for you, but I didn’t want to go with any of the typical ones. Holly, mistletoe, poinsettia, they didn’t feel unique enough.”

“I don’t know, I think mistletoe can be good.” You leaned in a little, his brows raising slightly as your wide smile dimmed down, the humour of the moment changing, and his free hand found your waist, fingers playing with yours on the other, and he pulled you a little closer, taking the hint that you were laying down.

“Maybe just this once.” He teased, nose bumping against your own, and he could still taste the sweet honey on your breath from the herbal teas you were always concocting, warm breath shared between you. As your head twisted to close the gap, he became acutely aware of the lingering feeling of not being alone, the both of you jumping and snapping apart a little when the loud crashing of a mug on the floor sounded out loudly.

Two sets of voices cursing followed it, Angie’s and Clara’s heads both ducking down behind the desk as they looked at the mess on the floor, and his jaw dropped as he released the two had been watching on eagerly this whole time, and he’d been so wrapped up in you that he hadn't realised there’d been an audience all along.

He would’ve been embarrassed, had it not been for the way your face pressed into his shoulder as you tried to contain your laughs, and he found the amusement in it too, his arm slipping around your waist as he matched your laugher, shaking his head as he watched the two women try and clear up the split coffee and smashed mug.

“Hey, ladies, I’ll see you Monday!”

The popped back up, sheepish looks on their faces as they nodded, and he gave them both a little wave, letting you tug him along by the hand that was still connected to your own, towards the open doorway of the building, a chill rolling in. As you stepped out, a chill took over, and his hand slipped from yours to sliding around your waist instead, pulling you closer to him, and you guided him over to where your car was parked, and he was more than happy to simply follow.

“So, what do you have planned?”

“I thought something a little more relaxed would be fun. How do you feel about a tree lighting ceremony, and some street food?” You curled into him a little more, a happy sigh leaving you.

“Sounds perfect to me.”

Unlocking the car, he let you go, long enough to put your back in the trunk and lay your flowers out on the front seat, locking it back up as you deemed yourself ready to go. “Ready to go?”

“Yes, but just one thing, first. Something I’ve been waiting weeks for.”

His brows raised, lips parting to ask you waist it was, but your hand latched onto the front of his shirt, tugging him forward as you leaned up, and he groaned a little, a soft sound but vibrating through him as your mouth closed over his, soft and warm, lips pressing together, and a shock ran along his entire body. His hand slipped to your waist, one cupping your cheek as he pulled you a little closer, pressing you back into the car as your bodies came flush up together, and he felt like his legs were going to give out underneath him as you sighed out against his mouth, a breathy moan carried with it.

Twisting his head to the side, he barely pulled back for breath before he was diving right back into you, more confident and passionate this time with his movements. He took control, feeling the way you sagged into his hands as he did, lips working with yours in an intimate dance of their own making, slow and teasing movements, before finally he was pulling away, just far enough to press his forehead to your own as the two of you panted lightly, trying to catch your breath.

“Worth the wait?” He mused, feeling your breathless giggle wash over his lips, before you were leaning up just enough to peck his lips once more, and his lips were still pouted, chasing after you as you backed away for a second, before he was licking over them and cracking his eyes open to look at the adoring expression on your face.

“Definitely worth the wait.”

#chris beck #chris beck x reader #chris beck/reader #chris beck the martian #sebastian stan chris beck #sebastian stan the martian #sebastian stan #Seb Stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan/reader #12 Days of AUmas

[translations-by-aiimee]

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 23

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 23 - Child Ghost

Twenty minutes later, each of the three hooligans sat on the bench in the hospital corridor in a daze, each clutching a bottle of fresh orange juice. The nurse had just scolded them for disturbing the rest of the patients in the surrounding rooms, and they all looked a little bit ashamed. A-Yan's face had some colour brought back. After drinking a few sips of the drink, he calmly said: "I c-can't exorcise it completely. I can only figure out the source of this thing. Maybe it's a good thing that it's harder to expel."

Lin Yan asked what he meant, and the little Daoist priest explained: “As the saying goes, 'He who never wrongs others does not fear the knock in the night*.' Although this girl is weak from her illness, there must be other reasons why, out of so many other patients, this thing chose her. If we can find the reason, then maybe it will leave by itself."

*(T/N: 不做亏心事，不怕鬼敲门 - means if you've done nothing wrong, you don't have to worry about any retributions.)

"It-It keeps repeating 'Why haven't you come yet?' It may be a wandering spirit who hasn't fulfilled his dying wish. His Yin energy is very weak. He probably died not that long ago."

Lin Yan's heart skipped a beat. He suddenly thought of Xiao Yu, and couldn't help but reveal his recent doubts to the little Daoist priest. After a long while, he turned his head and looked at the ghost next to him, and whispered: "Last time, I was only concerned about getting rid of him. I never asked him anything."

A-Yan sat curled up in the chair and listened to Lin Yan while gnawing on the cap of the orange juice bottle. He looked like a kitten. He jolted up and said: "Ghosts are divided into different categories. Today, the one here can only manifest by attaching itself to a living person and it will disappear once that person dies. However, the one that follows you is very, very strong."

A-Yan continued: "A ghost has no form at first, but if the soul is resentful and the body is buried in a place where the atmosphere has heavy negative energy, it's very likely to turn into a powerful ghost. A ghost will cultivate for a hundred years with a phantom body and, after a long time, it will develop a real body. When they have a real body, they don’t have to resort to 'bump around' like today, and they can even move around in the daytime without fear of Yang energy. They aren't so much ghosts as they are demons or animals." A-Yan clenched his fingers: " The most difficult evil spirit to deal with is known as the true body of the ten thousand clans. It requires special formations, plus needs to be done at the right time and place, so there's not much room for error. Once a part of the process goes wrong, the exorcist is likely to be drowned by the energy, go insane and instead be harmed by the evil spirit."

"L-Last time the formation was set up, Master made a fake one to fool the ghost, and he found the gap in time he needed. Otherwise, if you wanted to eliminate him, I'm afraid that you would have to gather more than fifteen boys in a Mandarin Duck Formation to have any hope." A-Yan suddenly gave Lin Yan a strange smile: "That was because he had just re-entered the world and was still confused when we tricked him. Now, I'm afraid. . . Brother Lin Yan, at this point, he should have already remembered something, right?"

Lin Yan thought back on all the things that happened at the lecture and the ghost's increasingly human-like behaviour. He was secretly surprised; was this ghost really recovering his memory? He nodded and replied, "He told me lots of things the day of the lecture. He can talk, just not very much."

A-Yan smiled nervously: "Y-Your four-pillar pure Yin is the most suitable alignment to feed ghosts. The longer he follows you, the more physical he'll become, and the more he'll remember."

"But. . ." A-Yan looked into the distance with a glaze in his eyes, his fingers tightly squeezed the drink bottle. He turned back and grinned at Lin Yan: "Be very careful."

"All I can say is that every action has a reaction, and I can't help you with anything at that point."

He didn’t know why, but Lin Yan felt that the way the little Daoist priest spoke seemed to imply something. Feeding ghosts. . . Lin Yan harshly inhaled the hospital’s air mixed with the smell of disinfectant and frowned. “Let's not talk about it. We have to save A-Zhou's cousin first and figure out the reason for the possession. Do you have to find out who the deceased is first?"

A-Yan nodded. Yin Zhou held his glasses, a little confused: "We don't have much time left. Dozens of people die in hospitals every month. We don't have time to go through each of them individually."

Lin Yan sighed: "That's no other option. Go and pull up the records of everyone who's died recently in the hospital. Maybe there's a clue somewhere."

After all, there were several people now that were exhausted from the attempted exorcism, paralyzed on the bench and not wanting to move. Lin Yan discreetly adjusted his position. Xiao Yu suddenly walked over to him, squatted down and grabbed his knees with both hands.

Lin Yan turned his face and snorted. "Weren't you ignoring me?"

Xiao Yu didn't answer. He gently lowered his head and put the side of his face on Lin Yan's knees, long hair cascading behind him like a waterfall. Lin Yan instinctively wanted to reach out his hand to touch his head, then he thought that he was probably still angry, so he put on an indifferent air and cold expression, not acknowledging him.

After a while, Xiao Yu raised his head. He pressed his hands firmly against Lin Yan's legs, stood up, turned and walked further down the corridor.

"Where are you going?" Lin Yan asked in a low voice. Seeing that he didn't answer, he had to follow a few steps behind. Xiao Yu quietly returned to the door of Xiao Yang's room and went straight through the door panel. Lin Yan was full of doubts. Peeking carefully through the door glass, he saw that Xiao Yang's mother was tired from crying and was sitting on the side of the bed, dozing off with her arms propping up her forehead. The girl, on the other hand, waited by the window again in the same manner as when Lin Yan had first arrived.

Xiao Yu walked to the girl's back and patted her shoulder lightly. What happened next left Lin Yan dumbfounded. The girl with her rolled-back eyes turned around and quietly "looked" at Xiao Yu, showing a normal human on her face for the first time. The corners of her mouth were pulled downward, a look of aggravation painted clearly on her face. Xiao Yu was tall, so he simply squatted in front of the girl and stroked her hair very softly. They were talking, and Lin Yan's eyes widened. Although he could not hear them, their expressions and slightly moving lips convinced him that they were indeed communicating in a language he didn't understand.

The little Daoist priest and Yin Zhou also followed at this time. They curiously holding the windowpane and looking in. They couldn't help but be shocked by the girl's appearance now.

"She's talking to herself?" Yin Zhou was surprised: "What's she saying?"

"Mortuary language." The little Daoist said in a deep voice. "The language used in ancient rituals to communicate with the dead."

Lin Yan looked at the harmonious picture in the room, unconsciously picking at the crack of the door. He grit his teeth and indignantly thought you're Xiao Yu. At home, you're fierce and want to kill me, yet you go talk to a young girl with such a tender look. You just look at such a pretty young girl that I don’t want to let it go. Zhu Xi's Neo-Confucianist teachings have really gone to the dogs. It’s useless for you to think about it. I decided ages ago. When she's a few years older, I'll take her to watch movies and visit the amusement park. Let's see what you can do. . .

"Hey? Are you going to follow him inside?" Yin Zhou patted Lin Yan on his shoulder. Lin Yan had been distracted internally cursing Xiao Yu, and he was so frightened that the hairs on his neck stood on end.

"Holy shit, when did you get here? Were you trying to scare me to death by keeping quiet?!" Lin Yan grumbled, clutching his heart.

"Did you really not hear me talking so loudly before?!" Yin Zhou said in surprise: ". . . Why are you blushing?"

A-Yan smiled and gave Lin Yan a deep look, not making a sound.

The conversation in the room seemed to be over. Xiao Yu stood up. He leaned over and rubbed the top of the girl's head and walked out. Xiao Yang reluctantly turned and stood by the window again. Lin Yan gritted his teeth and waited outside. He internally decided he wouldn't fall for any more of his tricks considering he seemed to do them with anyone. . .

Xiao Yu had already returned to stand in front of him while he was distracted. Lin Yan turned his face away from him in anger, but Xiao Yu didn't care. He took out the memo and the soft-tip fountain pen Lin Yan had bought from his pocket and began to write.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Yin Zhou looked at the pen and paper hanging in the air and stared in shock.

Xiao Yu shoved the note into Lin Yan's hand, then retreated to stand behind him. Lin Yan looked down. The light green note had two lines written on it. The first line was a series of capitalized numbers: "Three-Five-One-Zero-Zero-Four." The second line was a sentence: "He's waiting for his father."

"Father?" Yin Zhou looked at the words on the note and suddenly clapped his hands: "Hey, I got it, no wonder it came to Xiao Yang. Xiao Yang's mother is a single parent. My uncle passed away last year. I came to the hospital to watch her overnight last week and heard her say she missed her dad and it felt like he was still there with her. . . Then what does that row of numbers mean?"

Lin Yan was also puzzled holding the note. When he asked Xiao Yu, he shook his head and didn't speak. Lin Yan couldn't help muttering, "What the hell? You touched her head and smiled for a long time without asking anything. . . It’s not because the little girl looks good..."

"A g-ghost's memories are incomplete. They can only remember what they want. It would be nice if they can remember the numbers." A-Yan suddenly opened his mouth, his eyes sharply focused towards Lin Yan. Lin Yan's face grew hot, and he hurriedly lowered his head to cover it up. He explained to him that he was searching for people, why did his mind take such a strange turn. . .

That being said, why did he always get distracted by a dead person? This isn't going to work, no. Lin Yan secretly squeezed his fist.

Yin Zhou saw that the two of them were acting strangely. He crossed his hands behind his head and looked around in the corridor. When he saw the computer in front of the nurse on duty at the staircase, his eyes suddenly lit up, and he whistled frivolously: "Look, dude. Time for some fun."

With Lin Yan's girl-pleasing good looks and Yin Zhou's series of honeyed compliments, the three stooges quickly got their hands on the nurse's sister's computer. Yin Zhou stared at the screen intently. His fingers flew across the keyboard and the mouse clicked rapidly. After 15 minutes, the corners of his mouth stretched upward. His whole body suddenly leaned back in the swivel chair. He squinted his eyes and exclaimed: "Done. Turns out the info comes from this hospital. Makes it much more convenient not having to check other systems."

Lin Yan leaned in front of the computer, and the homepage showed: "351004, Zhou Jintian, male, 11 years old, died on May 11. Cause of death: internal organ rupture causing extensive abdominal hemorrhaging." A scanned copy of the body claim form was attached below. In the lower right corner where the family members signed, the family name was written in two large characters: "Zhou Mo" with a small red seal next to it.

"From the deceased's information from the database, this line of numbers is the bed number from the morgue." Yin Zhou touched his head: "This ghost is a child. No wonder he's standing by the window all the time, waiting for his father to pick him up from school."

Lin Yan took a picture of the page with his phone. He smiled and pushed the back of Yin Zhou's head: "Good job."

At the spicy and sour noodle shop across from the hospital.

Lin Yan always disliked eating near hospitals. He always feels that there were grieving patients’ families and infectious bacteria floating everywhere, but these spicy and sour noodles were particularly famous. Lin Yan drove the car for a while, and after a lengthy internal struggle, he turned back. Lin Yan scooped a spoonful of spicy soup and was satisfied that a delicious dinner was definitely worth it.

The little Daoist priest left for a shift in the restaurant where he worked. Yin Zhou stayed in the hospital to see the patient and verify the information. Lin Yan sat alone at the snack bar, a greasy orange plastic table with two bowls of spicy and sour noodles in front of him. One was placed in front of him, and the other was pushed to the opposite side. The "person" only he could see was sitting in the opposite chair with his face turned sideways in a daze. It seems that the ghost really didn't need to eat. Lin Yan sighed and asked in a low voice: "You don't eat or sleep, you follow me every day, aren't you tired?"

Xiao Yu ignored him. His slender fingers propped up his chin, and the outline of his side face looked very beautiful in the dimming daylight. The table was near the window, and the warm yellow halo of the street lamp brushed over the bridge of his nose. His skin looked as fine as porcelain. It felt like porcelain too, icy cold.

Things were still awkward.

"Excuse me, can I borrow the chair? We don't have enough." A childish male voice sounded and Lin Yan raised his head. A boy dressed as a high school student was holding the back of Xiao Yu's chair. He saw Lin Yan looked confused and pointed to the boys and girls chatting at a large table next door. The girls were wearing heavy makeup, the boys wearing ear studs, their school uniforms covered in black and blue pen doodles. There were so many people in the store that they were missing several chairs.

"Someone's using it." Lin Yan replied quietly.

"I know you've been sitting here for a while, no one's there." The boy was unyielding.

"If I say someone's there, someone's there, and if they aren't there now, they will be later." Lin Yan was a little impatient.

"Nutjob, it's just a chair, why so angry?" The boy muttered. Before leaving, he rolled his eyes at Lin Yan.

"Sorry." Lin Yan mumbled to the boy's back. He wasn't sure why. No one could see Xiao Yu, which always made him a little anxious. Lin Yan hesitated and for the first time took the initiative to reach out and touch Xiao Yu's statue-like fingers and whispered, "It's lonely, isn't it? Of all the people in the world, I'm the only one who can see you and I treat you badly."

#dig a grave to dig out a ghost translation #dig a grave to dig out a ghost #chinese bl #chinese novel #english translation #yaoi novel #yaoi #danmei #danmei novel #bl novel

[hippychick006]

Misha Panel 

I’ve done this summary as it helps to have what Misha actually says to hand as more often than not, his stans misquote him. It’s also useful as Misha often changes things - as he appears to have done between his last virtual panel and this one. Note, I’m only focusing on the key parts where he talks about the show/Jared/Jensen.  It is not free of anti castiel/misha comments where I disagree, though those are few and far between for a change. It’s long so putting under a cut... 

- Misha confirms his filming finished in March prior to Covid [this comes up later in more detail].  Watching the last epiosode was an emotional experience for him.  For him, it represents the end of a chapter of his life. 

- Misha says fandoms not going anywhere [*hisses]

- Misha’s future work/projects?: working on senate race in georgia, publishing a book of poetry, couple of film projects he’s trying to get off the ground, one he’s not acting/directing in, the other he may act and/or direct 

- Jack brought Cass back but we didn’t get to see it, what happened?: different ending originally that Covid restrictions made impossible to produce. Cool ending involved bringing back lots of cast members over the years.  In the original ending, Castiel hadn’t gone to rebuild heaven, there was a different conclusion for him.  Misha purposely did not read the last two episodes before they aired as he wanted to be an audience member. He knew a little about Castiel/Jack’s fate in the abstract, but because he wasn’t in it, he doesn’t know what the answer was. He thinks them rebuilding heaven was less boots on the ground and more at a spiritual level [so he’s talking at the metaphysical/spiritual plane level and not corporeal) so they are everywhere (e.g. in drops of rain as per Jack’s speech to Sam in 19). That’s what I’m understanding at least.  He says that’s pure speculation though.]

- what qualities does castiel have similar to Misha?: there are a lot of similar qualities [backstabber comes immediately to my mind tbh]. Over time he and the character melded. Over time he evolved into something that didn’t quite fit in with either angels or humanity, he felt like an outsider which Misha has felt for much of his life. He became softer, more sensitive, he tried to do the right thing and be a good person. Oh wow, he says that in order to write to play to Misha’s strengths, the character had to “morph a bit”.  I loved bad!ass Castiel, he’s my favourite Castiel!

- What one thing will he take with him from playing Castiel?: on a professional level, it was fascinating to play a character for so many years. He discussed with J2 recently that the characters really became part of them. He doesn’t think that will happen again, just due to length of time the played them. On watching Jensen’s death scene, he cried but it was more “That’s Cass’ friend Dean dying”  It was weird to have a blurring of lines between yourself and your character but he thinks that’s what happened with all of them. He’ll take the character away, which will be a part of him forever. 

- Misha made fortune cookes and put inside lewd and inappropriate fortunes

[I don’t get this next bit as earlier in the panel he says he didn’t read the last two episodes so didn’t know what was going to happen and gave the answer I documented above and now we have this next question where his answer seems to contradict that]:

- Is there anything more he can say about the originally planned finale?:  He doesn’t want to be the one to reveal these state secrets, but what are they going to do, fire him?  He feels someone might have said to him, please don’t reveal what was going to happen, but can’t remember for sure if it’s true. He says there was a version of Sam and Dean’s heaven that was populated with all of the people that were from their past that they have come to love.  They could not do that because of Covid restrictions. 

- Favourite behind the scenes memory of “The boys”: He doesn’t have a favourite memory, they were close friends for 12 years. They had laughing fits and fights and got pissed off at each other. Some of his fondest memories of being at work anywhere were working on Supernatural.  He’s never going to be on a set again where there is so much mirth so he’s going to miss that for sure.

- he’s talking about Castiel’s wardrobe which is actually funny - e.g. original suit 3 sizes to big, sometimes showing blood and holes, sometimes being magically fixed, not wearing a tie, going back to wearing a tie... “Nobody complained about that too much...” [uh because some of us were watching other things and your own stans were looking at the background.]  He stole some trenchcoats and has them in his closet.

- How do you prepare for emotional scenes?: it’s hard for him to get into that emotional state. To prepare for the Castiel’s declaration of love scene and taken by the empty, Misha needs to be off by himself and not chatting with people, so for that scene he sat on his own in a dark corner of the stage and ruminated on his own.  Rob Hayter, stunt coordinator, noticed and stood sentinel and made sure no one disturbed him which Misha said was really sweet.  Everyone stopped fucking around for that scene to allow them to do what they needed to do.

-  How did you feel when you read the script when Castiel dies?: Misha knew for a long time that ending was coming, he’d been speaking to Rob Berens about it, he was really happy with it.  It was the ending he’d wanted for Cass so when he read the script, he was really happy it had made it to the page [i bet it was Misha, how are those destiel sales going through your Stands company?]. It felt it was a little “risky and a little brave” for the show to do [on a fucking network that is number one in Glaad reviews?  Are you being fucking serious right now?] He was happy to be a part of that [again sales] and have that character express love like that so he was happy with it. 

[Okay, so notice in his last virtual panel 2 weeks ago, he was very happy, he’s now starting to do exactly what he did with Karla movie as he goes on to say...]

He’s seen “some people” [you mean lgbtq+ people?!]  “complaining” about this is playing into the “bury the gays” trope which is an insidious and real trope in film and television storytelling in h/w over the years. Misha doesn’t think that’s what was happening with Castiel’s [he died second after the confession MIsha!] First of all Castiel isn’t dead, he’s in heaven working to rebuild it... [you didn’t know this 2 weeks ago, as far as you knew Castiel died and went to the empty].  So much good came from that declaration, because Cass was able to save Dean, which was essential to saving the world, so this declaration wasn’t so then fate strikes you down and you’re done forever. The declaration literally ended up saving the world. It was of Cass’ own volition, he wasn’t forced to do it, it was his choice, and he thinks that’s important, so maybe he’s naieve and doesn’t feel they are playing into that trope. 

[You were absolutely playing into that trope Misha and you didn’t give a shit as you did no research on playing an lgbtq+ character so sincerely fuck off]

He’s glad that Castiel got to express that and have that ending. He thinks thats kind of important and he’s proud the show did that. [again fuck off, this was done for you and it showed]  He thinks its a conversation they will continue to have as they continue to dissect it going forward [nope, consigned to the dumpster fire I’ve put the majority of the rest of Drabbernatural in]

- Do you think you will ever get an SPN tattoo?:  He doesn’t have any but he’s thinking about getting tattoos relating to his children.  Is that a sign of desperation that a true hasbeen will do? Should he get a tattoo of Jared and Jensen’s face.  He could get a tattoo of Castiel’s face on his abdomen.  He’s saying probably not. If they want to get one, totally supportive of that

-  what is his favourite moment of the finale?: Dean’s death scene, masterfully executed, excellent performances from both Jared and Jensen in that scene and made him cry

- best memory of your last day on the supernatural set?: everyone being really sweet, lot of tears from cast and crew. The last scene he shot as Castiel was the last scene of the day on a Friday. Him, Alex, Richard S and Jensen all had to get to Las Vegas for a fan convention the next morning. They shot late and finished at 1.30, it was Cass goodbye and Misha’s goodbye to the show.  He said they had to get a chartered flight because of the early flight [not sure why he’s saying this as I thought it was Jared’s plane they all travelled in?] He’s talking about going back - because of the issue with the plane - and they are all texting family, saying they love them, so it was such a strange night, he’d said goodbye to Supernatural, he said goodbye to Castiel and later on said goodbye to his kids because they thought they were going to die that night. :(

[Going to add that this puts to rest that Misha was due back for 19 and 20 even before covid, it confirms he was not going to be in either episode, though I maintain, they may have shot an extra scene while they had him to slot into 19 or 20]

- do you think Cass and the other angels got their wings back?: Yes, probably, they have Jack who is the new god. What a long and miserable experience that was of not having wings. Cass was so powerful when he started, he could snap his fingers and teleport and time travel and lost that with his broken wings and they didn’t come back. He doesn’t know why they didn’t fix him as Castiel would have been a much more powerful ally if he didn’t have to drive around in the pimp mobile [uh, for the same reason Sam lost his powers, deus ex machina]. He tells the story of Jared pressing buttons in the car causing the hydraulics to fail costing $10000 of repair.

- in your opinion, what colour are Castiels wings?: shit, I don’t know, I always thought they were black, but now that you’ve said that, they are rainbow coloured, how about that?

- What is the worst joke Jared and Jensen did to you?: [*cough fans looking for things to complain about or hate Jared on]: Jared and Jensen, as you know, they are not good people.  He talks about directing an episode and they got excited in the week before, they were going to break into his apartment and steal his furniture, they had all kinds of nefarious plans, the crew tipped him off and told him to watch his home and car keys. They put a fish under the seat in his car and one of the crew told him.  Jared removed the canvas on the director’s chair and laid it across so it looked like it was still the chair. Misha fell for that at least 5 times. That was pretty frustrating. Jared kept messing up his lines (which Misha said Jared never does) and Misha was directing in another room, Misha eventually went to see what the problem was and that’s when Jared pied him in the face. Everyone in the crew was complicit in the “assault”. Jensen brought him another shirt, said, “I’m sorry man, that’s sucks, that was too much.”  Jensen then pied him in the face.

- What is the real story behind the handprint in the finale?: Um I don't know, but I think it was a nice touch, that was a really lovely callback that worked well. I can’t remember how we came up with that, or was it in the script, I can’t remember. Wasn’t it a good callback to the very beginning. [Again, this appears to differ from what was being reported two weeks ago so might need to go back to that panel if I can get access to it]

-What’s your favourite memory from offline/online panels?: It’s much more fun to be live and in person. I don’t know, I have had some really fun... [PANDERING ALERT COMING UP] Jensen and I have some really fun panels together in Rome.  I don’t know why but we always just seem to have a real hoot there, talks about the resume off, they really enjoyed that. He had pizza delivered to a creation panel once.  He talks about the Saturday night special and he can’t wait till they can get back to that. 

[NOTE CYNICAL PART OF THIS IS FOR HIS FANBASE TO ONCE AGAIN CLAMOUR FOR MORE JENMISH PANELS. I DO NOT TRUST THIS MAN AT ALL]

- What was your favourite version of Castiel to play?: he had the most fun playing Lucifer because Mark P had left a great template to play Lucifer [you took the worst parts imo but Mark fucked his character up too]. He enjoyed playing the human parts of Castiel because it was fun to explore how to be human for the first time. Overall, just regular Cass. He wouldn’t have wanted to trade regular Castiel for other iterations. [A great question would be badass Castiel v late season wooby castiel preference]

#anti misha #anti castiel

[chirpycreations]

WIPs April, Week 1

Top: Old TOSD comic work unpublished.

Second: New Version of comic in work apart of *cough* another *cough* restart. I’m trying a new comic layout style. I think it works better? I also did a bit of research into panelling and turns out that’s just as important as the art to get right. So I’m trying working from the basic grid that Manga artist use + a bit of referencing between some of my favourite Mangas (BNHA, Assassination classroom, ect) to see how they pull it off. So far, looks good and nice and clear to read. You’ll also notice that i’m jumping back to my original style from er...2 years ago? It was a while ^^;

A Clean detailed line art with a pencil sketch. Lighter and quicker for my wrist, and without colouring it’ll be more time efficient to not only make progresses, but for me to work on once I get my Henry Stickmin ask blog going + Fanfic writing.

Detailing is actually something I dropped for time efficiency in my most recent attempt, however, I think that’s the reason my recent comic doesn’t stand well against my older ones. Long shot panels (the one with detail where you see a good chuck of the background) are important, because not only do they establish where the character is and what’s going on, but it makes the close-ups more effective. You generally want a good mix of both.

Third row shows a comparison of what I’m talking about with 2020 (pen) vs. 2018 (coloured pencil).  For more info you can find that vid here

Fourth (1): Concept sketch for younger Reginald and his mentor. Story concept I came up with it while working on Reginald's origin story for ‘Lost Children of the CCC’. Thinking this’ll be in chapter... 5~6? Got to work on the steps to get to that point first ^^;

Fourth (2) + Fifth: More work for the banner and once half of the banner is finished with C̔͒͏҉̢͎̲̬̳̭W̷̫͖̋ͬͬ͋̊ͭ̎̍͒ ̩̔̇̄͝Henry getting what he probably deserves. First one has a bunch of sketches with characters from scenes in Triple Warfare.

I wonder what happened to them all...

Sixth: The problem with warm climates. My KitKat melted on my work (Ironically in a great place tho). These guys are just as horrified about it as I am. This one is the last of the sketches I needed for that mid-chunk of ‘Something's Never Change’. Next is colouring/digitalising.

Last: Started work on the intro for the Triple Warfare ask. These are the WIPs so far, and I’m currently working on deciding if I’ll try my luck with animating the opening, or just comic it.

- - - - - -

Art & AUs by me

Henry Stickmin Series by PuffballsUnited

Undertale by Toby Fox

#undertale au #talesofstardust #henry stickmim collection #henry stickmin #lost children of the ccc #triple warfare #wips #sketches #pencil #digital #askblog #reginald copperbottom #completing the mission #star #sans #my art #tosd

[seokiloquy]

Pumpkin Spice - Miya Osamu

AU: Regular, coffee shop(?)

Server Collab (Linked)

Tags/Warnings: GN Reader, swearing, time-skip spoilers

Word Count: 9.2k+

Working at a cafe in the middle of the busy streets of Tokyo’s business sector often led to many customers in need of a nice brew and in association, tips. Lots of tips that often fell into your pocket at the end of the day. The pay was good enough and made up for the moderately long commute from your campus that you spent sleeping on the train. On top of that, your boss was the nicest and most supportive old woman in downtown Tokyo. 

The interior of the cafe was soft and homey in comparison to the reflective silver exterior of the building outside. Seats with red vinyl cushions filled the open area leading to the wooden top counter that you worked behind, mixing up whatever ludicrous drink they asked for. The customers loved you. You loved the money. It was the best.

It was sunny that day, people were smiling for once as they walked to work for once. The traffic was light, people weren’t running late, and to top it all off you had just gotten an email that morning with the mark for your latest assignment, a perfect grade.

“We’re closing.”

“Like, just for today, right?” you asked Juri, brows furrowed as a disbelieving smile pulled on your face as if you were being pranked. She gave you a sad look. “Right?” you repeated, pouring in a measured amount of coffee beans into the espresso machine.

“(Y/N), I’m so sorry,” Juri gasped. “The building owner jacked up the renting price and I just can’t afford it now.”

You reached behind you for the counter, gripping it tightly between your fingers as you pulled yourself closer to slump onto it. A dull ache began to grow right between your eyes. “Don’t apologize, Juri. There’s nothing you can do. I’m fine.”

“Well, that’s a lie,” she spoke after a moment, skating over the thin ice that froze over your conversation. “You can spend more time studying now at least, university gets harder in your final year.”

“University’s the reason I needed this job though.” You walked around Juri’s stout form, reaching for the coffee machine, grabbing hold of a mug and readying yourself for the freshly pressed beans. “I have to pay for it somehow.”

“(Y/N), darling, maybe a three shot espresso isn’t the best thing to have right now.”

You gave the old woman a sour look over your shoulder before shooting back the mug of dark bean soup. Immediately, your tongue tried to escape your mouth. “Oh god, you,” you gagged momentarily. “You were right. That was horrid.” An uncomfortable shiver ran over your shoulders and through your spine.

Juri’s wrinkled hand came to rest over the black strap of your apron that hung desperately to your shoulder, squeezing it tightly to the point of bruising. She pulled you down roughly and flicked your forehead with her nail. “Stupid,” she chastised. 

Walking to the sink, she grabbed the mug you held and rinsed it out before handing it back to you, filled to the brim with cold water. She rubbed your back, encouraging you to suck back the water to rid the bitter taste from the corners of your mouth. “If you want, I’ll write up a letter of recommendation for your resume.”

“I’m not sure whoever would hire me would take the time to read it, no one uses reference letters anymore. But thank you, I’d appreciate it.”

She smiled, making the wrinkles on her face shift slightly. “Anything for you sweetheart. Besides, you’ll need every advantage you can get with your horrid cooking.”

On your last day of work, Juri sent you off into the dark streets of Tokyo with a notebook filled with homebrew, baking and cooking recipes —the last two being one’s you have never and likely never will touch— and a container of cookies that she had made that morning. 

The book, in and of itself, was innocent enough. A relatively mute earthy colour palette that made flowery designs from one edge to the other. But, you knew there had to be some secret spells of torture within the pages, or just something that you’d injure yourself with.

Not even a day later, far into the night, a sugar-covered cookie was left forgotten on your table as you scrolled through job listings on your computer, occasionally getting distracted by the scantily clad fictional characters that promoted a game on the edges of the webpage. You reached for the cookie, shooting your eyes back to the list and scrolling.

Your dorm was rather modest, more like a small apartment when compared to some of the other dorms on campus though. Which admittedly saved you money and made it more expensive at once. With your own kitchen and modest living space attached to a bedroom and bathroom, you successfully managed to isolate yourself from any other students in the building for just an extra fee. Luckily, having a kitchen meant that the school didn’t supply you with food, saving you money, but also leaving you starving since the only recipes you had in your head were for coffee. Moment’s spent in your kitchen alone with a grumbling stomach sometimes made you wish you were roomed with another person, or had taken the university's food plan. Curse your late teenage pride. 

The walls were off white, surrounding a room filled with mostly dark furniture —namely navy— and reflecting the light that came off your computer screen. They made large shadows against your floor and walls. Your two fingers swept along the mousepad, moving the dry list up your screen. You bit into the cookie, quickly scarfing it down and clawing for another, mumbling to yourself as you skimmed over all the nanny jobs, and full-time positions. Corporations that would likely not give you enough pay were quickly forgotten, also.

The neighbours above you were playing study music rather loudly, letting the smooth sounds seep through the walls gently, it made you want to sleep, they probably had an essay to work on. You sighed, rubbing your eyes before sparing a glance at the time displayed in the corner of your screen. 1:32 am. Swallowing down the tired taste in your mouth, you swiped your fingers harshly against the pad, entirely too tired to do any more thinking and letting the loading screen of the website choose your job for you. You threw your head back, slumping into your seat with a worried wince, desperately hoping that you wouldn’t regret it.

You squinted at the top result of the most recent listings. “Huh.”

The black uniform wearing man scratched his head through his matching, logo crested hat, making it shift slightly to reveal his dyed hair underneath it. You sat silently on the plush stool at the counter as the older man —he couldn’t be much older than you, could he?— skimmed through your resume lightly before reading the reference letter Juri had written for you. The sweater he wore tightened at each opening, puffing out into what looked like a cozy crewneck. Definitely not the most common uniform for a food establishment, but you wouldn’t complain, it was starting to get colder. He rested his elbow on the counter-table, turning the top of his stool to face you directly.

“You’ve never worked in food before?” 

The open-concept space of the man’s restaurant/cafe seemed to close in rapidly, making the light brown tables and decorations blend in with the white walls and red seats. The colours spun in your vision, blurring all your surroundings except for the tall, hunched man in front of you. He seemed to pop off the screen of your static vision with a halo of light surrounding him. You blinked rapidly, mentally shooing away the loopy visions. There wasn’t enough sleep in your system. That and it felt like you were about to be penalized. 

Noticing his intense, stoic eye-contact, heat from your stomach rushed up to your cheeks and ears. He had pretty, grey eyes. Your lungs vibrated under your sternum as you tried to suck in enough air to speak. A bashful smile crept onto your face as your fingers fiddled together, occasionally dragging the pad of your thumb over the length of your nails.

“If I’m being honest, I’ve never been very good in the kitchen. Juri, my old boss, wouldn’t let me help her with baking the pastries because I would always burn myself. I’m working on it though.” That was a lie, a total lie. You weren’t working at it at all. You continued, laughing at yourself, “Because of that, Juri always had me doing beverages. So when I saw you were looking for a barista, I applied.” Well, that was only a partial lie.

The silver-haired man chuckled lightly, “I received your request for an interview, your request, 5 minutes after I posted the listing.”

Biting your lip, you reached for a napkin from one of the dispensers as you forced yourself to maintain eye contact. He seemed to enjoy watching your fingers fiddle with the limp piece of paper. You coughed, “Is that a good thing? Cause my desperate self is in need of a job. I’ll even risk burning my hands off if that’s what’s needed.”

He laughed again, taking the black, curve-rimmed hat off his head and set your papers down next to it on the sleek wooden counter. “(L/N), relax. I am looking for another barista, I had my previous one go work at our second location because it’s closer to home. So I’m short-handed and know only the basics about coffee, and with winter fast approaching I need help.”

You ripped the tissue paper in your hand in half before compiling it and stuffing it quickly into your pocket. “Does that mean I’m hired? Cause I need to pay for my tuition.” He watched, an amused smile pulling at his face, he stood up gesturing for you to follow him. With an awkward grin, you followed his silent instruction. 

The rectangular counter you were sitting at wrapped around the back corner, creating a two-metre space walkway that led to the bathrooms and cut off an unlabeled wooden door from being easily accessed by customers. You followed his steps, watching his black Adidas sneakers step over the lines of the large wood floor panels. He opened the wooden door, gesturing you inside, before pulling a box off of the shelf that sat against the back wall and dropping it onto the counter next to a sink. Pulling out a cozy-looking crewneck sweater with a proud and yet desperate smile. 

“This is the kitchen and break room,” he said, throwing out an arm to the rest of the large space, before walking back over to you, sweater and cap in hand. “Can you come in tomorrow? I can show you the ropes.”

“I’m sorry Miss, but we don’t have that drink here, it's not the season yet.” You smiled apologetically at the older woman who was digging through her bag in frustration. You hated telling customers little white lies, the feeling dug at the sides of your stomach each time you had to. It was becoming more frequent with October fast approaching.

“I’m sorry too,” she replied, letting her purse drop onto the counter with a smack. “My daughter has been nagging me all day to pick up one of these drinks and no one has it yet.”

You flexed and clenched your fist underneath the counter before adjusting your cap to try and give the woman a confident facade. “We’ll be getting the ingredients next week, so hopefully she can hold off until then. For now, would you like some onigiri? They’re freshly made.”

“Please.”

After ringing up the woman’s total and sending her out the door with a wave, you turned to your co-worker with an anxious grin. Taichi scoffed in response, openly laughing in your face. “You have to stop lying to our customers!” he berated with a lopsided expression.

“I know, I know! But I hate seeing them annoyed or upset. I can’t help it that they keep asking for a drink that we can’t make!”

The 1st year university student (who you quickly found out went to the same school as you) chuckled, leaning against the onigiri display. “What are the ingredients for it anyway?” he asked, watching you rest your hip against the counter next to the cash register.

“One cup of pumpkin puree, half a cup of sugar, half a teaspoon of pumpkin spice seasoning but that’s optional. That’s to make the pumpkin sauce. Then you need a quarter cup of pumpkin sauce, two ounces of espresso, eight ounces of milk, and then whipped cream and cinnamon on top,” you listed, staring off onto the floor.

“You have that memorized?” Taichi asked rhetorically, mouth hanging open.

You crossed your arms. “I’ve been working as a barista for over 3 years now. You start to remember things.”

Taichi lifted his hat, taking a moment to ruffle his straight cut black hair before setting it back down on his head. “Well, you can just ask Miya to order some, right?”

Snapping your finger, you sent the younger boy a finger gun with a pensive look pulling your eyebrows upward, “I hadn’t thought about that.”

On your next shift, after an early morning lecture about the global economy and stock market (which you tried not to sleep through), you walked into the break room to find your silver-headed boss curl over the edge of the small round table in the corner of the room while sitting on the old futon next to it, hair tousled in an oddly pleasant way. His hands moved quickly as he scribbled into the papers before him, the tight grip on his pen making his muscles flex slightly in his arm, that was made visible by his rolled up sleeves.

You quickly looked to your shoes, trying to calm your breathing down. “Um, Miya,” you called lightly, trying not to startle him. Nearly dropping the pen in his hand, he looked up. “Sorry,” you said, pulling your hands into the sleeves of your uniform.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m almost done,” he said, watching your fidgeting hands. “Did you need something?”

“Pumpkin sauce.”

He gave you a strange look, nose scrunching as a single eyebrow lifted. “Pumpkin sauce? Oh right, that’s a thing isn’t it?” Miya said as if just remembering the time of year, looking away from your wiggling fingers to the empty kitchen across from him.

You gulped. “Yes, for pumpkin spice lattes. A lot of customers have been asking about it.”

He raised the other eyebrow in your direction, trying to strangle down a teasing laugh. “You lied to the customers didn’t you?”

“I might have told a little white lie so they wouldn’t get upset.”

Miya sighed, holding eye contact with you for a moment, before signing the last sheet of paper in front of him with an entertained smile. He looked back up while gathering the papers into a neat pile. “I’ll get an order in by next week.”

“Thank you.”

Why did you ever decide that philosophy was a good thing to take in university? Seriously. What were you thinking? You stared at the empty document before you, blinking tiredly as you groaned.

 Aesthetics. The first unit that your professor chose to discuss for a university-level because it’s likely the easiest to discuss. The essay itself was more introductory than anything. The instructions were to write an essay about how aesthetics and attraction to particular aesthetics are created, how society plays a role, and finally, your own personal stance.

You clearly remember glaring at the young professor when she said she wanted to gain a deeper understanding of each student. That’s for high school, you thought, mentally going over the three years of university you’ve already suffered through. Then again, maybe an easy grade. The only downside was that even though you’ve gone through nearly a decade and a half of school, you’ve never been good at writing an introspective piece.

“Professor Suzuki, How introspective should it be exactly?” you had asked her after the lecture had finished.

She gave you a sharp pointy smile with a light, slow shrug. “However much you think is needed. But I do want to learn about you and your experiences.”

Your brows were pinched together tightly, as you tried to understand. “So like an attraction autobiography?” That's deeply concerning. 

She never did give you a clear response after that. Dancing around the direct answer you needed to hear. She must’ve been a high school literature teacher at some point.

A self-deprecating chuckle escaped you, making the younger boy who was lazing about on your couch turn his attention away from the tv. “What crawled into your pants?” Taichi asked, pouring the last remains of your chip bag into his mouth.

“I have to write about stuff for a philosophy essay.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of an essay?” The empty chip bag crinkled loudly in his hands as they folded the plastic messily.

You scowled at him. “If you’re going to be a smart ass you can stop eating my food and go back to your dorm.” Standing up from your kitchen counter, you scanned the junk-filled counters, eyes landing on the small carpet patterned notebook that sat sadly on the corner edge.

Taichi ran up from his seat, pleading for you to not send him out, claiming that his roommate was mean and hogged up the whole space. You partially ignored him, letting his yapping ring numbly in your ear as you flipped through Juri’s old recipe book.

“Wanna help me make cookies?” you asked, turning your head his way and effectively cutting off his rambling.

He paused, letting his bottom lip hang open before snapping it shut in a cautious sneer. “You’re deciding to bake? I’d rather risk getting bullied by my roommate. Bye.” He ran out of the dorm. Ran. 

“God, my baking skills don’t warrant that kind of a reaction, jeez,” you huffed to yourself, slamming the notebook shut. No longer in the mood to experiment in the kitchen.

“Did the new rice come in?” the blond asked, letting his whole torso lie flat on the short table extension of the main counter.

The light click of a plate resonated in the empty restaurant. “You’re lucky,” the grey-haired one said, monotone response making the other look up to the large, meat-filled onigiri waiting for him on the porcelain plate. “Fresh shipment just came in this morning.” At the entrance of the building, the bell attached to the door sang lightly as it opened. Notifying your entrance, while a cool autumn breeze rolled past you. “Speaking of shipment. (L/N), the pumpkin sauce came in!”

You unravelled the scarf around your neck as you walked, giving your boss a large grin that made him gulp slightly. “Really? That's amazing, Miya..” The blond, noticing the other man’s reaction upon your entrance, spun in his chair, making his honey brown eyes meet yours. “There’s t-two. Two of you?” The scarf you had taken off sat limply in your hand as you stared off blankly at the two identical men.

“(L/N), this is my brother. You can call him Atsumu.”

The blonde sent you a small vibrating wave and a smirk, leaning his elbow against the counter as he tilted his head in your direction. With tightened brows and a tight, awkward smile, you nodded in response, bowing as your hand began to grip your colourful scarf a bit tighter. The blond followed up his brother’s introduction. “If you’re gonna call me Atsumu, you might as well address him as Samu.”

“Samu?” You questioned.

Over the table, ‘Samu’ smacked his brother with the black cap from his head. Hitting his shoulder with a loud smack before facing you. “Osamu is fine.”

You nodded hesitantly before bowing again. “Call me (Y/N), then. The both of you.” Facing your silver-haired boss, who still gripped his black baseball cap tightly between his fingers, you pointed to the back room with a meek smile. “I’m gonna go put my stuff down. Sorry for being a bit behind. I was up late working on an essay.”

Osamu nodded. “Sure thing, I have a new recipe for you to try out when you come back out,” giving you an understanding smile before ushering you off to the back, watching the folds of your jacket move with each step. He gulped. As soon as your back fell behind the door frame's edge, he weaponized his flimsy hat again, making the older twin howl as the top button hit his temple.

“What was that for?!” the fake blond screeched.

Osamu sent him a deadly glare. “Don’t flirt with my employee. They’re too young for you.”

“We’re the same age, Samu,” Atsumu teased, as he dropped his voice a couple of semitones. “I don’t see you restraining yourself.”

Atsumu left Onigiri Miya with a number of small bruises running along his hairline that morning. Though, he refused to leave without sending you a request to watch his upcoming game. “I want to have everyone watching,” he said, forgetting to even tell you what you’d be seeing, leaving his younger twin to take the burden.

You sat on one of the red plush stools, swinging it side to side and Osamu stood on the other side of the counter, onigiri filled plate in hand. He wore a hesitant grin as he set the plate down in front of you. Then, he started talking as he walked around the counter. “They’re slightly different than the ones I usually make so they look a bit weird, but we had the ingredients so I thought I'd play around with the different flavours.”

The store was empty. As expected for an early Saturday morning. It was also windy outside, making the inside of Onigiri Miya feel that much warmer as the howling wind ran loudly against the glass wall of the entrance, occasionally making the polyester awning above the entrance flap around like paper.

You gave him an encouraging smile as he walked around your seated form, nearest hand brushing over the length of your shoulders through the black sweater. A chill ran down your spine as his hand fell from the end of your shoulder. He sat down beside you, spinning the stool to face you head-on, much like how you both were during your interview. “I’m sure they taste great. What are the fillings?” you asked, reaching for one-half of the two pairs of onigiri on the plate.

“Well, since the pumpkin sauce came in, I figured I would play around with it a bit,” he said, reaching for one of his own.

Once you bit into the centre of the rice ball the smooth sweet flavour of the sauce rolled over your tongue. The orange sauce dyed the rice on the inside, making the colour soak in the individual grains. You let the flavour sit on your tongue for a moment. “Were you going for a sweet onigiri?”

Osamu chuckled a bit. “Kind of. I made the other one more savoury though.”

You looked at the other slightly misshapen onigiri on the plate, then up at the maker of them, meeting his eyes with a kind supportive smile. “The choice is yours,” you said, taking one off the platter and taking a large bite out of it. “But I think they’re both pretty tasty.”

“Really?” he asked, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning toward you in earnest. “Not too sweet or bland?”

“They’re perfect. Just like the chef who made them," you complimented happily.

Osamu flushed slightly, trying to pout as he chewed away at his onigiri. "You don't have to be so nice, they still look a bit lopsided."

"Does the appearance of the food really matter? I thought the taste was the biggest factor," you teased lightly. Whenever you made a brew for a customer, most never really cared if there was a cute design sprinkled on the top, or if the layers were visible from the side of their plastic cup if they took it to go. All you ever focused on was the taste, and when the 7 am rush comes through, patrons are typically too tired to even care about the look so long as they get their dose of coffee in.

"Do you never look at the exterior of things? Most consumers judge their first impressions of things based on their appearance. Like book covers."

You furrowed your brow. "I've never really thought about it. A lot of the books I read are digital now so there's no need for a fancy cover."

"What about people then," he prompted, leaning further forward, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him. His normally grey eyes seemed to hold tints of the honey brown from those of his sibling. "Have you ever... let's say, been attracted to someone based on their appearance alone?"

Your gaze shot back and forth between his eyes and the fringe of his silver lightly brushing over his eyebrow before finally settling on his left, blown out pupil that started more directly at yours.  "Maybe subconsciously." It came out in a light whisper.

The bell at the entrance rang, a ragged, tired looking suit-clad woman wobbled in. Eyes blinking slowly as she waved her hand in the air. "Light roast, double shot espresso with whipped cream! I am running late!"

You shot out of your seat, knocking off Osamu's hat by the brim with your own, before grabbing a mug from over the counter and rushing to the mixtures. "On it!"

"Thank you," she panted, handing her card to Osamu to ring up.

Your head and shoulder twitched as you bounced on your toes outside the glass wall of Onigiri Miya. The wet concrete and frozen air of the early morning made the idea of curling against the polished glass with your face tucked into your scarf all the more tempting. Another silver tickled your spine.

Groaning you spun around to face the golden brown and red streets. Wind carried the dry leaves over their drowned sibling until falling into a puddle themselves. You closed your eyes, trying to redirect the heat in your body to your hands that were tucked into your pockets, clenched tightly.

Something cold lightly smacked against your nose and eyelids.

Cracking your eyes open, your lashes pushed against a brown decaying wall that blocked out all the light of the early morning. When it was away, leaving a cold residue behind, the light made your squint.

“You're here early,” the silver haired man said, tossing the old leaf over his shoulder before pulling a collection of keys from his coat pocket and gently tucked you out of the door with his free hand. Opening it up, he placed the keys into his back jean pocket.

“Did you just give me a face mask with an old leaf?”

“Sure did,” he said, matter-a-factly. “Why are you here so early? You’re not a morning person.”

You followed him through the glass door, letting him take the responsibility of flicking off the lights as you pulled your coats and scarf off. “You said today was your brother's game, I didn’t know what time, so I figured I'd be here a bit early.”

Mouth open, Osamu stared at you without blinking, as if searching for a joke. “You know most post games happen in the evening right?”

“So I’m here early for nothing then.”

The two of you walked through the empty restaurant, coats slung over your arms as you conversed.

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” he teased, hanging up his coat on the hanger in the back, lifting the bottom hem of his shirt slightly. “You get to work.”

“Yay,” you yawned, reaching for your uniform sweatshirt.

“For money.” He added.

He had trouble making you laugh throughout the morning, only receiving yawns and frustrated pout in response as you made coffee for all the equally tired customers.

You’ve never seen a volleyball game before, only ever having tried to play during gym class in high school. On top of that, you never understood the rules, but you blamed that on the phys ed teacher rather than your own inability. 

The live recording of Astumu’s game was being played on multiple sports channels. It got pulled up on the large screen of the tv that sat against the wall 30 minutes before the game even started. Osamu stood with you and Taichi —who had made it to work at a reasonable time to watch the game—, explaining the rules and positions over layers of customer chatter, as he made onigiri in view of the game instead of in the back where he normally worked. He pointed to the screen.

“That’s Hinata in the opposite hitter position. He pretty much does the same thing as Bokuto,” he shifted his arms angle to point to the duo-tones haired player on the screen. “An outside hitter.” Then, facing you, he watched as your nose scrunched in thought.

“What makes them different, then?” Beside you, Taichi nodded along, handing a customer a plate of onigiri.

“Their orientation with the setter,” Osamu replied. Before letting out a loud cheer, fist clenched and elbow tucking quickly into his side as his brother scored another point.

You let out a loud, exasperated laugh, shaking your head slightly. “There are a lot of rules and stuff you want me to memorize.” On the other side of the counter, a girl came up to stand in front of you, asking for a pumpkin spice latte. “Sure thing. Taichi, ring her up for me would you?” you asked, making your way to the coffee machines that sat along the length of the counters, continuing to talk to Osamu. 

You looked at the available ingredients. “We’re gonna need more pumpkin sauce.” 

“I’ll order it. Is it that confusing?” He asked, following you to the machines.

Mug in hand, you gave Osamu an unsure look as you reached for the whipped cream, stretching your arm only to knock it farther away. “A little? But at least their mascot is cute.”

“The black jackal?” he laughed, taking hold of the whipped sugar and placing it in your open palm, to which you smiled in thanks. He quickly diverted his gaze, staring at the blank walls as he bit inside of his cheek. “Didn’t even bother to listen to me ramble then, too busy gushing over the cute mascot. I thought visual exteriors weren’t important to you.”

“Oh shut up, I was listening,” you scoffed haughtily, smacking Osamu’s shoulder as you walked past his tall figure to give the girl her mug. “And he was interacting with the young fans, it was cute.” You looked at the clock. “It’s 6:30, I’m gonna take my break. I got an essay to write.”

Taichi laughed mockingly. “Good luck. We’ll hold down the fort.”

Osamu watched your back as you walked away, adjusting his hat as he turned to face the upcoming customer that had just walked in.

“Bake at 450? Oh, that's Fahrenheit? Why, though? Okay, got it. Oh shit, did preheat it too much then?” 

Juri, as lovely a lady as she is, had terrible handwriting, or terrible in your opinion because you couldn’t read it. Whether it was a letter, or note for an order of cookies and bread, the intricate curls of her connected lettering always made your brain feel like it hit a brick wall. Holding the book in your right hand, you used the other to carry the tray of separated butter cookie dough and hooked your foot underneath the oven handle to pull it open. Still glaring at the writing, you slowly lowered the metal tray onto the racks.

“Hey, (Y/N)! Can—”

“Fuck!”

Taichi let himself in, turning the corner of your kitchen counter to quickly pull your hand away from the immense heat source. You clenched your teeth tightly, airy and painful laugh falling through your grimace. Dropping the notebook, you wrapped your hand around your left wrist, squeezing it tightly as Taichi helped you stand up. An endless series of insults left you, directed at the large cubic fire instrument.

“Okay cold water, here we go.” Taichi then left your side to finish tucking in the metal tray, silicone glove on his hand. He turned back around to see you hunched form leaning over the running sink, choppy breaths flying out of you. “Why are you baking?” he scolded.

“Oh, I can’t bake now?”

“You’ve never been able to bake.”

“Oh screw you, dude. I’m trying to learn a new skill.”

“Learning how to kill, more like it.”

Hand still stuck under the cold running water, and pain still crawling up your arm like red ants deciding to feast on your flesh, you slowly turned your head to face the younger boy, smacking your lips. You glared, “Why are you here, Taichi?”

The new university student dug his socked toe into the tiled floor of your kitchen. Pursing his lips and sending you a pair of finger guns as soon as he met your glare. He lowered them when you didn’t laugh. “I was hoping you could take care of my closing shift tonight? I have a group assignment due tomorrow and no one did any work.”

Spinning your head and torso uncomfortably to look behind you, you stared at the clock on your wall. You bit your lip. “Taichi, your shift starts at 6.”

“Uh, ya.”

“It’s 5:30.”

“Uh-huh,” he continued, barefaced, as he tucked his hands into his jean pockets.

“You're working here and waiting for the cookie timer to go off.”

Taichi nodded, moving his feet to look at the oven counting down. “Okay, got it. Do I get to eat some of them?”

You sneered at him as your blistered hand throbbed painfully at the movement of you grabbing your things, notebook included, in haste. “If they don’t kill you.” 

“Osamu! I’m so sorry for being late!” You yelled rushing through the main door and startling a few customers. You ran towards the staff only door unravelling the warm scarf from around your neck and letting your jacket fall off your shoulders as you went. 

Osamu’s eyes followed your frazzled movements, chuckling lightly as you kicked the wooden door open. He yelled through the door as you changed into your cozy uniform. “Calm down, (Y/N). You’re not late. Taichi called in too, so don’t worry.”

You poked your head through the door, brows pinched in the center before slowly walking up to stand next to him. “So I’m not late?” you asked, adjusting your hat. 

The customers had gone back to their individual activities, typing away at their computers or reading whatever book in hand or chatting over a simple brew and snack Osamu had put together for them. You looked out the front window, the sun was already beginning to set over the darkening leaves, letting a warm glow pour in through the glass to cover every surface inside the cafe despite the temperature outside being the opposite.

The evening was spent with both of you helping the late-night customers with their requests, often having to dance around each other's forms with a light ‘sorry’ or ‘excuse me’ to notify the other.

“Thank you both. Have a good night!” the last customer called, waving, as they walked through the door.

Osamu waved back as you collected the mugs and plates that were left at the tables, taking them to the back room. “I’m gonna wash these up then take my break. Is that alright?”

“No problem, we probably won't see anyone else for the night so I can handle it.”

The door swung shut behind you. 

When you turned on the tap hot water poured out quickly, and without thinking much of it, you stuck your left hand under it. You flinched, letting out a strangled yelp before switching the water to cold, letting it wash over somehow forgotten burn on the back of your hand. You sighed at your own stupidity, grabbing a dirty plate. Luckily the dishes were quick to clean, the light music you set up on your computer beforehand helped. Before you even realized, the dishes were washed and dried, and you could get some work done on your essay.

You sat down on the couch futon, blowing cold air onto your burnt hand that you switched tabs on your laptop. The constant yawns escaping you only seemed to make lying on the slightly deformed seat way more tempting than trying to get some school work done. 

“Can’t do beauty standards, everyone’s gonna do beauty standards,” you yawned again, taking your fingers off the keyboard and turning your eyes away from the bright screen. Your eyes burned as you closed them, leaning your head back against the back of the folded futon. Another yawn. “Maybe books covers?” you breathed slowly. “Hmmm.”

On the other side of the door, Osamu wiped down the table seats and counters until they were spotless, letting the red vinyl and wood patterns shine through uninterrupted. As he cleaned the glass front, squeegeeing it to crystal clear perfection, Osamu watched as the last bit of sunlight that bounced off the top of the buildings across the street disappeared. It suddenly looked a lot colder in the streets.

Hanging up the damp towel, he made his way into the backroom, flicking off the lights in the main area as he walked through the door. “(Y/N) how’s the essay going?” he trailed off, catching sight of your curled up body lying sideways along the old couch, laptop continuing to play a soft tune.

You had one foot off the couch, touching the floor, and another resting on the wooden armrest. The open legged sweats you often wore were crunched up at the knees. Your torso was twisted so you were partially on your side and your hands were pulled into your chest. Mouth slightly parted, Osamu could hear your small breaths as your chest rose and fell.

He chuckled, walking over to your side, and glancing slightly to your screen. The essay you had been rushing to complete was left open, unfinished. He closed the computer, tucking it into your bag, pulling out a small notebook to make space. The bookmarked page fell open as he set in down on the table. With a curious huff, he read the recipe over.

“Huh, simple enough.”

As he reached to gently shake your shoulder in hopes to wake you up, he caught sight of the burn that ran along the back of your hand. Huffing, he lifted his hand, put the book back in its place  —tucked between your laptop and the side of your bag—, and walked over to where the first aid kit was.

A scratchy hum was the first noise you made upon waking up. Bleary-eyed, and drained of energy, you slowly blink up to see your hand being gently wrapped in a soft cloth-like bandage. You squinted up to the black-clothed man as he fastened the bandage together.

“Did I really fall asleep?” you asked sadly, voice slightly hoarse. “I have to… write.”

The light in the room was dreadfully bright, making you squint as you tried to look at Osamu’s face. All his features were hard to see, leaving only his hair as an anchor point for you to admire as the light bounced off of it.

He said something, but in your delirious state, all you could make out was the smooth deep hum of his voice reverberating in your head like a slow waltz. You hummed again, letting out a lethargic ‘nice’. Your eyes shut again, and you drifted off to his low, breathy chuckle. An unconscious mumble followed, but you were too tired to hear his immediate response.

“Come on (Y/N),” he cooed, massaging your shoulder gently. “Time to wake up.”

Another incoherent mumble bubbled out of your mouth as Osamu tried to sit you up. Your head bobbled as you moved to be upright, falling backwards before he could catch it. Chuckling at his own mistake, he stuck an arm out, curling his hand around the back of your neck to bring it forward again. As he cradled your head gently in one hand, he used the other to continue prodding at your shoulder.

“Okay, sleepyhead. You gotta wake up now.”

There are those moments where people wake up and they think they see an alien, or shadowy figure at the edge of their bed. Those scary figures that seemed to carry a negative connotation a majority of the time. Most people, if they were to wake up, eyes fuzzy, and see a silhouette immediately before them they would very likely think the same, flail about, and duck for cover. You were not most people.

Eyelids hanging millimetres away from shutting, you gazed drowsily at the blurry from before you, tired mind trying to put together the dark shape as your body swayed back and forth. Falling forward slightly to get a closer look.

Osamu grunted slightly, catching your limp weight. The hand he used to rub your shoulder had now made its way around your back, lifting you from a different angle. His other hand still protected your neck from strain, holding your head closer to his chest. He looked down at your hazy gaze, perfectly timed with your own sudden need to lean upwards.

A near chortle of a huff forced its way out of Osamu’s nose, painting your cheek in warm air as your eyes shut fully. The feeling of your lashes dancing against the bridge of his nose tickled, making his shoulders scrunched up slightly. His grip tightened, pulling you ever so slightly closer. The light scent emitting off of your hair washed over him like a wave of fresh air, and the heat radiating off your body felt like a warm blanket on a cold night. There was a light tug at the end of his sweater as you wrapped the fabric gently between your fingers. Tough dried from being parted in your sleep, Osamu could feel the malleability of your lips as they pushed against his.

This one last surge forward, you let your arms relax, falling almost entirely limp in Osamu’s arms as you pulled away.

He blinked slowly, trying to look at the colour of your eyes between the slits of your lashlines.

Another warm hum left you was your head curled into his shoulder. “Cute.”

Osamu scoffed quietly to himself, laughing as he shook his head. “You never stop lying.”

Osamu liked to think he was a nice brother, a good brother, the best even. He kept his twin out of trouble, made sure he didn’t get injured and protected him from bullies. All for the payment of letting Osamu torment him for all eternity with repeated punches and kicks. Osamu liked to think he was a nice brother, but he wasn’t.

“Assumu, shut up or I’m gonna punch the daylight out of you.”

“Vulgar. That’s a new one, Samu. Try me.”

Hinata grabbed hold of the blond twin’s forearm as he made taunting motions to his brother, pinning it down onto the table. The smaller red-head cried out for the two brothers to stop, calling for Bokuto’s aid.

“Ya, both of you stop it. I’m trying to eat here.”

From behind his white mask, Sakusa let out an exasperated sigh, brushing a hand through his wavy hair at the part. “Would you all calm down?”

Atsumu teased out a laugh as he settled back into his seat between Hinata and Bokuto, who both happily went back to eating their donated snacks. The blonde leaned his elbows onto the counter and bounced a leg beneath him as he looked up to his uniform wearing brother. 

“So,” he drawled, smirking at the grey-haired man. “You kissed (Y/N). While they were asleep no less. Doesn’t that seem kind of rapey to you?”

Osamu groaned, ripping the black cap off his head before throwing his arms into the air. “I didn’t force it! (Y/N) was hardly even awake, definitely in some sort of dreamscape, and then just kissed me.” He groaned again, knocking his forehead into one of the coffee machines, making it rattle lightly.

“Damn,” Atsumu replied, finally relenting his mockery and reached for his own onigiri. “Guess I lost my chance then. Do you know if they even remembered it though?”

Setting down his hat, Osamu walked around the counter, pulling up a chair from one of the tables to sit with the four teammates, making them spin in the stools.

“No idea. I just drove (Y/N) back to the university dorms with Taichi’s help.”

Bokuto’s muffled voice spoke up, as he tried to talk through his full mouth. “How is Taichi doing anyway. It’s been a while since we’ve seen him.”

Osamu grimaced at the visible mushed rice poking out between the duo-toned man’s teeth. “He had a project to finish, that’s why (Y/N) was here last night. Overall he’s been doing good though.”

Hinata swallowed his last bit of onigiri, turning the top of his stool to face the older man more clearly. “When will we get to meet (Y/N), then? We could probably see them both at the same time.”

Osamu scrunched his nose up, digging his face into the palms of his hands and let out a tired, run-down laugh. “Hopefully soon if I don’t get arrested for sexual misconduct.”

Sakusa glanced at the drink orders that were written in chalk against the side wall. “Hey Atsumu,” he switched the subject. “Can you make me a pumpkin spice latte?”

Sighing, the owner of the restaurant got up from his chair and walked back to the coffee machines he had earlier abused with his forehead. “I can give it a go, but it definitely won’t be up to (Y/N)’s standards.”

Sakusa just waved it off, not caring.

“I mean, they’re still bad, but at least they’re better than last time.”

You stopped your slow typing and let out a puff of hot air. “If you actually helped maybe you’d be eating better cookies.”

“Hey hey, no no no,” Taichi laughed, munching into another dry cookie from the pile. “You’re the one that wanted to learn a new skill.”

You threw your head back into the soft couch of your living room and grabbed one of the throw pillows from the corner, shoving your face into it to muffle your angered scream. Running out of air, you dropped the pillow into your lap, shutting your eye tightly as you panted for air.

“Here,” he said, stuffing one of the burnt biscuits into your open mouth. “Eat a cookie.” 

Taking the box of poorly made cookies with him, Taichi stood up from the wooden bench at your kitchen counter and made his way to flop down onto the other side of your couch. He stuffed another straight into his mouth as he kicked his slipper clad feet onto the coffee table right next to your laptop.

“So, What’s got you all wound up? It has to be more than these cookies.”

“I,” you paused, taking a large intake of decaying leaf air into your lungs through the open window. You got up, wiping your hands on your well worn sweats, and shut the window lightly, so the only thing coming in though it would be the view of red leaves. The palms of your hands dug into the window sill. “I need to get this essay done. It’s due in two days.”

“Not buying it. Keep going,” he said, flicking his finger in a circular motion in the air.

You sighed, still looking at the old piles of leaves in the courtyard outside your dorm. “My baking skills still suck, this essay is due in two days, and I still haven’t written the personal reflection portion of it.” You spun around and leaned against the window, challenging Taichi’s disapproving expression.

He tsked, sucking in the air. “There’s something you're not telling me. What happened?”

You quickly diverted your gaze to the top corner near the exit. Your nails made a clicking sound as they flicked against each other. “I, I can’t.”

“(Y/N),” he strained.

“Nope.”

“(Y/N).”

“I can’t.” You played with the bandage on your hand.

“(Y/N). You’re lying to yourself.”

“I’m gonna get fired.”

Taichi stood up from the couch, stalking over in your direction, meaning to pin you into the corner. He stood tall in front of you, arm crossed as if he were a principal. “(Y/N), what happened?”

“I kissed our boss.”

“You did what?”

You squeaked uncomfortably, thrashing your arms about and shaking your hands to calm your nerves. Head thrown back, you yelled. “I kissed Osamu!”

His arm dropped. Taichi threw his back into a curve, spinning around as he laughed wildly in sharp honks. “That’s amazing!” he squealed, throwing himself onto the couch and kicking his feet into the plush armrest.

“Shut up, I could get fired!”

Taichi, gasping for air, sat up from his fit of giggles and sighed. “Okay, what the hell happened?”

You puffed out an annoyed gulp of air and waddled over to the couch, slumping into the open space next to him. He leaned forward, beckoning you to talk.

“I was half awake, delirious after trying to write an essay about fucking aesthetics and attraction of all things. Osamu tries to wake me up, and I plant a big one on him before falling asleep again.”

Taichi laughed, happy to hear your tale. “That’s what happened yesterday? I just thought you were overworked.”

“I was!” He smirked, watching you squirm around. “Don’t take it out of context, you know what I'm talking about.”

“Fine, fine.” He relented and reached for the half-empty box of cookies, holding it in your direction. “Eat one. You need it.”

You frowned as you bit into the over-salted cookie, swallowing it as fast as you could before the taste settled in your mouth.

“Besides,” He said, grabbing another for himself. “I don’t think getting fired is something you’ll have to worry about.”

Long night shift. The sun had fully set, making the neighbouring stores’ exterior decorations glow in all their spooky glory. You shivered as you yawned, feeling cold air run over the length of your shoulders underneath your sweater.

With a spray bottle and damp towel, you swiped down all the counters, really digging into the coffee stains that were left by an overworked mother and her grumpy toddler. For the umpteenth time that night, another yawn tore it’s way out of you as you walked toward the sink behind the counter to wash the dirtied cloth. You kept your bandaged hand out of the hot water, doing your best to just use the one.

After ringing out the both you grabbed one of the clean mugs from the counter, stalking over to the coffee machines to whip up something for yourself. You yawned again.

“Tired?” From the backroom, Osamu emerged, hands tucked neatly behind his back.

“Hmm? Oh ya. I’m whipping up a pumpkin spice mocha of sorts. Don’t want to fall asleep again.”

Osamu coughed and leaned against the counter next to you, setting down a small box that you didn’t bother to look at, too busy with your coffee. “Ah, right. Do you mind making one for me too? I’d like to be coherent, tonight. I’ll grab some fresh onigiri too.” He smiled at you.

Trying to beat the heat that was quickly climbing up your neck to try and darken the colour of your cheeks, you bit your lip and poured all your focus into the orange-hued liquid in front of you. Behind you, Osamu reached for the freshly made onigiri from the chilled display case. You could hear the fabric of his sweater shuffle as he bent down to pull it out. You reached for the whipped cream with your eye tightly sewn shut.

“Got it,” he said as you turned around with both mugs in hand.

Once in the back room, you set down both mugs onto the table, before sitting down in one of the corners of the futon, letting him take up the other half. Osamu sat down slowly, pushing the second onigiri your way. “Eat up. You can restore some energy.”

You thanked him before taking a bite from the rice ball, it was filled with spicy salmon. Smiling, you took another bite.

Osamu took a sip from his coffee, trying to lick off the leftover whipped cream from his upper lip. It looked like a small mustache, and you laughed.

“Enjoying the food, over there?” 

You chuckled again. “It’s great, but. Jeez, you have a mustache.”

Osamu grumbled, whipping the top of his lip with his thumb. “Here,” he said, grabbing the small box off the table and holding it out to you. “These are for you.”

Setting down the half-eaten Onigiri, hesitantly took the box between your fingers. You gave him a confused look as you brought it into your lap. Lifting up the attached paper lid, you found yourself staring at a small collection of cookies, iced and cut to look like the adorable black jackal mascot from his brother's team.

“I saw the recipe in your notebook that...night. I wanted to make you something as an apology, and you said that the mascot was cute.” You looked up to see him scratched back of his head, staring pensively into his mug before glancing up to meet your eyes. He flinched back, pursing his lips and racing to look at the mug again.

“You don’t have to apologize, Osamu. I initiated it.” you reached into the box, pulling out one of the cookies and took a small bite out of the jackal’s ear. “I didn’t hate it either.”

You chuckled in embarrassment, watching from the side as his ears turned a rosy colour. Taking another bite from the cookie, you leaned forward a bit, trying to catch sight of his pink cheeks through his hanging fringe. You prodded.

“I did call you cute too, remember?”

Your fingers danced over your laptop’s keyboard.

I don’t often find myself thinking about the way aesthetics affect my opinions. Looks, trends, and opinions are always evolving and changing. I don’t have the capacity to keep up with such superficial things in the same way a majority of people do. Though, on a rare occasion, I will find something endearing enough to call ‘cute’. /

Outside your window, you could see the last few leaves fall off their branches. You sat down, curled up on your dorm’s couch as you saved the final copy of your essay, nibbling away at the cookies that sat on the table next to you, pumpkin spice latte in hand.

This is now the longest thing I’ve written thus far, and so the next few I write will be short cause I’m lazy. 

Once again, this oneshot is part of a fall themed server collab, the masterlist is linked at the top, so I recommend that you give all the other stories a read, I would appreciate it. -Bacon

Posted: 25/09/2020

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