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pesterloglog · 1 year ago

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Equius Zahhak, Dave Strider

Act 5, page 2825-2829

-- centaursTesticle [CT] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG] --

CT: D --> I'm attempting to determine what it is that ranks humans in their class stru%ure

CT: D --> I'd assumed the color of your b100d would serve as the basis for placement in the hierarchy, as would be e%pected and natural, but I was mistaken

CT: D --> I was similarly in error believing the color of what you type corresponds with the color of your b100d

TG: it does bro

TG: my bloods red

CT: D --> Well, obviously

CT: D --> I understand that now, I'm not a f001

TG: on earth class is sorted out by who can drop the most delirious flow

CT: D --> I see

CT: D --> So, in other words, a sort of b100d letting ritual

CT: D --> To assess whose pulse is steadiest and thus whose flow is the most STRONG

TG: no

TG: well yeah

TG: verbal pulse

TG: rap battles

TG: the kings of wordtech ascend to godhood and look down on us patriarchally like urban watermarks in the sky

TG: this is like

TG: our religion man

TG: its fucking serious business its like what our whole culture revolves around

CT: D --> Really

CT: D --> So your social e%elons are dictated by the noble artform of the ancient slam poets

CT: D --> Or the Earth equivalent

TG: yeah well

TG: used to be dictated

TG: til the rapocalypse happened

TG: i still believe though

TG: in my heart so long as it keeps thumping the righteous beat

TG: subwoofing out devotion every which way

TG: that he will come

TG: our savior

TG: was foretold hed come after meteors show up to drop it like its hot

TG: and hed gather up the ashes of our civilization and lift it like its heavy

TG: fuck im tearing up my ishades are gonna fry

CT: D --> I believe

CT: D --> That this is probably nonsense

CT: D --> I've already been hornswoggled repeatedly by your comrades, who I quite reasonably mistook for your superiors in b100dline

CT: D --> Your race makes a habit of deception, and I will not tolerate it

CT: D --> You will stop

CT: D --> I command that all verbal misdire%ion and hoofbeastplay will cease during my communications, is that understood

TG: hahahahaha

TG: douche

CT: D --> Did I say something entertaining

TG: if youre gonna spit that kind of bravado at me im just saying put it in rhyme

TG: lets hear what you got tooly mcsnoothole

CT: D --> I try to stay engaged with many aristocratic practices

CT: D --> But I'm not much of a poet

TG: come on

CT: D --> My poems are private

TG: whatever dude

TG: deprivatize them

CT: D --> If you're prepared to be particularly forceful about it

CT: D --> I may be suitably disgusted to comply

TG: just

TG: take whatevers in there

TG: that brorage lust youre feelin

TG: turn that bitch inside out like a broke ass millionaires pockets

CT: D --> Yes

CT: D --> Those are the sorts of assertive statements which could get me

CT: D --> Flowing

TG: alright

TG: weird but alright

TG: you sound wound up

TG: but my gears are airtight

TG: steer clear a the seer and the knight if youre scared of unfair fights

TG: youll drop like the staircase impaired, seein em spareds a fair fuckin rare sight

TG: for poor eyes like that millionaire whos pockets i mocked earlier

TG: hes paradoxically me but richer and surlier

TG: broke as his sword before his stock picks skyrocketed

TG: worth more than all the chests lockpicked and gold croc bricks and boonbucks i pickpocketed

TG: fillin folios with millions im milkin to pad out my pockets

TG: more chock full than sad trollian villains cloggin my blocklist

TG: so thoughtful to popul-

TG: -ate my slate with propositions to copulate to a spate of hemoerotic hotpix

TG: which i posit you got shit of that nature in spades

TG: as my shades got you locked in

TG: spyin a guy whos eyed more cocks and dicks than i got clocks and they got ticks

CT: D --> Just a thought. Let's mock a topic with less awfulness

CT: D --> If you'd use the e%cuse to be less culturally myopic, what are your views on abuse to the walking apocrypha

CT: D --> Would you choose if duly cued to put your bruising clop to a flock of naughty roboti%

TG: ahaha wow YES

TG: dont really understand that but yes

TG: ok hold that thought im gonna pull this fuckin sword out of the thing

CT: D --> Perhaps it's that it's martial tacti% that matter for status. Unless you redact this

CT: D --> I'd hazard in practice that it's a glass of what's lactic that would impact this

CT: D --> Pragmatic to presume? A human metric for grandness stands on fondness in honest

CT: D --> For wanton aplomb with strapping song smithing, ripping sonnets of STRONGNESS

TG: yes

TG: still no clue what this shit means but keep going

CT: D --> But perhaps

CT: D --> To divine class divides in unclassified swine is butchering time

CT: D --> Your fauna I find requires too little strength to savage in rhyme

CT: D --> I fear inferiors have monopolized my highest priorities

CT: D --> Let's eschew crude inferiors, pursue nude superiorities

CT: D --> Review z001ogical peculiarities, great stalking enormities

CT: D --> Fle%ing in unison, baying at moons within fraternal sororities

TG: holy shit

TG: what

CT: D --> Great musclebeasts tussle, bu%om in heft

CT: D --> With thunderous muscle, buttock to spec

TG: what the fuck

CT: D --> Connect blows to discover, how invincible pecs are

CT: D --> Venture low to uncover, his inimitable nectar

TG: oh god

TG: ok stop

CT: D --> Should song serve to placate one

CT: D --> And fortune holds he lactate some

CT: D --> STRONG hands tugging teat make great ambrosia collectors

TG: hahaha

TG: jesus

TG: ok maybe youre actually the worst troll

TG: im thinking none of that was actually ironic that was all pretty straightup wasnt it

CT: D --> What do you mean

CT: D --> Are you ordering me to conceal my poems again

TG: nevermind

TG: god dammit

TG: fuckin piece of shit sword

TG: wont goddamn budge probably useless anyway

CT: D --> It 100ks to be a legendary weapon

TG: its a legendary piece of shit

CT: D --> Giving up on the treasure so easily

CT: D --> It strikes me as an artifact rooted in universal lore of nobility

CT: D --> As valuable an asset as strength is

CT: D --> And as much as anyone with his wits is fond of being STRONG

CT: D --> Such weapons require finesse to operate

CT: D --> And surely in this case, to retrieve without damaging

CT: D --> Hence your no doubt frustrating restraint

TG: ok im kinda starting to wonder why youre bugging me now

TG: youre a fuckin creepy dude

CT: D --> E%cessive force will shatter such weapons

CT: D --> We both know this from e%perience

TG: what

CT: D --> The adult human who trained you

CT: D --> And taught you the ways of being STRONG

CT: D --> Remember

TG: you mean the guy who spent years beating my ass down with a puppet

TG: yeah i remember

CT: D --> Yes, and now, being learned in the ways of STRONGNESS

CT: D --> You like myself are unfortunately limited in the weaponry you may wield

CT: D --> Ironically the training which has ennobled you beyond others has made instruments of high b100d brittle in your hands

CT: D --> Hence the state of your favored weapon, hobbling your specibus

CT: D --> I know what this is like

TG: man

TG: im not that strong ok

TG: just cause i broke a cheap ass sword doesnt make me the fucking hulk

CT: D --> Oh

TG: what did you go around breaking a bunch of swords too

CT: D --> No

CT: D --> Bows

TG: how the fuck do you even wield a broken bow

TG: did you go around clubbing shit with the two halves

CT: D --> Yes

CT: D --> Sometimes

CT: D --> What are you doing

TG: whats it look like

CT: D --> Careful

CT: D --> About succumbing to these sorts of destructive

CT: D --> Urges

CT: D --> Addi%ion is a powerful thing

TG: so am i

TG: bow down before your new king bitch

CT: D --> I think

CT: D --> I need

CT: D --> Something to dry myself off with

#homestuck #equius zahhak #dave strider #homestuck act 5 #page 2825 #page 2826 #page 2827 #page 2828 #page 2829 #homestuck act 5 act 2

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theres-whump-in-that-nebula · 1 year ago

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For some reason, coffee makes me simultaneously very sleepy and very anxious. It makes my eyes heavy, but makes my chest tight? I still like coffee though.

#Reasons I’m getting tested for ADHD: Exhibit 2829 #Still can’t find a place + plans are on hold because Jexit

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amiableness · 2 months ago

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Kiss and Makeup

Pairing: James Potter x Fem!Reader

Summary: James ruins reader’s date and attempts to make it better.

Word Count: 2829

Warnings: Jealous!James; kissing; and reader wearing heels, jewelry and makeup.

A/N 💌: A quick James oneshot that’s been on my mind, but I’m heavily consider making a second part to this.

As usual, thank you to @moonpascal for reading!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Go on, kiss and make up!” Sirius' voice trails after you as you hurry down the corridor, James close on your heels. On any other day, you might have tossed a playful jab back at Sirius, well-accustomed to his relentless teasing about you and James. But today, the weight of everything made your throat tighten, leaving you silent, your focus fixed on reaching the safety of your dorm.

The sharp click of your heels echoed off the stone walls, and James' muttering about your surprising speed in heels barely registers. Your anger simmers, blocking out his words as you storm ahead and shove the door open. James is right behind you, catching it just before it could slam shut in his face, determined not to let you shut him out.

“Get out, Jamie.” Though your voice was laced with anger, the way you used his nickname gave him a glimmer of hope. It wasn’t hopeless—there was still a chance to make everything better.

“I’m not leaving until we figure this out.” James says, stepping forward and leaning against the post of Lily's bed as he watches you roll your eyes and turn into the room. He doesn’t say anything as you begin furiously grabbing clothes and scattered heels off the floor—remnants of you getting ready for a date, now tainted by the tension hanging between you two.

“There’s nothing to figure out! You ruined my date, plain and simple.” You spin around, clutching a black heel in your hand, and for a fleeting moment, James braces himself, half-expecting you to launch it at him in a fit of frustration. But it’s you, his sweet best friend—the one who cares so deeply for others that you always put them before yourself. It’s a trait that drives James a little crazy sometimes, knowing you’d sacrifice your own happiness without a second thought.

The realization only sharpens the sting of your anger, an unfamiliar weight he’s not used to carrying. He can recall times you’ve been disappointed—maybe after one of his careless pranks or his thoughtless disregard for someone’s feelings—but never this. Never this level of anger.

“I said I was sorry.” He tries, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches you scoff and turn away, angrily kicking off your heels. You bend down to pick them up, and despite himself, his eyes drift to the curve of your body. He knows he shouldn’t be looking, but he can’t help it—he’s never been able to take his eyes off you. And now, a bitter feeling twists in his gut, knowing you're dressed all pretty for someone else.

“You're not, though. Why the fuck did you feel the need to scare him off?” You toss the heels into your trunk and turn to face him, arms crossed. He opens his mouth to respond, but the words die before they form—because he doesn’t know how to tell you the truth. He knows exactly why, but admitting it out loud would change everything between you. And he’s not sure he’s ready for that.

The silence between you stretches, heavy and unspoken, as you wait for an answer he isn’t ready to give. You both know exactly what you're waiting for—a proper explanation.

One you’ve been holding out hope for, quietly, for years.

“It's not fair, you know.” You let out a deep sigh, turning to face your desk, your gaze falling on the mirror. James watches as you begin to remove your jewelry, your back turned to him, but his reflection still catches glimpses of you. The anger in your voice has softened, but he knows that if he says the wrong thing, it could all flare up again, as sharp and sudden as before.

“What isn't?” He hesitates, watching you carefully as he takes a cautious step forward. His eyes follow the way your lips part in the mirror, the soft exhale of frustration escaping you as you fumble with your necklace.

He wants to step forward, to gently brush your hair aside and unfasten the clasp, to press a soft kiss against the back of your neck once the necklace slips away. But he can’t—so he remains still, trapped in silence, as he watches you instead.

“Why is it that you go out with girl after girl, but when I show interest in a guy, you scare him off?” You already knew the answer—weren’t blind to it. It had been clear to everyone that you and James had been circling each other for years, dancing around unspoken words.

But he refused to admit that he cared for you as more than friends. It felt pointless to tell him how you felt when it was clear James was intent on keeping you in the friend zone.

From the moment crushes became a part of your life, James had been yours. But you were never certain about his feelings—until that one night when he got blackout drunk and confessed he was in love with you. He has no memory of that drunken night, but you overheard him later, telling the boys he’d never drink that much again because he wanted to actually remember the parties he went to. You’d felt a pang of disappointment, but you were gathering the courage to confront him about it. Then, the next day, he hooked up with a girl from Ravenclaw, and just like that, all your resolve crumbled, leaving you feeling more invisible than ever.

He didn’t remember what he’d said, and if he was out with other girls, it was clear he didn’t care enough to mention it while sober.

That was a year ago, and you still hadn’t brought it up.

So, to cope with the mess of it all, you went on a date—a rare one, the first in nearly a year. And now, here was James, wrecking it all over again.

“I—” He stops himself, clearing his throat, the tension in his voice betraying the lie before he even finishes. “I don’t think that’s true. You go out on dates.”

He knew he spent a lot of time flirting with girls—whether it was during class, when he should have been paying attention, or at parties where conversation flowed too easily. But when someone showed interest in you? That was a different story altogether. He’d like to blame it on the fact that you were his best friend, but deep down, he knew better. He was protective of you because he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone looking at you the way he did. Was it selfish? Definitely. But the thought of losing you terrified him more than anything.

“You know that’s a lie. You saw how excited I was! Why did you take that from me?” You were fully aware of how weak and accusatory your voice sounded, but you didn’t care. You were hurt, and it was clear in the way you shook your head, disappointment heavy in every movement. James watched your reflection, noticing the way you swallowed hard as if trying to shove down the swell of emotions threatening to break free. And with that, a wave of guilt slammed into his stomach, settling there like a stone.

“I just didn't want him to hurt you!”

"So you decided to take that off his hands and hurt me instead?" You scoffed, making James flinched as if you had slapped him. It probably would have hurt less if you had.

“Merlin, no! Sweetheart, that wasn't what I was trying to do—”

“Then what were you trying to do, James? Because I'm getting tired of this little game, we have going on.”

He lets out a shaky breath, his eyes following your hand as you gently remove one of your earrings. For a moment, your gazes meet through the mirror, and the weight of it all presses down on him. He wishes, desperately, that you would just turn around and face him.

He was racking his brain, searching for the right words, trying to find a way to fix this. He considered stepping back, giving you space like he did when you got agitated with him. But this felt different. It wasn’t just about a moment of frustration—it was something deeper, something that could damage your friendship permanently if he didn’t speak up. He knew he had to fix this.

“You guys make up yet?” Sirius hollered, and James could practically picture him standing at the bottom of the stairs with his hands cupped around his mouth as he shouted at the both of you.

Sirius' words from earlier echoed in his head as if they were taunting him, swirling around like a cruel mantra.

Go on, kiss and make up.

It felt like an accusation, a reminder of how much he’d messed up. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, twisting in his gut. Every nerve in his body screamed that his next move would either make everything worse—digging the hole even deeper—or finally give him a chance to tell you why he’d ruined your date. But the fear of losing you pushed him forward.

“Tell me to stop, sweetheart.”

“Stop what—?” You ask, tossing your last piece of jewelry into the ceramic dish with a sharp clang before turning to face James. Your breath catching in your throat as he moves closer, and without thinking, you instinctively take a step back, bumping into your desk. The sudden movement rattles the items on top, sending a soft, anxious clatter through the room.

A sharp gasp escapes your lips as James reaches out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb grazing the edge of your jaw. You stare up at him, wide-eyed, and James can’t help but think how pretty you look—more than he’s ever allowed himself to admit.

He’s never been able to admire you like this before, not without the constant fear of you catching him.

His hands are shaky, and his proximity to you is making him nervous in a way that he couldn’t quite shake. But he didn’t know how else to explain himself. So, tentatively, he let his fingers graze your skin, admiring how you melted into him. He watches, heart pounding, as your lashes flutter and your lips part in surprise at the softness of his touch. The anger in your eyes had faded, leaving behind disbelief and something that looked dangerously close to hope.

He startles both himself and you when the words slip out, low and raw: “You make me so fucking nervous.” You blink up at him, silent, processing the confession. His gaze drifts over the mascara you’d carefully applied, the gloss glistening on your lips—details he hadn’t noticed before, but now felt like a punch to his gut. The jealousy flares, burning hot and fast in the pit of his stomach. It was devastating to realize you were all dressed up, and it wasn’t for him. Those heels, those glossed lips—they were for a guy who hardly knew you.

Not like James knew you.

You part your lips, and James unknowingly silences you with a gentle brush of his thumb just beneath your lower lip. A soft, satisfied smile tugs at his mouth as he hears the gasp escape you. His hand rests on your left hip, pulling you closer, grounding you against him. The tension in the room thickens, and just like that, your anger has melted.

“If you want me to stop, just say the word, sweetheart.” He murmurs, his voice low and thick with intention as he edged closer. His fingers caressing your jaw, tilting your face upwards, bringing you within a breath of him. The air between you crackles, heavy and charged, and you feel the pull—the tempting, intoxicating proximity. He was so close now, you could feel the warmth of his breath, and all it would take was the slightest movement for his lips to claim yours.

You thought about saying it—the words were right there, just on the tip of your tongue. But then his lips brushed against yours just barely, and everything else faded away. You couldn’t bring yourself to say no—not when this was something you’d wanted for years. Even with the anger simmering inside you, the frustration over James ruining your date, you couldn’t pull away.

Not now. Not when he was so close.

If anything, a strange sense of relief was starting to wash over you—relief that he had ruined it. Because if he hadn’t, it might have been another guy standing where he was now, and the thought of that made something tighten painfully in your chest.

“Last chance.” He mumbled, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, searching for any sign that you might stop him. The only sound between you was the uneven rhythm of your breaths, erratic and heavy, pulsing with the desire that surged between you both. When you didn’t say a thing, no rejection, no hesitation—only the warmth of your breath mingling with his—he offered a barely-there smile before leaning in, his lips finally capturing yours with a slow, gentle kiss.

He started slow, cautious, as if afraid he might push you away. But the wrecked hum that escaped your throat—the sound of pure desire—told him everything he needed to know. You wanted this as much as he did.

It was overwhelming how quickly the kiss shifted—what started as sweet and searching, quickly turned frantic and hungry. The slow, deliberate pace gave way to a fiery urgency. The gentle brush of lips became a desperate meeting of mouths as the two of you gave into years of pining.

Your hands, which had been gripping the edge of the desk hard, moved slowly toward him. You let your fingers trail up his stomach, feeling the dips and ridges before reaching his chest. Your other hand found its way into his curls, you tugged softly, the motion pulling a low, pleasure-filled groan from deep within him. That sound, the sound of him unraveling, seemed to shatter something inside James. In an instant, he stepped closer—if that was even possible—until your bodies were pressed together, the heat between you two undeniable, consuming.

He pulled away just an inch, and the desperate whine that escaped your lips was enough to pull him back in, his arms circling your waist before effortlessly lifting you onto the desk. You gasped his name, the sound caught in your throat, as his lips claimed yours again, urgent and hungry. One hand slid around your thigh, pulling you closer, the heat of his body pressing against yours as he stood between your parted legs. His grip on your hip was firm, grounding, while his other hand found its place at the side of your throat, fingers warm and possessive.

You had never been kissed like this before. It was overwhelming—an all-consuming heat that ignited deep in your belly as James kissed you with a hunger, as if he'd been waiting for this moment his entire life.

And it was ruining you, because if this was how it felt to kiss James Potter, you never wanted to be kissed by anyone else ever again.

He rocked his hips against yours, the pressure making you gasp, and that breathless sound was all he needed. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth, tasting you as if he couldn’t get enough. You were so completely immersed in him—the feel of his lips, the taste of him—that the low, teasing whistle from your doorway barely registered in your mind.

“Bloody hell, I didn’t expect you to actually go and kiss her.” Sirius’ voice rang out, loud and unfiltered. The words struck a panic through you, your body warming with embarrassment as you instinctively tucked your head into James’ chest, hoping to hide from the intrusion. You would recognize Sirius’ voice anywhere, and you knew you would be teased about this for ages.

James, with you still propped on the desk, remained a shield, his body pressed protectively against yours. He glanced over at Sirius and Remus, who stood by the doorway. Sirius, leaning against the doorframe, raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, while Remus stood next to him, his usually calm demeanor showing signs of awkwardness.

“Fuck off and shut the door, mate.” James groans, his arms pulling you tighter as he fights the urge to hurl a book at Sirius and Remus. Instead, he sends them a warning glare and brings a hand up to the back of your head, the heat of the moment still burning between you, and silently dares them to say anything more.

The boys hesitate, but not before Sirius calls out with a teasing smirk, “Didn’t know you had it in you, Potter. You finally got your girl.” And just like that, the door slams shut, leaving the air thick with tension and you cringing in embarrassment.

Maybe telling him you loved him wasn’t that pointless after all.

please consider reblogging or leaving a comment! it keeps me motivated to write and spread my work! 🤍

#james potter fic #james potter oneshot #james potter fanfiction #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x reader #james potter x you #james potter imagine

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promptsforthestrugglingauthor · 2 months ago

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Writing Prompt #2829

"Are you willing to die for the cause?"

"No. But I am willing to die for you. Is that not enough?"

#writing prompt #writing #writers on tumblr #oc prompt #imagine your ocs #dialogue prompt #story prompt #story inspo #story ideas #creative writing prompt #creative writing inspo #creative writing ideas #original prompt #daily prompt #daily writing prompt #promptsforthestrugglingauthor

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siriussunday · 4 months ago

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sirius gibson doesnt have rui kamishiro hair. rui kamishiro has sirius gibson hair. GO HOME!

choose violence on

SIRIUS SUNDAY!

#nothing against rui im being dramatic hes one of my favorite prsk characters like probably number 6 #my first 4* was rui. i have like 5 four stars of him . i actually started playing prsk back in 2022 bc of him. however he holds no candles #to sirius. let the world know where the sirius sunday guy stands on rui kamishiro from hit game hatsune miku project sekai colorful stage #witchs heart post breached containment incident 2829 dead 4 injured #funnily enough i technically go to all these places (isat is like my game in-law i will meet personally very soon) but sirius is numero uno #campeo du mundo.

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eurydicees · 2 months ago

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Where’s the trans!Kyotani and trans!Iwaizumi fic (those were the characters right?)

HELLO YES SO GLAD YOU'RE HERE, THANK YOU FOR ASKING!!!!

solidarity, or some friendship of the like

summary: kyoutani gets his period, and it fucking sucks. iwaizumi is also there, and that sucks a little less. prompt: none pairings: kentarou kyoutani & hajime iwaizumi (platonic) words: 2829 warnings: discussion of periods, implied insecurities about being trans

Kyoutani is hiding. Practice starts in five minutes. He knows that practice starts in five minutes. He can hear the club room clock ticking, loud as a bomb’s countdown, even from the bathroom stall. He’s going to be late, or he’s going to miss practice entirely.

For once, he doesn’t actually want to skip. Or, he does want to skip because fuck knows he can’t show up like this, but he didn’t intend to skip today. He actually wants to be on this stupid team, for some fucking reason.

He was given a second chance and he’s going to take it, despite something in him screaming out that he’s not really a part of what the rest of the team has. After a few weeks of practicing with them again before their next tournament, he’s well aware that he still doesn’t have their trust, not really, but still—he’s kind of finding himself wanting to earn it.

He wants Yahaba to give him the time of day, at least once. He wants Iwaizumi to look at him as more than something he can guide into being next year’s ace. He wants Oikawa—actually, he doesn’t really care about Oikawa’s opinion, but he’s besides the point.

Some days, he sinks into the feeling of being part of the team and wonders if, one day, he could genuinely be a part of the dynamic that everyone else has found over the time he hasn’t been playing with them. Some days, he thinks he might get there.

This is not one of those days. This moment is ruining everything he has worked to convince himself of for weeks now. This is not a day in which he believes he can reach them. If anything, this is only further convincing himself that he can never truly be one of them, be like them. He just doesn’t—doesn’t fucking belong.

He can want to play on the boys’ volleyball team as much as he wants to. He can make it past tryouts and onto the team, he can be physically strong and he can beat almost everyone—everyone but Iwaizumi—in Seijoh’s arm wrestling tournaments, he can make himself look as masculine as possible. He can do all that.

And he still will never actually fit in. He won’t ever fit in, not while he’s sitting on the toilet with bloodied underwear and pants both pulled down to his knees. He rubs his palms against his eyes, because he will not cry, he won’t, because boys don’t cry and he’s a boy, he is.

He can’t cry about this. He won’t. He just has to wait until the club room clears as practice starts, and then he can escape. Only, fuck, he doesn’t have a pad or tampon or anything, and he doesn’t even have clothes—

“Kyoutani?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“You in here?”

Fuck.

The thing about Yahaba is that he is persistent. He is persistent and he is frustrating and he is not going to give up once he has his mind set on something. While they’re playing volleyball together, this is something Kyoutani appreciates. While he is hiding from everyone in the bathroom because his body has decided to riot against him, this is not something he appreciates.

“Oikawa sent me to find you,” Yahaba calls out, and Kyoutani can see his feet step into the bathroom. “We’re starting practice and he wants you there for some reason.”

And, okay, normally that wouldn’t hurt because normally Kyoutani would have something to say back, but right now he feels fragile in a way he tries to never be. Right now he feels like he’s going to snap in half and he’s not going to be able to put the pieces back together. He’s going to have to quit the team, go back to the rec center, where no one knows about this, and—and all of that hurts.

His body is aching and probably he should have seen the signs before he found the drying blood and discharge in his underwear, but he doesn’t really track his period because he hates even acknowledging that it happens. And now he’s suffering the consequences of that. Now, Yahaba’s comments are actually sending something stupid painful down his chest and, on a physical level, his chest already feels too tender to touch.

Yahaba’s feet pause outside of the stall door. “Are you good? You coming or what?”

“I’m fucking fine, leave me alone—”

“Are you sick or something?”

“I said, I’m fine!” It’s a growl and a defensive anger more than anything else. Kyoutani can hear the angry anxiety in his voice, and he wonders if Yahaba hears it too.

Yahaba doesn’t say anything—for a moment, Kyoutani wonders if he’s managed to hurt him back, and then decides he doesn’t care at the moment. He needs Yahaba to leave. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this, doesn’t want to be caught—

“Should I grab Coach or someone?” Yahaba asks, and oh, he’s definitely picked up on Kyoutani’s anxiety, because his voice is just that much softer. “Do you need…something?”

“No,” Kyoutani snaps. What he needs is to just not be here. “Don’t Coach. Please don’t get Coach.”

And he’s begging Yahaba for things now, which is a new fucking low in his life, but he can’t face either Mizoguchi or Irihata right now. They know he’s trans—they had to know, it was information he was required to divulge to all his teachers and coaches, however much he resisted the idea—and while they’ve found it in them to be accepting enough that he’s allowed on the team, Kyoutani refuses to push it so far as to asking for help. Not with this.

“Okay, fuck,” Yahaba says. “I won’t get them. Seriously, are you good?”

“Just leave it,” Kyoutani mutters. “Tell them I’m not coming to practice today.”

Yahaba doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “Oikawa’s not gonna take that excuse.”

“I’m not quitting, I’m skipping one afternoon,” Kyoutani growls. “It’s fucking fine. You’ve all done it before.”

Except even as he says that, he knows it’s not true. Nothing short of a career ending injury or terminal illness would stop someone on Seijoh’s volleyball team from coming to practice. Even then, they’d probably sit on the sidelines with casts on both legs and yell instructions from the bench.

But Kyoutani will suffer being the first to do it because he’s not leaving this stall while there are people around. He can’t face that.

“Your funeral,” Yahaba mutters. Louder, “I’ll tell them you’re skipping, but I’m not making excuses for you.”

“Not asking you to,” Kyoutani snaps. “I’m not coming either way.”

He doesn’t really care what Yahaba thinks about him not going. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks. Let them believe he’s ditching the team again, let them believe he doesn’t care about the sport, let them believe anything but the fact that he wasn’t born a man.

He watches as Yahaba’s feet round the corner and he disappears, presumably to tell Oikawa that Kyoutani isn’t coming. At the moment, Kyoutani can’t bring himself to care what Oikawa is going to say. Putting his head in his hands, his back hunched, still sitting on the stupid toilet, he lets out a long scream into his palms.

He hates this. He hates this so much. He had probably stained the desk chair during his last class of the day, he doesn’t know how long he’s walked around like this, he doesn’t know how he’s going to get home without exposing everything, and he hates this.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment, trying to imagine himself out of this situation. Maybe when he opens his eyes again, he won’t be in this bathroom stall and none of his clothes will be stained and he won’t have this awful cramping in his lower stomach and he can go to the gym and play volleyball with the rest of the team like his body doesn’t hate him.

“Mad Dog?”

“Don’t call me that.” The response is immediate, instinctual. Then the panic sets in as he realizes Oikawa is the one now standing outside of the stall door. “Get out of here.”

Oikawa has no hesitation when he says, “No. Tell me what’s going on. Why can’t you—”

“I started my fucking period!”

Maybe he says it because he needs to get it out of his chest and into air where someone else can deal with it. Maybe he says it because he’s just so fucking tired. Maybe he doesn’t want to be the only one who knows anymore. Maybe he just says it because he doesn’t give a shit about Oikawa’s opinion of him.

Oikawa is silent. Kyoutani bites down hard on his lip because he wants to either cry or scream and neither of those are options, not over this and not in front of motherfucking Tooru Oikawa. He’s stronger than that. He has to make himself stronger than that. So his heart just hesitates in his throat for a long moment, a moment of tense, glass-fragile silence.

The Oikawa exhales, long and slow. He sounds calm, somehow. “Do you have what you need? Pad, tampon?”

“No.” Kyoutani’s words, again, are the growl of a cornered animal and he wants to sink his teeth into something. “Just—fucking leave it, Oikawa. I’ll deal with it.”

Oikawa exhales again, that same long breath that’s setting Kyoutani so on edge. He wants to scream, wants to punch something. Oikawa, maybe. The wall, maybe. The stall door.

Then Oikawa does the last thing Kyoutani expected him to. He had expected a laugh or a jeer or an insult or a joke. But instead, Oikawa turns around, and he leaves. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t start an argument, he just…leaves. It was what Kyoutani had wanted to happen, kind of, but somehow the resulting silence is just as humid and oppressive as Oikawa’s presence had been.

Okay. Oikawa is gone. Kyoutani can deal with this shit. He got his period for the first time when he was fourteen, and pretty consistently for every month after that, so he’s dealt with this—he can’t actually do that math right now, but he’s done this enough times to be able to deal. Probably he just needed to be dramatic first.

He has his gym shorts in his locker. He can change into those, even if he’ll be cold on the long walk home. It’s better than wearing this. It’ll be fine. With that figured out, he pulls out a wad of toilet paper and folds it up in his hand, then carefully places it in the stained underwear, wincing at the feeling of the dried blood accidentally brushing against his knuckles.

“Kyoutani?”

Fuck. Why are his teammates rotating through this fucking bathroom like he’s a fucking zoo exhibit—

“It’s Iwaizumi,” he says, as if Kyoutani wouldn’t recognize that voice anywhere.

Kyoutani did not, before this, have a ranking of which of his teammates he would least like to catch him in the bathroom when he’s on his period. Now, though, he thinks he has a working list and the list is the exact people who have come to find him today. Yahaba, who has never backed down from making fun of him. Oikawa, who always knows exactly what to say to antagonize and provoke him. Iwaizumi, who he respects so stupid much.

The thing is that Iwaizumi is everything that Kyoutani wants to be. Iwaizumi is strong and bold and brave and an ace through and through. He’s also kind and he’s patient with everyone except for Oikawa. He helps his underclassmen with their form no matter how bad it is to start with. He never makes fun of anyone who doesn’t deserve it or can’t take it. He’s masculine and built strong and good and he’s—

Kyoutani is afraid of admitting to so many things, but one thing he’s not afraid to admit is that, honestly, he just wants to be like that. He doesn’t want to be an outsider like he is right now, he doesn’t want to be this in-between body that craves Iwaizumi’s masculinity but, ultimately, still menstruates.

Iwaizumi’s shadow passes in front of the stall door. “Oikawa came and got me. Told me what you said.”

“He shouldn’t have.” Kyoutani’s voice is a hollow rasp. “I shouldn’t have told him and it’s none of his business.”

Iwaizumi snorts. His feet come into view underneath the stall door. “Been telling him to keep out of other people’s shit for years. It has yet to work.”

“It’s none of your business either.”

“Maybe not,” Iwaizumi admits. “I brought you some things anyway. I’m gonna slide them under the door, okay?”

Kyoutani doesn’t answer even as Iwaizumi does as he said. He passes over a small black bag, something like the makeup bag his sister uses to keep her lipstick and blush in. Hesitantly, Kyoutani picks it up and unzips it. Inside: pads and tampons. Nondescript, simple white packaging; both nighttime and daytime pads and both heavy and light flow tampons. Whoever prepared this bag clearly wanted to be ready for anything.

He swallows, staring at the contents. He needs them and he hates it and he’s grateful and he has so many questions. “How did you…”

Iwaizumi is quiet for a moment, shifting his weight between his feet. It’s after a long moment of tense and near-audible heartbeats before he speaks again. “Mine are a little irregular. I got caught off guard at some point my first year and had to leave practice early. It was…humiliating, I guess, is the light word for it. Exposing, maybe? I dunno. But I’ve tried to be better prepared since then.”

Kyoutani goes still, his grip on the bag tightening. He pulls out a pad, turning it over in one hand. Then he sets the bag down and pushes it back under the door with his toe. “You…”

The question goes unasked, but Iwaizumi hums a yes anyway.

“Oh.”

“Is it really that much of a surprise?”

“Yes,” Kyoutani says immediately.

And it is, it is a surprise, because this is Iwaizumi, who is practically the epitome of masculinity to Kyoutani. This is Iwaizumi, undefeated in three years of arm wrestling. Iwaizumi, who has the fastest mile across any of the sports teams at Aoba Johsai. Iwaizumi, who has the highest lift weight of any of them. Iwaizumi, who has never shown any sign of being anything other than man.

Iwaizumi hums again. “I guess you don’t really see me a lot outside of school and practice.”

Kyoutani takes a shaky breath, unwrapping the pad with a crinkle that makes him wince. Iwaizumi doesn’t react to it—something that Kyoutani is entirely grateful for—and keeps talking.

“I like to think we’re friends,” Iwaizumi continues, steadily, as if he isn’t altering Kyoutani’s entire worldview. “I like to think I’m friends with everyone on the team. But it’s…I mean, it would be hard for them not to have a guess by now. But no one ever really talks about it in the clubroom or at practice. So it makes sense you didn’t know, I guess. Sometimes it feels a little like no one knows. Except Oikawa, since he doesn’t know when to shut up sometimes.”

Kyoutani snorts. That feels true.

“I love him, but he can be an idiot,” Iwaizumi says. There’s a fondness in his voice that Kyoutani is pretty sure he will never understand. “Anyways, I get it, is the point. I’ve spent my fair share of time in this bathroom panicking.”

They both fall silent for a long moment, the two of them just taking soft, even breaths. For a moment, Kyoutani actually feels comfortable in the silence with him.

Iwaizumi inhales, and then exhales, long and slow. He shifts his stance again. “You don’t have to come back to practice if you just want to go home now. But we want you there.”

Kyoutani swallows around some kind of lump in his throat, overwhelmed by the kindness Iwaizumi is somehow, for some reason, showing him. It feels like some kind of solidarity, or—something like friendship, maybe.

“Up to you,” Iwaizumi says. “But know that if anyone gives you shit, on the team or off it, they’ll be answering to me. And probably the rest of the team, though honestly it’s not like any of them could really finish a fight. But—yeah. You get the point.”

Iwaizumi laughs a little before continuing. “I’m gonna go up now, but feel free to let me know if you ever need anything else.”

Somewhere in him, Kyoutani finds the strength to nod, even if Iwaizumi can’t see it. “I’ll, uh. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Sounds good, Kyoutani.” With that, Iwaizumi is turning around and walking away.

I like to think we’re friends, Iwaizumi had said. And, in all his great and unsure honesty, Kyoutani would like to think so too.

#my writing #i have been hoarding this fic in my drafts for SO long oh my god #thank you for asking lmfao im so glad to actually have a reason to post it now #haikyuu #kentarou kyoutani #hajime iwaizumi #kyoutani kentarou #iwaizumi hajime #haikyuu fanfiction #trans kyoutani #trans iwaizumi

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