#pieces of string

[tea-time-terrier]

It's been two years of muzzle training with everything but an actual muzzle...

Until now.

[moeblob]

I genuinely have a "hear me out" for Alex/Shane and have in fact told someone (who doesn't play SDV) and they said it was a pretty convincing argument so I think I'm onto something.

[zephyrchama]

We know there's cooking duty, and trash duty, and various cleaning duties that the brothers rotate who's in charge of. They take turns shopping for groceries. When MC becomes their attendant in Nightbrighter, some of these chores are foisted onto them.

Is there a laundry duty? Does MC have to do everybody's laundry? Does Asmodeus keep buying more and more outrageous underwear to leave on top of his laundry so he can tease MC?

---

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Whaddya think you’re doin’?”

Mammon walked into his room and caught you red-handed with a pair of his yellow briefs. He nearly flew across the room to snatch them out of your hand.

“Uh, the laundry?” You gestured to a basket of Mammon’s dirty clothes that had been collected from all over. “This would be easier for me if you left it in one place. Getting all of your stuff every week is like a scavenger hunt.”

Mammon threw the dirty briefs over his shoulder. They landed somewhere on the opposite side of the room for you to find again later. You looked at him in exasperation while reaching for a pair of crumpled-up jeans. His face had a rosy tint.

“Why are you doing the laundry?” he demanded.

“Because it’s my job as your attendant,” you answered.

“Wh-? Like, just this week?”

“I’ve been doing your laundry for the last three months, Mammon.”

He craned his neck forward in shock and waited a beat, as if you would say psyche. It’s not that Mammon couldn’t understand you, but this was new information he did not want to process. A hand rose to his forehead, sliding upwards as he pushed in frustration. “Well... cut it out! You look like a pervert. How would you like it if I did your laundry, huh?”

That’d be nice. “Could you, please? That would be great. I don’t have a day to do my own wash, given there’s seven of you and only seven days in a week.” Chores, RAD duties, and devilsitting took up every waking moment.

Mammon sighed and ruffled his hair. He muttered, “Seven…" In an instant, his attention snapped back to you.

"Seven? You’re doin’ everyone’s laundry?” he shouted.

You were ready to pull his jacket off yourself if he wouldn't cooperate. “Yes! And I’m short on time so just give me your dirty clothes!”

--

You cracked the door open ever so slightly. Leviathan was preoccupied with a game at his desktop, the back of his chair pointed at the door. The chair shook from the intensity with which he smacked the controller. Now was the perfect time. With the goal of being as quiet as possible, you crept into Leviathan’s room and made a beeline for his laundry hamper.

“Dooooooooooon’t touch those!” The pitch of his voice rose and fell impressively as Leviathan jumped and scrambled across the tile on all fours to physically block you from the laundry. Did he see your reflection in the monitor? His headphone cord popped out of the PC, its headpiece falling down to tug at his neck, and the gaming controller clattered to the floor. Leviathan slid in between you and his laundry basket like an athlete safely sliding onto a base.

In contrast, you just stood there wide-eyed with a tub of detergent in one hand.

Leviathan stammered a few times, realizing he might have overreacted. “So, uh. You see, Mammon gave us all an earful for letting you touch our clothes,” he explained. “He clearly didn’t listen when Lucifer told us you were doing it.”

“Oh, and you knew? Good job, Levi!"

You both smiled, Leviathan chuckled bashfully at the praise.

"Now give me your laundry.”

His face fell.

“No, wait! I knew you were doing it! But… you know, I never really thought about it. And for once, I think Mammon has a point. So, please!” Leviathan pressed his hands to the floor and bowed his head to the ground. A pose he learned from anime. “I’ll do my own laundry from now on! Just don’t touch it anymore!”

“Why? I've always been careful, I check the tags on your shirts so the colors don't bleed.” All of the brothers' clothes had insanely specific washing instructions. Compared to laundering suit jackets and leather and silk, colorful graphic t-shirts were a walk in the park.

Leviathan did not budge. "That's true. Still, I have dignity that must be protected!"

---

Beelzebub goes through almost twice the amount of clothes that his brothers do due to his regular workouts. Thankfully, he helps you carry them all to the laundry room so you're not struggling alone.

Beelzebub already had everything neatly sorted into two baskets - regular clothes and workout clothes. They were all ready to go when you showed up for the weekly collection. He let you take the lighter one.

Before the two of you left the bedroom, Belphegor called out, "are you doing laundry?" His head lolled over the side of his bed.

"Yeah, do you need anything washed right now? You can put it in with mine," Beelzebub kindly offered.

Belphegor wormed to the edge of his bed and picked up an empty pillow case. "I drooled on this and stuff. Can you take care of it?"

"Sure," you said. "Pass it over."

Getting up was far too much work. Instead, Belphegor loosely balled up the pillow case. With the world's laziest throw, he tossed it in your direction. It managed to sail through the air. It smacked the side of your head and landed on your shoulder.

"Thanks," Belphegor yawned, having already turned his back to you and Beelzebub.

[dkettchen]

in a nutshell

[shalomniscient]

you’re seven years old and barefoot on the beach of yaoguang shoal with sand between your toes and salt-brushed wind in your hair when ningguang makes her first and only promise to you.

“when we grow up, i’ll marry you.”

the words are big, heavy on her child’s tongue but she speaks them with conviction nonetheless. her hands are laced with yours, your small fingers slotting perfectly with one another. the sunset makes her eyes glow like how you imagine the amber does at jueyun karst. you’re too young, too childish to really understand the weight of her vow—but you nod with a smile, squeezing her hands tighter.

“i’ll wait for you,” you say, hoping she can hear the sincerity in your voice. it’s a foolish hope, because you know that ningguang knows you better than you even know yourself. she returns your smile with one of her own, her hand never leaving yours as you walk back to your village, the sunset at your backs. the light paints ningguang in gold, and you can’t help but think at seven years old that this is how things should be—hand in hand with the girl you know you love before you even knew the meaning of the word, barefoot together in the sand.

you’re seven years old when you learn how things should be, but you’re fifteen years old when you learn how things are.

ningguang leaves for the city. she tells you before she goes, of course, holds you close as you weep selfishly into her shoulder. her hands are gentle as she sifts them through your hair, along your scalp and down the nape of your neck before wrapping around your slim, hunger-carved shoulders. i have to go, she’d said, or else how will i afford our wedding? and you’d wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter at all what kind of wedding you had, as long as she stayed with you—that all the riches in the world are worthless without her. but for as much as she knows you, you know her, and you know that ningguang is not to be deterred once she sets her mind on something, so you send her off with a delicately packed mora meat and a prayer in your heart that she’ll come back soon.

you’re fifteen years old when you learn how things are, and you’re twenty-one years old when you learn how things will be.

it’s been six years since ningguang left. even in the backwater village you call home, tales of ningguang’s exploits reach your ears. how she runs circles around liyue’s businessmen and businesswomen, how she effortlessly finds her place amidst liyue’s social elite, how she’s rising, rising, rising like an unstoppable eclipsing star. she keeps writing to you, always keeping you updated on her progress, and you always write back, filling your letters with the mundanity of your day-to-day life—about the way the glaze lillies have been blooming, or about the way everyone around you says you’d make a fine wife.

my parents are getting restless, you confess in one letter. i’m getting older, and they think i should get married soon.

the reply that returns the next week is simple, but succint. i haven’t forgotten. wait for me, please. and you know she hasn’t, which is why it kills you when your new husband forbids you from ever writing to her again. you weep yourself to sleep on your side of the bed for the next week following your wedding night. the distress of wondering—if ningguang is worried, if she’s upset, or worse, if she’s hurt by you—drives you near insane to the point you worry yourself sick. your husband only tells you to stop holding on to naive childhood promises and perform your duties as a wife. it is the only thing you are good for, now.

you’re twenty-one years old when you learn how things will be, but you’re twenty-nine when you learn that things can change.

in the years you have been married, your husband has grown—not in character, but in wealth. he is rich enough, now, to take you and himself from your village and to the big city to further his business. a small spark flickers to life in your chest that you might see her again, but it fizzles out when your husband makes it clear that you are just to stay at home. you don’t have to worry your pretty little head about anything other than the house, he’d said. i’ll give you everything you need. and you know better than to argue with him, so you resign yourself to staying at home, spending your days gazing up at that palace in the sky and wondering if its lady even remembers you—or if she, like you, has decided to let go of naive childhood promises. after all, she has the world now, can see it from the edges of her floating sanctuary. what need has she of the memory of being barefoot in the sand at seven years old?

(selfishly, you pray she hasn’t forgotten, even if she has no need for remembrance. you pray she chooses to remember.)

change comes when a woman in a white fur jacket and the prettiest emerald eyes you’ve ever seen breaks into your house. it’s certainly a very unorthodox meeting, and you come dangerously close to throwing the knife you were using to finely dice some cabbage at her. the woman only laughs, nimbly prying it from your hands and setting it on the counter. before you can even ask her what in rex lapis’s name she’s doing in your house, she says the words that make your blood run cold.

the tianquan wants to see you.

ningguang wants to see you.

the woman promptly leaves after delivering her message and additionally telling you not to breath a word of it to your husband, leaving you standing in your kitchen reeling from the shock. the mora meat you were working on putting together is forgotten as you swallow your nerves and take the chance you’ve waited nine years for. you’re nearly sick with it by the time you’ve ascended to the jade chamber in all of its opulence, feeling like you stick out like a sore thumb.

but the moment you see ningguang again, everything else fades to white noise. archons, she’s as beautiful as the day you last saw her. she was lovely dressed in commoner’s clothes, and she is just as lovely dressed in finery no doubt worth more than a year’s worth of your rent. she will never be anything other than lovely in your eyes.

“it’s been a while,” she says softly, the first to break the silence. you nearly cry at finally hearing her voice again. instead, you stifle it with a wet chuckle.

“only took fourteen years.”

ningguang manages a small laugh, lips curving upward in a smile you know—you remember—is reserved only for you. she offers you a seat by her desk, and two secretaries file in to place a tea set down by both of you, before disappearing as quickly as they came. and then ningguang is telling you about the real reason she asked to see you; your husband, as you are quite unsurprised, is involved with some sort of fraud, and the prosecution—the tianquan’s office—needs a witness. namely, you. after all, who better than the wife of the man himself? you try not to let your disappointment show, though, and you bite your tongue to stop yourself from asking her if she remembers—or worse, if she missed you. your conversation with her is pure business, and when you descend from the chamber later, it’s only with the taste of sweet tea on your tongue and half your heart; the other half you seem to have left with her, up in the clouds.

your husband, to his displeasure and rage, finds himself in millelith custody the very next day. and the very next week, you, to your pleasure and joy, find yourself lacking a husband. the millelith who take him away politely point you to an office down the street ran by a pink-haired half-adeptus, who takes care of your divorce affairs with a cheery smile in less than four days. you’re both scared and impressed—is this just how people move in the big city…? you don’t have time to dwell on the question, because unfortunately, without your husband you are also without your income, and without your income you are also without your house. which would be a very big problem; were it not for the fact that ningguang once again invites you to the jade chamber, but this time, to stay with her. you nearly decline because of the sheer insanity of the request, but the part of your heart there with her wins out. you relent, and now, you find yourself playing house with the tianquan of the liyue qixing.

it’s almost frightening, how quickly you fall back into old habits. ningguang, you find, hasn’t changed much. she is still whip-smart, still as cunning as she is devious, but she is still just as kind as she was before. something in you aches viscerally when you see the way she speaks with the children, offering them candies and goodies as she goes. (things neither of you had the luxury in indulging as children.) you smile and tell her, you haven’t changed at all. she only looks at you and returns it with, have you? the answer eluded you at the time, but thinking about it more, you would say that yes, i have. but the parts that loved you never did.

(you don’t say this out loud, of course. it’s too early, and the chasm of years between you both yawns achingly large. but by the glint of her eyes, you think she knows. and if she didn’t, the time and care she spent relearning you would have told her as well.)

since you’re not sure how long ningguang will let you stay, you decide to make the most of it. you’re almost thankful for the nine dull years you spent with your former husband—since at the very least, it taught you how to be a half decent wife. it’s all you’re good for now, after all. ningguang’s meals are cooked by you, and you’re the one who brings her tea in the afternoons and evenings. you talk with her over your cups like nothing ever happened, and you walk with her round the perimeter of the jade chamber as the sun sets, her hand close enough to hold. rumors dance in the wind like dandelions about the tianquan’s new companion; some call you an old friend, others, a lover. the answer is somehow both, yet neither. she is everything to you, and more.

(and you are everything to her and more. the infinte she has been searching for her whole life is right there in your eyes. it always has been.)

you’re twenty nine years old when you realise things can change, and you’re thirty years old when you remember how things should be.

ningguang takes a rare day off, and invites you on a little excursion to yaoguang shoal. it’s been a year since you started living with her. a year since you’ve been freed from a man you never loved, and a year since you’ve come to realise that it’s because you’re still in love with ningguang—and that perhaps, you never stopped. it’s not as difficult as an epiphany to come to terms with, but it does make your chest ache every time you look at her. especially now, in this place, where the waves carry salt-brushed wind and memories of a distant time. the sun hangs low in the sky, and ningguang is kicking off her heels, barefoot in the sand. all of a sudden you’re seven years old again, watching her watch the waves and wondering if her eyes glow the same like the amber at jueyun karst. you slip your own footwear off too, standing by her side in the sand, the water lapping at your ankles. she speaks first.

“i still remember,” she murmurs, and your heart catches in your throat. when she looks at you, it’s with all the bare innocence she looked at you with twenty-three years ago. “do you?”

“of course,” you answer, without a beat of hesitation. “how could i forget?” how could i forget you?

ningguang smiles. “then you remember what i promised you here?”

“yes,” you breathe. “i remember.”

the woman before you exhales, the sound nearly drowned out by the sigh of the waves as they crash onto the shore. her geo vision glimmers, and a crystalline box manifests in her hands—her hands that tremble as they open it, revealing a simple golden band inside. “will you forgive me for taking so long?” she whispers, and you clasp your hands over her own, steadying them. you rest your forehead against hers, caught halfway between a sob and a laugh.

“i would have waited for you forever, ningguang.”

she exhales again. catches her breath. “then, will you let me fulfill my promise and marry me?”

you answer her with the only possible answer, catching her lips in a kiss twenty-three years in the making.

yes.

[starrysharks]

first attack on @marnielovesyouu !!!

[eggsploded]

2x spacetime jam sesh !!!!!!!!! 🐏🐕

[lilbitofmac]

boyfriends boyfriends boyfriends

[mothfulhansel]

reposting them from this post, i really like them

[skialdi]

🌻Sabo + sunflower and symbolism

A little self-indulgent Sabo I drew for myself for my birthday.

[room-of-lies]

Last days of school

[that1notetaker]

I love prophecies and the battle of Bond of Choice versus Bond of Obligation.

[minniiaa]

low res law: zou edition

[crowberri]

[In Stars and Time] good game... made me very emotional

(I was bored in class lol

-> more sketches under the cut, contains spoilers from act 4 and onwards

too lazy to clean the mal du pays sketch aeaeaea orz

[liillyliilly]

I Need A Challenge

ushijima wakatoshi x reader words; 3804 synopsis; she writes a scathing review of ushijima's volleyball skills. how else should he respond if not by inviting her out to dinner?

She was tired of people like him. People who had no reason to be so stereotypically perfect. Everyone knows the type, comically good looking, is a prodigy in their one specific thing, acting so nonchalant that it ends up becoming their token personality trait. It was all so boring to her.

Which is why, as she was taking notes in the most recent Volleyball Nations League game, she wrote down some very harsh words for her analysis of star spiker Ushijima Wakatoshi. It was just the brutally honest truth of the world, she reasoned. Her editor, after reading the article she wrote at the game, almost dropped their jaw in shock at what she had written.

“This is really,” Editor Xhou sucked in some air through his teeth, “This is almost borderline libel material.”

She inspected her nails, shrugging as Xhou kept talking to her.

“I mean, you said that he is, and I quote from your own words, ‘Ushijima is the default setting for a volleyball player, there’s nothing too particularly unique’. You want me to let the paper publish this?” Xhou leans back into his office chair, pushing his glasses up and sighing.

“I write the truth, and the truth is that when Ushijima is on the court, you always know the exact plays he’ll make, the exact moves he’ll execute. The result is consistently the same. The games are too predictable when he plays.” She stands up from the seat opposite to Xhou.

Xhou sets the paper on his desk, checking that she really is okay with the article having her name attached to it.

A thumbs up is the only response she gives to her supervisor.

Xhou stamps the paper with his name, and faxes the documents to the coordinator putting together the sports magazine review for this issue. He wonders if the legal team is going to get involved again, he remembers the last player she reviewed, he was crushed and had to move to Alaska to play in a much smaller league. Xhou fully believes he’s going to get the magazine sued for letting her article fly.

Tendou finishes his squat set, hanging up the weights with a heave. Ushijima finishes his hundredth bicep curl, finally finishing his repetitions of this exercise.

Tendou pokes some fun, “I'm so sad for people without legs, they have to skip leg day.” He muses, trying to see what reaction or comment his best friend will make. Tendou twists and flexes in the full length mirrors lining the gym.

Ushijima only responds with a nod. He checks his phone, only to see that he’s received a little over four hundred notifications and counting. The beeping and noises start to pile up. Tendou peeks over Ushijima’s shoulder and gasps, he steals Ushijima’s phone away and immediately investigates what all the hustle and bustle could be related to.

“You should probably read this article, I think the writer has it out for your throat Wakatoshi.” Tendou grimaces while handing the phone back.

He skims the article, viewing the main talking points and major issues the author brings to light about his play style. His boring, everyday genius playstyle. He’s read criticisms of his volleyball skills before, but this one doesn’t seem too targeted solely about him, just using him as the mechanism to get a broader point across about the lack of challenges in volleyball recently. He chuckles at one of her comments, reading it aloud.

“Monster generation? I need a real challenge from these players, but all they’re giving me is platinum dreams without true passion and anger for the sport. I want them foaming at the mouth with new tricks, but I’m getting the same exact game over and over again.” Tendou cringes as Ushijima reads the words out loud. Ushijima stifles another chuckle.

Ushijima tucks his phone into his pocket, picking up his duffel bag. “I like her. She knows volleyball.”

It wasn’t just her comments, it was also the name of the author that Ushijima liked.

Tendou drops his water bottle in response to Ushijima’s behavior, stunned at the openness of amusement he has for the article and for the investment he has for this particular reporter.

Ushijima’s manager says that she’ll have a cease and desist letter issued to the paper for publishing such a slanderous piece. Ushijima proposes an entirely different solution.

She didn’t expect to be sitting at a restaurant, pencil and paper in hand, waiting for someone she just dragged through the mud to arrive so they could share a meal and an interview.

It was winter, and her reading glasses had fogged up slightly in the difference between the outdoors temperature and the warmth of the restaurant. The main features of the restaurant was the Western Style dining choices and decor, it reminded her almost of a hibachi place, but instead of Japanese food it was just a bunch of American and European dishes.

“It’s nice to see you again.” Ushijima pulls out his chair and settles into it, grabbing his glass of water so he can drink from it.

“High school seemed so long ago, but yes it is nice to see you again Wakatoshi. Sorry for the piece, your name just carries the right amount of importance to get my bigger points across.” She crosses her legs, setting her pencil behind her ear. The waiter comes around and takes their orders. He asks for the salmon, and she gets the house soup.

“No, I totally get it. But the statement about how people just continually eat up the single dish I serve? I thought you would’ve found a better analogy for my consistency on the court.” He just smiles at her, watching her move the pencil from behind her ear to her mouth so she could chew on it a little. One of her tells of when she was deeply thinking about how to respond to something.

Ushijima remembers all the stories she would write back in high school, ranging from sports analysis of Shiratorizawa clubs for her journalism extracurricular to getting paid to write love letters from person to person. She garnered enough money to pay for a new laptop and her entire wishlist of stationery items.

He remembers her lending him a pen once during class, it was a weightier metal pen. The ink was so black he was sure it was made of pure darkness. While he admired the pen she went into a rant talking about the pen itself, the quality of it and how it took forever to be delivered to her. They both got chastised by the teacher for having a side conversation and had to sit outside the classroom. But they ended up talking outside the classroom despite being told not to.

“Like you’d know what a good analogy looks like.” She hides her smirk behind a spoonful of soup. Ushijima appreciates her ability to be unapologetic, her honesty and bluntness matching his own linguistic traits.

They talk for three hours, about volleyball, life after high school, the article she wrote, about friends and the situations they found themselves in. Ushijima talks about Tendou and his chocolatier aspirations, she brings up Semi Eita’s new album that actually sounded truly alternative and unique.

He remembers her having a crush on Semi throughout high school. He didn’t really see why she would sit at their practices sometimes, just sighing wistfully, before freezing and turning flustered when Semi tried to make conversation like a normal person. But when Semi was seen to be a slight habitual complainer, she grew a distaste for him. Ushijima was sure that Semi was her longest crush, clocking in at around two months or so.

Ushijima did enjoy that she came to their practices sometimes, because then he could ask her about her pen collection and she would openly, loudly, and enthusiastically layer on every detail she could fit into her remarks. And she was someone who asked him about his favorite things, primarily volleyball but also about reading the advertisements in the Weekly Shonen Jump Magazine. Or about how good a runner’s high could feel sometimes.

Around her, he could share without fear of being misunderstood. She just accepted what she heard, and then analyzed it, taking her time and asking clarifying questions. He did his best to emulate her mannerisms and tact within their conversations, usually failing, but she didn’t mind.

She did openly declare an aversion for him throughout high school, that genius powerhouses should never be entertained with acknowledgement. What others considered harsh from her was almost like beaming encouragement for him. It was like she was telling him, if he didn’t continually improve and advance then the stagnation would leave him in the dust. A push in the right direction was more accurate of why she would say what she did about him.

He takes the bill from her, puts his gold debit card on the clipboard, and returns it to the waiter before she can even open her purse. Rolling her eyes, she sets some bills on the table and slides it over to him. Glaring at him until he accepts the cash and puts the bills into his wallet.

“Are you dating anyone right now?” Ushijima inquires while they walk down the street to get to the train station. The night air leaves a chill around the two of them. He had his hands tucked into his pockets, and she had her arms folded over her body.

Snow falls from the sky, catching the lights and making streaks of color burst in small flickers like fireflies. The piled up snow in the roads hadn’t yet been plowed thoroughly, and wasn’t sullied with pollution that made it yellow and black. The snow was much more like a blanket.

“Listen, I’m what people consider easy to love but hard to please. Most people say they felt like they were never enough for me when we were dating.” She bites on her bottom lip a little. It’s a confusing feeling to be unnerved by him, and she feels even more uneasy when she realizes that she’s speaking too openly. “I don’t intentionally degrade those I date, I just, I have high expectations. I don’t give many second chances.”

His breath comes out in puffs of white, winter nipping at his nose which makes him feel uncomfortable. He wonders if she’s as cold as him. He knew that she had high expectations, none of the boys at their high school got remotely close to being romantically involved with her. She wanted more than what most people could offer. She wanted someone who was as open as her.

She feels a little guilty about her article now. Maybe she pushed the words a little too much on his bad qualities. Ushijima really wasn’t that bad, he was just dependable and rational, which crafted his playstyle of being an ultimate pillar of strength for a team. Why shouldn’t a team go with the most reliable way of scoring points? Then she shooed the thought. If volleyball wanted to keep being popular, it needed to evolve.

“I liked your article a lot.” He offers, segwaying the conversation, knowing her thoughts better than she knew them. “Power goes far, but even then, there’s ceilings that need to be broken. There’s talents that need to be unearthed, planted, and then allowed to bloom.”

They sit on the bench under the covering for the train station. The screen shows that the train she needs to take will come in around ten minutes.

“Thanks. My editor was worried you were going to sue me for what I wrote.” She laughs a little, rubbing her hands against her thighs to build up some lingering heat in her hands and her body.

He passes her his gloves from his jacket pocket. Making a small hum he waves them in front of her. She accepts and embraces the black fleece covering her fingers.

“Oh, no, there’s no way I’d want you to be sued. But I do want you to add another part to the article.” He blows some air onto his hands, rubbing them together. She raises an eyebrow inquisitively, turning towards him on the bench.

Once he had finished reading her piece on Ushijima’s game, he went through and read all her other articles. He found out her favorite current player was actually Hinata Shouyou, the energetic innovator. She had written about his unique approach, due to natural athleticism. Also about his experience in Brazilian beach volleyball making his defense skills unique in the field of both Japanese volleyball and on a global scale. It was all about Hinata this, Hinata that. But could the ultimate decoy ever compare to the pillar of strength?

“What do you want me to change? I can’t make any promises.”

“Say I’m your number one, because I don’t do last place.” Ushijima lifted her chin up, looking right into her eyes. He inspects her face, the small miniscule motions her features display show that she’s listening, actively listening. “Did I ever mention that you’re the only one that has my attention?”

She really was. The only reporter he cared to give quotes to after big games, the only girl who he ever wondered if there was any possibility to develop a relationship with. He was hooked on every word she wrote, every interview she hosted online. She was in his world, but never overlapped her social circle with his for longer than an hour at best.

She swallows thickly, “I’m sorry to say this, but I really am unimpressed by your playstyle.”

He raises an eyebrow, sliding his hand from her chin to the side of her neck. He can feel the way her pulse is racing under her skin.

“We both know that’s not true.”

Her train arrived. She ducked under his hand and made her way onto the train. Before the sliding door closes, she motions him closer so she doesn't have to yell.

“Then show me your talents. I need a challenger for my first place.”

Tendou lies on his stomach on the floor, Ushijima is reviewing some plays written by his coach. He scans for any play that could show off his left hand spikes, or any play that he could try and improvise a receive if he wasn’t on the front row rotation. The plays are different from what he’s used to. But his coach said that they were all optional, and that Ushijima’s playstyle was perfectly fine as it was. But ‘fine as is’ doesn’t earn him any accolades in her book.

Tendou perks up, “I always felt like fighting had romantic undertones.” He references what Ushijima had told him about how the dinner with his reporter went last week.

“But I don’t want to fight her? I’d hardly call a slight disagreement a fight.” Ushijima sets aside the packet he had been studying.

He opens his phone and refreshes the webpage for the newspaper she worked for. When nothing pops up under her name, he goes to the calendar page to see if she’d be attending an upcoming game he’d be playing in. He sets his phone aside when he realizes she will in fact be in attendance.

“But you do want to fight for her ‘first place’ hottie player ranking.” Tendou kicks his feet in the air, crossing his feet and tapping the top of his head.

Ushijima stands up and goes to check his closet, seeing if he needs to get a tighter jersey for the upcoming game. “She never used the word ‘hottie’ when talking about her favorite player.”

“So you admit that you do want to be her favorite player?”

Ushijima finishes trying on the jersey over his long sleeve compression shirt, the jersey fitted better than he remembered. He tugs on the front of the uniform. Then what Tendou said clicks for him.

Ushijima blinks, “I do want to be her favorite player.” He doesn’t see why he would deny that observation. Being her favorite player would be the ideal situation for him.

Tendou rolls over onto his back and wiggles his pointer fingers in the air, “You want to be more than just her favorite player.” He sings the words in a teasing manner.

“Maybe I do.”

One time, near the end of high school, she was talking during lunch. Her friends were uninterested, wanting to discuss boys or homework instead of her critical worldview analysis. Her table was right next to the table that Ushijima and Tendou were sitting at, their volleyball friends already outside tossing around a ball.

Ushijima listened in, drinking his milk while Tendou ate chicken nuggets. When her voice got quieter, almost to the point of fading out entirely due to her slowly realizing her friends were not as interested in the conversation as she was, Ushijima leaned in subconsciously, trying to catch her words.

Tendou pinched Ushijima, telling him that if he wanted to listen to her, he should ask her to come sit with them. Ushijima froze. So Tendou invited her to come sit with them. Placing her lunch tray down, she ate a carrot, sensing Ushijima’s hesitance and Tendou’s eagerness.

It was Ushijima that spoke first, “Keep going. You remind me of someone. He said almost the same thing, about his worthless pride and not forgetting about it.”

She brightens. Continuing her dissection of the value of pride, she refers to Ushijima as a reference point for pride. Using him in her examples and demonstrations of her illustrative examples. Around the third time she says his family name, he makes another request.

“You can just call me Wakatoshi.”

Tendou drops his chicken nugget, but quickly regains his pace in eating the arms off the dinosaurs.

She says his name, once and then twice. Letting it settle onto her tongue and leave a trace of what a first name basis could mean. Pondering on that instead of her newest philosophy interest is quickly dropped. She only ever calls him by his name from then on.

Needless to say, the next game he plays at, she’s there, with her notepad and pen. Each receive, hit, serve, and toss is carefully recorded on her paper.

He doesn’t do anything too off the typical, but he does try new things his coach had mentioned. Pressuring an opponent’s highest scorer more, trying a few block kills when he’s in the right rotation, scoring some points off the tip of the blockers hands instead of cutting right through their attempts to defend. He’s more tired after this game than his last one. Yet, he had more fun this time around. His teammates seemed thrilled with the results of never having a gap less than five points.

After the game, before he goes to the locker room to debrief with the team and change into regular clothes, he stalks his way over to her. She’s talking to another reporter that had been sitting in the media section, but the other reporter just elbows her lightly when he notices Ushijima making an attempt to approach. The other man slowly walks away, bidding her a farewell.

She’s still sitting on the bench, cheekily covering her notes with her hand, and writing something down. When he takes a place next to her, he spreads his legs a little, expanding his presence and bumping their thighs into each other. She initially retracts from the touch, but relaxes into it.

He’s aware that his body is thinly sheened with sweat. It drips from the hair at his nape down his back and soaks into his player kit. She brings her notepad up to her face, looking at him over the spiral binding of the paper. Trying to hide her comments and analysis of the game, which had been overwhelmingly positive for Ushijima.

“What’s your professional opinion of the game?” He uses a finger to push down her notepad that was covering her nose. A streak of ink and pencil lead was across her cheek and nose. He brought his thumb up and wiped away the markings. At first swipe, nothing moved, so he slid his thumb over again with just a little more pressure.

“It was entertaining in a different sense. Rather than being solely athletic entertainment.” She licks her own thumb and finishes wiping away all the marks that she could feel him trying to get rid of. She misses a sliver on the apple of her cheek but he doesn’t say anything, enjoying the way that it makes her seem less intimidating and more adorable.

“Care to share with the class?”

“Well, when a certain player keeps trying to make eye contact during the game, when he should instead be invested in the game, it does pose some interesting investigative questions.”

At this point, Ushijima slid his hand to her thigh, asking her to explain further, “Such as?”

“When will he get up the nerve to ask her on a date? Will he take her for a ride in that brand new car he got? Does he need glasses from how frequently it seemed he scrutinized the audience in search of her?” She pauses, then continues, “And will he be mad if she writes something about how attentive the setter was during the game?”

“Soon, for the date. Most definitely a long car ride to the mountains. His vision is actually perfectly 20/20, he just wanted to make sure she was having a good time by observing her reactions. No comments for the setter, he’s a rookie, and much less attentive than an older, more experienced player.”

She hums a little in regards to his answers to her inquiries. Soon, she tugs on the back of his hand, the hand that was resting on her thigh. She bites the cap off her pen, waving the pen in the air, close enough to his skin for him to understand the point of what she was communicating.

The pen tickled the skin of his hand, but he liked the way she put one hand under his to make his hand rest flat so she could write her piece on his body. Capping the pen back up, she tucked it behind her ear.

Written on his hand was a series of numbers, along with a small doodle of a volleyball.

Getting up from her spot on the media bench, she leaves him with a short statement.

“I liked your response to my challenge. Keep making the Monster Generation bloom with each game Wakatoshi.” She halts for a moment, then turns back to him, “You can be my number one on those conditions. Blooming the Monsters and responding to my challenges.”

He’d return every challenge she gave him if it meant he could be hers.

[laughffy]

au where everything is the same but zoro got stitched up from his duel with mihawk by sanji