Silver Harmony (silverharmony) wrote,
Silver Harmony
silverharmony

11 Ficlets: Requests Completed

So finally, here they are. Yeah I know, they totally aren't drabbles anymore LOL - these are so long they're more like ficlets Dx nevertheless, I hope they'll be alright as it's been a long time since I've written anything. I'm actually relieved I could churn out this much writing after having not written for ages.

I do love writing fics though and am slowly developing my skills so all your feedback is most appreciated and welcomed! ^^

11 ficlets here as was requested (well out of 12, but I'm delaying the DBZ one until I've rewatched all the eps xD) - a nice mixture of humor, angst and drama. All are rated PG. Hope you’ll enjoy :)

~ Harmony



BAKUMAN


Bakuman, Takagi & Miyoshi
Title: Companionable Mischief
Requested by: bubblefire
Prompt given: Boxing
Note: Forgive me in advance for the referencing of a certain book in this ficlet; like Shujin, I mean no disrespect. ^^ Spoilers for Chapter 71 and beyond.

***

Sometimes, he realized, even though he was a professional writer for a manga, and a college student, and already lovingly married, he was still really just a young adolescent who enjoyed indulging in his inner child in a lot of ways. And maybe this was one of those times: there was a strange excitement, a sense of sneaky mischief, in spending the early hours of the morning tickling his wife’s nostrils with the tips of her own hair to make her sneeze in her sleep. It was cheap, juvenile fun, and yet a peculiar fascination to watch the creasing of her brows, her reflexive writhing, her expansion of her nostrils. Until she sneezed violently and punched him so hard at the same time that he was tossed right over the edge of their bed.

Kaya sat up suddenly, sneezing hard twice more. ‘What do you think you were doing, Akito-san?’

He stared at her from the floor like a deer in headlights, mussed hair and glasses askew and bedsheets tangled over his limbs. ‘Good morning to you too. Damn, you pack one hell of a punch.’

‘Well, that’s probably a good thing, isn’t it? An automatic reflex to protect me from people who want to attack me in my sleep,’ she rubbed her eyes, and then raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Although in this case, it was my own husband. How long were you playing with me for?’

The blond untangled the bedsheets from himself and readjusted his glasses, taking a seat back on the edge of the bed. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ he grinned. ‘I probably could’ve done PCP proud.’

Kaya sighed, and rolled her eyes. ‘Watching me while I’m sleeping … you sound like that fictional vampire.’

Akito furrowed his brows upon hearing this, feeling almost insulted. ‘Not that I mean any disrespect to the author, as all works of writing has its value, but comparing me to that book is kind of mean. I’m a professional writer too, you know.’

The redhead giggled, and scooted closer to him; and he felt an indescribable sense of peace as he felt her laying her head on his shoulder, as the soft fabric of her nightgown brushed against his arm. He was filled with relief at the realization that, even now, they were still as openly intimate and caring with each other as when they were newlyweds; as they had been years ago. He could remain with her just like this for a time, sitting pressed against each other with the soft rays of morning sunlight filtering through the gaps in the curtains, and he would be perfectly content.

‘Ne, Akito-san,’ said Kaya fondly, all of a sudden. ‘Do you think Miho and Mashiro-san will be like this when they’re married?’

Akito looked at her in surprise for a moment, but then chuckled. ‘Maybe we should leave that until they’ve gotten married, since they’re still in that elementary school state right now. Remember when he got all flustered and giddy just from having held her hand?’

This drew a laugh from the redhead. ‘It’s painfully cute. I hope it’ll always be like this, you know. The four of us.’

He knew what she meant. Even if they lost everything, even if they had to start everything from the very beginning, even if they never had anything to begin with … they would be lost without each other’s support and companionship. Before he knew it, everything he’d learned, his writing, Ashirogi Muto, and this companionship of four had become irreplaceable to him. And Kaya, silly, loud, obnoxious Kaya, had most unquestionably become completely irreplaceable to him. He leaned over and pressed a light kiss upon her forehead, and she grinned brightly in response.

‘Well, I’m going to go and make breakfast,’ she chirped, getting up from the bed. ‘You’ll need nourishment for your Ashirogi Muto superpowers later when you go to work. I’ll overlook your little practical joke this morning.’

The blond frowned. ‘Azuki wouldn’t punch Saiko when they’re married, you know.’

Kaya turned back to him at the doorway to their bedroom, and winked. ‘The two of us are pretty special then.’

He watched her retreating back, completely surprised at first, and then shook his head and smiled. His wife really was something else.

Akito got up from the bed and stretched, feeling more than ready for the new day.





BLEACH FICLETS


Bleach, Shuuhei & Kira
Title: Salt (lol creative, I know).
Requested by: ceestar
Prompt given: Salt
Note: Spoilers for the end of the war with Aizen. And have I mentioned I love strong!Kira? Because I do. He's not a weak character, folks. <3

***

Seireitei was blanketed with a light rain and a pale grey sky when Shuuhei found him, standing alone before the tall gates to the Third Division.

There was something about him, just standing there staring, that the dark-haired lieutenant couldn’t describe: eyes staring ahead with no discernible intent in them; droplets of rain upon his eyelashes, spilling down his hair; his small, thin hands bunching the fabric on the sides of his hakama. His entirety embodied something like silence, perhaps, a sense of solitude and quiet, even in the midst of the rhythmic pattering of the rain.

‘… I’m alright.’

Shuuhei almost started in surprise, and the blond turned his head slowly to look at him, a rare, delicate smile gracing his pale features. For a fleeting moment, the dark-haired lieutenant could picture that gentle expression as the reflection of the temperate pulses of his reiatsu, which he could feel swirling around him now, so close to him. And it was then, Shuuhei realized, that perhaps he had underestimated his colleague.

‘You came to see how I was, right? Thank you, I’m alright,’ repeated Kira, and Shuuhei was still surprised at the peace and sureness that emanated from his voice. He gave a slight nod.

‘Yeah,’ he answered, lowering his head slightly. ‘I can see that you are.’

Everything, Shuuhei felt, was gradually flowing away in this moment; the grief, the traces of blood on his hands, the pain, the burdens of duty. This was his new reality: he was simply just standing together with Kira underneath the light drizzle of rain, side by side, and even though the sky was grey there was no sense of heaviness, of the crippling weight of the blade at his waist during the war – only the light stirring of their reiatsu mingling together, the soft beads of rain dripping onto their skin, and this silent solace of unquestioned companionship.

‘Sometimes I still wonder where he’s gone,’ the blond uttered, suddenly.

Shuuhei furrowed his brows at that. ‘You should see this as your division now, and your men,’ he answered. ‘He is no longer here.’

Kira looked up at him in mild surprise.

‘And … you know I can help you with anything you need,’ the dark-haired lieutenant continued, and he could feel a mild stirring from within his chest as he said the words. ‘I’m always here.’

And in that moment, Kira’s eyes unexpectedly gleamed in a way that Shuuhei had not seen for a long time. It reminded him of the blond’s academy years, his youthful energy, of the days before he had grown his hair longer to shield his features, his eyes, his intentions.

‘Thank you, Hisagi-san,’ he said tenderly. ‘And I’ll try not to talk about him in front of you again.’

Shuuhei felt his face suddenly grow warm; there was an unusual firmness in the blond’s voice that almost sounded like he was saying that Shuuhei was jealous of the former Third Division captain. He frowned. ‘You don’t need to go that far. If anything is bothering you, you can talk to me about it.’

‘It won’t bother me,’ the blond shook his head, and took a step towards Shuuhei. ‘The one here with me right now is you. The one I’m looking at right now … is you.’

And maybe it was the heat he could feel growing in his face, or the light curtains of rain shielding them, that inspired him; but Shuuhei took a step forward too and slowly curled an arm around the blond’s shoulders, and leaned in and brushed his lips against Kira’s cheekbone. It was a mild touch, and scarcely anything of a kiss, but it was enough for him to drown in Kira’s scent, to envision the taste of a rare hint of saltiness, as if there were streaks left by tears or sweat there masked by droplets of rain. The blond smelled like warmth, like life, against him.

They remained there warmly for a time, folded into each other, thoughts fixed upon nothing else; and underneath the blanket of rain, everything was washed away.





Bleach, Shuuhei & Kira
Title: Café Seireitei
Requested by: schweinsty
Prompt given: In a café
Note: Takes place after the end of the war. Another one of my silly fics. XD

***

‘Ohh!’ Rangiku giggled, her golden hair swaying and her large bosom heaving. ‘So sorry!’

One glance at her wide, wide grin and her thin hand covering her mouth in mock-surprise and Shuuhei knew, with a sigh, that she truly wasn’t sorry at all. Following the events of the Great War and the return home of the worn-out captains and officers, Rangiku had had this supposedly bright idea of the trial run of a café in Seireitei made up of the Shinigami Women’s Association, inspired by the maid cafés that they had briefly visited in the real world; it was, as she had said, ‘one of the ways we want to encourage everyone to relax after coming home – the men in particular!’. From that alone Shuuhei had known it could never lead to anything good, not only because half the male population of shinigami were drooling perverts for women in frills. But he should also have expected the worst to happen when Rangiku had so strongly insisted that he and Kira must come pay a visit that afternoon.

Because Kira was sitting in front of him now, eyes wide in surprise, cream and milk and froth spilled all over the front of his black shihakusho; and Rangiku only stood casually by their table with a half-empty milkshake glass in one hand, not looking the least bit regretful about having ‘tripped’ or the blond’s rather sorry-looking state.

‘Ah, it’s alright, Matsumoto-san,’ said Kira meekly, grabbing a napkin. ‘Accidents do happen.’

‘But, ah, you’re completely soaked,’ she sang. ‘You’ll catch a cold if you leave it like that! But Tuesdays is when you get your spare uniform pressed, isn’t it?’

Her eyes were pointedly locked onto something on the floor, and Shuuhei followed her gaze to a bag settled next to Kira’s feet, where a crisp, freshly-washed uniform lay folded; he had to resist the urge to swing his palm up to meet his face. Rangiku didn’t even need to give any more hints – it was already clear to him that she couldn’t be up to anything good.

‘Is there a bathroom here?’ Kira asked modestly.

‘I’m afraid it’s for the staff only,’ she said, tragedy in her voice. ‘But I insist you change quickly, or you’ll get sick. Come on! I’ll stand here to protect your modesty.’

The blond hesitated; anyone who was sane would have. But Rangiku was so openly staring at him – and Shuuhei didn’t mean to stare at him as well – and he must have buckled down under pressure, because he sighed and began slowly, carefully sliding the material from his shoulders, revealing pale, smooth skin untouched by calluses or too-visible scars. The fabric leisurely fell into a pile behind him on the seat, and Shuuhei didn’t want to think about why his breath was suddenly caught in his throat; Kira was gently stroking at his slim abdomen with the napkin now, taking care to dab at every inch of fair skin that was damp with white cream.

There was a choked noise from somewhere beside him; Shuuhei looked up and was completely broken from his temporary trance when he saw that during that time, somehow Rangiku had stepped aside from where she had stood shielding the blond, and almost everyone from the café was staring. The customers, all men, were simply staring in curiosity. But all the women from the Shinigami Association, who were staffing … they had frozen where they stood carrying trays of pastries and steaming coffee, and their eyes were locked on Kira, a warm flush touching all their faces. Even Lieutenant Ise and Lieutenant Kurotsuchi were both staring openly, jaws hanging open. Kira arched his back slightly to dab at his upper chest, revealing in the soft light the delicate way in which his muscles were formed, and the resulting mousy squeak from Hinamori brought Shuuhei to his senses.

This café wasn’t catered to servicing men's fantasies as Rangiku had claimed, he realized. No - it was put together with the sole purpose of servicing the Women’s Association.

It only took a whispered ‘Hoo … so Kira-kun can be pretty hot, too,’ from Lieutenant Kotetsu, before Shuuhei lost it without even knowing why. He instantly got up from his seat, grabbed Kira’s hand and pulled him right up – bare chest and all – and started to make his way out. He ignored the blond’s confused protests and everyone’s keenly curious gazes. He just needed to get them both out of there as quickly as possible.

‘Hisagi-san,’ said Kira sadly as he was pulled down the road, ‘my spare uniform is still back in the café.’

‘I’ll make sure Rangiku-san gets it back to you,’ he uttered. ‘We are not going back there for it.’

The blond stifled a chuckle. ‘It’s okay, I guess,’ he responded, and Shuuhei felt his face coloring when he looked back to see that rare, gentle smile. ‘I’m happy that Hisagi-san is so protective of me.’

The dark-haired lieutenant didn’t really know how to respond, his mind jumbled with images of slender fingers and ashen skin, but he let his lips curve into a faint smile as well – and he didn’t let go of that hand for a long time.

He wasn’t all too surprised when he heard that Abarai had a smoothie spilled on him the next day, or that the café closed its trial run the week after.





Bleach, Yachiru & Hitsugaya
Title: Fluffy Like A Pork Bun
Requested by: astellecia
Prompt given: Grown up
Note: Spoilers for the end of the war with Aizen :) Takes place after the battle of the Gotei 13 Captains and Vaizards against Aizen.

***

It first started outside his office; he would find a warm pork bun labeled TO SHIRO-CHAN in a messy childish scrawl, wrapped in paper and placed at the base of his door, every morning of every day. He gave the first one to Matsumoto, the second to Abarai, the third to Hinamori, the fourth and fifth to Hisagi and Kira, and the sixth one to Abarai again. Seven buns in and he had already run out of people who accepted them (and Abarai was too self-conscious, he knew, to accept another one so soon even though he wanted one), so he had started eating them himself for lunch. He never questioned its origins after the first day.

Because on the second day he had already spied Lieutenant Kusajishi skipping happily around Seireitei with a basket on her back, filled to the brim with steaming pork buns, and the messy notes made sense all too quickly. She even turned and brightly greeted him hello.

And then, it grew to twice a day; once in the morning, and once in the evening. Toshiro was already growing tired of pork buns for lunch, but having grown up in the slums in constant preparation for probable famine, he was raised to never waste even a crumb; he was forcing himself to wolf them down for lunch, and devour them for dinner, and now forcing them on Abarai when he couldn’t handle any more. And then, within a couple of days, the number had grown by one again. One bun in the morning, one bun in the afternoon, one bun in the evening.

He literally had to walk to the Eleventh Division to see her, and tell her: ‘I don’t know why you’re giving me all these pork buns, day in, day out. But I can’t eat them anymore, Kusajishi-Fukutaicho.’

She only brightened, her pink hair swaying around her, and chirped: ‘Shiro-chan is cute! And white and fluffy like a pork bun. I give them to Shiro-chan because I want to.’

‘Well, please stop,’ he only said curtly, and walked away from there, slightly miffed. It was the first time anybody had said he was like a pork bun, and he wasn’t all too impressed. Though he wouldn’t expect much, coming from such a childish shinigami.

They didn’t stop coming; three times a day, every day, and by this time, he had already become so familiar with the taste of pork buns that he could imagine the fluffy texture on his tongue and the chewy consistency of the meat at his mind’s will. He had also given up taking the first initiative to eat them at all – he would hand them over almost every day to Abarai, Kira and Hisagi, one each. On other days he would leave them in a basket outside the door, with a sign for anybody to take them for free. Sometimes he would come outside at night after work and he would still find one or two lying in the basket, and would force himself to have them for late supper with tea.

Maybe there was a small shred of comfort in the ridiculousness of it all, but he didn't have time to think about it. Soon enough, he had to go to war.

The days and nights had blurred together in his memory; he remembered nothing of these little gifts when he and the captains eventually returned, hearts and minds on edge, and he never thought twice about there being nothing outside his door. Even the mere recollection of the silvery sound of blades and the coppery smell of blood during the battles with Aizen was enough to send him into frustration; he wished he could have done more, he wished he could have done better. And it consumed his mind completely. Hinamori was also gravely injured, and she would take some time to heal.

So he went into self-isolation, and began training, even though the threat of danger was presently subdued – for now. Captain’s duties in the morning; training in the afternoon; more duties in the evening; more training in the night before sleep. Sweat glistening, thin muscles straining, and the glimmering brightness of ice. It was all that made up his world, and the more he thought about that dark, blank look on Hinamori’s face right before she fell at his own blade … the more he wanted to push himself to the point of exhaustion and pain. Anything, to be stronger.

It was one night after an hour’s worth of bankai control training when he stepped out of the training grounds, only to be met by a giant basket of pork buns, with Lieutenant Kusajishi waiting there. Suddenly everything, all the memories of mountains of white and the floury texture he’d many times forced into his mouth came rushing back. He goggled at the sight. The basket was so big she couldn’t even carry it on her back; it was taller than she was.

‘Hey Shiro-chan!’ she sang. ‘I’ve been saving up all these buns while you’ve been unhappy. But your ice thingy is getting better and better. And eating makes people happy. But you said you couldn’t eat by yourself any more, so let’s eat them all together!’

He only blinked. And she had already sat down on the ground without even bothering to ask whether or not he’d actually reciprocate, cross-legged, stuffing her face full with one bun and holding another one out to his face.

The white-haired captain sighed and gingerly sat down next to her, and accepted a pork bun, which resulted in an explosion of a grin across the lieutenant’s face. He even let her wave around a bun to imitate him flying around in bankai form. They went through one bun, then another, then another, and the meat was toasty warm; the bread filled him to satisfaction. And before he knew it, it was far past his bedtime, and he didn't mind. His heart felt surprisingly content and calm for a time, spending a few hours in her company this way, talking about nothing special; the pork buns didn’t taste so bad, either, when he wasn’t forcing himself to eat them.

He glanced at her and she smiled brightly at him, and he realized that maybe she wasn’t so childish after all.





D.GRAY-MAN


D.Gray-Man, Lavi & Allen
Title: Touch
Requested by: kiwipunch
Prompt given: Gloves
Note: Takes place after the Alma arc.

***

Allen. Allen, wake up.

He felt a pull out of a strange dream; a vision of dust and rubble and sadness, of red smeared across ashen walls of stone and the distant echo of a lost piano melody. There was a prickling in his skin – a sensation he remembered from the mysterious shades of dark grey surging from him, through his veins – and he awoke to a bleary world, faint light glaring into his eyes, his vision stirring; for a brief moment, he imagined a smarting in his left eye, but vaguely came to realize that it was left over from his dreams of everlasting expanses of debris, of white otherworldly faces and distant shadowy whispering. Hovering over him, he dimly saw a mess of red hair and his friend’s familiar features clearing, watching him with intent carved into his expression.

‘Thank God, you’re awake,’ sighed Lavi in relief. ‘You were having a nightmare.’

Allen blinked, confused, and slowly turned his gaze to his arm. The skin was smooth and pale, the way it had always been. A stretch of his fingers, and then a gentle curl into a fist. It was just a dream, and he was lying here in his hard bed, surrounded by the sheer cold walls of stone and grey roof and the airy chill of emptiness.

He shifted and made to sit up, and firm, warm fingers instantly took hold of his arms, helping him up. A sharp pain shot through his abdomen, and he winced. The wound there had almost totally healed; but he could still remember that thin coldness slicing through him, that last parting gift from Mugen’s blade of the unbearable pain that told him he was still alive, before he was suddenly turned. That almost felt like a distant memory now, and not the passing of a mere couple of weeks.

‘Careful, don’t strain yourself,’ the redhead uttered, his voice filled with concern. ‘Should I help you change?’

Allen looked up at him and smiled. ‘Thanks, Lavi. That would be nice.’

It wasn’t as though he were injured to the point of immobility; he had almost healed, after all, and Lavi must have known that also, just from a look. But even for a fleeting moment, he wanted to secretly savor this uncharacteristic brief self-centeredness, to accept the tender attention that the older youth was giving him. Nimble fingertips only gently unfastened the buttons on his nightshirt, and Allen was already filled with an overwhelming warmth, masking the faint traces of that vague stinging within his chest.

‘You miss Yuu, don’t you,’ said the redhead off-handedly; and there was a slight edge to his voice that the white-haired exorcist had never heard from him before. He goggled, staring at his friend incredulously.

‘What are you talking about,’ he retorted instantly in disbelief, the soft fabric sliding from his shoulders. ‘Why on earth would I miss him?’

‘Just thought you would, since he’s not around to argue with you all day. But if you don’t miss him, that’s good,’ Lavi responded, and maybe Allen imagined it, but that unusual sharpness to his voice softened with those words. ‘He’s undoubtedly doing alright, since he always is. Particularly when that friend of his is with him. They look like they have an impassable history between them.’

Allen, for some reason, didn’t want to think about Alma at that moment. Something about the whole ordeal was unbearably heartbreaking to even recall, whether or not it concerned him at all. For now, he only wanted to drown in the gentle smell of warmth and the touch of human skin against his own, and push down the recollections of blades and akuma and rubble and the Fourteenth, and the memories that weren’t his own. He lifted his arms; the older boy slowly slid his white shirt on him, and Allen could feel a tremor in his fingertips.

‘Sometimes I think it’d be fun, if we ran off for a while like they did,’ Lavi said with a joking laugh, and his singular eye gleamed with something that the white-haired exorcist knew was not entirely a joke. ‘You and me.’

His lips curved slowly into a smile as he felt his cotton gloves being slid upon his thin hands, and he fleetingly touched that palm against his own, skin to skin. ‘If only we could,’ he answered. ‘But we can’t.’

The redhead shook his head, and smiled as well. ‘I know.’

Either way, it didn’t really matter. Allen momentarily curled his hand around his friend’s in reply, and the redhead gazed at him in surprise for a brief instant; but he reciprocated, and Allen could still freshly recall the slight roughness of that battle-worn skin, could feel that body heat through the fabric of his gloves, mingling between them as if they were a shared existence within the cold grey room. He closed his eyes. Even with only this and nothing else, he felt he could get by.

At least, for now, it wasn’t a memory or dream.





EYESHIELD 21 FICLETS


Eyeshield 21, Shin & Sakuraba
Title: White (again with the creativity :P)
Requested by: dame_batsie
Prompt given: White
Note: Takes place after the awards ceremony of chapter 167. :)

***

In some ways, Oujou was just right as a home for them both: a stronghold of pale walls and floors and vast spaces, washed with brilliant light and untainted dreaming and hope. For Haruto it had perhaps been an unsaid farce for a time, an artificial light sourced from plastic idolatry and the too-frequent horrors of escaping screaming fangirls; his place in the vivid white, he knew, had been colored by cheap costumes and hyped commercials and a princelike face that charmed girls. He came with a price tag. But he was naturally a star, they said.

Shin, on the other hand, embodied reality in every aspect: real power and real speed, unspoken immeasurable days of confined self-training and firm muscles and discipline. He was the physicality of flesh, blood and sweat, a true and pure athlete who suited the vast spaces of white from every angle – the genuine ace of Oujou. A natural star. And Haruto begrudged him nothing for it; after all, in that endlessly wide white spotlight, Shin deserved his place, untainted by false triumphs or by superficial attention.

So in the midst of a stretch of long nights and labored trials, it was almost unexpected when Shin was the first to come to him in the locker rooms; during the uncountable days of imposed self-discipline, his own thoughts and his focused goals had somehow blurred together so that it had seemed to Haruto like every day was spent looking at Shin.

‘Congratulations,’ Shin said.

The Tokyo Fall Tournament Awards. It had been Haruto’s first recognition for his efforts, an unexpected reward to make up for all the sweat and tears and a marked presence of an innocent dream, maybe, that he was becoming real, too. He didn’t expect to be talking about it but found it pleasant that the two of them were even standing together like this, both dressed in the white of Oujou’s training uniforms, surrounded on all sides by wide space and pale walls and soft light. It was as if Haruto too, now, was becoming an embodiment of hope.

‘I’m the one who should be congratulating you,’ the blond answered, his lips curving into a smile. ‘Amazing work as always, Mr. MVP.’

Shin didn’t react to the compliment. Other people would probably see that as coldness, pronounced even more by his naturally stoic personality; but Haruto knew it to be Shin’s unique form of humble modesty. It was one of those things that, on top of everything else, was even more of a reason to admire him.

‘I’ve seen you work very hard,’ Shin added, pulling his school uniform out of his locker. Haruto felt something warm, and some surprise, flowing into him at that. It was almost unbelievable to know that Shin had actually been watching him, too.

‘Barely as hard as you,’ he answered, and it took all of his power not to break out into a grin. ‘Although I don’t know of anyone else who works as hard as you.’

The linebacker casually pulled on his jacket and zipped it up. ‘The one who has shown vast improvement is you,’ he replied simply. ‘I’ve remained more or less steadily where I was for a little while. Although Kobayakawa Sena isn’t one to be underestimated. I, too, will have to work harder to improve.’

The very concept of a sportsman already as monstrously powerful as Shin working to get even better than he already was was mind-boggling to him. But it only served to show Haruto that he was just as human; and in a way, that irony made him even more remarkable.

Shin swung his locker door shut and started walking off. ‘Keep it up, Sakuraba.’

Even Shin’s retreating back, clothed in the white of their school uniform, gave off that stunning presence that came with being the true ace. Haruto could see the outline of his sturdy shoulders through the uniform, could imagine the muscles shifting beneath the fabric; he almost resembled a saint, walking through the wash of sunlight from the tall windows. The blond shook his head and chuckled. It was within these walls that they had grown to be where they were now. For varying – or maybe similar – reasons, they both truly belonged here.

‘You too,’ he smiled. ‘Shin.’





Eyeshield 21, Shin & Sena
Title: Excess Energy
Requested by: alita_b_angel
Prompt given: Porn
Note: I'm sorry hun, I used porn as a prompt instead of writing you actual porn, since I don't actually enjoy writing porn ;x I-I hope you'll forgive me? Spoilers for Chapter 277 onwards and warning for possible crack.

***

It had all started after he commenced training sessions with his newly-appointed personal trainer for the next three weeks, Shin, in preparation for the match against Teikoku, under the supervision of an idle Hiruma who had spared some time to muse over random things in his recovery capsule; and Sena was convinced now that not everything that Hiruma said should be taken too seriously, because if so much as a bored comment like ‘He’s always damn stoic. D’you think he beats off to porn?’ was enough to make him stop in his tracks and put him completely on edge for the next week, he was sure to be totally screwed any time the blond opened his mouth.

Because damn if Sena was going to spend every daily training session trying viciously to fight off the mental image of his trainer and highly-respected former opponent spread-eagled in his dorms, head thrown back and sweat glistening and muscles heaving, immersed in a world on his own, a heated breath and a strong fist and firm fingers pumping a rhythm to a dirty magazine.

Oh, God. The brunet really, really wanted to cry. Or kill himself.

And then, it started. Noticing the sculpted way in which Shin’s muscles were formed while they were changing in the locker rooms, and always taking the opportunity to sneak a glance. Not being able to look him directly in the eye anymore. Feeling way too conscious of himself whenever Shin was any closer than a distance of three feet from him. He had never hated being a healthy teenager so much. And it was all Hiruma’s fault; it really didn’t help that the blond kept on gazing at him with a raised eyebrow and that trademark smirk of mischief – as if he knew every intimate detail of what plagued the running back.

It was the end of the first week, when a few members of the Deimon team and their assigned partner-trainers were done with their intensive training for the day, that Shin opened the temporary locker given to him for use during the training period and a magazine fell out. The loud clatter of paper stopped half the group in their tracks.

Within twenty seconds, about seven confused faces had already surrounded it, wanting to make sure they were seeing what they were seeing; Sena could only look at the cheap glossy cover, sensuously feminine legs and airbrushed breasts in silence, his eyes like dinner plates and his jaw hanging.

‘Hooo,’ Mizumachi cooed with wide eyes. ‘So Shin-san reads this kind of magazine too.’

‘It’s not mine,’ answered Shin simply, casually starting to undress. ‘Someone probably put it in my locker by mistake.’

Sena swung around slowly and met Hiruma’s gaze. His face fell at the blond’s cheerful smirk. He should’ve known.

‘Kekeke, you don’t have to deny it,’ Hiruma cackled gleefully, picking up the magazine and handing it to the linebacker. ‘We’re all boys here. It’s a good read after a tiring day, right? Here, I’m sure you’ll wanna look at it.’

Sena didn’t even think he could remember how to breathe anymore when Shin, just standing there without even a shirt on, gave Hiruma his usual stoic look, then flipped open the magazine. The entire locker room was quiet; even Riku and Ikkyuu were leaning forward, closely inspecting Shin’s face. But they were disappointed. Page, after page, after page; the paper was slowly flipped but Shin’s expression didn’t even change.

‘Okay,’ he eventually said, closing the magazine and putting it down. ‘Done.’

But maybe, Sena noticed as everyone shuffled back with a disappointed murmur to their respective changing lockers, something was slightly different. Shin’s gaze was a little unfocused, or more off-balance than usual, somehow; he looked around, seeming to be looking for his shirt. The brunet confusedly eyed the shirt, which was under the magazine that the older teen had put down.

‘Um, here, Shin-san,’ he said meekly, pulling it out.

The linebacker turned to him and nodded. Reaching out for the shirt, their hands touched slowly, temporarily; Sena could almost imagine an intermitted heat, a fabricated stir, against the rough skin. He awkwardly stopped, feeling too-suddenly conscious of himself. And Shin stopped too, gazing at him with a strange expression he didn’t think he’d ever seen before.

‘… Excess energy?’ Hiruma’s cheeky voice cut through their pause, and Sena quickly withdrew his hand from the shirt, his face warmer than usual. ‘Why don’t you go for a run?’

Shin looked away and put on his shirt, a little more quickly than usual for him. ‘I think I’ll do that.’

‘Take the fucking chibi with you,’ the blond grinned, popping his gum. ‘And the sauna’s free afterwards if you both wanna use it.’

If it had been anyone else, anyone, Sena might have glared; but this, sadly, was Hiruma, and one never really glares at Hiruma. Before he could react at all, however, Shin turned to him with those dark eyes and deep gaze – and his face was probably colored but Sena couldn’t really tell, as he lowered his head almost instantly – and beckoned for him to follow before making a jog out the door. The brunet looked at his retreating back helplessly; for all he knew, his own face might be slightly colored, too.

‘Go on,’ Hiruma said, sounding bored as he scratched at the cast on his arm. ‘You can thank me later.’

Sena wanted to say for what? but didn’t even bother. He kind of already knew the answer. He suddenly felt like he had a lot of – well, maybe excess energy, too.

He sighed and broke into a jog, following Shin out the door.





TRINITY BLOOD


Trinity Blood, Radu & Ion
Title: A Reminiscence of Heat
Requested by: astellecia
Prompt given: Desert
Note: I felt that this might have been my best ficlet of this lot (probably because I wrote it first, and because it took the longest to write even though it's short, but still xD). Spoilers for Chapter 32 and beyond.

***

His dream was of a time of innocence, back when the days were as steadily hot as the nights were wintry, when they would lie still together, amidst the ice-cold streams of air, on beds of dry sand. Every sensation was familiar to him: the damp breath against his forehead, the weight of strong arms upon his folded elbow, and the welcomed solace of body heat, mingling in the space between them. They kept each other warm as they slept during those icy desert nights. Radu’s sleeping face was etched in his memory, a picture of stillness and quiet, as everything was then; the younger Methuselah always stayed unmoving with him in silence, content to gaze, on those nights that sleep would not come by.

Ion jerked awake in a cold sweat – and this, where he was sprawled across his hard bed, was his reality.

It had been weeks now. The days had blurred faintly with recollections of bodily warmth and contented companionship, the imagined rhythmic pulse of blood pumping, the scent of sweat and moist heat and life. It was reminiscent to him of the temperate stickiness and vivid sunlight of the deserts during the day, when the sand prickled hotly underneath his footsteps, and clung to the soles of his unshod feet. They had returned to those dunes time and time again, for uncountable years, as though it was the sands there that had birthed them.

His bed, his chambers, the palace, everything, was quiet and cold and dry. It only served to remind him of the deserts during the night – a wide, wide expanse of empty space and sky and a blurred horizon, frosty pale washes of moonlight and too-chilly air.

Come closer, Ion. We’ll keep each other warm.

He found himself setting out before he could reason himself not to; those empty days mingled wherein he allowed his feet and not his mind to guide him, and it was nightfall again when he took a step into the wintry dunes, which were exactly as he remembered them. He carefully slid his feet from within his boots. The dry grains of sand were so cold between his toes, against his skin. He gazed around him, at that endless stretch of space.

‘Radu,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve come back here.’

And his chest was suddenly stinging from that last memory, of the end of the luxury of innocence and days of warmth. Radu had been enveloped in darkness and crumbled into dust; he had gone forever, returning to the sands from which he had come, a chilled and wide, wide motherland.

Slowly, Ion lay himself down upon the ground, his cheek pressed against the rough sand. If he drew his arms closely enough towards himself, but not too close to touch, he could easily imagine that familiar warmth that used to mingle with his own, that body heat, that sensation of existence.

‘I know, I promised my life would get going again,’ he whispered with a smile, his lips coming to a faint tremor. ‘But, just this once … my Tovarish.’

He stayed in unmoving silence, a solitary form surrounded by immeasurable grains of sand, and him: a reminiscence of heat, a fleeting but perfect memory.





VOCALOID FICLETS


Vocaloid, Kaito & Len
Title: In Which Kaito Is Disgustingly Sexy
Requested by: ravient
Prompt given: Banana ice-cream
Note: This fic is so silly I don't even know what to think of it myself xD hope it's ok though Ravi <3

***

It was the worst day possible to go to the beach.

The early afternoon was too hot, and the sun was scorching the tip of his nose and his shoulders; the humid air was so stifling it was hard to breathe, and Len could barely see anything in the glaring sunlight, reflected only more blindingly by the pale grains of sand. It was more like torture than a fun day out – it was a choice of either being deep-fried on the sand, or being boiled in the water.

But Len wasn’t one to spoil something with positive intent, and even though he could feel the layer of flesh underneath his skin prickling from the burn, he bit at his heat-cracked lips and said nothing of complaint. Although it was more of a challenge than it should have been: right next to him on the sand, Kaito was surrounded by four giggling, blushing girls in patterned bikinis. And one of them had probably been unintentionally charmed enough to the point of buying him some banana ice-cream, because he was licking at one now and waving back at them as they were leaving, exposing rows of bright gleaming teeth and wide, brilliant blue eyes.

Len groaned so loud he could’ve woken the dead. He really didn’t want to be here.

‘What’s up with you, Len-kun?’ Kaito turned suddenly, perhaps too brightly, looking at him as he lay there lifelessly on his towel.

The blond shook his head, squinting his eyes. ‘How do you find the energy to flirt in this kind of heat, Kaito-nii?’

For a moment, he thought he’d said something wrong, because Kaito’s expression turned serious, and the blue-haired youth started eyeing him in a manner that he was gradually finding quite awkward. But then, he grinned unexpectedly, running his fingers through his hair.

‘So that’s what you think I was doing,’ he chuckled. ‘And you want to know how. You’re growing up fast.’

Len’s eyes widened and he sat up suddenly. ‘No, that wasn’t what I –’

‘No problem! Nii-chan will help turn you into a man,’ laughed Kaito, giving him a casual slap on his back. Len winced; he could almost feel the handprint there, embedded into his sunburned skin. ‘Now, you watch. Just chatting is nothing. This is how you reel them in.’

The blond watched idly as Kaito scanned the beach, before locking eyes with a group of girls standing just by the water. They smiled shyly at him, and he winked at them, stretching his body back; Len’s breath was caught in his throat as he glanced at his friend’s naturally thin, fluid form, and the sweat gleaming on the smooth, fair skin. He was really going for it. Kaito drew the banana ice-cream closer to his mouth and scooped some of it, slowly, out from the cone with a thin finger; bits of milky liquid dripped onto his chest, but he ignored it, tossing his head back and sliding his fingertip into his mouth. Len could hear the girls giggling.

It was when Kaito proceeded to slowly, sensuously smear the bits of melted ice-cream across his chest, using firm fingers to stroke them into his nipples, that Len choked and goggled at him.

‘What are you doing??’ he hissed.

‘Ssh,’ the older youth interrupted. ‘Watch and learn, Len-kun.’

The blond sat there speechlessly, not knowing whether to burst out laughing or puke. In the not-too-distant water not too far off from the shoreline, he could see Miku, Luka and Rin staring now, a faint, warm blush coloring their faces. From the direction of the refreshment kiosks, however, he could see Meiko and Gakupo also looking in their direction, staring at Kaito as if he’d grown a second head.

Len groaned and grabbed at the ice-cream, to the surprise of them both, and proceeded to lick at it himself.

‘I get it, Kaito-nii,’ he said, his face feeling all too warm as he bit into the cone. ‘Stop flirting and relax with me.’

Kaito looked at him thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on the blond in mild surprise, but then visibly brightened. ‘Sure.’

At this response, Len’s face felt even hotter than usual under the scorching sun, although he wasn’t too sure why. And perhaps a part of him was secretly glad to see those girls awwing in disappointment and moving away. He didn’t want to think about it, however. It was far too hot to think about anything.

But maybe, he mused vaguely while gazing faintly at the blue-haired nii-chan beside him, he understood now what the girls saw in him.





Vocaloid, Kiyoteru & Meiko
Title: His Melody
Requested by: ImMuze
Note: ImMuze gave me a series of Kiyoteru x Meiko video links for inspiration instead of a prompt. This one was an idea I came up with after watching one of the PVs which was set in the classroom ^^

***

Her first impression, glancing at him from the other side of the hallway, was that of a complete nerd-type: the precisely-parted hair, the black-rimmed pair of spectacles, the shirt suffocatingly buttoned right up to the top with a tie fastened too perfectly tight. His posture was held high even while doing something contradictory by casually gazing out the window, and there was not a crease in his clean, pressed suit. He was the type, Meiko mused, to be firm and strict with studies and obligations and procedures, to be organized and punctual in every matter, to be methodical and practical – a rotating wheel of process and execution and getting things done.

But as she came a little closer to him, standing there by the window, she could see his lips faintly moving; and a soft melody reached her ears, born from a smooth, calm voice.

It was unusual to her. It did not fit his straight-backed image at all. And yet, every note was perfect; even with his strangely calm expression, his voice, his singing, was perfectly controlled and yet simultaneously relaxed. A natural singer. For a fleeting moment, she even thought to stay unmoving and listen, to hear the streams of melody that were so familiar to her, sung by that smooth voice.

‘Hiyama-sensei?’ she said mildly, interrupting him.

A part of her almost expected him to jump in surprise, and straighten his glasses and tie; but he turned to her calmly, smiling, and that expression on his features was as soft and peaceful as his singing. ‘You must be Sakine-san, right? Let’s go. We’ll pick up the twins from the infirmary.’

He stepped aside and started down the corridor, and she fell into step beside and a little behind him. She watched in surprise as, slowly, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, and ran his fingers through his dark hair. It was almost the end of the school day, she realized, and he could afford to be a bit tardier; suddenly, he didn’t seem so straight-backed at all. He now looked a little messier and more casual – more in their world, and normal. A part of her thought he actually looked much better, this way.

Suddenly reminded of the familiar melody he was leisurely singing before, she said: ‘It was a surprise to find you there, singing Palette to yourself.’

‘Oh, that’s one of your songs, isn’t it,’ he raised an eyebrow, looking back and fixing his amused eyes upon her; she blushed, feeling conscious under that gaze. ‘It must be hard living as a family-of-sorts of recognized singers. But Rin-kun and Len-kun do well. It’s good to be able to find a suitable balance between their work and their schooling.’

‘They’re good kids,’ Meiko agreed, and then paused hesitantly. ‘And … you sing it extremely well.’

He chuckled as he came to a white door, turning the knob. ‘You flatter me. But I do teach music. I need to be able to teach willing students a thing or two about singing, too. Maybe some of them can go on to be working singers like yourself.’

He opened the door and there the twins were, sitting calmly on the infirmary beds, their limbs covered in bandages. They excitedly leapt from their seats with a chorus of Meiko-nee and bounded towards her, before clinging to her. She smiled as she clung back, and shook her head; for them, to even be involved in a mild playground accident … but they were good kids, and they certainly had a very good sensei looking after them.

Just as she made to leave with Rin and Len in tow, she stopped for a moment and hesitated again, her fingers bunching the fabric of her skirt. She could suddenly hear that soft melody in her thoughts, and picture that calm expression in her mind’s eye. She wondered fleetingly if there was such thing as a musician’s instinct in existence, born from recognition or admiration.

‘Hiyama-sensei,’ she turned suddenly, feeling unexpectedly self-conscious again. ‘Would you … maybe like to come with us to the studio this Saturday? And listen to us sing? Maybe you could show us a thing or two, too.’

He looked at her in surprise for a moment, and so did the twins; but he brightened quickly and grinned, folding his arms and leaning sideways against the infirmary door. ‘That would be very nice, Sakine-san.’

She nodded and grinned back, feeling a strange relief washing over her, and turned and ushered the twins away.

In her mind, the melody and harmony of Palette unfurled, as fervently sweet as that first captivation by the window.





HARRY POTTER


Harry Potter, Draco & Hermione
Title: Shifted
Requested by: fuyumi162
Prompt given: Post-war 7th year as Head Boy & Girl
Note: Spoilers for the end of the war.

***

Everything, in appearance, remained unchanged; although reparations were still being made to parts of the castle, most of it remained intact in the aftermath, untouched by the war. The cold grey walls of stone, the gaping dark hallways, the flickering tongues of flame on the walls – they were just as she had always remembered, the way they had always been in the days leading up to that final, unforgettable showdown. But there was now a sudden weightlessness to the empty space and settling dust; shoes clacking in a soft echo with every step, Hermione sensed no shadows in the walls or the usual stifling heaviness of the dark corners. The hallways were as cold as the grey roof that sheltered them, and the feeling that enshrouded her in the too-wide space was not yet so close to peace, but she no longer felt the need to quicken her pace to pass through them.

It was momentarily unsettling when, all of a sudden, an echo of footsteps that weren’t her own became audible; it was an instant precautionary reflex for her fingertips to creep into her pocket in which her wand lay hidden, simply for the feeling of security, more than anything. But ahead of her, she could gradually see a familiar angular face with pale, pale skin and platinum blond hair coming out of the darkness, walking towards her. She felt somewhat amused, maybe, that relief actually trickled through her; ever since her first year, those peering eyes and unpleasant expression had always put her on her guard.

‘Good evening, Malfoy,’ she said plainly, coming to a stop in front of him. A couple of months ago, she would not even have acknowledged him if she passed him, unless he deliberately went out of his way to interact with her; but now, ever since the end of the war, he seemed plenty more docile than usual. Hermione was reminded of his confused, lost expression during the moment of the Dark Lord’s destruction. Although his being more toned down was no less than amusing, she certainly considered it an improvement.

He didn’t say anything in reply, but tipped his head only slightly, barely noticeable if she hadn’t been looking straight at his face.

‘I was meant to do the patrol sweep in the north and west. You were assigned to do the south and east,’ she continued. ‘You’re not meant to be here. Did you get confused with tomorrow’s assignation?’

‘Oh, right,’ the blond said, and slowly made to walk around and past her. ‘I’ll go now.’

That was one part of him that she knew hadn’t changed – that straightforwardness. For seven years, if he thought it, he’d mostly say or do it, without questioning or apology or thanks; it was, maybe, what put him and Harry at each other’s throats all that time. And she had disliked it too; perhaps it was because they were almost similar. To her surprise, she found that she didn’t really mind it much now, particularly not in this case.

‘Don’t forget about the student meeting tomorrow,’ she said to his gradually retreating back.

‘I know.’

‘I’ve also made revisions to your project proposal, as you’d asked. I entrusted one of the first years in your dorm to put it in your room. You can go submit it afterwards.’

‘Will do,’ the blond answered. ‘Granger.’

She blinked. It was always a surprise whenever he called her by name, these days – the self-superior prattling about mudbloods and social class and his father had thankfully faded. She knew he would never really come to like her, and she didn’t think she could really get to like him as a person, either; but perhaps, in the light of even such a small step of recognition, this was the closest she could get to like.

‘Hey,’ she suddenly called, raising an eyebrow. ‘Have fun on patrol tonight.’

Malfoy turned back to look at her with a slightly puzzled look on his face, his expression speaking clear volumes of have fun? but he raised his hand – perhaps in thanks, or as good night, or both – and turned back and kept walking away, his footsteps echoing in the wide space behind him, underneath the lofty ashen roof. Hermione distantly thought in amusement that his facial features still looked like a spoilt ferret, physically; but she knew that, like the castle, something in there had shifted. She shook her head and smiled. They’d actually done quite well, making him Head Boy.

She took a step forward and continued on her patrol and, perhaps, the sensation stirring inside her now had reached something closer to peace.
Tags: bakuman, bleach, d.gray-man, eyeshield 21, fanfic, harry potter, trinity blood, vocaloid
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