#will eventually stop caring for those who end up less fortunate than he

[shalpilot]

please sir spare some for a hungry little grub

[fortuneforsaken-if]

What is a King to a God, and what is a God to a non-believer?

DEMO ☥ PINTEREST

This game is geared for mature audiences and as such is strictly 18+.

Ancient shackles bind you to the mortal realm, a soul severed from a home lost to the sands of time. A curse on you, a blessing for those who take command; Who wouldn't like to own a God?

You're the highly revered deity of fortune. Or you were, five thousand and eighty-two years ago. Now you're nothing but a glorified plaything to one of the most powerful families in the world. Every demand you must fulfill, no matter how vile or self-serving. The illusion of choice is all but shattered, there's nothing you can do to change it.

Or is there?

It takes a simple thing for something to shift. A fragment from the past, an ageless, flickering hum of power that unfurls the hands of fate and unearths buried sparks of hope. No one would've thought that an ancient sherd would hold the first hint to your freedom, a warm, familiar sensation of your soul locked in a tomb somewhere where no mortal has stepped in well over five thousand years.

Let's hope the decay doesn't take you before you find your way back home.

☥ FEATURES ☥

Two separate sides to customization; The one mortals perceive, and your true form. Choose names, appearances, gender, pronouns, sexuality, romantic orientation, and more.

Shape the personality that starts to re-emerge after being dulled for the better part of history. Reconnect with yourself, and get in touch with memories and feelings you lost so long ago.

Experience a character-driven story full of twists and turns that eventually determine how each of the three endings play out.

Romance one (or two) potential love interests from a cast of characters; A shunned archaeologist, a primordial God, the reincarnation of a priestess, or the mysterious man you can't quite place. Or don't, it's up to you.

And last but not least: Don't let the decay reach your heart. Every change of fortune has consequences, and mindfulness is encouraged. This game does have bad endings.

☥ CAST OF CHARACTERS ☥

Zain/Zaina Tharset ∆ M or F, 28

"You're my birthright, and I'd sooner have you dead than let you make a fool out of me."

Z is your charge. Loud, obnoxious, and entitled; They don't care about your feelings or protests. Every desire that leaves them only serves them alone, and it's on brand for most of the charges you've had before. In simple terms, Z is not a good person, and the more time you serve under them, the less you believe they have any redeeming qualities.

Like everyone in the family, Z has warm brown skin with golden undertones, and eyes in light shades of brown. Their hair is naturally curly and shaved on the sides, leaving a strip of hair on the top and back, like a fashionable mohawk. Zaina's hair reaches the middle of her shoulder blades, while Zain's stops at the nape of his neck.

Being bound to them is painful, but you have no choice. Trying to retrieve your soul will be an ordeal, and it might not be worth the agony.

Rami Tharset ∆ M, 28, RO

"Just because the world has forgotten you, forgotten them, doesn't mean I will."

Rami is the twin brother of your current charge. Kind and humble, it's difficult to imagine him a part of the Tharset family on count of how different he is from that pit of vipers. He keeps to himself, usually holed away in a library or study where he digs into the history of, well, you. Or the ancient world you came from. This has caused the rest of the archeological community to shun him, the name of your old empire nothing more than a myth and a glorified fairy tale.

Rami shares his family's warm brown skin tone, and the black curly hair that's usually a messy mop that sits on top of his head, unstyled and naturally chaotic. It reaches just the stop of his ears, and is shaved in the back. Light brown eyes that are quite blurry without his glasses, but the gold-tinted pilot-framed lenses fit him nicely.

He's one of the few friendly faces you face in the Tharset circle, and you curse your misfortune that you couldn't have him as a charge instead.

Maluset ∆ M, N/A, RO

"For all I am, all I have controlled, still I could not keep you safe. Forgive me, old friend."

The God of the Night, and everything that you have left of an age and life long forgotten. While the rest of your pantheon faded one by one, he remained. You've always known Maluset as a calm presence, a steadfast and unperturbed God that never let himself be shaken, by mortals or his siblings.

While Mal prefers manifesting as his animal motif - a jackal made of black marble and eyes like consolidated galaxies - he does have a human form too. If he must appear mortal, his skin takes the color of what the mortals of your time had; bronzed, medium brown with a golden undertone. His hair would be jet black and curly, medium length, and he likes it naturally tousled by the winds. If necessary, he'll let his eyes appear dark brown in color, but he prefers the starlit skies in them instead.

He's been a constant in your life, at least until he disappeared three centuries ago. You know he's still out there since the realm where you take shelter is his, and it hasn't yet disappeared.

Rory Ewing ∆ F, 23, RO

"I can't remember, but your face, it stirs something in my heart. Why? Who was I to you?"

Rory is a new acquaintance to you, but there's something very familiar about her. She might just be a student now, her curiosity bringing her close to you, but you can feel an old connection whenever she's close by. Her voice reminds you of prayers long ago, even if her modern vernacular is closer to 'damn, that shit's the bomb' than hymns sung in your praise. Then again, reincarnation has a way of changing people.

It doesn't, however, change appearances. Back in your day, Rory's vessel was a traveler from the north; Her skin was light beige, rosy in its undertones. Her hair was thick and a subdued red, woven into an intricate braid that hung over her shoulder, reaching her midriff. Her eyes were also uncommon to you; pale green, vibrant but ghostly.

She doesn't remember you, and maybe that's for the best. Her new self is a stark contrast to who she was, and you don't think she'd enjoy the idea of donning priestess garb over the punk-rockish getup she wears now.

Taz Arian ∆ M, 34, RO

"Funny, isn't it? How some people seem familiar, even when they shouldn't be."

Taz is... Someone. He appears out of nowhere to join your journey, his knowledge of old ruins and tombs handy but somewhat worrying when he shouldn't even be able to see you. There's a strange thrum of power coming from him whenever he speaks, and you swear you've met him before, but where? It might be easier to find out if he didn't deflect and flirt his way out of things, but it does help with mortals that can't see you.

His appearance is nothing extraordinary; Dark brown hair that's held up in a bun, and you could assume it reaches his shoulders when loose, the loose curls pulling it a tad shorter. His eyes are light in color, almost golden in the right light, glinting with mischief. His skin is weathered, and golden bronze in color, with an intricate tattoo of an eagle spanning across his chest. He also sports a short beard, which gives him a rogueish look.

There is something about him that tugs at your memories, but you can't catch that thread of remembrance for long enough to recall him. Still, he doesn't seem to mind and resorts to teasing you instead.

[offsidekineticist]

(I apologize for this but I'm too curious how he'll answer) Theo - Have you ever lost someone close to you? Who was it? How did you cope with it?

This took me so long to pin down what he'd say. Putting this one under a cut for CW: "think of the children" style bigotry, dehumanization, harassment, bigotry ending a friendship

He smiles, but it is not a happy smile. "I think it might be easier to list the people close to me that I haven't lost. Almost everyone I've ever been close to I've lost. Qweck and Gilly are the exceptions for now. I should probably clarify that most of the people I've lost did not die. Most of them are still alive, they're just...out of reach.

"If I had to pick one to talk about...Cen Walfwaffle. Yes, that should be lurid enough to satisfy you. Cen was a neighbor who lived two doors down from me, originally from Iceferry. She became my best friend after Regill left. She put up with a lot - I wasn't the most stable person in those days, and I could be very selfish. She probably should have given up on me, especially once the bleaching took hold. She tried so hard to stop it, and I was just ready to let it take me, so I lashed out at her a lot. None of that ever chased her away. She was still visiting me daily when it ran its course and I was still there.

"Nobody in Brastlewark responded well to the change, and that hurt. People I'd known for years couldn't bear to look at me - and those were the polite ones. Cen was not one of the polite ones.

"I was convinced for years she would eventually come around. I hoped so - I was finally pulling myself together enough that I could love well, and after all she had done for me, I wanted to be the friend I should have been before. So I trained myself to seem normal - not just for her, mind, but...I had hoped if I could be a gnome who survived the bleaching instead of a bleachling, things might go back to how they used to be.

"The last straw was her interfering with Qweck. Cen doesn't think bleachlings have feelings, you see, so she had already tried to get me fired because she thought I would hurt or corrupt the children somehow, but she became obsessed with 'saving' Qweck from my 'emotional neglect,' despite never having so much as spoken to her before. At one point she pulled Qweck aside and told her 'Theoven has changed his mind, but you can live with me now, instead.' Fortunately Qweck has always been assertive, so she marched up to my door and, on the verge of tears, asked that she be allowed to take her favorite stuffed dinosaur. I didn't much care for reconciling with Cen anymore after that."

There's a faraway look in his eyes as he pauses. He sighs through his nose, and then, with a practiced gentleness, he continues. "I suppose the point I'm trying to make is...there are many ways to lose a loved one. They might live two doors down, but still be beyond your reach because of prejudice or circumstances or wounded feelings. The hurt from that kind of loss...it's not any less legitimate than losing someone through death. It's a different kind of hurt, but it is still a loss, and it's alright to grieve the loss, even knowing they're alive and well."

[justanotherfanaccount]

Pain Triangle (Pt. 1)

Kaz vs Wylan vs Nikolai (it's like a love triangle but less romantic and more traumatic)

So I originally made this post for a social media class I was taking... but I worked so hard on it I decided to post it anyways so... be kind please! This is just my opinion!

In all seriousness though, these three characters have a lot of similarities we need to talk about. Leigh Bardugo had them mirror each other in such a beautiful way. I’m not saying they are all the same character, because they are not… obviously, but each of them has a way of showing the contrast within themselves. Let me just get into it, it’ll be a lot easier.

I’m going to break this into three separate posts because I have a lot to talk about so we’ll start with:

Wylan VS Kaz

People have been comparing these two boys since the books came out. (Some right, some wrong, but who am I to break down YOUR opinions, it’s my turn). Though from the surface these two characters couldn’t be more different, when you peel back the facade they each have you learn more about their inner workings.

An example of this is how in both of their childhoods they lost, or believed to have lost, a family member. Kaz losing Jordie, his brother, and Wylan losing his mother. Though the real comparison to these is how they lost these people: betrayal. Betrayal from someone they thought they could trust. 

Wylan’s own father faked his mothers death in order to pave the way for the plan of killing his son, and letting the world forget of his existence. Before this, Wylan’s mother was the only one that stood up for him about his intelligence and worth. With her gone, Van Eck, his father, could focus on creating a new image for himself, without her, or Wylan.

Though Kaz’s betrayal wasn’t from his own father it was from someone similar, his brother. I KNOW! SHOCKING! You all thought I was gonna say Pekka Rollins didn’t you!? 👀 And yes, Pekka did betray him… we all know this, but his true betrayal (one that I doubt Kaz has even considered) is the one from his brother.

When Kaz and Jordie’s father died and they sold the farm to move to the city Kaz was a young boy. He didn’t know anything about city life, or money for that matter and relied fully on Jordie for both of those things, and for protection. Kaz trusted Jordie with everything that he was, looking up to his brother and seeing everything good in him, and none of the bad. Jordie wanted to take the easy way out, though the book does say he looked for work for a bit, he quickly stopped once he got this idea that he could become rich easily through Pekka.

This is a betrayal to Kaz because the person who was supposed to take care of him cared more about money than supporting his brother in a healthy manner. I am NOT putting all the blame on Jordie though, he was still a child himself so even though it did count as a betrayal to Kaz, blaming Jordie fully when Pekka was the villain coercing him is not fair. We all know at the end of the day that Pekka was the true betrayal in Kaz’s life, pretending to be a caring figure in his life only to be using Jordie and Kaz for their money.

(I could spend another thousand years talking about the character analysis of Kaz Brekker and how Pekka and Jordie relate to that but that is NOT what this post is about.)

Continuing with Wylan and Kaz’s similarities they both had a ‘rebirth’ involving water. When Wylan’s father sent hitmen to kill Wylan he survived by jumping off of the boat and into the canal, when he emerged from the water he knew a new life awaited him. He no longer was Wylan Van Eck - son to the Van Eck fortune. He was just Wylan, and he had to create his own path for himself in the barrel.

"My things, he thought nonsensically, my flute. He didn’t stop, not even when his breathing grew ragged and his limbs started to turn numb. He forced himself to drive onward, to put as much distance as he could between himself and his father’s thugs. But eventually, his strength started to give out and he realized he was doing more thrashing than swimming. If he didn’t get to shore, he would drown. He paddled toward the shadows of a bridge and dragged himself from the canal, then huddled, soaked and shaking in the icy cold."

This also happens to Kaz when he has to use his brother’s corpse to swim back to shore. That swim changed him, not only physically by causing his touch aversion, but also had him emerge as Kaz Brekker, he had killed Kaz Reitveld.

“The last hundred yards were hard. The tide had turned once more, and it was working against him. But Kaz had hope now, hope and fury, twin flames burning inside him. They guided him to the dock and up the ladder. When he reached the top, he flopped down on his back on the wooden slats, then forced himself to roll over.”

But Wylan and Kaz are alike not only in their backstories but also in their way of thinking. Though Wylan chooses to be kind to others and doesn’t want to cause harm, and we all know Kaz (he literally ripped someone’s eye out) their brains work similarly. 

They are both loyal to the people they trust. Many of those are the same people: Inej, Jesper, and the other crows. Kaz has, and will kill for those he loves, loyal to a point of issue at some moments. This can be seen in Wylan as well, putting behind his morals for those he loves. In the book‘Rule of Wolves Wylan says he no longer engages in criminal activity until Kaz says it’s for Inej, when Wylan suddenly decides it doesn’t matter what laws he breaks.

“Until this moment, Wylan hadn't quite understood how much they meant to him. His father would have sneered at these thugs and thieves, a disgraced soldier, a gambler who couldn't keep out of the red. But they were his first friends, his only friends, and Wylan knew that even if he'd had his pick of a thousand companions, these would have been the people he chose.”

“I would have come for you. And if I couldn't walk, I'd crawl to you, and no matter how broken we were, we'd fight our way out together-knives drawn, pistols blazing. Because that's what we do. We never stop fighting.”

They also do not judge others for who they are. A major reason for this in each of them is because they feel as if their past is worse than others so how could they judge others when they have done terrible things themselves. Wylan thinking his inability to read makes him inferior, and Kaz knowing that he has killed and tortured people.

“Wylan touched his fingers to the bruises at his throat and thought, I wish I could ring for tea. That was the moment he really began to panic. How much more pathetic could he be? His father had tried to have him killed. He had almost no money and was lying on a cot that reeked of the chemicals they’d used to try to rid the mattress of lice. He should be making a plan, maybe even plotting revenge, trying to gather his wits and his resources. And what was he doing? Wishing he could ring for tea. He might not have been happy at his father’s house, but he’d never had to work for anything. He’d had servants, hot meals, clean clothes. Whatever it took to survive the Barrel, Wylan knew he didn’t have it.”

“He knew if he climbed down the ladder and waded back into the sea. he would never find his way out again. He’d simply let himself drown, and that wasn't possible any more. He had to live. Someone had to pay.”

These quotes also show one of the differences between them, Wylan automatically blaming himself, and Kaz blaming others. This shows the mirror aspect just as much as their similarities. They also are both very intellectual, being able to read people easily and trust their gut instincts.

Part 2 || Part 3

[henrywintersdearestgirl]

Prologue

Hello, my darling doves

Suprise! The fanfiction began.

Before you dig into it… Yes, it is in a different timeline than the actual book, and not all things are same as in the book, but you will find out eventually:)

I hope you will like it and I’m always open to hear your opinions on it!

xoxo, Rosemary<3

warnings: none:) maybe alcohol use, but this is tsh so nobody really cares

summary: just some warming up

word count: 1.3k

Richard Papen, 1953

Some nights, I am still at that hotel. We all are. Charles with a gun in his hand, Camilla sobbing, Francis and I frozen, and Henry… Nearly smiling at the gun. The next events happened barely in a mere second. The screaming, the gunshots, the warm feeling in my stomach, the red wine and blood splashing. Henry lay dead on the floor, his pale face covered in blood. He was pronounced dead on the scene when the police arrived, while they were on their way Francis put a blanket on him, I don’t remember those moments very well. I only remember the blood on his face and his closed eyes. Francis was the only one who attended the funeral, I would have gone with him to Missouri, where he was getting buried, but I was laying in the hospital with a gunshot.

I never saw the twins ever again. Charles ran away and Camilla went silent. We nearly couldn’t care less about Charles after what he had done, but Camilla was a hard pill to swallow.

Me and Francis tried everything we could for a good while, brought her to the best psychiatrist, and we stayed with her patiently. Until she finally spoke to us again. But only a few words, she kindly asked us to leave her alone to deal with her grief, Henry or Charles, we never knew. We understood and left her alone like she asked. We tried our best to get our friend back and figured that she would contact us if she wanted to.

—

Me and Francis kept in touch over the years, calls and visits were engraved in our daily routines. He visited me in Chicago and I visited him in Boston. I analyzed literature and sometimes gave lessons in big named schools. Francis wrote detective books, he started writing them as a distraction and they blew up, people loved him. In the end, both of us were steady on our feet. I wasn’t in possession of a family fortune, but I became a bit wealthy myself.

However, there was one name we never dared to speak. Until today.

We were at Francis’s huge apartment, on the couch, whiskey in hand. We already drank a bottle of Irish whiskey. Suddenly he laughed to himself in a drunken manner. “What is it?” I laughed to myself too at his odd manner, the whiskey really managed to get in my head, I felt dizzy and floaty.

His laughing slowly went away and he stared at the maroon wall dreamily. “You know what I think about sometimes?” He looked at me with a sly foxy smile. “What if Henry never died?” I suddenly sat up and a little part of me was relieved that he said Henry’s name, he might have been drunk out of his mind but still. He knew Henry for a longer time than I did and his death was harder for him, he is also a sensitive fellow so that was not the greatest mix. I started snickering at his foolish question, but I stopped it when I saw his serious face, he was lost in thought.

“Francis? Where did this come from? We both watched him fall to the floor.” I tried studying his face, he wouldn’t look in my eyes.

“I know, I know. But those parts are so blurry, I barely remember how we got out of there. What do you remember from it?” He finally looked at me.

“Oh yeah, I remember every single little detail that happened. Especially the gunshot wound in my stomach and the blood oozing out of it!” He angered me a bit, the alcohol made the moment more dramatic than it actually was.

“Okay, I see your point…” He bit his lip, as if he was in distress. “What if he didn’t actually die? That was the last time we saw him and we got ushered out so quickly that we didn’t even register what hap—“

“Aren’t you a detective murder mystery writing novelist? Your mind is more creative day by day.” I point to his shelf, where he displayed the awards his books and stories won, in a joking manner. He was really good at what he was doing, no wonder everyone always begged for the new novel of his, even my students who I eventually taught from time to time.

He was not laughing, not appreciating my joke. I could see it in his eyes that he really was thinking. “Richard, have you ever seen him after that?”

“Weren’t you the one who sat through his whole funeral?!”

“It was a closed casket.” He shrugged.

“Closed casket?” I straightened up at the new information. “Didn’t he always say that he was going to have an open casket funeral?”

Francis’s eyes widened. “He did, because he wanted people to really see that all of us end up in the same way.” It was silent for a few minutes, until Francis turned to me. “Richard, if he could write his car to your name, then he could have had an open casket funeral. He wrote what he wanted for it when he was like sixteen, and the way he was looking at the gun?” We turned more serious by the second.

“Maybe he had a closed casket to spare Camilla?” I brought up my only explanation, but even I barely believed it.

“Camilla is not as weak as you think, and Henry was or is not that soft to change what he always believed in for a girl.” My biggest problem was that he actually made some sense, there was something about what he had said.

“So, let me get this straight. Henry may be alive and we didn’t think of this for five years?” I scoffed and turned to Francis. I put my hands on both of his shoulders and sighed deeply, as if I was a father who is about to tell a life lesson to his child. “Look Francis, I know that this Henry being alive and well alternative is way more sweeter, but it is not the truth and not the one we live in.”

“I know, but what if—“ He tried to interrupt me.

“No, no more what if’s… Henry is dead. We watched him shoot himself in the head and drop to the floor. You sat through his funeral, closed casket or not, he was in there. He is gone, Francis. Fuck… I wish he wasn’t, I wish we found a better way to deal with everything going on without anyone dying. I wish that Charles never came in with a gun in hand…” He had tears in his eyes from my little speech, maybe I did too, but I needed him to open up his eyes and see our sad truth.

He smiled sadly, a fat tear running down his freckled cheek. “I wish for anything that could have kept our group together…” he said as he stared into the crunching fire in the fireplace. I believe that in that moment he tried really hard for the first time to accept what we came to.

“We’re here now. Maybe up there, Bunny could give that goddamn slap back to Henry and even bang him in the head with his stupid latin diary.” I nudged his shoulder, trying to ease the tension. What I didn’t expect was a proper laugh from him. Half a genuine laugh, half a grieving sob.

“Yeah, you’re right… Thank you, Richard. For everything.” He lifted his glass and we clicked them together.

“To new beginnings.”

“To new fucking beginnings.”

[beesnesblog]

Today

Feeling Lost: A Personal Reflection

Today I woke up and watched a TV show from Britain about rich kids staying with less fortunate families for the weekend. It made me feel grateful for what I have. When I went to take my morning medication, I saw that my husband had filled up all my meds for the week. It reminded me how lucky I am to have such a caring husband.

But as I sit in my room, my mind is racing. For the past month, I've been trying to pick up extra shifts at work, but I just can't seem to muster the energy. I used to love working at the hospital, but now, when I'm there, I can't wait to get back home. It feels like my home is my safe place, and work makes me feel vulnerable. I have to be careful to keep my emotions in check, to stay professional with my patients. They rely on me, and they shouldn't see how I'm feeling inside.

I cherish my unit because of my patients—they're often the reason I get out of bed to go to work. But there are bills to pay, and my husband worries about me all the time. I can't help but feel like a burden to him. I wish I could just be normal, react to situations in a mature way like everyone else seems to.

Feeling stuck, it's hard to imagine changing jobs, even though I dream of working in an office or getting a medical assistant certification. I wish I could do more for my husband, considering all he does for me. But today, I'm feeling low. Work used to be an escape from these feelings, a place where I could focus and not dwell on my thoughts.

For the past two weeks, I've made plans to clean the house or tackle chores on my days off, but I never seem to have the energy. I end up disappointed in myself for not accomplishing what I set out to do. It's been like this for the past month and a half—just feeling down. I've been wanting to work out to improve my health, but I haven't been able to stick with it for more than a week at a time.

Reflecting on my life at 43, I wonder if this is a midlife crisis. I fought so hard to get past nursing assistant certification, using every spare moment to study. If it wasn't for my husband and his family supporting me, I don't know how I would have managed.

I know my husband is there for me, my biggest supporter, but I hesitate to burden him further with my feelings. It feels lonely, even though I've talked a bit with my sister in California. I don't want to worry her too. I could reach out to a crisis center, but right now, I need someone who knows me.

I find it hard to make friends; I don't go out much. Maybe it's because I feel broken—I struggle with disabilities, bipolar disorder, and anxiety. People don't seem to gravitate towards me. When I was younger, I used to tell people how I really felt when they asked, but I noticed their reactions, and eventually, I stopped sharing.

Now I'm one of those people I couldn't stand—feeling sorry for myself, stuck in the same complaints. It's ironic and frustrating. I hate feeling like this. When I think about my birth, and how I came into the world, it makes me wonder why a higher power would want me to go through all of this.

Today, I'm feeling lost and overwhelmed. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

[notchesandbullets]

Life After Luck (Black Panther!Shinsou x Reader)

Art credit: Pixiv ID 123370838

Warnings: harassment, descriptions of injuries and blood, mention of a past character death (minor) and violence, angst, fluff, protective Shinsou and endearing dad!Shinsou.

A/N: second work for @ultimate-astridwriting​ hybrid collab!!

Words: 9.4k

You and Shinsou had been seeing each other secretly for years. And in the famed city of Musutafu where the existence of hybrids were extremely rare, that wasn’t exactly an easy feat.

The statistics varied around the globe but the general trend ended up to be less than 5% of the world’s population being born with some kind of animal trait.

Because they were so rare, most humans lived out their whole lives without encountering a hybrid in person once, but for the odd individual, sometimes they would catch a glimpse.

Ever since he was young, Shinsou had to fight every step of the way to get what he wanted. He had to work harder than most just for the mere scraps of attention from scouts that came to search for those with talent to become future heroes, but he never once complained. Until a fight broke out at school, the jocks beating him up in the cafeteria, calling his aspiration to be a hero stupid while everyone else just sat there and watched.

They called him all sorts of horrible names that made his skin crawl and at the end of it all, they didn’t even get punished for starting the fight. He did.

After that, he stomped away from the school grounds and never looked back.

Overcoming life’s great trials, he made a name for himself in his own community in Japan with the help of his mentor, Aizawa.

The scruffy man demanded that he at least get the bare minimum of an education with him if he really refused to go back to his original school, and that’s how the odd pair that resembled father and son more than anyone else ended up getting homeschooled by the veteran underground pro. 

Eventually, the once scrawny black panther without a quirk transformed into a seasoned pro that Japan’s law enforcement called on whenever a case called for his skills. 

Shinsou’s hybrid traits made it easy for him to sneak around despite his size, making him one of the idealistic hires when police needed someone for undercover work. Coupled with the prowess of his build body, he was more than capable to takedown whatever targets were given to him.

Once he reached adulthood, he left the police reserves and went out on his own, seeking a life that lacked the emergency sirens and ways of deceit that it had been filled with previously.

He bounced around from job to job, starting from the bottom up. He washed dishes in a kitchen for a restaurant then went on to be a cashier and then finally worked on the side of the road, cleaning up litter left behind by inconsiderate people.

Shinsou found that over time, he appreciated doing those jobs more and got fulfillment out of it that he didn’t find before.

Little things that happened daily put an extra spring in his step, like strolling down the street and seeing an elder needing help to get across. The simple actions of holding open the door or complimenting someone in hopes of making their day, it was so much clearer than it had been before.

That wasn’t to say that life was a walk in the park for the estranged panther. He still got comments about his appearance when his hood slipped off or from people who looked closely enough spotted his tail, but he no longer cared. His self-worth didn’t rely on pleasing them.

He was done with trying to blend in with the humans. He was different and he was proud of it.

Shinsou’s jaw clenched and his eyes hardened every time someone muttered something not-so-kind under their breath but he pushed on out of sheer determination, shoving it down until he could process it and release the feelings that came with it. He didn’t want to be the type of person who held a grudge.

Nothing good came out of that.

It was hard, but he had an example to set. He didn’t want his son to end up like the person he used to be. 

A loner, an outcast, filled with so much anger aimed at the world that he lacked the ability to get along with anybody. And he didn’t want that for his son.

Naoki. His five-year-old kid with as much spunk as you had.

His wife of seven years.

Shinsou had met you on the eve of a grand ball being hosted in honor of Midoriya’s birthday, a party thrown for the Number One Hero by his large circle of friends. The black panther hybrid had been serving as protection for the night to Kaminari, an old human friend of his from high school who had hooked him up with a steady job within his own company.

Private security.

Since his panther genes gave him a much more built physique, Shinsou didn’t have any troubles convincing the big boss that he was the right fit for being a bodyguard. Coupled with his impressive background, that sealed the deal in one go.

Shinsou had been over at the bar getting a drink for the hyperactive blond conversing with his other guard, Jirou, when it happened.

The grand doors to the Victorian ballroom opened and in you entered, causing everyone’s jaws to drop to the floor.

Your floor-length gown was breathtaking. Diamonds glittered on soft skin from where the expensive necklace sat just above your collarbone. Ruby heels peeked out from under your dress as you floated through the entryway, coming to a stop at the balcony high above all the guests’ heads.

White chiffon skirts sweeping the marble tile, your satin heels clicked against the floor as you strode in, your chin turned delicately at the audible gasp that left the doorman.

An easy smile popped up on your features as he hastily apologized for staring and you brushed it off with an airy wave of your hand.

Shinsou didn’t even know if you were aware of all the eyes on you as you glided down the steps and warmly greeted Todoroki, the one who actually reserved the ballroom for the night, and Bakugou, one of your oldest friends.

Thank Eraserhead for his enhanced hearing.

However, Shinsou practically fainted when you walked over to him, commenting that he looked nice right before introducing yourself. The dress code that he had previously complained about to Kaminari earlier went out the window as soon as his eyes settled on you, drinking in your figure. 

You were the embodiment of a goddess.

At that point, he wasn’t sure if he died and went to heaven or what, but he knew one thing. You were absolutely breathtaking.

Your elegance, your ease and instant kindness whenever you interacted with someone had him weak in the knees. 

You were a vision. 

Radiating pure light and beauty.

Sliding over to him, Kaminari had flashed him a cocky grin and reassured him that Jirou could handle his responsibilities if he, oh, wanted to pay a visit to a particularly stunning girl. 

Jirou, his right-hand woman, swatted the electric blond’s shoulder as he doubled over with laughter but calmly told Shinsou that if he wanted to stroll around for a little while before coming back, then well, there certainly was nothing wrong with having a little bit of fun.

Blushing, he refused, claiming he couldn’t possibly leave Kaminari alone that long. He would find a way to set something on fire somehow. 

The man had a weird affinity with fire. 

Shinsou busied himself with the glasses, pouring the drinks that he had originally came over to get and he was about to get back to Jirou and Kaminari, both who suspiciously disappeared from sight, when he glanced up and saw you in all your splendor. 

Right in front of him.

The crystal flutes he had been holding smashed onto the floor, clear shards flying everywhere. All heads turned to him but this time, the attention was unwanted. 

Shinsou was frantic, trying to amend his mistake before you saw, even though that was literally impossible at this point, and Kaminari popped up out of nowhere, intervening before the enraged caterer could say some not-so-kind words to him. 

That was fortunate for him. 

What wasn’t as fortunate was you crouching down the second you heard the crash, disregarding everyone else’s shouts for you to be careful as you raced to his side, bending down to help.

“Are you alright?!” You asked, eyes wide with panic when your gaze landed on his palms and you froze. “Oh no, you’re bleeding!!”

The next ten minutes consisted of him adamantly refusing to let you help him clean up the shattered crystal and you arguing against him. Shinsou was forced to cave into you as you insisted on helping, threatening to haul him into your car to take him to the hospital yourself if he didn’t at least let you look at it, so he wasn’t left with much of a choice.

It wasn’t long before all the dangerous fragments were swept up and once the situation was handled, you led him out of the way to tend to his injuries.

Shinsou was quiet the entire way out, only protesting when you finally reached your destination of the nearest single stall bathroom. Here, at least it was quieter than the party that had resumed out there. Definitely wasn’t his crowd, but he wasn’t about to stomp all over the opportunity that Kaminari gave him just because he was a bit uncomfortable.

He could handle it. He was a panther, for crying out loud. 

His frame was broad, his sharp indigo eyes terrifying and he was tougher than anyone else out there.

And yet, you didn’t flinch away from his wary gaze, going so far as to tend to the cuts and scraps on his bare hands, disinfecting them gently before bandaging them up in soft gauze you found in the cabinet.

It wasn’t odd to have amenities at an event like this where some kind of physical discourse was bound to happen. You knew it well. 

Shinsou eyed you while you worked. “... I didn’t catch your name.”

If you were put off by the low drawl edged with a slight growl clearly meant to intimidate you, you didn’t show it at all. 

Shrugging nonchalantly, you ducked your head somewhat shyly as you tied off the cotton. “L/N. L/N, Y/N.”

Shinsou smirked. “Nice to meet you.”

You flashed him a grin. “Likewise.”

This time, he was the one to look down shyly as his heart skipped a beat, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck with his newly banadaged palm as you wrapped the other one. “... Thanks for doing that.”

The snort that left you had him doing a double take.

“Thanks for letting me.” You retorted, tugging a bit harder on the end of the gauze to emphasize your exasperation with his earlier stubbornness and Shinsou winced, already regretting it.

“Sorry about that.” He murmured. He didn’t want to be on your bad side already. He had just met you.

Your gaze softened a tad as you picked up on the genuine strain in his voice. “It’s okay.”

After you finished tending to his injury, giving him a lame excuse why you knew first-aid so well, the two of you returned to the ball. 

He let it go. For some reason, he had a feeling he shouldn’t pry.

Shinsou readjusted his tie, knowing that if he didn’t, Kaminari would do it for him. That’s just the type of person the electric blond was. It was hella annoying.

But his indigo gaze kept on you the entire time as your skirts swept across the floor, capturing all the attention of the guests once again. 

Shinsou tapped the rim of the champagne glass to his lips contemplatively, mulling something over in his mind.

He saw through your weak excuse that you just knew how to do first-aid. He spotted the way your hands shook when you saw the blood, no matter how shallow the laceration was, and he couldn’t help but do a little bit of digging.

Jirou helped him find out that you weren’t a doctor or a nurse. In fact, you weren’t in any kind of profession in the medical field. 

While Shinsou was slightly glad you weren’t so that he wouldn’t run into you when missions went sideways, he was more disappointed than anything else.

What if he never saw you again after tonight?

The thought of today being the last time he laid eyes on you was too much for him to bear and even though he tried to keep his distance, tried to stomp out the blossoming warmth in his chest for you when you giggled and threw him a smile through the crowd with logic, nothing worked. 

Shinsou gathered his courage and with a push from Kaminari, literally, he had a date with the bashful bartender by the end of the night.

Waving goodbye to you after he walked you to his car, his arm dropped back down to his side as you drove off into the night. This is going to be fun... 

Two weeks passed by and he still had yet to see you.

At first, he was the one to get called away. Kaminari needed him for a gig while he closed a deal on the nightclub that he owned that he was looking to expand. Apparently, Jirou and Sero were unavailable. He apologized profusely, promising to make it up to you, but you didn’t even mind.

You understood that sometimes life just happened and things got in the way. He had nothing to be sorry for. You rescheduled for the following week. 

That was when you got called away. Family emergency.

Shinsou spent twenty minutes on the phone with you, promising that he wasn’t holding it against you for needing to push back the date again. His eyes softened when he clearly heard how distressed you were through his cell and he sighed, murmuring into the receiver that it didn’t matter how long it took or how many obstacles the two of you would have to get through.

His heart still longed for you just as strongly as the first day he saw you.

With his quiet yet passionate reassurance, you were able to attend to all that you needed to, keeping in contact with him throughout the week. You were ashamed to admit it, but with how easy he was to talk to, you found yourself falling hard.

Then, the day finally came where life allowed you this one happiness.

According to you, the first date went well. Sure, Shinsou was a bit shy and awkward, fumbling over his words but you found it extremely cute. 

He wasn’t nearly as intimidating as his figure portrayed. Underneath all that brawn, the black panther was sweet and he was kind. 

It took some time for him to actually warm up to you, but you were there waiting for him patiently. You never pushed him, never asked him to reveal secrets he didn’t want to talk about or divulge information about his personal life unless he himself wished to talk about it. 

But when he finally did open up, close to a year later after that initial meeting at Midoriya’s birthday party, he found that he couldn’t stop running his mouth when you trained your keen gaze on him so intently, hanging onto his every word.

Shinsou told you everything.

He told you about his lonely past, about the man called Eraserhead but how he knew him as Aizawa, how he preferred coffee over tea because while neither of them actually had any taste, one of them did a much better job of keeping him awake at night when he had to work. 

You giggled and told him you took note of that, leaning forward to plop your chin in the palm of your hand as you regarded him mischievously. 

“Does that mean the great and famous Toshi doesn’t like water?” You teased lightly, stirring your hot chocolate while the snowflakes fell outside, melting the instant they hit the window.

The pillowy softness looked deceptively soft and cozy but you knew after many experiences of jumping into piles of snow that that was definitely not the case.

Shinsou scowled at the lilt in your voice but the edges of his mouth twitched, desperately trying to hold back a fond smile at the sound of your nickname for him.

You gave him that nickname after you learned his given name. He had shared it with you months after you two started dating regularly. You had pestered him for it for a while after the first coffee date but after he asked you to stop, that he would tell you when he was ready, you stopped immediately.

Boundaries had to be respected. 

One of your old girlfriends made fun of you for it, claiming that it didn’t make sense so you shouldn’t feel the need to respect it.

You dropped her right after. 

Understanding didn’t matter. If it was close to him, then it mattered to you. And that went for everyone. 

Shinsou tucked his hands into the pockets of his pants and leaned back in the booth, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. The only other person he let call him Toshi was Aizawa and that was on the rare occasion that his mentor praised him for a job well done.

“You have some nerve, doll.” Shinsou teased right back, the barest amount of amusement twinkling in his eyes and he cleared his throat. “But no, I actually do like water.”

In spite of the common misconception that all cats hated water, he got that a lot once people saw his ears and tail, fangs poking out between his lips. But if anything, he had no issues with it. Let them say and think whatever they wanted, it didn’t matter to him.

You however… he couldn’t have you thinking things that weren’t true.

Shinsou made a face. “I just am not fond of baths.”

You slapped your knee and cackled at that, laughing so loud that you drew the attention of some of the other patrons in the vicinity but you couldn’t even catch your breath long enough to apologize for ruining their calm coffee cafe experience. 

The two of you dated for quite a long time before Shinsou popped the question.

For you, it had taken you by a complete and utter surprise. You had expected him to ask you to move in with him first or something since his place was big enough, not this. No one had ever committed to a relationship with you long enough and serious enough to make you think that marriage was part of the equation.

But while you were startled, you still agreed, tears caught in your lashes. You may have been shocked but you were so elated.

Shinsou, keen as ever, wiped away your tears and coaxed your face up, finger hooked underneath your chin as he examined you closely.

Indigo hues softened in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” You reassured him with a sniffle and bright smile. “I just— Sometimes I forget how good of a person you really are, Toshi.”

He was taken aback at that. His whole life he had been told the opposite. And yet here he was, with the love of his life telling him otherwise.

His heart was going to explode.

It hadn’t been the first time you said it but he hoped that it wouldn’t be the last. 

And when the news that you two were now engaged finally hit you, you took some time to soak in the scenery.

The place he picked was absolutely perfect.

An alcove secluded and filled with fragrant flowers, vines trailing up the expanse of the old stone ruins. Soothing streams cut paths through the quiet garden, a serene and tranquil place hidden amongst the bustling town of Musutafu. There was no one else around. Just you two.

It was perfect. It was perfectly Toshi. 

“Thank you.” You whispered, leaning your head and resting it on his shoulder. 

He booped your nose softly, smiling slightly when you scrunched it up cutely and his tail curled around your waist protectively, holding you close. 

“I love you.” Shinsou murmured, closing his eyes as he breathed you in.

There was no hesitation in your soft reply. “I love you too.”

But your relationship with Shinsou wasn’t all sunshine and roses. There was a time where you thought you might lose him.

That he might die.

It was bad. Kaminari had called you right after it happened but because you had been working at the time and your dick of a boss didn’t let you have your phone, you didn’t see any of those messages until after you got off your shift. 

But when you finally did look at it, your heart stopped.

What happened next was a blur. Your phone slipped through your fingers, uncaring how the screen cracked and went black the instant it hit the pavement and you tore off in the address now ingrained in your memory despite only looking at it once.

Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay, You chanted in your head, tears streaming down your face and the city lights faded into the background as you zipped down the familiar path to the hospital you swore you would never step foot in again. Toshi, I can’t lose you too.

The front desk receptionist didn’t even stop you as you barreled through the front doors with panicked eyes, chest heaving. She simply waved you on. You knew where to go. 

When you finally got to his room, your heart stopped.

Kaminari wasn’t kidding. It was bad. 

No one else was in the white room with white walls that contained your beloved lying deathly still on the single cot in the center of the room. 

The hospital room was vacant. Empty. No color.

You hated it. 

But you suppressed those feelings of unease that made you sick to your stomach and stepped a foot inside, racing to Shinsou before you could talk yourself out of it.

“I’m here.” You cried out, reaching for his hand. A choked sob left you when his fingers weakly curled around yours. “I’m here, Hitoshi.”

The doctors came and went but you stayed by his side, not even batting an eye when Kaminari, Jirou and Sero came to visit.

There were heavy bags under your eyes from lack of sleep due to the past few days. “When will he wake up?”

Kaminari hesitated, glancing at Jirou, hoping to find her usual reassurance but a foreign worry wrought her features.

“I… don’t know.” He said finally, placing a hand on your shoulder, sighing when you didn’t even look up at him and smiled like you normally did. “He’s under a pretty heavy anesthesia—”

“He’s going to wake up.” You stated firmly, brow kitting stubbornly and you squeezed his hand tighter.

But when it was clear he wasn’t going to squeeze back, your grip loosened and your hands fell back in your lap.

“He’s going to wake up.” You repeated, voice shaking this time around with insecurity as you faced the possible reality that he might not.

That you had just grown close to someone else who was going to leave you.

According to the report that Jirou had tried to tell you about, Shinsou had gotten attacked by someone he had helped the police put away a long time ago. 

A retaliation hit. 

Stabbed in the shoulder with a gunshot wound through his femoral artery, there wasn’t a lot of hope for him. He lost a lot of blood.

But you were certain he would fight. He could make it through this. He promised you that he would never leave you. 

Resolve strengthening, you wiped away your tears harshly with the back of your hand before covering his motionless hand with yours once more. As long as you were here, you would provide him all the support he needed to get through this.

“Toshi…” You sobbed as the other three took their leave after failing to convince you to go home and get some rest. They would get some food and bring it up to you, sure you hadn’t eaten in days. You didn’t want to be the one to tell them that they were right.

Shinsou never liked it when you skipped meals. What would he say if he saw you now?

You pressed a wet kiss to the back of his hand, tears blurring your vision. 

“I’ll be right here when you wake up.” You promised, eyelashes fluttering close as you failed against the anguish.

“Please, don’t leave me alone.”

Days turned into weeks and your hope was dwindling with each passing hour. 

You had lost your job at the diner that you worked at because you refused to leave his side. You were lucky to have Kaminari reassure you that money wouldn’t be a problem and you were eternally grateful that he knew just how important it was that you didn’t leave Shinsou’s bedside.

Jirou and Sero rotated shifts to keep watch over their friend, coordinating with Tsukauchi, All Might and Eraserhead to provide top security but you couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to their activities.

All you did, from sunrise to midnight was stare at Shinsou’s peacefully sleeping face in hopes that he would blink open those tired eyes and gaze at you once more. 

Please, You begged for what seemed like the millionth time to someone, anyone who was listening. Please help him.

Let him be okay.

When a month and a half had passed, you were at your wit’s end. There had been no change since day one. The doctors said that all his injuries had healed, thanks to Recovery Girl, but that it was likely he would never come out of the coma.

You had no more tears to cry. Your figure was gaunt, facial features sunken in like you had seen a ghost and lost your mind. No one could convince you to eat or sleep. 

If Shinsou died, there was a good chance you would too.

Life was empty without him in it.

You couldn’t take this anymore. The waiting, the not knowing. You hated it.

You begged him even though you knew he couldn’t hear you, angry at him, angry at the guy who put him here, angry at the world for being so unfair that you lost it. Yelling at him, you fought back frustrated tears as you poured your heart out to him.

But then you stopped. He didn’t know.

Sinking back into the uncomfortable plastic chair that your body had molded to, you closed your eyes in defeat.

That’s right. You never told him.

Eyes growing sad and regretful, you debated for a second before you decided that if you were feeling this way, you might as well tell him why.

Holding his hand that teetered on the edge of chilly due to the slowed down circulation, you took a deep breath. 

“You always wanted to know, ever since we first met.” You started softly, playing idly with his fingers to distract yourself from the horror of this story. “I knew you saw right through me then, should’ve taken the warning and run.”

You smiled faintly. He never would’ve let you. 

“I…” You trailed off, losing your courage. Breathing shakily, you tried to gather yourself. You knew this wasn’t going to be an easy feat but somehow, this was the hardest part of it all. 

Where you had to admit what you felt with no hidden truths.

Clearing your throat, you started over. 

“I never told you about Ryuu.” You confessed, blinking up at the stained tiles of the ceiling in an attempt to hold back the tears that welled up in your eyes. “He was my little brother, passed away when I was 15.”

You exhaled shakily. “He was only six.”

Your dad had gotten mugged and was beaten to death on the outskirts of the city before you were born. Your mom raised you as best as a single mother her age could but it was hard. 

She had no job, no family, no one to help her. Your childhood consisted of you bouncing around the streets to make a penny, then crashing in whatever crumbling, rundown building you could find for the night. 

Any run-ins with the law weren’t good.

You knew that they would take you away from your mom if they knew, put you in the foster care system. You couldn’t let them do that, who would take care of her?

She didn’t tell you that she was pregnant. You found out when she started showing.

You didn’t say anything about it for the nine months she carried that baby, supporting her with all you could. Life was okay. You got a job running errands for the kind man who owned a grocery store at the corner of the street. 

You had enough money to put some food on the table.

When she birthed the baby, you were there the entire time. You were there when he had his first cry, when the nurse cut the umbilical cord, and when your mother passed away on the hospital bed, too weak from labor to carry on.

You didn’t mourn. No matter how hard you tried or how much you wanted to, no tears came out.

Instead, you held Ryuu in your arms, kissing him on his little forehead as you vowed to protect him.

He was life. He was precious.

But you couldn’t protect him from himself.

Ryuu was born with a flawed heart. The doctors predicted that he wouldn’t live more than a year.

But your little brother pushed through. By the time he turned four, he was already showing signs of great progress and healing. You were hopeful that he could grow up like a normal kid and experience life to the fullest.

You hoped for too much.

Visits to the hospital became more frequent when he started coughing up blood. Violent seizures overtook him and one day, it claimed his life.

And you didn’t cry.

Onlookers speculated that you had no heart if you couldn’t even grieve for this poor boy, but no, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all.

You thought you were over this already, that you had gotten over your fear of hospitals and all the despair that came with it, but no. 

Seeing Shinsou laying there, deathly pale, had your heart beating right out of your chest, and not in a good way.

“When you wake up, I’m going to kill you.” You swore through the hot tears stinging your eyes and rolling down your cheeks. 

Slouching heavily back down in that same uncomfortable plastic chair that dug into your back and made your butt incredibly sore, you clasped Shinsou’s hand tightly.

“You’re such an idiot.” You sobbed, fingers shaking as you let up the pressure, grazing over the back of his hand as though you were afraid he might disappear on you if you pressed too hard.

Vision blurry, a sob welled up in your chest and your body trembled uncontrollably as you let it all out. The build up of all the emotions you had been suppressing since you were younger released onto him and you cried and cried until you couldn’t anymore.

But your eyes flew open as something soft and fuzzy ruffled your hair. 

Shooting upright, fresh tears gathered at the corners of your eyes and your hands clapped over your mouth in shock. 

A broken cry escaped you. “Toshi…” 

Shinsou’s indigo eyes opened just a crack but they were trained on you and the faintest of smiles graced his lips.

“Hey, doll.” He breathed tiredly.

His mouth barely moved but you heard him.

With an astonished and disbelieving cry of relief, you flung your arms around his neck.

Despite his body just waking up and getting accustomed to its surroundings, he didn’t hesitate to catch you, tucking your head under his chin and he buried his nose into your hair and inhaled deeply. Damn, he missed you.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.” Shinsou apologized, wincing a bit as he tried to prop himself up. You were quick to realize what he wanted and helped him, fluffing the pillows behind him as best as you could even though it was hard to reach around his much bigger frame. “How long—”

“Too long.”

Shinsou’s eyes softened and he gently brushed away the teardrops escaping with the pad of his thumb as he cupped your face tenderly. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He whispered, eyes closing briefly as he rested his forehead against yours.

You glowered at him even though your heart was already surging towards him with open arms. “You better be.”

The sound of his throaty chuckle was a welcome one and you melted into his embrace, sighing at the deep purr that rumbled from his chest. 

“Princess…” Shinsou murmured, Kaminari’s outburst and Jirou’s relieved expression as they burst into the room going unnoticed as he focused only on you. “Forgive me?”

Vaguely, you registered Sero bolting out the door to fetch the doctor but you blinked up at him and pouted, playing with the collar of his hospital robe.

“It wasn’t your fault.” You mumbled under your breath. 

Shinsou’s eyebrows drew together. “I heard about your brother, I think. I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“You don’t need to ask for forgiveness.” You whispered, grip tightening on him when the doctor entered the room and asked you to leave so he could examine him. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

Shinsou begged for just one more minute with you, one more minute to hold you in his arms but the doctor was insistent. Reluctantly, with great difficulty, he let you go, the man taking your place in a second.

You swallowed harshly as you stepped away from him, Jirou patting your shoulder comfortingly and you turned to her as Kaminari peppered the exhausted panther with endless questions.

“Toshi?”

Shinsou turned his head at your soft voice and motioned for you to complete your thought. He knew that look on your face.

You broke away from Jirou, leaving her with Sero as you approached him once more. Slowly, with intent, you strode towards him, watery eyes diminishing as your resolve strengthened.

Taking his hand in yours, something flashed through your eyes. “I’m gonna make them pay.”

In spite of his vision growing foggy as the anesthetic kicked in, a small smirk played upon the edge of his mouth and his gaze flickered over your shoulder to lock purposefully with Kaminari’s. A silent request to keep you safe while he was out.

Shinsou sighed, settling into the thin mattress as comfortably as he could when you pressed a loving kiss to his forehead.

He smiled, eyes fluttering shut as the last thing he heard was your hushed declaration of how much you loved him. 

“Go get ‘em, doll.” 

Seven quirk-cancelling handcuffs, demolished turkey stuffing and a plate of thrown pudding later, you left the individuals responsible for attacking your Toshi in the police’s capable hands. 

It had taken you forever to heal from the trauma of that day that landed your life partner in the hospital in such a dangerous predicament, but taking one slow step at a time, you managed to get back up on your feet and move forward.

Now, years later, the shining daylight turned into the ambiance of night, and that was when the real party started.

Purple lowlights glowed softly in contrast against the glittery sparkles of the disco ball hanging above the dancefloor. 

Jirou spun tunes at the DJ booth, Sero jamming with Kirishima unabashedly to the loud EDM in the crowd, Bakugou violently fighting against his best friend when Kirishima begged for him to come join. 

You poured drinks from behind the counter with an impassive Todoroki, bopping to the music that pumped through the air and reverberated through your bones. Your coworker continued to serve customers, strolling out into the dining area as someone waved him over. Uraraka and Aoyama, you think.

Kaminari had given you a position at his nightclub, asking if you wanted to put your bartending skills to good use since his last guy quit once he got a better gig. You accepted immediately.

You bustled around the back of the counter of the bar, glass shelves stocked with liquor high behind you. Polishing glasses, you handled several things at once as customers put in orders and talked to you all at once.

Tonight was a celebration and a bunch of your friends were here. 

Bakugou was now begrudgingly dancing with Kirishima on the dancefloor, the permanent scowl on his face growing once Todoroki leaned over and casually noted how much he resembled a put off skunk in that moment. Midoriya had to intervene and drag away a clueless Todoroki while Kirishima wrangled back a furious pomeranian. 

Kaminari hung out with Yaoyorozu by Jirou, Shoji and Ojiro drifting over to them as soon as they stepped in through the front door.

Excitement thrummed through your veins at all the familiar faces. With all your friends in one place, you were eager to see the one person you had been looking forward to catching up with all week.

He should be getting off of work soon…

A ring from the doorbell as it opened caught your attention.

“I’ll be right with you!!” You called as the figure who had just shuffled through the door of the bar sat down at the counter.

“No worries.” The man responded smoothly despite his tired tone. “Take your time.”

At the sound of the familiar voice, you casted a glimpse at him, spotting ruffled purple hair and indigo hues brimming with love fixated on you.

He waved you off with a lazy grin and you fought back a smile as you continued to make the requested cocktail for the customer you were currently serving.

You had both agreed to not act with familiarity at your workplace but that didn’t stop you from putting an extra bounce in your step as you flitted around from behind the counter with grace and practiced ease to help ease Todoroki’s workload.

Shinsou’s gaze followed you as you swapped places with the dual-haired man.

He had just got off of patrol with his old mentor, Eraserhead. Kaminari had given him the day off and let him spend time with the scruffy man. And of course Aizawa wanted to spend it doing work.

Taking off his signature mask to let it hang around his neck, Shinsou set down his keys on the polished obsidian tabletop, tapping his fingers idly while he waited for you to come back, his eyes flickering to the employees’ door that led to the back.

But he had no complaints while waiting.

One of his favorite pastimes was watching you work. The grace while you floated around the crowd of people coupled with the delicate precision you used to handle each glass while you poured liquor in different combinations, he could watch you for hours on end and never be bored.

Wiping your hands on your white apron dirtied with stains from this shift, you dashed back behind the counter to send out a few plates full of food that a table had ordered.

Shinsou rested his chin in the palm of his hand nonchalantly, his tail swishing lazily from side to side as you took care of things seamlessly, picking up the influx of business that came with the busy hour.

He briefly wondered why there were only you and Todoroki waiting on tables, scowling slightly when he thought that you had to deal with waitressing on top of bartending but you didn’t seem to mind. 

With an easy smile and light shining in your eyes, you dealt with all of it with grace. 

“Hello!!”

Shinsou glanced up, one of his rare smiles threatening to break out across his face at the sight that greeted him. You were leaning over the counter towards him, spinning a pen between your fingers smoothly as you whipped out a notepad.

“What can I get for you?” You asked politely but the mischievous glint in your eye gave it away.

Shinsou had been so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear you come over. Easily enough, a smug smirk curved at the edge of his mouth and he recovered rather quickly as he chuckled.

“Just water is fine, thanks.” He said and you nodded, flashing him a quirky smile.

You got him his water within seconds and in the blink of an eye, you were back to serving others. Caught up in the craziness of the rush hour, you barely noticed a little someone toddling up to stand up behind you as the door burst open.

“Mama?”

The babysitter you hired for the night came rushing in behind him, hauling your son back frantically, wrought with worry from when he sped ahead of her. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, L/N-san, I just—”

You held up a hand to stop her, calming her down. “It’s okay, Gen. Take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong.”

In a single hurried breath, she relayed in a panicked manner that she had a family emergency to take care of. You reassured her that it was okay to go, ushering her out the door when she continued to spew out apologies for bailing like this. 

This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened and you were quite sure it wouldn’t be the last. The girl was nice and she got along great with your son but her parents struggled with their health and usually one of them or both of them landed in the hospital every week.

The stress. 

You shook your head. It was unfair to put such a young girl through something so strenuous but you didn’t have any say in it and you inserting yourself into their lives would be intrusive so you settled for supporting her whenever the opportunity presented itself. 

“Need a ride?” You asked, eyes sympathetic as you headed over to her, snatching your coat from the hook, already ready to help in any way that you could.

Gen waved her hands quickly, the smile that appeared gone as fast as it came. “That’s okay, but thank you, L/N-san!! Monoma is taking me to the hospital.”

Her knuckles turned white at how tightly she gripped the strap of her bag and your eyes softened understandingly as her boyfriend’s sports car pulled up just outside. 

“Go on.” You urged softly. “And be careful.”

“I will.”

And with that, she turned around, leaving behind a fidgeting little boy tugging on the bottom of your apron.

“Mama? Where’s she going?” Naoki pouted, cheeks puffing out. “I thought we were gonna play…”

You hid a smile, reaching behind you to pat him on the head as you expertly handled a tray of empty beers and put the glasses in the sink. As Todoroki took over for you, you bent down to ruffle his hair.

“What is it, little one?” You questioned softly and somehow your son managed to hear you above the noise and clamor of the partying going on. 

Normally, you would’ve done everything you could to keep him away from your workplace. Having your husband watch him in the back room was preferable until your shift was over. Naoki particularly enjoyed coloring. 

The last babysitter you hired before Gen ended up being careless and lost track of him, letting the small boy wander out of the house. He found you at your workplace easily enough since it was a few blocks away but you were in hysterics when he trotted in through the door with his favorite Eraserhead plushie as one of your regulars held open the door for him. 

Grandpa Shouta would never admit how much he loved the little guy but it didn’t matter. He and Hizashi constantly showered Naoki with gifts every weekend when they came over to take your family out on a shopping spree and obligatory trip to the cat café.

You didn’t have any relatives that lived close by or else you would’ve asked if they could babysit Naoki and Aizawa was out of the question since his job was just as dangerous and demanding as Shinsou’s. 

Your workplace wasn’t exactly the traditional nightclub, it was actually a very sophisticated bar with tight security and respectful customers. Rarely you got anyone new but the steady stream of regulars was more than enough to keep the place up and running. 

Nobody usually got violent when they had too much to drink but if they did, the bouncers Kendo and Tetsutetsu were both quick to throw them out of the establishment until they sobered up.

Naoki liked to cling to your legs when you were at home and since all your regulars knew of him from that little incident before, no one was surprised when the small boy tucked himself behind you shyly.

The disco music’s volume lowered a tad as Jirou realized that Naoki was with you, reducing it to a much more acceptable level for conversations to flow easier. 

Shinsou sipped his water. Gen was in and out as quickly as she came, and there was no need for him to do anything when you took care of it so fast. Besides, his son hadn’t even noticed him yet. 

Until now.

Beaming widely, Naoki faced his dad and hugged your leg. 

Shinsou fought back a fond smile, waving at him discreetly to avoid catching the attention of the others. He rolled his eyes though when his silent and goofy conversation was interrupted by a Kaminari and Sero obnoxiously hooting from the side.

You remained oblivious, cleaning up a pile of dishes to clear your workspace as Todoroki disappeared into the kitchen where Sato and Tokoyami were continuing to crank out plates of food for the night.

Tugging on your apron, Naoki’s wide eyes met yours as you knelt down to his level. He pointed to someone sitting on the opposite side as his dad.

“Mama, that man looks mean…” He whispered fearfully, cowering behind your legs as you straightened up to your full height. 

“Can I help you?” You asked with a pointed glance, tone hard as you addressed the one intimidating your son.

While any other person would’ve bristled at your icy tone, this burly man just snickered and leaned closer, making his intent clear.

Arching an eyebrow, you crossed your arms over your chest and pulled out your notepad. You hadn’t seen him around before, he must be a newcomer. 

You sighed after a beat of him just ogling you, tapping your pen to the edge of the mini spiral impatiently as you suppressed the urge to vomit at his behavior. “If you’re not going to order anything, please sit at one of the tables instead so that another customer can take your place at the bar.”

Naoki whimpered and scuttled to hide more as the man stood up. He towered over you and the little boy’s heart started to beat faster with fear.

“Oh, is that right, princess?”

You bristled at the nickname and bit the inside of your cheek to stop some very colorful words from escaping, throwing a hard side glance at your husband when he abruptly stood up with a snarl painted on his face.

Moving to stand in front of him, blocking the man’s view from Shinsou and also stopping your husband at the same time should he do anything reckless, you plastered your best customer service smile on your face.

“Please do not call me that.” You stated, making it clear that you weren’t actually asking. “If you cannot treat me with respect then you should leave.”

“Oh?” The man chuckled, the sound grating against your ears unpleasantly. “And what are you gonna do about it, sweet thing?”

Oh, that was it.

“I’m taken.” You responded dryly, crossing your arms over your chest. “I really don’t appreciate how you’re talking to me, and my husband wouldn’t either.”

He smiled a sinister smile, causing your skin to crawl. “I don’t see him.”

And Shinsou was done letting you take this disrespect.

“Hey.” He barked, standing up to take his place next to you. “If a lady tells you to back off, you listen.”

A snort came from the other and then condescending laughter followed. “Yeah right. All girls are ever good for is being a pretty little thing to show off on your arm, am I right?”

“You’re dead wrong, prick.” Shinsou hissed, indigo alight with unparalleled fury as he came up behind you, wrapping beefy arms around your waist and glaring at the guy who had the audacity to harass you like that. “You don’t talk to anybody like this, especially not my wife.”

The man should’ve taken the obvious warning and backed down but he didn’t. Instead, his interest transformed into judgement and you could visibly see the walls coming down and locking as his hatred overtook his entire being.

“Hybrid, huh?” He sneered in disgust at you. “No wonder you went after someone like her.”

Shinsou’s arms curled around you tighter protectively and he stiffened behind you, coiled like a cobra and ready to strike but you held him back again.

But before you could throw him out of Kaminari’s establishment yourself, someone beat you to it.

In two seconds flat, the man who had been snickering at you and high-fiving his buddies folded over, clutching his stomach as his expression contorted in pain.

Naoki planted his hands on his hips and nodded his head proudly as he kicked the man where it hurt. “No one talks to my Mama like that!!”

“Naoki!!” You cried out.

He had slipped away so quietly and so fast that you didn’t notice in time to stop it. 

Leaning over the counter, you spotted him blinking back at you innocently as Yaoyorozu hustled him away from the troublesome men he had just put in his place. 

Bakugou appeared, a menacing aura surrounding his broad frame as he loomed over the sniveling man now cowering beneath him.

“You’re fuckin’ lucky she asked you nicely, cause the rest of us ain’t gonna, bastard.” He snapped, explosions popping from his palms.

Twisting his arm behind his back, the fuming man marched out the front door with the captured one in his iron grip squealing like a pig, followed by Kaminari and Sero taking the others with Kirishima cracking his knuckles while flashing a smile over his shoulder, shutting the door behind him. They were going to teach him a little lesson.

Naoki raised his hands high above his head joyfully, a wide smile spread across his face. “Mama, Mama, did you see?! Did I do good?!”

Immediately, you and Shinsou rushed over to Naoki, pulling him in for a hug.

“Are you okay?!” You exclaimed, scanning over him for any injuries, making sure he isn’t hurt. “Naoki, you can’t just run off like that!! Or kick people!!”

He pouted, lowering his hands slightly. “But Papa taught me how!!”

Shinsou collapsed into a fit of laughter when he heard that and your head snapped towards him. 

Your eyes glittered with a hint of amusement, wry tone rolling off your tongue. “Did he now?”

Naoki nodded vigorously, his mop of purple hair flopping around on his head. “Yup!! He said that if someone’s mean, then they’re a bully and I can fight back!!”

At this point, you didn’t know whether you should applaud your son or scold your husband for teaching him such things. 

Yaoyorozu shook her head as you deftly tickled Naoki’s sides, making him laugh loudly. He looked so very proud of himself, rambling on and on about how he protected you against the big bad scary man, just like his daddy showed him.

Shinsou, who was leaning back against the counter casually as he observed the two of you, pushed off as his son tunneled into his legs.

“Papa, Papa, are you proud of me?” He pleaded to know, staring up at him with wide eyes just like a koala as he hugged his father’s shins.

Shinsou patted his head, brushing the wispy curls away from his eyes and chuckled. “Of course I am, squirt.”

“Toshi!!” You scolded good-naturedly, pushing up onto your feet. 

Despite the talk about how nonviolence is a better route you knew would have to come later, you simply picked up Naoki and rested him on your hip as Shinsou tapped your cheek and murmured into your ear that he was going to go check on things outside.

He tucked your hair behind your ear. “Will you be alright?”

You nodded reassuringly. “Of course. Go. But don’t beat him up too badly, love.”

Shinsou huffed out a curt laugh, the waggle of his eyebrows making you giggle, dissipating the tense atmosphere in an instant.

When he disappeared from the establishment, you took Naoki to the back room to get away from all the craziness and clamor that came with your son kicking the prick in the balls. Midoriya offered to help Todoroki with serving the food while you took care of your son.

“Here you go, little one.” You whispered as you gathered up the coloring books and crayons hidden away in the bigger desk, placing it on the smaller one Tokoyami built just for him. 

Naoki clapped his hands excitedly, making grabby hands for it, a happy noise emitting from him as soon as gave it to him. “Thank you, Mama!!”

While he busied himself with coloring in a tiger with blues and yellows, you kept him company. That was, until the door clicked open. 

You stood in a second, running over to him and flung your arms around his neck to hug him tight. Naoki remained engrossed in coloring in the Disney Princess on the page as you checked over the black panther.

“You okay?” You whispered shakily, a hint of fear slipping in as your collected façade cracked.

Shinsou rested his forehead against yours, breathing softly as he cupped your jaw. “Yes, I’m alright. Don’t worry, doll.”

The corners of your mouth twitched as you protested childishly, “... ‘m not worried.”

He exhales sharply, chuckling faintly at your characteristic stubbornness and hummed nonchalantly. “Whatever you say, princess.”

He lowered his voice, murmuring repeatedly that he was okay as your trembling fingers brushed over his bruised knuckles. They were a little busted up and bloody from a particularly hefty punch he delivered to the jerk’s jaw. He was going to feel that in the morning. 

Shinsou kept you in his embrace for as long as Naoki took to finish coloring his picture. By the time he did, you had calmed down enough to go back out and finish your shift.

Wiping sweaty palms on your uniform, you sniffled and raised your head up high. You could do this. You had come a long way from the little girl who became paralyzed at the mere sight of a drop of blood. 

He was a bit battered but he would heal. He was okay. 

As you bustled about behind the counter, fighting back a smile as Kaminari sashayed up to you and asked for your favorite so that he could give it back to you, you laughed out loud when Shinsou smacked him upside the head for doing such a thing. 

Naoki ran around, looking for more bullies to kick in the balls before Shoji caught onto what he was doing and diverted his attention to helping Jirou spin some tunes, with some earplugs in, of course, so that his hearing wasn’t damaged.

Shinsou’s cheeks colored as you stretched up on your tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his temple.

“Thank you for defending my honor.” You whispered somewhat teasingly. “It’s nice to know that my boys have my back.”

His chest rumbled with laughter and an arm looped around your middle, drawing you close to his side as the night rush slowed down and you were finally given a chance to breathe. Tail wrapping around your hip, the cool metal of his ring kissed your skin as his fingers intertwined with yours. 

Ignoring the banter of an indignant Naoki and a pouty Kaminari, Shinsou nudged his nose against your temple and sighed softly.

“Forever and always, doll.”

[achangeinpriorities]

How about for the prompt mash up, coldflash forgotten first meeting and it's not you, it's my enemies

Hmm... Both halves of Coldflash have so many enemies that it's hard to choose, but honestly, the 'forgotten first meeting' part is what I had to really think about. I'm gonna interpret it a little loosely, but here we go:

Long before he became a CSI, long before he'd ever considered going into law enforcement (and probably while he was in a bit of an ACAB mood, given that his dad was arrested), an early-teens-ish Barry decided he was going to write to someone at Iron Heights. He already wrote to his dad, in addition to visiting, but he figured, if his dad was lonely, no doubt other prisoners were too, and could he please correspond with someone who needed outside comfort.

The powers that be inside the prison decided this was the perfect way to distract one Leonard Snart from breaking out. And thus, Len got a pen pal during one of his stays. (At some point he probably puts together that his pen pal is the son of the alarmingly earnest guy they gave him as a cellmate, also to prevent him from breaking out - ask me about that headcanon sometime.)

They correspond for something like six months, long enough for them both to get fond of each other, before Len finally escapes Iron Heights and Barry hears no more from him. Barry, being young and distractible and dealing with a traumatic teenagerhood, forgets the whole thing within a year. Len doesn't *forget,* per se - I think he has too good a memory to let anything just slip away - but he actively puts it out of mind, thinking it was just one of those random acts of pity that upstanding citizens do to convince themselves they care about the less fortunate. Additionally, Len's stay in prison this time was particularly awful, with abuse from the guards, and he gets way too focused on a revenge plan to think about good-hearted pen pals. Not much comes of his revenge at this point, for reasons that will be relevant later.

Years later, Len and Barry meet face to face for the first time, and it's electric. They fight, like they do in canon, and slowly, slowly get closer. Barry's ability to throw himself wholeheartedly into loving someone scares the shit out of Len, so he's the real impediment to them getting together. They probably end up doing sex first, because I could see Len giving in to the electricity between them way faster than the Feelings, but one way or another, they're just about to the cusp of Feelings.

And then Len spots the guard who gave him trouble years ago. All those long-buried traumas, and associated revenge plans, are foremost in his mind. And that directly conflicts with Barry, who wants him to be a better person, wants him to stop killing - wants him, in short, to let go of the revenge he's wanted for years. They can get justice, Barry says. Bullshit, Len says - the system doesn't work like that. (Deep down, Barry knows he's right.)

Faced with a choice between killing his enemy and keeping his lover, Len chooses revenge, because he'll always believe the worst of himself. It's a hollow victory, just like when he killed Lewis, but it's a victory nonetheless, and he forces himself to think it's enough, because he thinks he's just lost Barry. He hasn't, of course - Barry is forgiving, and understanding of grudges that last a lifetime - but he's so caught up in this idea of himself as unworthy that he originally isn't sure he wants Barry back.

Their road back together involves, in some way, them eventually recalling their correspondence all that time ago. Barry has big feelings about the fact that he was Len's bright spot through that pain when it first happened, and that he gets to be here for him now that it's resurfaced. Len is awed anew by how much this sweet boy means to him, and even if he's not sure he deserves him, he gives himself permission to be greedy.

(And then they both get counseling because holy shit do they need it.)

[guaxinimraccoon]

Hi, I really enjoy reading all the lore behind your stories and characters, and I LOVE how you sketch things to help answer asks :) I know you've said a lot about these characters already but I'm just wondering...how would Brad respond to either of his little friends getting hurt/sick? And what about the other way around? And for good measure, is there any chance we could hear about some of your favorite *look's around suspiciously* ANGST SCENARIOS? Thank you :)

Thank you aaaaaaaaaaa I do my best to answer everyone and to give as much information as I can! It warms my heart to see people interesting in my dumb boys! (even if I don't understand HOW)

For the hurt/sick scenario, there’s actually a very related situation that once happened to them, before Brad and Siri met (this is one of my favorite g/t scenarios btw, so full of angst possibilities hehe)

OK SO, there was this one time Toby got REALLY sick and Brad had absolutely no idea what to do. He was coughing bad, had a really high fever, was trembling as a leaf and was barely able to talk, going unconscious constantly. Brad was afraid to give him medicine, he had no idea of the effects regular meds would have on his tiny body since Toby's not a human, another reason why they might cause more harm than good.

You see, Brad’s human, he doesn’t completely understand Toby’s specie, body and natural features, so who could possibly know what diseases imps can have and how to deal with them?

Another imp, of course.

But Brad didn’t know any other imps at the time.

So, in extremely despair, he did the only thing he could think of to properly help Toby: he ran to the woods close to his place, went to a spot he knew was near the Colony (as Toby had given him directions before) and started to scream for help.

As he held a warm from fever Toby in his hand, he called out for help, in the hopes there was an imp nearby and that this imp wouldn’t let their fear overcome their kindness and predisposition to help. 

He knew, because of his looks and height, he was scary, big, loud and that the smaller folks are very afraid of him, so he went practically begging, saying that he was desperate, that his friend was very sick, that he didn’t know what to do, that he wouldn’t hurt anyone and just wanted help.

It was a very stressful and tense moment to him. After many minutes of begging with no one coming to him, he started to feel very disapointed at himself for not being able to do shit for his best friend. He felt guilty for being so big and scary and that this would get Toby killed indirectly.

But, fortunately, there were two imp guards at that spot who heard everything. They took some time discussing if they should do something or just go away. In the end, they chose to reveal themselves and help Brad. Their mission is to proctet their people, and Toby is one of them. They did it with a lot of preucation and distrust, not letting Brad hold them, but Brad barely minded it, the fact that they agreed to come to his place to cure Toby was good enough.

They followed Brad to his home and took care of Toby. In the process, they learned that he really didn’t mean any harm and that weird imp was indeed with a human by his own choosing (they were planning a rescue if Toby was being kept as a pet or something, but they saw it wouldn’t be necessary). Brad was also very nice to them and thanked them a lot, slowly showing that he was worth of trust.

Eventually, Toby woke up and Brad let all his past hours worries fall over his tiny pal.

They all had cookies after that, Toby got better and Brad won two new tiny friends yay happy ending :D

For the other way around, is waaaay less dramatic djksdjsk Brad gets sick quite often since his health isn’t the best, but nothing tragic or deadly, just usual flu. But when it happens, Toby goes WILD and won’t stop fussing his human to make sure he’s taking care of himself, he even tries to fight the germs!

There are also more sensible times when Brad’s mental health gives up on him. Toby can’t do much but remind him of his meds and be there for him, to talk, to listen or to just simply be there.

He does his best at those hours, but sometimes he feels like he should do more and feel quite useless. Barely he knows that his presence is more than enough to Brad...

[astaroth1357]

The Brothers as Angels of Virtue

My Brain: Stop thinking about the Angel!Brothers. The Angel!Brothers aren’t real. Like, they’re even less real than usual.

Me: But they are real!! *puts hand over heart* They’re real to me… in my heart…!

My Brain: “Your heart” ain’t in the canon but whatever, good luck with your delusions…

Me: Oh yeah?? Well I’ll show you, Brain!! I can FORCE this to work with the canon!!!

Brain: Nani!?!

Angel of Humility, Lucifer

Lucifer obviously wasn’t the first angel, Michael and Gabriel were there before him so those two had the most hand in “mentoring” him as he grew up.

Lucifer was always Michael’s favorite from the beginning. He was a very mild-mannered and studious kid from the get-go, even if he could be a bit blunt... 

He seemed to always be willing to learn something new and even after he would all but master whatever he practiced, he’d never forget to give credit to the people who taught him along the way. His willingness to step out of the spotlight, despite his many talents, eventually earned him the virtue of “Humility.”

Lucifer was around his pre-teens when Mammon was finally created, slightly too old to be able to grow up with him super closely, but still young enough to be more approachable than Michael or the others when he needed help.

Lucifer loved little Mammon with all his heart and would try to give him advice when he could, but since Michael would keep him busy helping him on most days Mammon was left with little people to socialize with… at least until Levi came along anyway.

As time passed and he grew even older, more and more siblings became added to the family. Lucifer never ignored or forgot about a single one of them. While Michael and others concerned themselves more with the day-to-day work, he’d be the one to check in on everyone and be sure they were alright.

Michael would arrange for a lot of “family activities” while they were all still together and Lucifer would actually enjoy participating. He’d usually volunteer to be the person who’d help the youngest at the table learn how to play a game since he wasn’t very competitive himself. A lot of the goodwill his family still has for him comes from these kinds of memories… No matter what happened afterwards.

Angel of Charity, Mammon

Mammon came around a fair amount of time after Lucifer so he was the youngest angel for quite a while. 

This led him to grow up a little… wilder than the others because he used to do things to get attention. Not big things, but like break a rule here or there to get people noticing you know?

Despite his “problem child” tendencies, no one ever considered Mammon a bad apple or anything. He probably had the most compassionate heart out of all the angels, the kind of kid who offers you one of their toys when they see you’re upset, you know?

As more siblings came into the picture, Mammon had a nasty habit of spoiling them silly. Especially Levi, who was much closer to his age, and ultimately got most of the toys when they would play together and gifts afterwards. Mammon’s selfless attitude towards giving gave him the virtue of “Charity.”

Over time, Mammon began to get more and more dissatisfied with how nice the lives of angels were compared to those of humans and he started making secret trips to the human world to help out the less fortunate. Since this was tiptoeing dangerously close to meddling with human lives, Lucifer was brought in to give Mammon a different outlet for his frustration...

Lucifer placed Mammon in the guardian angel program, allowing him to pick one human whom he could help as much as he liked, so long as he followed the rules. As it would turn out, Mammon took to guardianship swimmingly and stayed in the program right up until their eventual fall… and sort of afterwards too if you think about it.

Angel of Kindness, Leviathan

After Levi was made, Mammon was SO excited to have someone close to his age around that he became his main playmate.

Levi adored Mammon back then, the two were practically inseparable when they were young. The other angels would find them running around together, the more extroverted and lively Mammon leading the way for his his shy, but sweet brother in for whatever they were doing.

When Mammon would come up with any big project ideas, Levi would be the first person he’d ask to be his “partner-in-crime.” Unfortunately, it was still very much one of those “they’re a pair, but they have two braincells between them” kind of dynamics so things would always go south quick.

One day, Mammon was determined to make breakfast for all the other angels so Michael could take a break, so he pulled in Levi to help him. Because neither of them actually knew how to cook, the kitchen turned into a disaster and they both were covered in eggs and flour when Lucifer found them...

As Levi grew up, he more or less became of the unofficial helper and confidant to all the other angels, his siblings included. In time, because he was always so willing to lend a hand with everyone else’s projects, he became pretty skilled at a lot of things as a result. People eventually took note of Levi’s good-nature and named his virtue “Kindness.”

When Mammon started acting up more and more, the other angels would try to discourage Levi from associating with him as much but he’d always be the first to stick up for his older brother. No matter how much he bent the rules, he knew that he had a good heart and always meant well in the end. That, unfortunately, wouldn’t always hold true down the line...

Angel of Chastity, Asmodeus

There was another gap between Levi’s creation and Asmo’s so yet again there was a young angel without anyone their age to play with…

Unlike Mammon’s situation, however, Asmo was at least fortunate enough to have older brothers who understood what that felt like and tried their best to play with him when they could. Lucifer did this in particular because he was worried that Asmo could start acting out like Mammon had all those years ago...

Because of the extra attention, Asmo took to Lucifer very quickly. He saw him sort of how Luke sees Michael for quite a while and wanted to help him as much as he could. Sometimes people would even joke that Asmo was like his shadow, because the little angel would follow him around and mimic whatever he did.

Because they were together so much, Lucifer did a lot to shelter Asmo from the less savory things in life... It wasn’t so much out of prudence as it was brotherly concern for the boy, Mammon was still quarreling with him about the state of the human world and he didn’t want Asmo to go down a similar path... Due to this, Asmo had a very sheltered view on life and his perpetual wide-eyed innocence earned him the virtue of “Chastity.”

After he got a little older, he started wanting to find his own identity apart from Lucifer and that was around the time that the twins were made. 

Though everyone adored the twins, Asmo loved them both most of all! He took on the role of their babysitter and wouldn’t hear anything to the contrary, though he was a much more relaxed guardian than Lucifer had been to him (mostly because he was just so soft for their cute little faces).

Angel of Temperance, Beelzebub

It was a big deal when the twins were created because it’s very rare for two angels to be made so close together, on the same day no less. Beel came first when the sun rose then Belphie second after it fell. 

Asmo was ecstatic to have a younger sibling at last and all of the other brothers were equally delighted. Though Asmo did a lot of their babysitting, Beel was still more closely drawn to Lucifer whenever he would watch them. During those times, he would notice how tired Lucifer would be whenever he got to play with them… this would come to affect him later on.

The twins were always close to each other, naturally, but there were still big differences in their personalities even back then. Beel had always been known for his even-temper and awareness of both others and himself. If Mammon was the kid who’d give you his toys, Beel was the one to listen to your problems (even if he didn’t understand them, like at all).

From a young age, Beel would quietly watch those around him. The Celestial Realm was a demanding environment and a lot of angels had a good deal of work to do... Beel connected the dots that doing all this work all the time led to a lot of stress early on.

Being a caring soul, Beel used this knowledge to intervene when he saw his brothers getting overworked and helped remind them of their limits. This would apply especially to his twin (who was pretty much his patient zero) and Lucifer, who eventually grew to rely on Beel’s advice so much he  made him part of his personal guard. His guidance and insight beyond his years eventually gave him the title of “Temperance.”

Though Beel was protective of everyone, Belphie often got most of his attention because of his tendency to push himself farther than he needed to. It was his desire to see his twin take more breaks that led him to asking Mammon if Belphie could start going to the human world and well… We know where that ends up.

Angel of Diligence, Belphegor

As the younger of the twins, all the other angels considered Belphie to be the baby of the family and treated him as such. Asmo adored him because he was just so cute, so he got coddled A LOT when compared to everyone else.

Belphie differed from his brother by being the more active of the two. While Beel would be comfortable to sit back and watch then lend a hand, Belphie always felt more better just getting up and doing whatever needed done himself, usually with a smile in the process. He would actually have to lean on Beel quite a lot because of this, since his twin could remind him to rest and take breaks.

Combine his cheerful attitude with his cute face and “baby brother” status and Belphie could always get away with quite a lot, even back then. Of all the boys, even Lucifer couldn’t bring himself to be too hard on him. That didn’t really become a problem until he got a little older though...

Beel was worried that Belphie wasn’t getting enough rest, so he convinced Mammon to start taking Belphie out with him when he went to the human world as a guardian angel. He figured that if Belphie was away from work, then he had to rest, right? Mammon agreed and that’s what sparked Belphie’s fascination with the human world to start with.

After getting to go a couple times, he would start working extra hard in order to suck up to Lucifer, Michael, or whoever he could so he could go again. When the other angels started getting concerned that he was spending too much time there, they tried to put a limit on it to keep him home. However, that just lead him to sneaking out and leaving notes for Beel on where to find him if people started noticing...

Beel tried his best to curtail his twin’s trips, but even he couldn’t really tell Belphie no when he needed to hear it. By the time Lilith came around, Belphie was already making regular trips there and back and well… That’s how the story goes.

[theepisceswriter]

Can you do a hot scene with Erwin and Zeke x f!reader with daddy kink, both of the men have a *thing* for her bc she’s such a smarty brat/ a tease. They should’ve be pissed at her but she’s way too playful🤑🤫 I leave the rest to your imagination, love your writing <33 anything you wanna add or change feel free to do it 🤍🥺

Bestie....you fr did something with this request right here. Ily for this and I’m so glad you enjoy my writing, I hope you enjoy this little Drabble!

Synopsis: Set in a modern AU, professor!Erwin and his teacher assistant!Zeke both have the hots for one of their students and decide to invite her over for dinner one night so they can all release their shared tension.

TW: Mature things obviously, fembodied!reader (she/her pronouns), face fucking, oral (fem recieving), degradation, daddy kink, teacher/student, threesome, 18+, MINORS DNI! (these are for the drabble underneath the read more)

Word Count: Google docs was trippin so I wasn’t able to get the word count, but just know it’s a 2k+ mini drabble underneath the readmore 

Headcanons

Let me set the scene for you; Erwin is a professor at your college, teaching a small world history evening class and Zeke is his TA basically, acting as a teacher himself sometimes but mostly doing things like helping grade papers, helping students with their work, or working as Erwin’s fulltime assistant. Needless to say, you interact with the two of them on a daily basis quite a lot and it’s no secret to the other students that you’re most definitely their favorite, taking most of their attention away from everyone else. But they could care less, they’re not as passionate about the class or as eager to learn like you; another factor that drew Erwin and Zeke to you. 

You’re a confident, strong book-savvy student who’s always ready to debate and bicker someone, snarky remarks leaving your mouth in an instant, and Zeke and Erwin always end up being the victim of those. Bickers and debates over information lasting the whole class session almost, either you winning and leaving them red in the face or them winning with a smug expression on their features and you storming out the classroom in annoyance. You all meet each other’s energy so well that you can’t help but clash from time to time, but the three of you do get along pretty well. Many times you’ve found yourself lingering after class to talk with them about everything and nothing like you’re all just good friends catching up. Your bond is definitely an interesting one.

It’s after one of these routine after-class talks that they invite you over formally for once, a dinner at Zeke’s house with Erwin and how could you possibly say no to that? A chance to be alone with your hot history teacher and his sexy teacher assistant.

You didn’t expect to be this nervous as you walked down the corridor leading to Zeke’s apartment yet here you were, fingers fidgeting with the rings on your fingers and your toes awkwardly rubbing against each other the closer you got. All the confidence that made your hips swing from left to right as you entered the classroom like you owned the whole school, the usual overtly confident y/n that they were used to was dwindling down into a nervous wreck. But you couldn’t let them see that, let them know the effect that they had on you, so you swallowed those anxious feelings as if they would be digested by your stomach and let a look of smugness take over your features as you made your way up to the door. Your hand ghosted over the cold wood, curling your fingers into a fist ready to knock but before you could even make contact with the door it was swinging open, greeting you with the sight of a smirking Zeke. He wore slacks with a beige plaid pattern going over them, a creme-colored shirt to match the brown of his pants, and an elongated dark brown coat that brought out the lightness of his round glasses perfectly. 

“You look very nice tonight,” You complimented him for once as you made your way inside the apartment, “Finally you don’t look like a caveman for once.” The joke didn’t go over his head at all, him choosing only to acknowledge it with a dry chuckle. “Good evening to you too Ms. /l/n, You look mighty fine yourself.”

It was then that your confidence came rushing back to you as you remembered the outfit that adorned your body. It was a simple silky champagne pink bodycon dress with a corset-like top, but on you, it fit like a supermodel. The dress hugging every curve and dip on your body and showing off a little more cleavage than expected, your nipples even poking out through the thin fabric, but you couldn’t have picked out an outfit more perfect for this night. The constant glances Zeke took unremorsefully at where the dress stopped at the high of your thighs let you know that it was a great choice. Lips curling up into a smile as you thanked him. 

 “Where’s Professor Smith?”

“Just over here in the kitchen, follow me.”

Is this where being a teacher assistant got Zeke? You couldn’t help but admire the decor and set up of his home as he led you through the hallway and living room to the kitchen where Erwin was standing with his back faced to the two of you, broad shoulders contracting and going back to their original form with every shake of the pan in front of him. He was cooking? That’s something you definitely didn’t expect to see, thinking they’d opt-out for takeout for the night, but it just made the night feel more genuine than it already was.

“I thought I had heard you come in, y/n.” Erwin’s rich and smooth voice infiltrated your ears bringing you out of your thoughts. The same smile on your lips from when you thanked Zeke for his compliment earlier. “And please, leave Professor Smith for school. Call me Erwin.” 

“Erwin.” You repeated with a nod, butterflies erupting in your stomach and your cheeks warming up from the wink that followed after his words. “I’m surprised to see you cooking. I was sure you two would have takeout ready on the table when I came. Probably something cheap too like Chili’s.’ You jabbed at them, taking your place at the table while Zeke situated himself against the arch of the opening of the kitchen. Most people would’ve been offended by such a remark, hurt even, but they were so used to your snarkiness that all they could do was chuckle in return.

“Chili’s? No, Mcdonald’s would’ve been more fitting for you.” Zeke messed with you back, warranting your tongue to stick out at him in a childish manner.

“Calm down children,” Erwin joins in on the teasing as he makes his way to the table with three steaks and bowls filled with sides in his other arm, Zeke going over to help him. Dinner wasn’t too eventful, but it was enjoyable. Most of the time wasted away with the three of you talking about various topics the conversation swayed towards like how you usually did. 

The three of you had decided to relocate to the living room after finishing dinner, now washing it down with a glass of wine as you three sat down silently enjoying each other’s company. But silence wasn’t your forte, so it didn’t take long at all for you to move from your position between them on the couch. Both of their eyebrows raised in confusion as they watched you search around the small area looking for whatever it was you were looking for, not knowing what to expect since you were, well, you after all. 

“Found it!” You announced in a sing-song voice as you shimmied your way over the vintage phonograph vinyl player sitting in the middle of Zeke’s living room that must’ve cost him a fortune. And if it didn’t then the extensive rack of vinyl records sitting next to it definitely did. You squatted down so you were face to face with the rack and if you weren’t facing the other direction you would’ve saw the way both of their eyes immediately traveled down to your ass in the squatting position you were in before blue eyes met brown ones, a silent nod signifying confirmation of some sort between the two. 

Any genre or artist you could think of occupied the shelves, your finger skimming over each and every one until you found one that you craved to hear. Soon the soft melodies of the instruments on the smooth jazz record infiltrated the living room, your body contorting and twisting in a sensual way with each beat that hit your ears. The closing of your eyes really showing how into it you were, arms wrapping around your own body like the two men weren’t watching from not too far away as you put on a show like you were in the comfort of your own room. What a tease, the two men thought to themselves, shifting and manspreading to try and soothe the uncomfortable ache between your legs that you were causing. You knew exactly what you were doing because this wasn’t the first time at all that you had done it. Plenty of times you showed up to class with a shirt on that revealed just a little too much or a skirt that practically put your whole lower body on display, legs spreading purposefully whenever you saw one of their eyes travel to the underside of your opened desk. You did everything in your power to make them succumb to their--no, your desires but it wasn’t until now that they let themselves be selfish.

Zeke was the first one to move from his position on the couch to make his way over to you, calloused hands grabbing at your sides and pulling you closer to his torso as he began to sway along with you, hands moving from your hips and letting them explore the surrounding skin before cheekily slapping your ass and earning a small yelp out of you. Erwin simply watched from the couch, for the time being, still sipping on his wine waiting on his opportunity to slip himself in. 

“I figured this would happen eventually,” Zeke finally spoke up, “I just imagined something a lot less sensual; you bent over the desk in the classroom or something.” 

Before you could counter his words with a sassy remark he moved his lips against yours, gently letting them ghost over yours for a second or two and even going as far as teasing you by rubbing them against yours before he finally indulged you with a kiss. The taste of wine and savoriness from dinner still lingering on both of your tongues as you deepened the kiss. Swirling your tongue around in a way that had precum dripping from the tip of his cock as he thought about how good it might feel if it was there instead, slurping the opaque liquid up. As much as you wanted to keep kissing him and let your tongues explore each other he decided that it was time to pull away, trailing kisses from the corner of your mouth to your neck where he gently let his teeth graze over the sensitive flesh, warranting a gentle moan from you.

It was like music to his ears and immediately he decided that he wanted to pull more from your plush lips, letting his kisses trail farther down until his lips were over one of your nipples protruding from the silk fabric, swirling his tongue around the sensitive nub at a painstakingly slow pace that made you want to shove him away from you completely for denying you pleasure.

“No bra on? What a lewd thing to do, but I wouldn’t expect anything like from someone like you.” He murmured against the fabric.

“Someone like me? What’s that supposed to mean?” You questioned, still a bite to your tone like earlier.

“A slut.” Erwin answered for him and it wasn’t until now that you noticed his presence from behind you, chiseled chest pressed up against your back and his breath fanning across your neck distracting you from the hand he brought up to rest at the nape at it. His other hand going down to scrunch your dress up around your waist. Revealing your lacy underwear to their doting eyes and especially to Zeke who was now dropping down to his knees in front of you. “She’s soaking fucking wet. Her panties are dripping with wetness.” 

“You think we didn’t notice all your advances? All the times you traded your integrity just to get our attention like the bad girl you are, huh?” Erwin’s hand moved from the nape of your neck to the front of it, gently squeezing it with his hand and forcing you to look up at him. A chastising look on his features as he stared down at you, making you feel so little and small compared to his towering structure.

You had no words to respond to him with, too caught up in a daze in your head thinking that this couldn’t be true, that this was a dream you were going to wake up from in a couple of minutes. But it was the warmth of Zeke’s tongue prodding at your clit that brought you back to your senses, eyes widening in shock as you looked up at your professor. This was really happening.

“Hm, looks like the brat doesn’t have anything else to say.”

“I think I like her better like this anyway.” The blonde between your legs mumbles, sending a vibrational tingle up your spine and leaving your legs wobbling. He was so messy with it, tongue devouring you like you were the 2nd course on the menu tonight. You diverted your eyes down to him for a second, his staring right back up at you as he feverously worked his tongue against you. Your juices mixed with his saliva already wetting your thighs up along with his beard.

“Oh god, that f-feels so good.” You let out in a choked moan, knees daring to buckle on you and make you fall to the floor, but Erwin’s death grip around your torso stopped such from happening. Which you were also grateful, but that also meant you weren’t able to buck your hips up into Zeke’s face or swivel them the way you wanted to; taking away any sense of control you thought you had. It wasn’t too long after that you were releasing all over his beard, wetting it up as your insides clenched around nothing, desperately wanting one of their cocks to stuff you up and satisfy that craving. 

Even after your orgasm, he didn’t stop. The pace of his tongue showed no sign of stopping and just to add to the sweet torture you felt two slender fingers entering your hole, a loud moan emitting from your lips in response. “I can’t take it. Too much.” You let out in a ragged breath.

“Come on, sweetheart. You can give us one more. You can take it. You don’t have any choice matter of fact, you’re going to give us as many as we want from you. Maybe if you weren’t so bratty things would be different.” Mouth too occupied on you, all Zeke could do was hum against you in agreeance. 

“Erwin--” 

“Aht, it’s daddy or professor to you from here on out.” Oh

“Daddy,” You quickly corrected yourself with a whine, “I can’t take it anymore. M’too sensitive. I need more. I w-want you inside of me.” Luckily for you, Zeke’s tongue was getting tired from being on you and he was quick to get off of his knees at your request to Erwin. “Look at the begging slut now. You weren’t like that when you first came. Guess you really are just all bark and no bite.” He teased you, fingers going to your nipples and pinching at them. You couldn’t even reply if you wanted to because his lips were on you like earlier forcing you to taste yourself on your tongue. And to your surprise Erwin joined in as well, leaning over from behind you and inserting himself to make a 3-way kiss that had all your tongues entangled with one another’s; everyone getting a taste of you.

“Zeke go sit on the couch and let y/n return the favor.” The older man spoke up after pulling away. Everyone moving away from such close proximity of each other so you could all go to your positions over on the couch. By the time you turned around to head in that direction Zeke was already sitting on the couch with his cock free and sprung up against his stomach, twitching in your direction as he awaited your arrival. Erwin on the other hand was nowhere to be found, completely gone from your view, but you didn’t let that stop you from making your way over to the bearded mand; dropping on your knees as soon as you were in front of him. 

Your hands move to engulf his thick cock with your hands, jerking it a few times and spreading around the pre-cum that cumulated on his tip before you began to lower your head. You were getting ready to bring his tip past your lips when the feeling of two broad hands gripping the crevice between your stomach and hips stopped you abruptly, presumably Erwin behind you getting ready to do something. You went to look behind you to confirm you suspicion only to be stopped by Zeke’s hand roughly grabbing at your chin forcing you to look up at him again. 

“Nobody told you to stop or look behind you. Get back to work.” It was pathetic how much they were able to break you down in such a small amount of time because without a second thought you did exactly what he told you to do, slipping his cock past your lips and gently sucking on it while simultaneously running your tongue over the flushed tip. “And here I was thinking your mouth was only good for arguing.” He groaned out, earning a chuckle from the other man behind you. 

Without the slightest bit of warning, Erwin is sliding his cock into you from behind, the mixture of Zeke’s saliva and your cum acting as a natural lubricant; allowing him to slip in and out of you as he pleased at a pace that made it so you were gagging on cock without hardly moving your head. Your hips also smacking against your professor’s without even moving them. It was like you were their personal sex toy and no longer one of their students, but this wasn’t even the beginning of it. They were nowhere near done with you. 

[obae-me]

Hi! It said requests were open so here is one. So pretty much how the brothers would react to an MC who says "I love you" after they had helped them with something. Thats something I do regularly, like someone helps them and they respond with "Oh my gosh I love you, thank you so much!" Cause. Affection. Idk, i just found the idea to be cute.

This is such a cute idea! I hope I pulled it off okay, for some reason Belphie’s is a bit angsty because I like pain I guess, but most of it is fluff! Thank you for your suggestion! 💜

Lucifer

He openly admitted it caught him off guard at first. What he will never admit is how harshly the air escaped from his lungs. Or how quickly his mind went blank at the words. 

He had simply brought MC some tea, noticing how hard they had been studying. Working day and night to try to catch up and understand topics demons themselves had spent decades learning. He was proud of them for working so hard. He settled the tea down by them, watching them beam with appreciation. 

“Is that for me?” 

Their question elicited an amused hum from him. “Is there anyone else in here?” 

They wrapped their fingers around it excitedly, entirely grateful. “Ugh, thank you, I love you, I needed this.” 

He had been lucky he settled the teacup down before they spoke. Had it remained in his hands, he most assuredly would’ve dropped it, or spilt the contents at the very least. He was not prepared at all. They hadn’t been down here nearly long enough to fall in love with him, right? Was he that alluring? He must’ve done something wrong, he was sure he had been focused solely on being intimidating. He didn’t remember doing anything in particular to elicit such a response. He was flattered, but...maybe--surely-- he had heard incorrectly. 

“You…” He blinked a few times as he shoved his emotions into the back of his mind, the silent screaming in his head muffled by his usual calm exterior. “..love me?”

MC covered their mouth with their hands, recognizing his confusion no matter how hard he tried to hide it. “No, no!” 

Well now he was a bit irritated, and secretly disappointed even. Were they playing a joke on him? 

They stammered and turned more in their seat to look at him. “What I mean is, I just kinda use the term ‘I love you’ as a general term, not an…” They blushed, “..intimate one. I say it all the time to people, I’m really sorry for confusing you. I’ll try not to say it as casually.” 

It was a bit unusual to hear something like that thrown around so often, it reminded him of his days in the Celestial Realm, love thrown around at the drop of a hat. The Devildom was a lot less...affectionate. He shook his head, any sign of his surprise now completely gone from view. “Don’t change a harmless habit like that for me, I just wasn’t expecting it. I’ll know now for the future.” 

It takes him quite a while to get used to it, taking every ounce of concentration not to blush whenever MC says that they love him. Once he does get used to it, he’s fond of it and may or may not continually go out of his way to perform some simple gesture to encourage them to say it to him more often. It takes even longer after that for him to finally respond with “I love you too” making them stop dead in their tracks, heart fluttering, mouth ajar, much like he did that first day when he brought them a simple cup of tea. He relished the look on their face.

How such a human stirred up these feelings within him is beyond his understanding. 

Mammon 

He was an open mess when MC first expressed it to him. He’d done what? Just find a pretty rock on the ground? It was shiny and smooth, surely worth a fortune, but when he went to see how much it was worth, it was declared utterly worthless. So he gave it to MC--but only because it was useless okay?! It’s not like he likes MC or anything, that’s not what this is about. Obviously.

He handed it over, acting casual, like it was nothing. Their eyes lit up at it, watching it glint mesmerizing colors in the moonlight, reacting like it might as well have been a diamond. “Whaaat, it’s so cool, I love you, thank you!” 

“Don’t say I never do anything for-” It had taken a few seconds to process, but once he realized the words that had come out of their mouth, he went frozen. Rigid. His other brothers might’ve called it a miracle. His jaw was open, his glasses had somehow slipped to the end of his nose, threatening to fall off. He didn’t even blink.

“I’m sorry, I guess demons aren’t quite used to that huh? I use it as a friendly term, I used to say it to my friends all the time back home.” 

He was still as stone for a good long time, gradually building up the concern in MC’s chest the more he was reactionless. Had they broken him? Once he finally gathered his one erratic brain cell in order, it was like someone hit a sudden unpause. He quickly puffed out his chest with both his hands on his hips. The explanation they gave him went in through one ear and out the other, as he was still focused on the ‘I love you’. 

“Don’t freak me out like that, human, but of- of course if you were to love someone, it’d be me, eh? I don’t blame you, it would be hard to resist the Great Mammon.” 

He’ll get a big head about it, strutting around, bragging to anyone who would listen--not that he gave them a say on the matter--that MC expressed they loved him. Doesn’t matter if there were romantic intentions or not, MC loved him, and he wouldn’t let it go. He’ll ignore the fact that MC will say that to most anyone.

“Yeah, well, when they say that about me, it’s different!” Or he’ll put on an act. “Yeah? Not like I care about some dumb human!” 

The more he takes time to know MC, the more possessive he acts, and he gets a little bent out of shape anytime MC says ‘I love you’ so casually to anyone other than him. Mostly because he’s greedy for it, he wants those words to be his and his alone. He wants MC to be his...and his alone. 

“Oi, MC, you can’t just go saying that to anyone...It’s our thing...you know?” He’ll get endlessly teased about it by everyone in the household, but no matter how much he gets pestered about it, he still wants to hear MC say it.

Only if things get romantic between them, will he be vulnerable with MC. Whenever they’re alone, he’ll get in close, melting against MC’s touch. With MC he can feel these strange and addicting feelings. With his hidden insecurities coming to light, he’ll ask MC the same question every night. “You love me, right? Like...love love me?...I...love love you too.”

Levi 

MC had been convinced they gave the poor boy an actual heart attack. Although, to be perfectly fair, almost anything MC does puts Levi in a tizzy. It’s not their fault, he’s just sensitive. 

They had been playing games together, nothing too unusual. Together, MC and Levi, the Best Friend Duo, battled an intense match against other real players. It had been close, but with both of their talents combined (admittedly Levi doing a lot of impressive carrying) they managed to strike victorious. 

MC felt a rush, their head tingling a bit. They had been on the edge of their seat the whole time, positively exhilarated when they won. “Whoo! That was all thanks to you, Levi! I love you!” 

First, MC heard the controller clatter out of his hands. They turned to look at him, his face went completely red, his eyes flicking back and forth out of control, not focusing on anything in particular. He had a hand clutching over his chest. Then to add on top of that, he completely collapsed. 

“Levi!” MC’s shout was loud enough to bring some of his other brothers to check the commotion. After a short examination, they declared that Levi was fine, just dazed and lightheaded, although the color in his face refused to go away for quite some time. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, I meant it in a friendly way.” 

He’ll end up locking himself in his room for days on end after the event, trying to wrap his head around how ‘I love you’ and ‘friendly’ could ever be even remotely the same. That’s not how it’s supposed to go! It’s supposed to be like...like in fiction where both of the love interests are alone, finally having the chance to meet up under a pretty sky, possibly under strenuous circumstances beyond their control, inevitably forcing them to admit their feelings! 

He’ll get over it, he always does, but when he comes back he finds out MC now deliberately avoids saying ‘I love you’ to him. They meant it for his own safety, truly, but his Envy is now rubbing away at his normal shy personality. 

It'll get to the point where he can’t hold back anymore. “How come you tell everyone else you love them but me!” 

“Because last time...you collapsed, and then went MIA for almost a week! I didn’t want to hurt you anymore. Is this not what you wanted?”

He ends up using his arm to cover his burning face. “I...I...I...I…” After several more consecutive ‘I’s, Levi finally tells MC that he didn’t want to be treated differently, he wanted MC to tell him that they loved him too. “Because I...lo..lo...lov...I appreciate you, MC!” 

MC will chuckle a little, giving him one of his favorite headpats. “I love you too, Levi.” He doesn’t collapse this time, but feels his knees get a little weak. He refuses to remove his arm from his face because now there are fresh tears flooding from his eyes that he doesn’t want MC to see. He loves them too, so much his physical body can’t handle it. Even if he doesn’t have the courage yet to say it, he’ll tell them one day. 

Satan 

He’s quite angry with himself for how he reacted, which isn’t a huge surprise. He does wish he would’ve handled it better, but he had no idea those three words would be sprung on him so suddenly. 

He’s usually quite down to earth, but not even the many romance novels he’s read--and if you tell anyone that he reads gushy romance novels, he will kill you--had prepared him for this. Where was the buildup, the slow rising passion before the eventual confession? Despite occasional temper tantrums and pranking tendencies, he’s truly an old soul. He’s a ‘my dearest, shall we take a stroll, and perhaps, should our shoulders brush, would you permit me a show of boldness, of passion, I dream for the day our fingers intertwine’ kinda guy. So MC’s ‘I love you’ was many chapters early for him. 

He’d crossed paths with MC near the front door to the House of Lamentation. MC had just gotten back from RAD, being kept by Diavolo himself. Every one and a while, after classes, Diavolo personally checks up on them to discuss the program. Meanwhile, the demon of wrath was just on his way out, a full stack of books in his arms. 

“Hey, Satan, where’re you off to?” MC attempted to catch his gaze behind the many tomes stacked against his chest. 

“Ah, off to return these books back to the Library.” Some hair fell before his face, but with the absence of free hands, he utilized a puff of air from his mouth to blow the strands away. 

“I see, be safe then, love you!” 

The words caught him off guard, and with his focus distracted, his foot caught against an unfortunate crack in the pathway. He tumbled, the books in his arms scattering themselves all over the front yard. MC turned and attempted to help, but with Satan’s panicked scramble, he ended up smacking his head against MC’s. 

“My-uh-apologies-I-” He stuttered while he frantically tried picking up the books, only to have some continue to slip from his arms. 

“Here, use my bag,” MC opened the backpack that had been around their shoulders. It was already full of some textbooks and assignments, but it was enough to lessen some of the struggle. He gave them a small thank you as he slung the bag over his shoulder, the remaining stragglers tucked under his arm. He waited till MC went back into the house, and then he angrily tore the front gate off its hinges. He looked like such an idiot just now. 

He knows MC means not much of it other than general affection, once he thinks about it. Alongside Lucifer, anytime MC now says it, he’ll act unaffected by it. The truth is, the never ending rage burning beside him magically subsides anytime those words fall from their lips. 

If he works softly and intelligently enough, perhaps he’ll have forged a tight enough bond where MC can say it for real, and the fire in his soul can find some peace. 

Asmo

Honestly, despite his over dramatizations and flamboyant nature, he’s the least affected out of all the brothers. Trust him, he’s had plenty of demons try to crawl their way back to him after a night of fun, insisting that they’re in love with him. So, he’s heard it a lot, and it’s not his favorite. That being said, he discovered that MC is probably the only one he’ll tolerate the dreaded L word with. 

He’d sat there, working on MC’s nails, giving them one of his—as he calls it—Asmo-tastic manicures. MC appreciates the pampering, even if Asmo uses it mostly as an excuse to hold hands and get close to the human. 

When Asmo was complete, MC looked down at their newly soft hands with beautifully decorated nails, feeling a bit closer to the demons now that they had matching manicures. “It’s beautiful, Asmo, I love you, thanks!”

His chest did flutter a bit, and he let out a stream of giddy giggles as he pressed MC into him for a hug. “MC, you’re so cute, I can’t take it!” 

He had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t use the words ‘I love you’ ever, no matter what, but if MC was using it so casually, why can’t he, it didn’t mean much of anything right? He quickly turns a 180 on the idea, and says it as often to MC as he can. 

“Bye, MC, love you, dear! You’re wearing the outfit I gave you? I love you!” But his new form of affection is now not just centered towards the human, it’s now directed towards his brothers as well. No one is safe. “You’re giving me this, Lucifer? I love you! Beel, a snack for me? I love you!” 

He’s such a hype man, and the affection spreading throughout the House of Lamentation by his and MC’s hand is infectious. Even if they don’t mean to, simply Asmo’s added influence has the brothers saying ‘I love you’ to each other more often, which has led to plenty of entertaining moments. Mammon said it once to Lucifer on accident, which admittedly filled the eldest with a bit of pride, especially at seeing Mammon’s mortified face. Beel and Belphie have no problem saying it between themselves, although it leaves them softer than they had been in a while. But perhaps the most shocking of them all was when Lucifer sleepily mumbled it to Satan, who then parroted it back to him without thinking. Both were a bit flustered, but Satan was so angry about it he wanted to tear both Lucifer’s and his own tongue out. The two refuse to talk about it, but they were both a little softer to each other that week. 

But why are we talking about the others? This should be all about Asmo! You know how when someone continually says something out of irony after a while they end up speaking it unironically? That’s what was happening to Asmo, much to his confusion and unfortunately his fear. He had never...loved someone before, not in a romantic way, it was too much commitment, it was too much...emotion. But the more he continued telling MC he loved them...the more he started to believe it. The more he noticed the little things about them that he couldn’t get enough of. So one day, he stopped saying ‘I love you’ altogether.

MC met with him in private, concerned over his new out of character action. “Asmo? What’s wrong, I noticed you’ve been...distant, which isn’t like you.” 

Of course they would notice, they always did. “Oh...MC...I…” For once, he was actually shy, covering up his own beautiful face to hide, an incomprehensible action. He could barely speak, he was so...scared? “MC I think...I...I think I love you.”

Beel 

He was second place in the ‘staying calm’ category when MC said it. He’s a family man, loving those around him is in his nature. So hearing MC say those words, he merely took it as a family thing, and he was all too happy to bring MC into the family. 

He noticed MC had been looking just a bit run down, and so, he shared a single snack with them. They practically glowed, looking up at him with a heart-melting smile. “Thanks Beel, I love you, thank you!” 

Suddenly the food he was eating tasted ten times better, and he had been fully convinced for a while that it was some magic spell MC put on him. He almost ends up crying. Honestly, it’s been such a long time since he’s heard words like those. He didn’t realize how starved he was for affection. He pulls them into a tight hug that lasts for several minutes. He let them go eventually, but only because he needed hands to eat. He continued to scarf down the mouth-watering food, although the ache in his stomach wasn’t as pronounced as it had been. 

He ends up giving MC a little snack anytime they say ‘I love you’, because he finds them adorable, and his way of reciprocating affection is with food. He loves MC immensely, so it’s only natural he shares his favorite things with them. Only, he was unaware that he was more or less training MC and himself by doing this. In fact, it was unbeknownst to everyone save Satan, who is very aware of what Pavlov’s Theory is. Satan doesn’t say anything though, he wants to see how this plays out. 

The more MC says ‘I love you’ the more they get rewarded by Beel, and the demon has now conditioned himself by associating food with MC’s tenderness and endearment. MC steadily increases the time they spend with the demon of gluttony, almost stuck to his side as often as Belphie. MC finds they can’t help but smother him with love and affection, which Beel can’t get enough of since gluttony is his sin. And Beel discovered that he always has some sort of treat on hand that he refuses to touch because it’s MC’s. 

The day MC finally caught on was the day Satan finally intervened. He himself spent some private time with MC, and, much like Beel had for a while now, he gave MC an unsolicited treat. 

They hardly looked at him as they instinctively stated, “I love you!” Then ended up pausing for a long time. Satan teased them mercilessly before he explained, and MC felt their entire body grow hot with embarrassment. However, they took this opportunity to do something for Beel in return. They prepared a big meal for him, texting him to bring him down into the dining room, just for the two of them. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the banquet, but for once, his first instinct wasn’t to eat. He wrapped MC tightly in his arms, tears almost streaming down his face. MC’s presence seemed to satiate him almost as well as a twelve course meal. 

“I love you, MC! I love you so much!” 

Belphie

As shocking as it is, Belphie reacted the most severely. Which if you actually take the time to think about it, probably isn’t that surprising at the end of the day. It was the last thing he expected to hear, especially after everything that happened. 

All he had done was run into MC in the hall. Lucifer had called Light’s Out and anyone who didn’t want to be punished would be heading straight to bed. Since he sleeps all day, he was fairly awake at this hour, not to mention recently he had felt annoyingly restless. Finally free to roam the house like he wished left him wandering and wanting. There was still something he needed, but he wasn’t sure what. MC stepped past him to get to their room, already looking exhausted, a large yawn escaping their lungs. 

“Heading to bed?” They asked him, and he still found it difficult to bring his eyes up to theirs. 

“Maybe soon.” He acted nonchalant. 

MC rubbed their eyes, gently touching his shoulder as they passed. “Okay, love ya, get some good rest.” 

He was grateful MC had immediately walked into their room, because he wasn’t prepared for how extreme his body would react. He found the energy upholding his legs went missing, and he had to lean against the closest wall to keep from crumpling to the ground. He continued to try to trick himself into believing he didn’t care. They were a human, he didn’t care, why would he care? Why should he feel guilty for everything he’d done? He was a demon, a monster, he’d embraced that when he fell, or he thought he did. But...being around MC...it made him feel like he was back in the Celestial Realm, filled with hope, with love, something he was sure he’d never truly feel again. 

He recalled before the inevitable fall what his dear sister had told him before his life had been shattered before his eyes. “Remember Belphie, I love you.” 

He couldn’t hold himself up any longer, clutching his pillow to his chest as the hole in his heart he had filled with sleep and anger crumbled away. He pressed his face deep into the fluff of the cushion as he sobbed. His heart felt like it was stinging like wounds often do when they’re cleaned and healing. It hurt. It threatened to break him. He had tried avoiding feelings. How could MC be so nice to him after everything? What had he done to deserve it? 

Beel, influenced by the magical connected emotions to his twin, left everything he had been eating behind to come get him immediately. The intense pounding in his chest worried him to no end, he needed to find Belphie now. He found the demon of sloth curled up on the floor of the hallway, convulsing and shaking from violently crying. Beel hated seeing his beloved brother like this, but on the inside he was secretly thankful. He knew Belphie couldn’t keep acting like nothing mattered, it wasn’t healthy. He was finally coming to terms with everything, opening the door to finally, after all this time, being able to move on. 

The next time the human sees the youngest brother, they see that he’s a little more aware, maybe not quite awake, but mindful of the people around him. For once, he talks about what he’s going to do in the future, looking forward instead of repeating broken events of the past. He finds that being around MC, if they’ll let him, helps the feeling in his ribs hurt a bit less, that the personality he thought had been locked up was starting to escape. Life itself matters a bit more than it used to. He has to be ready though, because he can’t afford to cry in front of his brothers the next time MC tells him ‘I love you’. Even if they think nothing by it, it means more than the world to him. But as always, he’ll act apathetic about it. 

He’s working on it though, and all because MC showed him a bit of kindness despite his unforgivable actions. All he needed was a bit of love.

[writemywaytoyourheart]

Aim For The Heart Chapter 4: New and Old

Pairing: hitman!jk x female reader

Genre: E2L, romance, drama, angst

WC: 3.5k im sorry she’s short :(

Warnings for this chapter: strong language, jk is a lying sh*t, a knife is mentioned but not used, alcohol consumption

Tag list; @hopekookies @moonchild1 @barbellastyles98 @teresaisla @ggukkieland @mwitsmejk @scuzmunkie @sugaslittlekookies @jaebeomsblackgf @moon-asia  @yoonchrisgullwrites @armyhollander

summary; Jeon Jungkook is an infamous hitman, known for his inability to fail at whatever job is thrown his way. At least, up until now. Y/n, a kind-hearted and full of life teacher, is his newest target. Jeon isn’t sure who would put a hit on this seemingly innocent girl, but fortunately, that isn’t his problem. All he has to do is pull the trigger.

Previous → Next

"What made you want to be a teacher?" Jungkook asks as the two of you stroll over to a trashcan to throw away your trash. 

"I've j-just always loved working with k-kids," You say with a bright smile. "I guess I th-thought why not teach? Y-You know?" You look up at him and he nods.

You turn to look around you, then you get distracted and point to an ice cream stand, "Ohh, I'll b-buy us some ice cream."

Jungkook shrugs, "Sure." 

You do your little run over to the stand and Jungkook finds himself biting back a laugh. He catches himself though, why the hell are you laughing? She's trying to throw you off track. 

Jungkook hurries over when you wave to him.

Keep your head on straight, Jungkook.

"W-What kind would you like, J-Jungkook?" You ask sweetly, watching him with big eyes. 

Jungkook clears his throat and glances at the menu, "Uh, I'll take a scoop of mint chocolate chip." 

You walk up to the man at the stand, he smiles when he recognizes the girl that always stops by his stand for a scoop of ice cream. 

"Hello!" You say cheerfully and the man bows, "Hello again, missy! What can I get for you today?"

"Mm, c-can I please get one s-scoop of-" You turn back to Jungkook, "You sure y-you only want o-one scoop?" 

Jungkook nods and smiles, but again, the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

You turn back and finish your order, "One s-scoop of mint chocolate ch-chip and two scoops of p-plain chocolate please."

The kind man nods and makes your order quickly, then you hand him your card. After he swipes it, he hands it back to you along with your two ice creams.

Before you can grab them though, Jungkook's arms wrap around from behind you and he snags them.

You feel your heartbeat increase and try to control your breathing. Jungkook is unaffected as he simply smiles at you and hands you your chocolate ice cream when you turn around. 

"Thank you," Jungkook says before taking a big bite. 

You smile, hoping your cheeks aren't as red as they feel, "Y-You're welcome."

You two continue on your walk, both of you eating your ice cream and making small conversation, then you take Jungkook by surprise when you suddenly speak up with a mouthful of ice cream and a very random question. 

"Do you w-want to have kids in the f-future?" You ask casually as if that isn't an intrusive question at all. 

Jungkook swallows the bite he had in his mouth, "Uh, I haven't really thought about it much. But, probably not."

"Why n-not?" You ask, very curious. 

Jungkook clears his throat awkwardly, "I don't know...I just-... I don't think I'm cut out to have kids."

Why the hell is he having this conversation with one of his targets?

If a few weeks ago he could see himself now, he'd disown his own self.

"I think y-you would make a g-great father." You say in a matter-of-fact tone, "I just h-have a feeling."

"Uh, thanks." Jungkook takes another bite of ice cream, he needs to get the attention off of himself and quick. "What about you?" He asks stupidly. 

"Oh, I want to h-have lots of k-kids." You say with a dreamy smile on your face, "I can't wait to be a m-mother."

Your words turn his stomach to rot as it twists inside of him. He looks down at his melting chocolate chip ice cream, a feeling he doesn't understand swirling inside him. He stares intently at the green blob in his cup, trying not to put too much thought into what you said. 

"D-Did I say something wrong?" You ask quietly when you realize how silent he's become. He looks at you and notices that you have chocolate around your mouth from your cold treat. 

Jungkook just shakes his head, "No, it isn't you." He mumbles as he looks away. 

You both finish your ice cream in silence as you walk down the path through the park. 

After you take your last bite, you walk over and toss your cup into a trashcan, Jungkook right behind you. 

"Now what should we do?" Jungkook asks you, trying to forget about the previous conversation. 

"Mm," You put your hand to your chin, your eyes squinting in thought, "Do y-you like to p-play games?"

Jungkook nods, "Yeah, sure."

"Ok!" Then you take off running, making Jungkook jog to keep up with you. Once you make it to the arcade you had gone to last week, you stop and turn to smile at Jungkook. 

"D-Does this look fun t-to you?" You ask hopefully. 

Jungkook nods again, then he moves to go inside. You follow him, but he doesn't hold the door open for you, so you have to catch it before it hits you. 

When you go in, you see Jungkook standing there waiting for you. "W-What do you want to p-play?" You ask awkwardly. This outing had started off good, but now you're starting to feel out of place around him and you don't like that feeling. 

Jungkook fakes a smile and shrugs, "I don't care."

"Um, o-ok." You look around the arcade before picking a game and heading over to it. You grab the little puck on the air hockey table and gesture for Jungkook to go to the other side. He moves over and gets into position. 

You hit the puck and he hits it back, immediately dodging your block as the puck slides right into the goal on your side. You huff out a breath in annoyance and glance up to see Jungkook smirking. 

Ok, it's on boy.

Then you smack the puck suddenly, catching Jungkook off guard as it hits the side of the air hockey table and skims past him before he can catch it. When it goes into the goal on his side, you see him look up at you in shock and you send him a smirk of your own.

"That was lucky," He scoffs. 

You nod innocently, "Oh y-yeah, probably."

Jungkook takes the puck and sets it on the table, faking a move before hitting it the other way. You block it effortlessly, sending it straight back to his side as he grunts in frustration. 

You two go at it for a few minutes, Jungkook hitting the puck furiously and you calmly blocking and sending it back. Eventually, Jungkook sighs and hangs his head when you've blocked his recent moves more than five times in a row.

You're tied on points and now neither of you are getting anywhere.

"W-Want to call it?" You ask, sensing his frustration. 

Jungkook purses his lips, his competitive nature wanting to do nothing but annihilate you in this blasted game. But alas, you're apparently a lot better at this game than he had anticipated. 

So, he sighs again and nods, "Yeah, let's call it a tie."

You walk around the table and stick your hand out to him. Jungkook hesitates, then he takes your hand. 

"T-Tie." You say while smiling, shaking his hand up and down. 

Jungkook grimaces, then pulls his hand back, "Ok, now what?"

"I picked th-the first game. N-Now, you have to p-pick." You say with a sneaky smile. 

Jungkook looks around the arcade, then he points to a game with two fake guns sitting in front of a large screen. "How about that one?"

You don't really like those types of games, but it's Jungkook's turn to pick and if that's what he wants to do, then you'll just go along with it. 

So, you nod and follow him over to it. 

Jungkook smiles to himself as he grabs one of the guns, there's no way she's gonna beat me at this one.

He looks over and sees you grab the other gun cautiously, it looks huge in your hands compared to him holding one. 

Jungkook bites back another less than kind laugh seeing the look of uncertainty on your face. "Ready?" He asks casually. 

You nod and heft the gun up, trying your best to keep it steady. 

The game starts and there's instantly a bunch of zombies on the screen. You aim and shoot as best you can, but you're barely hitting anything. 

But right next to you, Jungkook single-handedly takes out more than half the crowd in less than a minute. You manage to hit a few zombies before the game ends. At least you think you did.

KILL COUNT: 2

The words flash across your side of the screen in bold red letters. You look over at Jungkook's screen and gasp at the letters flashing on his side. 

KILL COUNT: 43

"Wow, y-you're really good at th-this game." You say in astonishment. 

Jungkook shrugs cockily, "That wasn't my best."

You nod absentmindedly, then you point at a claw machine in the middle of the arcade. "Oh, l-look!" You jump up and down in excitement. 

Jungkook sighs when you rush over to the pink claw machine full of stuffies and candy. You pay his annoyance no mind as you immediately start getting your money out to try and get the kitten stuffie.

"Look at it J-Jungkook, it's s-so cute!" You turn to him with a pout and the biggest puppy dog eyes he's ever seen. 

He tears his eyes away to look at the kitten stuffie sitting there, "Sorry to burst your bubble, but you're not gonna get that."

Your pout deepens, "R-Really?"

"Yeah, not in a million years." 

"Why n-not?" You huff, looking more and more like a disappointed child. 

Jungkook scoffs, "Those machines are designed to steal your money. You're not meant to have even a chance at getting the prize you want."

"Oh," You look crestfallen as you stare at the little kitten that seems to be looking back at you, pleading you to get it out of that stuffy old box and bring it home with you, "That's m-mean."

"That's just the way the world works," Jungkook says simply, hoping you'll give up and pick a different game, "Everything is about money."

"Not e-everything." You counter, finally peeling your eyes away from the little toy to look at him. 

Jungkook cocks an eyebrow but you continue anyway, "Not everyone d-does stuff for m-money. Some p-people care about other's f-feelings."

He laughs in disbelief, "If that's the way you see the world, you're in for a nasty surprise as you meet more people and see the real world." 

"If you always l-look at the world the way y-you do, you won't be v-very happy." You say back, then you turn on your heel and go off on a search for more games. 

Jungkook watches you in surprise, he didn't think you'd actually stand up for yourself and clap back with something like that. 

Huh.

Jungkook squints at you, the plan going through his head again before he hurries to catch up. 

_______________

"T-Today was fun. Th-Thank you, Jungkook."

You're standing at your front door, having just unlocked it. 

Jungkook nods, his lips pressed together before he says hesitantly, "We should hang out again sometime." 

You smile and nod, "I'd l-like that."

"Well, goodnight," Jungkook says quickly before turning and hurrying down the stairs. You watch him disappear behind the corner before turning and going inside. 

You set your bag down and yawn, stretching your arms above your head. You stretch a little more before moving to your room to get dressed for bed. Pulling out one of your nightgowns, you make quick work of changing into it. Then you go to the bathroom to do your nighttime routine. 

By the time you're climbing into bed, your eyelids feel like they're being weighed down by a ton of bricks. 

You pull the covers up to your chin, cuddling into the warmth of your comforter. The giant octopus stuffie next to you is quickly pulled into your side as you wrap your legs around it and squeeze it tightly. 

"Mm, goodnight." You whisper to it before you slip into a deep slumber.

______________

Jungkook drags himself up the stairs to his apartment, his feet killing him. The target dragged him around half the city and the entire arcade today, and he's gonna have to do it all over again until he can earn her full trust. 

Never again will he underestimate the simplicity of a target. 

She might be the dumbest person he's ever met, but she sure is a handful when it comes to trying to finish his job. 

Jungkook pulls out his keys, fumbling with them for a second before he realizes something is off. He looks closer at the door lock and sees a few scratches on it. 

The fuck?

Jungkook quietly pulls out a little knife he keeps in his back pocket at all times when carrying a gun around isn't the smartest decision. 

Then as gently as he can, he puts his keys in the lock, turning it as slowly as he can. 

When he pushes the door open slowly, it creaks. 

The light from the hallway floods into his studio apartment, showing how truly dark it is inside. Not a single light is on. 

He always leaves his kitchen light on when he goes out. 

Jungkook stands up to his full height as he opens the door the rest of the way. He steps inside, then everything that happens next happens in a matter of seconds. 

An arm comes from behind him and wraps around his neck. 

Jungkook grabs the forearm of the intruder and lifts himself before bringing himself back down and flipping them over his shoulder. A loud thump sounds as the assailant hits his floor with a pained grunt. 

Jungkook leaps on them and wrestles the man to the ground again before straddling his chest. Jungkook pins one of the man's arms with one of his feet and the other he grips tightly in his hand. 

"Who sent you?" Jungkook growls. 

His small knife is pressed to the neck of the person whose chest is now starting to shake. Jungkook can't see his face in the dark but he can tell he's definitely laughing. 

"Shit, boy," The man groans, "You've gotten a hell of a lot stronger."

Jungkook's breath releases at the sound of a familiar voice. He leans back, releasing the young man's arms but still sitting atop his chest. 

"Fucking hell, Taehyung."

"Hello to you too, kid."

Jungkook rolls his eyes at that but doesn't move. 

Taehyung pushes at Jungkook roughly, "You've also gotten heavier. Get the fuck off my chest, asshole. The fuck are you doing anyway? Trying to seduce me?"

Jungkook laughs but finally gets off of the man lying on the floor in pain. 

"You wish," He retorts as he moves to flip the kitchen light on, making Taehyung squint and hiss in annoyance. 

"Fuck off, fatass," Taehyung growls, making Jungkook laugh again. 

Jungkook walks over and offers the older boy his hand, but the other just smacks it away and proceeds to get off the floor on his own. 

Jungkook shuts the front door and locks it, "You still suck at picking locks." 

Taehyung rolls his eyes, "Yeah, I'm a little rusty, whatever."

Moving to the fridge, Jungkook opens it to pull out a bottle of soju, then he gestures for Taehyung to take a seat on the couch. 

The older boy listens begrudgingly. 

"What are you doing here anyway, Tae?" Jungkook asks as he opens the bottle and hands it to his friend. 

"I have a hit around here," Tae says simply, "Knew you'd let me stay a few days." 

Taehyung is always on the go. He's never in one place for long, so he tends to stay with people he knows when he gets a hit that'll take a little longer than usual. 

Jungkook knows this, so he isn't surprised. 

"Yeah, whatever. Next time just ask me, don't break into my home, dumbass." Jungkook says before snagging the bottle and taking a long swig. After he swallows he continues, "I almost killed you." 

Tae snatches the bottle back, "You're no match for me, little shit. I let you win." 

Jungkook snorts but lets it go. Honestly, he could be right. 

Among all of the hitmen he's ever met, young and old, new and experienced, Kim Taehyung is by far the best.

He gets hundreds of hits every year. 

Jungkook is glad he's on his good side. He'd hate to be on the other side of whatever weapon Tae decides to use at that time. 

"So, who's your hit?" He asks his older friend curiously. 

Tae takes another drink, hissing as the liquid warms his throat and stomach.  

"Mr. Chen." 

He smirks at the look of shock on the younger's face. 

"Why you so surprised, kid?" Tae asks, tapping Jungkook's nose with his finger. Jungkook flinches back in irritation making him laugh, "You shocked you weren't hired to kill him yourself?"

Jungkook shakes his head, "No, stupid. Just surprised the bastard is still alive. I thought he would've been a hit a long time ago."

Tae nods, "Piece of shit deserves to be twenty feet under, that's for damn sure. I'm glad I get to be the one to do it." 

Jungkook takes the bottle from Tae for another sip. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Jungkook sets the bottle of soju on the coffee table and stands up, groaning. 

"Ok, well your ass is sleeping on the couch. You get in my bed while I'm sleeping like the pervert you are, I'll kill you." He points at Taehyung threateningly. 

Tae just chuckles and man spreads on the sofa, "Sure thing, JK."

"I'm taking a shower, you're welcome to take one after me. Ramen is in the kitchen, make yourself some food." 

"Wow, JK. You're a wonderful host, I should've come here sooner." Tae smiles cockily and Jungkook scoffs before moving to the bathroom to get washed up. 

Half an hour later, Jungkook comes out, one towel wrapped around his waist as he dries his hair with another one.

Tae is sitting at the dining table eating a cup of ramen noisily. He glances up and sees Jungkook, then he swallows and whistles lowly at him. 

Jungkook rolls his eyes, "Shut the hell up. Do you want to stay here or not?"

"Hell yeah, I do."

"Then stop being a fucking pervert." 

Tae finishes his last bite then stands up raising his hands in defense as he makes his way to the bathroom, "It's called a joke, sweetheart. I'm straight as a pencil, I swear." 

Jungkook whips the towel he was drying his hair off with at Tae, smacking him in the thigh and making him yelp as he runs to the bathroom.  

After a little while, Tae comes out dressed in the pair of sweats Jungkook left for him there. His hair is damp as he shakes his head like a wet dog, sending water droplets flying. He looks over to see Jungkook lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. 

Taehyung walks over to the couch and notices Jungkook put a pillow and an extra blanket there for him. He smiles and glances at Jungkook, "Aww, you shouldn't have, sweetie."

"Another word and I'll take 'em back," Jungkook mutters. 

The older boy just laughs and gets comfortable on the couch before Jungkook turns out the light by his bed. The silence in the dark room is deafening. 

Then Jungkook hears Tae speak up from across the room. 

"What you so grumpy for, JK?"

"I'm not grumpy."

"Is it your new hit?"

Jungkook sits up in bed and stares where he knows the couch is, "How did you know I had a new hit?" 

"I saw the folder earlier. It must be bad since you tore up the picture of the target." Tae muses. 

Jungkook lays back down, "The whole thing is just a fucking mess, Tae."

"How so?"

"My target acts like a kid-"

"A kid?"

"Yeah. I think there's something up with her. She's a dumbass and doesn't have a single sense of self-preservation."

"Shouldn't that make your job easier?" Tae asks, making Jungkook sigh. 

"That's the thing, I just don't understand why she's a tar-"

Rustling from the couch makes Jungkook pause. 

"Wait, are you questioning your hit?" Tae asks in disbelief. 

"No," Jungkook flips over onto his side, "No, I'm not. I just need it to be over with."

He hears Taehyung sigh from the couch and he stares into the dark, something stirring in him at Tae's next words. 

"Remember why you started this, JK. Don't question anything. It isn't our job to judge why someone sets a hit, but it is our job to get it done."

"I know." Jungkook snaps.

"Ok." 

Taehyung's right. 

He just needs to remember why he started this whole thing in the first place.

______________________________

a/n: sorry its late and short. hope you liked it tho :)

[myelocin]

木漏れ日 | tsukishima kei, oikawa tooru

Synopsis: Tsukishima Kei's always felt like he's meant to save a seat for someone, and while you felt the same, neither of you seem to want to break the silence and say that "perhaps this could be more," first. And the realization that sometimes, keeping love in the silence only does more harm than good.

Characters: Tsukishima Kei, Oikawa Tooru 

Genre: Slice of Life, Hurt/Comfort, Office!AU, Slowburn, Love Triangles (But not really), Happy Ending, (2nd person POV writing)

WordCount: 20,500+ 

A/N: This is a commissioned piece from @tsu-kiss​ ! Thanks for letting me write about you & your day 1 <3 heart heart | Playlist

commissions | ko-fi

There’s many things about Tsukishima Kei that you always found best described as odd.

To start, he’d wear a god awful blue button up, that was never quite ironed properly, under a coat that you always thought suited him. You heard he’d gotten that coat as a gift, from his mother, so you suppose that perhaps fashion just wasn’t his thing.

But you never minded him much.

He wore matching socks, and brushed his hair often enough to never spot any weird clumps no matter how much you’d squint towards the back of his head—of course just on the days when you find that you didn’t have much to do in your office other than hyper fixate on just about everything you can see.

(Unfortunately for him, he’s the cubicle right in front of you.)

(While fortunately, for you, he seemed to be interesting enough to fit the bill for most parts.)

He had a dinosaur charm hanging off of his car keys, purple. There’s a couple of rocks—fucking rocks—sat in the corner of his desk, right beside his mug with the weird illustration of a frog on it, and more pencils instead of pens inside it.

Pencils, you would remind yourself. At first, you thought that maybe he sketched on his downtime, but eventually, that self-imposed theory was quickly debunked. During a company outing, a few months ago, your team had went against his for a nice game of skribbl.io, and while your side emerged victorious, you couldn’t help but feel pity for the team that had to scratch their head at the scribbles the man could only come up with.

Tsukishima Kei was peculiar, but then again, at the core of it all, you suppose that he was interesting too.

Interesting enough to squint your eyes at when work was slow, and your boss wasn’t around. The papers in your desk would still be in piles, but the deadlines were too far for them to be scattered around your workspace.

You couldn’t see the view past him, considering his height, but you suppose having no other option than staring at a wall would be a worse situation, so with this, you settled.

Purple dinosaur, rocks, pencils in a mug with a weird frog on it coworker.

He was a sight, but he wasn’t unpleasant—so this would have to make do.

Your friend always told you that people often hung the most intimate parts of their stories around them like charms off a corner of a bag, so perhaps there was more to him than just the odd bits and pieces that never quite fit together.

Stories, you think.

You’ve always loved them.

-

All the while, in front of you, Kei thinks the same.

There’s a drawl that comes with the slower days during office hours. Time moves at an incredibly slow pace, to the point of feeling like he’s merely dragging his body to move through the motions with every minute that passes.

Recently, it’s been feeling like life just moves through the cycles, but because the drawl doesn’t exactly feel too bad, he supposes that he can’t mind it too much.

He can stare at the clock from seven until one, and type the same sentence on a file again and again when his superior walks past his desk. The dinosaur charm on his set of keys was cute, along with the array of rocks on the table.

-

And while things for each of you worked like that, when moments were molded together, it worked like this.

(A little awkwardly, if anything.)

Relationships between coworkers had never been much of a taboo thing, but it was the kind of topic you tend to avoid. Schedules for the both of you worked around a clock, and compromise was a word you didn’t even bother trying to skirt around.

He was Tsukishima Kei, as the man who stapled his papers a little too loudly and had more pencils than pens in his cup, while for him, you were just Nina.

The girl who sat behind him who dressed like the tones of earth and smelled like caramel coffee every 9am.

You know each other by name, and maybe by coffee order, but there were still more than just a couple questions of “who are you, exactly?” that still were left unanswered. Though then again, you were never really certain if those kinds of questions were the ones that even needed answers in the first place.

You could ask yourself what you should wear today, and you’ll shuffle through your closet before eventually deciding on that beige cardigan instead of that yellow turtleneck. Before the barista would ask you what you wanted to order, you’d already be in line, asking yourself the same question and answering with your usual order ready to be spoken out loud.

There were questions where the answers for them were necessary while some, could be satiated with just the fact that they were even asked in the first place.

Why did you pick a dinosaur for your keychain instead of something more…age appropriate?

Why pencils over pen?

Why do you scrunch your nose right before you sneeze?

Why that blue striped undershirt when you look more fashionable than just that?

You don’t know, but it’s not like you’re curious enough to care. Looking at him, or rather, squinting through the frames of your glasses, it dawns on you that Tsukishima Kei will just be one of those sentences with a question mark, because even if the tone which you read it as would sound as a question, there was never a need for an extension.

An answer.

To wonder freely, but never dwell in curiosity. Fleeting.

He’s just a fleeting thought; just the coworker who just happened to occupy the desk in front of you and was interesting enough to look at from 8-6.

And while those were always your thoughts, he thought the same too.

Truth be told there was a lot about the both of you that mirrored each other. While he didn’t have to jump off his car when he’d make his way out, he always was the type to have sporadic bouts of road rage. He’d sigh when your boss came over your area of the office, and tap away on his keyboard as if he was trying to finish a report, even though he’d already had all of his files ready to be sent, finished and stacked in a folder two hours ago.

Much like you, he had a bit of a sweet tooth and was never really the type to turn down a slice of cake if he was offered a piece.

-

Questions, Kei often thought. There had always been an abundance of questions in his life.

Though, admittedly, a majority of them nowadays are just admittedly centered on you.

What’s your name? being the first, and he remembers that it was spoken out loud almost two springs ago. How are you? as the stereotypical question number two; though admittedly, it was only asked under the clauses of what social etiquette dictates for people who are at least acquaintances.

When he thinks about it, you are an acquaintance. You’re Nina; the girl who smells like caramel anything coffee every 8:30 am, and the desk behind his with the keyboard with the keys that never clicked too loudly.

Who are you? as the question he thinks, often, when his thoughts drift.

And most of the time he can answer it. Objectively speaking, he can just look at things from a wider perspective and say that you’re you, all the while he’s always just been him.

But truly, it’s undeniable that when some days when nine am would hit and he’d turn to ask for a stapler from either you or the desk beside yours, there would just be something about your little corner of the room that would just make him think.

All the words in every language he knows, only the word beautiful remains. It’s an observation, and he can admit that much. A passing thought, perhaps, thought of in the midst of what is this or that, but it’s one of those thoughts where he just won’t bother to deny it nor even begin of trying to write it off with a different explanation.

Nine am was yours, and as was the morning light.

A murmured question, the smell of coffee, and a thank you that blends with the harmony of morning. A soft click, the shuffle of the chair, and the sound of your soft keys tap, tap, tapping away from behind him.

Who are you? he asks; a question he never bothered to try to find the forever answer to.

(Because nothing is a constant, Tadashi used to say.)

(Because everything flows, he remembers some more.)

But Kei keeps it as a passing thought none the less. He’s always supposed that questions like these are reserved for the hours within the day where the clock would tick slow, and time would feel like a routine like drawl.

Blank thoughts and typing out the same sentence again and again to seem busy did probably lead to questions about the unprecedented and the constant in his head.

Whereas the constant was you; his nine am touch of caramel and soft tapping noises. While the unprecedented was this:

The word beautiful, as the only thought that explains a majority of what he sees. Turning around to give back the stapler he really should stop borrowing, and catching a glimpse of your profile under the sort of light that he can only really see during spring mornings.

It’s like finally realizing that this is where the good in good morning comes from.

Who are you? he thinks again, and it’s at every 9:07 where he’d think to himself that perhaps he wants to know you more than just your name.

The four letters that spell out Nina suddenly seem insufficient, and he wants to ask why it’s caramel you order instead of mocha. When he’s in the breakroom and looking in the fridge to grab the Tupperware of fruit he keeps as a snack throughout the day, even though it’d only been a fleeting observation to him then, it’s now where he wants to ask why it’s crème brulee instead of the strawberry shortcake he always hears you comment about.

Who are you? as the translation to I want to get to know you, but he’s always quick to remind himself that these are just the kinds of questions best left unanswered. It wasn’t the fact that there was a lot at stake, because truth be told—nothing much would change at all should they be answered, but at the same time, he liked the drawl the routine brought.

Curiosities were best kept as curiosities, and some questions would remain read out loud as questions, but ultimately just filed as passing thoughts at the end of the day.

Eight AM to six, Tsukishima Kei would move through his routine by willing his body through the motions, even if his thoughts did admittedly drift off to you. Just curiosity, he’d reason.

When he’s driving to work before eight and he sees you hop off your car and adjust your bag, he wants to ask if traffic was bad on the drive here. (Just curiosity.)

When the time of the morning rolls around and he smells your signature caramel and hears you murmur a quiet good morning to the entire office, he wonders what it would sound like if you just said good morning to him. (Just curiosity.)

When he’s catching peeks at you from the corner of his eye just to see your profile turned to the side, and facing up to feel the filtered sunshine through the window, he wants to know if you’re the type who prefers spring over the winter, and why. (Just curiosity.)

So even with that, Tsukishima Kei supposes it’s just because of curiosity that leads him to approach you when he sees you on a Sunday, sat by the window in Starbucks, with a drink that doesn’t look like caramel in your hand, right as he asks—

“Is this seat taken?”

-

It’s not as if you mean to say that it feels like fate is telling you that you’re still waiting for something, but some days has you feeling like you’re meant to wait for someone.

Moments like this—like now.

You’re staring out the window of the nearest café by your place, with nothing really written for the agenda of your day. Times like these are where you usually tell yourself that it’s okay, and that day offs existed for a reason—but the mind always did have a way with never staying still.

And while for some, thoughts just rolled by—yours on the other hand, always had a habit of running.

You’re waiting for something, it says, but as soon as you take a peek at what’s beneath the underneath, you know that something is just a loose replacement for the word, “someone.”

But as of now, someone is just a figment in your head.

Someone is the reassurance that there’s something to be met after this, or in the midst of this. This, as your twenties—as your maze.

More than ever, you know that this is the part of your life where you’ll carry the burden of trials rather than wear the crowns of victory, but you suppose that there’s a couple hidden gems you can only find throughout the journey. Or at least, that’s what you have to remind yourself. Then again, epiphanies like this didn’t exactly happen like they were just thoughts that would come easy, without much thought. Sometimes, you think, the most profound epiphanies were uncovered within moments wherein they would just come to you.

The blank period between just beginning to build your foundation and laying out the perimeters for the solid home above that was this exact point of your life. Weekends and day offs where you could try to catch your breath right before you dived back in the trenches again.

(You hate Mondays.)

(But not as much as you hated Sundays.)

Though the silver lining found within the two was always your coffee. Your kick of caramel within that bitter shot of espresso. Your weekends between life was comparable to the silver lining most people usually talk about. A pit stop, and a taste of sugar. Caramel within espresso, where the difference between something being underneath and blended with was made clear.

You suppose that life was never really layered in the end.

As much as people try to separate the specifics within it, at the end of the day it all would just blend together.

Like trying to pick apart salt and pepper, when you sit by your 9am light beside the window on your moments of rest during Sundays off—you admit to yourself that you can’t really tell apart the intricacies of life.

(Timelines, you mean.)

Sometimes you remember that the reality of the matter is that you’re twenty three years old and a little more lost in the world, when at sixteen you thought that by now you’d be found—or at least three steps away. The poems in the letters that bring you comfort tell you, in the timeless words meant to ground the lost in the moment, that what even is the definition of being found?

There was no universal timeline that everyone had to follow, and even if that was true, what you feel regarding the matter still felt like it was beyond your control. (Beyond your reasoning.)

Nine AMs and their light was a comfort. They come to you, metaphors delivered in silent whispers and ghost like touches: on your shoulders, your cheeks, and your eyelids, and for that short while they’re there you feel okay. (Safe.)

Mornings bring about the kind of comfort that feels more everlasting than even the idea of a ring on your finger. The sunbeams tell you they’re there—still there—because they’re what’s timeless. Diamonds on your ring, and a finite love to call yours be damned.

(The light’s what’s stayed, and what will stay.)

—Or at least that’s how you feel for a sliver of the time.

Because truth be told, you feel like you’re still supposed to be waiting for something.

Perhaps it’s a sort of love, or perhaps it’s the love.

(You don’t know, because for now love doesn’t have a face.) Love resonates to an unfulfilled yearning you have within; the kind that can momentarily be satiated by your nine ams and kicks of caramel every weekday morning and iced shaken passion lemon tea every Sundays as a treat for yourself.

For now, saving the seat in front of you and taking up a table meant to seat two by the window during your weekends will have to make do.

Asking yourself questions throughout the day that most of the time don’t really need answers will make do.

Blinking at the nine am light while sipping your daily dose of sweet is enough to keep the thoughts that where you are won’t be enough after this, away.

And because there’s a lot of for nows, that you decide to cling on to for the sake of keeping what’s here feeling like it’s enough, you move through your day with the idea that even if the seat in front of you will always be saved for the eventual kind of love you know will manifest one day—having company can’t be so bad. (To at least satiate your for now.)

Like Tsukishima Kei, and his god awful stripped blue button up you just know he can do better than. His presence during weekdays from eight to six was expected, and blended well with the routine unconsciously established during your work hours.

It wasn’t like you meant to move closer towards him, but it was an undeniable fact that a person will somehow gravitate towards those that mirror them in a sense.

Maybe it’s the pencils on his desk, or the purple dinosaur you admit is cute hanging off his keys.

He isn’t love, because he’s just a name, and a presence that’s become a sort of permanent fixture in the routine you know is only a temporary flow. But what he is is the curious head that towers above Sunday’s afternoon crowd that squints at all the occupied tables in the room.

He’s the light brown sweater, golden hair, amber eyes, and purple dinosaur keychain that hangs right beside his set of keys looped on his right hand. But most importantly—and most recently, he’s the question, “is this seat taken?” when his eyes widen at the sight of you after a quick scan of the crowd in the room.

And he’s the face, that breaks out into a smile, come sunshine, as you think of all that is golden and illuminated, that says “Thank you,” right after you say your yes.

(It dawns on you just then how good it felt to even say no.)

-

If wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the unspoken connection brewing between you and the constantly brooding blonde.

Then again, the view from the bubble was different than the view from a different angle. While the whole office, and frankly any stranger who could differentiate the color blue from red saw the both of you as a pair, you both still looked at each other as just the temporary company who warmed the seat you’re still saving for someone.

“So what’s the deal,” Tadashi says, rounding the corner and dropping a pile of unsorted files on Kei’s desk. “—With you and,” he continues, then pauses, flicking his eyes to the side to ensure that your desk was empty before continuing with, “you know.”

Kei blanks, momentarily forgetting how the pile seemed to make a slight thud that already pokes at the incoming migraine of today’s workload manifesting behind his head. “I what?”

Tadashi smirks, an expression that Kei still can’t seem to wrap his head around. “Nina.”

“Nina,” Kei deadpans. “Our coworker Nina.”

A few beats of silence pass, and Tadashi chuckles at the sight of his point completely flying right over his friend’s area of awareness and presence. “Lena saw you at Starbucks last Sunday with her.”

Grabbing the first chunk of the pile, he begins to sort, his attention already shifted. “It’s social etiquette to talk to people you’re acquainted with.”

“Acquainted,” Tadashi parrots, laughing. “So last week and the week before that was just because you’re acquainted.”

Kei sighs, looking up and dropping the three pieces of paper previously clasped in between his pointer finger and thumb, its contents already long forgotten at this point.

“Just a coincidence,” he reasons, knowing that his words will more so fall on ears that aren’t exactly keen on accepting the rather objective truth.

Tadashi’s always been the type to try to read in between the lines, but unfortunately for him, Kei thinks, there wasn’t much of a metaphor in this situation. He goes to the café every Sunday because his brother would usually crash by his place in the weekends, and Kei found that even if he did love him, he still wanted a slice of his day off dedicated to himself.

He never mentions that to Tadashi though, already knowing that the man would just counter back just as quick, with the question of why is he spending time with you then? Asking you if the seat is taken despite the empty tables that had always been abundant ever since after the first meeting.

“Okay,” Tadashi shrugs, hands raised up and smirk in place—a weird look on him, Kei comments to himself inwardly again—as he turns back around to make his way back to his department.

“Still rooting for you though,” he calls out, turning around to launch a last ditch comment towards the steadily irritated man who can only do nothing but stare at him blankly in response.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

-

“What do you think about Tadashi?” he asks you, four weekends later when you’re sat in the same table, at that same coffee shop again.

Writing his question off as a passing comment, you shrug. “From accounting?”

Kei nods. “From accounting.”

You give his question a couple moments to let it soak in, before you eventually just shrug, again, not really definitive with the answer you come to a conclusion to. “I don’t know him that well. What’s this about?”

“Nothing, really,” he answers. “I just thought you both would be good together.”

“Like for a project?” you ask, as you absent mindedly continue to scroll through the contents on your phone. There was a sale at Muji, the ad on Instagram reads, so you make a mental note to maybe stop by on the way home after you finish your grocery run.

“Like together,” he responds, and it had you been looking at him instead of the screen on your phone, you would have seen the sly way he sips his coffee and watches for your expression from the corner of his eye.

And because you’re a lot more aware than you give yourself credit for, even though you don’t see it, you feel him basically boring his eyes onto your profile. You realize you lack an opinion regarding what to think of the situation, so you let him stare.

Truth be told, you don’t know what his staring could exactly pertain to, so in response, to try to satiate both the curiosity in your head along with his question, you shrug, answering, “I don’t think about it. Why?”

He’s quick to turn to the side, to his left facing the window where the child across the street suddenly looked more entertaining than trying to wrack his thoughts for more words to fill in the conversation.

“Cute,” he hears you hum, right before he turns his head to catch a glance of you wearing the smile he tells himself doesn’t catch him off guard every time, peek through the rim of your cup.

There’s a lot about the details founded within tidbits of moments he thinks is worth the most. As if trying to immortalize the bits and pieces that don’t matter universally, he knows when coming across the specific kind of people he’d probably get chided for it.

Kei remembers his mother scrunching her nose at the way he’d eat the bready part of the cupcake right after scraping off the icing, and how he’d give the skin on his fried chicken to his older brother when kids his age usually liked the crispy parts the most.

It’s a funny thing, he thinks—about just how false the universal standards really are.

What “matters” really is relative in the end, because the joy you come across to is what remains the same. Like yesterday, finishing his work early was joy. Finding that his superior had skipped a day of work to attend to family matters hence the lighter workload on his desk—that too was joy.

And strangely enough, spending another of his Sundays yet again sat in the café he tells himself he really should stop coming to for the fourth time in a row, sat across you, is joy.

(Joy, like the way your face lights up at the sight of the boy holding his mother’s hand as he crosses the street.)

(Joy, like the emotion that blooms on your face, radiance comparable to your nine am shower of sun.)

(Joy, like the word best used to tie to what’s swirling with him in the now,  because even if a lot of things were hanging and left as questions to dangle in the space between what can be answered and what could just remain as what ifs—this little moment makes something in him bloom.)

“Yeah,” you hear, and you will yourself to not think about the way his voice seems to deliver more than just a passing comment. “Cute.”

-

Like drifting away from the current, this is the part where you break from the waves and try to make sense of all the ocean that’s in front of you. The water’s clear, and the waves aren’t knocking your air out of your lungs, but the shore’s still far, you think.

There’s the presence of birds circling you from above, so you know land isn’t too far. There’s a safety net, that’s there, but you’re still in the water. There’s the feel of sand beneath your feet, along with water against the palms of your hand. You’re not swimming, but you haven’t waded too far in to be drowning either.

Just testing the waters deep enough for you to know what the waves feel like—just to get a taste of the thrill must be like—but never too much to the point of being overwhelmed.

A dance between two strangers, or a conversation shared between two souls too familiar to just be acquaintances. It doesn’t take long for Kei to settle into the rhythm you’d composed for yourself.

Work still moves through the schedule from eight to six, and your boss is still the cause for most of your headaches with every additional file set on your desk every Monday. Nine AMs was still your favorite hour of the day, along with the kind of sun it brought and offered you, day in and day out. Tsukishima Kei was still the boy with the god awful striped blue dress shirt that sat in front of you every day.

But then again, there were changes, but most of which were welcome, none the less.

When he turns to ask for a stapler, he’d lean by your desk and strike up a conversation instead of promptly end it with a solid thank you. Breakroom conversations during lunch were often shared together; in the beginning just coincidences, but eventually, slowly, planned. Some mornings you’d find a cup of coffee on your desk when you’d be running late, and for the first few times, you’d spend a hefty twenty minutes or so pondering about it, before eventually remembering that this was the exact coffee order that you told Kei you wanted to try just the day before.

A friendly hello, turning into a knowing glance, and the thank you said out of courtesy turning into light conversation exchanged in hushed voices.

There was a story now, behind the purple dinosaur, because when he’d seen you look at it a little too long, that same afternoon you found an identical one on your desk, beside your pastel highlighters you let him borrow with no problem, when you had always known yourself to be quite specific about it.

Conversations in the break room that used to hold just passing thoughts, and a couple nods to the head just to acknowledge the other, now turned into actual conversations. It wasn’t the comment that ended with a period, anymore, because every day there would always be somewhere where they had left off of.

Kei smiles, often, because with the light, comes you.

He can’t call you his, because there would always be a whole lot more to it than just calling you something that you clearly aren’t,

“—yet,” as Tadashi would often tease him with.

But he finds it undeniable to say that what you are is something.

Like having conversation plus the company.

The seat he tells himself he’s saving for someone, or something, occupied with a stranger. And even if neither of you can exactly call the other yours, the both of you could always call the little purple dinosaur and the box of nescafe caramel instant coffee—

“—Ours,” he hears you say.

He looks up, from his mug and his stack of papers that all need his signature on his desk. You’re in a similar position as him, with your own mug in hand and stack of papers in front of you. He’s watching you smile, first at what he presumes to be your first sip of coffee, then at the recruit who peeked in the break room to ask you a question.

Then it’s your next smile, for him, and he’s struck in between a thought and action: a little breathless if he were being honest with himself—but because for now you’re just the conversation that comes with company and nothing more, he keeps the thought as just a thought.

It doesn’t pass, but it stays, and he knows this is the kind that’s most likely going to linger a little longer than the rest.

“Ours,” he hears you say, again.

You’re motioning to the stack of caramel sachets in a box that he had bought for the both of you to share, nodding your head. “Oh,” you say. “It’s ours,” you continue, motioning towards him.

“Yeah,” he parrots, not so much as being high in love, but struck and rooted was a good word to describe the situation.

To describe what he means for you.

Ours, he echoes. It’s a good word.

Yours or his was too daring of a word to dub for any of you, but ours fit the boundary he found the both of you to be situated within.

He could call the purple dinosaur and the story with it ours, and the taste of caramel just the same.

Ours, he thinks.

It makes sense.

-

“It’s just,” Tadashi explains. “Nina makes a lot of sense.”

Kei nods, agreeing. “She’s a smart girl.”

“No she makes sense for you,” he counters, leaning half his body across the desk. Tadashi eyes the keychain, and at the stack of caramel sachets by his mug, giving Kei a smug look afterwards.

“For you, Tsukki,” he says, a knowing tone in his voice. “I mean that she makes a lot of sense for you.”

As always, Kei keeps his eyes on his screen, as he taps away, continuing his work and keeping his focus trained towards it instead of humoring Tadashi. He knows he means well, as always, because as observant as his friend is, he always means well with his intentions.

Knowing that his friend isn’t the type to give in, Kei relents. “Why do you say that?”

Tadashi beams, leaning forward even further, squinting his eyes up at his friend who looks at him with bored eyes. They’re golden, he thinks. Kei had always had a certain hue of gold he could never match to what’s around, but it’s under the glow of the kind of gold nine AM gives where the puzzle piece finally clicks.

“I say it because it’s obvious,” Kei hears Tadashi answer.

It’s simple, really.

Not just because of a keychain and a cup of coffee, but because of the puzzle pieces he didn’t know would even fit together are now here, suddenly being nudged into place.

Kei pauses; leans back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, just as he looks at Tadashi.

His friend wears the smile he already knows the meaning behind, so he sighs, the thoughts he knows he should think through being pushed away by the third party wall called objectivity and false rationality.

“She’s just a friend,” Kei reasons, blunt. Underneath his thoughts, he knows it’s not much of a reasoning, but more like an on-the-surface answer, but he tries to push it as his truth anyway.

Tries.

There’s a bandage on his hand from yesterday, because of a burn.

“I’m nice to you, because I’m your friend,” he hears your voice from yesterday echo in his head. It baffles him still, to think that you’d have a supply of unopened bandages and burn ointment in your drawer, when he knows you’ve never been the clumsy type.

Kei looks past Tadashi, to the empty space of your desk, and tries to tell himself that it’s just a desk. He tells himself that your seat is just a seat, and the pillow there is just a pillow.

He pushes away the memory that’s on the edge of resurfacing: of you, three days ago, saying that the leather on your chair is a little too uncomfortable for you to comfortably sit on. All the while it was he, in return, taking it upon himself to deny the fact that on the way home that afternoon, his reason for taking a U-turn three streets away from home to drive to IKEA was because he needed a new trashcan.

And the pillow, with the serenity blue fabric was just conveniently right by the trash bin section of the store.

It’s because he’s doing a favor for a friend, he told himself.

Sometimes you take a U-turn, even if you see the roof of your apartment building, to do a favor for a friend.

You were a friend who happened to just share a little more stories with him than the rest, and that was okay.

Friends can have conversations in between work and share a few stories together. And favors, Kei reasons. Friends do favors.

You rubbed ointment on his hand and bandaged it from a burn, because you’re doing him a favor. So in return, he bought you a pillow to sit on, because he just so happened to remember your passing comment regarding the fact that leather is uncomfortable for you.

There’s a spare trash bin in his room that doesn’t even get filled up.

Really, he prefers mocha over caramel, but caramel isn’t so bad.

The glare from the sun bothers him a bit, but he tells himself that perhaps a little sun is nice only when it’s 9AM.

Tadashi smiles.

“Tsukki,” he recites, just stating what he sees. “She’s the one you’ve been saving your seat for.”

-

And you think the same.

Conversation that ends with a comma means that there’s more to come. Tsukishima Kei turned into the “hello” that would branch off to ”how are you?” in the hallways, and “coffee again? This Sunday?” if you caught the same elevator as him when you were leaving work for the day.

Caramel in your coffee, with the perfect kind of sweetness you now know that he only sometimes likes.

Never to be one for sweets, but the slices of strawberry shortcake from that one bakery down two blocks away from his building was always something he couldn’t say no to. You know that now, you realize. You’ve known it for a while, because three weeks ago he had brought two slices to work after you told him you always were the kind of person with a sweet tooth.

You know why he has more pencils than pens, and laugh because you think it’s fitting. He’s always liked to doodle in the corner of his files, so for as long as he drew with a fairly light hand, he could always go back in and erase things if need be.

He told you that, over coffee one weekend, again. With a telltale shade of pink dusted across his cheeks and a slight pout to the lips, you found that Tsukishima Kei did look pretty.

At least you think.

Often, you’d overhear the ladies in the breakroom exclaim that he looked a little more scary than necessary, but you think it’s because they haven’t seen him laugh. Contrary to their belief, Kei often wore more than one expression, but only when it counted the most.

He laughed; expression lit when he’d scroll on his phone and watch a video that satiated his kind of humor that you’ve now also grown familiar to, and you’d think to yourself that him looking bright is fitting. When he’d come across a pack of the cottage cheese one of your coworkers always left open in the refrigerator, he’d crinkle his nose and pout, instead of look angry.

Kindness is a good look on him.

“I really enjoy your company,” you remember him say, just last Sunday when you were at that coffee shop right by the window again.

He smiled at you, in the way that delivers his truth far better than words ever could.

You don’t think there was ever a reason to doubt him. He was blunt, when needed be. He reached for a tissue when you had a bit of whipped cream on your lips, and told you that your files could be organized better when you were passing off folders for him to sign and pass forward.

Errors concluded through an objective point of view, where seldom did he try to peer at what was asked to be critiqued with a biased eye.

You conclude that Kei’s just the type to mean well, so you suppose there could be no harm in wading in a little deeper than you usually would.

The universe gave, so you took.

(And clutched on a little too tight.)

Clutching onto it, like your hand on the new tube of ointment you purposely drove to the pharmacy for before picking up your coffee and his as you made your way to work. You held on tight to the steering wheel, smiling at the thought of sharing your nine AMs with someone again, even if you told yourself you’re saving that spot—like he saves his seat—for the someone, or something that’s inevitable to come.

Perhaps love could look like a purple dinosaur charm and taste like caramel. Perhaps you’ll warm up to the sight of a blue striped long sleeve and think that it’s fitting with beige.

Serenity blue had always been a pretty color, you think.

Pretty.

Pretty like Kei—a thought you tried to pass off as just a fleeting kind of epiphany when you were drumming your fingers against the steering wheel of your car while stopped at a red light. Pretty like Kei—as the thought that stayed, and bloomed into a truth that comes wrapped with his name.

Pretty, like his thank you, when he murmured his gratitude to you like a secret. His face just a few inches above yours, as he looked down, watching you rub ointment on the burn on his hand and bandage it with the daisy patterned stickers, patient.

Patience was pretty.

It’s not like he’s love, because that’s a word that needs more justification than just a couple conversations and some one-sided epiphanies conjured up in a haste.

You weren’t in a rush, personally, at least you try to tell yourself that. You drove slowly around the block when the sunset was pretty, and took your time in picking out that tumbler you bought at starbucks. You could wait for a lot of things, because time was the constant where despite the ticking, still felt limitless.

So it’s a mystery to you, that you’re rushing right here, right now, at nine in the morning when the windows by the hallway you had to walk through to get here often showed you the best view. A tube  of ointment in hand and the hope to have your first sip of coffee taste like nescafe’s caramel instead of the blend you like from Gigi Coffee down the block from where you live.

Pretty like nine AM streams of gold, and pretty like Tsukishima Kei and the overgrown bangs that suit him quite well.

So when you’re in the elevator and staring at the reflection of you in the mirror to your left, you don’t exactly have it in you to admit that it is a little out of character for you to reach up and fix your hair more than just a couple of times.

The left seems a little too off, while the right was too unnatural. You part your hair in the middle, like usual, and brush the little fringe you have to make it look pretty, and smile.

You remember that time, just one Friday ago when Kei was riding this same elevator with you to the parking lot in the basement, as he looked at you for a briefly, before glancing up

He could be it, until he ends his story with just the role of an almost.

So it’s almost, you repeat in your head. A new tube of ointment clutched in your hand and the three more steps until you round the hall and make it to your desk. Almost there, as the thought that excites you more than it terrifies you this time.

Here, the sun is yours, as is the light. When nine AM ticks on the clock, the sunbeams falling everyday almost as if all it’s done is defy every call the clouds the rainy season brings about.

Perhaps that seat that’s been both empty and filled is almost actually occupied. Almost like one more step, that you take without hesitation as you tuck one strand of your hair back and brace yourself for light.

For the wounds on his hand you wish to mend and for the word “almost,” you think would be rewarded with a happy ending, you allow your heart to speak its truth and blend with the moment, unfiltered, as you smile.

You think of rehearsing a small hi, but decide against it at the very last second, because you want to say his name instead.

Kei, the name he’d insisted you call him with red on his cheeks while his gaze was set to the side. His Strawberries and cream on his glass instead of the espresso people would think is his style, and you smile, because it’s nice to know him as more than just Tsukishima Kei at the office.

Like knowing how his face looks when he scrunches up at the sting from the ointment, you know better now to get the one that he said doesn’t sting as much. You know he’ll appreciate the plain bandaids you have in your bag, instead of the daisy covered ones he had to make do from the stack you had laying on your drawer.

You ready yourself for the friendly hey, instead of the practiced hi, with the smooth good morning everyone that’s just a coworker in this room gets instead of the smile you think you’re set to give to him today.

You look forward to the taste of instant caramel, plus the sight of the sun.

One step, then you turn. You’re not blinded, but the scene in front of you is illuminated. Tsukishima Kei, his back against the chair, bandaged arm on the desk, and an expression of what looks like apathy scribbled across his face.

You pause, not so much as if you’re a deer caught in the headlights, but more like something within roots you to watch.

A stage is set, and the story looks to be continuing, instead of just beginning.

Tadashi smiles, patient. There’s a story behind the peace he wears, and you catch yourself thinking that you wish you knew the context behind it. In a way, you feel as if you do, but your thoughts blank when you try to dig for more connections, so you watch.

“Tsukki,” you hear him recite, just stating what he sees. “She’s the one you’ve been saving your seat for.”

“Nina,” Kei deadpans.

Nina, your thoughts echo. That’s my name.

You listen.

“I barely know her.”

Tadashi sighs, in dramatics. “The point is to get to know her.”

In response, Kei sighs too. “That’s already a lot of unnecessary work,” he mumbles, offhandedly.

You stay still, starting to think that maybe you don’t want to listen.

“C’mon Tsukki,” Tadashi pushes. “You meet up every weekend and the whole pantry in the breakroom has pretty much become you and her’s snack station.”

You watch, still rooted as Kei heaves a sigh in response, like the context of the conversation is the kind of weight that’s thought more like a nuisance instead of just a little heavy. “She’s convenient,” you hear.

Convenient, the word echoes.

Convenient, as the word that you let ring.

-

It’s funny how you almost slipped and clicked your shoes against the tile too loudly as to alert them that you’ve been there.

Just like how you almost turned around, when you made it to your seat a little later that morning, and he was already tapping on the edge of your desk, undoubtedly asking for the stapler.

There was a sense of hesitation in his voice, that didn’t fly past you. On the other hand, you didn’t turn around, like you usually would do, to at least strike up conversation. It was more convenient, like this you think. You’d place the stapler and your mug with the highlighters in the end that’s closest to him, and you’d turn your monitor a little to the side, so that you can avoid the glare from the window that always bothered you.

Right, you think. The glare.

Typing without that damned glare made work a lot more convenient. Humming out a quick response instead of trying to piece together what to say worked the same, and staying in your desk and ordering in your coffee instead of going to the break room to get your usual cup of caramel was also like that.

“Just for convenience,” you say as your reason to Kei, when he asks you if you wanted to get lunch with him that day, and you told him no, because you wanted to stay in the office instead.

It’s convenient too, when you look away and continue to type, willing yourself to focus on the text in front of you instead of his retreating figure your peripherals still catch a glimpse of.

 -

Just like how the Sunday after that, the reason why you chose to still sit in that same table by the window is because it’s convenient. Two chairs with only one occupied, you cross one leg over the other under the table.

There’s a file open on your laptop, with the material you need to go over still stuck on the first page even if you’ve already been sat in the same spot for 3 hours now. You wore a cardigan over your top on the drive here, and took it off to hang it over the chair across yours because it’s more convenient to just do that than drape it over your bag on the floor.

When Tsukishima Kei walks in, you ignore the fact that this seems like it’s just clockwork.

You click your tongue, a gesture more towards yourself than towards him, as you try to remember at least the last three things that’s ben staring at you on your file today.

Blank.

He spots you, so you clear your throat, reach forward to take another sip—too sweet—and squint at your screen.

The words are in complete jargon, as are the thoughts in your head. You tell yourself that the thoughts that come are just meant to be fleeting little nothings, but the truth is that they aren’t.

Convenience, it echoes, and you come to realize that you aren’t exactly in the place to be angry. Company was because of convenience, and it did start like that.

You suppose that it was just on you that you started considering Tsukishima Kei as the conscious choice you eventually chose over the usual—every day.

There’s a lot to be defined and sorted through when you think of the word almost.

Objectively speaking, almost wasn’t that much of a heartbreaking word to ponder about. You almost made it past the light, but orange tells you to slow down. You almost sent in your order before the restaurant closed, but ended up not doing it anyway.

To you, almost was a reminder that if something didn’t happen, there was just a greater someone above and perhaps beyond, setting down the foundations to say that this would only end up as a bad scenario.

Just like how you almost looked at him.

“Nina,” he smiles.

“Tsukishima-san,” you respond, keeping your poise.

Quite audibly, he shuffles. You clear your throat again, trying your hand at dissipating the awkwardness that sort of settles. “Is this seat taken?” he asks.

With hands that just barely pause above the keys, the best you offer him is a friendly smile.

“Ah,” you respond, then blink. When you look up and over towards him, he’s holding his bag in one hand with a cup of coffee in the other. There’s a lot of almosts that run through your head.

To be fair, you could say yes. But that was being fair to the rationality of the situation and not exactly to yourself. You hate the word convenience, because that meant that it was just another one of those for nows.

(You hate how temporary presence can be. More so within instances where the world makes you feel as if you’re the temporary.)

Like the seat you’ve occupied across him this whole time, you think to yourself that perhaps you were just the conversation that was convenient enough for him to sit with until what was to come arrived.

So you stare.

The absence of caramel is a little new, but it hasn’t settled enough for you to decide if whether you’re welcoming it or not.

Kei shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and waits.

He waits.

Waiting.

It’s annoying, you think.

You tell yourself that waiting shouldn’t always make you feel like you’re on the edge of something that won’t play out well, but in the moment, there’s not a lot of comfort you can cling towards.

So you grasp at what you have. Right now, you hold your cup of coffee and own company. The reminder that what you must be waiting for probably wasn’t him—the almost, you call it—present in your head, repeating like a mantra. The kind of mantra that’s meant to deliver you to safety, you hope.

He motions towards the seat again, when you don’t answer, so you straighten your back, bearing your thoughts together to try to atleast string some words as a response.

To be fair, you do ponder about what to say. You realize that not a lot can be weighed because if Kei had already made his intentions clear yesterday, you suppose you can give yourself your own clarity too. Transparency meant you were granted your own peace of mind, and you’ve always hated how foggy the word almost looked.

You don’t think about the two more sachets of caramel in the breakroom—almost finished.

You stare past him, focusing on the menu you can’t even read from this distance behind him, and try not to sigh.

He stares, and you hate how you know what kind of coffee he bought.

You despise how you know the exact files he’s probably carrying with him in his bag right now because you know him that well at this point. Too well, the voice in the back of your head nags.

But you hate how fleeting the word “convenience” feels. You’ve always thought to yourself that even if the seat in front of you had always been empty, the fact that you were seated in yours was the constant you’d forever abide by.

“Seat’s taken,” you hear yourself say, before you almost caught yourself saying no, it’s free.

It’s yours to take, you would have told him, because you felt like you still had enough in you to give him a couple more pieces you thought you wouldn’t need.

But the truth is, you realize, is that at the end of the day, you’d need every piece of yourself to be whole. Whether that seat across yours would be occupied right now, tomorrow—or even ten years into the future, it felt wrong to just have another almost keep it warm.

“Sorry,” you repeat, hoping to deliver your truth to him. “It’s taken. Just waiting for someone.”

“Ah,” he nods, though he doesn’t turn away. You feel him stare right through you, and you feel naked. Perhaps there’s a part of you that craves for him to know your actual truth and confront it, but the part that was all rationality said that that wouldn’t be a convenient thing to do, so you relent, and let go.

“Someone,” he echoes. “You’re saving that seat for someone.”

You nod, absent. “Yeah,” he hears you say, and he wishes you’d give him a little more than just the tendrils of a lie lying on the surface. “Someone.”

-

Just like how you almost missed a stop and rescheduled that trip to your friend’s flower shop next week again.

You almost missed him.

(But you didn’t.)

So you think that maybe this was the other road you’ve been meaning to take. It’s not a seat, but it’s a space. In between the bookshelves and the counter, there’s a space for you to fit in so you could reach past the bloom of hydrangeas to call your friend’s attention.

Except it’s another that catches yours first.

With your feet planted on the ground, you remind yourself that there’s no chair beside you to hang your jacket over as if you’re meaning for someone to come. Somebody already is here, you realize. He doesn’t glow like how komorebi reflects on your earth, but at the hues of his eyes you do see a semblance of the roots of earth.

Like two pools of hazel, you see the deeper shades of the sunset.

“Hi,” he grins.

“Ah! Nina!” your friend calls, so you turn to her.

She hesitates a little, setting down the vase she carries right before she picks up the conversation again—first motioning to you, then next to the man.

“Oikawa Tooru,” you introduce. “Makki’s friend from highschool,” you hear her continue. “He’s back in the country for a couple family stuff but his work is in Argentina now.”

You smile, appreciative of the conversation. “Business?”

Oikawa laughs in response, boyish. “Something like that.”

“He’s being humble,” you hear Takahiro chime from across the shop. “That’s the shit he does when he wants to be smooth around a girl,” he adds, laughing.

The man beside you rolls his eyes, albeit evidently enjoying the light atmosphere in the room. In a sense, you do too, so when your friend joins the other two in their laughter, you contribute to the happiness with your own chuckle.

The context of what was going on didn’t exactly sink in quite yet, but you found yourself still in place.

“I play volleyball,” he tells you, a little after when the laughter dies down. He’s still smiling, you note, just like you are, so you suppose that it’s nice that happiness can linger.

“Professionally!” your friend adds, her voice muffled from the distance in between you and her across the room.

“You relocating?” you ask, curious.

Oikawa leans forward, head propped up on his palms, as he shakes his head in the way you assume to be a no. “Just visiting home for a bit.”

“Ah,” you nod. “Homesick?”

He chuckles, airy. “I guess you could say that.”

Oikawa’s pretty, you think. It’s not like Kei’s kind of pretty that’s comparable to the light, but Oikawa’s is more leaning towards the same kind of pretty that’s to be associated with flowers. Like petals on roses, his pretty was classic.

(It’s just a shame that you like the tiny white petals on daises just a little more than the classic red.)

When Oikawa looks at you, and offers a smile that has you feeling like you’re meant to know him as more than just the stranger you bump into coincidentally at the coffee shop, you’re reminded, once again, about how this was another encounter that you almost missed.

-

“It’s nice to meet you, by the way,” you tell him afterwards, when you’re both outside of the shop, the expected goodbye lingering in the air.

It’s you who initiates it. On the other hand, it’s him who tries to prolong it.

Oikawa ponders about what he’s ought to say, pausing just for a few moments before he turns fully to face you, smiling again. “You too,” he chose to say.

(Chose.)

“Almost missed you,” you say. “Glad I stopped by the shop today.”

“Almost,” he laughs. “I almost didn’t come too,” Oikawa admits, eyes to you, present in the moment instead of being somewhere far away.

“But you came,” you laugh.

“And you made it,” he replies.

-

It’s interesting, he thinks.

You, he means.

It doesn’t go as far as saying that he’s only admitting to this because of all the time he has on his hands—as if you’re just the constant that’s there and convenient to think about, but he means it in the sense that he’s aware about you.

Your dynamic with Oikawa Tooru worked well in an odd sort of way. He was polite, much like Kei, and didn’t overstep his boundaries. Looking at him from a wider point of view, it’s safe to admit to yourself that he does check off most of the things written on what you think is your “someday.”

Almost as if you’re satiating a part of yourself and writing a closing chapter for the child within that hoped for a prince charming that would pull out your chair before you sat on it, Oikawa fit the bill to the T.

In contrast to what you had with Kei, Oikawa shared the same boundaries as you did. He never was the type to pry too much, only going as far as asking you a little about your job, but nothing much afterwards.

There was a sort of certainty that you found intertwined with having conversation with strangers. Like knowing names, then seeing boundaries before anything more was breached. A comfort, as you would call it, was given through the fact that the both of you knew the ending to this far in advance.

He was meant to stay in the city—thus your life—for just ninety days at most, given his visa, so you started speaking to him with that in mind. On the other hand, you assumed that he did the same for you.

-

When you move about with the thought that this was one of the things that was certain to remain as just a for now, you find that it’s easier.

You know his name, but this time you know better than to ask for more. There were some answers from yourself you weren’t sure you’d be able to give, so you never bothered to try to ask for the same.

Almost became a word that was bitter at the taste, and you didn’t want to taste more. Perhaps this time around you’d try to wait for what’s actually meant to come and leave that seat empty.

But it’s undeniable, that when Oikawa Tooru smiled, he was pretty.

He always sat in the seat beside the one with the jacket over the back—an unnecessary gesture, really, but it was appreciated.

“So what’s your story?” he asked you one day—today—and you think that he’s hovering just a little over the boundary that had been set. Comparable to a child standing over their parent’s bedroom door, trying to ask for one more snack before they’re sent to bed, Oikawa looks to be doing the same.

He swooshes his drink around with his straw, and asks away, though his eyes are not on yours.

Hesitation is the first emotion you sense—where despite the stillness of his voice—you could still pluck out the shaky foundation it seems to be just thrown on.

Still, you humor him, finding that his curiosity wasn’t exactly threatening. “Story?” you ask, though it was already clarified.

Oikawa hums out his affirmation, still not looking at you. He peeks, though, and at the very last second you catch him staring at you rather intently from your peripherals when you swirl your own drink around and look down.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he laughs. “I’m just wondering why you’re always putting your jacket over the seat in front of you.”

A few moments pass, and he lets it stay, before he eventually clears his throat, breaking the silence before it settles and overtakes the flow of the conversation. His curiosity was something he’s had for the short while he knew you by now, and he didn’t want to let go of the chance of getting answers to it now that you seem to be willing to drop at least a few crumbs of your truth.

There’s not much that’s intentionally hidden, he thinks. The earth around you didn’t look scarred, or too broken in for something to be buried underneath, so he realizes that every bit of your truth was already out in the open. Perhaps it’s masked, or perhaps it’s too intertwined with the vines that it looks natural already, but none the less, he wants to be able to see and read what’s there.

In between the lines, or through the foliage and its vines, Oikawa Tooru can say that he wants to understand and know the contours of your earth.  

May it be as vague as the hue of your sky, and feel of the grass, or may it be as specific as to know the feel of every petal of the flowers planted on your soil, he wants to know something.

But what you give him, in return, is a question of your own.

“What does your someday look like to you?”

Oikawa pauses, his eyes on yours. “My what?” he reiterates, with a chuckle.

In response, you let out a laugh of your own, amused at the blank look on his face. Oikawa looked like someone who was always two steps ahead of whatever was there, in front of even himself, so to see him in this state—a little caught off guard and baffled—it was more or less interesting to say at the very least.

“Your someday,” you laugh, straw pinched in between your thumb and pointer finger.

You watch as he chuckles, one hand behind his head as he exhales a lighthearted sigh, responding, “You’re gonna need to give me a little more information than just that.”

He smiles, blinding. You see that you kind of want to look away. “I’m not someone who’s too smart when it comes to reading poems.”

“So you don’t like reading underneath the underneath?” you ask.

“Nah,” he shrugs. “I’ve always been upfront with stuff in a way.”

“Funny,” you retort, leaning forward to rest your chin on your palms. “I was told the opposite about you.”

He raises a brow, still smiling. You’re still blinded, and you still want to look away, but a little later on you find that the light doesn’t exactly burn. So with that, you stand your ground and look. The light at 4PM isn’t anything like 9AM, you think. It’s blue skies and shining skies; white clouds, and a cool breeze. The day feels like it’s been lived—like things are established and there for yours to take—and you find that you don’t know what to think about it.

“So you have dirt on me,” is what he says, and he leans forward, intrigued.

“I’m a lawyer,” you retort. “It’s in my nature to be inquisitive.”

“So what you’re saying,” Oikawa says, slowly, “—is that you look at me like you would look at a client?”

“A client,” you parrot, huffing in exaggeration. “I’m just curious about a lot of things,” you admit. “I like clarity and certainty over standing on stuff that’s vague at most.”

“Plus,” you add, “in what way am I supposed to think about you?”

“As a friend?” you challenge, leaning forward to take a sip. Oikawa tries to steady his gaze with yours, but he swallows, frankly a little nervous.

There’s no answer why he’s nervous, but the feeling settles, so he decides he can’t do much other than simply just let it be.

“Is that what’s open on the table for me to take?” he asks you in return, and when you open your mouth thinking you have the answer, the silence tells you that you don’t.

“I don’t know,” you answer. “That’s something I can’t answer right now.”

“You mean that’s a part of the someday you have yet to answer?” he counters, smirking. The tides of the conversation have turned to favor him, Oikawa thinks, so with that in mind, he treads around his words, hoping not to slip and dive.

But even though he knows how to swim, he was always cautious enough so that he wouldn’t drown.

“My someday looks like that seat in front of me finally being occupied by someone who won’t leave.”

“So your someday,” Oikawa notes, “is someone that’s permanent?”

Shrugging, you explain your thoughts, “It doesn’t have to be someone, my someday can be just something.”

“But a chair’s built with the intention to be sat on, right?” Oikawa prompts, looking at you like the very essence of your truth is dancing right on the palms of his hands. “You can drape a jacket over the seat as much as you’d like but it’s okay to want to save it for someone and not just think that all it will end up being is a something.”

His words reach you, but you stay behind the line.

The wish to jump and dive doesn’t fill you, but the curiosity of what could happen should you take the leap is present enough for you to push for more of the conversation. Then like holding your palms out into the sky, you keep your distance from the waters and try to imagine what the waves could feel like under your skin.

Whether the seas may storm or not, you pull back because you realize that it’s the solidarity of the depth that terrifies you.

“Who are you to tell me what my someday is?” you ask, unafraid. Behind the boundary, you’re safe, and your feet are planted within the soil of a steady earth.

Across you, Oikawa gives you the sight of the skies, but also give you a glimpse of the seas.

It holds a promise, you see. A pandora’s box—but that’s the thing. A box like that was never meant to be opened.

You pull back before you can give yourself the chance of even opening your palm.

But Oikawa insists—in the way that doesn’t terrify you, but you find that it doesn’t exactly convince you well enough either. “I’m just showing you a different angle,” he explains. “You miss a lot when you just look at things from a first person point of view you know.”

“What if my reasoning already feels complete to me though?” you retort, out of curiosity, not necessarily aggression.

“Then that’s for you to live out,” he smiles. “I’m not gonna dig in places I’m not welcome in, but I can just tell you things you either could choose to believe or not.”

“So someday,” he sighs, as if he’s been holding his breath for this long while. Perhaps he has, but you don’t ponder too long in regards to it. “Your someday at least, is just whatever lands in that seat.”

You shrug. “I guess, but I hope it’s something good.”

“Or someone great,” he smiles, still offering his little variation of a truth.

“You’re really pushing that agenda huh,” you laugh.

“I can stop if you’re uncomfortable,” he replies, joining you in your laughter.

You smile, then make known your honesty, saying, “Who says I would even listen to you?”

“Ah,” Oikawa nods. He looks at you, then at the seat that’s empty beside him. “So would the someone that’s bound to take this seat be someone you’d listen to?”

You laugh, choosing to glaze over the metaphor he lays for you to uncover and instead just keep yourself safe at the distance. “Hopefully,” you shrug.

“I got a lot of hopes for my someday,” you smile. “I just hope it looks like happiness.”

“Why?” Oikawa prods. “Aren’t you happy now?”

Smiling, you poke a little bit of the more vulnerable end of your truth. “I am,” you confess. “My happiness is my nine am sunshine and pastel highlighters. So I can say that I really am happy.”

“But more happiness is always welcome,” you add, wistful.

Oikawa recognizes the look of yearning quick, but he doesn’t dig. Neither does he ask, nor prod—instead, he just lets you be.

He lets the empty seat stay empty, and doesn’t question it when you stare at the spot a little bit longer every time you turn your head towards it again.

“Something or someone good is something constant right?” he smiles.

You do the same, the truth in his words resonating with you.

All you do is smile, and Oikawa already hears what you mean to say.

(He hears a yes that holds all the longing your heart tries to rewrite as strength.)

-

What Kei does, on the other hand, is do a complete 180.

From an outsider’s perspective, it looks more like an odd dynamic if anything. There’s the awkward glance, when you catch each other at the breakroom at the same time, while the box with the remaining two sachets of caramel instant coffee remained on the shelf untouched. Some days you wished for someone who was a little more unaware would just grab at least one or maybe even both sachets, taking it for themselves, so you at least would have a reason to throw away the box.

But it doesn’t work that way.

The thing about almosts, you realize, is that when it leaves, what you’re left to deal with are the tendrils of it.

The things that’s there—that lingers—but in this case, while it’s there, in a sense it just looks like a stain.

Like the ink from your pen bleeding into the paper because you paused too long, and pressed too deep, the things that was yours and his looks like a stain.

It’s not like you take off the keychain or turn from him whenever he said hello if he came across you in the hallways, but most of your exchanges have felt more like the standard greeting the two of you started on.

Square one.

You think to yourself that perhaps he’s become the co-worker who just shares an office with you again, but the more you allow your thoughts to simmer, you realize that at the core of it that’s all he really has been this entire time.

Through the eyes of a poet who chooses to write the things they see through the rose colored lenses, perhaps Tsukishima Kei could have been an almost. The physical manifestation of the someday you’ve been saving the seat across you for, where he answered every metaphor you tell yourself you didn’t even think was there.

(At the truth that had been wrapped with your layers of optimism and false leads of poetry, you think that maybe you had waded in far too deep and held your breath too long, that your lungs just simply gave out.)

You blink.

This wasn’t heartache, but your chest felt dull.

Tsukishima Kei wasn’t love, but he occupied the seat intended for your someday for that short while a little longer than he should have, so like vines wrapping around old stone, you tried to hold onto something.

(Anything.)

Caramel and dinosaur charms; the band aid on his finger, and a quiet look that felt like nine am.

It’s just the difference between nine am and Tsukishima Kei—was that while it was a choice for you to turn your head and bask in the light—at the constant that was the light in the first place, all Kei had been was the temporary caught in the mix.

And by his words, you concluded that he means the same.

Convenience, he said.

A fickle, fleeting thing, when from your point of view, you began to see what could have looked like something that lasted a little longer than that.

You tell yourself that it’s just more convenient that way. Workdays that start from eight, will move through the hours so that it can end at six. You’ll type your files, call your clients, and highlight what matters with the pastel highlighters in the cup that’s been moved from the corner of your desk to the spot right beside your computer screen now.

Kei begins to bring his own, as well as his own stapler, so you think it’s safe to say that that’s all there is to it.

Working around what’s convenient, you mean.

An air of something incomplete hangs around for a while, often coming in passing. Awkwardly clearing your throat when you catch him in the same elevator, or when you hop off your car and he’s just getting out of his. He’s still polite, none the less.

When he sees you by the stock room carrying two boxes of refills for the printer, he takes them from you, even though you had always been the type to refuse with your redundant “no.” In the breakroom when you’d have to stand on the tips of your toes to reach the biscuits at the top of the shelf, he’d still grab them for you.

The obvious change in dynamic was just made known through the drop in conversation.

There was a stop, after the usual hello, and a goodbye, after you’d say thank you because of a favor. Like the both of you finally adhering to just what’s socially acceptable for acquaintances, even though you knew Tsukishima Kei would never be a stranger—these days it’s felt like he’s everything that’s got to do with that.

But the seat’s saved, you think.

Maybe his is too.

Perhaps the difference between the both of you was just that while you wanted to keep it open and waiting for what or who’s eventually meant to take it, Kei seemed to not have much of a problem at letting what’s convenient keep the spot warm.

Too many moments of for-nows, that’s okay at the start, but it eventually turns draining in the end.

Though still, you can’t help but admit that the taste of instant caramel seems a little sweeter than your usual brew that you’ve had for years now.

-

Oikawa Tooru comes into mind when you think of the word that could possibly mend the broken that is almost.

In a way, you tell yourself that there’s a lot that you should leave up to the voice of fate. The final say that it dictates, and the path that looks lit, and well swept, evident for you to walk on instead of the one that’s still covered with vines.

(You’ve always argued with the word fate.)

Though there was a balance of what was given and taken with the universe, you liked to think that at te very core of this all—was a choice.

Convenience was like fate, and with fate, came a multitude of only almosts that exist just to end as is—doomed to never make it.

Left as a comma in a sentence, within a work in progress, abandoned.

Hanging.

But you think to yourself that Tsukishima Kei had a definitive end.

Not as a person, or a connection, because those are just some of the things that’s meant to stay. To evolve. To change.

(Change.)

You think that it’s a little unfortunate how his identity seemed to change when you felt like you were on the cusp of moving towards somewhere greater. But the consolation, after the discovery of what he had made known as his truth, was that perhaps the silver lining in fate was how it often blessed a person with serendipity when they least expected it.

Maybe yours wasn’t the light, after all.

Maybe nine am and caramel was meant to be just a bridge, or a nudge in the direction to have you standing where you are right now, led to this exact moment, and what was meant to be yours—sat in the seat that you had been saving—were the petals in the shade of almonds and turquoise.

A few words spoken in Spanish, where the r rolls quite nicely, and a laugh that feels like he knows your story even without him digging too far down.

There’s bedrock beneath the soil, impenetrable. But Oikawa Tooru digs his feet into your earth anyway, content with what you lay for him in this surface.

(An in between of whether you particularly prefer that or not is caught in between in your head.)

“So what was your almost?” he asks, and ripped from your thoughts, you feel yourself land back into the surface.

At the haze that triumphs over your head, you have to remind yourself that the surface is nice. The surface is where the flowers grow, and face the sun. The surface, is the final product—the defining face—of what you are and what you have.

“What makes you think I have an almost?” you respond, curious.

Oikawa chuckles, evidently amused. “I think we all have an almost.”

With that, you relent; shoulders sagging, though your guards are still somewhat up. They stand guard beside you, this time, instead of cover you directly.

“He was meant to just be that I think,” you say. “An almost,” you clarify, then smile, as you add an afterthought. “I don’t hate him though.”

“Ah,” Oikawa nods, smiling like he just solved another piece of the puzzle. “So it was a someone this whole time.”

At his words, you roll your eyes, but chuckle afterwards anyway. “Was is a pretty good indication that it’s done with now.”

“I never pegged you as the dramatic type.”

“I like to think I’m unperceivable,” you comment.

Oikawa grins, “I’ve always liked solving puzzles.”

“I’m a person,” you retort, “not a stick of cardboard cut-out just to fit with something.”

“So what you’re saying,” Oikawa says, smirking, “is that you’re already the full illustration?”

“I deserve to be the whole piece,” you laugh. “I invest into things that fall in line with that.”

“I don’t think being just a piece right now is bad,” he says. “You’re what, only 23?”

Laughing, you wave him off. “You’re making it seem like I’m a lot younger than I am.”

Oikawa smiles with you, the happiness shared—amplified even. “You are young.”

“Sometimes it feels like that,” you admit. “But I think I’m at the part of life where I should be taking control of my time a lot more seriously. Leaving things up to the universe or fate or whatever hasn’t really been good for me.”

“But serendipity is nice,” he chimes.

And you nod, swiftly admitting that he does have a point. “Serendipity lead me to thinking that caramel was the one meant for me.”

Oikawa stares at the brew in your cup, eyebrow raised in question. “But don’t you like caramel?”

“I do,” you smile. “But not exactly enough to drink it for the rest of my forever.”

“What do you want to drink forever then?”

“You know you jump from one question to the next pretty quickly,” you note, laughing.

“I don’t wanna dig too deep,” he tells you, leaning back against the back of the chair, his shoulders slumping. Oikawa looks relaxed, you note. Like leaves just swooshing back and forth depending on the feel of the breeze, he looks like whether he turns towards the right or left, somehow he’s always going to find a nook to settle into place.

You envy the fact that he seems to be the type to find a place wherever.

“So what do you wanna drink forever?”

What do you see in that seat in front of you?

“Well,” you start, relenting. “I almost would have settled for caramel, but maybe it’s still a drink I haven’t even heard of yet.”

“So like a surprise,” Oikawa grins.

“Serendipity,” he adds, not even a minute later.

You take a sip, the taste familiar. While the voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’ve always been quite fond of the familiar, Oikawa smiling at you like he means to stay with the intention to reintroduce you to something that is everything but that, in a way, excites you.

You grin. “I don’t know about that, but I guess if it’s what’s meant to come then that’s what I should focus on building on top of, right?”

He clinks the corner of his drink with yours, laughing at the dull sound of plastic clashing. “I have a feeling that you think you’re running out of time.”

“So you mean you’re playing detective now,” you say.

“I’m a stranger,” Oikawa shrugs. “I’ll pass by here and after I leave you’ll probably only remember me as that really hot dude you bumped into at your friend’s flower shop.”

Rolling your eyes, you lean back on your own seat, huffing. “You left out conceited.”

“I think the adjective hot covers the important parts.”

“So you mean for me to just swoon at the memory of you?”

At your words, Oikawa smirks, right before it mellows into a smile, as if he’s triumphant. “So you mean that you admit you swoon for me?”

Knowing that this is mostly just empty words, you only laugh again in response. Not a lot of what Oikawa shows you hangs around what’s vague. You’ve always appreciated the clarity in whatever this was or is going to be, so the smile you let out is honest.

Oikawa stares.

A bit of silence settles in, but you let it, finding it comfortable. A little more passes before he smiles again, his eyes unwavering on yours.

“Did he ever tell you that you smile pretty?”

-

You should have said a solid no.

(Because that was the truth.)

Instead, you remember how you turned away and smiled in a sad kind of way, as if you’re missing something. “No,” you recall you said. “But he knows the kind of coffee I like.”

“And that’s enough for you?” he asked, and when you opened your mouth, thinking you had a response, silence was the only thing that met you halfway.

You think about it. Was it enough?

The more you allow for the thoughts to settle in, the clearer the heartache becomes. You come to realize that there is heartache that’s even present, in the first place, because to an extent you invested a part of yourself into this.

Tsukishima Kei didn’t just become the flow that moved with your day, nor just someone who fell into your clockwork. He wasn’t love, but the idea that he could have been was what rooted itself in your thoughts.

You let him take the seat you meant to save for what you hope would be permanent, and unknowingly, intertwined your vines with his. This whole time, you thought you faced the sun.

But when Kei nods his head towards you every morning as if it’s just a polite greeting—like all you are to him now is just a gesture—you realize that the sun you’ve held this whole time was just the bits that was filtered through the leaves.

(Komorebi.)

There’s an ache, but it’s dull.

The two damned sachets are still in the cabinets, collecting dust, and it bothers you how no one seems to want to touch it. You see the way he frowns at how bright his highlighters are, then try not to remember how

But while you thought that way, what doesn’t dawn on you is how Kei wills himself to turn from the window, and ignore the sun.

Slivers of the light he’s always thought was yours still dance in his desk. The way it comes is gentle; filtered through the leaves from the trees outside, on the canvas of his space he sees spaces. Of where there is light, and where there is shade, there in the spaces in between written are the thoughts he tries to ignore.

Though there was a lot that remained unsaid, the tragedy of the story was made known through the sight of the sun—from his eyes at least—that’s begun to look dim.

Kei stares at the yellow on the paper and thinks it’s out of place. He recalls, even though it’s a memory he actively tries to push down, the coffeeshop the two of you often spent your weekends at together.

There, he was reminded of how perfectly in place he had felt.

There, within your company, and conversation. While you were sat in the chair he thought he had always been saving for something, he hoped that he was sat in the place where you saved for yours.

Though there was the absence of explicit communication, he hoped the little things at least spoke to you. The coffee he used to place on your desk, that was made in the way he memorized by heart now. The pillow that he can’t help but notice you still using, on your chair, and the two pieces of caramel left on the cabinets.

(Like they’re there, just waiting.)

(As if on pause.)

(He hopes that this is just a pause.)

And he wanted to ask you too, to at least put words to perhaps quell the worry undeniably raging in his head.

His mind begs him for clarity—for answers. But the most he can do is feel his fingers twitch and throat lump when you pass him, muttering another, “Goodmorning, Tsukishima-san,” without looking in his direction.

The yellow on his paper is too bright and he hates the way it looks against the ink. It looks like a stain, he thinks.

You calling him Tsukishima-san instead of Kei feels like it’s a stain.

(But it eats him alive when he can’t bring himself to do anything other than sit still, rendered into absolute silence, even as the memory of seeing you at the café yesterday, sat across a man who took his seat.)

You were smiling, like you would towards your 9am everyday, so his words were left to remain as just thoughts.

His thoughts, like being just barely strong enough, almost pushing past that final barrier in his throat, but dying before it could overcome the final hurdle.

You’re more than just a question and an answer, he acknowledges his thoughts say.

You’re more than just pastel highlighters, sachets of caramel, and a stranger with a story that sat in the seat he saved for his someday for a while.

He sighs, his eyes still transfixed on the stain of yellow.

And it’s his almost that had him choosing to look towards you at the very last second, smiling. With patience, he gives himself a countdown from ten to breathe, before he looks at you.

You’re facing away from him, like you have for a while now, but even if the light wasn’t there, in the safety and secrecy of his thoughts, he admits to himself that you’re beautiful.

There’s a lot of uncertainties that come with life, but this moment, founded in the heart of everything that had been unclarity, he finds a moment of understanding. Time doesn’t stop, because it was founded with the intention to move—in a linear pace, so instead of losing himself, he rides the steady flow of his thoughts instead.

As if it’s another secret, he murmurs your name instead.

And because the world is a traitor to the almost lovers who arrived into their own set of conclusions in the silence, you hear him.

You don’t say his name, but he admits that he wished you did.

Like the day before, at the sight of seeing you offer him a smile, regardless if it was just for formalities, his hands are already clamming up. There’s a sprig of your hair, on the left side that’s a little askew, and he itches to reach forward and fix it.

The way you call him Tsukishima-san flashes in his mind again, so he pulls back.

He meant to unravel himself then and there—almost.

(He realizes how much he loathes that word.)

You look at him a little funny, but you maintain your patience anyway. It looks like he’s holding to a lot of something that he needs to say, so even if you’re apprehensive of his intentions now, you think you still have it enough in you to listen.

For a while he gives you just silence.

“Are you seeing someone?” he blurts, the sudden spike in volume of his voice a little awkward.

Furrowing your brows together, you try not to squint towards him. “Why would that concern you?”

“I saw you out with someone yesterday,” he murmurs, his voice more on the quiet end.

Half of him hopes you wouldn’t hear, that the world would be on his side just this once, but as always, it never was one to favor the uncertain.

“Tooru,” you say, testing the waters. “His name is Tooru.”

“Congratulations,” he tells you, but before you could respond, he’s already turning away. You know it’s not like you to leave whatever this is as just another hanging thing with the intention to just be left behind.

But he turns away, rationality tells you.

The more you dwell on your thoughts, you know there’s not much of a need to actively try to seek for closure in something that gave you nothing but blurred lines and a hazy outlook right from the beginning.

You turn away too, but somehow, the silence that you thought you had grown familiar to by now seems a little colder.

There’s sunlight that comes, but it’s filtered.

In the spaces between light and dark, Kei crumples his paper, fishes out a fresh copy from the side, and grabs a pencil to circle what he needs instead.

(When he passes the paper off to you, you try to ignore the way only your name was circled with permanent ink.)

-

“You know,” Oikawa hums one day. “You need to try being a little more blunt.”

The fact that he’s picking you up from work now should have been a red flag, about how comfortable he’s been settling into your life, but each time you think you’re aware enough to ask the question, he always beats you to the punch with something else.

Like now.

His hands are on the wheel, steady. There’s a kind of look in his eye you can’t quite read, and you’re suddenly thankful for the fact that he has to legally keep his eyes on the road, and not on you. He steals a few looks, though, and it’s through the feel of his eyes watching you from the rearview mirror where you’re reminded of how close you’ve gotten to him.

In proximity, literally, and more as just people.

In this sense, it terrifies you.

You don’t pull away though.

It doesn’t feel like things are clicking into place much like it did with Kei, but what you’re holding onto now, you see, is clarity. Or what you think clarity should be like, at the very least.

“Down this street, right?” Oikawa asks, breaking the silence, but not exactly the flow of your thoughts.

You think to yourself that it’s a little odd that he knows. Though the more you put some thought into it, it’s been a lot like it lately. Your car’s been in your garage more than usual, and he’s waited outside your office for a majority of this week. And the last—and the last before that.

There was consistency in his presence—the kind that was so intense and so tangible that it began to have you feeling like you’re supposed to be on the edge of something.

Perhaps right on the cusp of a change, that’s meant to be delivered all in good nature. You shift in your seat, opting to look at the window to your left, thinking that anywhere but the rearview mirror is a good view in the moment, and sigh.

Oikawa catches it, like always.

(You don’t know how to feel about constantly being seen this much.)

“Tough day?” he questions.

“An understatement,” you laugh. You find that Oikawa always has this way of looking at you like he knows you more than he lets on, and while for the most part, it didn’t exactly bother you, for now you find that you have to physically fight the urge to turn away.

In the end, you succeed, because your eyes are on the road ahead instead of towards him. Still, you feel the pull, so the most you do is catch a glance at a red light.

“Tsukishima Kei,” he says, quickly catching you off guard. “I remember him from highschool.”

You shift in your spot, interest piqued. “You know eachother?”

“Just acquaintances,” he laughs, his hands still on the wheel. “Knew him for a while that’s all.”

“So basically strangers,” you mumble.

He steals a glance: one that you don’t quite catch. “Yeah,” he says, hands on the wheel, foot on the brakes, and his eyes on you. “A stranger.”

And it’s in your eyes, that are cast down at his words, as you mumble, “same,” where the questions he didn’t dare pose to you are answered.

He gives himself a moment to take a breath, then when he sees that the light’s still at red, he taps his finger a couple times against the steering wheel before he takes another and holds it this time. “So it’s him,” he says, and the silence has never rang this loud.

“You’re a lot more obvious than you give yourself credit for, you know,” he laughs, a little louder this time when you choose to stretch the silence as your reply.

“And that’s a bad thing?” you counter, challenging him.

“Depends on how you look at it.”

“How are you looking at it?”

Briefly, Oikawa considers skirting around his words, but decides against it anyway. “Like I said,” he says, easing his foot slowly off the brakes when the car in front moved. “You could try being a little more blunt.”

“By blunt you mean….” you trail off.

Down this road, right past the house with the oddly shaped tree, and you’re home. It still doesn’t sink in when Oikawa pulled the brakes before you could even dictate to him where your driveway was.

“By blunt I mean if I ask you why you’re angry, you can answer it without sugarcoating anything,” he says, his hands on the wheel and the key still in the ignition.

Your hands pause before you could feign the notion of nonchalance. In a way, you suppose Oikawa had a point, but like always, vulnerability was something that wasn’t just given. Though to be fair, you didn’t want him to fight for something you weren’t willing to even lay on the line either.

The silence in the car is stifling.

“What do you think?” he says, breaking the tension that’s been steadily rising. “Can you?”

A pause, then, Oikawa shifts, unbuckling his seatbelt to face you. “Will you?”

And truth be told, nothing exactly overcomes you. It doesn’t happen like how they depict in the movies or write about in novels, where you become washed over by a certain kind of grace that’s overwhelming or empowering.

There’s no clarity that gives healing, or answers for the matter, but what does come to you is the feel of your shoulders slumping against the seats as you lean back instead of move forward to leave.

You know you don’t want to stay, and you know you aren’t stuck, but you still won’t move. Simultaneously it baffles you and intrigues you.

Oikawa’s still silent, and the low hum of the car’s engine hums. From the corner of your eye, you notice all the trinkets in the car that probably isn’t his, yet the way he holds on to the steering wheel and relaxes into the seat makes it seem like the latter. Perhaps he just had a way of making himself blend in the background, looking like he’s home even though in reality, he’s quite far from it.

“I’m just a stranger,” he says. “When I go your secrets go too.”

“Why should a person’s pain always have to be a secret?” you ask, letting what comes, trickle.

It starts slow. They don’t come as words, but rather bursts of emotions. You’re apathetic, then you’re tilted. Angry, then okay. On the cusp of disbelief, then tired. But what breaks your heart, you realize, is how you can’t seem to find a trace of joy in any of them.

And that’s when it’s made clear to you.

“I’m angry because there is no joy,” you say, your words coming out slow. Your breaths remain controlled, as is your pose, but there’s a part of you that wishes you’d move. Not in the sense where you’d break free for the sake of letting go, and letting loose, but the stillness grips you too tight and you feel like you can’t breathe.

Letting a semblance of a lifelong ache go should have you breathing by now, but instead you’re here, trying to catch up with air.

It’s disorienting. You’re inside a car, parked in your driveway, with a stranger who doesn’t feel like a stranger sitting on the driver’s seat staring at you like all he’s done his hold life is hold your truth. For the most part, you felt as if you haven’t been holding on to it yourself, so perhaps just feeling the full weight of it now is just overwhelming.

You like it; then you fucking hate it. The notion of risk is terrifying to anyone who’s stood on solid ground their whole life, and now, standing at the depth has you feeling like there’s nothing but unsteady waters beneath your feet ready to pull you under.

You throw a lifeline.

“I’m angry because I don’t want to be just another convenience,” you finally exhale.

“It’s scary, you know?”

“I’m angry because I feel like at my age I should just be saving. That fucking seat across me, investments for the future, and myself,” you sigh. Your shoulders begin to tremble, but Oikawa doesn’t hold you. What he does is lean back, and face forward again, letting what comes cascade over you in private.

“Is that why you’re so guarded?” Oikawa questions, tentative.

A sliver of the aching piece of you leaks. “Does it seem that way?”

He smiles, then crosses one arm over the other. “There’s nothing wrong with being a little more cautious sometimes.”

“But that’s the thing,” Oikawa pauses, “remember to only do that as a sometimes kinda thing.”

“I don’t want my life to just be a series of conveniences, Tooru,” you confess. “I want to be chosen as much as I want to choose. We’re all given a choice, aren’t we?”

He nods. “We are.”

“I’m terrified of marrying because of convenience and washing the dishes too fast because I can’t stand to be in the same room as who I’ll end up with.”

Oikawa juts his bottom lip, then blinks. “Who says it’ll be like that though?”

“Because if you choose what’s just convenient, that means you’re just relenting to what’s there.”

“You’re overthinking this,” he points out. “You’re okay.”

“Now I am,” you reply, voice just barely above a whisper. “But that’s because I’m taking control of what I can now and making sure I won’t end up in that position.”

“You’re gonna be okay you know,” he says.

“You say that like you know what’s going to happen to me to the end.”

“Maybe I do,” he laughs.

You shake your head, choosing to ride the lightness of the conversation instead of allowing yourself to further be pulled under. There’s limits when it comes to giving pieces of yourself to a stranger, but regardless of what you showed, you can’t deny that you feel a little lighter.

“You know sometimes I wish you did,” you breathe out with an exhale. “Would you give me a head’s up?”

“Then how will you learn if it doesn’t catch you by surprise? That’s the fun part in life.”

“Making mistakes?”

“Bingo.”

You snort. “I’m not enlightened about anything from this conversation by the way.”

“That wasn’t the point,” he hums. “I got you laughing didn’t I?”

“For now,” you sigh, rolling your shoulders.

“That’s enough.”

Unbuckling your seatbelt, instead of stepping out of the car you just readjust your position to lean back against the seat, sighing. “I guess,” you relent. “Thanks.”

His eyes anchor themselves on your profile again. “That’s my girl,” you hear, and by the chuckle you can tell that only means to convey his happiness.

Exhaling a sigh through your nose, you mumble, “Don’t call me your girl.”

Beside you, Oikawa quirks an eyebrow, challenged. “Because it’s too soon or because you just don’t want me to call you that?”

“And Nina,” he says, to which you turn your head to. At your attention, first he offers you a smile, before he continues, saying, “You’re young. You can take a couple detours if you feel like it. Just don’t tell yourself that everyone who takes that seat is automatically gonna be the convenience thing or the one. We’re all in the inbetween stage of life right now.”  

“For someone my age, you talk like you’re so old.”

“Hey,” he laughs, arms raised in mock surrender, “Thought I’d end up in Nationals and only trained in Argentina to get exposure for when I come back home, but now I play for the fucking national team there.”

“Shit happens,” he says. “You never know.”

-

You never know, Oikawa told you then, and you had smiled at him and muttered your thanks before you left the car.

He knew that if he was a little braver, and a little more full of himself, he would have leaned in for a kiss on the cheek at least, but not today. Not with you. It’s not that there’s something about you, but rather, it’s feeling like it’s everything about you.

Oikawa Tooru was never the type to believe in clichés much, so this was considered as one of his predicaments.

“You never know,” as the words Iwaizumi told him when he contemplated buying that ticket back to Tokyo just for a while.

You never know, as the thought in his head when he switched lanes at the very last minute and visited Hanamaki’s flowershop instead of meeting up with an old fling he’d begun to have doubts with.

You never know, as the phrase he tells himself time and time again, because this could lead to something better.

(And it’s you, as the something better that met him in the middle; his heart, unprecedented.)  

He really should be driving home by now, but instead of doing that, he’s rounding your neighborhood two more times.

You never know, he told himself, the day after he met you at the flower shop, phone in hand, three minutes before he made up his mind to press the call button and ask you for coffee the very next day.

You never know, turning into irony because all he knows is that he’s fucked.

The more he thinks about it, he should really have listened to reason instead of spontaneity. He could have stayed on his lane and drove in accordance to his schedule. Had he stayed where he was meaning to go that day, he could have drove down the streets of your neighborhood and not know where to turn. The streets could have stayed unfamiliar, and it would have been fine.

(But that’s not the case, because now he’s going on his third turn, and instead of merging with the highway, he makes another turn towards your street again.

Huh, Oikawa thinks, suddenly remembering the sight of you beside a bloom of hydrangeas. Never knew daises were that pretty.

-        (italics-flashback) -

“You know you really need to stop being so impulsive,” Hanamaki points out.

Oikawa takes the seat across him, sliding in after a quick roll of the eye. Accepting the can the former slides towards him, he sighs, before opening the tab and clinking it together for a quiet cheers.

The brunette sighs. “Just got caught up in fate, that’s all.”

—Fate, like the story that started with hello. Hydrangeas and roses, and a light illuminated that streamed in through the glass, filtered by leaves.

Fate like seeing you against the light of Komorebi, and thinking to himself that perhaps this is what they mean about feeling the roots of a promising maybe take place and hold still.

“Love isn’t just built on fate,” Hanamaki shrugs in front of him. “It’s the little steps you choose to take every day.”

Oikawa snickers. “Wow, so you’re a poet now.”

“I’m not,” Hanamaki deadpans. “You know I’m shit with words,” he adds, holding his bottle out.

Oikawa leans forward and clinks his against his friend’s, laughing. “But here you are.”

“Here I am,” he laughs. “I chose to be,” he says, looking around the shop, the look on his face telling him that this is what he means by home.

(—Like he chose to be here.

Nine in the morning where he should be on a train to Miyagi to spend the last week of his trip. It’s a choice, he thinks, that he made when it was 8:48, and he was still too delirious on the high that he could just about do anything regardless of time.  

At 8:55, despite the truth of the matter shown crystal clear to him, he still pressed on. ‘It’s fine,’ he thought then. ‘Just a quick stop and I’ll still have time to pack.’

And it’s a quick stop that looks like that café down the road, where it’s just a 10 minute walk from your place. He’s never been the type to particularly enjoy coffee as much as you, but he supposes a couple brews is worth it to try. The most he knows is your schedule that runs from eight to six, and that your favorite time of day was nine.

Perhaps it’s how the sun feels on his palms, and the kind of warmth it gives that’s only met through this time of day that makes you fall in love with the hour. From what he remembers about the comments you say in passing, he knows that it’s always under the light like these where you favor having your usual cup of coffee.

And because spontaneity is what drove him to pull at the roots of the maybes that have already dug into the soil, he still doesn’t budge when he recognizes the telltale shade of blonde just a few spots in front of him at the café.

It’s a choice too, he thinks, to nod his head towards the blonde in acknowledgement when he turns and allows for the person behind him to take his spot.

“Oikawa-san.”

Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if a greeting was due, but he supposes that social etiquettes dictates the things that must be done, and so, he follows.

“Tsukishima Kei, right?” he asks, as if it’s the first he’s said that name in a while. “ Though a semblance of truth is with his words, he still keeps his reservations.

It’s silence, for the next few while. A couple steps forward, and a silence that isn’t exactly comfortable to prolong or share, before it’s Kei who takes initiative and turns to face Oikawa, as he says, “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Nina’s a great girl,” he adds, after Oikawa lets the silence hang. In front of him, Kei shifts his weight from one foot to the other, basking in the awkward of the atmosphere because of Oikawa’s lack of response.

It doesn’t strike dawn on Oikawa until he’s moved up a couple more spots up the line, where he’s face to face with the cash register, what Kei means to deliver with his words. Mouth forming into a small ‘O’, his thoughts just blank.

There’s a saying that he remembers often, and it’s ignorance is bliss. In most cases, for the sake of keeping his peace of mind, he would agree. In the moment, he disagrees.

“Can I take your order?” was just supposed to be a question, and it shouldn’t have made him think too hard. And looking at it from a more objective point of view, he would have just texted you, asking what you felt like drinking that day, and that would have been the end of that.

Phone in hand, and your contact that he’s still been meaning to save on the screen, he’s halfway to shooting you a text, but before he could, someone’s already beat him to the punch.

“She likes caramel latte with sweetcream cold foam on top on a regular day,” Kei says, beside him, towards the cashier. Afterwards, he looks at Oikawa, adding, “But on weekends if she feels like it, she’ll usually order an iced shaken passion lemon tea with two shots Asian dolce sauce and sweet cream cold—“

“We’re not together,” Oikawa interrupts, though he doesn’t break the chain of his actions. As if running on autopilot, he speaks with a smile, pockets his phone, fishes out his wallet, and hands the cashier his card.

From the side, Kei watches as he smiles his thank you: the first towards the cashier, then next towards him.

“We’re not together,” he clarifies, repeating his words with a little more grip to his tone. “You don’t have to worry,” Oikawa smiles. )

Oikawa shifts, eyeing Hanamaki. “You see,” he responds to his earlier words, “I can think that love is like that—that it’s the little choices and shit, but if it doesn’t work out—“ he pauses, heaving a sigh, “—then I can just tell myself that maybe it’s not meant to turn into love. And that makes it okay.”

The atmosphere dips, and Hanamaki chooses to keep his silence.

He watches as Oikawa nods his head, evidently trying to convince himself. “I’m okay,” he reaffirms, first to himself, then to Hanamaki who stares at him with a careful eye.

“Tooru…”

(And he means when he say that he’s okay, because truly, how could he not be when he’s stopping by your office and seeing you beam at him with the same streams of komorebi illuminating you like a halo behind your head.

He’s okay, when he sees that the purple dinosaur charm still on your keyring looks too identical to the one on Tsukishima Kei’s that’s set on top of his desk, next to a stack of papers.

He swears he’s okay, because a maybe is all this will ever be, and he’s made peace with that. Though on second thought, there was no issue to even make peace about—at least he thinks.

Thinks.

He thinks he’s okay, still, when after you say your thanks, you follow up with “How’d you get my order right?” and when he answers that he didn’t, you looked somehow happier when he nodded his head towards Kei’s desk.

“Ah,” he heard you reply. “Thanks, still.”

There’s a bit of red on your cheeks he wants to blame the light for, but he knows better. Ignorance is bliss, and in the moment, he craves for it.)

Oikawa sighs, leans back and cocks his head back to stare at the ceiling. There’s an absence of stars, but the blankness suffices. To his distant right, he hears Hanamaki swing back another gulp, before he too, follows suit and blinks at the starless ceiling.

“But I’m not gonna lie,” Oikawa says. “It stings a little.”

-

To be fair, he tried to make it only sting. And because the world can only give so much mercy, it only offers him this.

A seat beside yours, under the midnight sky that covers the secrets he knows he’ll have to try to hide. Like the red on his cheeks, the fidgeting of his fingers, and the nervous tap of his toe inside his shoe. You face him, a question in your eyes, but for the while that the silence is one of comfort, he resides in it like he would home.

And it’s nice, Oikawa thinks.

It’s nice to be like this and stay like this.

You can watch the stars, and smile at the moon. Should the world have given him more time than he has, he thinks in another life, he would have loved you under komorebi. Through a foliage of green may the sun come, and you’ll hold your hand out like the illuminated light comes just for you to take.

(And it’s warm, Oikawa thinks.)

(The palms of your hand looks warm.)

“The seat’s already taken isn’t it?” he says finally, breaking the silence.

You look at him, on the cusp of an apology, but he cuts you off before you get the chance to say a word.

“It’s okay,” he says, voice forgiving. When you turn to look at him, he has his own apology in his eyes. “Please don’t tell me sorry.”

“I’m not sorry about anything, Nin,” Oikawa smiles. “I won’t say I was sure about you, but there’s too much uncertainties hanging around for me to try to keep this up. Don’t wanna burden you with that too,” he continues with a laugh.

“You say that Tsukishima’s that almost for you, but you know the difference between calling someone an almost and a maybe?” he questions, though he doesn’t look at you. To the midnight skies he shifts his eyes instead, and so you do the same, hoping to see clarity within the haze of the clouds.

(You don’t see a thing.)

“An almost means that you’re sure about it enough to pursue it,” he says. “An almost means that you’re getting there.”

(You see the moon.)

Oikawa stares at your profile, and thinks of the hydrangeas. “Do you like hydrangeas?” he asks, seeing the memory of you from day 1.

You nod, eyes still to the moon. “Yeah.”

In your eyes, he sees the tendrils of what is meant to eventually bloom as love. “Would you accept it if I gave you one right now?” he asks, prompting the question for his ending.

By some mercy, you turn to him. Mindlessly, you ponder for a few moments, before you shake your head. “Maybe,” you say. “I’ve always loved daisies the most though.”

He laughs. “Noted.”

“Moon looks pretty tonight, doesn’t it?” he asks, sealing the ending close.

“It always looks pretty,” you smile.

He supposes the silence that comes is the first of peace.  A moment more, under the midnight skies, and though his fingers itch to reach forward and hold your hand, he wills it to lie still.

You smile, again, and he knows the clock’s up.

“I think I’ll head out first, actually,” Oikawa says, getting up with a stretch. “Early train to Miyagi tomorrow; might as well make the most of it before I fly back to Argentina.”

“Should I say see you later?” you ask.

“Of course, you can,” he smiles. “But I should probably leave now. Seat’s taken right?”

-

For just a little bit more, the last traces of midnight stays, before dawn breaks.

Hanamaki stands beside him, upper body leaning against the railing, his eyes to the skies, where dawn slowly starts to break. “Did you really cancel your flight?”

Oikawa chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course not.”

“But you extended it,” Hanamaki replies, laughing with him.

Oikawa nods, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That I did,” he admits, nodding his head.

“Never thought you’d be the type to go this far,” he says. “Say if it worked out and she asked you to stay, would you?”

“Maybe,” Oikawa laughs.

“So almost.” Hanamaki notes.

A nod. “Almost.”

“I almost didn’t go to your shop that day, by the way.”

“But you did.”

(A truth he would never replace.)

So Oikawa smiles, blinking at the bleeding colors of dawn that steadily breaks. “I did.”

-

There’s a lot of things about you that Tsukishima Kei can best describe as beautiful.  

Like the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you lean forward and get some work done. Your photos of your friends by your monitor, and the stack of sticky notes behind your monitor that you refuse to throw away because you think you might need them later.

Komorebi, and the filtered light it brings, because it’s warm. The feel of residual warmth that lingers on the surface of the mug long after the coffee’s gone.

A lot of what’s beautiful is you.

Your pastel highlighters, and the way you wave at the cat that loiters around the parking lot.

Tsukishima Kei learns to love the word ours, and further appreciate the taste of caramel only when it’s shared.

Like what he wants to do now, he supposes. Lately it’s felt like you’re starting again, from square one all over again, as he stares at the same contents in the fridge and the cabinets. Only this time, most of the questions he has are already answered.

He knows you like crème brulee over strawberry shortcake and it’s just because. You prefer spring over winter, because the winter’s too cold for you to take. When you say good morning, just to him, it feels nice and he feels seen.

And most importantly, he knows your favorite kind of instant coffee is the caramel ones from nescafe.

Like the two sachets still left alone inside the cupboards in front of him.

“Ah,” he hears, and when he turns, he sees you, awkwardly standing by the door looking unsure about where you are.

“I was just making my way out,” he nods towards you.

Sheepishly shaking your head, you refute his words, “No need,” you smile. “I’m just making coffee.”

“Ah,” he comments. “Busy day ahead, right?”

“Yeah,” he smiles.

“The other day,” you hear him hesitate. “The thing with Oikawa-san…” he trails off. “I’m sorry if I crossed any boundaries.”

“You’re fine,” you smile.

“And with you—“ he extends, almost as if he’s in a panic. “I’m sorry.”

“I know I used the word convenience, and I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I need to be a lot better with my choice of words.”

When you keep your silence, his eyes snap back up to yours, a little frantic. “Not that I mean it’s an excuse though, I mean, I’m sorry. I want to get to—no,” he interrupts himself, before he relaxes his shoulders with a sigh, and just looks at you, defeated. “I like you.”

“I’m sorry too,” you smile. “I looked at things a little too extremely than I should have, you know,” you tell him. “I think there’s just a lot between us that needed to be said.”

“We never really spoke much out loud,” you note, casting your eyes to the side, towards the cupboard with the two sachets of caramel.

“But thanks for always getting caramel though,” he hears you say, and he smiles. “Thanks for the keychain too,” you add.

“You kept it,” Kei notes, nodding towards your ring with a fond look.

“Of course I did.”

“Can I make you a cup?” he offers, watching you round the corner, walking towards the table.

“Yeah,” you answer. “I’d love that.”

Gesturing to the seat across here he’d take, you nod towards him. “This seat taken?”

Recognizing the familiarity in gesture, Kei grins. Like memorizing the patterns Komorebi casts on the blank space in his table, he finds his puzzle begin to click into place again.

Perhaps this is a start, or perhaps this could be just a detour that will be for now, at best. You smell caramel in the air and see your 9AM light leak through the door and spill into the room. It’s peace, as the place you choose to settle in.

Komorebi.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves.

May it fall on your hands, or kiss the skin on your face. You’ll accept it as the light it is, where it will illuminate you regardless of the patches where the shade overlaps the light. Light and dark, intertwined, but what you hold and feel is still light.

(Still could be love.)

A seat that’s empty, and your hope for the mundane to be redefined into all the words of love.

His purple dinosaur keychain and the fact that the plethora of messages you’ve delivered over moments of little nothings are now pushed back into the light, and made clear.

(Is this seat taken? you ask, much like he did in the days before.)

“All yours,” he says. (You answered.)

(All yours.)

[vergess]

@autismserenity​ said: Your tags are the most American thing I’ve ever read, we are truly so screwed here   

May I interest you in a more complete, and more excruciating, explanation of what I spent the last 18 months doing?

It is, I need to emphasize, fucking nasty. Don’t feel obligated, especiallly if you’ve already had A Day(tm).

There’s a lot of disease, a lot of worker abuse including sexual and racial abuse, a fine portion of letting people die for not being white enough for real medical care, all leading to homelessness.

For NDA reasons, because my former employer was just as vile as any tech company has ever been, I cannot be super specific about who I worked for. However, I can say that we handled the records and patient contact for all COVID testing for several states, as well as 2 of the 5 largest metros in the US, and several dozen smaller ones ranging from the approximate population of San Francisco, down to little towns, as well as the testing for several public school systems and at least two government agencies that I am not at liberty to disclose.

I tell you this for a sense of scale. When I say shit like, “my boss was more than happy to let thousands or hundreds of thousands die” I am not exagerrating for effect. We handled hundreds of thousands of tests a week.

Again, I need to emphasize, government agencies. Ones you would know if I named them. Ones everyone in the country knows.

And we were in charge of getting their test results from the already over swamped labs back to the patients, who often were not allowed to quarantine while awaiting results.

The fastest we got our turnaround time to on any consistent basis was about 30 hours. Often it ballooned well into weeks.

There were a number of factors for this, but the big one was always understaffing.

The staff we did have were treated like trash. One of the big selling points of this company is how “trans friendly” it is to work there. That is a lie. Every trans employee on payroll had their dead name displayed to all other staff, and until I personally changed the system setup on my arrival, patient facing trans people’s dead names were displayed to patients.

Remember that thing about “hundreds of thousands of tests a week”?

I was able to change the way patient-facing names were displayed. I was not allowed or able to alter the way internal systems displayed trans people’s names. But I was assured that it’s fine, because once you get a legal name change, you’ll be given new system accounts with your new name!

Your old accounts with your dead name would still be displayed and associated with the new ones though.

This is the “trans friendly” working environment. We were allowed to be out of the closet, as long as we were willing to put up with that. And any attempts to get it altered were the result of those nasty little transgender ingrates not being thankful enough.

Meaning that by asking to use our own fucking names we were already in the disciplinary shitter.

Another big selling point is the ~racial diversity~. The CEO was a man of colour, and so were like four other people on staff!! Wow!!!!!!!

This, too, was laughable.

Once numbers started coming in about the care gap for COVID between English and Spanish speakers, and our Southwestern US service area began to have a separate and brutal backlog just of Spanish speaking patients, my employer encouraged me to interview potential hires who speak spanish.

Fair enough! We all wanted to do our part to help close the already massive mortality gap.

So, I found candidates, did interviews, hired them, trained them, etc. But I don’t speak Spanish. As a result, I appointed 2 assistant managers who do speak Spanish to assist me in managing, you know, like the job name.

So when my super contacted them directly, completely skipping me on the chain of command, and told them to stop all of our Spanish speakers from translating helpful simple messages to send to patients, and instead start translating medical and legal documents, they very reasonably assumed I was in the know and went ahead with it.

TO BE CLEAR, that could have ended my life, theirs, basically everyone involved. Everyone in the company would have been completely fucked. At that point, my subordinates, the people for whom I am wholly responsible, were doing everything from practicing medicine without licenses, to encouraging spanish speaking patients to enter contracts that no one on the fucking executive tier could even read.

The moment I found that out, I and the A.M.s immediately started trying to get actual medical translation services to do our documents. We collected them in a neat folder. We queried translation services. We got quotes. We contacted my super and the CEO, about this over and over again for months. In the late autumn, we received approval for one of the translation services.

The CEO decided at the last minute that having people with no medical or legal training draft medical and legal forms was fine and good actually, and refused to sign the contract or send the documents for translation.

The excuse I received was that the COVID emergency HIPAA relaxations would protect us.

That’s not how that works.

Throughout all of this, Spanish speaking employees were told to either keep doing medical and legal translation work, or lose their jobs.

Oh, did I mention everyone was working between 30 and 80 hours a week, and all of us were marked as “contractors” so the employer could tax evade? Don’t worry, we filed complaints with the labour bureau.

So the entire department was let go, and “rehired” as temps through a temp agency, which because it was a temp agency could keep them marked as contractors regardless of the facts.

This change was presented to all of us, myself included, as the company getting a new accountant to handle payroll.

So if you’re keeping score, we’ve covered racism, queerphobia, medical negligence, fraud, and a frankly uncountable number of deaths.

Let’s talk about the sheer negligence towards employees ourselves. If you’ve worked in near-death medical care before, or any number of emergency services really, you know that the standard benefit suite includes either a dedicated therapist for your staff, or access to peer support groups with other emergency and medical servants through your employer’s benefits program.

Do you know what our mental health benefits were for this company?

The CEO got on a fucking zoom call with us all one (1) time, and said that if we were feeling suicidal or traumatized by the work, to talk to him about it, and he would be our therapist.

Do you know how many people per fucking day we had to contact only to be told they had already died because our understaffing delays killed them? He doesn’t. He never listened when we told him.

But let me put the cherry on the “Oh baby, you can talk to me, oooh” sundae.

Anyone who “looked” or “sounded” female, regardless of actual or assigned gender, was subject to constant flirtations and slimy, overly personal compliments about our appearances. Fortunately, at 3 levels removed from the CEO (Executives > Department heads > Managers > Employees), most of the people under my management had relatively little contact with him.

I was not nearly so lucky.

The CEO of this company has a watersports (urination) fetish. I know this, because he told me so and attempted to get me to join him in it. I have no idea how many other people in the company he did this to. I mean, what the fuck was I supposed to do, risk losing my job to find out? I have a fucking family to support, people.

Not that it mattered.

Eventually, all of these abuses became too much for my subordinates. Productivity fell off a cliff. Delays were getting worse and worse. In a medical emergency like this, delays=deaths.

So, like a fucking idiot, when the department heads reached out to me to ask what they could do to improve productivity, I shot down their frankly insulting suggestion of raffling a $20 amazon gift card to patient facing employees, and instead suggested a very simple, “enroll us with a peer support group, every single person in this department has PTSD from working in this pandemic.”

They were confused by my assertion of PTSD. I was asked to compile a document of complaints, concerns, and weaknesses in our patient facing services.

I and the A.M.s did so. It was roughly 40 pages long, with each page given a known problem, the reasons why it was a problem, and some potential solutions that might inspire further solutions or be able to be implemented. We submitted it. There was no response.

A week passed.

I had been working 80 hour weeks for most of a year. I hadn’t even been able to take weekends. I took my first sick day, in a company with “unlimited vacation days.”

I received a call at 3PM.

I had been fired for “differences in communitcation.” If you’ve ever seen that “Problem Women of Color in the workplace” chart? Yeah.

So had most of my department, including every transgender member of the department, and several of our extremely limited in supply Spanish speakers, who were presumed to be “on my side.”

Some of them, I barely even knew beyond the formalities of the job, and they were punished anyway.

I lost my insurance, and as a result I lost access to my medications.

But the real problem? I lost my house. And not due to lack of payment.

I lost my house, because when I got the job we waited 6 months for stability’s sake, and then readied to move out of the area. I got a mortgage on the basis of my employer’s written guarantee to the bank that I would continue to be employed for the next year at a minimum.

With the mortgage approval in hand, we entered a sales contract on our existing home.

We got and accepted an offer just days before I was fired. To keep our house meant paying a 25,000 dollar broken contract fine. We didn’t have that. We had a 10% down payment for a modest fucking place in a cheaper area, which is less than half that.

But without a job, my mortgage approval was also voided, meaning we couldn’t buy a house either.

All of a sudden, we were homeless during the plague, because my employer wrote and signed a letter to a bank guaranteeing my future employ, and then changed his mind when too many people died due to his own negligence.

Oh yeah, one last thing: the job paid less than Pandemic unemployment Assistance.

...After that, well, it’s homelessness until just last month. I... if you’ve never been homeless it’s.

It blurs. Everything is happening constantly, except for all the ways in which you are endlessly, mind breakingly bored. Bored, overloaded, and always uncomfortable.

Obviously my health would have declined regardless. Malnutrition, stress, everything.

But I was also unmedicated.

It was hell. I was in hell. I don’t know if I can recover from it, to be honest.

I bounced back from being homeless as a child. Children are as resilient as they are stupid, and the monstrosity of homelessness was little more than a vaguely remembered loathing and a panicky fear that it would ever happen again.

A child who is dying is worthy of sympathy, even if it is meaningless coos from passers by. If they have family, they may be able to rely on them too.

An adult with the indignity to die homeless and crippled, according to the average passer by, is worthy only of disgust and perhaps even punishment for being such a worthless waste.

My reward for nearly killing myself in a desperate bid to help stem the tide of COVID was the destruction of not only my life, not only my entire family’s lives, but the lives of every single family of every single employee who worked with me.

And you know what’s worse?

Each one of us still did more to limit the lethal impact of COVID than the entire united states government.

It breaks something in you, going through that.

It makes you realize that hope is a fool’s game.

But, I have ever been a fool, and so, I continue to play.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Hi! I really love your writing and was wondering if you would do a part 2 of the fic you did for @kitsunesongs birthday?

The one where Nie Huaisang meets Xiao Xingchen and "persuades" him to go to the Nie Sect.

sequel to this one

Xiao Xingchen and Nie Mingjue got along just as disgustingly well as Nie Huaisang might have predicted, and it was starting to tick him off.

Not just him.

“It’ll pass,” he remarked to the glowering young man sitting beside him. “It always does…eventually. Xiao Xingchen is no different.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Song Zichen said, voice tight and back even tighter. The temples and the sects were not on what one might call the best of terms – it was politely referred to as tensions – so Song Zichen had refused to even consider leaving Xiao Xingchen in Nie Huaisang’s not-so-capable hands, but he also wasn’t strong enough to stop him, so all it meant in the end was that he had to trail along with them like an imprinted duckling.

A duckling with no sense of humor.

“They all come and get knocked over the head with it,” Nie Huaisang said with a sigh, fanning himself. He’d seen it happen time and time again. “My brother, I mean.”

“Your brother…hits people?” Song Zichen said, sounding doubtful enough for Nie Huaisang to realize that even he’d fallen for it.

“No,” he said patiently. “They’re overwhelmed by admiration for how good of a big brother he is and want him for their own.”

Song Zichen’s expression appeared to be at war with itself: he couldn’t decide whether to scoff at Nie Huaisang’s patent ridiculousness, furiously deny that Xiao Xingchen was attempting to market himself for possible adoption, or sullenly acknowledge that he, too, would like to be the recipient of Nie Mingjue’s rough sort of affection.

It was all those meaningful hand-on-shoulder, serious eye-contact, respect-is-given-where-it-is-earned-and-I-respect-you things Nie Mingjue did without thinking about it – possibly it was just the dearth of decent parents among the Great Sects, and the smaller sects too come to think about it, but everyone was hilariously susceptible to it.

(He’d accidentally done it to Lan Qiren once, making the man actually glow with pride for a moment before he realized he was being complimented by someone at least a decade his junior and fixed his expression. It was a memory that warmed Nie Huaisang’s heart.)

“Still,” Nie Huaisang mused. “I will admit that this is getting out of hand.”

He’d known that Nie Mingjue would be fond of Xiao Xingchen, but he hadn’t anticipated how much his brother had apparently been longing for someone with whom he could have ethical and moral discussions that didn’t leave him scowling and looking sick to his stomach. The two of them shared a clear and forthright vision of the world – in which people were supposed to help others, fight evil and save innocents, and that everything else was a distraction – and what started out, to Nie Huaisang’s mind, as some sort of moral purist fan club had eventually sort of…escalated.

It wasn’t that Nie Huaisang forgot that his brother was a powerful sect leader and formerly the general of the combined forces of the cultivation world and therefore was a terrifying political powerhouse to be reckoned with, not really. It was that his brother so rarely ever did anything with his power and influence that it was easier to just…put it aside.

On a normal day, his brother was a simple person: he wanted his family and sect to be happy and safe and strong, the common people protected, and evil defeated – ideally courtesy of his blood-thirsty saber, after a brisk bit of exercise. Nie Mingjue was respectful of others, such that he rarely intervened where he wasn’t explicitly invited, and so his focus had always been Qinghe, its environs, and the surrounding sects that pledged their loyalty in exchange for Nie support and strength.

Xiao Xingchen had more ambitious ideas than that.

Maybe he should have done more to head off their enthusiasm before it got this far, Nie Huaisang grumbled in his thoughts. But his brother seemed so happy, lighter than he’d been in years, less angry at everything – and his sudden burst of activity was driving Sect Leader Jin up the wall, and that was just legitimately hilarious.

Still, it was one thing for Xiao Xingchen to say that he wanted to protect innocents and defeat evil, no matter where it was. In the end, he was a naïve and untried young man unfamiliar with the world, no matter how powerful his ancestry, and such things would always be met with indulgent smiles and virtually no interest, everyone assuming it was little more than a child’s daydream.

It was something completely different for Nie Mingjue, Chifeng-zun and Sect Leader to one of the Great Sects, to put out a call for all able-bodied cultivators with courage and skill to join together once more to sweep through the worst parts of the cultivation world and clean it up together.

After all, Lan Xichen might win the women’s vote, but among men, at least, Nie Mingjue was the most admired man in the cultivation world, bar none, the most idolized and revered and envied, and he was offering an opportunity to win valor by his side. Those who had fought in the Sunshot Campaign were enticed by the notion of something clean and straightforward, cultivator against evil the way it was supposed to be; those that didn’t have a chance to win glory the last time were champing at the bit to belatedly add “fought under Chifeng-zun’s command” to their personal legacies; those who had been too young for the war were excited by the possibility of fame and fortune…

Sect Leader Jin, who was advocating to be Chief Cultivator of the cultivation world, did not want there to be a roving war-bad of powerful cultivators under his chief-most rival’s personal command, traveling throughout the cultivation world and making friends with each other and winning fame left and right with only Nie Mingjue to thank for it.

Sadly for him, there really wasn’t anything he could do about it.

Especially not now that Nie Mingjue was no longer asking Jin Guangyao to come play for him so regularly.

The playing had been designed to help with his ever-worsening temper, if Nie Huaisang understood his brother’s curt explanation properly, but it hadn’t really been doing much, and Nie Mingjue was far too busy now to waste time with things like that.

(Nie Huaisang did not think about how his father had died, and how much stronger his brother was than his father had ever become. He did not think about the fact that Xiao Xingchen was said to be doomed, the way his brother was doomed, or the fact that his brother’s decision to stop listening to Jin Guangyao’s playing or Lan Xichen’s encouragement of it had come on the heels of meeting someone else who was trading away their chances at a long and happy life for a chance to try to improve the world.

He did not think about any of that, or of the slow halting explanation his brother had finally given him about all the things he knew-but-didn’t-know about his sect’s cultivation style, about his brother’s own personal prognosis, and he certainly didn’t think about how his brother clearly saw this whole ridiculous notion of a massive large-scale night-hunt as his final campaign, his legacy, to be left behind when he himself left the world.

It wasn’t relevant, because it wasn’t going to happen, Nie Huaisang wasn’t going to let it happen. So he wasn’t thinking about it.)

“It’s a good plan,” Song Zichen said, and Nie Huaisang looked at him. “I had wanted to start a sect with no bloodline, based only on friendship, but Xingchen and your brother are putting together a coalition of sects that is much the same thing. All of those young men becoming brothers in arms…”

“Women, too,” Nie Huaisang said, because it was true. There’d be plenty of unexpected marriages formed before this whole thing was done – Jiang Cheng had recently declared his intention of joining, the nephew he’d insisted on caring for personally carted around on a sling on his back, and he looked so positively dashing when he did it that the women of the cultivation world might even consider removing him from their blacklist one day.

Maybe.

Song Zichen nodded seriously. “Women as well. Regardless, the end result of what they are achieving is the same - unity, friendship, cooperation, rather than chaos.”

Nie Huaisang smiled. And then, because why not, he used the excuse to slide closer and nudge Song Zichen in the side with a hand that lingered. “Don’t count yourself out, Song-xiong. You’re contributing, too.”

Song Zichen did not appear convinced.  

“You are!” Nie Huaisang insisted. “You just need to figure out what you’re good at – some purpose for yourself, some mission, or even just something to pass the time pleasantly. I’ll even help.”

He was about to suggest that they go to bed together – listen, he was shallow and Song Zichen was a very pretty person – but Song Zichen frowned, ducking his head a little in thought.

“Well, there is something,” he said slowly. “I thought, if it was true, that I might go deal with it. Although it’s only a rumor I heard…”

“I love rumors,” Nie Huaisang assured him, shelving his proposition for the moment. “What is it?”

“Have you ever heard of someone,” Song Zichen asked, “by the name of Xue Yang?”