#found a sketch of this from a file from a while ago and decided to finish it

[bbq-potato-chip]

[eshbaal]

It was starting to feel like I haven't drawn anything just for fun in a while. But I also didn't wanna sit down and work on a big piece right this moment. So instead, I dug through old files and found a bunch of quick little sketches I never actualyl finished and decided to work on those. Some of these are based on sketches from over a year ago! 

I have more of them, so I will probably do this again. it was fun to touch them up a bit and see that, yes, I have actually improved at least a little.

---

Commission Info

Deviantart | Youtube | Twitter | Instagram |

Patreon | Ko-Fi

[armoreddragon]

how did you first get into making this stuff? do you enjoy it?

There's a lot of possible answers here.

For a couple years after college, I worked at a laser engraving and cutting shop. Leather was a material we knew we could cut, but nobody ever asked for it, so I looked up some basic info and put together some masks as demo pieces. Then I got fired for unrelated reasons, but decided to keep going with the masks on my own. A decade later, I’m still going.

I've always enjoyed making things. The focused calm of working a craft, the challenge of finding the problems that need solving, followed by the satisfaction of holding in your hands something that hadn't exited before. It’s hard to beat that feeling. If you haven’t done it for a while, I highly recommend making a habit of it.

Sometime in college I realized that if I kept making things just for myself, I would eventually run out of both space in my closet and money in my bank account. So I took the best photos I could of what I had, and started posting it up on Etsy.

In high school ceramics class, I had an idea to try and make a flexible dragon skin out of little bits of clay, all glazed differently. I had no idea how to do this. A friend of mine was like "Yo it sounds like you want to look up how to make chainmail for that." She was right.

I work in architecture by day, and the decision to do that was unrelated but definitely related to my crafting obsession. Designing a kitchen, a café, a house, takes months or years of work, most of which is tedious details like picking tile patterns or looking up exactly what order to layer different sealant tapes to make sure the walls are watertight. Designing a crafting project gives me a creative outlet that is immediate. I can sit down for an afternoon and take an idea from a sketch on trace paper, to a final mask formed up out of leather. There's an excitement to that. A reminder that, yes, I can make cool stuff quickly, without needing to sink two years into a project.

For a while I worked to teach myself to draw. I managed to get pretty decent at sketching from life, with a moderate understanding of anatomy and perspective. I liked art, so I thought I wanted to make art. But I struggled with it. If I was drawing something from my imagination, no matter how well I managed to put the lines down on the paper, I would ultimately look at it and just be sad that it didn't exist in the real world. So eventually I gave up on the drawing part, and focused on the part I seemed to actually care about.

I can't envision a version of myself that doesn't make things. I think on some fundamental level, I measure my worth as a person based on what I put forth into the world. I don't know what else to do.

When you decide to turn a hobby into a business, it of course takes some of the delight away. It's no longer something you do when you want to relax and have some fun. It becomes an obligation, to make and ship orders on time, to pack up your stuff and bring it to craft fairs, to track your expenses and file your taxes, to stay on top of the constantly changing social media landscape. But it also lights a fire under your ass. You can't just keep making the same thing you made three years ago–you have to keep making new stuff, keep improving your techniques, keep reaching for new ideas that have never been made before. You lose some of the joy, but you gain a lot of satisfaction.

All through my childhood I filled my closet with little handicrafts kits, that I got as gifts or that caught my eye when following my dad to the art store. Calligraphy, wood carving, weaving looms, boondoggles, spirographs, knitting, crochet, fancy nautical knots, sculpey, and more that I can't remember. After all those different things, I’m so glad that I found a couple specific crafts that really grabbed me, that take enough work to develop expertise, that have expansive enough applications and possibilities, that I could devote a decade or more of my time to focusing on them.

I’d been interested in the furry fandom ever since little fantasy reading teenager me tried looking for stories where the dragons were the main characters, and I found people online who were doing just that. There’s a powerful do-it-yourself attitude that’s baked into the core of the fandom: The world isn’t giving us the art that we want, so we’re going to make it ourselves. I keep having ideas for things that I want, that don’t exist yet. If I want them to exist, I have to be the one to make them.

My dad was a photographer, and I spent many childhood afternoons with him in his darkroom in the basement, delightedly washing negatives, turning them gently over in their canisters of chemicals, sitting still in the dark as Dad unspooled the sensitive film, squinting in the red light as the projected images magically re-emerged on the clean white paper. What could be more amazing, more normal, more right, than having your own little space to work such magic for yourself.

In about 2008 or 9 I ordered my first batch of metal scales, with the idea of trying to make a dragon tail in time for Halloween. It took probably a couple weeks to figure out how to make it, and within a week I had thought of how to do it better and disassembled the entire thing. By the 3rd or 4th time I'd rebuilt it, I thought that it was probably good enough that I wouldn't feel embarrassed to post it online and see if someone might want to buy it.

Of course I love working on these things I make. But I don't think that's exactly why I make them.

[bvannn]

Weekly Update January 3, 2024

I am endocrine sick again, I probably will be for another week. I took my medicine at the normal dose but I have a hunch that the dose needs to be adjusted and that’s why I feel like shit. Blood tests wont be done for another week and idk how much longer after it’ll take to get back to me. I was doing art decently pretty early on in the week but I’ve layed off the past 2 days and will likely continue to do that for a bit.

Music: I got another instrumental piece done I think, I might add samples if I can find good ones but I might not. I got a little drawing done up so I can animate a little loop for that in front of a piano roll animation probably, I just need to sit down and throw that together + a thumbnail. I have a cover sketched for a batch ‘album’ to get a bunch of my other instrumentals out (not quite all of them but still a lot), I just need to finish it and those can get throw out there. LF is done basically, I might go multi-export it to tweak the vocal volume, but otherwise it just needs visual. I am going to try to stick to my one-song-a-month plan, but instead of finishing another old idea I had a new one while I was delirious, and got some cute lyrics done and more outlined so it’ll be a new one this month. I don’t have a name decided yet, it’s a sad little ballad about birds. Also since I figured out how to install the IK bundle I bought I’ll maybe mess with that more. My grandmother is potentially getting a new computer so I might grab her old one’s hard drive so I can finagle some files around and install the rest of the stuff.

Comic: I feel like shit because I barely did anything for the comic. I looked over my thumbnails, didn’t like the one I had for page 16, redid it, did the sketch, started lining it and had to stop mid panel because I got sick. I’ll probably try to chip away at writing stuff while I’m sick, I had some ideas for the loose thread stuff I came up with years ago finally coming together yesterday at the grocery store, and might be able to actually get a tertiary comic concept together, but again it’s not as solid as O’Malley or Backstage right now so it won’t be a priority. It’ll just maybe be doodle fodder while I’m sick.

Uhhh epithet TTRPG right. I got a bunch of tokens done early in the week. And some more scriptwriting done on the tutorial video. I need to get maps done, that’s going to be the bottleneck for a while. If I feel well enough to boot up my computer today I have the assets to get the last of the stage 2 maps done, but I’d want to make some more decorations for them too. Stage 3 is a science lab building so shouldn’t be too hard to get a tile set for. Once I’m feeling better honestly I might try to crunch myself to get the rest done. Maybe.

The other small animation thing: I believe all the assets are done other than some credits text, which I might just use a text tool for honestly. Again I just need to sit down and animate, I’m just a bit blocked, burnt out, sick, whatever other excuse I have, it’ll get done when it gets done.

Next week I don’t really have a concrete plan. I think I’ll try some easy writing stuff for now (comic and lyrics for this month’s song), and I’ll try some pixel art stuff to ease myself back into map making. Some pixel art people over on Bluesky found me and seem to like me so I kinda want to give them more of what they like. Plus pixel art can be done while my hands are shaky from the whole sick thing. Once I’m better I’ll finish comic page 16 and get back to token making. Everything kinda depends on my health, but I’m doing what I can. Also make sure you drink plenty of milk everyone, or if you can’t, get plenty of whatever your calcium source may be.

[shallyne]

SJM Crackshipmonth: Roommates

Feyre sat on the kitchen counter, scribbling into her notebook and singing out of tune to the song that was blaring out of their cheap twenty dollar speakers while Cassian was preparing dinner. They busy schedules took a lot of their time to do their usual shenanigans but they were never to busy to eat dinner together. Sometimes they had to wait longer for the other to come home or order a meal out, but they would not eat alone. It was one of their unspoken rules since the day they moved together. Neither Feyre nor Cassian had earned a lot, making it close to impossible to find an affordable apartment until they decided to move together, to keep down astronomical costs. What was more of an acquaintance when they moved together bloomed into a beautiful friendship. They were each other's lifelines in the four years they were living together, being there for the other when they went through tough times. Cassian was there for Feyre countless of times, a light in a dark she assumed endless. No one knew her as good as Cassian. He best friend in the entire world.

Of course, as time went by both their incomes became stable and enough for them to be able to afford their own places but neither wanted to go. They quickly slid into such a comfortable pattern of living together that they became so accustomed to it, no one wanted to break out of it. It wasn't necessary, either. They had an apartment in the city where they could reach everything by foot and their workplaces by city bus or subway.

Cassian winced when Feyre hit an especially shrill tone, whirling towards her. Their kitchen Was so small that it only took him one step, ONE, to reach her. Feyre didn't try to pay attention to his daze as he stepped in front of her, cupping her cheeks. He was tall, so tall that he reached the top of the doorframe, and broad. And so muscled that Feyre sometimes spent some moments just ogling him, keeping herself from touching said muscles. Especially his biceps that was accentuated by his form fitting athletic shirts that he always wore. She was sure that Cassian knew she was checking him out sometimes but she didn't mind because she knew for sure he was doing the same. That's what best friends do, right? It would be weird to live together for four years and not checking each other out. It's normal. Right? Yeah. Definitely.

"You know I love you, right?" he asked, still squeezing her cheeks, making it impossible to answer so she nodded once. "So you know I mean it with my best intentions but please stop singing, I don't want the neighbors to file a complaint again." he said it softly but is eyes danced with humor.

Feyre batted his hands away, giggling at the memories from a few years ago when she listened to the Mamma Mia soundtrack while showering. Apparently her neighbors didn't enjoy her singing as much as she did back then because two days later they found a letter from their landlord in the mailbox. Cassian chuckled as he, no doubt, thought back to that moment too, stepping back. That movement let his eyes wander to the notebook in Feyre's hands. She pressed it to her chest, shaking her head at him, still grinning. "Don't you dare, I'll sing again." He huffed a laugh but turned away to slice vegetables again. Maybe she imagined it but she could have sworn his eyes were fixed on her mouth for a heartbeat before he did. Ignoring the heat pooling in her lower belly, she went back to her notebook. Her sketch wasn't something incriminating, she just painted Cassian whole he cooked and she wouldn't have minded him seeing that sketch but that would have lead to questions, like, Are you drawing me often? Which the answer to was yes but she couldn't tell him that and she was a lousy liar. Actually, that wasn't right. She was a decent liar but Cassian could read her like an open book. One raised eyebrow and she folded like a weak, decade old camping chair. Because he knew her so well. Because they were best friends. Of course.

When their bell rang, Feyre hopped off the counter, putting her notebook to the side and smoothed her paint splattered denim overall, "I'll get it!" she announced, skipping through their narrow, dimly lit hallway to the front door. "Hello?" she talked into the speaker. "Who's there?" The only response was a heavy, wheezing breathing. She rolled her eyes at the neighbors kid trying to troll her. "Jurian, it's 7:30, does your mother know you're out? You're late for dinner!" It was quiet for a few heartbeats until she heard little footsteps sprinting away. Gotcha, kiddo.

"It was just Jurian trying to prank us again." Feyre said with a snort as she stepped into the kitchen, immediately stopping in her tracks as she saw Cassian leaned over her notebook. "What are you doing?" she squealed, ripping the notebook out of his hand. Her face became all hot as a flush crept over her, followed by goosebumps.

Cassian smirked his usual, insufferable, beautiful smirk. "That guy you painted a lot looks very similar to me."

Feyre shook her head. "No, you must have not looked right he does not–" his smirk turned into a grin and she groaned. "Fine, I'm spending most of my time with you, of course I'm painting you one or two times."

"One or two?" he chuckled.

Feyre flipped him off, earning a ruffle of her hair. Huffing, she tried to glare at him, unsuccessfully if that glint in his eye was any indication, "Or three."

He tilted his head, his expression turning from amused to thoughtful. "Is that all? You're drawing me because we're spending so much time together?"

Feyre's ears began ringing as her puls started racing, her heart gallopping in her chest. "I–" What was that weird feeling in her stomach? It felt like a tiny man punching her from within. Or, worse, butterflies. She shut her eyes, counting from ten down as she clutched her notebook to her chest. That's a dream because this situation is not real because if it was real it meant no matter her answer, something would change indefinitely. She knew it, deep down, she could feel it. But another thought entered her mind: if something would change either way, wasn't this the opportunity to confess her feelings? To herself and Cassian. The feelings she always shoved back, scared to jeopardize their friendship. When she opened her eyes, Cassian looked at her intently. This was supposed to be a normal dinner. Nothing more. No here they are. "Imighthavedevelopedfeelingsforyou." she rattled down.

"What?" Cassian asked his, his hazel eyes shining brighter. He must have heard her but maybe he didn't believe, as much as Feyre couldn't believe that she said it.

No turning back now, Feyre Archeron. "I might have developed feelings for you." she said slower. Cassian stared at her and heartbeats turned into endless seconds. "But it doesn't have to mean anything! If you don't feel the same, we can-"

Suddenly he gripped her arm und pulled her into his own, crashing his lips on hers. Shocked, Feyre lost grip on her notebook, letting it fall to the floor between them. It took her only a moment until she melted into Cassian's embrace, singing into the kiss. But she broke the kiss quickly, looking dumbstruck at him.

"What? Was that a mistake?" he asked. Feyre shook her head. "What then?"

Feeling his heart beating under her fingertips, she breathed "I think the pasta is overcooking."

Cassian whipped his head to the oven. "Shit!"

Taglist: @timesconvert @sjmcrackshipmonth

[summmeister]

2024: Art In Review

2024 has come and gone with a whole new slew of art from yours truly. The first half of this year felt fairly stagnant, but I do believe I really cleaned up in the second half. I’m really proud of a lot of the art I made this year! As always, I’ll be going over everything month by month, making sure to point out anything important along the way.

January

A fairly tame month overall with the prime exception of my plague doctor drawing from near the end of the month. Even now, I’m still quite proud of myself for this piece! The detail and shading are both fantastic, albeit with a little roughness in some areas. Going into 2025, I would like to improve at drawing humans, and this piece is a good starting point for that goal.

February

A fairly cozy month with only a few pieces made. If you asked me at the time, I would say I was the most proud of the Sunspot drawing, but if you asked me now, I would say I’m most proud of the Chao drawing. I’ve looked at it quite a lot since initially drawing it (mainly due to it being, for some reason, one of the first files to show up on Google Drive) and I realise it actually looks quite nice! The rough lines and bright back-shading add a lot. NEVER gonna get over that extra thumb on Chao’s left hand though. No idea how I missed that.

March

A VERY dry month, unfortunately. I dipped back into Pokemon (if only very, VERY slightly) by drawing Impidimp. Satina is here too. Things get more exciting later!

April

It’s got the same amount of drawings as last month, but I actually have things to say this time! The Baxter and Forthington drawing was meant to be a bit of a successor to art I made for a Rhythm Heaven art collaboration I was a part of nearly 3 years ago. It certainly looks a lot better than the art I made back then! Still think it could be a little better though… I’m a bit more experienced with smooth shading now, so maybe I should give it another shot?

The Wortox drawing is also interesting, although not as much. I deliberately went for a rougher style with it, and decided not to draw new lines for the line art, and instead use the lines I had already drawn for the sketch. I could try something like this again for quicker drawings…

May

It’s got a few more drawings than last month, although most of them are doodles and tests, unfortunately. The Sam & Max drawing is easily the standout here. I always love drawing them every once in a while. I also tried my hand at a new art style this month! Judging by the fact the drawing was never finished, I don’t think that was all too successful.

June

Now THIS is a big month. Picture this: It’s the run-up to Art Fight and I’ve got no updated reference images for all of my OCs! I have been experimenting with a new art style earlier in the month but it still needs some tweaking. The drawings as a result of these factors are some of my favorites from the whole year! The gradient into two different layers of shading looks great and you’ll be seeing more from this art style later in the year.

As well as adopting a new style for myself, I also experimented a little bit more with smooth shading with my drawing of Jack O’ Lantern, from Shin Megami Tensei. Considering it was a drawing of the same character that showed me I could improve at my art, I’m happy to say I’m really proud of this one! I don’t think I’ll try a style like this again though: I like my lines smooth.

Lastly, an unfinished Lethal Company drawing. Once again tried a different style with this one, and while I do think some of it looks fantastic, it overall wasn’t shaping up to how I wanted it to look, so I stopped working on it before I got to the shading stage.

July

July was Art Fight month! I only did one piece for myself, and it was for my 21st birthday. I used this month to experiment more with tweaks to my art style during Art Fight. You can find the results of that here. I found a style of smooth shading that works well for me, and I had a whole lotta fun throughout the event!

August

Oops! Nothing

But seriously, I was so burnt out after Art Fight I kinda just… didn’t do anything this month! Apologies.

September

Didn’t do too much this month! Was still burnt out from Art Fight, but I managed to squeeze a few pieces out in the latter half. The Wortox and Krampus drawing was an experiment in doing more elaborate scenes. Truth is, this was actually my second attempt at doing something like this. The first is still a sketch! I might finish that some day.

October

This was a VERY interesting month. See, this month, I did a drawing challenge, of sorts. I challenged myself to come up with a new original character for every day of October, from the 1st to the 31st. Some of these ended up as quick doodles, others as fully completed drawings. A few even got remade! I’m really quite proud of myself for being able to stick it out the whole month, even if some of the drawings were rushed or the ideas were rough. I’ll definitely try something similar next year, although the topic is yet to be decided…

Also! Halloween! As always, I did a halloween drawing this year: Skweeb as a pumpkin… Pumpskwin! But that’s not the end of it! At the end of the month, my friends and I decided to host a very special movie night, with all of us in costume! Unfortunately, I don’t have a webcam and didn’t bother to buy one before the event, so I instead opted to create a Pumpskwin VTuber! It was a real fun process from start to finish and I just love working on odd projects like these. Maybe I can do another in the future?...

November

After the rollercoaster that was October, November saw things settle down quite a bit. I experimented a little more with art styles and made a birthday drawing for a friend. Quite a cozy month.

December

Finally! December! This month! It had a little bit more activity than last month, with more art style experimentation! I believe I’ve landed on a secondary art style, one I can use alongside the style developed in June. It’s a modified version of an art style I had for a bit earlier in the year, but with cleaner lines. I quite like how drawings look with it!

Well! That’s all 12 months covered! While I could very easily just put my best drawing from each month in a template and post that, I like going over all of my thoughts and goals month by month instead of simply showing the results. Anyone trying to get into art could read through something like this and get an idea of how they want to approach their projects. I also just like talking about my interests, too.

Of course! LAST but CERTAINLY not least, my yearly redraw of my first ever art piece! I believe this is a BIG improvement from last year’s, and I’m really quite proud of how it looks!

Thank you for reading.

2025 is right around the corner!

[chipfunk-art]

WIP DUMP while I'm organizing my files <3

Mama Jones from my fanfic (I REALLY REALLY LIKE THIS ONE I JUST LOST THE FILE AND FOUND IT ON A FLASH DRIVE LIKE 2 WEEKS AGO)

Kepcobi art I will likely never finish because I started it in a 3 am haze and then decided it was too cringe. And also it needs lettering and idk how to do lettering that looks good

mutant mayhem april sketch i literally didn't even know i did

the ponysona I made for my mom (her name is silver lining)

vent comic i started about raphie having a lot of stretch marks and being self concious

mikey appreciation page that I will finish but uhhh not rn

[pawborough]

February 2023 Check In

[ID: A banner with a nature background. Winnipeg, a longhair in a wheelchair who is holding a frypan, is to the left, and a gray female shorthair is to the right. The Paw Borough logo is in the middle, with a button that says “FEBRUARY 2023” under it. End ID.]

Greetings

Thanks for sticking by! We’ve got a batch of assets to share!

First off, we need to apologize for not having the Guild breakdown this month. One of our leads in charge of its primary design and presentation, Blue, had his moving truck broken into, losing thousands upon thousands of dollars in property theft. He had nearly all of his possessions stolen, including his work computer with progress files, and he was left without any clothing.

This was an emergency situation, and it left us scrabbling in the midst of our work. More information can be found from him here. He has posted a few recent updates on the situation as well as community efforts to restore the damages. 

We didn’t want to rush the final Guild design while this was happening. We would rather deliver you a polished product, so we decided to allow Blue recovery before getting back to it. We hope you can understand! And we thank you all for your patience. After recovering for a few days, Blue is getting back to work this month.

That all being said, we do have some progress to share!

The Bovine Kit

First off, we mulled over some of our current assets. A few of the early pieces of breed art, we feel, have not been congruent in style with our later breed renders. We are currently ruminating upon efforts to update our breed assets–before launch–for style consistency. The first of this undertaking is a full redo of the Bovine kit.

[ID: A rendered image of the Bovine kit. It is a short-furred breed with a cow-like nose, ears, and tail, with hooves on the back legs. It is laying down. End ID]

In addition to more style consistency, we altered the pose to more uniquely suit the breed! We hope everyone enjoys the upgrade! 

There will be further ruminations on our part for what early renditions to tweak to best suit the game's style. So, watch out for potential further updates! 

Introducing the Wolf 

A few months ago, we teased the inclusion of a domestic breed in our lineup; a breed based on the beloved lykoi (colloquially known as the "wolf cat.") 

[ID: Finished renderings of the Wolf breed. It is a wiry-furred breed with a hairless muzzle and front paws. End ID]

Mars, kit, and venus poses respectively!

The Wolf will be released to the player base at an undesignated time, and will not be available immediately upon launch.

NOTE: Coloring and placement is for testing purposes and is not necessarily indicative of the final colors.

We hope you all enjoy these scruffy furballs! We as the team have been having a blast seeing the mechanics of an A2 colored face come to fruition! 

The Fyret

Lastly, here is a peek at what's to come next month: the Fyret!

[ID: Concept sketches for the Fyret breed. It is a long-furred breed with a long body and tail. The venus pose has a large, spiky mane. End ID]

Mars, kit, and venus concepts respectively!

The Fyret is a special breed which has been designed by our Kickstarter backer. Their request was a mystic breed which merges the ragdoll and a ferret! 

We’ve worked with them on sketching their concepts and then curating a proper design for Amelia to bring to life. The results have left us charmed and very pleasantly fond of this furry mystic!

The Fyret will be available to all players at launch!

Thank you all for tuning into this update!

To summarize: Grand theft of one of our leads stunted this update, but we’ve shared an updated Bovine kit, the final Wolf art, and Fyret concept sketches.

What to expect next month: The intended Guild breakdown, the final Fyret art, and any Kickstarter designs or assets that are finished this month.

[shemarmooresfedora]

Rebuilding Family

Summary: Y/N and Spencer were college sweethearts at Cal-Tech but once Spencer got accepted to the FBI Academy, he ended things deciding it was not fair to make Y/N wait for him. When they meet again years later, he discovers something unexpected.

Pairing: Spencer x Fem! Reader

Masterlist

Chapter 10

You were packing up your stuff as students filed out of the lecture hall, it was your last class of the day. As you were walking out towards the parking lot, your phone started to vibrate in your bag. It was the school.

“Hello?” you answered.

“Hi Y/N. It’s Mrs. Flynn. I was just calling to let you know that Jo is now waiting inside with me because she was getting cold outside,” she informed you.

“Spencer’s not there?” you questioned, looking at the time displayed on your phone.

Pickup time was fifteen minutes ago.

“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Sorry for the inconvenience,” you opened your car door and set your bag down in the passenger seat, turning on the ignition.

“No worries, I have to reorganize the classroom library anyways so I was already planning on staying after.”

Once the call ended, you tried to call Spencer but it went straight to voicemail.

“Hey Spencer, I don’t know if you forgot but it was your day to pick up Jo. I’m getting her now,” you said as you reversed out of your parking spot.

Minutes later, your phone rang again. Expecting Spencer’s contact to show up on screen, your brow furrowed when the name read “JJ” instead.

“Hi JJ?” you said, more of a question than a greeting.

“Y/N, Spencer has been shot. I already told Will to go back to the school to pick up Jo. You should get here if you can. He’s in surgery now but there has been no update since he went in,” JJ explained.

“Oh my god. Okay, I’m turning around now. How did this happen? He didn’t mention he was on a case?” you pulled into a random parking lot to turn around.

“Well technically, we weren’t. We had a lead on a possible local case and we went to interview a potential witness who could give us some more information. We realized too late that he was the unsub. He thought we were on to him and shot Spencer in the leg while trying to escape.”

You had silent tears running down your face.

“I’m five minutes out” is all you could muster and then you hung up the phone.

You ran into the ER doors to find the rest of the team in the waiting room. You were glad you went to Rossi’s dinner party now or else this would have been a much more awkward first meeting.

“Any updates?” you asked frantically.

“No,” Derek sighed, “But no news is good news.”

You took the empty seat in between JJ and Penelope and put your face in your hands, not wanting everyone to see your tears.

-

Two hours of crappy coffee and vending machine snacks as your only source of sustenance later, a doctor emerged from behind the double doors.

She had a completely neutral expression that you couldn’t read but then again you weren’t a profiler.

“Dr. Spencer Reid?” she asked, glancing down at her clipboard.

All of you stood and desperately crowded around her.

“Dr. Reid is in stable condition and awake. The bullet went into his thigh but it wasn’t through and through. He will need to be on crutches for about a week or so but luckily the bullet wound is near the edge of his thigh rather than the middle, meaning recovery time will be shorter,” she explained.

There was a collective sigh of relief along with a few “thank god”s.

“Although he is awake, I don’t think it’s best if you all go in at once since he is very drowsy. He has been asking for a Y/N?” the doctor looked around at you all.

All eyes fell on you. You collected yourself, grabbing your purse and following the doctor down the hall.

“I’ll let you know how he is,” you told everyone before you disappeared past the double doors.

The doctor guided you into a room at the end of the hall. You thanked her quietly and she nodded in acknowledgement, leaving you two alone. Spencer had his eyes closed but his hospital bed was inclined so he was sitting up slightly. You briskly walked over and took the seat right beside him. You took his hand in yours and squeezed it lightly, combing his messy hair out with your fingers.

As you were softly massaging his scalp, you heard a light groan. You retracted your fingers immediately as Spencer began to open his eyes.

Once Spencer took in his surroundings, he quickly sat up completely in bed, letting out a yelp of pain.

“Jo...it was my turn to pick up,” he said frantically.

“Hey, look at me, Spence. It’s okay, she’s at JJ and Will’s. You were shot in the thigh though so you’re not going anywhere. Please lie back down,” you assured him.

He nodded his head, relaxing a bit and looking down at his hands in his lap. He seemed to be processing something in his head.

“You called me ‘Spence’,” he stated.

Shit. That was twice now. It keeps slipping.

“Sorry, I-,” you began to ramble some apology that you didn’t even know where you were going with it. Luckily, he stopped you before you could further embarrass yourself.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he spoke softly as he looked up at you, tears threatening to fall.

“I was so scared, Y/N,” he sobbed.

You swiftly pulled him into your embrace, tucking his head into your neck as you began to gently stroke his hair again.

“It’s okay, let it out. I can’t imagine what that was like. I’m so sorry you had to go through that but you're safe now, I promise,” you whispered to him.

“I was so afraid I was going to abandon you and Jo again. It hurt worse than the actual bullet,” he muttered into your neck.

You removed your hands from his hair and cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look up at you.

“Spencer Reid, you did not abandon Jo in the first place so there is no ‘again’. Second of all, you would have died a hero saving lives and I would have made sure Jo knew that and she never forgot her Daddy or how much he loved her,” you spoke earnestly, never breaking eye contact.

Spencer’s eyes softened. A second later, his lips were on yours again. This time, however, you didn’t pull away. Life was too short and this was already complicated as is, what’s the harm.

You basked in the familiarity of his lips locking with yours. Once he finally pulled away for air, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Go out with me. A real date. No more college dorm dates with takeout,” he smiled.

“You know you didn’t have to get shot to ask me out, right?” you teased.

“I thought I needed a grand gesture,” he beamed, chucking lightly.

“Yeah, Spence, I’ll go on a date with you.”

His lips found yours once again.

-

“Jo, are you ready?” you called out from the kitchen, packing snacks.

“Mommy, I’m already at the door!” she exclaimed.

Jo was eager to go see her Daddy at the hospital. You would spend the day there until he was discharged and then he would live with you guys for the week. You insisted on being there to take care of him while he was healing. You didn’t want him hobbling around all alone in his apartment.

When you walked out to the front entryway, there was a stack of various toys and books that hadn’t been there when you came down the stairs.

“What is this?” you gestured to the pile, amused.

“Daddy has big boo-boo so he needs stuff to cheer him up,” she stated.

“I don’t think we are going to be able to bring all this. Plus, remember Daddy is coming home with us later today. So here’s what we will do,” you handed Jo her dinosaur backpack, “You pack all the stuff you can fit in this bag that you think Daddy needs right away and the rest of the stuff can wait.”

Jo made quick work of sorting through her massive pile, trying to decide what would make her dad the most happy.

-

“Daddy!” Jo excitedly screamed, running towards the bed.

“Jo!” he returned with the same sentiment.

She was unable to get up on the bed herself so you had to lift her up.

“Remember what I said, careful with Daddy or he won’t get better,” you reminded her.

“You can sit her on my good leg,” Spencer patted his right thigh where you gently set Jo down.

“We brought you loads of stuff, Daddy,” Jo chirped, looking over at you.

You revealed a box of donuts from your bag and the coffee tray you had been holding. You handed him a chocolate frosted donut with sprinkles and Jo a strawberry frosted with sprinkles. The two ‘cheers’ed their donuts before biting into them.

“Jo also brought you some things to cheer you up,” you handed her her backpack.

First, she promptly pulled out a pink Disney princesses band-aid and stuck it on Spencer’s already bandaged thigh.

“You need that so it doesn’t get infected,” she repeated Spencer’s words from when she fell at Rossi’s dinner party.

“Thank you, princess. What would I do without you?” he kissed the top of her head as she rummaged around in her backpack some more.

She set up her five favorite dinosaur toys on his tray table in front of them, glancing up at him for approval.

“Perfect,” he smiled, nodding.

Next, she pulled out a piece of paper that had been colored on.

“Who’s this?” Spencer asked, looking at the three stick figures doodled on the paper.

“That’s you, that’s Mommy, and that’s me,” she pointed to each of the sketches.

“Aw, that one is definitely making the fridge,” you smiled.

Finally, Jo took out her Magic Tree House book that she was currently reading. She needed help with some of the words but either you or Spencer or the both of you would help her read it every night.

“You already finished the last one?” Spencer picked up the new book that was next in the series, examining it and smiling proudly.

“And I didn’t need help with a single word on the last chapter,” Jo beamed.

“You’re so smart,” Spencer kissed her head again, “let’s see how far we can get on this one before we can go home.”

[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.)

[startanewdream]

It comes with the age

Summary: The thing about having birthdays is that you get older.

Or James Potter is not ready for his first white hair.

(Jily Lives AU)

Read below or on AO3:

It’s there.

James thought he had caught a glimpse of it in the mirror a few days ago, but he had accounted for just a strange reflex of the light. He had even searched for it in the mirror later - when he was alone, when no one would witness his moment of self-doubt -, but he hadn’t found it.

He was sure he had just imagined it.

Until today, when he was leaving the bathroom and checked himself in the mirror distractedly. On the morning of his birthday, as if the powers from beyond had decided to mess with him.

It’s there, a foreigner that has no right to be there and still is shining lazily and brightly against the dark locks around it.

His first white hair.

What should he do? Take it out?

He remembers teasing Remus a lifetime ago - though now he feels a lot more compassionate for Moony, whose hair was sprinkled with grey even before he was twenty - that if he took out a grey hair, another ten would appear in its place. It was Sirius that came up with it, so James is not sure he believes it, but he can’t take any chances.

One white hair is one more than he’d like to have until he was fifty at least. He just turned thirty. That’s way too young to have grey hair.

He takes a comb, something he doesn’t remember ever doing in this bathroom, and tries to arrange his hair for the first time in years (the last time was before his first date with Lily; Sirius almost laughed to death watching his attempt to straighten his hair and James had given up - whatever had possessed Lily to accept to go out with him, she clearly didn’t have a problem with his messy hair).

It helps to hide that white hair in the middle of the black strands, but then he turns his head and the light catches it again, exposing that revealing strand of hair. It seems to glow with the light, a bright silver sign yelling to the world: here, come look at it, James Potter has white hair.

It’s not that he is vain about his own hair - that would be Sirius, no question -, it’s just that its blackness was always part of it. If he was a fugitive, his character sketch would consist of his hazel eyes behind the rectangular glasses and his messy dark hair.

Dark hair. Not grey.

He needs to do something about it. It’s urgent.

He goes back to his room, searching on his bedside table for the ink they always leave there for some emergency letter. The pot is near empty and he files a mental note to replenish it later, but now he has more pressing matters.

He goes to the bathroom again, carefully opening the inkpot and pinching a little between his fingers. Then his other free hand grabs carefully the white hair, raising it; just a little bit of ink and it will all be fine -

'James? What are you doing?'

He lets the white hair fall immediately, his hand already messing his hair nervously and he turns to Lily with the most confident smile he can manage.

'Hi, love', he says, which makes Lily raise her eyebrows at him. It's really unusual for him to call her like that.

'You are taking long', she says slowly. 'Harry and I have your breakfast ready'.

'I'll be in a minute, just go downstairs -'

'Are you okay?'

'Yeah, yeah'.

'Then why is your hand covered with ink?'

James grimaces; his hand was hidden behind him, but the mirror - that treacherous thing that's exposing all his secrets today - showed the reflex, of course.

'Just trying something', he says nervously. 'Checking how I would look with a moustache, see?'

He draws a moustache around above his mouth with his hand, all curly at the end, and grins at Lily, expecting it to satisfy her curiosity - maybe Lily will just look at it as some weird prank.

'How do I look?'

'Classical', Lily answers amusedly. 'Now, not that I don't appreciate your effort, but what were you really doing?'

James sighs, defeated, and he sits on the closed toilet seat.

'I am old', he admits heavily. Lily blinks.

'Yes', she agrees carefully. 'Getting old is what happens on birthdays'.

'Not just because of it, but… look at it', he lowers his head.

'Hum… what should I be looking at?'

'Stop being nice to me, Lily. I know what is there. I can't deny it anymore'.

'James? I am starting to -'

'I have white hair!'

He raises his eyes, expecting to see the disgust on Lily's face, her realization that the dark-haired young man she married is fading away, but Lily is just blinking, confused.

'That one strand? It's no big deal'.

'Of course it's a big - wait, you already knew?'

'Yeah? You do know we sleep together, right? I saw it a few days ago'.

'And you didn't say anything before?'

'What was there to say? It's one white strand, not an illness'.

'It's a tragedy, that's what it is. It means my glorious youthful days are over'.

'I really doubt it, James', she says soothingly, kissing the top of his hair. 'You seemed pretty glorious last night', she winks at him and James feels smug despite himself.

The night before had been rather intense, he couldn't deny it; a very good start to his thirties, if he could say so himself.

And then there is something almost wistful sparkling in Lily's eyes, the remains of an old fear he always saw during the war.

'And I am glad you are old', she whispers, and when he opens his mind to retort, she lets out a soft laugh. 'More experienced, then. I mean… I am happy we are getting older together'.

'That's what we promised in our wedding vows', he remembers.

'To grow old and grumpy together', she repeats, eyes glistening. 'So… It makes me happy to see this one white hair. To know what it means. I hope to see many more'.

'Oh, fancying a grey-haired husband, Mrs. Potter?'

'If he is you, that's all I want', Lily assures him softly, and James grins back, raising his head to allow their lips to meet.

It's a very nice birthday kiss, and then he raises without interrupting it, pressing Lily closer to him, thinking that maybe he can also get a morning quality time for his birthday…

'Dad? Mom?', there is a cry coming from the bedroom.

They break apart with a familiar sigh - Harry always has impeccable timing; Lily winks at him, a promising gleam in her eyes, and James tries not to look too flustered.

'Here, Harry', he says nicely, leaving the bathroom. Harry is at the door of the room, his arms crossed and a grimace on his face.

'You were kissing, right?', he says, sounding properly appealed by the idea.

'A birthday kiss is a very good gift . One day you may find out', James teases, and Harry doesn't look convinced. James fights back a laugh. When he was nine, he wasn't very much interested in kissing anyone either.

'You were taking too long - wait, why is there a moustache on your face?'

'Oh', James flushes, while by his side Lily giggles, taking out her wand and cleaning his face. 'Just trying a new style. How would I look with a moustache?'

Harry shakes his head.

'I know it's your birthday - but don't'.

'And what's your opinion on grey hair?'

'Much better than a moustache', Harry answers, shrugging. 'I keep telling Sirius he should go grey, but then he goes he is a Black…'

'Wait', James blinks. 'Sirius has grey hair?'

'Oh', Harry stops, a guilty expression on his face. 'I shouldn't - never mind.

'Harry… come on, it cannot be that bad'.

'I shouldn't have seen it - I was just looking in his bathroom drawer for a band-aid, and then I saw it'.

'Saw what?'

'His entire hair collection', Harry whispers, amazed. 'He has a product for everything - more than you, Mom'.

'I knew his hair couldn't be that shiny naturally', James says to himself.

'Yeah, and then there was some hair dye too'. Harry flushes. 'That's when he found me. He told me it was for work, you know, for when he needs to disguise himself, but I am not sure'.

'So Sirius has grey hair then?'

'It comes with age', Lily replies, looking amused by the sudden change in James' humour. 'Now your ego is feeling better, can we go down for your breakfast?'

Harry jumps.

'Please, I am hungry! And we need to give you our gift!'

'We are coming', James promises, smiling. 'You can start, we will be there in a sec'.

Harry nods, grinning, and he runs out of the room; breakfast was always his favourite meal of the day.

'My gift is not a hair dye, right?', James asks playfully, as he and Lily leave the room.

She laughs.

'No, and don't go teasing Sirius about it'.

'I wouldn't dream of', James says, though he is feeling pretty happy that he is still far away from needing hair dye.

Maybe in his forties - if he still has hair; he remembers his father's hair had been wispy, and now he comes to think of it, the edges of his hairline have been thinning out...

'Oh, Merlin', he cries. 'Is my hair falling out?'

[a-simple-gaywitch]

Embers to Ashes

hotch x unsub!reader

Summary: When (Y/N) leaves the BAU, she doesn’t expect to get wrapped up in a crime spree

Word Count: 2609

Warnings: abusive relationship, pregnancy & mentions of childbirth, typical criminal minds violence

“The real monsters are humans without conscience.” -Robert E. Keller

~

Your decision to leave the BAU was not an easy one, but it was what was best. After your mother fell ill, you decided to move back home to care for her, as she was alone. Your team protested, not wanting you to leave, of course. Penelope fought for you to stay the hardest. She was like the sister you never had.

The team followed you to the airport to see you off. Hugs went around, followed by promises that you’d call when you land. The only person who didn’t hug you was Hotch, which you found weird for a number of reasons. Even Spencer hugged you, and he wasn’t big on physical affection. And you’d always thought you and Hotch were close.

“Hey, promise me you’ll keep in touch,” he said, resting his hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah, of course,” you said.

“Oh, I need another hug!” Penelope said, squeezing you tight again. She’d been crying the whole time and her mascara was running. “I’m gonna miss you so much, Peaches.”

“I’m gonna miss you too, Pen,” you said. You glanced at your watch. “Okay, I really have to go now. I love you guys so much.”

~

You were grocery shopping for your mother when you ran into him. Nicholas Gully, one of your old high school friends.

“(Y/N)? (Y/N) (L/N)?”

“Nick! Hi!” you said, tossing the box of pasta into your shopping cart. “How have you been?”

“Oh, great. What about you? Big FBI agent out at Quantico.”

You laughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of your neck. “Yeah, uh, I actually quit.”

“What? Why? All you talked about in high school was getting into the academy.”

“Uh, well, it’s because of Mom actually. She’s sick. I quit to move back out here and help her until she… Well…”

“Yeah. Well, I’m here if you need to, I don’t know, let off steam?” He handed you a business card. “Here. My number. Give me a call, we’ll go out for drinks or something.”

You smiled. “Thanks, Nick. It was good seeing you.”

~

Your mom died about a month after you moved home. You were an only child, so it was your responsibility to handle all of her affairs. It was stressful, and you felt isolated. Alone.

You looked at all the funeral plans spread out on the kitchen table, and before you knew it, you’d called Nick and asked him to come over.

What happened next was a blur. You buried your mother next to your father, Nick stayed by your side the whole time. While your mind was clouded with grief, you thought the only good thing to come of it was your new relationship with Nick.

He was nice. He treated you well and helped you through your grief. Only, he didn’t like how much you talked to Penelope and Emily, saying that it was unnatural to be so close to your ex-coworkers. So you stopped talking to them.

Nick moved in with you not too long into your relationship. He said that living in your mother’s house alone wasn’t healthy for you. He helped you sort and pack up her belongings, taking the things you weren’t keeping or throwing out to the thrift store.

You were together for about 8 months before your relationship changed.

You hadn’t been feeling well and you had your suspicions. You took a trip to the drug store and bought a few tests while Nick was at work. You took all of them, trying to rule out a false positive.

When you heard Nick come in from work, you decided to tell him.

“Hey, Nick? I have some news,” you said after he put his work bag down on the couch.

“What’s up?”

“Um, you know how I haven’t been feeling well lately? Well, I went to the pharmacy and picked up some pregnancy tests. They were all positive.”

“Are you serious? You’re pregnant?”

You nodded. “I’m calling my doctor first thing tomorrow to schedule an appointment.”

Nick’s tone should have tipped you off to his true nature. But you were in too deep.

~

A few months passed. You were showing significantly, though your doctor was worried about your health. The bags under your eyes grew, and you were showing up to your appointments with more and more bruises on your arms. One day you came in with a poorly concealed black eye.

One day, you came home from a doctor’s appointment to see Nick packing some bags.

“Nick? What’s going on?”

“We’re going on a trip,” he said. “Roadtrip, it’ll be fun.”

“Nick, I’m 7 weeks away from my due date-”

“You’ll be fine,” he snapped, thrusting a bag at you. “Get in the car.”

You headed outside, Nick’s hand firmly on your back. He steered you away from your old clunker towards a shiny new SUV. “Did you buy a new car?” you asked.

“Sure, buy. Let’s go with that.”

“Nick, what did you do? What did you get us into?”

“Don’t worry about it. Get in.”

“Nick-”

“I said, get in.”

~

“Des Moines PD has a case for us,” Penelope said. “As do St. Louis, Louisville, and Charleston.”

“Carjacking?” Morgan asked, flipping through the case file. “Why are they asking us to come in?”

“It’s the same MO,” Hotch explained. “It’s a couple, a man and a woman, presumably his wife or girlfriend. They find a home just outside the city and take the car at night, leaving the previously stolen car.”

“They’re active at night? How do we know it’s a team?” Spencer asked.

“The second victim had security cameras installed. They caught glimpses of the couple, but not enough for us to identify,” Penelope explained.  

“Why are they only bringing us in now?” Emily asked. “It says the first theft was over a month ago.”

“Because this one ended in a murder and assult. The surviving victims are at the hospital. Wheels up in 30,” Hotch said.

~

When the team landed in West Virginia, Hotch divided the team up between the hospital, the crime scene, and the coroner’s office. Hotch and Emily took the hospital to interview the victims. One was a woman in her mid-30s, and the other was her 6-year-old son. The husband had been the murdered victim.

“Hi, Mrs. Foster? I’m Agent Hotchner,” Hotch said, taking a seat next to the woman with Emily. “Would you mind answering a few questions for us?”

“Well, I’m-I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to remember but…”

“Anything you tell us can help us catch these two,” Emily said, gently patting the woman’s hand. “We’re going to try something called a cognitive interview, to see what your subconscious picked up, okay?”

The woman nodded. “Okay.”

“Go ahead and close your eyes,” Emily said. “So, it was late. You and your husband were getting ready for bed. Then what?”

“Neil heard a noise,” she said. “He said it sounded like a man. He grabbed Micah’s little league bat from beside the front door. He told me to wait inside. Micah had fallen asleep on our couch and came to see what was going on. I-I heard Neil yell and I heard a gunshot. I ran outside and I saw a couple. A man and a woman.”

“What can you tell me about them? What did they look like?”

“I didn’t see the man too well, but the woman, well, I only saw her face. But she looked bad.”

“What do you mean?” Emily asked.

“Well, her skin was sunken and sallow. She had bruises all over. She looked like she was ready to drop at any second.”

“Okay. What happened then?”

“Neil was bleeding on the ground. I-I ran over to him and felt for his pulse. It was already gone. Then the man hit my head with the gun, and I fell to the ground. But Micah- I didn’t know Micah followed me. The man pointed his gun at Micah. I was terrified. I thought he was going to shoot my son, too. But then the woman stood in front of the gun. She started pleading with the man. I was fading in and out of consciousness, but I heard her.”

“Nick, don’t!”

“What did I tell you? You don’t get to call me that, whore.”

“I-I’m sorry, sir. But, please, don’t hurt him. He’s just a boy.”

“He saw our faces. You know the police are already on our trail. We can’t have a kid squealing to the cops.”

“No, I… I won’t let you.”

“You won’t let me?”

“He hit her,” Mrs. Foster said. “Hard. It was so hard I thought he shot her, too.” She shook her head. “After that, he knocked me out. I don’t know what happened next. I just remember waking up here.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Foster,” Hotch said. “This was very helpful.” Hotch and Emily got up to leave.

“Wait, Agent Prentiss,” she called after Hotch left the room. Emily turned around. “When you find them, go easy on the woman.”

“Why would you want us to do that?” she asked.

“I work at a battered women’s shelter. I see women like her all the time. She’s profoundly abused. She’s not a criminal, she’s a victim.”

~

Micah Foster was able to give a detailed description of the man to the sketch artist. Thanks to his description, they were able to track him down outside of Charlottesville, Virginia. What they weren’t counting on was seeing you, in the passenger seat.

Nick didn’t want to go down without a fight. But his idea of a fight was to use you as a human shield. He held you in front of him, his arm bracing against your throat. He had a gun in his other hand, training it on the team.

“You shoot, you hit her!” he said, pressing harder on your throat.

“Okay, okay,” Morgan said, holding his gun up in surrender. “We won’t shoot. Just let (Y/N) go.”

Nick turned the gun and pressed it to your temple. “Why are you so concerned about her?

“Because she’s a person,” Derek said, trying to negotiate. “She doesn’t need to get hurt.”

A gunshot went off. You screamed and stumbled forward, Morgan catching you. Nick fell to the ground, dropping his gun and gripping his thigh. Hotch had snuck up behind and shot him in the leg.

~

The next thing you knew, you were in an interrogation room with Hotch and Emily.

“(Y/N), what happened?” Emily asked you, her voice gentle. “You look awful. What did he do to you?”

Your eyes were trained on the table. “Nothing. He treats me with nothing but respect. I did this to myself.”

“(Y/N), we all know that’s not true,” Emily said. “Talk to us. You know us.”

You kept your eyes on the metal table and you stayed quiet.

“Damn it, (Y/N)!” Hotch yelled, slamming his hands on the table. You flinched back, closing your eyes and wincing like you were bracing for a hit. Hotch took a step back. “Prentiss, take over.”

He left the interrogation room and stormed over to the second room where Morgan and Reid were interrogating Nicholas.

“Hotch-”

“What the hell did you do to her?” Hotch nearly screamed, his blood boiling.

Nick smiled. “I didn’t do anything, she did it all to herself.”

“We both know that’s not true, you piece of-”

“Aaron!” Rossi said, cutting him off. He then proceeded to pull Hotch from the interrogation room. “What the hell is going on with you?”

Hotch took a deep breath, rubbing his hand over his face. “You saw her, Dave. You saw what that asshole did to her. You saw her flinch away from me. That’s a woman who has faced down some of the worst humanity has to offer, and she’s been so badly abused that she’s…”

“Aaron, you know what abuse does to people. We’ve seen it more times than I ever want to count.”

“But it’s never been someone we know. It’s never been someone we love.”

“Ah. So that’s what this is about.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Why don’t you sit this one out? Prentiss and I can handle it.” Rossi walked into the room and sat next to Emily. Emily had given you a glass of water.

“(Y/N), why did you save the mother and her son?” she asked you.

“I don’t know,” you said, twisting the glass around in your hands.

“(Y/N).” Emily reached out and put her hand on yours. “You specifically looked out for the boy. Why?”

A tear rolled down your cheek. “Nick made me leave mine,” you whispered.

“What?”

“He said she would slow us down, that she was a burden. He made me leave her at a church. I didn’t even get to hold her.” After that, you broke down sobbing. Emily slowly crossed to the other side of the table and cautiously put her arm around you.

~

The team worked out a deal for you with the DA. You would be acquitted if you testified against Nick, and you would be closely watched by the team.

“She can’t keep sleeping on the couch in the conference room, Hotch,” Rossi said as the team gathered in the bullpen. You were asleep and the team wanted you to have peace. “She can come stay with me. Lord knows I have the space.”

“Wait, why should she stay with you? She’s my best friend,” Penelope argued. “She can stay with me.”

“Babygirl, you don’t have a spare room,” Derek reminded her. “I can take her in.”

“She just spent the better part of two years under the thumb of an alpha male, do you think she’d feel comfortable staying with another one?” Emily said.

“Did any of you think maybe she should make her own choice?” Spencer piped up. “I mean, she hasn’t been able to make her own choices, I think we should at least give her that.”

“Reid is right,” Hotch said. “We should let her make the choice. And please, don’t pressure her. She’s not the same (Y/N) she was when she left. She’s been through hell and back.”

~

In the end, you chose to stay with Aaron. Something about him made you feel safe. Slowly but surely, you started warming up again. You spent your days taking care of Jack when Hotch was on cases. When Aaron was home, he spent time with you and Jack. The two of you grew closer and closer.

You’d stayed with Aaron for a few months before there was a shift in your relationship. You weren’t sure when it happened, but you and Aaron were closer. You became more comfortable with physical contact, and you found yourself curling up on the couch with Aaron for movie nights after Jack went to bed.

You kissed Aaron first. He’d come back from a case with a book he knew you’d been wanting to read. It was something simple, but it meant the world to you, knowing there was someone who listened to you and wanted to do something nice for you.

Your relationship blossomed from there, and Aaron made sure to show you he respected you and never wanted to hurt you. Of course, there were bad days and there were days you argued, but Aaron never raised a hand against you. He never wanted you to experience the pain Nick caused you ever again.

~

“The difference between the right word and the almost right word is like the difference between a lightning bug and the lightning.” - Mark Twain

[ligiawrites]

First Sketches

Well, today is Sunday (my favorite, laziest day of the week) so I thought I'd just share something different for LtGBtK's anniversary. Following the suggestion one of you gave me a while ago, here are a few of my first sketches for LtGBtK and a short story about how I started to develop it.

Long post below the cut!

Starting with my first Mathias, of course. I made this sketch around 6 months before I started to develop LtGBtK. I was trying to survive a pretty disinteresting online class when this guy popped into my head—and I just needed to get him out.

He haunted my thoughts for months.

I always loved to try my hand at drawing unnamed characters' expressions and body language and then figure out a story for them (call it a creative exercise or something lol), so I was definitely curious as to why he looked so sad in a position that people usually wear to represent power. His features looked so soft and gentle; even the sketch, made with so many curves, seemed to make him sweeter. What, I wondered, would make this sweet boy feel so alone? Who he was, and what kind of harsh reality was forcing him to be the type of person he didn't want to be?

At the time, I was still working on another, never-seen-by-anyone-but-my-darling-friend-Coco fantasy VN with 4 ROs set in (gawk) Safira, in a small isle called Dubelia. When I hit a rocky patch of the development (four ROs proved to be a lot for a beginner VN developer like me and the number of choices I wanted to give the players), I sat down to redefine my game's scope.

These were the ROs for that other game (Maybe you'll recognize Lady Isobel's name, from Melike's short story):

To help me in that re-scoping process, I tried to imagine what Dubelia's relationship with the neighboring kingdoms would be. Lady Isobel (she was still called "Ishbel" at the time), maybe one of my favorite characters in this universe, had especially strong feelings towards the Dragon Commander of Opala, for several spoillery reasons, so I decided to look at Opala for a while.

And when I did, Mathias's sketch came back to my mind. Just like that, I knew all the answers to my questions, his connection to the Dragon Commander, and I knew I had to write more about him the bond they shared.

I was obsessed. Before long, I had an entire outline ready for an entirely different game.

Here are more quick sketches for Mathias and Mand and the planning for a scene between Mathias and MC that never happened. No, that's not NSFW!!! XDD There was a pretty good explanation behind that scene... but I, unfortunately, don't remember that anymore. XD

(Please excuse the redacted text in the image; despite being a very early version of the plot, there are still key points I used in the final version, so... A_A you know.)

With that new outline in hand and the big difference in effort and time I'd need to put in "A Perfect cycle" in comparison to "Love the Guard, Be the King," I just decided to file my first game for later and to focus my attention on LtGBtK. With only one RO, I knew I could finish the game faster, earn more experience in the VN game dev area, and maybe connect with other developers and players who enjoyed my stories as much as I did.

And... I'm so glad you found me! :)

—— THE ANNIVERSARY MASTER POST || KO-FI || PLAY LTGBTK! || PROMPTS ——

[heartbaz]

Magpie's happy ending (Renegade)

Of all the calls she imagined, Magpie never thought she would receive one from Tamaya Rae herself asking for help in reorganizing the items in the old weapons and artifacts department.

After "Supernova", the renegade headquarters was closed for months. It was no longer necessary to have a superhero building when superheroes no longer existed. Despite not being such an important issue, some rumors and theories spread, mostly saying that the tower would be demolished at some point.

But apparently that would not be the case.

From what heroin told her, they wanted the renegade headquarters to be a kind of museum on the second floors, which would display the artifacts stored, as well as the costumes of heroes of the old Council, photographs, news and all those things that she found it a waste of time and space to display and risk someone stealing them just like that, especially the dangerous artifacts that were in that place, but the opinion of an 11-year-old orphan girl was not so important.

When he entered the building he studied the place, which was being remodeled. He expected them to build statues of the Council, the Sketch team, a large painting, or something extravagant and flashy, typical of the renegades, especially Hugh, Captain Chromium. But he was surprised to see that it was the same as before, except that everything was new, in fact the quarantine was still under reconstruction, even Max Everhart himself was tidying up the glass city.

She realized too late that she had been staring at him for too long, a certain interest welling up in the girl at the tender expressions the boy was making as best he could arranging a four-story building near a park. Max had looked up for a second and noticed that the little blue eyes were watching him. Before receiving any gesture of greeting from the blond boy, she turned a little blushing and followed his path with a hurried step to enter the elevator and descend.

When the doors opened she could hear in the distance a conversation coming from the room of the dangerous artifacts, the voice was of two girls. when she got a little closer she realized that it was a dispute between Monarch and Nova. Nothing serious, they were just talking about some glasses and their use, something that did not interest her, she was coming for the jewelry and to see if there was something interesting and relevant so she could steal it without anyone noticing her absence.

She looked around and then stood still, she was struck by the silence that reigned in the place, and that was very strange. Something was clearly missing. Rather, someone was missing. Callum's obnoxious voice talking excessively about artifacts was missing. His lips formed a grimace without realizing it.

"This place is so different without him."

She startled to hear a voice behind her. When she turned around she saw Tina staring down the hallway. Maggie wasn't an expert at deciphering people's feelings through their eyes, but she easily saw the sadness and melancholy reflected in them, accompanied by pursed lips, clearly holding back tears.

Maggie looked at her for a few seconds before she began to feel uncomfortable.

"uh... where do I start?"

Tina shook her head and looked at her again.

"Oh right," she cleared her throat, "You need to help Sketch, Red Killer and Smokescreen sort some paperwork in the reception area, I'd assign you something else like sorting the jewelry or some artifacts, but those guys have a lot of work to do."

Magpie let out a grumble but said nothing by way of protest and headed for the reception area. It was chaos, full of papers piled up on the floor. Adrian was already reading and sorting some papers, but the other two present, Ruby and Oscar, were just flirting with each other. He grimaced. He had no idea how he was going to deal with such displays of affection during the day.

...

They had spent almost two hours among all those piles of papers organizing one by one. they were all tired and bored, but that didn't stop very interesting topics of conversation from arising among the four boys, and although at first the redhead didn't have the slightest interest in talking to them, it was inevitable for her to listen and laugh at the crazy stories Oscar had. A circle of trust was created in which even she told them some of the weirdest objects and her most risky adventures when she worked for the renegades. At this point, they were each telling the origin of their power, their faces dumbfounded as they listened to Ruby and Oscar's horrific experiences, even if hers may not have been any prettier than theirs. They had mentioned that both Sketch and Monarch were born with their powers.

"We could say that Nova was also born with one, the gift of putting others to sleep by touch" Ruby mumbled.

Magpie stared at the girl, waiting for her to continue with the explanation of how Nova managed to never sleep, but she did not. She never liked her, neither being Insomnia nor being Nightmare, she still didn't forget what happened the day Agent N was going to be released, but at that moment she aroused her curiosity and she wasn't going to stay with her.

"If he was born with the power to put people to sleep just by touching them, how did he get the power to never sleep?"

Adrian tensed, but decided to tell her.

"When Nova was 7 years old her uncle, Ace Anarchy, had her entire family killed, even her sister who was only months old. She was only saved by putting the man to sleep when he was in front of her. Ace found her and turned her into an Anarchist," he paused a little to put some papers he had just read, "Every time she tried to sleep she repeated the scene in her head, after that she could not sleep until a few months ago when she slept for 24 hours.

An uncomfortable silence reigned in the reception area. Maggie took a few moments to process it all. For a moment she felt a bit like she could relate, she too had lost her family, but she couldn't imagine how it would feel to remember everything that had happened for the rest of her life. For the first time she felt pity and empathy for the ex-villain.

"It's your turn, Urraca" said Oscar to break the silence "how you got your powers."

She grimaced as she didn't know the story for sure.

"I was too little to remember, but at the orphanage they told me that the landlord found me crying, full of blood," she took out her amulet, a bullet, from her pocket and showed it to everyone present" I had the bullet in one hand. Only the bodies of my parents were found, but there was no sign of my sister.

"Was your sister taken away?" Adrian asked, as shocked as she was to hear Nova's story.

"I don't know. For a long time I waited for my sister to come looking for me at the orphanage, but she never came. No one ever came to pick me up. I came to the conclusion that she either didn't want me or she was dead" the last thing she said in a whisper, but loud enough for those present to hear.

"What about the Renegades directory" Oscar pointed to the computer.

"I already tried, there's nothing," sighed the girl."

"Maybe there is something among all these papers of old files and cases?"

Adrian was interrupted.

"I found it!" exclaimed Ruby, who throughout Magpie's story had been sifting through the piles of papers and was now holding up a set of three sheets held together by a rusty paper clip. all she could read was "Maggie's case" and the last name was blurred, someone had splashed coffee on it.

Oscar snatched the papers from his girlfriend's hand and ran. She chased after him while feigning anger. During the two hours those two lovebirds were expressing their love through flirtatious gestures and small frolics. Maggie put up with them all the time without complaining so much, but in those moments she didn't feel like putting up with their romantic idiocies and apparently neither did Sketch, in fact he spoke first asking for a little more seriousness in the matter and for them to read the case quickly. Oscar obeyed without first letting out a "boring" along with a small cloud of smoke straight into his opponent's face.

"Let's see what it says," he began to read, "he has no birth certificate.... His name was chosen by Captain Chromium, what an honor! ... Her parents were killed in the domicile where she was found... only she survived... her sister is missing... she had a bullet in her hand..." Oscar and Ruby read without interest, but as they turned the page they wrinkled their foreheads. "Artino case"

Adrian made the same gesture with his forehead and quickly stopped to read the case. Magpie didn't understand anything but felt excitement anyway.

"Who is Artino? Is that my sister's name?"

Everhart shook his head slowly as he read over the other boy's shoulder.

"No. That's Nova's last name"

The girl sighed wearily. For a moment, the illusion returned that her sister would find her and take her with her to her new home, but it was just a stupid childish fantasy she had. Of course in those papers she would find nothing important about her life before the murder of her parents, much less anything about her missing sister.

When they finished reading, the renegades' gazes turned to her.

"Steaming saints..." Oscar was very overwhelmed. his hands went slack and he dropped the pages. Adrian picked them up with extreme gentleness.

"Margaret White Is that your real last name?"

The named woman looked at him strangely.

"I don't think so, my parents never registered me or anything like that. I was named Margaret White at the orphanage when, supposedly, they got the wrong information."

The Boy looked at her for a few moments and knelt down in front of her. she hated it when they did that. To her it was a sign that something was wrong.

"Your last name doesn't appear on these papers because they are smudged, but," he sighed, "but I believe your full name is Evelyn Artino and your sister..."

He paused for a few seconds that Maggie felt like hours. She already knew what the Renegade's next words would be, but she needed to hear it or she would think it was all just another one of her crazy fantasies.

"Your sister is Nova Artino."

She stood still and wordlessly, processing the information. She just didn't know what to do, feel or say, should she run and hug Nova or leave the place, pretend she never heard all this and believe that her sister was just a figment of her imagination?

All he could manage to do was shout a resounding "How!" at the renegade. Such an action scared him off and he backed up a few steps. Seconds later Nova and Danna arrived to see what had happened.

The girl's small eyes fixed on the shorter of the girls and she lunged at her to attack, but before she could reach out to touch her Adrian grabbed her by the waist and lifted her slightly off the ground. That brought back memories.

"How could you!" shouted Magpie trying to free herself from the Renegade's arms, but it was useless, "You abandoned me!"

Nova looked at her strangely and then at her companions. Ruby handed her the papers. She skimmed the first page, but still didn't understand.

"Look at the second page."

The red-haired girl listened and began to read. Seconds later she covered her mouth in amazement and her eyes filled with tears.

She also began to cry.

"For years I've been waiting for you to come and get me, but you never showed up" she said in a whisper, now calmer.

"But how..." she said in a choked whisper.

"She told us the origin of her powers, or at least what she knows" Adrian replied, "She was found covered in blood with a bullet in her hand, her parents were killed and her older sister disappeared. Read well, everything is very clear."

The renegade picked up the old papers and went back to reread them more patiently, perhaps looking for some word or name that contradicted her boyfriend's words. But judging by her look of disbelief and the tears that began to fall down her cheeks, there was nothing to rule out the theory.

"Why didn't I have any idea about these papers?" asked Nova with her eyes on the sheets, although it was obvious that she was addressing her partner "How come no one remembered such information?"

Adrian looked at her for a few seconds. She, still holding her head in the air, sensed that he was looking for signs of anger. And part of it showed.

"I'm not really sure, but back then they didn't trust computers, so they used paper to file all the cases" he motioned to the mountains of paper scattered around the room.

That was the last that was heard. No one knew what to do or say, and the silence was so thick and uncomfortable that it was becoming unbearable. After a few minutes Oscar decided to give them space and leave the place together with Ruby by the hand, they were also followed by Danna, who still didn't understand what was going on.

The last to leave was Adrian. He went down to Maggie -or Evelyn, she didn't even know what to call herself anymore- and gave her a squeeze on the shoulder, as if giving her strength or a signal not to run out of the building. He walked over to Nova and cupped her face to wipe away her tears. He said something she didn't hear and kissed her on the lips before leaving the room and closing the door.

It was time to talk, but apparently none of them were willing to start. At least Urraca didn't want to.

"I don't know what to say," Nova finally spoke, she had stopped crying a few moments ago, but her voice was broken, "You have no idea how happy I am knowing you're alive."

Magpie wiped her tears and snot with her sleeve.

"I asked you something earlier, why did you abandon me, did you even look for me?"

She shook her head.

"I never looked for you" said Nova, "I didn't because I thought you were dead.... That you had been murdered that night and I couldn't protect you because..." she couldn't continue speaking because a sob escaped from her throat.

Evie grew tired of pretending to be strong. She burst into a disconsolate cry and ran to hug her sister tightly. she hugged her sister back just as tightly. at that moment they couldn't talk, she knew it, the lump in her throat barely let her breathe. She had no intention of admitting it, but the warmth of an older sister along with a strange and curious sensation it brought back an old feeling she had thought she had forgotten, one she had not experienced for years. That of being safe, of having a home.

[ifuckinglovedio]

(Usually I would've just answered your ask but I wrote out this whole thing before realizing how asks work and didn't wanna copy it jdhshs)

@aot--levi--ttd

Ahh thank you so much for the nice ask!! I usually don’t write female reader but since I hadn’t linked to my rules yet before you sent this ask I’ll make an exception! (Though to be honest, even though I've had a female reader in mind writing this, I feel like it just naturally came out gender neutral anyway... I hope that's alright!)

Jotaro, Mista & Josuke getting called late at night by their s/o whose being followed

Jotaro 🐬

Jotaro had stayed up until late at night once again, getting lost in his work

It was already after midnight when he finally got up from his desk, so when he got a call from you he knew something must be wrong

"Why are you calling so late? Is everything okay?"

You told him about what happened, and though you tried to keep your voice calm so he wouldn't be overly worried, he could pick up the panic in your tone.

"Don't worry, I'm coming to pick you up. Just keep walking, and keep talking to me, alright? Tell me what you see."

He did his best to rush over to you. Luckily he knew the city you were in quite well, and thanks to your descriptions, it took less than 20 minutes before he found you.

He immediately ran towards you, even stopping time to get to you quicker, holding you in a close embrace and comforting you as best as he could.

When he spotted the man behind you, he did his best to imprint his face into his mind. What you told him made it unmistakably clear that this wasnt someone with good intentions. Part of him wanted to knock that guy down right then and there, but he decided against it. You were more important.

On the way back home he made sure to hold your hand for almost the entire drive. You were so exhausted, physically and mentally, that you couldnt help but fall asleep.

When you finally arrived Jotaro picked you up and carried you to bed, calmly tucking you in before going back to his office

He finished cleaning his desk and quickly drew a sketch of your stalker with SP's help, before going to sleep as well

When you told him the next day you felt like you'd seen this man following you a few times already, he didn't hesitate to file a police report. He took the day off to spend it with you, taking you out to brunch and a walk on the beach, making sure to distract you as much as he could by telling you his favorite little fun facts about sea creatures, and even picking up a shiny seashell he found to gift to you later.

Josuke 💜

Josuke had been worried for some time now.

You told him you would make a trip into town that day and might not make it home until late at night, but it's been hours now since he started waiting for you to come back. No text, no call, nothing. This was so unlike you, and the longer time went on, the harder it got for him to stay distracted.

But finally, his phone rang - and it was you! Letting out a sigh of relief, he answered your call, only to start panicking once more.

You didn't even greet him, just let out a meek "Josuke?" You sounded scared.

"(Y/N)? I've been waiting for you to call! Where have you been?! Is everything ok? You sound worried..."

You told him you forgot time. Instead of going right home after finishing your errands you wanted to stroll through the city, but you got lost on the way. And on top of that you could swear the man behind you didn't just walk the same way by chance...

"Josuke, I'm scared..."

"Don't worry! I'm coming for you! For now, try to head somewhere with more people. I'll make some calls and then I'll immediatly call you back, ok? I won't be gone longer than five minutes."

He quickly called his friends and told them what's up, and they agreed to help. They all got on their bikes and drove to the city, splitting up to search for you, all while Josuke kept you on the phone, make sure you knew he was there for you.

Okuyasu found you first, doing his best to look even more intimidating than usual, and making it clear to everyone around that you were his friend. He texted the others and took you to their pre determined meeting spot, keeping an arm around your shoulder until the man that had been following you was finally gone.

When you reached the others tears welled in your eyes. Josuke was pacing around, worriedly, while Koichi was trying to calm down Rohan, who seemed stressed as well, and obviously annoyed by Josuke.

Seeing your friends all worried for you, and even Rohan being there... it warmed you up inside a bit.

You ran towards Josuke while calling out his name, the former immediately catching you in his arms.

"You're safe... oh god, I was so worried."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead and wiped away your tears.

"Hey, hey, no need to cry! It's alright. You're safe. You're with me."

When you commented on the fact that Rohan was there, the mangaka's smile he had whole looking at you two turned into a frown and he started at the ground.

"Well, Koichi called me, and I still owed him a favor... besides, what kind of guy wouldn't help in a situation like this?!"

He was the only one with a car, so he drove you home, where you met with Josuke again.

You spent the rest of the evening watching an episode of your favorite comfort show, cuddled up close to your boyfriend, falling asleep next to him.

"No matter what you say, next time I'll make sure to come with you..."

Mista 🔫

You were out buying some new supplies for the gang. Until now you've always had someone along with you to make sure you're safe, but since nothing had happened for the past few months and you insisted on it, you went alone this time.

And of course, this was the day you should've taken someone along with you.

You'd finally gotten everything - it was a real drag to find the candy Narancia wanted for his birthday - you usually would've just gotten any other candy bar, but since it would be his birthday soon and he insisted these ones were the best, you went the literal extra mile and looked through every shop in the city you could think of.

By the time you'd finally found it the sun had already set, and when stepping out of the store and trying to make your way back, you realized you'd gotten completely lost.

You spent an hour wandering around the city, trying to find some kind of building or street you recognized, but it felt like you were running in circles. The exhaustion slowly got to you, and you wanted nothing but to lie down, yet you knew you had to stay strong.

After you arrived at the same street crossing yet again, you realized the man by the street lamp seemed more than familiar. You turned around and walked the other way, looking discreetly over your shoulder to realize you were indeed being followed.

Was it an enemy stand user? Someone who held a grudge against your boyfriend and the rest of the gang? Or just a creep who liked to follow young girls around at night? In any way, your first thought was to call your boyfriend.

"Honey bear? How are you baby? Have you eaten dinner already?"

"Huh? Oi, (y/n), what's up with the weird names?"

"Ah, so should I bring something for you? I can pick up some noodles on the way home ~"

"Hey,, you're acting kinda weird, is everything alright?"

"No, noo! It'll be just like that time two years ago. I got lost going shopping, remember? And then you picked me up and we had some noodles!"

That was enough for him. "So, you got lost and need me to pick you up, but can't say it outright, right?" "Yep!" "I'll be there in just a moment. OI, NARANCIA!"

The two ventured into town, and with Aerosmith's help they managed to find you quite quickly. They ran towards you, and you were more than relieved when you saw them come across the corner.

You rushed to his side and Mista took your hand, pointing his gun at the man following you.

Considering how quickly he ran away it must've just been some rando. Still, you were more than relieved to be with Mista again.

With how tired you were after the day, he offered to carry you on his back and you immediately accepted, holding closely onto him and burying your head on his shoulder.

You didn't refuse the opportunity and gave him a little peck on the cheek, letting you hear that laugh you so loved.

Together you three ventured home, when after some minutes something was off...

"Oi, Narancia? Weren't we supposed to go left here?" "No, I swear it's to the right!" "Hey, wait a minute, weren't we just at this lamppost?"

...you got lost again.

In the end Abbachio came to pick you three up, though not before getting annoyed by your shared idiocy.

Finally feeling at peace, you feel asleep next to Mista on the car ride. Though your life had gotten consistently more dangerous since you met him, you couldn't help but feel like whenever he was around, things were finally alright.

[lemon--squeezy]

𝐁𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 | 𝐎𝐍𝐄

Summary: 𝐀𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫 found love during his teen years and ended up married to his high school sweetheart. However, he hadn't been prepared for the effects caused on him by a younger Agent and coworker.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Original Female Character

Warnings: Mentions of/implied attemped rape, sexual scenes, adult language, angst, boss/employee relationship, cheating, age difference and  canon-typical violence.

A/N: Before we start I just wanted to warn you that English is not my first language so you might see some grammar and spelling errors, if you spot any just let me know please. I hope you can bear with me! This story in also available on Wattpad 

“You made a really deep cut and baby, now we’ve got bad blood…” — Taylor Swift

Rays of a morning sun shine through the many windows, bringing a needy warmth to the cold bullpen of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. As soon as one enters the room, the bitter but invitingly warm scent of black coffee would invade their nostrils; a much needed drink to endure the consuming aspects of working for the FBI. Hushed footsteps, discussions of rapports, chairs moving around and whispers of good mornings are the prominent sounds filling the environment. 

At the center of the room, three distinct agents are discussing among themselves about gossips of the office. A strong, shaved headed man, with dark skin and a smirk plastered on his face. By his side, half sitting on his desk is a woman with fluffy bright blonde hair, thick black glasses supported by her delicate nose and wearing colorful clothes, making her stick out in an ocean of grey suits and blazers. Standing in front of them is a raven-headed woman, with pale skin and dressing a dark outfit like no one else could do. 

While grabbing his mug and sipping his morning coffee, the man looks at his wristwatch, slightly shaking his head in a mocking disapproval and declares, “It’s officially five minutes since our work time started and Agent Davis hasn’t arrived,” he flashes a smirk to the black headed female who had being part of the team for barely a month and continues, “I hope you’re ready to witness your first breakfast time quarrel between the bossman and Amy.” 

Emily, the sophisticated gothic woman, stares confusedly at her teammate and says, “Okay, I’m gonna take the bait. What are you talking about, Morgan?” 

He flashes a mischievous smile, “Do you want to explain it to the newbie, baby girl?” Morgan asks the blonde and eager female to tell the new girl about the most volatile - and funny to watch - dynamic of the team. “I’m pretty sure you’ve already noted that my lovely girl Amelia Davis and our stiff yet good-looking Superior don’t tolerate each other,” Penelope happily blabbers. “Since today is Monday and Amy loooves partying hard on the weekends, she’s already late. Something that displeases the bossman who is constantly waiting to scold Amy because of her little mistakes.” 

“That is intriguing. Are you sure it isn’t all about sexual tension? That would explain their behavior.” Agent Emily Prentiss questions inducing a gasp from Penelope and a laugh from Derek. 

“We’ve all considered it at some point,” the man affirms. “Just don’t say that to Davis or she will lecture you about how terrible it is that two people of the opposite sex aren’t allowed to sincerely and deeply hate one another,” he concludes and looks in the direction of his Superior individual office through the open blinds. “Hotch seems to be especially annoyed today so I bet he won’t even wait for Davis to reach her table before he calls her attention.” Morgan deduces and the elevator cheeps in sync announcing new arrivals, making the three agents stare in its direction. They see a couple of interns hurrying to the coffee marker and the next person to come out is the disheveled figure of Agent Davis. Her crystal blue eyes are hidden by black sunglasses, the woman’s usually perfect long brunette hair is currently disheveled, her button up white shirt is supporting some wrinkles while her dark grey blazer is in her left hand along with her bag. She connects the fingers of her right hand with her temple massaging it in a foolish attempt to ease the headache obviously caused by a hangover. 

Amelia tries to walk discreetly in the direction of her desk, hoping she would pass unnoticed by her boss, but she isn’t successful. Seeing her state, Derek whistles and loudly states, “I think someone had a wild night,” he laughs with Prentiss and Penelope. His booming voice affects the balance of Davis, making her stumble over her own feet and before she gets a hold of her chair and tells the man to be quiet, the harsh sound of a door opening echoes through the entire space of the bullpen. 

“Agent Davis. My office. Now,” the chief unit’s demand rings like thunder, giving chills to the ones around.  

“Fuck,” Amy murmurs while taking off her sunglasses  and dropping her belongings on her desk. 

The brunette drags her legs, taking her time along the short way to her boss’s office. 

Amelia feels like she’s in high school and the principal is calling to lecture her, but that’s something she never experienced during her school years since her teachers adored her effort to have the best grades and eagerness to learn. Besides, she could always blast a polite amiable smile to make people bend at her will. It came easily to Amy, being friendly and kind towards others, virtues that paid off and made everyone like her. Well, everyone but him. 

The door to the room is already opened and to Amy, it resembles the entrance of a

scary and dark cave. After she’s inside, she makes sure to close it to shield herself from the curious ears of her coworkers. She goes straight to one of the chairs across from the stoic man, a journey she’s so used to, considering that Hotchner’s constantly expressing his discontent with her whether it was about being a few minutes late, or about a typo in a rapport, or even choosing to use a grey folder instead of the yellow ones. Everything would lead to criticism and by now she would just take it with humor. She mumbles a good morning but Aaron simply ignores it.

“Tell me, Agent, what’s your excuse for today? Two weeks ago there was something wrong with your car, four weeks ago it was a problem with shower. I can’t wait to hear about another one of your misfortunes,” there’s venom watering each word, his eyes colder than a winter day and his entire posture screams irritation.  

Amy thinks how he’s ever so ridge when she’s around. Every time she enters the same room as him, the jet black haired man would instantly go ridge like her mere presence was a heinous crime. She’s used to it and more than happy to demonstrate that she is also offended by his existence.  

“Would you believe me if I told you that my nanny died?” Davis playfully replies and grins, which boils Aaron’s anger further. 

“Do you think this is some sort of joke?” he snaps, standing from his chair and positioning his hands on the desk that separated them. “I can’t have people in this unit that don’t take their job seriously and I don’t have time to endure irresponsibility and lack of respect.” 

I bet you would have a lot of free time if you just left me the fuck alone, dude - Amelia thinks while maintaining eye contact with the man. 

“One more day of tardiness and you will have to suffer consequences. Is that clear enough for you, agent?” he fumes. 

She bites her lips and swallows a bitter response. Not afraid of the outcome, just too tired to deal with her boss’s intensity so early in the day. “Yes, boss.”

“You can leave now,” he grunts and sits back in his chair. Starting to reach for one of the files on his desk; at the same time, Amelia makes a quick way out of the room. Once she gets to her chair, she releases a loud sigh, longing for the day to be over already. 

“That seemed intense.” Emily comments. She and Morgan are in their respectives chairs and Penelope has made her way to her own office - after the end of the show, of course.  

“You have no idea,” Amy answers while starting her work. 

 “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened between the two of you?” Prentiss carefully asks, genuinely curious.

“He’s the one who decided to hate me since my first day, I’m just returning the sentiment,” Davis explains, unbothered by the question, being a curious person herself she knows how it is once interest sparks. That’s when Dr. Reid and Agent Jareau arrive, talking to themselves. Spencer is carrying a notebook with a sketch of a boy’s face in it, moving around the room frantically and picking a telephone. 

“What’s wrong?” Amelia worriedly questions. 

“Need to get that to everyone as soon as possible,” Reid hurriedly explains while making a call. “Detective Barnes, this is Special Agent Doctor Spencer Reid of the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico,” he clarifies to the person on the other side of the phone and continues rapidly, “Have you had recent murders involving prostitutes? They would’ve been stabbed to death and their hair would’ve been cut off by the killer,” that causes the other Agents to exchange confused glances, intrigued by the sudden event. 

“When was the last recent victim?” the Doctor inquires to the Detective on the line. 

Seems like we have a case, Amy processes.