#Emotional Constipation

[thiccpersonality]

The Realization

It's hard being the only human in a team full of meta-humans, aliens or straight up gods, but Bruce manages to get by...even if internally he's overly critical of the work he does, always comparing himself to others and telling himself to do better. But, he secretly counts his blessings one-by-one at how he has friends colleagues that reassure him everyday that he does so much-yes, even when he doesn't ask for it...Clark always tells him it's in his eyes, that's how he knows Bruce wants it.

Bruce finds that stupid though, the only thing in his eyes is exhaustion, and if not exhaustion, then anger; and if not anger, then it's probably a cocktail of self-loathing, self-hate and self-deprecation sprinkled with a healthy dose of "I wish I was dead."

Anyhow, Bruce counts his blessings secretly, even if it doesn't seem like he's doing so. And while it's hard being one of the only humans without a power in a group full of meta-humans or fully fledged super powered beings, he is grateful for the other aspects of power he has: his name, his face, his money, influence-and one of his actual favorites...when he's in a good mood-his body. Bruce isn't an idiot (Jason: "Not all the time anyway!"), he sees the way people eye him up and down, both men and women alike, he knows their thoughts towards him...or well, his body at least.

He has seen the way women eye his arms and pecs (Wally: "You mean, Batboobs®!? And doesn't everyone eye those?"), watches the way mens eyes glaze over when staring at his mile long legs.

Which brings us to how Bruce never truly feels small, not anymore at least. Even if he was of smaller height for a man (or in general) his position in life and as a hero/vigilante would make him feel and appear big to people. So, Bruce hasn't felt small in a very long time, he tends to not pay attention to things like height much-to reiterate: he never feels small because 1. He isn't and 2. Even if he was, who would be brave enough to tell one of the richest men on earth-let alone THE Batman that he's short?

The answer: no one.

So while Bruce has never had anyone say to his face that he's short, he's the World's Greatest Detective™ (Jason and Stephanie: "Ehhhh...occasionally.) and can see for himself the difference of him compared to everyone else.

Who is everyone else you ask? Well, it's the people he works with and-and Jason. It's kind of hard for Bruce to truly pay attention to height when he never pays attention to it in the first place or when he's usually in life-threatening situations to really care, in fact, he doesn't know why he is even obsessing over such a thing-'but you do know'-his mind replies. The thing Bruce hates most is that he does-he does know what kick-started this whole height thing, and it was his son; Jason.

XXX

It was any other normal day at Wayne Manor...if you count your son entering your top-secret cave injured as normal. Bruce had his mask off, his icy blue eyes analyzing the information on his computer unblinkingly, there's been an issue with abductions recently and he doesn't want to waste any time on finding out who is up to it, so Bruce has been working overtime (Alfred in a tired tone: "As usual...") trying to find out who it is.

Just as his brain is stringing something together, he hears the sound of a motorcycle outside the Cave, Bruce's brain immediately switches to finding out who it could be. He takes into account every person already inside the house, outside of it, what said people outside said they were doing until his brain very obviously deduces that it must be Jason. Hm? Should he heat some leftovers up for Jason? What is the other here for? Why is he even overthinking it? Jason is free to come over anytime he wants...

....

.....

......

But what if the reason is bad? Is Jason mad at him again? Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose from the sudden headache he gets from his mind panicking, the man just groans softly and turns around just in time to see Jason riding into the Cave, his eyebrow raising suspiciously at the lack of fancy tricks his son bothered not doing.

Bruce silently analyzes his son's body for any signs of distress, starting from his head, he immediately noticed the crack in the helmet and can feel his muscles tighten in worry before remembering he's trained his kids to fight and be able to receive hits as well. The thing that causes him to stand up though is the fact that Jason hasn't noticed him yet, and the way the young man is holding his side isn't helping to ease Bruce's racing mind.

"Jason, is everything alright?"

Hm? Was that too forward of him? Bruce knows his children, but he especially knows Jason and Damian hate being asked for signs of-what they deem as-weakness and injury (Damian sipping his tea: "Wonder where we learned that from, father?)

Jason finally looks up at Bruce, his tone sounding a bit slurred as he speaks, "Jus' fine, B. A little-" he grunts as he stumbles off his bike-"scratch never...hurt me." Okay, so it's more than a little scratch, Bruce catches Jason and can't control the immediate frown he makes when the boy doesn't bother fighting his hold. "What actually happened? It's not just a little scratch...you are clutching your side like you've been sh-" his breathing hitches at the words he almost uttered, w-was Jason actually-

"What? S-Shot? Why's it matter if-" Jason quiets down when Bruce's words finally process, his baby blue's widening under his mask at the small ways his dad is starting to panic from the thought-"No! I was jus' stabbed is all...no shots."

Bruce will get on himself later about how his body relaxed a bit more when finding out his child wasn't shot, I mean, what kind of father feels relieved that their kid was just stabbed? He knows-deep down-that it's his...ahem..."trauma response" to guns, but it sucks for him to realize he finds himself more at ease when people he knows are hurt in different ways that aren't a gun...he feels like a horrible person when it happens.

For now though, his main priority is his son who is losing blood, blood that Bruce is finally noticing on Jason's hand.

Bruce grunts as he brings his son closer to his body, feeling momentarily surprised when he lets out the sound from moving the younger. Since when did he ever grunt when moving his children? Another thing is, when did Jason get so heavy in the first place? When did his once small boy pack on so much muscle and-oh, God...please...when did Jason ever have to bend his knees when Bruce held him?

His body is on autopilot and he can feel himself moving to the medical table, but his eyes are busy staring at Jason's bent knees, his mind screaming at him that this must be a prank his son is pulling-oh! Or maybe Bruce is actually in an alternate universe where his child is bigger than him.

Bruce sucks in a deep breath when arriving at the table, gently lying his son down so he can get to work on stitching his boy up while also giving a (most likely) hypocritical lecture on how Jason should stay safe.

XXX

It was ever since that day that Bruce has been hyper fixated on his own height, along with the height of others. He hates how he's been sneaking in tests and making things awkward with his family because he chooses not to answer and instead rushes off to panic when realizing Jason is bigger than him.

It all happened as soon as Jason was patched up too, his mind recalls every stupid miniscule little detail, from Jason's clothes to the way his hair was messy from sleep and-the worst part-how he had to look up at the nineteen-year-old when the young man got close enough to him. Barefoot and all. The worst part is how Jason didn't even seem to notice it, and Bruce is NOT risking letting his son know, because then he will be picked on for being smaller than him and then his Bluejay will no doubt drag his siblings into this.

Not to mention how Bruce doesn't want to deal with a furious Damian who will demand that they, in his words, "stop disrespecting father before he slits their throats."

It has been a miserable couple months for him-and don't you judge him for keeping this obsession up for months! How is anyone-let alone a parent-supposed to process that they are shorter than their kid? Bruce holds back his frustrated tears at realizing his children are grown and growing, for goodness sakes, he had a meltdown just yesterday when it caught up to him that Richard is a fully grown man...he will never let anyone know about how he clutched onto old pictures of his eldest while crying.

And everyday Bruce is hoping and praying against Damian's growth...of course he doesn't want his son to be stunted in his puberty process...but if he decides to stay little forever then that is perfectly okay with him.

Besides panicking over his family's growth, which, yay for them...really, Bruce has been noticing-and I mean, TRULY noticing, his friends colleagues heights. There are certain people where it's just so noticeable, like J'onn for example, that guy is so huge that you are stupid if you don't notice it. Another hero is Big Barda, I mean, she's a seven foot tall woman...you would obviously notice that.

But there are just some people he noticed it with but it didn't bother him before (thank you Jason for kick-starting this!) And now Bruce is constantly comparing himself to the most closest of colleagues to one's he barely speaks to, it's insane how many files he's gone through just to look at heights. His two closest friends colleagues Diana and Clark are two people he didn't bother with height wise. It didn't matter since they made him feel small in different ways...I mean, you have the Amazonian princess with strength and skills that would put any living creature to shame and a Kryptonian that is more human than most humans, who truly has a heart of gold despite any negative views towards him.

And then there is Bruce: cold, stoic, a touch too sarcastic, jaded, cynical, a negative Nancy, a party pooper (Jason says that), no fun, emotionally stunted, anxious, depressed, stressed, old, washed up, unfunny-and the worst of all; short.

Bruce holds back his distressed noise as Wally West, AKA: Richard's best friend who has been over a million times, stands next to him with that ever bright smile of his and is animatedly talking, effectively ruining his depressing train of thought. When did he get so big? So...grown? He takes in the maturity of his once soft face, the man is still cute no doubt, but he isn't that same round faced boy who bothered him about Alfred's cookies. Okay, okay, maybe he still is that same kid...just older looking and taller now.

"-and that's why I'll need that penthouse full of Agent A's cookies."

Bruce blinks away the sudden wetness in his eyes and looks down (ha!) at The Flash confused, though to the normal eye he looks the same old disinterested as usual. "You need a penthouse? What happened to that modest apartment you got?" Wally blinks in shock behind his mask before giving a toothy smile, "Is that what your mind got from that? I was joking about the penthouse...though Agent A's cookies would still be much appreciated."

The ginger shifts in place nervously at the way Batman is staring at him, did he do something wrong? The only thing that somewhat assures Wally that things are okay is the fact that Bruce gives a grunt of agreement before walking off.

He can't take this anymore! If Bruce stays around Wally any longer he's afraid he'll start crying in front of the kid. Instead, he'll just head to the cafeteria and drown his sorrows in today's dessert. Bruce walks in and sees that Diana is already in line, holding back his grumble as he stands next to the woman and internally mourns the fact his head only reaches her shoulder. "Good morning, my friend! It's a lovely day in space is it not?"

Bruce grunts and doesn't bother looking up at Diana, "It's the same view we see everyday we come up to the Watchtower."

The Amazonian just smiles brighter, warmth radiating from her mood. "Though we see it everyday it doesn't make it any less gorgeous up here." Bitterness. Bruce's heart is filled with bitterness at the words "up" and "here" , is-is Diana teasing him? Did she somehow find out about his fixation and is now subtly letting him know that she knows?

The feeling of warmth, like that from the sun, at his right side causes Bruce to automatically look up at the person standing so close to him. His icy blue eyes only widen under his mask at fully tilting his head back to look up at Clark, he feels like sobbing when realizing his head only comes to Clark's chest, why is the man even taller than Diana!?

"Good morning Bruce, Diana. Lovely morning up here, is it not?"

There's that stupid word again! And is it really a good morning when he's been suffering for so long? Bruce frowns at the gentle nudge at his side and Diana's jovial tone, "Told you the view is still beautiful." At Clark's questioning look Diana just smiles more, "Our friend here just is being a sourpuss today. He's grumpy about how I said the view is nice, he just replied about how we see it everyday."

Clark just smiles and looks down at Bruce, his smile turning amused when his friend doesn't move up the line. "Are you just going to stare at me all morning or will you move down the line?"

A scoff is all Bruce can give, not noticing the concerned looks shared over his head as he focuses on piling his food tray with dessert. The concern isn't necessarily from Bruce eating sweets, Diana and Clark both know how much their friend actually has a sweet tooth, the issue is coming from the fact he is willingly eating sweets in front of others on top of the amount it is. Clark just frowns worriedly and sits actual food on his plate while mouthing to Diana about what's wrong with Bruce.

In return, the princess just shakes her head and looks back down at Bruce, choosing to speak up. "You know, it's been awhile since we've eaten alone, just the three of us. Why don't we head to one of our rooms or something?" What she actually means by that is: "let's get Bruce alone so we can figure out what's wrong with him."

The two super powered heroes find themselves even more putoff at Bruce's distracted grunt...it is rare he pulls that one out, usually his grunts have some level of awareness to them, but this one is telling them that he's not actually paying attention. Which is cause for alarm in and of itself. Plus, Clark and Diana have been getting calls from Bruce's family, they are worried about how he's been acting as of late. They report Bruce is running off on them whenever they ask him what's wrong...which actually isn't out of character for Bruce, but if the Batfamily are saying it's different than usual, then it's different than usual.

The two taller heroes lead the shorter to his room, punching his code in before the door opens and they watch as Bruce automatically walks over to his bed and sits on it, shoving a cookie in his mouth and causing Clark to signal to Diana in confirmation that something is wrong.

They use their friend's distracted state to quietly talk about it while joining him in the room, "What's going on with him?" Diana raises her brow as she asks, tilting her head up and to the side so Clark can whisper in her ear. "I don't know for sure...but his lip is jutting out into a micro-pout. I quickly scanned him to see if he was hiding injuries, and while he's not, his muscles are tense as if he's holding back something."

Diana softly ah's and sets her tray down on Bruce's desk, the noise causing the man to look up at them finally. His eyebrows raising when noticing he's in his room, "Why didn't we just eat in the cafeteria?" Bruce holds back his fidgeting at the look the taller two heroes share.

Clark clears his throat, "We were going to originally...but we noticed you were acting off and suggested eating in one of our rooms as a test-"

Diana, being one to never hold back, gets to the point. "A test you failed, Bruce. To be honest, you've been acting off enough to worry your family into calling us to step in. So, can you please tell us what's going on?" Bruce feels genuine embarrassment that this is where his fixation has gotten him, he's too flustered to admit that his issue is the fact he's begun to notice people are bigger than him, I mean, what kind of issue is that?

At Bruce's silence Clark steps forward slightly, his voice patient and gentle when he speaks.

"We are your friends, B. Heck, you even feel like family. And family is there for each other just like me and Di are here for you. Jason has been feeling particularly bad lately...he says he didn't know what he did this time to make you so upset with him, you keep staring him down angrily only to storm off when he looks back at you."

Bruce feels angry with himself for letting such a stupid non-issue get this far. His looks of "anger" weren't anger towards Jason at all, he knows when he thinks hard about stuff he can sometimes look mean apparently, but he was never upset with his Jaylad...the distress was just showing on his face and Bruce most likely masked it with the first emotion that came to mind, one that's easiest for him to express or replicate; anger or irritation.

Bruce hates the involuntary distressed sound that escapes his crumb covered lips, however, for the sake of his family and ending this stupid misunderstanding, he chooses to be...honest (Batfamily: *collectively gasping*)

"Jason...he's bigger than me-" Bruce keeps the Batman mask on so he won't be too vulnerable, his hands tightening on the metal tray from the thought-"For months I have been noticing the sudden growth of my children and I...I didn't know what to do with that information. Did you know that Jason has to crouch when I hold him now? Since when did he need to do that?" At this point of his ranting, Bruce is out of bed and pacing across the room while his friends patiently listen.

"And then it hit me one day that Richard is truly a man now. Maybe that's why we got into so many fights before? I never truly realized that he didn't need my help like before-" Bruce pauses in the middle of the room and clenches his cape in his fists-"He is so much taller now and shining brighter than the little boy I picked up. Timmy is even starting to grow a bit more...which, I don't know if I should be upset or pleased that he's finally growing, that boy scares me sometimes with how small he was."

Bruce's hands instinctively reach up to run his fingers through his hair and he huffs at the mask being in the way, choosing to hide his hands underneath his cape instead.

"Wally is even so big now, did you know that? I remember the young boy with that fat freckled face pestering me about Alfred's cookies...and now that boy has the audacity to get big on me, I think I hate realizing that Dickie-bird is actually taller than his friend now, it's only by one or two inches-but still!" Bruce starts pacing again, his nerves building up once more and telling him to move.

"And don't get me started on Damian. I feel I constantly am trying to sabotage his growth...I never got to see him as a baby and so I hope he stays that small, chubby faced little boy I've come to know. I feel horrible for wishing against his growth, but I want to make his childhood as enjoyable as possible, did you know he didn't even know what movies were when he came here? He was deprived of fun and he can't grow too quickly now or fun childhood memories can't be made."

Bruce stops to finally stare at Diana and Clark, pointing accusingly at them.

"And then you two! I noticed it before, but it was never something of interest to me. I didn't need to pay attention to your heights when I feel small in other ways with you two...you-" Bruce grunts at Clark gently slamming into him and hugging him, the man sounding a mix of fond, touched, baffled and sad. "You don't need to feel small with us. I for one think you are bigger than any of us in many different ways...I mean, you just admitted to having a crisis at realizing your family grew."

Diana joins in on the hug with a soft chuckle, "I'm just surprised you didn't notice our height difference sooner. Clark and I always talked about how cute it is to pick you up, your our tiny human."

The woman just smiles more when Clark nudges her side in warning for her playful words, "But in all seriousness. This has to be the cutest moment we've seen from you ever, instead of a midlife crisis you are having a parental crisis-" Diana cackles again when Clark pokes her side again-"What? I am being serious. But also, this just shows how much you care...and I think it's only normal to feel this way when you never expected to have a family of your own in the first place."

Bruce's breath hitches at the gentleness in which Diana speaks the last part, his eyes prickling with tears at realizing deep down she's right. Ever since he took in Richard he was always amazed and scared at having a family, and no matter how much he's tried to deny it in his worst moments, that's what Richard became ever since he thought of taking him in. Bruce never expected a family, which is why he tries so hard to deny it...and I guess after years of taking care of children it's finally caught up to him that his family-more specifically, his children (because that's who they are) have grown into functioning adults.

He never thought he would want a family after losing his in that alleyway, but if anyone were to take down his defenses...of course it'd be a child.

Clark gently reaches up to tug Bruce's mask off and finds himself wanting to cry at seeing the fat droplets-hanging on for dear life-onto Bruce's eyes, even now his friend doesn't want to seem weak. He can't help but chuckle at the incredulous look Bruce gives him for wanting to cry as well.

"You can cry, Bruce. What are friends for?"

Bruce feels his face grow red, his body loosening in Clark and Diana's hold as months of tension leaves his being through his tears, choosing to hide his face in his friends strong bodies. He hates crying and how good it makes him feel afterwards, he doesn't think he deserves that feeling most days, but for now, it's okay. Bruce also can't help the eye roll at hearing Clark sniffle as well, he's such a crybaby. Diana just smirks at her two boys, carding her long, elegant fingers through Bruce's hair, the two taller heroes paying close attention to Bruce as he shifts in their hold and speaks up. Voice slightly muffled.

"Never speak about this to anyone."

Diana and Clark share a look before silently coming into agreement and lifting Bruce off his feet, reveling in his annoyed protests with laughter.

"We wouldn't dare."

("1. He isn't and 2. Even if he was, who would be brave enough to tell one of the richest men on earth-let alone THE Batman that he's short?" Does the second option imply or mean Bruce is short or is it just a scenario? You decide! I constantly switch between Bruce being a genuine short king and him just being around people that make him feel freaking short 😂.

"Clark gently reaches up to tug Bruce's mask off and finds himself wanting to cry at seeing the fat droplets-hanging on for dear life-onto Bruce's eyes, even now his friend doesn't want to seem weak." <-(Damian and Jason sipping on their tea: "Seems we found that answer to who we learned that from. 😌")

Also, I am so sorry this story got so long! I didn't mean to 😭. This idea has been in my head, and I usually forget my ideas...but this time I actually wanted to remember lol. This is also kind of based off of the one day I was hugging my baby brother and realized I actually had to look up at him...he's only 14 (while writing this I also just remembered he's 14 😭😭😭), I went back into my room and literally just sat there reminiscing on my bed about when he was brought home from the hospital to all the good times we had together and even things I wish I did different with him growing up 😂.

Also, also, I apologize for the constant whiplash from some semblance of humor (or something), to slightly crack-ish (I think so at least) writing to things getting deep and emotional. I was feeling fickle with the vibe of this story I guess, so I said: "why not everything?" 😂😂😂

This is getting even longer cause I like talking too much in notes lol, so I'm going to leave with a thank you! Anyone and everyone who bothers to read this long mess is very much appreciated!

Please remember to stay safe, happy, healthy and of course lovely as always. 💛)

[justwannabecat]

Prompt: The reason why most of the Batfam are so bad at healthy communication is because most of them have briefly died/have been near death enough times to become dead-adjacent.

For years they’ve each been trying to share their thoughts and feelings telepathically, as ghosts do, but because they themselves aren’t ghosts, or at least with a healthy supply of ectoplasm, they can’t get any signals. As a result they each subconsciously feel like they’re being very clear with what they want and how they feel, but constantly feel ignored in return.

Through whatever series of events, Danny is adopted into the family. At first they think he’s just really good at reading people. Then they realize that it’s not just Danny who’s doing it.

(Danny’s just trying to be nice. It’s helping shed all his excess ectoplasm, after all, and also feeding these obviously hungry developing Liminals. The fact that it’s repairing their family as well just makes it the perfect gift to thank everyone.)

[liillyliilly]

His Diary

akaashi keiji x reader words; 10082 synopsis; For Akaashi Keiji, love meant letting someone know him better than he knew himself. It also meant being okay with letting her read his diary.

She decided that this was her new favorite book. It had all the right amounts of everything in it, drama, romance, depression, self-loathing. The journal she found was likely never written to be read. The journal he lost, the journal that Akaashi Keiji misplaced on a train going home from his editing job, he never expected to become a crux in his journey to love.

In all honesty, she didn’t even know it was a journal. It just seemed to be an episodic novel with a unique font, something along the vein of The Perks of Being A Wallflower. She only ever knew the leather-bound pages as a novel with no name. The author used a first-person perspective when writing and told the story of a young volleyball player who wanted desperately to find a passion, so he surrounded himself with others who had passion. What he seemed to enjoy more than playing the sport was writing though.

The author of the untitled book loved to read because the way he wrote made everything else she had read pale in comparison to the inky brilliance. He had captured teenager-dom with such sleight of hand that she believed his writing was made of magic and fairy dust. The story made her cry, made her groan, and made her feel second-hand embarrassment to an extreme she thought wasn’t possible.

When she read the first chapter, she realized she ought to pace her reading, because there were only so many entries. And she had no way of contacting or looking up the author, there was no information of who the author was on the back of the book. There was a Fukurodani Sticker, a school she remembers from her own time at a high school nearby, they were known for their volleyball skills and prowess, so she assumed maybe the author had some lived experience when it came to volleyball. Maybe that was a hobby aside from being a writer of such compelling stories.

She carried it everywhere from the day she picked it up on the floor of the train, it was always in her backpack, purse, and suitcase. She never left it alone, it had become a part of her. She felt like somehow this author reached into her heart and left fingerprints of his making into permanent fixtures of her anatomical structure. DATE: XX-XX-2013 TITLE: Alethiology; The Study of Truth

Today I realized that maybe I am all that I will be. My capacity has limits in comparison to others. A friend of a friend told me that their volleyball captain made a speech once, not to the whole team, just talking with buddies. His speech, or at least the parts I remember from it, was devastating. He said something like guys like Atsumu and all those geniuses, do things on a scale of 1-20, whereas normal guys like me do things on a scale of 1-10. Or maybe they have a denser more compact 1-10. And if 1-20 doesn’t work out, they try things from A to Z.

I’ve never thought of things like that. There’s always been a straightforward path for me, whereas, in comparison to Bokuto, he seems to have a much longer and more complex route ahead of him. Am I all that I will be? Is there a way for the normal guy to switch from 1-10 and try 1-20?

We have another game soon, maybe I can control more than I expect. Is flight into this world of geniuses possible? I can only control myself and my thoughts, but maybe there are external factors that contribute to my role on this team. My role in life as well.

Bokuto is asking for me, I need to go. Hope I can write again soon, but with all the games we’ll be playing I’m doubtful I can write with actual thoughts and not just tallies and plays from the games.

- A.K.

“I mean, who thinks of things like that Miwa?” She sits in the styling chair, getting a refresher on her hair. Miwa snips away lightly, inspecting each strand with duty and consideration for the entire look.

“Your author crush does.” Miwa brushes away some hair from Y/N’s shoulders, tidying up the apron wrapped around her.

She just rolls her eyes at Miwa’s comment. Flipping to the page in the book, tracing a finger over the deep black gel pen markings. Numbers and dashes and names of high schools against Fukurodani tell the story of the adventure at Tokyo’s national volleyball tournament from way back in 2013. She had barely started her second year of middle school in 2013, ripely being 14 years old.

Miwa and her sip some freshly made smoothies of Miwa’s creation, sitting at a table in the window of the entrance to the salon. Miwa bounces her foot that’s crossed over her leg and she pours over the entry once again. It was becoming addicting to choose one entry to re-read until she ingrained the stylistic choices into a deep long-term memory.

At that same moment, Bokuto Koutarou and his best friend Akaashi Keiji walk past Miwa’s Salon, attempting to plan a group hangout to celebrate Bokuto joining the MSBY Black Jackals team.

“I’ll need to make sure Konoha comes, and that he brings that cute friend of his for you,” Bokuto wiggles his eyebrows repeatedly, and Akaashi shoves him lightly on the shoulder.

“Konoha is dating that cute girl he brings around.” Akaashi clarifies. Bokuto looks stunned, but then he remembers them making out on his couch during movie night that one time.

Akaashi looks around the street for a moment, peeking into the windows and observing the various occupants. When he sees his journal, the one that’s been missing for a little over a year, he just has to get it back.

When Akaashi pulls Bokuto into the hair salon, and barely below a scream says, “You stole my journal!” pointing at the girl who was indeed holding his journal from high school, Bokuto feels like his head was put through a blender. There were three very distinct things occurring at that moment. A pretty girl was shoving a book into her bag looking very defensive, Akaashi was trying to take the aforementioned girl’s bag from her, and a girl who he assumed was the pretty girl’s friend had a pair of scissors pointing at Bokuto by the throat.

Akaashi was still trying to pull the bag away, the pretty girl was looking extremely scared, and the scissors girl had opened and closed them one too many times for Bokuto’s comfort.

“Listen, I think we should all just take a moment to pause.” Bokuto held his hands up, shuffling to outturn his pockets in a show of lack of violent intentions. The black-haired girl puts the scissors back into her half apron that’s around her waist and then folds her arms.

Bokuto then pries Akaashi away from the pretty girl who was now clutching her bag against her chest and sniffling a little. Akaashi did feel bad that he made such a bad first impression, but he swore she had his journal. His embarrassing high school journal, the same journal that had cataloged many things he wished he never had recorded down on paper.

Bokuto pushes Akaashi’s head down, forcing him into a deep bow. Bokuto follows suit and also bows.

“I’m sorry for, uh, trying to steal your bag. But I think you may have a book, that isn’t a book at all, but rather my journal.” Akaashi is now sitting at the table in the window, Bokuto, the black-haired girl, and the pretty girl also sitting with him.

Outside the evening had quickly set in, with the orange and pink colors racing to get to the skyline. The blue began to fade into a deep dark navy color. And the lights on the streets began to flicker on. The lights on the outside of the salon began to twinkle from the setting they had been placed on, fairy lights luring those with a need for a haircut into the salon.

Bokuto had his head on his hand, staring intensely at the girl who had taken Akaashi’s journal, sighing slightly at the way her lips pouted and shined from her lip gloss. The girl with the scissors had brought out two more glasses of thick smoothie.

She pulled out the journal from her Doughnut Macaroon-style crossbody bag and slid it over to Akaashi. Akaashi flipped through the pages, immediately recognizing it as his. His face goes red and he readjusts his glasses, and she realizes that this must be his journal. He even goes straight to the back cover and smiles at the sticker she had grown to love to trace with her pinkie when reading.

“I’m not done with it yet, so, I really do hate to say this, but you can’t have it back until I finish it.” She takes the book back and tucks it into her bag again. Akaashi looks dumbfounded, eyebrows raised and lips pursed into a line.

“You’re just going to keep private property? Even though you know it’s mine?” What a dauntless woman she was, to show what Akaashi considered to be audacity with the whole journal situation.

Bokuto chimes in at this point, “Akaashi, I think we should just let the pretty girl keep your little diary.” Bokuto then starts nodding his head up and down to try and get agreement from Akaashi. Akaashi scoffs.

“Okay, so it’s settled, my cutie of a best friend will keep the journal until she finishes it, we’ll get your numbers and she can contact y’all when she finishes the journal, and I get to cut both of y’all’s hair because honestly, it’s atrocious.” Leave it to Miwa to consolidate a plan in a matter of moments.

Miwa touched the spiky salt and pepper hair that Bokuto had, and Miwa’s expression turned sour when she felt the amount of gel on top of his head, then Miwa pulled out a photo of Yuki Ishikawa in a two-block cut and explained what color of black dye Miwa will use for Bokuto. For Akaashi, Miwa just did a trim and tidied up his sides to bring them slightly tighter into his face.

While annoyed, Akaashi does give her his number, along with his name, and Bokuto does the same with much more enthusiasm. After the haircuts are finished, Akaashi tries to pull Bokuto away from the salon, but Bokuto keeps doing the ‘call me later’ signal with his hand and blowing a kiss to her wistfully. She just waves to the both of them while Miwa giggles behind her dye-stained glove. DATE: XX-XX-13 TITLE: Meraki; Putting A Piece of Yourself Into Your Passion

I am the protagonist of the world. We lost but I am still alive, we lost but I loved the game. I came to the realization that it doesn’t matter if you are the best character, the most complex, or the most ‘genius’ of them all. It doesn’t matter because I am the protagonist. I can be the hero of my own story without ever having won first place in a big-name tournament.

Bokuto is graduating, and I’ll still be here, which is disappointing. He’s my best friend I think. Even if he’s the most annoying ass I’ve ever met, he’s still my best friend and I would never trade him for any other person in the entire world. Together we are the protagonists of the world.

Second place is just as accoladed as first place. If I wasn’t who I am, then maybe I would’ve gotten mad. The first-place winner is a rich school, they’ve been a powerhouse for decades at this point, and this win is just another notch on the belt. If I wasn’t who I am, especially after this tournament, maybe I would’ve gotten frustrated at myself for not doing enough. For not being a setter like Kageyama. Or a setter like Oikawa. That doesn’t matter though, I am a setter. I’ve worked hard to get where I am. But a human mind will always wonder why. And sometimes it's just because you’re unlucky.

Kenma told me about his loss to Karasuno, his sweaty hands made the ball slip in the final point. He laughed about it, he said that that was the best game of volleyball he’s ever played. When Kenma told Kuroo thanks for teaching him volleyball, I cried, but not as much as Kuroo did. They remind me of why I went to Fukurodani. I saw Bokuto’s passion for the sport. His passion encouraged mine, and look where we got to. We because the victors at the end of the war.

Mom made katsu chicken for dinner, I did some homework, and I had to put away my volleyball uniform for next year. I practiced in my backyard, alternating between overhead and underhand passes, seeing how long I could go without dropping the ball. Dad called me into the house for ice cream after thirty minutes elapsed.

I called Bokuto tonight before I went to bed. Told him that he’s my best friend and that I love volleyball. Bokuto agreed.

- A.K.

She was crying, and so she held the book out in front of her, resting it on her blanket. She finally had some faces to match with the words she was reading, and it all felt much too real. Bokuto did seem like the type of person to adopt and bring a person like Akaashi into his fold. But the way that Akaashi genuinely admired and appreciated his best friend was unparalleled and she felt like he would understand the exact way she felt about her best friend, Miwa.

Miwa and her met when she was fresh out of college. She hadn’t an idea of what to do in her life, while Miwa seemed to have her passion set out in front of her with her hair and makeup salon. When she got a haircut from Miwa and started ranting about her life, Miwa just told her to slow everything down. Take a gap year from life and just be a human. So, she picked up shifts at Miwa’s salon and moved in with her.

The best friends slowly became business partners as well, and an expansion to the salon was added, a small specialty bookshop that she ran, while Miwa continued to do hairstyling. Their customers were dedicated and loved to support their business. Branding remained solely under Miwa’s name, but she became everything else to the brand as well, the little addition that made the salon extra special.

When she started to cough a little from the way her heart was beating erratically from crying about Akaashi’s diary, she had to get out of bed and get a glass of water. Akaashi’s number was resting on her kitchen table. Miwa was watching some rom-com in the living room of their shared apartment. She brushed pasted the kitchen and sat next to Miwa.

“A good chapter?” Miwa threw a piece of popcorn into her mouth.

“He’s devastating. Who writes like they feel every emotion entirely?” She started crying again and Miwa laughed a little before rubbing her best friend’s back.

“You could always call him and tell him he’s a good writer if you need to talk about it. Sure it’s unconventional, but maybe he has more insights that you can cry to.” She grabbed a pillow and started hitting Miwa with it.

She did take Akaashi’s number into her room on her way back to bed though. Leaving the series of digits on her bedside table, she re-read the passage and cried again. She thinks she knows him better than most, but they aren’t even friends.

Since realizing he’s a person, and that Akaashi lived this story in the book. The story of his life recorded in his journal, she starts to wonder about what happened to him after he stopped writing in the diary. But she hasn’t finished the story yet, so she’ll have to see what happens next. Again, trying to pace herself, she puts the book away until tomorrow when she can read a little more.

Akaashi sits in his office, he’s still there and it’s much later than the clock would like to admit. The clock wondered if Akaashi would ever go home. But there he was, reviewing the different styles of manga serializations Udai Tenma wanted to try out for his next series. His haircut makes him feel a little colder because now the air can hit right behind his ear instead of being covered with his hair. He puts on a beanie to fight the chill.

When it gets too late at night, his mind tends to wander slightly. Just barely drifting out of his control, like the way a lily pad will drift to the center of a pond when the stem at the base of the connection is severed. He can’t dive into the pond to bring his thoughts back into his hands.

He thinks about her. The girl with his journal. The journal was a cheap 2,500 yen book, but he liked the paper, it was a cold press thicker GSM than most other paper forms. Gel inks went on smoothly to the paper, letting him get more words across by the second than if he was writing with a ballpoint. He remembers that from when he used to write in the journal in high school.

Throwing himself into the back of his seat, he rubs his face, his glasses almost falling off from how he runs his hands up from his chin to his forehead. Setting the glasses on his desk, he spins his chair a little. The clock screams at him, he takes the message from his dedicated clock and grabs his messenger bag.

On the train, he thinks about her again. Instead of getting irritated at how Bokuto essentially gave his journal away to a stranger again, he wonders what her thoughts are. Was his writing any good to warrant such a committed reader? Did she like his journal only because it was funny to read what his dramatic high school self wrote about?

He cringes thinking about all the potential things he wrote down. There’s no direct recollection of what he wrote down exactly, but he knows vaguely what was on his mind when he was writing. His ego, his insecurities, his favorite things. Lots about volleyball, Bokuto, and books. Once he wrote about his thoughts on sex, which is embarrassing for him that a grown woman is reading his teenage idealizations of intimacy.

It could be considered something unique to read. Akaashi settled into the belief that she was merely reading his journal because it was something different than typical books that were being published. Although, why she was reading his journal instead of a Haruki Murakami book was beyond him. Nothing beats his favorite literary giant.

Setting his bag on the coat hanger stand, and shrugging out of his long pea coat. He heats some stovetop ramen while listening to Bokuto talk over the phone, he was ranting about the same girl that Akaashi had had on his mind.

“Oh and those eyes of hers. Did you see them?” Of course, Akaashi saw them, they were big, bright, and astute. Akaashi hums in response, and Bokuto continues barreling through his late-night thoughts.

“I think we should invite her to my party. You know, the one to celebrate my big accomplishment.” In a different apartment, Bokuto spins a volleyball on his finger, but he keeps dropping it so he ends up just repeatedly tossing it into the air so he can satiate the desire to feel his fingers on the ball.

“Yeah, how about no.”

Bokuto asks why not, almost in a whining tone.

“Did you forget she has my journal still?” Akaashi put his bowl in the sink, putting on rubber gloves as he started to wash out the dish and then put it on the drying rack. He decided to finish all his dishes right now anyway since he still had the gloves on.

“Your diary can’t be that juicy, you didn’t do anything too dramatic in high school. Plus I know you wanna see her again too. Don’t pretend like you don’t have a piqued interest. Also, did I use piqued right?”

“You used it right, yes.”

He eventually agreed to let Bokuto invite her to the small get-together. Akaashi didn’t know why Bokuto kept referring to it as a party.

A week later, Akaashi realized that maybe Bokuto kept calling it a party because it had shifted from a friends-only gathering to a huge party at the park. Some other Fukurodani alumni helped to set up decorations in the central gazebo and make banners to hang all over the pavilion. Akaashi was mixing the punch at a table, while Konoha asked what he had been up to lately.

Kuroo and Kenma brought huge gifts for Bokuto, a PlayStation from Kenma, and a packet of potential sponsorship deals from Kuroo.

When she finally made her way to the pavilion with a small brown package, Akaashi couldn't care less about the party. She was wearing a tight-fitting black shirt with a tiered white and gold skirt, and her shoes were a pair of sneakers, but the whole outfit made Akaashi concede to Bokuto’s claim of her being “drool-worthy”. He had to remember that this was the same woman who had his diary. The whole conflict between physical attraction and mental frustration made for an entirely convoluted reaction to her presence.

She bows politely to Bokuto when he goes over to her, offering the gift with both hands, only then did Akaashi wonder how old she must have been. Bokuto had been talking to her more than him, and Bokuto had mentioned that she was a second-year middle schooler when Bokuto was in his third year. Akaashi did some mental math and realized that he, himself, must have been around three to four years older than her.

Akaashi forced himself to ignore the idea of a cute younger girlfriend that started to pester him in the back of his mind. He wanted his journal back, and that’s all this relationship was to him, a mutual exchange of her reading and then him eventually getting back his property. But with the way she had done her hair, Akaashi had a hard time focusing solely on wanting his diary returned.

She was glad that Bokuto appreciated the gift, she hadn’t known him longer than a week or so, and she had gone with a safe gift based on what she knew about him and why this party was even being thrown. She got him a wearable jump monitor that her dad had bought a month ago but never used, she was grateful for having a father who never threw things away. She also included some stickers that she had bought from a small sticker shop online, and some that she had made using Miwa’s craft supplies.

When the excitement of her being at the park died down, she made her way to a table, with a small plate of desserts. She observed how everyone interacted with each other, almost as if they had been friends since the dawn of time, and she believed that that very well might have been the case.

Akaashi stalked her from afar. He appreciated that she was similar to him in a way that mattered to him, she was a watcher. She would assess what was going on, who would talk to who, and how they would nonverbally communicate as well. He got so engrossed in watching her that he neglected to observe the others as well.

Specifically, Konoha, Washio, and Komi had grabbed a water cooler and had the full intention of dumping the water on Akaashi. It was payback for declining their invitations to various other parties from the last year. So there he was, not only soaked through with water but revealed from his vantage point unmistakably indicating to her that he must have been watching her. She laughed a little at the antics but then brought over a small cloth she had in her crossbody bag.

His white shirt was completely transparent, and his brown slacks had turned from a regular light brown into a dark musty brown. The only way to resolve the issue in her mind was to start dabbing at his chest with her handkerchief.

“I see that your friends have a peculiar method of exacting humor.” Her handkerchief eventually was too soaked through that she was just touching his chest with a cloth that had performed osmosis and was now at equilibrium with the water on his shirt.

“Yep.”

“Look, there’s a hoodie in my car, I know we aren’t too close, but it’s probably better to wear my oversized hoodie than to have your whole torso on display for the rest of the night.” She shoves her thumb in the direction of her car.

After making their way to her car, she digs through the trunk and pulls out a grey hoodie with the words ‘Miwa’s Salon’ embroidered on the back. He tugs at the back of his shirt to take it off and she widens her eyes before turning around. The hoodie is comfortable, with a soft fleece on the inside, and it smelt like lychee, vanilla, and surprisingly chocolate marshmallows. It smells like her and he wonders if he could have the scent bottled and then sprayed all over his house.

Suddenly he’s tugging at the collar of the hoodie and swallowing thickly, looking around at anything but her figure in front of him.

“We should probably get heading back to everyone now that you’ve changed.” She goes to start walking to the gazebo, but Akaashi’s words stop her.

“How well do you know me?” She tilted her head and said something about not following along with what he was saying, so he continued, “Well, you’re reading a part of me, you know with my journal, my internal thoughts and hopes and dreams and all that. So, how well do you know me?”

She timidly bites down on her bottom lip, formulating a response. But Akaashi surmises that she must not really care much for the conversation, so he, unfortunately, starts to run his mouth and the words just spiral out.

“You know, it doesn’t matter, to you, it’s just a story about a teenage boy who played volleyball. It’s silly to assume you’d try and actually-”

She cuts in, “I know you’re a considerate person. And it's not just about the volleyball stuff, it's about you, finding yourself to some degree. I know you are polite. I know you’re allergic to beating around the bush, you’re direct and blunt. I know that you can overthink too much.”

Akaashi repeatedly adjusted his glasses, and she stepped just a little bit closer to him, folding her hands behind her back and leaning in slightly so she didn’t have to talk as loudly.

“You also have a bad habit of thinking you can control more than you can, one of the interesting things in your journal is how you jump back and forth between knowing what you can control and then inflating from stress and thinking you can micromanage the entire world. You said you can control the court, but in reality, that’s your worldview. You conclude you can control the entire world sometimes.”

He regrets starting the conversation because this revelation of how much she knew about him exposes him. Akaashi didn’t know how to continue with the gap in knowledge between the two of them.

He only knew she was younger than him, she was incredibly perceptive, and she smelled so freaking good he just wanted to shove her into the backseat of her car and kiss her. Akaashi’s thoughts could not have been his own at this point, he was going crazy. He must have gotten sick from the cold water being dumped on him he speculates.

When they get back to the gazebo, Akaashi thanks Bokuto for the party and heads home. She stays at the party, talking to a select few people and wondering what exactly she said that scared Akaashi off so quickly.

Sitting in the tub, Akaashi rests his head against the shower wall and lets the hot water filter his congestion that didn’t exist. His hand twitched over to his phone, which was on the toilet seat playing some piano music that he hoped would alleviate all his bad habits. He wonders if she will text him soon. If she would text him ever. He felt like he was younger, it was ridiculous that one person would have such an effect on him to this degree.

After the party, she sits with Miwa, disclosing everything that happened at the party.

“And then he just ran off?” She nods at Miwa repeating what she just said. “Girlie, you gave him an in-depth review of his personality and you’re shocked that he ran away? Sometimes you can be too judicious for your own good.”

“Should I text him an apology?”

“Are you sorry for anything?” Miwa rolled her eyes, hating when she got like this. Miwa never allowed her to apologize for things that didn’t need to be apologized for.

“No.” She rubs her arm and chews the inside of her cheek.

“I think you think he’s hot, I mean, you understand this man on a deeper level that he now grasps, and you said he had the chest and torso of some kind of slutty librarian/gym rat agglomeration.” Miwa takes a bobby pin out of her hair and runs a hand through her bob cut, “If it was me, I would send him a picture of the journal and ask for nudes, or else the book gets it.”

She hits Miwa with a pillow, and Miwa realizes she really should throw the pillows away or else getting hit with them would be a very painful recurrence.

Miwa goes to sleep, but she stays up just a little later. Eyeing Akaashi’s number that lay painfully glaring at her. She decides to read more of his diary instead of texting him. DATE: XX-XX-13 TITLE: Weltschmerz; Sadness When The World Isn’t As It Should Be

Summer sucks. Bokuto has a training thing for some team he wants to be a part of in the future. All my friends that were third years are essentially gone, actually out and living life, and I’m stuck here. At least there’s only one more year left of high school. And then I can go and work for a literary magazine.

I miss people. Despite their failings, I do need people in my life.

You can only play so much volleyball in a day by yourself before your motivation is gone by the third week of playing alone.

It’s times like these that make me think about the future. I don’t spend much time with girls per se, but they are pretty and nice. Our manager is a girl, but she has a boyfriend. She’s chill.

Sometimes, when I feel like something is wrong, I turn to the idea of love. I’ll admit that I love a few things in life, but that’s only because I think love is something truly special that you can’t just fling around. I ‘like’ things more often than I ‘love’ them. Volleyball, my best friend, my family, books, and writing.

Will I know when I’ve found the love of my life? My parents said they knew they loved each other from the first moment they met. Will I feel like that too? Will I know it’s love? How can a feeling be recognized as a specific feeling? How do I know what anger feels like, besides that heat and pressure and red hot sun? How do I know what sadness feels like, besides water, coldness, and finishing a run? Would love have those distinct colors and associations? Or would love just become the person I love?

I don’t believe in soulmates. Definitely not. I think people are infinitely compatible, and it all depends on our ability to communicate and agree to grow with a person for the rest of our lives. I believe we make our own soulmates, through sharing experiences and agreeing to be ourselves no matter what. I told my mom this and she just smiled at me like I still had a lot of life left to live.

But don’t I have enough experience to know what I want? Or at least to formulate my own opinions and beliefs? I may be 17 but I am not an idiot.

Or did my mom’s look of a wistful future just mean that when I fall in love I’ll know it and I’ll look back to these words and think I’m completely ridiculous?

Dad made spaghetti for dinner. It was gross so we ended up having to order udon from the place I like instead.

We watched a movie Mom wanted to show me, the title was something like Wildly Wealthy Westerners or something. It was just about rich people from America and Canada, plus a subplot of romance between a basic guy and this rich heiress girl who just couldn’t be together because of rich people's reasons. It was silly but the music was good. The ending kiss scene was hot, he shoved her into the backseat of his jeep and I swear I heard Mom sigh.

- A.K.

She didn’t expect him to text her on Monday of the following week, asking if they could meet for tea at a place near his work during his lunch break. She surprised herself by agreeing to it, and then by cheekily calling it a date.

Akaashi shoved his phone into Udai’s face, “What does this mean?”

Udai pushed his bangs back and inspected the text messages on Akaashi’s phone. “I think it means she agreed to go on the date you asked her on?”

“But I didn’t ask her on a date?”

“Oh, but you definitely did. Oh and tea? What dork takes a girl for tea on a first date?” Udai pushed Akaashi’s phone away and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Then Udai’s face breaks into a blinding grin, “Is this your little diary thief? And the one who gave you the sweater at Bo’s party? Oh, it is isn’t it, do you have a picture of her?”

Akaashi briefly flashed a photo Bokuto had taken with her in Udai’s direction.

“DAMN! I need me my own diary thief,” Udai raised his eyebrows and started laughing a little, and then he ruffled his hair and used his fingers to zoom into her face, slowly, he started moving down the picture to her body. Akaashi pulled his phone back before Udai got too far down.

The clock on Akaashi’s desk wanted him to leave for an early lunch and by an early lunch, an hour early. So there he sat at the small cafe on the corner by his office building, rubbing his sweaty hands against the legs of his pants, waiting for her. She was five minutes early and was surprised to see him already at a table, so she decided to have a little fun.

Since his back was turned, she went up to him and tapped his shoulder, when he turned around she let out a small “Boo!” and put her hands up into an imitation of claws, trying her best to seem scary. He just thought she was adorable. He motioned for her to sit down.

Resting her crossbody bag against the back of the chair, she took a seat. Akaashi was able to wave down a waiter, who gave them a single menu to look over.

“What kind of tea do you like?” She asked, using her pointer finger to scan through the options the cafe had available.

“I like black tea, and sometimes chamomile tea.” He asked her for her favorite type, and she told him. He tried to commit her favorite to memory as quickly as possible.

Eventually, they had their tea, and the silence started to set in. Between sips, Akaashi would try to figure out how to say what he wanted to say. But he thought it was all too bold. So he told her a little about his life, his work, and his friends and she did the same, returning statements in a unique fashion about her life. Her word choice was special, calculated even. She was like him in another way that mattered, a calculated, intentional way of speaking.

She could always make him yearn to be a little more considerate of his words. Until she managed to pry them out of him.

“So why am I here?” She stirs a little more sugar into her tea, then pauses from drinking her tea to take a sip of her water.

“I want one of your journals.”

She laughs before realizing he’s entirely serious, “How do you even know that I have any journals to lend to you? For all you know, I could be living a journal-less life.” She waves her small stirring spoon around, before putting it into her mouth.

“I can’t explain it, but I know you have journals. Only someone with a journal of their own would be so obsessed with another’s.” Akaashi takes the spoon from her mouth and uses it to stir some sugar into his tea. Her mouth gapes for a moment while he smirks, looking right into her intelligent eyes.

The next day they have tea again, and she gives him one of her journals from high school.

“Don’t read it all in one go.” She pauses, “I don’t write nearly as well as you do, so don’t scrutinize my words the way you do all your mangakas’ words.”

Akaashi nods.

He read it all in one night. He calls her in the middle of said night.

“Who the hell is this Ito kid? When did you and he start talking? Just outta nowhere he pops up at the end of your last entry. Where’s the careful recollection of all your interactions with him?” Akaashi is exasperated, running his hand through his hair. He disagreed with what she said about her writing.

She was compelling and interesting, and she most definitely had his heart. Her high school experience had been so different from his, and she seemed to be much more optimistic about life than he was. Despite her calling him a realist, he believed that in comparison to her, he was a total pessimist.

She explained to him about Ito, and that he was a short-lived crush she had had at the end of her second year in high school. Akaashi was glad when she said she didn’t even talk to him anymore. Based on the way she had written about him, Akaashi thought that Ito would be the love of her life, and Akaashi was slowly realizing maybe his heart was in the process of making her the love of his life.

“When do I get the next journal?” Akaashi wanted to keep talking to her despite the lateness of the hour.

“You don’t. I told you to pace yourself, I only have one of yours so you’re only getting one of mine.” She was lying on her stomach on her bed, slightly kicking her feet while talking to Akaashi.

Akaashi groans but tells her he’ll return the journal next week when he can have another long lunch break. She says she’ll be there.

Akaashi recalls when he remembered his diary was lost.

It had been a long day at work, and he wanted nothing more than to go home. His mom hadn’t remembered his apartment address, so she sent one of his old journals to his work office. He put it into his satchel and made his way home.

On the train, there had been a slight jostling. And Akaashi hadn’t noticed the journal falling out of his bag and under his seat.

When he exited the train, she had gotten onto it. She sat down in the same seat he had. Right when Akaashi started walking to the stairs to exit the station, she reached down under the seat to stow away her bag, only to be met with a rough material. And for a moment, if they had just turned around, their eyes would’ve met right as the train pulled away.

When he finally got home, he unpacked his bag, looking to put away his journal safely into a box with other memorabilia from high school. When he dumped his bag upside down, shaking everything out, he just couldn’t find his journal. When going home from work the next day, he had asked all the employees if they had seen a leatherbound notebook. None turned up.

If there ever was a moment that could’ve changed the future, that was what it would’ve been. If the train hadn’t jostled. If Akaashi Keiji hadn’t been tired from work and forgot to check for the journal on his way out of the station. If she hadn’t sat right where he had been sitting, and most definitely, if she didn’t love a good book, then it all would’ve turned out differently.

But that’s not the story that’s being told. The story being told is of Akaashi Keiji realizing that to love someone, you have to accept that they may know you better than you know yourself.

It had been six months, and she was close to finishing the journal. Somedays she didn’t read at all, others she read three entries and wanted to binge the rest of the diary.

They went for tea every single week. Sometimes twice. Then other times, he would take her around Tokyo to go exploring. They went to every museum, every library, every cafe that specialized in tea. He figured that they ought to be on an even playing field when it came to how well they knew each other, so instead of getting more journals from her, they traded lists of their top one hundred favorite books.

She had put three Haruki Murakami books on her list and Akaashi wanted to hold her face in his hands and kiss her.

But they were just friends. Friends who knew each other better than Akaashi was comfortable with. She knew what he would order before he said it, and he knew what she was going to comment before she stated it. When she asked him about his experience with failure, he knew that she had gotten in too deep.

She knew more about him than he expected her to, she knew all about the silly things that rattled around in his brain, and although it had been a journal from high school, he knew that people stayed pretty similar throughout life. So when she looked at him, she didn’t just see professional editor Akaashi Keiji, she saw a teenager who wondered what place he had in the world as well. She saw him as acne-ridden and languid with life. He wanted to control her perspective of him and he couldn’t do that now, because she had the key to his past and the map of his future.

So he tried to put some space between them. Just in case. Maybe it was a horrible tendency to overthink, no, he knew it was his horrible overthinking tendency. There were so many ways their relationship could go. He could completely crush her, to be completely crushed himself in turn.

Walking the edge of a knife with her. Balancing on the blade of friendship, if he fell onto one side, with no cuts, then they could have a happy relationship. If he cut himself on that blade, then the worst-case scenario would be that she realizes she doesn’t like him back and then there’s just someone who knows him too well out in the world.

When he hadn’t texted her in four weeks and her messages were left on read, she decided to finish the journal and be done with it. Their time as friends was short-lived she thought. She thought there may have been something more for the pair of them. And suddenly all the depressing love songs became about him. Which made her resentful, because who ruins ‘Iris’ by The Goo Goo Dolls like that for someone? DATE: XX-XX-14 TITLE: Quatervois; A Crossroads

I graduated today. I went through that book of fancy words Mom gave me and stumbled across this one. Quatervois, a crossroads. Does this count as a crossroads?

The magazine I want to work for said I could have an internship while I attend college. An internship in the manga editing department. Was I not good enough for the literature department? Is it because of my age? I think my essay and grades were good enough to at least qualify me for a chance to interview in that department. But they only let me interview for the editing department.

Does that make me a career failure? I like the magazine, but I’m not sold on the department they want me to go into.

Washio called me to congratulate me, he said that I was finally crossing over into the real world. I’m pretty sure I’ve been living in the real world for as long as I’ve been alive, but Washio made it seem like things would be so different for me. I digress.

When nothing seems straightforward, and you come to a fork in the road and you have two options that you can’t see down, how do you choose which road to go down? The one lined with flowers, or the one with a dirt path that could eventually have something more alluring at the end.

- A.K.

On the penultimate page of the journal was a glued-down picture of Akaashi wearing his graduation suit, and holding his graduation scroll, his parents stood on either side of him grinning proudly at their only child. Maybe she should’ve checked the book from the last page and then started reading the front. But she didn’t want spoilers, that’s why she never checked the second to last page.

She texted Akaashi and said she finished the journal and was ready to return it. When he didn’t respond, but had read the message, she texted Bokuto asking for some clarification. She asked if Akaashi had said anything about her that would’ve indicated why he was mad. Bokuto just said that Akaashi wasn’t mad at all. So now she was confused. If he wasn’t upset, then why was he ignoring her?

Instead of going to their tea place, she goes to his office during lunch. She scans the buttons, looking for his department.

“Hey diary thief, whatcha doing here?” A shorter guy with shaggy black hair and a hoodie with a denim jacket over it comes around to her and presses the elevator button.

“Are you going to the Manga Editing Department?” She checked before entering the elevator with the shaggy-haired guy, who had introduced himself as Udai Tenma, but she could just call him Tenma. He confirms and then doubly checks her identity as the same person Akaashi had been talking about and spending all his lunch breaks with.

“It’s funny that you know about the journal, I came here to return it finally. Probably much to Akaashi’s delight.” She adjusts her bag across her shoulders, giving a short sigh.

“No, Akaashi loves that you have his journal. At first, he was a little annoyed, but now it’s kinda like you have a little piece of him all the time. I told him just to get you a necklace with his name on it, but noooooo Udai I can’t do that because I’d essentially be confessing if I did something like that.” Udai did a brilliant imitation of Akaashi, even going as far as to push his shoulders back to make him seem taller and with a broader build.

Udai turned slowly to face her, eyes wide and jaw dropped, “Please pretend I don’t exist, I never said anything about Akaashi’s undying love,” He froze, “Also ignore what I just said.”

Udai got out of the elevator on the floor below the editing department. She could hear him start to criticize himself and say he owes Akaashi so many more favors and solids now.

She walked through the office, lightly admiring all the manga panels, all the stories that had come out of this building astounded her, it had been a while since she last read a manga, so she considered picking one up on her way out. Maybe she’d read the one written by Udai.

Then she sees him. Akaashi, with a pencil in one hand and an eraser in the other. His head is moving slightly, due to the music playing through his headphones she assumes. He fidgets in his chair, wiggling the seat around. Despite being angry at him, he was still adorable when he was engrossed in his work.

“You’re being childish.” She handed Akaashi the journal. Akaashi had to take off his headphones when he saw that his journal was being thrust into his face, he dropped his pencil and turned around only to be met with her. Even though she seemed to be upset with him, she still looked beautiful.

Akaashi looked confused, so she clarified, “Ghosting? Really? You could have just said you didn’t want to be friends.” Her tone is sharp and penetrating.

It wasn’t the being friends part, it was the part where he wanted her to be entirely his. An overwhelming desire to attach her to him in all senses. He swallows and takes the journal back. He wants to ask what her thoughts were, and what she came to understand about him. Yet, he knew she was upset with him. He would be upset with her too if she did what he had done.

He had completely blown his chance, hadn’t he? The one woman who had read the teenage journal and still wanted to be friends. Maybe her knowing more about him wouldn’t be too bad at all, maybe that’s exactly what he needed.

“I don’t want to be friends.” She starts to sniffle, she quickly runs the sleeve of her shirt onto her eyes. Akaashi rushed the next part out, “I can’t be just friends with you I’m afraid. I think I want more.”

She blinks rapidly before regaining composure and putting her hand on his shoulder. “I think you need to sort out your feelings. Because if you really wanted more, you wouldn’t have treated me like I was disposable. You wouldn’t have ignored me. So, figure it out, and let me know what the result is. You know where to find me.”

She rubs her thumb on his cheek in a parting gesture. He remembers when she did that for the first time, around three months ago. They were at a library he had found in a far corner of Tokyo, and he was talking about a book that Udai hadn’t understood at all, which made him irate that Udai could skim over such an important story. They were in their little section, with dim lights and a stack of books they wanted to talk about.

As he was waving his hands around, trying to show her the pages and lines he was referencing in the book, when she reached over and brushed her thumb against his cheek, the rest of her fingers resting along his jaw and lower cheek. Her palm barely contacts his chin.

“You had a little mark there. But I think it’s just a cute little freckle, it won’t wipe off.” She brushes against his skin again, and when the mark doesn’t disappear, she leans back into her chair, waiting for Akaashi to begin again. When he starts talking again about the book, he keeps stumbling and stuttering over his words.

She gave a small wave before leaving his office space. Akaashi's co-workers just turned their heads to watch her exit, heads sticking out of cubicles, and then in a blink, they all turned to face Akaashi with disappointed faces, shaking their heads and clicking their tongues. Then, they went back to work and Akaashi was sitting at his desk with his journal brazenly staring at him.

He had one chance to make it right. So he set aside Udai’s manga draft, knowing he could go through it in less than an hour, and he picked up his pencil, writing one more entry in his journal.

He can only wait a week before giving it to her when he shows up to her apartment unannounced. Miwa opens the door and rolls her eyes, but letting him in.

“I gotta run and get some new specialty scissors. I’m not afraid to use them in an unintended use if I get back and she’s crying.” Miwa motions her fingers from her eyes to his. Akaashi gives her a thumbs up.

When she comes out of her room, she inspects him on the couch, he’s holding his journal.

“Read the last page for me. It’s an extended edition.” He jokes somewhat. She sits next to him and reads his ‘extended edition’. DATE: XX-XX-XX TITLE: Micawber; An Eternal Optimist

I was stupid. Believe me, I know I was a whole idiot and a half.

Here’s to giving up realism and embracing optimism.

You knew who I was before I knew you. I was scared that you would know too much. That’s hilarious, right? I wanted you to know me, and yet there I was completely afraid to let you get too close, but you were already close. It’s not just what words were contained here, although I re-read my journal and there are definitely some things I should’ve self-censored.

You were what made the entire difference. Your ability to perceive me as a whole rather than a sum of my parts was the distinction that was made.

With you, I truly am a protagonist. Not a side character anymore, but the main character who shares the limelight with his love interest. Although, I have a distinct feeling that you may be more of a main character than me. But, I know you’d say you digress.

In your journal, you mentioned once how you believed that a good story can compel you to be changed. How characters drive a real tangible change in a person. Did I do that for you? At least a little bit? I know I was changed when I read your story, I realized that maybe I liked you a little more than just liking you.

Please don’t think I am mean. I was cruel, rude, and inconsiderate to you. Ghosting for more than a month because I was worried is likely going down in my personal history as the worst thing I’ve ever done to you. But I’m dedicated to never doing anything bad to you ever again. I’ll never hurt you, and I’ll never lie.

I’m optimistic that you like me a little. Maybe even a little more than like.

So, tell me why I still feel worried. Is this feeling even worried? Or is this what love feels like? The desperation to not hurt you in any way. The pang of knowing that I am myself with you. And, yes, the physical magnetism that makes me feel just a little more like a teenager when I am with you.

I think this feeling is love. I just think it’s so overwhelming that I ended up making it into a negative emotion instead of what it is.

I’m sorry. Forgive me or I really won’t know what to do with all these feelings that flit around in my heart for you.

I love you.

- Yours, Akaashi Keiji

She knew he was watching her. She had her nose in his journal, reading what he had written for her.

“Can you get me a tissue?” Akaashi handed her one. He was ready to say his goodbyes.

When she closes the journal, he looks at her with curious eyes. She smiles.

“Best book ever.”

He grabs her by the back of her head and kisses her. She held his face in her hands, tilting her head slightly and he hummed into her mouth. His nose was cold on her face, but the warmth of his mouth contrasted with the frostiness. His other hand grips her hip, trying to pull her closer to him. Despite them being already so close, he wanted her to envelop him.

Then he was pressing her down onto her couch, both hands on her hips. When she wrapped a leg around his waist he thought his heart was going to jump out of his chest. Her head was on the arm of the couch, and he had moved from her mouth to the side of her face to her neck, to right above her bra, leaving a trail of his making. He was glad she was wearing a low-cut top because it made it easier for him to pull the shirt down so he could reach more of her skin.

In contrast to him, she felt soft and pliable. She also felt wholly his in this moment.

Her hands were in his hair, pulling the strands in a mellow methodology, not wanting to hurt him almost. She wanted his hair just a little longer, but the short hair tickled her neck, so she was happy with the length it was currently.

The top of her chest was creamy and supple. He let his tongue brush out once, twice, before going back up to kiss her again. He licked at her bottom lip, and she opened her mouth just enough for him to run his tongue into it for a moment, before biting at her bottom lip in thanks.

“You taste like sugar.” He was hot in the face and had some hair sticking to his forehead. She pushed his bangs back tenderly, his chest was still rapidly moving up and down trying to catch his breath. He went in for another kiss, still short of breath, so she had to intervene.

“Slow down loverboy, you need to breathe, or else you can’t keep going.” She laughs a little and he can feel the way her body carries the laugh from her chest to her stomach. She moves in close to his ear, “And that would be a zero-sum game for us both.”

He nods, and she draws his head down to rest on her chest.

“Is this better or worse than that fantasy you had about making out with a girl in the backseat of a car?” She recalls one of his entries from his journal.

He rubs his face against her, inhaling deeply. “This is way better. But we’re still gonna kiss in the back of my jeep, and soon at that.”

She hums a little in response.

The next year, Akaashi and her moved in together, Miwa was glad because now she could finally walk around her apartment without clothes on (despite her doing that when they were roommates anyway). Bokuto was glad to see that Akaashi finally had someone to read his confusing books and that he didn’t have to read another one ever again. Udai would occasionally make a joke about if it didn’t work out with Akaashi she had a place in his awaiting arms. Akaashi threatened to work for another manga magazine and Udai would be stuck using only Grammarly. That usually shut Udai up pretty quickly.

They both kept detailed journals. And when they finished them, they would let the other read them. Akaashi let her read all his past journals as well, and she let him read her diaries.

Maybe love isn’t what you expected at first, maybe it's not even a feeling you want to feel at that moment, or for that person. But love works out for the best in the end. Whether that’s with a best friend, a lover, a child, or even a book.

For Akaashi Keiji, love meant letting someone know him better than he knew himself. It also meant being okay with letting her read his diary.

[nightshade86]

Head cannon

Is the reason why Batman is so emotionally constipated because he had learned nearly every method to emotionally manipulate a person from training with the League of Assassins. So now he refuses to use those methods with the people he cares about, even by accident? Much like his no kill rule, because once you start, when do you stop.

[clownmonarch]

found a sketch of this out of context dialog scene in my files and figured id use it to practice my panel and bubble comps and play around with some colors.

[deer-with-a-stick]

Childhood trauma and being a little shit are requirements of any Belmont huh

[candywife333]

King Squishy

{TEASER}

SLATED TO RELEASE IN DECEMBER

alien king (jabba the hutt looking) yoongi x chubby secretary reader

She stared at the screen, squinting her eyes, completely tired from the strain of focusing on the screen in front of her. King Squishy, his ugly blob Majesty, trudged over to her. She had been recruited by the planet, Xalaxia, to manage their secretarial works requiring communications with earth. Since she knew the Xalaxian dialect and English with fluency, she had been the perfect gal for the job.

Y/N wouldn't have minded working on the lush green planet with pink golden sunsets, if not for her treacherously annoying and strict boss. The king of the planet himself. King Yoongi. Or as she liked to refer to him as, the bane of her existence. He would always harp on her to finish the work quickly even when she was ahead of schedule. And he would unscrupulously watch over her every move ,as though she were committing a crime by working diligently on behalf of his stale, rank pumpernickel ass.

He wasn't fluent in English, so he relied on her a lot for even diplomatic efforts of his planet. Here he came, entering the room with an infuriated face, waddling his squishy amber, amorphous ass resembling jelly like a duck. All the people on this planet had two forms, one that resembled something more similar to humans--average heights reaching up to 6 feet and up. The other form most of them carried was that of a a normal human face on top of what could not be described in any other words other than a goopy blob that would shapeshift to form humongous tentacles. The black appendages would sometimes drip inky obsidian fluids as they walked, leaving what Y/N called , a "xalaxian trail".

Y/N tiredly drawled out as she typed a document without moving her eyes off the screen, "What service would you like to procure from me today your Majesty"?

Yoongi snarled as he threw a bunch of papers onto her desk, "Is this what you call a complete financial report of the trade embargo we have between Earth? It has a bunch of typos, even I would be able to tell!!!! Why are you so incompetent, you lazy woman"?

I bristled, alive with fury as I attempted to calm down, staring at the document he threw at me. I felt like laughing when I figured out what his problem was. "Ummm, Sir, you do know that these type of letters require more official language ,right? The spellings are all correct. Whatever you have marked in red ink is just the past tense of regular English verbs. We don't say ever say the word "thinked", we say "thought", to express past tense".

His entire face blanched as he started sputtering in a fury, "F-f-fix it then, you human imbecile"!

And he immediately scurried away, his prominent trail viscously dripping after him. I had to not choke on my own laughter, as I stared at a human blob try to run away from me. His magestically goopy form, was trying to get away, but the massive size of his tush was not letting him, making him look like he was twerking and wiggling his butt as he tried to abscond.

Xalaxians did not wear robes or any clothing for that matter in their blob-like forms, they only wore them when they were humanoid in shape.

Y/N sighed, the days on Xalaxia were becoming monotonous, as she felt encumbered with all the excess transmissions to be translated. She was leaving late nowadays from her work station, dropping down on her bed exhausted, instantaneously falling asleep. It had been exciting in the beginning, with all the cuisines, colorful people, and beautiful outdoor environment. But with the way she had been transferred from working with the kind council member Taehyung to becoming the king's secretary, it had been a less than pleasant transition, putting it very lightly.

She pondered with her hands holding up her chin, maybe she should apply for the yearly mating banquet. Humans were allowed to participate. It was quite simply put, a banquet where people found mates (permanent mates, not casual ones). Y/N had not participated in the last two years she had been on Xalaxia. But even she was feeling a bit lonely from time to time. Maybe a mate would help curb that. She wasn't getting any younger.

Xalaxians mated for life, and since their life span of 1000 years instantaneously conferred upon their partner once a mating bond was formed, it was a very big deal who your partner was. Y/N dreamily imagined finding a kind Xalaxian who would treat her right and give her children, something she had always wanted. They would live in a gorgeous garden estate and relax, sharing a marriage bed. She felt like blushing at the mere thought.

She typed up and submitted the application form on her bed. A tinkling sound came from her lap top indicating that the form had been submitted. Before Y/N could even process the happiness and possibility that would come of starting the search for a mate, she got a phone call.

As she picked up the call from an unknown number, she heard a screeching voice, "HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME??? HOW COULD YOU SUBMIT A MATE FORM WITHOUT MY PERMISSION, WHEN YOU ARE MY SECRETARY? I FORBID YOU Y/N, I FORBID YOU FROM LOOKING FOR A MATE"!

Y/N's indignance peaked, who the hell did this king think he was? Forbidding her from finding a mate, something that was mandated by law as a privilege allowed to every resident of Xalaxia. Y/n calmly replied, "And I fail to see how that is my problem, you rank ass goop ball. Don't test me, sire. If you infringe upon my rights, I shall merely quit the job. What exactly is your problem anyway"?

He yodeled back, exasperated, "YOU. YOU. It's always fucking YOU". Y/N felt so irritated and frustrated at his vague proclamations. "And what do you even mean by that, Sire"?

He sobbed , clearly inebriated from drinking, as he would never show such expressions of emotion otherwise. "You wouldn't work for me anymore, if you found a mate".

Y/N sniped back, rather confused at his intent, "And how is that supposed to be my concern"?

[keithkog]

I can’t tell what emotions I’m feeling most of the time. Most of the time I just feel sort of empty, or at least I act like I am.

-Keith

[wangxianficrecs]

can people untie themselves, uncurling like flowers by annemari

can people untie themselves, uncurling like flowers

by annemari

(Teen, 19k, jc & wwx, jc & jl, wangxian)

Summary: "Are you alright?" Jiang Cheng asks. "What happened?" "Jiujiu!" Jin Ling says, his voice panicked. "Jiujiu, it's Wei Wuxian! He's hurt!" Jiang Cheng freezes. Wei Wuxian gets hurt on a night hunt. Jiang Cheng is displeased to find out that he's been wandering around on his own instead of living with Lan Wangji in Cloud Recesses. He ends up fixing it.

Mojo's comments: Oh, no. Jiang Cheng vs. Emotional Constipation vs. Feelings.

post-canon, jiang cheng & wei wuxian reconciliation, family, hugs, hurt/comfort, getting together, pov jiang cheng, post cql ending, hurt wei wuxian, adorable juniors, emotional constipation, brotherly feels, character study, jiang cheng is trying, happy ending

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[digilentbish]

Currently reading Crimson Rivers, and I honestly love it but I never thought my emotional constipation, would cause an issue with reading. Like I genuinely get an ick when they are particularly vulnerable with each other, soft etc. bc I can’t handle it 🫢 I’m like: oh please, no one actually reacts like that when someone in their environment is struggling, this is ridiculous.

And then I think that maybe I should talk about it in therapy 🫥

[partmathpartmagic]

The Gift

Rielle/Astarion | 7/7 chapters | no smut just sad | read on AO3

Rielle and Astarion reunite again when a close friend is on her deathbed.

She muffled her sobs into his shirt... Her entire body was quivering against him, and it brought back memories of much happier moments she’d spent in his arms. It couldn’t have been more different, but this felt just as sacred. It was something, he supposed, being trusted to witness all the ways a person could fall apart. To hold them together in their most extreme moments of pleasure and pain.

Chapter 3: 10 years later (prev chapter)

Shadowheart had never gone out of her way to make Astarion’s life easier. They’d both been close with Rielle, so they’d had a sort of camaraderie that he enjoyed, and she’d always had a certain rawness to her that he recognized. It made it easier to be himself around her, even the messy, unpleasant version of himself that he tried to keep controlled around Rielle. That said, he was the partner of her close friend, and she’d been understandably hard on him. So he appreciated that she waited until after sunset to die. It was surprisingly generous of her.

Her impending death, however, was not a surprise. Half-elf lifespans were all over the place, shorter if they ended up with more human genes and longer if they were more elf, but 250 years was certainly on the high end, so this had been a long time coming. Still, it felt unreal. It just didn’t make sense, the thought of a world without her.

Everything was a little confusing right now. Astarion couldn’t remember how he’d reached the forested hilltop overlooking her cottage. A dimension door, presumably, he had a scroll tucked away for moments like this, but he couldn’t remember casting it. Things had been a blur since he’d been awoken from his trance by a crow landing on his headboard, a note tied to its leg informing him of his friend's state. It had been wildly disorienting, opening his eyes to see a small beaked head peering down at him, and it had set the tone for the rest of the evening. And then he had just… gone. Without really thinking about it. He wasn’t even sure why he was here, if he was honest. He certainly had no intention of seeing Shadowheart again–she was perfectly preserved in his memory, just the way she had been the last time he’d seen her. Older, but alive and energetic. A sparkle in her eyes still, a sharpness to her tongue. He didn’t want to see her struggling for breath, tired, fading. It felt deeply wrong, like a violation of nature, to even imagine her that way. Still, he was here. Rielle wanted him to come, so he had. But he was keeping out of sight until he knew what he was there for. It felt safer that way, lurking from the trees, able to leave at a moment’s notice without anyone being the wiser. He tucked himself into the evening shadows and watched and waited, though he wasn’t sure for what.

The hill he was on lifted him level with the large balcony off of what he assumed was Shadowheart’s bedroom on the second floor. Halsin was standing there whittling, leaning against a railing and occasionally glancing up at the door. Astarion hadn’t been to her house since she’d finished building it, and it was exactly how he’d pictured it. Hills rose up behind and to the side of the house, like it was tucked cozily into a corner, and trees surrounded it on all sides. A small stream dipped into the clearing on the other side before winding back into the woods. The house itself was almost fully covered in vines, all but the moon emblem above the door, which it seemed Shadowheart had kept trimmed. A few animals roamed the yard freely, and all around him birds sang as the stream babbled. It was idyllic, which made the heaviness in the air feel almost sinister, like all this beauty was just a distraction.

Astarion was sensitive to the mood of a space, a leftover skill from 200 years of navigating a mad vampire’s temper tantrums. The mood over the clearing was so intense it almost felt tangible, but the flavor of it wasn’t quite familiar to him. It was heavy, but a heaviness that felt profound. It felt like something huge was happening, like he was looking at the face of a god and it wasn’t something his mind was equipped to witness. He felt small, insignificant, and monumentally out of his depth. It hadn’t felt like this when Karlach had been dying, or at least he didn’t think so. There hadn’t been time, he supposed. Everything had been moving so quickly, they were all just in shock, unable to really process anything. It had its own kind of heaviness, but one that hadn’t hit until later. This was the kind of aura that needed time to ferment.

The door to the bedroom cracked open, and a halfling woman Astarion didn’t recognize poked her head out. She wore official-looking robes, and he wondered if she was a death cleric of some kind. Halsin straightened when he saw her as if she was his schoolmistress, and she asked him something Astarion couldn’t hear. He nodded, smiling gently, and she went back inside, closing the door after her as Halsin leaned back against the railing once more.

Astarion had no idea what the protocol was here. Surely no one was minding the front door right now, was he supposed to just let himself in? And then what, he was supposed to just barge into the room where his friend lay on her deathbed? The very idea made his chest tighten with anxiety. He didn’t know what he was doing, and this all felt too delicate to fumble. He wanted to make things right with Rielle, he did, and that was why he’d come. But any goodwill he earned from showing up would be undone the second he said or did something stupid, which he definitely would.

He turned to go, and as he did he heard a soft “whoosh” from the balcony. A door of light had opened, and Rielle was stepping through, her robes swaying as if she’d been in a hurry, a small bag slung over her shoulder. She looked around for a moment to orient herself before walking over to Halsin and throwing her arms around him. She looked surprisingly composed as she pulled back to look up at the druid and exchange words Astarion couldn’t catch. Halsin nodded and responded, gesturing towards the door with his knife. Rielle took a deep breath as she turned toward it, sweeping her hair back the way she always did when she was nervous, and opened the door.

It tugged at something in Astarion’s heart to see her bracing herself like that. The way she talked about all of this, sadness and grief and their friends, it had never seemed hard for her. Sad, heartbreaking, of course, but the actual grieving she seemed to be an expert at. Even seeing her talk to Halsin, the two of them had such confidence about them. Astarion had felt like a fraud watching them; he had no idea how to have a dying friend. It was like they had a script that he wasn’t allowed to look at, and Rielle had spent centuries being mad at him for not knowing his lines. But seeing her pull her hair back like that, for the first time Astarion wondered if perhaps his assumptions weren’t entirely true.

He stood watching the door after Rielle closed it, unsure what he was still doing here, unable to turn away. Rielle stayed inside a while, presumably saying her goodbyes (what did that mean? Were you supposed to make small talk with a dying person? Did you talk about the weather?). Birds still sang around him, oblivious to the vampire lurking in the shadows. Halsin paused his carving briefly to shoot magical flames into the lanterns on top of the 4 corner posts of the railing, giving the balcony a soft glow. After he was done, he picked up his carving again and resumed leaning. For several minutes, Astarion heard nothing but the sounds of nature and the soft thwick of the druid’s knife. It would have been relaxing, had the entire context been different.

Finally, Rielle emerged again. Her face was dry, her shoulders straight, her expression placid, the way she had looked when she’d gone inside. She turned to shut the door, and as she turned away again, her hand flew to her mouth and Astarion watched her face crumple as the bag slipped off her shoulder to the floor. She stepped away from the door to lean against the exterior of the house, her shoulders shaking as they curled inward and she bent over, her entire body distorting with grief. Her sobs were silent, and Astarion knew it was for the sake of Shadowheart and whoever else was inside. Hells, that couldn’t have been easy, staying quiet like that. Astarion’s hand twitched toward her, but he held back. Halsin would know how to comfort her. He’d just make things worse.

As if his thoughts were audible, Halsin straightened, taking a step toward Rielle and stretching out a hand. She looked up, one hand still clamped over her mouth, tears streaming from her eyes, and shook her head, waving him away. He nodded and leaned back against the railing once more, leaving her to her grief.

Astarion’s chest constricted. He’d seen so much on that lovely face, but he’d never seen a look like the one she wore now, like her entire world was ending. If she hadn’t been facing away from him on that dock centuries ago, would he have seen this look on her face as their friend died in her arms? If he had, he realized, the last 200 years might have gone very differently. Because everything was clarifying for him very, very quickly.

He didn’t have a choice, not really. It was like the night in the garden. He’d been so sure of himself that night, so adamant that he wasn’t going to touch her, it was just going to complicate things, and then she had sobbed and he’d moved toward her without thinking. In an instant, his plans had crumbled. And now, in the dark forest, he was moving toward her once again, mumbling an incantation and appearing on the balcony next to her.

A small part of his brain held him back in a different way now, reminding him it might not just be Halsin, she might genuinely need space. But she had already pulled him to her, folding into his arms as they wrapped around her in return. She muffled her sobs into his shirt now that her hand was occupied, and they were still quiet, but audible up close, small broken sounds. Her entire body was quivering against him, and it brought back memories of much happier moments she’d spent in his arms. It couldn’t have been more different, but this felt just as sacred. It was something, he supposed, being trusted to witness all the ways a person could fall apart. To hold them together in their most extreme moments of pleasure and pain.

He had no idea how long they stood like that, her grief coming in waves, submerging her again every time she seemed to surface. During one particularly strong wave, he was so focused on breathing evenly, stroking her hair gently, being as comforting as possible, that he didn’t realize it when he started murmuring against her ear. He was apologizing for not being there sooner, for not giving her enough, he wasn’t even sure what for. And he was telling her he loved her and that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he was there for her as long she wanted him.

This was true, he realized with some surprise. It had seemed so complicated, the idea of being there for her, like she was asking him to do something he didn’t know how to do. He’d gotten so caught up in the details, what he was supposed to say, how he was supposed to say it. He’d forgotten that in the middle of everything was her. She was his anchor. As long as he stayed oriented around her, he’d figure it out. He had no other choice.

His eyes met Halsin’s over Rielle’s shoulder, and the druid smiled gently and nodded his head like he was not at all surprised to see him.

_________________________________

The evening stretched on for hours, falling into a strange rhythm. The door opened and closed many times, the cleric bustling in and out, Halsin fetching things for her obediently. Eventually the sound of the door stopped causing every single one of them to look up in panic, assuming bad news, and they settled in for several hours of waiting. Once her tears had ebbed, Rielle ran downstairs briefly to bring up more lamps and candles she remembered seeing in a closet. When they were all lit, the balcony was bright and warm, and everything beyond the railing faded in contrast, making it feel like the three of them were the only people in the world.

Shadowheart was only awake for moments at a time, so other visitors congregated with them on the balcony rather than at her bedside, the cleric calling people in when she was lucid. Some elven cousins arrived and stayed briefly, mostly keeping to themselves. Newer friends of Shadowheart showed up, including a dragonborn bard who joined them for a time, apparently a neighbor Shadowheart was fond of. He told them stories of Shadowheart’s (predictably cantankerous) last few years, playing a snippet of a song they’d drunkenly written together about a mouse and a bear who fell in love with astoundingly raunchy lyrics. Halsin told a couple of their old Shadowheart stories from the tadpole days, her newer friends laughing to imagine the noble “Hero of Baldur’s Gate” who snuck off in the middle of the night to bleach her hair like a teenage rebel.

They all laughed quite a lot, actually. Sometimes the laughter was through tears, and sometimes it turned into tears, but there was plenty of it. Occasionally it rubbed Astarion wrong, but mostly it felt right to laugh as much as they could. It was like they were all drowning together and there was a silent agreement to not judge anyone else for what they clung to in order to stay afloat. Everything was a little funnier than usual, as if their bodies were desperate for a break from grief and forcing extra laughter.

It began, after a few hours, to feel like he was a part of an ancient ritual. People were just people, just as they always had been, and sadness made people want to laugh, though sometimes that laughter made them want to cry. It was mysterious to him, and disconcerting to experience firsthand, but there was something almost lovely about it.

He really hadn’t expected to laugh so much. He wondered if Shadowheart could hear them when she slept, friends from different parts of her life laughing together. He imagined she would like that.

Once when the door opened Astarion wondered if it would be another of their old companions, feeling almost excited for a moment before he realized, dizzyingly, that none of their other companions were going to show up. They’d all been the person in the bed already. There had been four other days like this. He hadn’t been there for any of them, and for the first time he felt a small pang of regret at the thought.

Eventually, as the evening moved into night, things settled down, and the 3 Heroes were left alone once more. Halsin had whittled 2 small ducks already, and he stood to place them on the railing, one following the other like a tiny funeral procession. Some of the blankets and pillows from the guest bedroom had migrated outside, and Rielle had made a small nest for herself to sit and sketch in the corner while Halsin settled into a chair, stretching out his hands before starting on a third duck. Astarion couldn’t remember ever being so tired as he stretched out on a loveseat near Rielle, throwing his legs over the arm. He was fairly certain he had experienced every emotion it was possible to experience in the last 6 hours alone, and it had drained him completely.

He and Rielle hadn’t had a chance to talk between the crying and the visitors. Truthfully, they probably could have found time, but they’d brokered a fragile peace, a tacit agreement to put their baggage aside for Shadowheart’s sake. And it had been frighteningly easy to honor that, he thought. Somehow, amidst the pain and the sorrow and the overwhelming numbness of grief, mingling with the anger and the heartbreak of the last 200 years, he felt a sliver of bittersweet happiness work its way into his heart like a splinter. Sharing space with her was as healing as it was heartbreaking.

He felt a jolt, not quite pain and not quite pleasure, or maybe some strange combination of both, every time Rielle touched his arm or grabbed his hand for support. There was a jolt now as he looked up to see her looking at him. She stared for a second, seeming to make up her mind about something. As she opened her mouth to speak, the door opened, and the cleric (Wilhemina, apparently) poked her head out.

She looked around at them for a second before her eyes landed on Astarion. “You haven’t seen her yet, have you? She’s awake if you want to talk to her now.”

His entire soul recoiled at the idea, but it was inevitable, it had been decided the moment he’d stepped out of the woods. He was here. He was along for the ride. “Yes,” he said steadily, nodding and swinging his legs down to stand. “I’ll see her now.”

His feet carried him like a zombie to the door, the cleric holding it open for him, and he swept inside without a glance backward.

[theomnicode]

I think the biggest irony and pity is looking at the overarching themes ONE is painting about emotional constipation being dangerous especially to young men and that being a theme in both OPM and Mob psycho...

...is reading how people who are unhappy about the state of OPM and complaining about something like and I quote: "Saitama becoming a little baby over Genos dying" and another person stating "he went emo shounen protagonist and got upset upon thinking Genos died", is them exhibiting this same type of behaviour of toxic masculinity and emotional constipation and condemning showcase of actual emotions as something unwelcome and out of character.

Which is exactly the type of thing ONE is trying to tell is is dangerous and self-destructive. That they complain is poor storytelling.

Because humans are not robots. We have emotions and bottling them up will only cause unhappiness in the long run.

If someone has taught you that it's not ok to cry when your loved ones die because it's emasculating?

Honestly? Fuck those people.

It truly saddens and aggravates me that this is how some people are taught irl to deal with their emotions. Men specifically. Women have this luxury of not being judged for being sad or feeling emotional. It is regrettable that emotions are seen as weakness because guys have to be seen as strong or the society expects and depends on them to be like this in order to function.

You are not less strong because you show emotions, you're just human.

Express yourself, be kind to others and be honest with yourself. And if you need help, reach out to people.

We live in a very unstable age that contributes to existential crisis where we may regret many things if we keep on procastinating.

I think this is a fine message to send in terms of storytelling and the deeper themes is what makes the story in OPM so great.

If person does not like those kind of themes? That's fine.

But it is a story ONE wants to tell with OPM, something he feels is important because he and Murata-sensei are passionate about their work and it is not poor storytelling nor poor thematic because some people disagree with the theme and I honestly cannot say it's problematic or presented poorly either for point of critique, but that is my personal opinion and people are free to disagree with that as well. And everyone has the option to put the series down if it no longer interests them. One can absolutely curate their own interests online.

It does feel though that critiquing this aspect does miss one of the points of what ONE is trying to narrate however.

Probably the amount of emotion in OPM is why it has a ton of female fans too. For a seinen that appears to be battle manga on the surface, it thrives on the social interconnectivity between all these characters.

Don't be tryna squash that humanity like Saitama is trying to squish this mosquito, ya hear?

[grosslyoversimplifiedpolitics]

[ID: Emotional Constipation, as it always is]

[aus-for-shitsandgiggles]

So you in justice league where batman tells superman: “i don’t not like you”. Battinson would be completely sincere in that being a compliment and get confused when people react negatively

Battinson: i dont not like you

Jim gordon: what we have be friends for years:(

Battinson: exactly:)

[clint-kenobi]

I’m going through a rough breakup after the man I was supposed to marry turned out to have another girlfriend on the side (for several months) after we’ve been together for six years and as I’m crying post breaking up with him my emotionally constipated mother just texts me

And you know what? I love her but probably not the best advice considering my job is literally stopping domestic violence🤣🤣🤣🤣

[longlostcentury]

this bitch (me) talks a lot about how important communication is for someone who wants to vomit when talking about her own feelings