#but as someone who is interested in fashion and sees the array of options it feels jarring that folks get unhappy that fast fashion does no

[reaching-giraffes]

Look, it is true that fashion industry has changed rapidly during the last 30 years, but sometimes when I see people bemoaning how "clothes are so bad and flimsy nowadays" it basically boils down to the solution of STOP BUYING FAST FASHION.

[catty-wumpas]

Homestuck Secret Santa 2022 (Late edition) For : @monggay

My part of this year’s @homestuckss event.

Included is a surviving excerpt of The Execu-Cretary’s Diaries, a multipart action novel in the much maligned Ashen Facilitator-surrogate genre. It was being optioned for Alternian Cinema, shortly before the Dooms Day which destroyed the Empire (being widely considered a good move for the art of cinema). The series follows an ambitious 10 sweep old Jade blood (Harley Bequel), whose defied the norms of her caste to become a highly esteemed, and professional Execu-Cretary entangled in the corporate intrigue of Alternian Military Fashion: Sitting between the two most powerful women in Military Fashion, careening through Capital Prime’s streets in the luxury scuttlier at twilight, should have been more exciting. Just being there had answered a sweeps long quest to achieve high and move into the highest echelons of the Empire’s Execu-Cretary cadres.

But here it was less than 3 hours into my first duty-shift and I was bored. The worst possible thing for an on duty Execu-Cretary. 

There wasn’t even nerves. Nerves at least made you more likely to act in an emergency. Boredom made response slow, and meant more danger than ever. Nerves are something you get around someone who commands respect.

The Two Women I was assigned to, powerful magnates with untold influence, had started bickering even before getting into their scuttlier. The Argument had remained the same the entire ride into their office: ‘Were shoulder epaulettes  truly in this year’?  Aradia, who was the more reserved of the pair and surprisingly from the burgundy caste, and she felt strongly against them. Terezi, the teal blood, was much more interested in just having an the argument. 

Even a hard as nails, professional Execu-Cretary like me could see these two were in obvious Vacillations ... And the thought dawned, as an ashen lump in my throat.

‘This argument wasn’t for my benefit, was it?’ I asked myself, a cold sweat forming on my skin. Oh no, the last thing I needed was to be drawn in as the facilitator for a Imperial level power couple...

The blurb on the back of the novel promises a glimpse into the corridors of power, the lap of luxury and wealth, the intrigue of Military Fashion, corruption that spans the hemospectrum, and at least 3 Biotronic Ninjas fights. Owing to her wide array of combat skills, physical prowess, and a  ‘veritable armory’ of gadgets at her disposal Harley can handle any  threat that crosses her path... But she has no defense whatsoever against the two troll’s she  assigned to protect; a distant Burgundy blood with a mysterious past and a mischievous Teal gremlin and their Vacillations for one another. 

[artfulpatches]

Superior Sports Patches for Coats are a Great Way to Show Your Team Spirit!

Introduction:

Jackets aren't just a shield against the cold; they're a canvas for self-expression. Whether you're a sports enthusiast, a fashion maven, or simply someone who loves to add a personal touch to their wardrobe, patches for jackets offer a creative outlet like no other. Enter ArtfulPatches, a brand dedicated to curating a diverse selection of high-quality patches that allow you to customize your outerwear with style and flair. Let's explore the world of jacket customization and the endless possibilities that await with ArtfulPatches.

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When it comes to expressing your personality through fashion, few accessories offer the versatility and charm of patches for jackets. From classic embroidered motifs to bold graphic designs and everything in between, ArtfulPatches offers a wide array of options to suit every taste and preference.

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Jackets are more than just garments; they're a canvas for self-expression and creativity. With ArtfulPatches, you can customize your outerwear with style and flair, showcasing your interests, passions, and personality for the world to see. Whether you're a sports enthusiast, a music lover, or simply someone who appreciates a good fashion statement, our collection of sports patches for jackets offers something for everyone. Shop ArtfulPatches today and embark on a journey of sartorial self-discovery.

[hawaiianshirtprint]

Cat Hawaiian Shirts That Bring a Touch of Aloha to Your Wardrob

Imagine being transported to a tropical paradise, where the gentle breeze whispers through palm trees and the scent of exotic flowers fills the air. Now, picture yourself wearing a vibrant and playful shirt that combines the spirit of the islands with the charm of our beloved feline friends. Welcome to the world of cat Hawaiian shirts, where style meets whimsy, and aloha meets purrfection.

Embracing the Aloha Spirit

The aloha spirit embodies the warmth, friendliness, and hospitality of Hawaiian culture. It embraces a laid-back and welcoming vibe that resonates with people around the world. Cat Hawaiian shirts capture this spirit, infusing it with a touch of feline flair. These shirts become more than just a fashion statement; they become a reflection of the aloha spirit that radiates from within.

The Cat Connection

Cats have captured our hearts with their independent nature, mysterious allure, and playful personalities. Their presence brings comfort and joy, creating a special bond between humans and feline companions. Cat Hawaiian shirts celebrate this unique connection, as they feature adorable cat motifs amidst the tropical backdrop. With each wear, cat lovers can proudly display their love for both cats and the aloha spirit.

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Cat Hawaiian shirts come in a delightful array of designs, showcasing vibrant colors and whimsical patterns. From cute cat faces peeking out from behind hibiscus flowers to mischievous kittens playing with palm fronds, these shirts add a touch of playfulness and charm to any outfit. With short sleeves, button-down styles, and comfortable fabrics, cat Hawaiian shirts are as versatile as they are stylish.

Versatility in Fashion

One of the great things about cat Hawaiian shirts is their versatility in fashion. They can effortlessly transition from a casual day at the beach to a tropical-themed party. Pair them with shorts or jeans for a relaxed look, or dress them up with khakis or a skirt for a more refined style. The options are endless, allowing you to express your personal flair while embracing the feline aloha spirit.

Spreading the Feline Aloha

Wearing a cat Hawaiian shirt not only adds a touch of aloha to your wardrobe but also sparks conversations and connections with fellow cat lovers. These shirts become a symbol of shared interests and passions, creating a sense of community and camaraderie. By donning a cat Hawaiian shirt, you become an ambassador of the feline aloha spirit, spreading joy, and celebrating the love for cats and tropical vibes wherever you go.

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Cat Hawaiian shirts are not just about following trends; they are a way to celebrate your individuality and showcase your unique style. With a wide range of designs and prints available, you can find a cat Hawaiian shirt that truly speaks to your personality and preferences. Whether you prefer a subtle cat silhouette or a bold and colorful pattern, there is a cat Hawaiian shirt that reflects who you are as a cat lover and fashion enthusiast.

Spreading Smiles and Joy

There's something undeniably uplifting about seeing a person confidently wearing a cat Hawaiian shirt. These shirts have the power to bring smiles to faces and brighten up any room. Whether you're walking along the beach, attending a summer party, or simply running errands, your cat Hawaiian shirt will radiate positivity and spread joy to those around you. It's like carrying a little piece of sunshine and happiness wherever you go.

A Gift for Cat Lovers

Cat Hawaiian shirts also make fantastic gifts for the cat lovers in your life. Whether it's a birthday, holiday, or just a thoughtful gesture, surprising someone with a cat Hawaiian shirt shows that you understand and appreciate their love for cats and their connection to the aloha spirit. It's a gift that combines style, sentiment, and a touch of whimsy, making it truly memorable and cherished.

Cat Hawaiian shirts offer a delightful fusion of tropical paradise and feline adoration. They embody the aloha spirit, infusing it with whimsy, style, and the unmistakable charm of our beloved cats. With their vibrant designs and versatile fashion options, cat Hawaiian shirts add a touch of aloha to your wardrobe and invite you to embrace the feline spirit with every wear.

Cat Hawaiian shirts have the power to transform your wardrobe into a tropical oasis filled with the playful and endearing spirit of cats. They capture the essence of the aloha spirit and the joy of feline companionship, allowing cat lovers to express their passions and showcase their unique style. So, embrace the purrfection of cat Hawaiian shirts, let them transport you to a world of sunshine, smiles, and a touch of whimsy, and celebrate the love for cats that fills your heart. Get ready to rock your cat Hawaiian shirt with pride and add a touch of aloha to your everyday life.

[joonie-beanie]

The Demon Brothers + comforting a self-conscious MC/Reader

So a while ago an anon sent me the below ask

And I kind of adored the idea, considering I am also insecure, and chubby, and in need of some demon bro comfort. Hence, here we are.

Rather than bullet point, I ended up writing short stories for each brother. Hopefully you still enjoy 💕

Lucifer:

The eldest brother is not unaware of the way your eyes stray when the two of you are in public together—your gaze raking over the other inhabitants of the Devildom as you traverse the busy streets.

At first, he assumes the array of creatures—some far less human-like than he and his brothers—are interesting to you. Then, he notices the way you begin hugging yourself with your arms. As if trying to hide yourself away from any prying eyes.

It is indeed out of place for a human to be seen in the Devildom, and you do get some stares, but...he has a suspicion that the sudden shyness you exhibit stems from feelings that reach beyond what strangers may think of you.

He doesn’t like seeing you in such a state.

“Y/N,” he addresses you after tugging you into a small, scarcely populated side alley. One of his gloved fingers curls beneath your chin, and he guides your hung head to look at him. “I can tell you’re upset. Explain to me why.”

You glance away from him, cheeks heating up, and your arms hugging your sides a bit tighter.

“I just...you, and your brothers are all so beautiful,” you start by saying, causing him to blink in surprise. “And...whenever we’re out like this, and I see all of the other demons living here, I can’t help but feel like I pale in comparison...”

Lucifer’s features soften as he stares at you. You’re worried about such a silly thing?

“Y/N.” He steps forward, his thumb moving to hold your chin. He tilts your head up, guiding you into a kiss. It’s soft, and loving, and immediately your fingers are twitching against your sides—itching to reach out and hold him.

“You are perfect as you are, and I have never thought otherwise.”

He kisses you again, his free arm moving to curl around your waist and tug you closer. You feel your heart aching in your chest.

“Lucifer—”

“You need not compare yourself to others, because there is no one else like you—and you are radiant in every sense of the word. I give you my word as the Avatar of Pride that what I speak is the absolute truth.”

His voice is quiet, and tender, and full of adoration. You feel like crying.

“I love you,” you whisper the words against him, voice a little broken, and Lucifer smiles before kissing you again. He will try his best from now on to help you feel a little more comfortable in your own skin.

Mammon:

The second brother invites you to Majolish to watch one of his fashion shoots, and you agree despite knowing how self conscious it will make you, because you know it will make him happy.

So, you find yourself standing in the back of the studio, watching Mammon on the temporary set—which is composed of an oversized mattress, and colorful pillows. He’s wearing slacks, and a button up that’s not buttoned at all—revealing his toned body. Since it’s a group shoot, he’s surrounded by equally enticing male and female demons. And while the sight should get you going, considering they’re all so attractive, it just makes you feel...bad.

Biting your lip, a sick feeling rising in your chest, you end up stepping out into the hall. Mammon finds you there soon after, a look of relief on his face when he spots you with your back against the wall—arms hugged together.

“There ya are! I thought you had left!” He runs up to greet you, but his smile wavers. He can tell you’re upset—gaze straying away from him. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He reaches out, hands hovering nervously. Had he done something? “I...if I did something wrong you can tell me...I didn’t mean to upset ya—”

“No, it’s not you,” you mumble, cutting him off. Now he’s even more confused. “I guess...I got upset seeing you and all the models. I know I don’t look anywhere near as attractive, and that thought started to gnaw at me, so—”

“What are ya talking about?” he interrupts you, head cocked to the side curiously. “I think you’re hot as hell.”

You feel your cheeks heat up, surprised at his words. “What?”

“I-I mean!” suddenly he’s turning red, hand lifting to sheepishly rub at his neck. “I’ve never thought that ya weren’t attractive, ya know? Ever since you came here my heart can’t help but flutter whenever I see ya…”

Your heart aches. “Mammon…”

“Listen! I just…,” his shy gaze turns back to you, and he reaches a hand out, cupping your cheek. “I think you’re one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

He leans in, but hesitates for a moment, so you’re the one who ends up sealing the kiss.

“Don’t worry about that kinda crap, okay?” he whispers against you, his arms lowering to wrap around your waist—holding you tightly. “Or else The Great Mammon will have to start knocking some sense into that silly human brain of yours.”

Tears blot your eyelashes, but you can’t help but giggle.

Levi:

You love Levi dearly, but he has an Akuzon addiction that needs to be addressed.

Recently, Akuzon had apparently expanded their clothing options—stocking more cosplay-like pieces—and Levi had thrown them all into his cart without second thought. Now that they’ve arrived, he’s begging you to come over.

Except, he doesn’t tell you why he wants you to come to his room until you’re already there—watching as he unpacks the multiple bags worth of questionable clothing.

“Ooooo~! This one is especially cute!!” He holds up something pastel, and undeniably adorable. You don’t disagree—it is cute, but...as you stare at it, an uncomfortable feeling settles in your stomach.

Can you even pull off something like that? You’re sure Levi is hoping that you’ll look like one of the cute anime characters in his favorite shows, and you don’t want to disappoint him. 

As much as you would love to try on the clothing and model for him, you don’t believe you’ll be able to do the outfits any justice.

“Y/N?” the demon calls your name curiously, noting how you’ve gone silent. You’re no longer paying attention to him, your head hung as you stare off to the side—a perplexed look on your face.

“W-What’s wrong?” Leviathan drops the clothing held in his grap, stepping towards you. He knows that he can get a little overly excited about this stuff, but you’re typically tolerant of it…

“I don’t know if I’m the right person to model for you,” you end up saying, voice quiet. An array of negative feelings are swirling in your head, making it hard for you to say what you want to without vomiting all your worries at him.

“I’m not...built the same as an anime character, or the cute 2-D people in your video games. The clothing won’t look the same on me, and I don’t want to ruin the images you probably have in your head.”

“Y/N—,” he cuts you off, his hand grabbing your own. He lifts your hand until your fingers are splayed against his chest. You can feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm.

When you glance up, his face is flushed.

“I...this is how I get every time I’m around you,” he tells you honestly. “Whether you’re in your RAD outfit, or pajamas, or just a t-shirt and jeans...I...m-my heart always beats l-like this.”

He looks like he’s about to phase out of existence—embarrassed beyond belief with everything he’s currently confessing to you—so you instinctively reach your free hand up and cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, cheeks aflame. 

“I think you’re so cute,” he mumbles, amber eyes staring right at you. “You don’t have to look like Ruri-chan, or anyone else. I...I like you. So, please don’t think those things about yourself...”

“Levi…” There’s adoration in his gaze, and you can’t help but kiss him. 

Beneath your palm, you feel his heart skip a beat. 

Satan: 

The Avatar of Wrath has recently become accustomed to inviting you out on little coffee dates. It’s a chance for both you and him to escape his brothers, and have a space to yourselves where you’ll be able to talk freely.

The cafe the two of you frequent is dark, and cozy, and right up Satan’s alley. So far, all of your experiences there have been pleasant. 

Today, however, the stunningly attractive barista is throwing herself at Satan as he orders your drinks, and a familiar uncomfortable feeling begins rising in your throat.

Just great. 

Chin resting in your palm, you watch the two interact—Satan maintaining his pleasant composure, even when she presses her arms beneath her chest and asks if he wants any company. You see him shake his head, and you assume he mentions that he’s already here with someone, considering the barista’s gaze strays to you. She looks you up and down, an unkind amusement swimming in her eyes, before she turns back to Satan.

...wow. 

You face yourself away, feeling bitter, and anxious as you wait for the fourth brother to return to your side. That assuming he does. You wouldn’t blame him for running off with the Barista—

“Y/N,” two hands reach out and cup your cheeks, guiding your head to the side. You manage to note that Satan is now crouched beside your chair—barista abandoned—before his lips connect with yours.

“I love you. You’re absolutely stunning.”

“Wha—,” you flush red as he pulls back, shocked at his actions. Satan usually isn’t so open about his affections in public. “You...how did you—?”

“I was watching the barista when she glanced past me. The rude, yet satisfied look on her face was telling enough,” he says, a bit of anger slipping into his tone. However, it’s quick to melt away when his gaze refocuses on your blushing cheeks. 

“Just so you know, I think you’re beautiful. I’ve always thought so.” He presses back to his feet, the tips of his ears turning red. “So...don’t mind what others say, and be kind to yourself, okay?”

At a loss for words, you reach your arms out and hug him around the middle. He blinks in surprise, but a chuckle leaves his lips—his hand petting against your hair.

“Do I need to start telling you how much I adore you every day?”

“I might die,” you mumble into his shirt, and he feels his heart ache. He’ll be sure to start expressing his affections for you more often. He doesn’t want you feeling down about the way you look, because he has never given it a second thought. 

In his eyes, you’ve always been perfect.

Asmo:

Asmo is unfortunately stellar at reading your body language. So on the days where your self-confidence and self-image aren’t best, he’s right there, trying to subtly raise your spirits.

Today, when he notices you picking at your food during breakfast, a frown on your face, he knows it’s going to be one of those days. And he doesn’t like seeing you upset. 

So, he invites you to come to his room for a nice, relaxing spa day.

You agree, although it takes a little bit of convincing on his end. 

Soon enough, you find yourself standing in front of Asmo’s outrageously large tub. He’d prepared a milk bath for you—the white, swirling liquid thick, and heavenly smelling. You’re a little nervous to disrobe and sink inside—especially considering your current mental state—but...you end up doing it anyway.

Once you’re shoulder deep into the tub, Asmo knocks on the door, making you jump.

“Are you up for getting a scalp massage?” he questions, peeking his head in. There’s a kind smile on his face. “I’d love to give you one.”

It takes you a moment to answer—your gaze lowering to look at yourself. It’d be impossible for him to see you beneath the milk, so that helps you feel a bit better…

“Okay,” you say, and Asmo is quick to skip inside. He rolls up his pants to his knees, his calves dipping into the bath on either side of your shoulders. A moment later, you feel his fingers rub through your hair, and you can’t help but sigh.

“Feel good?” he questions, and you hum in acknowledgement. Silence falls for a short while—Asmo simply focusing on easing the tension from your body—but he can’t let his thoughts go unheard.

“You know,” he starts by saying. “I don’t understand why you’re so hard on yourself. I think you’re positively stunning.”

“Asmo…”

“No, I really mean it!” he pouts, getting the feeling that you think he’s just saying that to try and make you feel better. “You’re cute, and scrumptious just the way you are! And I’ve always thought so—since the moment I laid my eyes on you when you were summoned by Lord Diavolo for the exchange program. 

“So just...take my word for it, please, and let me be the positive voice in your life when your silly brain is making you think otherwise.”

He leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and his hands move to gently hold your cheeks. After a moment, you reach up and place your hands on his own. Your chest aches at his words, conflicted, but more than anything, you feel grateful.

“Thank you, Asmo.”

“Anytime, darling. I’ll always be more than happy to shower you with the love, praise, and affection that you rightfully deserve.”

Beel: 

Beel loves inviting you to the gym with him, because when he’s done working out, he’s starving, which means it’s a good excuse to go out and have a meal with you.

Most days, sitting on the sidelines at the gym, or hopping on the treadmill and getting a good walk in doesn’t really bother you. Especially because you get to watch Beel as he exercises.

Today, however, you’re feeling entirely too self conscious as you sit on the empty bench press beside the Avatar of Gluttony—watching the way his arms flex as he lifts the heavy weights.

You know that the gym is typically an accepting place—an area where people (or in this case, demons) of any shape and size can come to work out—but you just feel like you don’t belong. Not accompanying Beel, at the very least.

He basically looks like he was handcrafted by god himself (and very well may have been)—his face handsome, and body toned in all of the right places. And here you are, unable to compare to him.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

His voice reaches your ears, and you look up to find him staring at you in concern. You can only guess that you’d had a pretty sour look on your face while you’d been lost in your thoughts.

“It’s...it’s nothing, Beel.” You force a smile, not wanting to burden him with your current emotions. He frowns, regarding you for a moment, before he lets it go.

“Okay, I’m gonna change, and then we’ll go eat.”

“Alright,” you respond, immediately pressing to your feet. You head for the door without saying anything, intending to wait for him outside per usual. 

A few minutes later, Beel exits the gym to find you sitting on a bench nearby. Your leg is bouncing anxiously, gaze zoned on the concrete at your feet.

“What’s wrong?” he questions again, taking a seat beside you. His tone indicates that he won’t be accepting “nothing” for an answer this time. 

You knot your hands together in your lap. “I just...do you ever get embarrassed? Bringing me to the gym with you?”

He blinks. “Embarrassed? Why would I?”

“I don’t know, because I’m...not...up to par with a lot of the demons in there? Or, because you look like that, and I look like this, and—”

“I’m lost,” he cuts you off, looking confused. “Are you saying I should be embarrassed because I’m bringing a cute human with me to the gym? Maybe it is a little weird, considering this is the Devildom, but—”

“No, not just because I’m human. I meant—”

This time, he silences you with a kiss. His large hands cup your cheeks, holding you tenderly.

“I know what you meant, Y/N, but I disagree,” he tells you, uncharacteristically serious as he sits back. Then, a bashful smile spreads on his face. “I actually think you’re really adorable. Anytime I look at you I think of my favorite food. I love you just how you are, and will never feel embarrassed having you at my side. So, you should remember that from now on, okay?”

He reaches over and slots your hands together, tugging you to your feet.

“Now, let’s go get some ice cream.”

Belphie:

Both you and Belphie are aware that one of Belphie’s favorite activities is napping with you. Particularly, with his hands wrapped around you, and his face pressed between your shoulder blades.

Recently, you’ve been passing on all of his invitations to share a nap.

And he’s seriously starting to go crazy.

Had he done something to upset you? You always seem normal whenever you’re talking with him and his brothers, but when he sends a text asking you to come over and nap, you’re either busy, or just don’t feel like it.

Today, he decides to try and bring the nap to you.

He waltzes into your room mid-afternoon—pillows and blankets tucked beneath his arms. Without waiting for a response, he makes his way to your bed and sets everything up, making a perfect little fort for the two of you to nap in.

Once it’s set up, he crawls his way inside and then rolls over, turning to face you. 

You’re stood at the edge of the bed, arm awkwardly held in your grasp. You don’t move to join him. Belphie sighs.

“Did I do something wrong?” he finally asks, wanting to resolve the issue if he has. He can’t take this anymore.

“What? No, it’s not you,” you tell him, surprised to hear his question. The demon blinks at you, now even more confused. If he’s not the reason you’ve been avoiding napping with him, then what is?

He fixes you with a curious stare—letting you know that he won’t be leaving until you tell him the truth—and you sigh. 

“I just...haven’t been feeling too good about myself lately,” you admit to him, eyes glancing off to the side. “And because of that, I started thinking about you holding me when we nap, and ended up getting self conscious, wondering if I felt weird in your arms, or if—”

Before you get the chance to continue, Belphegor is grabbing your wrist—tugging you down against the mattress. With your back facing him, he’s quick to scoot up behind you, his arms wrapping around your midsection like normal.

“I never have cared about looks, or any of that stuff,” he mumbles, giving you a squeeze. “You fit perfectly in my arms, and always will, so don’t overthink it.”

“Belphie…”

“I love you for you, okay? I think you’re cute, and all that jazz. Now don’t make me say it again…”

Sounding embarrassed, Belphegor presses a kiss to the back of your head. You place your arms atop his own, smiling softly.

“Thank you.”

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep in his arms.

[myelocin]

木漏れ日 | tsukishima kei, oikawa tooru

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

Characters: Tsukishima Kei, Oikawa Tooru 

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

WordCount: 20,500+ 

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

commissions | ko-fi

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

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

But you never minded him much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stories, you think.

You’ve always loved them.

-

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

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

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

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

-

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

(A little awkwardly, if anything.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why pencils over pen?

Why do you scrunch your nose right before you sneeze?

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

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

An answer.

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Because everything flows, he remembers some more.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who are you? as the translation to I want to get to know you, but he’s always quick to remind himself that these are just the kinds of questions best left unanswered. It wasn’t the fact that there was a lot at stake, because truth be told—nothing much would change at all should they be answered, but at the same time, he liked the drawl the routine brought.

Curiosities were best kept as curiosities, and some questions would remain read out loud as questions, but ultimately just filed as passing thoughts at the end of the day.

Eight AM to six, Tsukishima Kei would move through his routine by willing his body through the motions, even if his thoughts did admittedly drift off to you. Just curiosity, he’d reason.

When he’s driving to work before eight and he sees you hop off your car and adjust your bag, he wants to ask if traffic was bad on the drive here. (Just curiosity.)

When the time of the morning rolls around and he smells your signature caramel and hears you murmur a quiet good morning to the entire office, he wonders what it would sound like if you just said good morning to him. (Just curiosity.)

When he’s catching peeks at you from the corner of his eye just to see your profile turned to the side, and facing up to feel the filtered sunshine through the window, he wants to know if you’re the type who prefers spring over the winter, and why. (Just curiosity.)

So even with that, Tsukishima Kei supposes it’s just because of curiosity that leads him to approach you when he sees you on a Sunday, sat by the window in Starbucks, with a drink that doesn’t look like caramel in your hand, right as he asks—

“Is this seat taken?”

-

It’s not as if you mean to say that it feels like fate is telling you that you’re still waiting for something, but some days has you feeling like you’re meant to wait for someone.

Moments like this—like now.

You’re staring out the window of the nearest café by your place, with nothing really written for the agenda of your day. Times like these are where you usually tell yourself that it’s okay, and that day offs existed for a reason—but the mind always did have a way with never staying still.

And while for some, thoughts just rolled by—yours on the other hand, always had a habit of running.

You’re waiting for something, it says, but as soon as you take a peek at what’s beneath the underneath, you know that something is just a loose replacement for the word, “someone.”

But as of now, someone is just a figment in your head.

Someone is the reassurance that there’s something to be met after this, or in the midst of this. This, as your twenties—as your maze.

More than ever, you know that this is the part of your life where you’ll carry the burden of trials rather than wear the crowns of victory, but you suppose that there’s a couple hidden gems you can only find throughout the journey. Or at least, that’s what you have to remind yourself. Then again, epiphanies like this didn’t exactly happen like they were just thoughts that would come easy, without much thought. Sometimes, you think, the most profound epiphanies were uncovered within moments wherein they would just come to you.

The blank period between just beginning to build your foundation and laying out the perimeters for the solid home above that was this exact point of your life. Weekends and day offs where you could try to catch your breath right before you dived back in the trenches again.

(You hate Mondays.)

(But not as much as you hated Sundays.)

Though the silver lining found within the two was always your coffee. Your kick of caramel within that bitter shot of espresso. Your weekends between life was comparable to the silver lining most people usually talk about. A pit stop, and a taste of sugar. Caramel within espresso, where the difference between something being underneath and blended with was made clear.

You suppose that life was never really layered in the end.

As much as people try to separate the specifics within it, at the end of the day it all would just blend together.

Like trying to pick apart salt and pepper, when you sit by your 9am light beside the window on your moments of rest during Sundays off—you admit to yourself that you can’t really tell apart the intricacies of life.

(Timelines, you mean.)

Sometimes you remember that the reality of the matter is that you’re twenty three years old and a little more lost in the world, when at sixteen you thought that by now you’d be found—or at least three steps away. The poems in the letters that bring you comfort tell you, in the timeless words meant to ground the lost in the moment, that what even is the definition of being found?

There was no universal timeline that everyone had to follow, and even if that was true, what you feel regarding the matter still felt like it was beyond your control. (Beyond your reasoning.)

Nine AMs and their light was a comfort. They come to you, metaphors delivered in silent whispers and ghost like touches: on your shoulders, your cheeks, and your eyelids, and for that short while they’re there you feel okay. (Safe.)

Mornings bring about the kind of comfort that feels more everlasting than even the idea of a ring on your finger. The sunbeams tell you they’re there—still there—because they’re what’s timeless. Diamonds on your ring, and a finite love to call yours be damned.

(The light’s what’s stayed, and what will stay.)

—Or at least that’s how you feel for a sliver of the time.

Because truth be told, you feel like you’re still supposed to be waiting for something.

Perhaps it’s a sort of love, or perhaps it’s the love.

(You don’t know, because for now love doesn’t have a face.) Love resonates to an unfulfilled yearning you have within; the kind that can momentarily be satiated by your nine ams and kicks of caramel every weekday morning and iced shaken passion lemon tea every Sundays as a treat for yourself.

For now, saving the seat in front of you and taking up a table meant to seat two by the window during your weekends will have to make do.

Asking yourself questions throughout the day that most of the time don’t really need answers will make do.

Blinking at the nine am light while sipping your daily dose of sweet is enough to keep the thoughts that where you are won’t be enough after this, away.

And because there’s a lot of for nows, that you decide to cling on to for the sake of keeping what’s here feeling like it’s enough, you move through your day with the idea that even if the seat in front of you will always be saved for the eventual kind of love you know will manifest one day—having company can’t be so bad. (To at least satiate your for now.)

Like Tsukishima Kei, and his god awful stripped blue button up you just know he can do better than. His presence during weekdays from eight to six was expected, and blended well with the routine unconsciously established during your work hours.

It wasn’t like you meant to move closer towards him, but it was an undeniable fact that a person will somehow gravitate towards those that mirror them in a sense.

Maybe it’s the pencils on his desk, or the purple dinosaur you admit is cute hanging off his keys.

He isn’t love, because he’s just a name, and a presence that’s become a sort of permanent fixture in the routine you know is only a temporary flow. But what he is is the curious head that towers above Sunday’s afternoon crowd that squints at all the occupied tables in the room.

He’s the light brown sweater, golden hair, amber eyes, and purple dinosaur keychain that hangs right beside his set of keys looped on his right hand. But most importantly—and most recently, he’s the question, “is this seat taken?” when his eyes widen at the sight of you after a quick scan of the crowd in the room.

And he’s the face, that breaks out into a smile, come sunshine, as you think of all that is golden and illuminated, that says “Thank you,” right after you say your yes.

(It dawns on you just then how good it felt to even say no.)

-

If wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the unspoken connection brewing between you and the constantly brooding blonde.

Then again, the view from the bubble was different than the view from a different angle. While the whole office, and frankly any stranger who could differentiate the color blue from red saw the both of you as a pair, you both still looked at each other as just the temporary company who warmed the seat you’re still saving for someone.

“So what’s the deal,” Tadashi says, rounding the corner and dropping a pile of unsorted files on Kei’s desk. “—With you and,” he continues, then pauses, flicking his eyes to the side to ensure that your desk was empty before continuing with, “you know.”

Kei blanks, momentarily forgetting how the pile seemed to make a slight thud that already pokes at the incoming migraine of today’s workload manifesting behind his head. “I what?”

Tadashi smirks, an expression that Kei still can’t seem to wrap his head around. “Nina.”

“Nina,” Kei deadpans. “Our coworker Nina.”

A few beats of silence pass, and Tadashi chuckles at the sight of his point completely flying right over his friend’s area of awareness and presence. “Lena saw you at Starbucks last Sunday with her.”

Grabbing the first chunk of the pile, he begins to sort, his attention already shifted. “It’s social etiquette to talk to people you’re acquainted with.”

“Acquainted,” Tadashi parrots, laughing. “So last week and the week before that was just because you’re acquainted.”

Kei sighs, looking up and dropping the three pieces of paper previously clasped in between his pointer finger and thumb, its contents already long forgotten at this point.

“Just a coincidence,” he reasons, knowing that his words will more so fall on ears that aren’t exactly keen on accepting the rather objective truth.

Tadashi’s always been the type to try to read in between the lines, but unfortunately for him, Kei thinks, there wasn’t much of a metaphor in this situation. He goes to the café every Sunday because his brother would usually crash by his place in the weekends, and Kei found that even if he did love him, he still wanted a slice of his day off dedicated to himself.

He never mentions that to Tadashi though, already knowing that the man would just counter back just as quick, with the question of why is he spending time with you then? Asking you if the seat is taken despite the empty tables that had always been abundant ever since after the first meeting.

“Okay,” Tadashi shrugs, hands raised up and smirk in place—a weird look on him, Kei comments to himself inwardly again—as he turns back around to make his way back to his department.

“Still rooting for you though,” he calls out, turning around to launch a last ditch comment towards the steadily irritated man who can only do nothing but stare at him blankly in response.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

-

“What do you think about Tadashi?” he asks you, four weekends later when you’re sat in the same table, at that same coffee shop again.

Writing his question off as a passing comment, you shrug. “From accounting?”

Kei nods. “From accounting.”

You give his question a couple moments to let it soak in, before you eventually just shrug, again, not really definitive with the answer you come to a conclusion to. “I don’t know him that well. What’s this about?”

“Nothing, really,” he answers. “I just thought you both would be good together.”

“Like for a project?” you ask, as you absent mindedly continue to scroll through the contents on your phone. There was a sale at Muji, the ad on Instagram reads, so you make a mental note to maybe stop by on the way home after you finish your grocery run.

“Like together,” he responds, and it had you been looking at him instead of the screen on your phone, you would have seen the sly way he sips his coffee and watches for your expression from the corner of his eye.

And because you’re a lot more aware than you give yourself credit for, even though you don’t see it, you feel him basically boring his eyes onto your profile. You realize you lack an opinion regarding what to think of the situation, so you let him stare.

Truth be told, you don’t know what his staring could exactly pertain to, so in response, to try to satiate both the curiosity in your head along with his question, you shrug, answering, “I don’t think about it. Why?”

He’s quick to turn to the side, to his left facing the window where the child across the street suddenly looked more entertaining than trying to wrack his thoughts for more words to fill in the conversation.

“Cute,” he hears you hum, right before he turns his head to catch a glance of you wearing the smile he tells himself doesn’t catch him off guard every time, peek through the rim of your cup.

There’s a lot about the details founded within tidbits of moments he thinks is worth the most. As if trying to immortalize the bits and pieces that don’t matter universally, he knows when coming across the specific kind of people he’d probably get chided for it.

Kei remembers his mother scrunching her nose at the way he’d eat the bready part of the cupcake right after scraping off the icing, and how he’d give the skin on his fried chicken to his older brother when kids his age usually liked the crispy parts the most.

It’s a funny thing, he thinks—about just how false the universal standards really are.

What “matters” really is relative in the end, because the joy you come across to is what remains the same. Like yesterday, finishing his work early was joy. Finding that his superior had skipped a day of work to attend to family matters hence the lighter workload on his desk—that too was joy.

And strangely enough, spending another of his Sundays yet again sat in the café he tells himself he really should stop coming to for the fourth time in a row, sat across you, is joy.

(Joy, like the way your face lights up at the sight of the boy holding his mother’s hand as he crosses the street.)

(Joy, like the emotion that blooms on your face, radiance comparable to your nine am shower of sun.)

(Joy, like the word best used to tie to what’s swirling with him in the now,  because even if a lot of things were hanging and left as questions to dangle in the space between what can be answered and what could just remain as what ifs—this little moment makes something in him bloom.)

“Yeah,” you hear, and you will yourself to not think about the way his voice seems to deliver more than just a passing comment. “Cute.”

-

Like drifting away from the current, this is the part where you break from the waves and try to make sense of all the ocean that’s in front of you. The water’s clear, and the waves aren’t knocking your air out of your lungs, but the shore’s still far, you think.

There’s the presence of birds circling you from above, so you know land isn’t too far. There’s a safety net, that’s there, but you’re still in the water. There’s the feel of sand beneath your feet, along with water against the palms of your hand. You’re not swimming, but you haven’t waded too far in to be drowning either.

Just testing the waters deep enough for you to know what the waves feel like—just to get a taste of the thrill must be like—but never too much to the point of being overwhelmed.

A dance between two strangers, or a conversation shared between two souls too familiar to just be acquaintances. It doesn’t take long for Kei to settle into the rhythm you’d composed for yourself.

Work still moves through the schedule from eight to six, and your boss is still the cause for most of your headaches with every additional file set on your desk every Monday. Nine AMs was still your favorite hour of the day, along with the kind of sun it brought and offered you, day in and day out. Tsukishima Kei was still the boy with the god awful striped blue dress shirt that sat in front of you every day.

But then again, there were changes, but most of which were welcome, none the less.

When he turns to ask for a stapler, he’d lean by your desk and strike up a conversation instead of promptly end it with a solid thank you. Breakroom conversations during lunch were often shared together; in the beginning just coincidences, but eventually, slowly, planned. Some mornings you’d find a cup of coffee on your desk when you’d be running late, and for the first few times, you’d spend a hefty twenty minutes or so pondering about it, before eventually remembering that this was the exact coffee order that you told Kei you wanted to try just the day before.

A friendly hello, turning into a knowing glance, and the thank you said out of courtesy turning into light conversation exchanged in hushed voices.

There was a story now, behind the purple dinosaur, because when he’d seen you look at it a little too long, that same afternoon you found an identical one on your desk, beside your pastel highlighters you let him borrow with no problem, when you had always known yourself to be quite specific about it.

Conversations in the break room that used to hold just passing thoughts, and a couple nods to the head just to acknowledge the other, now turned into actual conversations. It wasn’t the comment that ended with a period, anymore, because every day there would always be somewhere where they had left off of.

Kei smiles, often, because with the light, comes you.

He can’t call you his, because there would always be a whole lot more to it than just calling you something that you clearly aren’t,

“—yet,” as Tadashi would often tease him with.

But he finds it undeniable to say that what you are is something.

Like having conversation plus the company.

The seat he tells himself he’s saving for someone, or something, occupied with a stranger. And even if neither of you can exactly call the other yours, the both of you could always call the little purple dinosaur and the box of nescafe caramel instant coffee—

“—Ours,” he hears you say.

He looks up, from his mug and his stack of papers that all need his signature on his desk. You’re in a similar position as him, with your own mug in hand and stack of papers in front of you. He’s watching you smile, first at what he presumes to be your first sip of coffee, then at the recruit who peeked in the break room to ask you a question.

Then it’s your next smile, for him, and he’s struck in between a thought and action: a little breathless if he were being honest with himself—but because for now you’re just the conversation that comes with company and nothing more, he keeps the thought as just a thought.

It doesn’t pass, but it stays, and he knows this is the kind that’s most likely going to linger a little longer than the rest.

“Ours,” he hears you say, again.

You’re motioning to the stack of caramel sachets in a box that he had bought for the both of you to share, nodding your head. “Oh,” you say. “It’s ours,” you continue, motioning towards him.

“Yeah,” he parrots, not so much as being high in love, but struck and rooted was a good word to describe the situation.

To describe what he means for you.

Ours, he echoes. It’s a good word.

Yours or his was too daring of a word to dub for any of you, but ours fit the boundary he found the both of you to be situated within.

He could call the purple dinosaur and the story with it ours, and the taste of caramel just the same.

Ours, he thinks.

It makes sense.

-

“It’s just,” Tadashi explains. “Nina makes a lot of sense.”

Kei nods, agreeing. “She’s a smart girl.”

“No she makes sense for you,” he counters, leaning half his body across the desk. Tadashi eyes the keychain, and at the stack of caramel sachets by his mug, giving Kei a smug look afterwards.

“For you, Tsukki,” he says, a knowing tone in his voice. “I mean that she makes a lot of sense for you.”

As always, Kei keeps his eyes on his screen, as he taps away, continuing his work and keeping his focus trained towards it instead of humoring Tadashi. He knows he means well, as always, because as observant as his friend is, he always means well with his intentions.

Knowing that his friend isn’t the type to give in, Kei relents. “Why do you say that?”

Tadashi beams, leaning forward even further, squinting his eyes up at his friend who looks at him with bored eyes. They’re golden, he thinks. Kei had always had a certain hue of gold he could never match to what’s around, but it’s under the glow of the kind of gold nine AM gives where the puzzle piece finally clicks.

“I say it because it’s obvious,” Kei hears Tadashi answer.

It’s simple, really.

Not just because of a keychain and a cup of coffee, but because of the puzzle pieces he didn’t know would even fit together are now here, suddenly being nudged into place.

Kei pauses; leans back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, just as he looks at Tadashi.

His friend wears the smile he already knows the meaning behind, so he sighs, the thoughts he knows he should think through being pushed away by the third party wall called objectivity and false rationality.

“She’s just a friend,” Kei reasons, blunt. Underneath his thoughts, he knows it’s not much of a reasoning, but more like an on-the-surface answer, but he tries to push it as his truth anyway.

Tries.

There’s a bandage on his hand from yesterday, because of a burn.

“I’m nice to you, because I’m your friend,” he hears your voice from yesterday echo in his head. It baffles him still, to think that you’d have a supply of unopened bandages and burn ointment in your drawer, when he knows you’ve never been the clumsy type.

Kei looks past Tadashi, to the empty space of your desk, and tries to tell himself that it’s just a desk. He tells himself that your seat is just a seat, and the pillow there is just a pillow.

He pushes away the memory that’s on the edge of resurfacing: of you, three days ago, saying that the leather on your chair is a little too uncomfortable for you to comfortably sit on. All the while it was he, in return, taking it upon himself to deny the fact that on the way home that afternoon, his reason for taking a U-turn three streets away from home to drive to IKEA was because he needed a new trashcan.

And the pillow, with the serenity blue fabric was just conveniently right by the trash bin section of the store.

It’s because he’s doing a favor for a friend, he told himself.

Sometimes you take a U-turn, even if you see the roof of your apartment building, to do a favor for a friend.

You were a friend who happened to just share a little more stories with him than the rest, and that was okay.

Friends can have conversations in between work and share a few stories together. And favors, Kei reasons. Friends do favors.

You rubbed ointment on his hand and bandaged it from a burn, because you’re doing him a favor. So in return, he bought you a pillow to sit on, because he just so happened to remember your passing comment regarding the fact that leather is uncomfortable for you.

There’s a spare trash bin in his room that doesn’t even get filled up.

Really, he prefers mocha over caramel, but caramel isn’t so bad.

The glare from the sun bothers him a bit, but he tells himself that perhaps a little sun is nice only when it’s 9AM.

Tadashi smiles.

“Tsukki,” he recites, just stating what he sees. “She’s the one you’ve been saving your seat for.”

-

And you think the same.

Conversation that ends with a comma means that there’s more to come. Tsukishima Kei turned into the “hello” that would branch off to ”how are you?” in the hallways, and “coffee again? This Sunday?” if you caught the same elevator as him when you were leaving work for the day.

Caramel in your coffee, with the perfect kind of sweetness you now know that he only sometimes likes.

Never to be one for sweets, but the slices of strawberry shortcake from that one bakery down two blocks away from his building was always something he couldn’t say no to. You know that now, you realize. You’ve known it for a while, because three weeks ago he had brought two slices to work after you told him you always were the kind of person with a sweet tooth.

You know why he has more pencils than pens, and laugh because you think it’s fitting. He’s always liked to doodle in the corner of his files, so for as long as he drew with a fairly light hand, he could always go back in and erase things if need be.

He told you that, over coffee one weekend, again. With a telltale shade of pink dusted across his cheeks and a slight pout to the lips, you found that Tsukishima Kei did look pretty.

At least you think.

Often, you’d overhear the ladies in the breakroom exclaim that he looked a little more scary than necessary, but you think it’s because they haven’t seen him laugh. Contrary to their belief, Kei often wore more than one expression, but only when it counted the most.

He laughed; expression lit when he’d scroll on his phone and watch a video that satiated his kind of humor that you’ve now also grown familiar to, and you’d think to yourself that him looking bright is fitting. When he’d come across a pack of the cottage cheese one of your coworkers always left open in the refrigerator, he’d crinkle his nose and pout, instead of look angry.

Kindness is a good look on him.

“I really enjoy your company,” you remember him say, just last Sunday when you were at that coffee shop right by the window again.

He smiled at you, in the way that delivers his truth far better than words ever could.

You don’t think there was ever a reason to doubt him. He was blunt, when needed be. He reached for a tissue when you had a bit of whipped cream on your lips, and told you that your files could be organized better when you were passing off folders for him to sign and pass forward.

Errors concluded through an objective point of view, where seldom did he try to peer at what was asked to be critiqued with a biased eye.

You conclude that Kei’s just the type to mean well, so you suppose there could be no harm in wading in a little deeper than you usually would.

The universe gave, so you took.

(And clutched on a little too tight.)

Clutching onto it, like your hand on the new tube of ointment you purposely drove to the pharmacy for before picking up your coffee and his as you made your way to work. You held on tight to the steering wheel, smiling at the thought of sharing your nine AMs with someone again, even if you told yourself you’re saving that spot—like he saves his seat—for the someone, or something that’s inevitable to come.

Perhaps love could look like a purple dinosaur charm and taste like caramel. Perhaps you’ll warm up to the sight of a blue striped long sleeve and think that it’s fitting with beige.

Serenity blue had always been a pretty color, you think.

Pretty.

Pretty like Kei—a thought you tried to pass off as just a fleeting kind of epiphany when you were drumming your fingers against the steering wheel of your car while stopped at a red light. Pretty like Kei—as the thought that stayed, and bloomed into a truth that comes wrapped with his name.

Pretty, like his thank you, when he murmured his gratitude to you like a secret. His face just a few inches above yours, as he looked down, watching you rub ointment on the burn on his hand and bandage it with the daisy patterned stickers, patient.

Patience was pretty.

It’s not like he’s love, because that’s a word that needs more justification than just a couple conversations and some one-sided epiphanies conjured up in a haste.

You weren’t in a rush, personally, at least you try to tell yourself that. You drove slowly around the block when the sunset was pretty, and took your time in picking out that tumbler you bought at starbucks. You could wait for a lot of things, because time was the constant where despite the ticking, still felt limitless.

So it’s a mystery to you, that you’re rushing right here, right now, at nine in the morning when the windows by the hallway you had to walk through to get here often showed you the best view. A tube  of ointment in hand and the hope to have your first sip of coffee taste like nescafe’s caramel instead of the blend you like from Gigi Coffee down the block from where you live.

Pretty like nine AM streams of gold, and pretty like Tsukishima Kei and the overgrown bangs that suit him quite well.

So when you’re in the elevator and staring at the reflection of you in the mirror to your left, you don’t exactly have it in you to admit that it is a little out of character for you to reach up and fix your hair more than just a couple of times.

The left seems a little too off, while the right was too unnatural. You part your hair in the middle, like usual, and brush the little fringe you have to make it look pretty, and smile.

You remember that time, just one Friday ago when Kei was riding this same elevator with you to the parking lot in the basement, as he looked at you for a briefly, before glancing up

He could be it, until he ends his story with just the role of an almost.

So it’s almost, you repeat in your head. A new tube of ointment clutched in your hand and the three more steps until you round the hall and make it to your desk. Almost there, as the thought that excites you more than it terrifies you this time.

Here, the sun is yours, as is the light. When nine AM ticks on the clock, the sunbeams falling everyday almost as if all it’s done is defy every call the clouds the rainy season brings about.

Perhaps that seat that’s been both empty and filled is almost actually occupied. Almost like one more step, that you take without hesitation as you tuck one strand of your hair back and brace yourself for light.

For the wounds on his hand you wish to mend and for the word “almost,” you think would be rewarded with a happy ending, you allow your heart to speak its truth and blend with the moment, unfiltered, as you smile.

You think of rehearsing a small hi, but decide against it at the very last second, because you want to say his name instead.

Kei, the name he’d insisted you call him with red on his cheeks while his gaze was set to the side. His Strawberries and cream on his glass instead of the espresso people would think is his style, and you smile, because it’s nice to know him as more than just Tsukishima Kei at the office.

Like knowing how his face looks when he scrunches up at the sting from the ointment, you know better now to get the one that he said doesn’t sting as much. You know he’ll appreciate the plain bandaids you have in your bag, instead of the daisy covered ones he had to make do from the stack you had laying on your drawer.

You ready yourself for the friendly hey, instead of the practiced hi, with the smooth good morning everyone that’s just a coworker in this room gets instead of the smile you think you’re set to give to him today.

You look forward to the taste of instant caramel, plus the sight of the sun.

One step, then you turn. You’re not blinded, but the scene in front of you is illuminated. Tsukishima Kei, his back against the chair, bandaged arm on the desk, and an expression of what looks like apathy scribbled across his face.

You pause, not so much as if you’re a deer caught in the headlights, but more like something within roots you to watch.

A stage is set, and the story looks to be continuing, instead of just beginning.

Tadashi smiles, patient. There’s a story behind the peace he wears, and you catch yourself thinking that you wish you knew the context behind it. In a way, you feel as if you do, but your thoughts blank when you try to dig for more connections, so you watch.

“Tsukki,” you hear him recite, just stating what he sees. “She’s the one you’ve been saving your seat for.”

“Nina,” Kei deadpans.

Nina, your thoughts echo. That’s my name.

You listen.

“I barely know her.”

Tadashi sighs, in dramatics. “The point is to get to know her.”

In response, Kei sighs too. “That’s already a lot of unnecessary work,” he mumbles, offhandedly.

You stay still, starting to think that maybe you don’t want to listen.

“C’mon Tsukki,” Tadashi pushes. “You meet up every weekend and the whole pantry in the breakroom has pretty much become you and her’s snack station.”

You watch, still rooted as Kei heaves a sigh in response, like the context of the conversation is the kind of weight that’s thought more like a nuisance instead of just a little heavy. “She’s convenient,” you hear.

Convenient, the word echoes.

Convenient, as the word that you let ring.

-

It’s funny how you almost slipped and clicked your shoes against the tile too loudly as to alert them that you’ve been there.

Just like how you almost turned around, when you made it to your seat a little later that morning, and he was already tapping on the edge of your desk, undoubtedly asking for the stapler.

There was a sense of hesitation in his voice, that didn’t fly past you. On the other hand, you didn’t turn around, like you usually would do, to at least strike up conversation. It was more convenient, like this you think. You’d place the stapler and your mug with the highlighters in the end that’s closest to him, and you’d turn your monitor a little to the side, so that you can avoid the glare from the window that always bothered you.

Right, you think. The glare.

Typing without that damned glare made work a lot more convenient. Humming out a quick response instead of trying to piece together what to say worked the same, and staying in your desk and ordering in your coffee instead of going to the break room to get your usual cup of caramel was also like that.

“Just for convenience,” you say as your reason to Kei, when he asks you if you wanted to get lunch with him that day, and you told him no, because you wanted to stay in the office instead.

It’s convenient too, when you look away and continue to type, willing yourself to focus on the text in front of you instead of his retreating figure your peripherals still catch a glimpse of.

 -

Just like how the Sunday after that, the reason why you chose to still sit in that same table by the window is because it’s convenient. Two chairs with only one occupied, you cross one leg over the other under the table.

There’s a file open on your laptop, with the material you need to go over still stuck on the first page even if you’ve already been sat in the same spot for 3 hours now. You wore a cardigan over your top on the drive here, and took it off to hang it over the chair across yours because it’s more convenient to just do that than drape it over your bag on the floor.

When Tsukishima Kei walks in, you ignore the fact that this seems like it’s just clockwork.

You click your tongue, a gesture more towards yourself than towards him, as you try to remember at least the last three things that’s ben staring at you on your file today.

Blank.

He spots you, so you clear your throat, reach forward to take another sip—too sweet—and squint at your screen.

The words are in complete jargon, as are the thoughts in your head. You tell yourself that the thoughts that come are just meant to be fleeting little nothings, but the truth is that they aren’t.

Convenience, it echoes, and you come to realize that you aren’t exactly in the place to be angry. Company was because of convenience, and it did start like that.

You suppose that it was just on you that you started considering Tsukishima Kei as the conscious choice you eventually chose over the usual—every day.

There’s a lot to be defined and sorted through when you think of the word almost.

Objectively speaking, almost wasn’t that much of a heartbreaking word to ponder about. You almost made it past the light, but orange tells you to slow down. You almost sent in your order before the restaurant closed, but ended up not doing it anyway.

To you, almost was a reminder that if something didn’t happen, there was just a greater someone above and perhaps beyond, setting down the foundations to say that this would only end up as a bad scenario.

Just like how you almost looked at him.

“Nina,” he smiles.

“Tsukishima-san,” you respond, keeping your poise.

Quite audibly, he shuffles. You clear your throat again, trying your hand at dissipating the awkwardness that sort of settles. “Is this seat taken?” he asks.

With hands that just barely pause above the keys, the best you offer him is a friendly smile.

“Ah,” you respond, then blink. When you look up and over towards him, he’s holding his bag in one hand with a cup of coffee in the other. There’s a lot of almosts that run through your head.

To be fair, you could say yes. But that was being fair to the rationality of the situation and not exactly to yourself. You hate the word convenience, because that meant that it was just another one of those for nows.

(You hate how temporary presence can be. More so within instances where the world makes you feel as if you’re the temporary.)

Like the seat you’ve occupied across him this whole time, you think to yourself that perhaps you were just the conversation that was convenient enough for him to sit with until what was to come arrived.

So you stare.

The absence of caramel is a little new, but it hasn’t settled enough for you to decide if whether you’re welcoming it or not.

Kei shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and waits.

He waits.

Waiting.

It’s annoying, you think.

You tell yourself that waiting shouldn’t always make you feel like you’re on the edge of something that won’t play out well, but in the moment, there’s not a lot of comfort you can cling towards.

So you grasp at what you have. Right now, you hold your cup of coffee and own company. The reminder that what you must be waiting for probably wasn’t him—the almost, you call it—present in your head, repeating like a mantra. The kind of mantra that’s meant to deliver you to safety, you hope.

He motions towards the seat again, when you don’t answer, so you straighten your back, bearing your thoughts together to try to atleast string some words as a response.

To be fair, you do ponder about what to say. You realize that not a lot can be weighed because if Kei had already made his intentions clear yesterday, you suppose you can give yourself your own clarity too. Transparency meant you were granted your own peace of mind, and you’ve always hated how foggy the word almost looked.

You don’t think about the two more sachets of caramel in the breakroom—almost finished.

You stare past him, focusing on the menu you can’t even read from this distance behind him, and try not to sigh.

He stares, and you hate how you know what kind of coffee he bought.

You despise how you know the exact files he’s probably carrying with him in his bag right now because you know him that well at this point. Too well, the voice in the back of your head nags.

But you hate how fleeting the word “convenience” feels. You’ve always thought to yourself that even if the seat in front of you had always been empty, the fact that you were seated in yours was the constant you’d forever abide by.

“Seat’s taken,” you hear yourself say, before you almost caught yourself saying no, it’s free.

It’s yours to take, you would have told him, because you felt like you still had enough in you to give him a couple more pieces you thought you wouldn’t need.

But the truth is, you realize, is that at the end of the day, you’d need every piece of yourself to be whole. Whether that seat across yours would be occupied right now, tomorrow—or even ten years into the future, it felt wrong to just have another almost keep it warm.

“Sorry,” you repeat, hoping to deliver your truth to him. “It’s taken. Just waiting for someone.”

“Ah,” he nods, though he doesn’t turn away. You feel him stare right through you, and you feel naked. Perhaps there’s a part of you that craves for him to know your actual truth and confront it, but the part that was all rationality said that that wouldn’t be a convenient thing to do, so you relent, and let go.

“Someone,” he echoes. “You’re saving that seat for someone.”

You nod, absent. “Yeah,” he hears you say, and he wishes you’d give him a little more than just the tendrils of a lie lying on the surface. “Someone.”

-

Just like how you almost missed a stop and rescheduled that trip to your friend’s flower shop next week again.

You almost missed him.

(But you didn’t.)

So you think that maybe this was the other road you’ve been meaning to take. It’s not a seat, but it’s a space. In between the bookshelves and the counter, there’s a space for you to fit in so you could reach past the bloom of hydrangeas to call your friend’s attention.

Except it’s another that catches yours first.

With your feet planted on the ground, you remind yourself that there’s no chair beside you to hang your jacket over as if you’re meaning for someone to come. Somebody already is here, you realize. He doesn’t glow like how komorebi reflects on your earth, but at the hues of his eyes you do see a semblance of the roots of earth.

Like two pools of hazel, you see the deeper shades of the sunset.

“Hi,” he grins.

“Ah! Nina!” your friend calls, so you turn to her.

She hesitates a little, setting down the vase she carries right before she picks up the conversation again—first motioning to you, then next to the man.

“Oikawa Tooru,” you introduce. “Makki’s friend from highschool,” you hear her continue. “He’s back in the country for a couple family stuff but his work is in Argentina now.”

You smile, appreciative of the conversation. “Business?”

Oikawa laughs in response, boyish. “Something like that.”

“He’s being humble,” you hear Takahiro chime from across the shop. “That’s the shit he does when he wants to be smooth around a girl,” he adds, laughing.

The man beside you rolls his eyes, albeit evidently enjoying the light atmosphere in the room. In a sense, you do too, so when your friend joins the other two in their laughter, you contribute to the happiness with your own chuckle.

The context of what was going on didn’t exactly sink in quite yet, but you found yourself still in place.

“I play volleyball,” he tells you, a little after when the laughter dies down. He’s still smiling, you note, just like you are, so you suppose that it’s nice that happiness can linger.

“Professionally!” your friend adds, her voice muffled from the distance in between you and her across the room.

“You relocating?” you ask, curious.

Oikawa leans forward, head propped up on his palms, as he shakes his head in the way you assume to be a no. “Just visiting home for a bit.”

“Ah,” you nod. “Homesick?”

He chuckles, airy. “I guess you could say that.”

Oikawa’s pretty, you think. It’s not like Kei’s kind of pretty that’s comparable to the light, but Oikawa’s is more leaning towards the same kind of pretty that’s to be associated with flowers. Like petals on roses, his pretty was classic.

(It’s just a shame that you like the tiny white petals on daises just a little more than the classic red.)

When Oikawa looks at you, and offers a smile that has you feeling like you’re meant to know him as more than just the stranger you bump into coincidentally at the coffee shop, you’re reminded, once again, about how this was another encounter that you almost missed.

-

“It’s nice to meet you, by the way,” you tell him afterwards, when you’re both outside of the shop, the expected goodbye lingering in the air.

It’s you who initiates it. On the other hand, it’s him who tries to prolong it.

Oikawa ponders about what he’s ought to say, pausing just for a few moments before he turns fully to face you, smiling again. “You too,” he chose to say.

(Chose.)

“Almost missed you,” you say. “Glad I stopped by the shop today.”

“Almost,” he laughs. “I almost didn’t come too,” Oikawa admits, eyes to you, present in the moment instead of being somewhere far away.

“But you came,” you laugh.

“And you made it,” he replies.

-

It’s interesting, he thinks.

You, he means.

It doesn’t go as far as saying that he’s only admitting to this because of all the time he has on his hands—as if you’re just the constant that’s there and convenient to think about, but he means it in the sense that he’s aware about you.

Your dynamic with Oikawa Tooru worked well in an odd sort of way. He was polite, much like Kei, and didn’t overstep his boundaries. Looking at him from a wider point of view, it’s safe to admit to yourself that he does check off most of the things written on what you think is your “someday.”

Almost as if you’re satiating a part of yourself and writing a closing chapter for the child within that hoped for a prince charming that would pull out your chair before you sat on it, Oikawa fit the bill to the T.

In contrast to what you had with Kei, Oikawa shared the same boundaries as you did. He never was the type to pry too much, only going as far as asking you a little about your job, but nothing much afterwards.

There was a sort of certainty that you found intertwined with having conversation with strangers. Like knowing names, then seeing boundaries before anything more was breached. A comfort, as you would call it, was given through the fact that the both of you knew the ending to this far in advance.

He was meant to stay in the city—thus your life—for just ninety days at most, given his visa, so you started speaking to him with that in mind. On the other hand, you assumed that he did the same for you.

-

When you move about with the thought that this was one of the things that was certain to remain as just a for now, you find that it’s easier.

You know his name, but this time you know better than to ask for more. There were some answers from yourself you weren’t sure you’d be able to give, so you never bothered to try to ask for the same.

Almost became a word that was bitter at the taste, and you didn’t want to taste more. Perhaps this time around you’d try to wait for what’s actually meant to come and leave that seat empty.

But it’s undeniable, that when Oikawa Tooru smiled, he was pretty.

He always sat in the seat beside the one with the jacket over the back—an unnecessary gesture, really, but it was appreciated.

“So what’s your story?” he asked you one day—today—and you think that he’s hovering just a little over the boundary that had been set. Comparable to a child standing over their parent’s bedroom door, trying to ask for one more snack before they’re sent to bed, Oikawa looks to be doing the same.

He swooshes his drink around with his straw, and asks away, though his eyes are not on yours.

Hesitation is the first emotion you sense—where despite the stillness of his voice—you could still pluck out the shaky foundation it seems to be just thrown on.

Still, you humor him, finding that his curiosity wasn’t exactly threatening. “Story?” you ask, though it was already clarified.

Oikawa hums out his affirmation, still not looking at you. He peeks, though, and at the very last second you catch him staring at you rather intently from your peripherals when you swirl your own drink around and look down.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he laughs. “I’m just wondering why you’re always putting your jacket over the seat in front of you.”

A few moments pass, and he lets it stay, before he eventually clears his throat, breaking the silence before it settles and overtakes the flow of the conversation. His curiosity was something he’s had for the short while he knew you by now, and he didn’t want to let go of the chance of getting answers to it now that you seem to be willing to drop at least a few crumbs of your truth.

There’s not much that’s intentionally hidden, he thinks. The earth around you didn’t look scarred, or too broken in for something to be buried underneath, so he realizes that every bit of your truth was already out in the open. Perhaps it’s masked, or perhaps it’s too intertwined with the vines that it looks natural already, but none the less, he wants to be able to see and read what’s there.

In between the lines, or through the foliage and its vines, Oikawa Tooru can say that he wants to understand and know the contours of your earth.  

May it be as vague as the hue of your sky, and feel of the grass, or may it be as specific as to know the feel of every petal of the flowers planted on your soil, he wants to know something.

But what you give him, in return, is a question of your own.

“What does your someday look like to you?”

Oikawa pauses, his eyes on yours. “My what?” he reiterates, with a chuckle.

In response, you let out a laugh of your own, amused at the blank look on his face. Oikawa looked like someone who was always two steps ahead of whatever was there, in front of even himself, so to see him in this state—a little caught off guard and baffled—it was more or less interesting to say at the very least.

“Your someday,” you laugh, straw pinched in between your thumb and pointer finger.

You watch as he chuckles, one hand behind his head as he exhales a lighthearted sigh, responding, “You’re gonna need to give me a little more information than just that.”

He smiles, blinding. You see that you kind of want to look away. “I’m not someone who’s too smart when it comes to reading poems.”

“So you don’t like reading underneath the underneath?” you ask.

“Nah,” he shrugs. “I’ve always been upfront with stuff in a way.”

“Funny,” you retort, leaning forward to rest your chin on your palms. “I was told the opposite about you.”

He raises a brow, still smiling. You’re still blinded, and you still want to look away, but a little later on you find that the light doesn’t exactly burn. So with that, you stand your ground and look. The light at 4PM isn’t anything like 9AM, you think. It’s blue skies and shining skies; white clouds, and a cool breeze. The day feels like it’s been lived—like things are established and there for yours to take—and you find that you don’t know what to think about it.

“So you have dirt on me,” is what he says, and he leans forward, intrigued.

“I’m a lawyer,” you retort. “It’s in my nature to be inquisitive.”

“So what you’re saying,” Oikawa says, slowly, “—is that you look at me like you would look at a client?”

“A client,” you parrot, huffing in exaggeration. “I’m just curious about a lot of things,” you admit. “I like clarity and certainty over standing on stuff that’s vague at most.”

“Plus,” you add, “in what way am I supposed to think about you?”

“As a friend?” you challenge, leaning forward to take a sip. Oikawa tries to steady his gaze with yours, but he swallows, frankly a little nervous.

There’s no answer why he’s nervous, but the feeling settles, so he decides he can’t do much other than simply just let it be.

“Is that what’s open on the table for me to take?” he asks you in return, and when you open your mouth thinking you have the answer, the silence tells you that you don’t.

“I don’t know,” you answer. “That’s something I can’t answer right now.”

“You mean that’s a part of the someday you have yet to answer?” he counters, smirking. The tides of the conversation have turned to favor him, Oikawa thinks, so with that in mind, he treads around his words, hoping not to slip and dive.

But even though he knows how to swim, he was always cautious enough so that he wouldn’t drown.

“My someday looks like that seat in front of me finally being occupied by someone who won’t leave.”

“So your someday,” Oikawa notes, “is someone that’s permanent?”

Shrugging, you explain your thoughts, “It doesn’t have to be someone, my someday can be just something.”

“But a chair’s built with the intention to be sat on, right?” Oikawa prompts, looking at you like the very essence of your truth is dancing right on the palms of his hands. “You can drape a jacket over the seat as much as you’d like but it’s okay to want to save it for someone and not just think that all it will end up being is a something.”

His words reach you, but you stay behind the line.

The wish to jump and dive doesn’t fill you, but the curiosity of what could happen should you take the leap is present enough for you to push for more of the conversation. Then like holding your palms out into the sky, you keep your distance from the waters and try to imagine what the waves could feel like under your skin.

Whether the seas may storm or not, you pull back because you realize that it’s the solidarity of the depth that terrifies you.

“Who are you to tell me what my someday is?” you ask, unafraid. Behind the boundary, you’re safe, and your feet are planted within the soil of a steady earth.

Across you, Oikawa gives you the sight of the skies, but also give you a glimpse of the seas.

It holds a promise, you see. A pandora’s box—but that’s the thing. A box like that was never meant to be opened.

You pull back before you can give yourself the chance of even opening your palm.

But Oikawa insists—in the way that doesn’t terrify you, but you find that it doesn’t exactly convince you well enough either. “I’m just showing you a different angle,” he explains. “You miss a lot when you just look at things from a first person point of view you know.”

“What if my reasoning already feels complete to me though?” you retort, out of curiosity, not necessarily aggression.

“Then that’s for you to live out,” he smiles. “I’m not gonna dig in places I’m not welcome in, but I can just tell you things you either could choose to believe or not.”

“So someday,” he sighs, as if he’s been holding his breath for this long while. Perhaps he has, but you don’t ponder too long in regards to it. “Your someday at least, is just whatever lands in that seat.”

You shrug. “I guess, but I hope it’s something good.”

“Or someone great,” he smiles, still offering his little variation of a truth.

“You’re really pushing that agenda huh,” you laugh.

“I can stop if you’re uncomfortable,” he replies, joining you in your laughter.

You smile, then make known your honesty, saying, “Who says I would even listen to you?”

“Ah,” Oikawa nods. He looks at you, then at the seat that’s empty beside him. “So would the someone that’s bound to take this seat be someone you’d listen to?”

You laugh, choosing to glaze over the metaphor he lays for you to uncover and instead just keep yourself safe at the distance. “Hopefully,” you shrug.

“I got a lot of hopes for my someday,” you smile. “I just hope it looks like happiness.”

“Why?” Oikawa prods. “Aren’t you happy now?”

Smiling, you poke a little bit of the more vulnerable end of your truth. “I am,” you confess. “My happiness is my nine am sunshine and pastel highlighters. So I can say that I really am happy.”

“But more happiness is always welcome,” you add, wistful.

Oikawa recognizes the look of yearning quick, but he doesn’t dig. Neither does he ask, nor prod—instead, he just lets you be.

He lets the empty seat stay empty, and doesn’t question it when you stare at the spot a little bit longer every time you turn your head towards it again.

“Something or someone good is something constant right?” he smiles.

You do the same, the truth in his words resonating with you.

All you do is smile, and Oikawa already hears what you mean to say.

(He hears a yes that holds all the longing your heart tries to rewrite as strength.)

-

What Kei does, on the other hand, is do a complete 180.

From an outsider’s perspective, it looks more like an odd dynamic if anything. There’s the awkward glance, when you catch each other at the breakroom at the same time, while the box with the remaining two sachets of caramel instant coffee remained on the shelf untouched. Some days you wished for someone who was a little more unaware would just grab at least one or maybe even both sachets, taking it for themselves, so you at least would have a reason to throw away the box.

But it doesn’t work that way.

The thing about almosts, you realize, is that when it leaves, what you’re left to deal with are the tendrils of it.

The things that’s there—that lingers—but in this case, while it’s there, in a sense it just looks like a stain.

Like the ink from your pen bleeding into the paper because you paused too long, and pressed too deep, the things that was yours and his looks like a stain.

It’s not like you take off the keychain or turn from him whenever he said hello if he came across you in the hallways, but most of your exchanges have felt more like the standard greeting the two of you started on.

Square one.

You think to yourself that perhaps he’s become the co-worker who just shares an office with you again, but the more you allow your thoughts to simmer, you realize that at the core of it that’s all he really has been this entire time.

Through the eyes of a poet who chooses to write the things they see through the rose colored lenses, perhaps Tsukishima Kei could have been an almost. The physical manifestation of the someday you’ve been saving the seat across you for, where he answered every metaphor you tell yourself you didn’t even think was there.

(At the truth that had been wrapped with your layers of optimism and false leads of poetry, you think that maybe you had waded in far too deep and held your breath too long, that your lungs just simply gave out.)

You blink.

This wasn’t heartache, but your chest felt dull.

Tsukishima Kei wasn’t love, but he occupied the seat intended for your someday for that short while a little longer than he should have, so like vines wrapping around old stone, you tried to hold onto something.

(Anything.)

Caramel and dinosaur charms; the band aid on his finger, and a quiet look that felt like nine am.

It’s just the difference between nine am and Tsukishima Kei—was that while it was a choice for you to turn your head and bask in the light—at the constant that was the light in the first place, all Kei had been was the temporary caught in the mix.

And by his words, you concluded that he means the same.

Convenience, he said.

A fickle, fleeting thing, when from your point of view, you began to see what could have looked like something that lasted a little longer than that.

You tell yourself that it’s just more convenient that way. Workdays that start from eight, will move through the hours so that it can end at six. You’ll type your files, call your clients, and highlight what matters with the pastel highlighters in the cup that’s been moved from the corner of your desk to the spot right beside your computer screen now.

Kei begins to bring his own, as well as his own stapler, so you think it’s safe to say that that’s all there is to it.

Working around what’s convenient, you mean.

An air of something incomplete hangs around for a while, often coming in passing. Awkwardly clearing your throat when you catch him in the same elevator, or when you hop off your car and he’s just getting out of his. He’s still polite, none the less.

When he sees you by the stock room carrying two boxes of refills for the printer, he takes them from you, even though you had always been the type to refuse with your redundant “no.” In the breakroom when you’d have to stand on the tips of your toes to reach the biscuits at the top of the shelf, he’d still grab them for you.

The obvious change in dynamic was just made known through the drop in conversation.

There was a stop, after the usual hello, and a goodbye, after you’d say thank you because of a favor. Like the both of you finally adhering to just what’s socially acceptable for acquaintances, even though you knew Tsukishima Kei would never be a stranger—these days it’s felt like he’s everything that’s got to do with that.

But the seat’s saved, you think.

Maybe his is too.

Perhaps the difference between the both of you was just that while you wanted to keep it open and waiting for what or who’s eventually meant to take it, Kei seemed to not have much of a problem at letting what’s convenient keep the spot warm.

Too many moments of for-nows, that’s okay at the start, but it eventually turns draining in the end.

Though still, you can’t help but admit that the taste of instant caramel seems a little sweeter than your usual brew that you’ve had for years now.

-

Oikawa Tooru comes into mind when you think of the word that could possibly mend the broken that is almost.

In a way, you tell yourself that there’s a lot that you should leave up to the voice of fate. The final say that it dictates, and the path that looks lit, and well swept, evident for you to walk on instead of the one that’s still covered with vines.

(You’ve always argued with the word fate.)

Though there was a balance of what was given and taken with the universe, you liked to think that at te very core of this all—was a choice.

Convenience was like fate, and with fate, came a multitude of only almosts that exist just to end as is—doomed to never make it.

Left as a comma in a sentence, within a work in progress, abandoned.

Hanging.

But you think to yourself that Tsukishima Kei had a definitive end.

Not as a person, or a connection, because those are just some of the things that’s meant to stay. To evolve. To change.

(Change.)

You think that it’s a little unfortunate how his identity seemed to change when you felt like you were on the cusp of moving towards somewhere greater. But the consolation, after the discovery of what he had made known as his truth, was that perhaps the silver lining in fate was how it often blessed a person with serendipity when they least expected it.

Maybe yours wasn’t the light, after all.

Maybe nine am and caramel was meant to be just a bridge, or a nudge in the direction to have you standing where you are right now, led to this exact moment, and what was meant to be yours—sat in the seat that you had been saving—were the petals in the shade of almonds and turquoise.

A few words spoken in Spanish, where the r rolls quite nicely, and a laugh that feels like he knows your story even without him digging too far down.

There’s bedrock beneath the soil, impenetrable. But Oikawa Tooru digs his feet into your earth anyway, content with what you lay for him in this surface.

(An in between of whether you particularly prefer that or not is caught in between in your head.)

“So what was your almost?” he asks, and ripped from your thoughts, you feel yourself land back into the surface.

At the haze that triumphs over your head, you have to remind yourself that the surface is nice. The surface is where the flowers grow, and face the sun. The surface, is the final product—the defining face—of what you are and what you have.

“What makes you think I have an almost?” you respond, curious.

Oikawa chuckles, evidently amused. “I think we all have an almost.”

With that, you relent; shoulders sagging, though your guards are still somewhat up. They stand guard beside you, this time, instead of cover you directly.

“He was meant to just be that I think,” you say. “An almost,” you clarify, then smile, as you add an afterthought. “I don’t hate him though.”

“Ah,” Oikawa nods, smiling like he just solved another piece of the puzzle. “So it was a someone this whole time.”

At his words, you roll your eyes, but chuckle afterwards anyway. “Was is a pretty good indication that it’s done with now.”

“I never pegged you as the dramatic type.”

“I like to think I’m unperceivable,” you comment.

Oikawa grins, “I’ve always liked solving puzzles.”

“I’m a person,” you retort, “not a stick of cardboard cut-out just to fit with something.”

“So what you’re saying,” Oikawa says, smirking, “is that you’re already the full illustration?”

“I deserve to be the whole piece,” you laugh. “I invest into things that fall in line with that.”

“I don’t think being just a piece right now is bad,” he says. “You’re what, only 23?”

Laughing, you wave him off. “You’re making it seem like I’m a lot younger than I am.”

Oikawa smiles with you, the happiness shared—amplified even. “You are young.”

“Sometimes it feels like that,” you admit. “But I think I’m at the part of life where I should be taking control of my time a lot more seriously. Leaving things up to the universe or fate or whatever hasn’t really been good for me.”

“But serendipity is nice,” he chimes.

And you nod, swiftly admitting that he does have a point. “Serendipity lead me to thinking that caramel was the one meant for me.”

Oikawa stares at the brew in your cup, eyebrow raised in question. “But don’t you like caramel?”

“I do,” you smile. “But not exactly enough to drink it for the rest of my forever.”

“What do you want to drink forever then?”

“You know you jump from one question to the next pretty quickly,” you note, laughing.

“I don’t wanna dig too deep,” he tells you, leaning back against the back of the chair, his shoulders slumping. Oikawa looks relaxed, you note. Like leaves just swooshing back and forth depending on the feel of the breeze, he looks like whether he turns towards the right or left, somehow he’s always going to find a nook to settle into place.

You envy the fact that he seems to be the type to find a place wherever.

“So what do you wanna drink forever?”

What do you see in that seat in front of you?

“Well,” you start, relenting. “I almost would have settled for caramel, but maybe it’s still a drink I haven’t even heard of yet.”

“So like a surprise,” Oikawa grins.

“Serendipity,” he adds, not even a minute later.

You take a sip, the taste familiar. While the voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’ve always been quite fond of the familiar, Oikawa smiling at you like he means to stay with the intention to reintroduce you to something that is everything but that, in a way, excites you.

You grin. “I don’t know about that, but I guess if it’s what’s meant to come then that’s what I should focus on building on top of, right?”

He clinks the corner of his drink with yours, laughing at the dull sound of plastic clashing. “I have a feeling that you think you’re running out of time.”

“So you mean you’re playing detective now,” you say.

“I’m a stranger,” Oikawa shrugs. “I’ll pass by here and after I leave you’ll probably only remember me as that really hot dude you bumped into at your friend’s flower shop.”

Rolling your eyes, you lean back on your own seat, huffing. “You left out conceited.”

“I think the adjective hot covers the important parts.”

“So you mean for me to just swoon at the memory of you?”

At your words, Oikawa smirks, right before it mellows into a smile, as if he’s triumphant. “So you mean that you admit you swoon for me?”

Knowing that this is mostly just empty words, you only laugh again in response. Not a lot of what Oikawa shows you hangs around what’s vague. You’ve always appreciated the clarity in whatever this was or is going to be, so the smile you let out is honest.

Oikawa stares.

A bit of silence settles in, but you let it, finding it comfortable. A little more passes before he smiles again, his eyes unwavering on yours.

“Did he ever tell you that you smile pretty?”

-

You should have said a solid no.

(Because that was the truth.)

Instead, you remember how you turned away and smiled in a sad kind of way, as if you’re missing something. “No,” you recall you said. “But he knows the kind of coffee I like.”

“And that’s enough for you?” he asked, and when you opened your mouth, thinking you had a response, silence was the only thing that met you halfway.

You think about it. Was it enough?

The more you allow for the thoughts to settle in, the clearer the heartache becomes. You come to realize that there is heartache that’s even present, in the first place, because to an extent you invested a part of yourself into this.

Tsukishima Kei didn’t just become the flow that moved with your day, nor just someone who fell into your clockwork. He wasn’t love, but the idea that he could have been was what rooted itself in your thoughts.

You let him take the seat you meant to save for what you hope would be permanent, and unknowingly, intertwined your vines with his. This whole time, you thought you faced the sun.

But when Kei nods his head towards you every morning as if it’s just a polite greeting—like all you are to him now is just a gesture—you realize that the sun you’ve held this whole time was just the bits that was filtered through the leaves.

(Komorebi.)

There’s an ache, but it’s dull.

The two damned sachets are still in the cabinets, collecting dust, and it bothers you how no one seems to want to touch it. You see the way he frowns at how bright his highlighters are, then try not to remember how

But while you thought that way, what doesn’t dawn on you is how Kei wills himself to turn from the window, and ignore the sun.

Slivers of the light he’s always thought was yours still dance in his desk. The way it comes is gentle; filtered through the leaves from the trees outside, on the canvas of his space he sees spaces. Of where there is light, and where there is shade, there in the spaces in between written are the thoughts he tries to ignore.

Though there was a lot that remained unsaid, the tragedy of the story was made known through the sight of the sun—from his eyes at least—that’s begun to look dim.

Kei stares at the yellow on the paper and thinks it’s out of place. He recalls, even though it’s a memory he actively tries to push down, the coffeeshop the two of you often spent your weekends at together.

There, he was reminded of how perfectly in place he had felt.

There, within your company, and conversation. While you were sat in the chair he thought he had always been saving for something, he hoped that he was sat in the place where you saved for yours.

Though there was the absence of explicit communication, he hoped the little things at least spoke to you. The coffee he used to place on your desk, that was made in the way he memorized by heart now. The pillow that he can’t help but notice you still using, on your chair, and the two pieces of caramel left on the cabinets.

(Like they’re there, just waiting.)

(As if on pause.)

(He hopes that this is just a pause.)

And he wanted to ask you too, to at least put words to perhaps quell the worry undeniably raging in his head.

His mind begs him for clarity—for answers. But the most he can do is feel his fingers twitch and throat lump when you pass him, muttering another, “Goodmorning, Tsukishima-san,” without looking in his direction.

The yellow on his paper is too bright and he hates the way it looks against the ink. It looks like a stain, he thinks.

You calling him Tsukishima-san instead of Kei feels like it’s a stain.

(But it eats him alive when he can’t bring himself to do anything other than sit still, rendered into absolute silence, even as the memory of seeing you at the café yesterday, sat across a man who took his seat.)

You were smiling, like you would towards your 9am everyday, so his words were left to remain as just thoughts.

His thoughts, like being just barely strong enough, almost pushing past that final barrier in his throat, but dying before it could overcome the final hurdle.

You’re more than just a question and an answer, he acknowledges his thoughts say.

You’re more than just pastel highlighters, sachets of caramel, and a stranger with a story that sat in the seat he saved for his someday for a while.

He sighs, his eyes still transfixed on the stain of yellow.

And it’s his almost that had him choosing to look towards you at the very last second, smiling. With patience, he gives himself a countdown from ten to breathe, before he looks at you.

You’re facing away from him, like you have for a while now, but even if the light wasn’t there, in the safety and secrecy of his thoughts, he admits to himself that you’re beautiful.

There’s a lot of uncertainties that come with life, but this moment, founded in the heart of everything that had been unclarity, he finds a moment of understanding. Time doesn’t stop, because it was founded with the intention to move—in a linear pace, so instead of losing himself, he rides the steady flow of his thoughts instead.

As if it’s another secret, he murmurs your name instead.

And because the world is a traitor to the almost lovers who arrived into their own set of conclusions in the silence, you hear him.

You don’t say his name, but he admits that he wished you did.

Like the day before, at the sight of seeing you offer him a smile, regardless if it was just for formalities, his hands are already clamming up. There’s a sprig of your hair, on the left side that’s a little askew, and he itches to reach forward and fix it.

The way you call him Tsukishima-san flashes in his mind again, so he pulls back.

He meant to unravel himself then and there—almost.

(He realizes how much he loathes that word.)

You look at him a little funny, but you maintain your patience anyway. It looks like he’s holding to a lot of something that he needs to say, so even if you’re apprehensive of his intentions now, you think you still have it enough in you to listen.

For a while he gives you just silence.

“Are you seeing someone?” he blurts, the sudden spike in volume of his voice a little awkward.

Furrowing your brows together, you try not to squint towards him. “Why would that concern you?”

“I saw you out with someone yesterday,” he murmurs, his voice more on the quiet end.

Half of him hopes you wouldn’t hear, that the world would be on his side just this once, but as always, it never was one to favor the uncertain.

“Tooru,” you say, testing the waters. “His name is Tooru.”

“Congratulations,” he tells you, but before you could respond, he’s already turning away. You know it’s not like you to leave whatever this is as just another hanging thing with the intention to just be left behind.

But he turns away, rationality tells you.

The more you dwell on your thoughts, you know there’s not much of a need to actively try to seek for closure in something that gave you nothing but blurred lines and a hazy outlook right from the beginning.

You turn away too, but somehow, the silence that you thought you had grown familiar to by now seems a little colder.

There’s sunlight that comes, but it’s filtered.

In the spaces between light and dark, Kei crumples his paper, fishes out a fresh copy from the side, and grabs a pencil to circle what he needs instead.

(When he passes the paper off to you, you try to ignore the way only your name was circled with permanent ink.)

-

“You know,” Oikawa hums one day. “You need to try being a little more blunt.”

The fact that he’s picking you up from work now should have been a red flag, about how comfortable he’s been settling into your life, but each time you think you’re aware enough to ask the question, he always beats you to the punch with something else.

Like now.

His hands are on the wheel, steady. There’s a kind of look in his eye you can’t quite read, and you’re suddenly thankful for the fact that he has to legally keep his eyes on the road, and not on you. He steals a few looks, though, and it’s through the feel of his eyes watching you from the rearview mirror where you’re reminded of how close you’ve gotten to him.

In proximity, literally, and more as just people.

In this sense, it terrifies you.

You don’t pull away though.

It doesn’t feel like things are clicking into place much like it did with Kei, but what you’re holding onto now, you see, is clarity. Or what you think clarity should be like, at the very least.

“Down this street, right?” Oikawa asks, breaking the silence, but not exactly the flow of your thoughts.

You think to yourself that it’s a little odd that he knows. Though the more you put some thought into it, it’s been a lot like it lately. Your car’s been in your garage more than usual, and he’s waited outside your office for a majority of this week. And the last—and the last before that.

There was consistency in his presence—the kind that was so intense and so tangible that it began to have you feeling like you’re supposed to be on the edge of something.

Perhaps right on the cusp of a change, that’s meant to be delivered all in good nature. You shift in your seat, opting to look at the window to your left, thinking that anywhere but the rearview mirror is a good view in the moment, and sigh.

Oikawa catches it, like always.

(You don’t know how to feel about constantly being seen this much.)

“Tough day?” he questions.

“An understatement,” you laugh. You find that Oikawa always has this way of looking at you like he knows you more than he lets on, and while for the most part, it didn’t exactly bother you, for now you find that you have to physically fight the urge to turn away.

In the end, you succeed, because your eyes are on the road ahead instead of towards him. Still, you feel the pull, so the most you do is catch a glance at a red light.

“Tsukishima Kei,” he says, quickly catching you off guard. “I remember him from highschool.”

You shift in your spot, interest piqued. “You know eachother?”

“Just acquaintances,” he laughs, his hands still on the wheel. “Knew him for a while that’s all.”

“So basically strangers,” you mumble.

He steals a glance: one that you don’t quite catch. “Yeah,” he says, hands on the wheel, foot on the brakes, and his eyes on you. “A stranger.”

And it’s in your eyes, that are cast down at his words, as you mumble, “same,” where the questions he didn’t dare pose to you are answered.

He gives himself a moment to take a breath, then when he sees that the light’s still at red, he taps his finger a couple times against the steering wheel before he takes another and holds it this time. “So it’s him,” he says, and the silence has never rang this loud.

“You’re a lot more obvious than you give yourself credit for, you know,” he laughs, a little louder this time when you choose to stretch the silence as your reply.

“And that’s a bad thing?” you counter, challenging him.

“Depends on how you look at it.”

“How are you looking at it?”

Briefly, Oikawa considers skirting around his words, but decides against it anyway. “Like I said,” he says, easing his foot slowly off the brakes when the car in front moved. “You could try being a little more blunt.”

“By blunt you mean….” you trail off.

Down this road, right past the house with the oddly shaped tree, and you’re home. It still doesn’t sink in when Oikawa pulled the brakes before you could even dictate to him where your driveway was.

“By blunt I mean if I ask you why you’re angry, you can answer it without sugarcoating anything,” he says, his hands on the wheel and the key still in the ignition.

Your hands pause before you could feign the notion of nonchalance. In a way, you suppose Oikawa had a point, but like always, vulnerability was something that wasn’t just given. Though to be fair, you didn’t want him to fight for something you weren’t willing to even lay on the line either.

The silence in the car is stifling.

“What do you think?” he says, breaking the tension that’s been steadily rising. “Can you?”

A pause, then, Oikawa shifts, unbuckling his seatbelt to face you. “Will you?”

And truth be told, nothing exactly overcomes you. It doesn’t happen like how they depict in the movies or write about in novels, where you become washed over by a certain kind of grace that’s overwhelming or empowering.

There’s no clarity that gives healing, or answers for the matter, but what does come to you is the feel of your shoulders slumping against the seats as you lean back instead of move forward to leave.

You know you don’t want to stay, and you know you aren’t stuck, but you still won’t move. Simultaneously it baffles you and intrigues you.

Oikawa’s still silent, and the low hum of the car’s engine hums. From the corner of your eye, you notice all the trinkets in the car that probably isn’t his, yet the way he holds on to the steering wheel and relaxes into the seat makes it seem like the latter. Perhaps he just had a way of making himself blend in the background, looking like he’s home even though in reality, he’s quite far from it.

“I’m just a stranger,” he says. “When I go your secrets go too.”

“Why should a person’s pain always have to be a secret?” you ask, letting what comes, trickle.

It starts slow. They don’t come as words, but rather bursts of emotions. You’re apathetic, then you’re tilted. Angry, then okay. On the cusp of disbelief, then tired. But what breaks your heart, you realize, is how you can’t seem to find a trace of joy in any of them.

And that’s when it’s made clear to you.

“I’m angry because there is no joy,” you say, your words coming out slow. Your breaths remain controlled, as is your pose, but there’s a part of you that wishes you’d move. Not in the sense where you’d break free for the sake of letting go, and letting loose, but the stillness grips you too tight and you feel like you can’t breathe.

Letting a semblance of a lifelong ache go should have you breathing by now, but instead you’re here, trying to catch up with air.

It’s disorienting. You’re inside a car, parked in your driveway, with a stranger who doesn’t feel like a stranger sitting on the driver’s seat staring at you like all he’s done his hold life is hold your truth. For the most part, you felt as if you haven’t been holding on to it yourself, so perhaps just feeling the full weight of it now is just overwhelming.

You like it; then you fucking hate it. The notion of risk is terrifying to anyone who’s stood on solid ground their whole life, and now, standing at the depth has you feeling like there’s nothing but unsteady waters beneath your feet ready to pull you under.

You throw a lifeline.

“I’m angry because I don’t want to be just another convenience,” you finally exhale.

“It’s scary, you know?”

“I’m angry because I feel like at my age I should just be saving. That fucking seat across me, investments for the future, and myself,” you sigh. Your shoulders begin to tremble, but Oikawa doesn’t hold you. What he does is lean back, and face forward again, letting what comes cascade over you in private.

“Is that why you’re so guarded?” Oikawa questions, tentative.

A sliver of the aching piece of you leaks. “Does it seem that way?”

He smiles, then crosses one arm over the other. “There’s nothing wrong with being a little more cautious sometimes.”

“But that’s the thing,” Oikawa pauses, “remember to only do that as a sometimes kinda thing.”

“I don’t want my life to just be a series of conveniences, Tooru,” you confess. “I want to be chosen as much as I want to choose. We’re all given a choice, aren’t we?”

He nods. “We are.”

“I’m terrified of marrying because of convenience and washing the dishes too fast because I can’t stand to be in the same room as who I’ll end up with.”

Oikawa juts his bottom lip, then blinks. “Who says it’ll be like that though?”

“Because if you choose what’s just convenient, that means you’re just relenting to what’s there.”

“You’re overthinking this,” he points out. “You’re okay.”

“Now I am,” you reply, voice just barely above a whisper. “But that’s because I’m taking control of what I can now and making sure I won’t end up in that position.”

“You’re gonna be okay you know,” he says.

“You say that like you know what’s going to happen to me to the end.”

“Maybe I do,” he laughs.

You shake your head, choosing to ride the lightness of the conversation instead of allowing yourself to further be pulled under. There’s limits when it comes to giving pieces of yourself to a stranger, but regardless of what you showed, you can’t deny that you feel a little lighter.

“You know sometimes I wish you did,” you breathe out with an exhale. “Would you give me a head’s up?”

“Then how will you learn if it doesn’t catch you by surprise? That’s the fun part in life.”

“Making mistakes?”

“Bingo.”

You snort. “I’m not enlightened about anything from this conversation by the way.”

“That wasn’t the point,” he hums. “I got you laughing didn’t I?”

“For now,” you sigh, rolling your shoulders.

“That’s enough.”

Unbuckling your seatbelt, instead of stepping out of the car you just readjust your position to lean back against the seat, sighing. “I guess,” you relent. “Thanks.”

His eyes anchor themselves on your profile again. “That’s my girl,” you hear, and by the chuckle you can tell that only means to convey his happiness.

Exhaling a sigh through your nose, you mumble, “Don’t call me your girl.”

Beside you, Oikawa quirks an eyebrow, challenged. “Because it’s too soon or because you just don’t want me to call you that?”

“And Nina,” he says, to which you turn your head to. At your attention, first he offers you a smile, before he continues, saying, “You’re young. You can take a couple detours if you feel like it. Just don’t tell yourself that everyone who takes that seat is automatically gonna be the convenience thing or the one. We’re all in the inbetween stage of life right now.”  

“For someone my age, you talk like you’re so old.”

“Hey,” he laughs, arms raised in mock surrender, “Thought I’d end up in Nationals and only trained in Argentina to get exposure for when I come back home, but now I play for the fucking national team there.”

“Shit happens,” he says. “You never know.”

-

You never know, Oikawa told you then, and you had smiled at him and muttered your thanks before you left the car.

He knew that if he was a little braver, and a little more full of himself, he would have leaned in for a kiss on the cheek at least, but not today. Not with you. It’s not that there’s something about you, but rather, it’s feeling like it’s everything about you.

Oikawa Tooru was never the type to believe in clichés much, so this was considered as one of his predicaments.

“You never know,” as the words Iwaizumi told him when he contemplated buying that ticket back to Tokyo just for a while.

You never know, as the thought in his head when he switched lanes at the very last minute and visited Hanamaki’s flowershop instead of meeting up with an old fling he’d begun to have doubts with.

You never know, as the phrase he tells himself time and time again, because this could lead to something better.

(And it’s you, as the something better that met him in the middle; his heart, unprecedented.)  

He really should be driving home by now, but instead of doing that, he’s rounding your neighborhood two more times.

You never know, he told himself, the day after he met you at the flower shop, phone in hand, three minutes before he made up his mind to press the call button and ask you for coffee the very next day.

You never know, turning into irony because all he knows is that he’s fucked.

The more he thinks about it, he should really have listened to reason instead of spontaneity. He could have stayed on his lane and drove in accordance to his schedule. Had he stayed where he was meaning to go that day, he could have drove down the streets of your neighborhood and not know where to turn. The streets could have stayed unfamiliar, and it would have been fine.

(But that’s not the case, because now he’s going on his third turn, and instead of merging with the highway, he makes another turn towards your street again.

Huh, Oikawa thinks, suddenly remembering the sight of you beside a bloom of hydrangeas. Never knew daises were that pretty.

-        (italics-flashback) -

“You know you really need to stop being so impulsive,” Hanamaki points out.

Oikawa takes the seat across him, sliding in after a quick roll of the eye. Accepting the can the former slides towards him, he sighs, before opening the tab and clinking it together for a quiet cheers.

The brunette sighs. “Just got caught up in fate, that’s all.”

—Fate, like the story that started with hello. Hydrangeas and roses, and a light illuminated that streamed in through the glass, filtered by leaves.

Fate like seeing you against the light of Komorebi, and thinking to himself that perhaps this is what they mean about feeling the roots of a promising maybe take place and hold still.

“Love isn’t just built on fate,” Hanamaki shrugs in front of him. “It’s the little steps you choose to take every day.”

Oikawa snickers. “Wow, so you’re a poet now.”

“I’m not,” Hanamaki deadpans. “You know I’m shit with words,” he adds, holding his bottle out.

Oikawa leans forward and clinks his against his friend’s, laughing. “But here you are.”

“Here I am,” he laughs. “I chose to be,” he says, looking around the shop, the look on his face telling him that this is what he means by home.

(—Like he chose to be here.

Nine in the morning where he should be on a train to Miyagi to spend the last week of his trip. It’s a choice, he thinks, that he made when it was 8:48, and he was still too delirious on the high that he could just about do anything regardless of time.  

At 8:55, despite the truth of the matter shown crystal clear to him, he still pressed on. ‘It’s fine,’ he thought then. ‘Just a quick stop and I’ll still have time to pack.’

And it’s a quick stop that looks like that café down the road, where it’s just a 10 minute walk from your place. He’s never been the type to particularly enjoy coffee as much as you, but he supposes a couple brews is worth it to try. The most he knows is your schedule that runs from eight to six, and that your favorite time of day was nine.

Perhaps it’s how the sun feels on his palms, and the kind of warmth it gives that’s only met through this time of day that makes you fall in love with the hour. From what he remembers about the comments you say in passing, he knows that it’s always under the light like these where you favor having your usual cup of coffee.

And because spontaneity is what drove him to pull at the roots of the maybes that have already dug into the soil, he still doesn’t budge when he recognizes the telltale shade of blonde just a few spots in front of him at the café.

It’s a choice too, he thinks, to nod his head towards the blonde in acknowledgement when he turns and allows for the person behind him to take his spot.

“Oikawa-san.”

Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if a greeting was due, but he supposes that social etiquettes dictates the things that must be done, and so, he follows.

“Tsukishima Kei, right?” he asks, as if it’s the first he’s said that name in a while. “ Though a semblance of truth is with his words, he still keeps his reservations.

It’s silence, for the next few while. A couple steps forward, and a silence that isn’t exactly comfortable to prolong or share, before it’s Kei who takes initiative and turns to face Oikawa, as he says, “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Nina’s a great girl,” he adds, after Oikawa lets the silence hang. In front of him, Kei shifts his weight from one foot to the other, basking in the awkward of the atmosphere because of Oikawa’s lack of response.

It doesn’t strike dawn on Oikawa until he’s moved up a couple more spots up the line, where he’s face to face with the cash register, what Kei means to deliver with his words. Mouth forming into a small ‘O’, his thoughts just blank.

There’s a saying that he remembers often, and it’s ignorance is bliss. In most cases, for the sake of keeping his peace of mind, he would agree. In the moment, he disagrees.

“Can I take your order?” was just supposed to be a question, and it shouldn’t have made him think too hard. And looking at it from a more objective point of view, he would have just texted you, asking what you felt like drinking that day, and that would have been the end of that.

Phone in hand, and your contact that he’s still been meaning to save on the screen, he’s halfway to shooting you a text, but before he could, someone’s already beat him to the punch.

“She likes caramel latte with sweetcream cold foam on top on a regular day,” Kei says, beside him, towards the cashier. Afterwards, he looks at Oikawa, adding, “But on weekends if she feels like it, she’ll usually order an iced shaken passion lemon tea with two shots Asian dolce sauce and sweet cream cold—“

“We’re not together,” Oikawa interrupts, though he doesn’t break the chain of his actions. As if running on autopilot, he speaks with a smile, pockets his phone, fishes out his wallet, and hands the cashier his card.

From the side, Kei watches as he smiles his thank you: the first towards the cashier, then next towards him.

“We’re not together,” he clarifies, repeating his words with a little more grip to his tone. “You don’t have to worry,” Oikawa smiles. )

Oikawa shifts, eyeing Hanamaki. “You see,” he responds to his earlier words, “I can think that love is like that—that it’s the little choices and shit, but if it doesn’t work out—“ he pauses, heaving a sigh, “—then I can just tell myself that maybe it’s not meant to turn into love. And that makes it okay.”

The atmosphere dips, and Hanamaki chooses to keep his silence.

He watches as Oikawa nods his head, evidently trying to convince himself. “I’m okay,” he reaffirms, first to himself, then to Hanamaki who stares at him with a careful eye.

“Tooru…”

(And he means when he say that he’s okay, because truly, how could he not be when he’s stopping by your office and seeing you beam at him with the same streams of komorebi illuminating you like a halo behind your head.

He’s okay, when he sees that the purple dinosaur charm still on your keyring looks too identical to the one on Tsukishima Kei’s that’s set on top of his desk, next to a stack of papers.

He swears he’s okay, because a maybe is all this will ever be, and he’s made peace with that. Though on second thought, there was no issue to even make peace about—at least he thinks.

Thinks.

He thinks he’s okay, still, when after you say your thanks, you follow up with “How’d you get my order right?” and when he answers that he didn’t, you looked somehow happier when he nodded his head towards Kei’s desk.

“Ah,” he heard you reply. “Thanks, still.”

There’s a bit of red on your cheeks he wants to blame the light for, but he knows better. Ignorance is bliss, and in the moment, he craves for it.)

Oikawa sighs, leans back and cocks his head back to stare at the ceiling. There’s an absence of stars, but the blankness suffices. To his distant right, he hears Hanamaki swing back another gulp, before he too, follows suit and blinks at the starless ceiling.

“But I’m not gonna lie,” Oikawa says. “It stings a little.”

-

To be fair, he tried to make it only sting. And because the world can only give so much mercy, it only offers him this.

A seat beside yours, under the midnight sky that covers the secrets he knows he’ll have to try to hide. Like the red on his cheeks, the fidgeting of his fingers, and the nervous tap of his toe inside his shoe. You face him, a question in your eyes, but for the while that the silence is one of comfort, he resides in it like he would home.

And it’s nice, Oikawa thinks.

It’s nice to be like this and stay like this.

You can watch the stars, and smile at the moon. Should the world have given him more time than he has, he thinks in another life, he would have loved you under komorebi. Through a foliage of green may the sun come, and you’ll hold your hand out like the illuminated light comes just for you to take.

(And it’s warm, Oikawa thinks.)

(The palms of your hand looks warm.)

“The seat’s already taken isn’t it?” he says finally, breaking the silence.

You look at him, on the cusp of an apology, but he cuts you off before you get the chance to say a word.

“It’s okay,” he says, voice forgiving. When you turn to look at him, he has his own apology in his eyes. “Please don’t tell me sorry.”

“I’m not sorry about anything, Nin,” Oikawa smiles. “I won’t say I was sure about you, but there’s too much uncertainties hanging around for me to try to keep this up. Don’t wanna burden you with that too,” he continues with a laugh.

“You say that Tsukishima’s that almost for you, but you know the difference between calling someone an almost and a maybe?” he questions, though he doesn’t look at you. To the midnight skies he shifts his eyes instead, and so you do the same, hoping to see clarity within the haze of the clouds.

(You don’t see a thing.)

“An almost means that you’re sure about it enough to pursue it,” he says. “An almost means that you’re getting there.”

(You see the moon.)

Oikawa stares at your profile, and thinks of the hydrangeas. “Do you like hydrangeas?” he asks, seeing the memory of you from day 1.

You nod, eyes still to the moon. “Yeah.”

In your eyes, he sees the tendrils of what is meant to eventually bloom as love. “Would you accept it if I gave you one right now?” he asks, prompting the question for his ending.

By some mercy, you turn to him. Mindlessly, you ponder for a few moments, before you shake your head. “Maybe,” you say. “I’ve always loved daisies the most though.”

He laughs. “Noted.”

“Moon looks pretty tonight, doesn’t it?” he asks, sealing the ending close.

“It always looks pretty,” you smile.

He supposes the silence that comes is the first of peace.  A moment more, under the midnight skies, and though his fingers itch to reach forward and hold your hand, he wills it to lie still.

You smile, again, and he knows the clock’s up.

“I think I’ll head out first, actually,” Oikawa says, getting up with a stretch. “Early train to Miyagi tomorrow; might as well make the most of it before I fly back to Argentina.”

“Should I say see you later?” you ask.

“Of course, you can,” he smiles. “But I should probably leave now. Seat’s taken right?”

-

For just a little bit more, the last traces of midnight stays, before dawn breaks.

Hanamaki stands beside him, upper body leaning against the railing, his eyes to the skies, where dawn slowly starts to break. “Did you really cancel your flight?”

Oikawa chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course not.”

“But you extended it,” Hanamaki replies, laughing with him.

Oikawa nods, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That I did,” he admits, nodding his head.

“Never thought you’d be the type to go this far,” he says. “Say if it worked out and she asked you to stay, would you?”

“Maybe,” Oikawa laughs.

“So almost.” Hanamaki notes.

A nod. “Almost.”

“I almost didn’t go to your shop that day, by the way.”

“But you did.”

(A truth he would never replace.)

So Oikawa smiles, blinking at the bleeding colors of dawn that steadily breaks. “I did.”

-

There’s a lot of things about you that Tsukishima Kei can best describe as beautiful.  

Like the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you lean forward and get some work done. Your photos of your friends by your monitor, and the stack of sticky notes behind your monitor that you refuse to throw away because you think you might need them later.

Komorebi, and the filtered light it brings, because it’s warm. The feel of residual warmth that lingers on the surface of the mug long after the coffee’s gone.

A lot of what’s beautiful is you.

Your pastel highlighters, and the way you wave at the cat that loiters around the parking lot.

Tsukishima Kei learns to love the word ours, and further appreciate the taste of caramel only when it’s shared.

Like what he wants to do now, he supposes. Lately it’s felt like you’re starting again, from square one all over again, as he stares at the same contents in the fridge and the cabinets. Only this time, most of the questions he has are already answered.

He knows you like crème brulee over strawberry shortcake and it’s just because. You prefer spring over winter, because the winter’s too cold for you to take. When you say good morning, just to him, it feels nice and he feels seen.

And most importantly, he knows your favorite kind of instant coffee is the caramel ones from nescafe.

Like the two sachets still left alone inside the cupboards in front of him.

“Ah,” he hears, and when he turns, he sees you, awkwardly standing by the door looking unsure about where you are.

“I was just making my way out,” he nods towards you.

Sheepishly shaking your head, you refute his words, “No need,” you smile. “I’m just making coffee.”

“Ah,” he comments. “Busy day ahead, right?”

“Yeah,” he smiles.

“The other day,” you hear him hesitate. “The thing with Oikawa-san…” he trails off. “I’m sorry if I crossed any boundaries.”

“You’re fine,” you smile.

“And with you—“ he extends, almost as if he’s in a panic. “I’m sorry.”

“I know I used the word convenience, and I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I need to be a lot better with my choice of words.”

When you keep your silence, his eyes snap back up to yours, a little frantic. “Not that I mean it’s an excuse though, I mean, I’m sorry. I want to get to—no,” he interrupts himself, before he relaxes his shoulders with a sigh, and just looks at you, defeated. “I like you.”

“I’m sorry too,” you smile. “I looked at things a little too extremely than I should have, you know,” you tell him. “I think there’s just a lot between us that needed to be said.”

“We never really spoke much out loud,” you note, casting your eyes to the side, towards the cupboard with the two sachets of caramel.

“But thanks for always getting caramel though,” he hears you say, and he smiles. “Thanks for the keychain too,” you add.

“You kept it,” Kei notes, nodding towards your ring with a fond look.

“Of course I did.”

“Can I make you a cup?” he offers, watching you round the corner, walking towards the table.

“Yeah,” you answer. “I’d love that.”

Gesturing to the seat across here he’d take, you nod towards him. “This seat taken?”

Recognizing the familiarity in gesture, Kei grins. Like memorizing the patterns Komorebi casts on the blank space in his table, he finds his puzzle begin to click into place again.

Perhaps this is a start, or perhaps this could be just a detour that will be for now, at best. You smell caramel in the air and see your 9AM light leak through the door and spill into the room. It’s peace, as the place you choose to settle in.

Komorebi.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves.

May it fall on your hands, or kiss the skin on your face. You’ll accept it as the light it is, where it will illuminate you regardless of the patches where the shade overlaps the light. Light and dark, intertwined, but what you hold and feel is still light.

(Still could be love.)

A seat that’s empty, and your hope for the mundane to be redefined into all the words of love.

His purple dinosaur keychain and the fact that the plethora of messages you’ve delivered over moments of little nothings are now pushed back into the light, and made clear.

(Is this seat taken? you ask, much like he did in the days before.)

“All yours,” he says. (You answered.)

(All yours.)

[robininthelabyrinth]

noncon-anon🔪🔪🔪...2!: Regardless of how much jealousy he holds toward his half brother, Meng Yao never expected or wanted to have Jin Zixuan on his knees before him. Certainly not like this, at least (his half-brother wrapped in chains, in the middle of the Sun Palace’s main hall, with Wen Ruohan and who knows how many other people watching) but he hadn’t been expecting Jin Zixuan to get captured either, and if this is what he has to do to remain in the Chief Cultivator’s favor, then so be it; may the gods forgive him for this violation of his kin (...and maybe if he puts on a good enough show, Wen Ruohan will let him keep his half-brother alive).

ao3

warning for adult content (full warnings on ao3)

Meng Yao had spent years not thinking of Jin Zixuan as anything other than an obstacle in the way of his ultimate goal – his father’s recognition, himself as the heir and eventual master of Lanling Jin – and he bitterly resented Wen Ruohan for trashing all that effort.

It was impossible to keep the image of Jin Zixuan that he’d had in his mind before: the spoiled, arrogant princeling in the same make as Wen Chao, less a human being than a statute of gilded gold, all fancy clothing and flawless appearance.

There was nothing of that now.

There was nothing arrogant about the frightened young man on his knees in front of him, chains carved with suppression arrays wrapped around his body – they’d been designed for a much stronger cultivator than he, Wen Ruohan’s mind lingering too often on his chief-most enemy in the war, Nie Mingjue, and Jin Zixuan was as helpless beneath them as a lamb, shivering in blind terror at being taken away from all he knew dear. His retainers had all been taken off to the Fire Palace or killed where they knelt, their corpses dragged off leaving smears of blood on the ground, and only he remained.

Meng Yao’s envy.

His brother.

His mother had always wanted to give him a brother, he abruptly recalled, and hated Wen Ruohan all the more for making him remember it. Her womb had closed after him, such that she couldn’t try for another even if she’d wanted to, but she’d day-dreamed about him making friends with the legitimate sons her sect leader – that was how she always called him, her sect leader – would undoubtedly have, pointlessly giving him advice on how to make friends with them, impress them, make them like him.

Not – this.

Never anything like this.

“Look at the gift I got for you, Meng Yao,” Wen Ruohan said, smiling. “A twin from another womb, born on the same day as you, but unlike you planted in the legitimate belly and so hoarded like a treasure – I would wager that you wish you could peeling his skin off and wrap yourself in it, wear it back to Lanling Jin.”

Meng Yao smiled. “Sect Leader Wen does me too much honor. This lowly one does not deserve such a gift.”

We may be born on the same day, but I’m three years older than him, and my mother isn’t a disgusting vicious old hag like Madame Jin. How dare you compared them.

“And yet I have chosen to give it,” Wen Ruohan said, brooking no disagreement as always. “You do such fine work in my Fire Palace, Meng Yao, with strangers who have never looked at you twice – I cannot wait to see what marvels you will accomplish with a target that you actually abhor. Which of your fine instruments will we try on him first? Should we break his spirit by removing his sword hand, or cut off Jin Guangshan’s hopes along with his balls?”

He laughed, endlessly amused by himself.

Meng Yao smiled along – mother wanted me to be his friend – and mentally ran through his options as fast as he could. He couldn’t risk angering Wen Ruohan, not when the other man held the entirety of the Nightless City in the palm of his hand, not when the only thing keeping Meng Yao himself out of the Fire Palace and strung up on his own instruments of torture was the quality of his service.

“I will of course not disappoint the Sect Leader,” he says smoothly, and pretended to ignore the way Jin Zixuan flinched, with his face so similar to his own, to the face his mother had loved so foolishly. “Only…”

“Only?”

Meng Yao ducked his head bashfully. “Sect Leader is too generous to me, it makes me go beyond myself; I start to think of things I should not. When I was young…ah, but it does not matter.”

“Don’t equivocate,” Wen Ruohan ordered, but his attention was caught, as Meng Yao had intended. “What were you going to say?”

“It’s only that when I was young, my mother would tell me stores of Lanling Jin,” Meng Yao said, and hated, hated, hated Wen Ruohan for making him have to share such things. “Her hope was that my father would accept me as his recognized son, but failing that, she had always assumed he would take me at least as – as a servant for the one he already had.”

He didn’t need more than that: Wen Ruohan got it right away. “And so once you were rejected you dreamed of the opposite, is that it?”

“It would satisfy this lowly one’s most fervent dream, Sect Leader.”

Wen Ruohan smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile – it was full of hidden dangers. “Ah, Meng Yao, you dare to dream so high! There’s only one problem with your suggestion that I see. This well-born child, this treasure of Lanling, what possible servant could he make? His hands are so clean and soft, he would not be able to do manual labor nor even sweep your floor. What possible use could you make of him?”

The answer came to Meng Yao at once, and he hated himself this time even as he responded with a pleasant smile: “Well, Sect Leader, in the absence of any other use, I could always have him serve me in bed.”

Wen Ruohan burst out laughing, caught by surprise.

He loved the idea, of course, as Meng Yao knew he would. Wen Ruohan was a man with esoteric tastes; he enjoyed torturing and humiliating his enemies, and the prouder the man the more he longed to ruin them. Even within the time Meng Yao had worked in his Fire Palace, he had seen Wen Ruohan offer a brother his family’s freedom if only he would forcefully take his sister’s purity, which the unfortunate man had done, weeping piteously all the while.

Yes, Wen Ruohan loved the idea, and because of that, Meng Yao had a chance of saving Jin Zixuan’s miserable life that he’d only need to later end, if he was to truly achieve all of his desires.

He would, too. He wouldn’t hesitate to end Jin Zixuan’s life if it served his ends.

Just not - like this.

My mother wanted us to be friends.

“Very well,” Wen Ruohan said, waving his hand. “You may have him as your bedwarmer.” Meng Yao had not even begun to salute in thanks when he added, “But before you accept such a gift, you should try it out.”

Meng Yao was not so foolish as to let his smile freeze. “Here, Sect Leader?”

“Why not here? It may as well be witnessed.”

Like a marriage, he meant, and Meng Yao hated him.

“Of course, Sect Leader,” Meng Yao said, and this time he completed the salute, bowing deeply, and made his way over to his hapless younger brother who was shaking like a leaf, just as unable to flee.

Meng Yao knelt before him and began to open his clothing, taking a moment to lean forward and hiss in his ear, “Keep your mouth shut. Play along and you will live; resist and you will die.”

It was neither threat nor reassurance but merely fact, but Jin Zixuan clearly needed the words – needed to think that there was someone here on his side, however illusionary the sensation was.

Whatever he was thinking, it worked.

Jin Zixuan stopped trying to fight and submitted as best as he could, even if he couldn’t help but flinch any time a new piece of flesh was exposed.

He was quivering like a quail, and Meng Yao sighed and reached for his half-brother’s cock, making him squeak in an undignified fashion as he started stroking it.

“Is that entirely necessary?” Wen Ruohan asked, sounding bored.

“I intend to get plenty of use out of him, Sect Leader,” Meng Yao replied, his tone equally bored as if this were merely a chore even as Jin Zixuan’s cock unwillingly started swelling up beneath his palm. “If I tear him up the first time I bed him, I’d have to stitch him up and wait for him to heal before I can take him again, lest I want to risk his death. And there’s only one legitimate heir, isn’t there?”

Wen Ruohan chuckled. “I suppose so.”

“Besides,” Meng Yao continued, because he knew he had to keep Wen Ruohan’s interest. “There’s some fun in this as well: look how responsive he is, getting hard for me already. He’s tied up in chains and bared for half the world to see, and all he cares about is his dick.”

“Reasonable, for a son of a pleasure-lover like Jin Guangshan,” Wen Ruohan agreed, and he sounded much less bored now. “Your shared father.”

“Our shared father,” Meng Yao agreed, and reached down with his free hand to open his own robes, pulling out his own cock. “Would you like to see how similar we are?”

He lined himself up next to Jin Zixuan – they really were similar, in both look and size, and Wen Ruohan laughed as Meng Yao shifted over to pleasuring them both at the same time. Jin Zixuan had his lips pressed tightly together, but he couldn’t help the little whimpers and mewls that broke free now and again, nor the way his hips bucked up under Meng Yao’s skillful work. He wasn’t the first man Meng Yao had pleasured like this, and, if anything, he seemed almost unexpectedly inexperienced.

Meng Yao would have assumed that Jin Zixuan, as Jin Guangshan’s son, would have had his fill of brothels by this age, have fucked every hole in every way that whores offered for sale and then some, but perhaps his jealous bitch of a mother wouldn’t let him.

Certainly it didn’t take very long before he was coming helplessly in Meng Yao’s hands.

“Did you like that, brother?” Meng Yao asked him, and Jin Zixuan looked at him in betrayal. “You came so quickly – you liked having your brother’s hands on you, didn’t you? The same blood as yours. They say mine is less pure on account of your mother being born in a palace and mine in a brothel, but in the end it seems that you’re the one that turned out the whore.”

Jin Zixuan’s face was red and flushed, but he didn’t say a word, didn’t resist as Meng Yao pushed him down and spread his legs, merely grunted when Meng Yao slid fingers slicked up with his own come into him one a time.

“You’re tight here, which is to be expected,” Meng Yao continued, aware of their audience – the one on the throne being the only one that mattered, although there were plenty of guards watching avidly as well. “I doubt anyone’s ever made use of you before, unless our shared father has even more interesting tastes than I thought…”

Jin Zixuan flushed even redder and shook his head furiously.

“No? Then let your older brother be the first.” Jin Zixuan’s body was involuntarily relaxed after his orgasm, and Meng Yao was in a hurry, knowing that he couldn’t draw this out too long lest Wen Ruohan grow bored – he stretched him roughly, making as much space as best as he could, then put his cock at his entrance. Before he did anything more, he reached over and grabbed Jin Zixuan by the hair, forcing him to bend forward so that he could see Meng Yao’s cock about to breach him. “At the brothel, they say a woman always remembers her first man. They say it’s because her body shapes itself to him, molding the inside to accommodate him, never to be the way it was before – making her the perfect fit for his cock and no one else’s, no matter how many others she might one day take. I’ve heard the same is true for men. What do you think, little brother? Are you ready to take me into you? Are you ready to watch as I turn you into something fit only for me?”

Jin Zixuan couldn’t tear his tear-filled eyes away.

Meng Yao pushed in, and Jin Zixuan whined, high and loud, pathetic. It didn’t stop Meng Yao at all, pushing in inexorably – Jin Zixuan was hot and tight, about what he’d thought he’d be, same as anyone else. There wasn’t any magic to incest, no matter how much it got Wen Ruohan off.

(It got Meng Yao off, too. But he’d be a very poor whore’s son indeed if he didn’t know how to separate business and pleasure - and this was a performance. Would he say such ridiculous words, words that no one would believe if their dicks weren’t hard, otherwise?)

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he said, because he knew Wen Ruohan liked to hear it, and maybe also because he liked the way it made Jin Zixuan have to turn his face away in shame. “You really were a virgin, weren’t you? Look at you, giving yourself to me like a bride on her wedding night, taking me all inside of you. What a good little bedwarmer you’re going to be.”

He settled in all the way, hips pressed against warm flesh, and enjoyed the sensation of Jin Zixuan futilely clenching around him in an attempt to get him out.

“I’ll teach you all the tricks to please me,” he said, starting to rock back and forth, moving in and out. “Every morning you’ll present yourself to me to use; every evening too, and if I get bored during the middle of the day I’ll use your mouth. Once I’ve gotten you properly broken in, I’ll rent you out to anyone who asks – I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Make you the good little whore and me the master, make you earn on your back that gold you’ve always worn as if you deserved it.”

He was thrusting in earnest now, Jin Zixuan’s legs around his waist, and to his amusement it looked like Jin Zixuan was getting hard again. It wasn’t really a surprise, a natural reaction to the strange and confusing sensations he was enduring, none of which said anything as to whether or not he was enjoying himself at all, but Meng Yao dropped his hand onto Jin Zixuan’s cock yet again.

“See, you’re halfway to a whore already,” he mocked. “Getting hard on big brother’s cock like a good boy. Good and obedient – you’re going to come with my cock inside of you, and belong to me forever.”

Jin Zixuan was whimpering, tears streaming down his face, but it still didn’t take long for him to come.

Meng Yao finished shortly after.

He allowed himself a few moments to enjoy the sensation, and then pulled out, pulling Jin Zixuan’s leg up so that Wen Ruohan could see the come dripping out of his abused hole.

“Well done,” Wen Ruohan said, clapping. His eyes were avid. “Well done indeed. As always, Meng Yao, your craftsmanship is exquisite. You may keep him – although perhaps another show might be in order, soon enough.”

“Of course, Sect Leader,” Meng Yao said, and snapped his fingers for a guard to take Jin Zixuan to his room. Sad and miserable and pathetic, but still alive – just as he’d promised.

Naturally, the situation of keeping Jin Zixuan as his personal pet wasn’t tenable in the long run, and so it was only a few days later when Meng Yao kneeled in front of Wen Ruohan and said, “Sect Leader, I have an idea for something we can do with Jin Zixuan.”

“I’m listening,” Wen Ruohan said lazily. “What do you have in mind?”

“I have left him alone and isolated in my bedchamber these past few days, growing increasingly nervous and paranoid,” Meng Yao said. “I propose to allow him to ‘escape’ with some information to deliver to Sect Leader Lan, who will believe his peer well above he might believe some anonymous sender of notes. And he, in turn, will pass the information along to Sect Leader Nie…”

Wen Ruohan’s eyes lit up in immediate interest, as Meng Yao had expected. He was always keen to hear any word about Nie Mingjue.

“I believe this mechanism will allow us to lure Sect Leader Nie into a trap,” Meng Yao said. “And then…”

He let his eyes drift over to the chains that had so recently housed Jin Zixuan.

“Do as you suggest,” Wen Ruohan ordered at once. What did one little Jin Zixuan matter to him, next to the possibility of gaining a Nie Mingjue?

Meng Yao saluted and left. It was settled, then – Jin Zixuan would be let go and make his way back to the Great Sect’s side of the war, they would both put this unfortunate incident out of their heads, and life would carry on as if nothing had happened.

(Years later, when Jiang Yanli coaxed Jin Guangyao into a bedroom where Jin Zixuan waited, shivering in a completely different way, it finally occurred to him that he hadn’t told Jin Zixuan that that was the plan, and also perhaps that the other man lacked his own talent for compartmentalization – but in the end it all turned out all right anyway, even if it did mean he’d need to revamp his plans for conquering the Jin sect to find a way to keep his new pet alive in the long run.

Damn Wen Ruohan. It was all his fault!)

[mittensmorgul]

Can’t everyone use tumblr how they want?

YES!

This site is exactly what people make of it for themselves. That was the exact point of that post. The fact that people reacted negatively to it at all proves my point. Seriously.

I have a number of other anons that are clearly from people who don't actually follow me, and are only here in a reactionary fashion having seen it on someone else's reblog, or else heard about it in passing and decided the best reaction to an ultimately harmless and rather bumbling post was to take personal offense and bring anonymous hate to a stranger on the internet. (and at least one not-anonymous "go kill yourself" type comment on the post itself)

THAT was the point of making that post.

For people who might be new to this fandom or new to tumblr in general (or even for people who have been here for years), your experience here is exactly what you make of it. I haven't seen that sort of vitriolic kneejerk reaction to anything I've written or posted in years. That post touched nerves. So it was a bit of an experiment, and I'm sorry to everyone who experienced any of that negativity second-hand. NOBODY should be made to feel like shit when engaging with something that is supposed to be fun. But I've learned over the years that that's exactly what some people consider fun.

There are new people to this fandom since the absolute free for all of the weeks after November 5th. We all reveled in those weeks before the show collapsed in on itself two weeks later. It was like 15 years worth of Hiatus Blogging followed by... well... some of the worst genuine hurt and disillusionment I've ever experienced or witnessed inflicted on a fandom by a piece of media.

There have to be at least a few people who floated into this fandom during that emotional roller coaster who want to make sense of it all, who were at least curious enough about how a show could've brought the characters to that emotional moment in 15.18 before effectively ignoring it all and burning the entire 15 year narrative to nothing just two episodes later.

Some folks stuck around to dig through the ashes of fandom in search of carrion, and that's fine. Some have zero desire to ever engage with the show or the fandom beyond mocking it for ever having existed at all, and that is also fine! But some folks? They might be wondering why anyone ever saw anything in this narrative to begin with, and they might be interested in knowing that there is this vast collection of information available to them (funny that none of my self-righteous anons even mentioned those, outside of one pointing out that my phrasing introducing that section of links was easily interpreted as condescending... which... yeah... again that was the point, and no I will not edit that language. none of us are free from sin).

Tumblr hasn't "changed." It was always this way. This site is not a monolith. Fandom is not a monolith. Even smaller groups within fandom aren't monoliths. Things that are considered "tumblr standard etiquette" do not exist across this entire website. And even within the supernatural fandom, and even within the tumblr-destiel-portion of the fandom there aren't "rules" dictating how you interact with anyone. Well, the one specific rule we should all be able to agree on is that you don't bring hate to real actual human beings, and yet...

There has ALWAYS been the option to engage with fandom here on whatever level an individual chooses. And that hasn't really changed since the finale aired. Anyone who thinks that Tumblr or the fandom has "evolved" or "changed" has likely just fallen in with a different fandom bubble then they'd existed within before. None of the bubbles have actually popped or disappeared. But which one you experience is entirely your own choice. You curate your experience here.

That was the point, illustrated by the vast array of comments I actually got on that post, structured with a little bit of everything including "tumblr mom from 2014." Everything pisses some people off, you know? Even the perception that some stranger on the internet might dare to lay down an arbitrary "rule" that zero people actually have to follow. See what I mean?

Because if any of the people who kneejerked at it actually followed me, or knew me at all, they wouldn't have kneejerked. They would've seen the point.

So your experience is what you make of it here. There are resources for people actually interested in engaging with the narrative or the fandom or the history of it. People mock "tumblr moms" or "fandom moms" all the time, but there wouldn't ~be~ a fandom without the people who actually build those resources. I.e. adults with the time, money, and personal investment in actually sustaining the fandom, instead of running around with torches trying to burn it down at every new whiff of perceived ~drama~ to latch on to.

For example, all of the scripts we've been acquiring and sharing with the entire fandom free of charge. I know that the fandom bubbles who seize on those scripts like hungry vultures to cough back up out of context "gotcha" posts postulating whatever theory of the differences between script and screen will dredge up the most drama or outrage in their fandom bubble... they haven't even considered how those scripts were acquired and made available to them. To them, they are "leaks." They are gifts that fell out of the sky and landed in their laps. There isn't even the barest curiosity about their origins or relevance beyond whatever social nourishment they derive by making up stuff and spouting it out with unearned authority. It's sad. But if that's how they enjoy the fandom, it's nice to remind them that none of the fandom they cannibalize would exist without the rest of us, too.

Yes, even the people you disagree with. Even the people who ship the things you find disgusting or repulsive. Even people who have an entirely different experience to your own. Even the people who are only here for those gotcha posts.

Fandom is not by nature a nihilistic shitshow, or no fandom would survive the amount of drama the 1% try to bring to it. Here have a fanlore article about this phenomenon. Right now, in Supernatural fandom, it feels like more than 1%, but I promise it really is only 1%. They're just really loud. There's actually other avenues to participatory fandom available to anyone who chooses to find them. Parts of this vast fandom that aren't focused on that 1% of reactionary leg-chewing at every turn. None of them are (as the linked article confirms) truly 100% free of unnecessary drama or bad behavior (including ME, I mean I MADE THAT POST!), but on tumblr you can curate your own experience. Fandom actually can be fun without burning down the thing you claim to be a fan of, or attacking other real human people for having the audacity to exist on the internet in a way you might believe is out of touch or pathetic. Seriously, nobody deserves to experience that from anyone over a fucking television show. Like seriously, take a step back and examine your life and your choices at that point.

Tumblr was exactly the same as a fandom community when I joined as it is now. Throughout my entire time here, I've curated my own personal experience to exactly what I derive the most personal satisfaction from. During that time I have had numerous friends and mutuals lament that their personal experience had become so toxic, but they were afraid to trim those blogs from their dash for fear of having no content left to engage with at all. For years there have been follow lists and blog recs and people desperate to find a more "peaceful and fun" fandom experience. People grow exhausted and embittered when their entire experience of fandom is an emotionally draining drama train. It's like pandemic doom scrolling, but for the thing that should be a respite from that sort of mindset, something that's supposed to be entertainment. The show did enough to us all, we don't have to turn around and re-inflict it on each other day in and day out on tumblr dot com.

So if even one person saw my post and thought well shit maybe I actually want to engage with a wider swath of fandom and see what's there, after seven months of post-finale drama, this whole other region of fandom is still here, still being the curators of the archives, the creators of stories and art and meta and gifs and videos and actually caring about it all that will keep this fandom going long after the current round of exhausting drama inevitably plays itself out.

The amount of in-group language in the negative replies I got was unsurprising. It's like folks are living in an alternate universe that doesn't mesh at all with what I experience on this exact same hellsite. Almost like we exist in entirely different bubbles of fandom, with entirely different purposes for existing at all. Everyone on this hellsite gets to pick which bubble (or bubbles) to take up residence in. Some people simply forget that their personal bubble isn't the universal defining experience of this site. Unfortunately, I doubt my little disruption to their bubbles will actually make any of them see that, but you anon... I think you did.

You are highly encouraged to engage with fandom EXACTLY THE WAY YOU CHOOSE. You have the ultimate power in controlling your entire experience here. Tumblr and Supernatural Fandom on tumblr is not Just One Thing that everyone who wants to participate in must conform to one specific code of ethics or behavior to be part of. And that NOBODY has the right to tell anyone else they're doing it wrong (including ME! I am 100% including myself in this!).

It's not MY job to dictate how anyone else experiences this fandom, as much as it was not the job of the people who reblogged my post (which I did not personally shove into their eyeballs with a demand for compliance... how did any of those people even *find* my post?) solely to tell me how *I* need to change how I experience the fandom, you see? Don'tcha love hypocrisy!

But the point was made for those who care, and a lot of people got to update their block lists (I still don't block anyone, as I said I curated my fandom space here and generally don't follow folks that don't personally make me happy and enrich my life by engaging with their content. However other people choose to engage with *my* content (any of it, going back nearly 50k posts over the last decade) is their business entirely. Sometimes I just feel the need to draw out people who are all too eager to expose their own whole asses in public. Mission accomplished.

[wistfulcynic]

The Meet-Cute, Part One

In which Ruby decides that what Emma’s love life needs is a good old-fashioned meet-cute, and sets about arranging one for her. Or two, or three, or six...whatever, she’ll set up however many it takes for her friend to meet The One. But it may turn out that Emma doesn’t need any help finding The One after all...

Rating: T Words: 5.2k (first chapter)

On AO3

-

LOOK @optomisticgirl I WROTE THE THING.

Also, @ohmightydevviepuu, @shireness-says, and @distant-rose you are complicit in the writing of the thing.

-

PART ONE:

“What you need, Emma Swan, is a meet-cute.”

Emma swallowed a sigh but couldn’t hold back the accompanying eye-roll. “I’m pretty sure that’s the last thing I need.”

“No, hear me out,” Ruby insisted, her eyes alight with excitement. “This is actually perfect for you.”

Emma let the sigh go this time, reminding herself firmly that Ruby was her best friend and had been for years.

“All right,” she said. “Tell me why I need a meet-cute.”

“Yesssss,” said Ruby. “Okay, listen. There’s nobody at work you’re interested in dating, right?”

“My co-worker is literally my brother.”

“Yeah that’s kind of what I meant. Most people meet their future spouses at work—”

“That’s not a real statistic.”

“—but—yes, it is real—but there’s no one at work for you and that’s not likely to change, so you have to look elsewhere. Now, the next most common place to meet someone is where you live—

“Seriously, you’re just making this stuff up.”

“—but there’s no one for you there, either,” Ruby pressed on, ignoring her. “No cute guys across the hall—“

“No straight ones anyway.”

“—and seeing as you are for some strange reason dead-set against online dating—”

“I absolutely am.” Emma shuddered at the hideous thought.

“—which actually does work, by the way.”

“It doesn’t. You and Mulan are just outliers.”

“Look, Emma, don’t knock the matchmaking power of Good Omens Discord chats until you try them.”

“Yeah, no thanks.”

“Well then,” Ruby declared, in a voice that suggested she thought she’d won the argument. “That leaves you with no option but the meet-cute.”

“Really, that’s my only option?”

“Just think about it, Emma.” Ruby’s eyes grew dreamy. “Adorable mix-ups in coffee shops… picking up the wrong leash at the dog park…”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“…you both reach for the last croissant…”

“Where am I going to find a croissant in Storybrooke?”

“The last bear claw then, the pastry is really beside the point.”

“And what is the point?”

“The point is that you meet someone and it’s fucking cute, okay? And then you fall in love and live happily ever after.”

“Or I could just, you know, go on as I am, not meeting anyone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, woman,” said Ruby sternly. “Do you want to live the rest of your life alone?”

Emma shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing.” Better than being stuck with someone she didn’t love, just for some dumb reason like—

“Do you want Henry to grow up without a father?”  

—like giving her son a decent man in his life.

“Henry has a father,” she reminded Ruby. One he hadn’t seen for the best part of a year, but still.  

“Do you want Henry to grow up without a father figure who isn’t a massive douche?” amended Ruby. Emma sighed again.

“Neal does the best he can,” she insisted.

Ruby snorted. “Sure he does.”

“He does, really. He’s just… not cut out to be a parent.”

“Well, that’s for sure.”

But Emma didn’t blame Neal for being a shit dad, though she knew her friends and family did. It wasn’t his fault it was hers, for stupidly falling for and getting knocked up by a guy whose ‘best’ was showing up once or twice a year to shower Henry with presents and promises before disappearing again without a word a few weeks later. At first it had broken both their hearts—Henry’s from disappointment and Emma’s from anger and guilt over his disappointment—but Henry was twelve now and starting to learn that the parents he adored were human and flawed, and to adjust his expectations accordingly. Emma had to admit that it was a relief not to have to cover Neal’s ass anymore by trying to make excuses for him, however deeply she regretted Henry’s loss of innocence.

And yeah, it would be nice not to have to raise her kid alone. Neal got to be the fun parent, buying Henry all the stuff she couldn’t afford and taking him on trips to exciting places, leaving Emma to enforce bedtimes and check homework and try to make Henry eat the vegetables she herself hated. Having someone else around, a real adult she could rely on to share those responsibilities with her, that would be good. Great, really. Wonderful, in fact. But dating was hard enough without having to start it off by explaining that even though you yourself weren’t yet thirty you came in a two-for-one deal with a near-teenager, and Emma had had far too many first dates end early and awkwardly to hold out much hope that she would ever meet the man of her dreams, be it cute or any other way.

“I appreciate the thought, Rubes, I really do,” she said. “But I’m just not looking for anyone right now.”

“But don’t you see?” Ruby cried. “That’s the best time to meet someone—when you’re not looking.”

Emma threw up her hands. “You are impossible and I’m not talking about this with you anymore. I’ve got to get back to work anyway.”

“All right.” Ruby shrugged and let the subject drop, but the glint that still remained in her eye warned Emma that this wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

—

Before she returned to work after her lunch with Ruby, Emma stopped by the library. Belle wasn’t at her usual spot behind the desk so Emma ventured into the stacks on her own, in search of some books that would help Henry with his school project on the solar system. She was standing in the astronomy section with her hands shoved into the back pockets of her jeans, frowning at the frankly baffling array of options when a voice spoke just to her left.

“Can I help you find something?” it said.

Emma turned with a smile that stalled abruptly as her mouth dropped open. “Um,” she said, blinking in confusion at the blue eyes and dark hair that very definitely did not belong to Belle, and the bright smile that took her breath away. “I actually could use some help, but—sorry, but do you work here?”

The owner of the voice—and the hair and the eyes—laughed. “I do, for the moment at least.”

“Did something happen to Belle?”

“To her grandfather, apparently,” he replied. “I’m not sure of the details but Belle told me she had to go back to Australia for family reasons.”

“Oh. I didn’t hear anything about that.”

The man’s eyebrow twitched in a small frown. “Well, it was quite at the last minute, so she probably didn’t have time to tell everyone. But I’d spoken to her recently and mentioned I was looking for a quiet place to spend a few weeks’ holiday and so when she asked if I could come here and cover for her for a while, I gladly agreed.”

“And why would she call you?” Emma nearly flinched at the harshness in her tone but the man’s smile widened and his eyes twinkled, sucking even more air from her lungs.

“We’re old friends from library school,” he explained, as Emma struggled for breath. “My name’s Killian Jones.”

His smile began to crumble as Emma just stood and stared at him, until she managed to shake herself out of her breathless haze and smile back. “Emma  Swan,” she said. “I’m the town sheriff.”

“Ah.” Killian’s grin brightened again, and Emma thought vaguely that he should really have a licence for that thing. “That explains all the questions.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. We don’t get many new faces in Storybrooke and, well—”

“Aye, of course, you can’t be too careful.”

“Um, right. Exactly.”

“Well, Sheriff Swan,” said Killian, with an absurd little waggle of his eyebrows, “I can assure you that haven’t broken any laws, but then I did only arrive in town last night so there’s still plenty of time.”

Emma laughed. She couldn’t help it, his goofy humour and ridiculous eyebrows were too charming. “But if you broke the law I’d have to lock you up,” she replied, and fucking hell was she flirting with him?

He seemed to think so, if the way his eyes glinted as he leaned in closer was any indication. “I might not mind being locked up, if you promised to stay and guard me,” he murmured.

Emma’s breath caught again at the look in his eyes, the edge of danger behind the flirty charm. “Do you talk like this to all library patrons?” she asked, cursing the raspiness in her voice.

“Definitely not. It’s highly unprofessional, but then there’s not much else I can say when you still haven’t answered my question.”

She swallowed hard. “Wh—what question?”

“Can I help you find anything?”

“Oh.” Duh, Emma. “Um, yeah, actually. My son has to do a project on the solar system, so I’m looking for some books he could use.”

She waited for Killian to freeze up, to awkwardly withdraw from her now that he knew she had a kid. But he simply nodded and asked “How old is your lad?”

“Ah, he’s twelve. Sixth grade.”

“Hmmm, in that case I’d recommend this one.” He reached over her shoulder to take a book from the shelf, giving Emma a whiff of some spicy cologne and a briny scent like he’d been out on the sea. Her knees went weak, and when he held out the book she stared blankly at it, trying to marshal her scrambled thoughts back into some kind of order. “It’s an excellent overview of the solar system with plenty of details on all the planets,” Killian explained, “but the language is accessible for someone your boy’s age.” His eyebrows rose again in an expectant look.

“Um. That looks great, thanks.”

“See how he gets on with it, and if he needs more information I’d be happy to make another recommendation.”  

Emma nodded and followed him to the check-out desk, wordlessly handing him her card and watching as he completed the process of checking out the book. When he finished he tucked a bookmark between the pages and handed it to her with another warm smile.

“Well, Emma Swan, it’s been lovely talking to you,” he said. “I hope it won’t be a one-time thing.”

“I—I’m in here a lot,” she replied. It was only a slight exaggeration. Henry was in the library a lot and she often came to pick him up. “So I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

For the third time in fifteen minutes Killian Jones stole her breath with his smile. “I’m looking forward to it already,” he said.

—

The next morning Emma was at Granny’s waiting in line for coffee when out of nowhere someone gave her a hard shove, knocking her into the man in front of her, who had just accepted his cup from Ruby.

“Oh my God!” she cried. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened!”

“It’s okay,” said the man with a tight smile, shaking droplets of coffee off his hand as Ruby’s eyes grew comically wide.

“Oh, no,” she said. “What a terrible accident. Let me get you another cup, sir.”

“Thanks,” said the man, and Emma’s own eyes nearly rolled clean from her head. Ruby was known for her lack of subtlety but this was ridiculous, even for her. Emma glanced over her shoulder just in time to spot the tip of Mulan’s braid just disappearing through the door.

“So,” the man was saying to Ruby when Emma returned her attention to him, leaning on the counter and giving her a crooked grin. “You come here often?”

“Every day,” said Ruby dryly. “I work here. But maybe you’d like to ask Emma that question.”

The man’s pale blue eyes flitted to Emma, then rapidly away. “I’d rather ask you.”

Ruby gave a frustrated huff. “Here’s your coffee.” She thrust the new cup at the man and turned her back.

“What’s her problem?” the man muttered.

“I don’t know,” snapped Emma, “maybe you should ask her wife.” The man’s eyes widened in alarm at the look on her face and he backed away, slowly edging towards the door.

“Have a great day,” she called after him, then turned to her best friend as the man fled the diner.

“I hope you’re happy,” she hissed.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Ruby asked, the picture of innocence. Emma rolled her eyes.

“I’m guessing this was your attempt at a coffee shop meet-cute? I spill the man’s coffee, apologise profusely, he laughs it off. I offer to buy him another cup, he refuses but asks me to dinner instead? Was that the idea?”

“...maybe.”

“And you see how well it turned out?”

“He was clearly just not The One,” said Ruby stubbornly.

“There is no ‘The One’ Rubes, that is a myth, and I cannot believe you roped Mulan into this nonsense too.”

“I didn’t rope her in, she volunteered! We both want you to be happy, Emma.”

“And you think dumping coffee on the world’s creepiest doctor will make me happy?”

“What? Have you met him before?”

“Yeah. Last year when Henry broke his arm. You’ll be pleased to hear that he tried to hit on me then. Right in front of my kid.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. Meet-cutes only work in romcoms and fanfics, Ruby. Here in reality they just piss people off.”

“Well,” said Ruby, handing Emma her coffee, determination clear in the set of her jaw. “We’ll see about that.”

—

Emma: What do you want for dinner?

Henry: What have we got?

Emma: Nothing, that’s why I’m asking. I can stop at the store on the way home.

Henry: I suppose pizza isn’t an option?

Emma: We had that yesterday.

Henry: Not a problem for me. But chicken or something would be okay too.

Emma: One of those rotisserie chickens?

Henry: Yeah, sounds good.

Emma: Okay, kid. See you at home.

Emma was standing in the grocery store, frowning as she compared the rotisserie chickens when a voice spoke just to her left.

“I don’t think there’s much of a difference between them, love.”

Her heart leapt and her skin tingled, and yet when she turned to face Killian Jones—and his damned smile—she was still not prepared.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly. “I, um, didn’t expect to see you here.”

“No reason why you should, I guess, except that I like all people do need to eat from time to time.”

“Of course.” She felt foolish, but his expression was warm and only slightly teasing.

“How did your son get on with the book?” he asked.

“Really well! He read for like two hours last night. Thanks for the recommendation.”

“Any time.”

They stood grinning at each other until someone behind them cleared his throat and they both gave a little start. Killian rubbed the back of his neck as he moved aside to allow Mr Clark to select a chicken.

“So, um,” said Emma after he’d left. “Are you getting stuff for dinner?”

“Aye. I’m staying in the apartment above the library and this morning I discovered that the oven doesn’t work, and the repairman can't come until tomorrow. So I need something that comes pre-cooked. Hence rotisserie chicken.”

“Solid plan,” said Emma, though she felt sad thinking of this lovely man eating dinner alone in that tiny apartment, and that was the only reason that she blurted out “But, ah, why don’t you come over and eat with Henry and me?”

“Oh.” Killian blinked in surprise.

“Since we’re both having the same thing it makes sense not to waste a chicken,” Emma barrelled on. “When Henry and I get one we’ve always got leftovers, so… I mean, you don’t have to if you’d rather not—”

“No, no. I mean, yes! Yes, I’d like that.”

“Oh. Um, good.”

He smiled again, bright as always but with a hint of shyness that caught her off guard. “Is it, ah, just the two of you?” he asked. “Presuming Henry is your son, that is?”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “His dad’s, um... not in the picture.”

“I see. Well then I would love to share a meal with you, Emma Swan. And your son. And perhaps you would allow me to bring dessert?”

Emma’s heart was pounding so loudly now she was sure he must be able to hear it. “That’d be great. Um, here’s my cell number, just at the bottom of this.” She took a business card from her pocket and handed it to him. “Text me and I’ll send you directions to our place. Can you come over about six?”

“Six it is.” Killian slipped the card into his own pocket carefully, as though he didn’t wish to harm it. “I’ll see you then.”

—

Emma finished the rest of her shopping in a daze, wandering haphazardly through the aisles and putting random things in her cart without thinking before giving herself a mental slap and a stern admonition to get a fucking grip. She removed the strawberry syrup from her cart (she and Henry both hated fake strawberry flavour) and the tuna (what the hell had she been thinking?) and then remembered that Henry was nearly out of peanut butter. His favourite kind was the most popular one and the store could hardly keep it stocked, so she was pleased to see that there was one jar left as she approached the shelf. Just as she was reaching for it, though, another hand appeared and snatched it from her grip.

“Hey!” she cried indignantly. “That was mine!”

“Sorry,” said the man who’d taken it. He didn’t look sorry in the slightest. “Maybe they’ve got more in the back?”

“Are you kidding me?” Emma huffed.

“Nope,” the man replied. “Look, I really am sorry but someone needs this peanut butter. She sent me in here to get it specifically.”

Emma hissed her breath out through her teeth. “She did, did she? And did she say why she couldn’t get the damn peanut butter herself?”

“Ah, no,” said the man, frowning warily at her. “She didn’t. But listen, lady it’s just a jar of peanut butter.”

Emma’s lip curled into a snarl and the man’s eyes widened in alarm. He backed away from her, nearly stumbling in his haste. “So, um, I’m going to, ah, go now,” he stuttered. “Bye.”

He turned and fled towards the checkouts with Emma close on his heels. She followed him to the self-checkout line where he kept shooting nervous looks over his shoulder at her and she amused herself by giving him darker and darker glares each time and keeping her eyes fixed on him when he took the jar of peanut butter and ran out the door.

When she arrived at where she’d left her car Emma was entirely unsurprised to find Ruby there, leaning against the hood and looking slightly sheepish.

“So what was the plan this time?” asked Emma. “That we would both reach for the last jar of peanut butter, our fingers would touch, sparks would fly, and we would exchange cute banter with sexually charged undertones ending in a date?”

Ruby nodded. “Something like that.”

“Ruby, I keep telling you, that is not how real life works!”

“Oh yeah?” Ruby challenged. “Well, what about David and Mary Margaret! They had a meet-cute.”

“He mistook her for a burglar and she hit him in the face!”

“Exactly!”

“How is that a meet-cute?”

“How is it not? They met, it was cute, and now they’ve got an amazing story to tell their kids.”

“I met Neal when I tried to steal the car he’d already stolen,” Emma pointed out. “That’s an amazing story and yet our relationship was a fucking dumpster fire that I’d be happy to forget all about if it weren’t for Henry. Not all cute meetings end in happily ever after, and frankly I don’t think a squabble over peanut butter in a small town grocery store is the best way to jump-start true love.”

“And what would you know about true love?” Ruby snapped, then gasped in horror as her eyes went wide and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, Emma, I’m so sorry,” she whispered through her fingers. “I didn’t mean it.”

Emma’s chest felt tight. “It’s okay,” she muttered.  

“No, it really isn’t.” Ruby gripped Emma’s hands in hers. “I love you, Ems, and you’re one of the most loving people I know. That’s why I want so badly to see you happy.”

“I know.” Emma nodded and gave Ruby’s hands a squeeze. “I know you didn’t mean to say it.” However true it might be, she thought bitterly.

“Let me make it up to you—”

“Oh my God, please don’t—”

“—with this free jar of peanut butter!” finished Ruby triumphantly. She reached into her bag and removed the jar, offering it up with a flourish.

Emma smiled as she took it. “Thanks. I wasn’t looking forward to telling Henry how someone stole the last jar right out from under me.”

Ruby flashed a grin, then turned solemn. “Are we okay, Emma?” she asked hesitantly. “Truly?”

“Of course we are,” Emma reassured her. “Truly. I do have to get going though I have—uh, Henry will be getting hungry.”

“Of course.” Ruby stepped back to let Emma unlock her car door. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, see you.”

As Emma drove home she tried not to think about why she hadn’t told Ruby that Killian was coming for dinner. It might stop her friend’s meet-cute-ing attempts if she knew Emma had a—well, not a date exactly but a man coming over to... well, just to eat really, but still. She could have spun it so it seemed like a date and got Ruby off her back, at least for a while. Yet for some reason Emma wanted to keep Killian just for herself. At least for a while.

—

Killian Jones was punctual and he could follow directions, Emma thought when her doorbell rang that evening at six o’clock precisely. That alone put him head and shoulders above Neal... and what the hell was she doing comparing a man she’d literally met yesterday with her son’s useless father, even just in the privacy of her own head?

She smoothed her hair and the front of her blouse and took a deep breath to calm herself before opening the door, and still she was not prepared for that stupid, gorgeous smile.

“Good evening, Swan,” Killian greeted her. “I come bearing brownies.”

And wine, she couldn’t help noticing as she stepped back to let him in. “Great, uh, brownies are my favourite,” she lied. “Um, Killian, I’d like you to meet my son, Henry.”

Henry came forward with smile on his lips and mild confusion in his eyes. “Hi Killian, nice to meet you.”

“And you, lad. I hope you like brownies as well.”

“I love them,” Henry replied. “Though my mom usually prefers—” he broke off when Emma gave him a Look. “Ah, she prefers hers without nuts.”

“Well, she’s in luck because these are nut-free.”

“Sounds perfect!” said Henry brightly, and Emma didn’t think she’d ever loved him more.

“Let me just take those from you,” she said, relieving Killian of the box of brownies and bottle of wine. “Henry, can you show him into the living room? Oh, and Killian what would you like to drink?”

“Whatever’s easiest, love.”

“Water, soda, beer?”

“Beer would be great.”

“Coming right up.”

Emma fled to the kitchen, doing her best not to look like she was fleeing. Once safety through the door she set the brownies and wine on the counter and desperately drew air into her lungs. She wasn’t going to survive spending much more time with Killian if she didn’t learn to breathe around him, she thought wryly, and also why was she even thinking about spending more time with him—this was nothing but a casual, friendly meal and they had only just met.

“Get a fucking grip, Emma,” she reminded herself firmly, and went to pour some beer.

When she entered the living room a few minutes later Killian and Henry were sitting next to each other on the sofa, deep in discussion about the solar system. Henry had his project notes spread out on the coffee table and Killian was rubbing his chin, listening intently as her son spoke, and Emma’s heart absolutely did not melt at the sight of them. It didn’t.

She set a glass of soda in front of Henry and a beer in front of Killian, who looked up at her with a smile.

“Thanks, love.”

Aaaand there went her breath again, thought Emma. Damn it.

“Ah, I’m just going to go finish up dinner, um, if everything’s okay in here?” she said.

“Aye, I think we’ll be all right.”

“Mom, guess what? Killian knows all about astronomy and he’s going to help me make sure my project’s good!” Henry exclaimed.

“All about astronomy, eh?” teased Emma.

To her astonishment Killian’s cheeks and the tips of his ears turned pink. “A slight exaggeration on the lad’s part,” he said, scratching at a spot just below his ear. “But it is an interest of mine and I’ll do my best to be of some use to him.”

“He’s already helped me with Saturn’s moons, and now we’re gonna talk about the rings on Uranus,” said Henry excitedly. “Did you know Uranus has rings, Mom?”

“I did not,” said Emma, biting her lip as amusement glinted in Killian’s eyes.

“Yep,” Henry continued, oblivious to their mirth. “Just skinny ones, though.”

“I suppose bigger ones wouldn’t fit,” said Emma. A muscle danced in Killian’s jaw as he clenched it tight. Henry frowned.

“Uranus is still pretty big,” he said. “Not as big as Jupiter or Saturn but—hey! Are you guys laughing at Uranus?”

“Of course not, lad,” said Killian. “Uranus isn’t funny at all.”

“It’s very serious actually,” said Emma.

“I certainly take it seriously,” Killian agreed.

Henry glared at them. “You guys realise I’m the twelve-year-old boy, right? If anyone should be making Uranus jokes it’s me.”

“Well you have been letting some excellent joke opportunities slip by you, my boy.”

“Yeah, Henry, we’re just picking up your slack.”

“Much like rings on Uranus might.”

“Oh my God,” Henry groaned, as Emma lost control of her laughter and collapsed onto the sofa. Killian was grinning like a maniac, ridiculously pleased with himself, which only made her laugh harder. Henry held out for nearly a full minute before he started giggling too, then all three of them held their stomachs and roared.

—

Their fit of shared hilarity helped Emma relax, and the dinner ended up being one of the best evenings she’d had in a long time. Killian, as it turned out, had spent several years in the navy before he became a librarian. He had hundreds of stories about his adventures in far-off lands and seemingly endless patience for inquisitive twelve-year-olds who wanted to hear every single one.

Emma sat and ate and listened as Killian regaled her son with his tales, and tried not to think too hard about how simply nice this was. Like the sort of pleasant family meal she’d always dreamed of as a child and regretted that she couldn’t give Henry, and she really needed to stop thinking about Killian like he was an actual part of her life when she’d barely known him for a day. She knew better than that. From bitter experience.

And yet. Killian’s kindness to and interest in Henry was genuine, she was sure of it. There was no hint in his words or actions to suggest that he was trying to use her kid to get to her, or that he was only pretending to care about Henry’s project. Her superpower didn’t even twitch. Every instinct Emma had was screaming that the most sinister thing about Killian Jones was how dangerously attractive she found him. He was just a nice man who knew how to talk to children. A nice, insanely hot man with the prettiest eyes she’d ever seen and a smile that stole all the air from her lungs, who not only didn’t run when he found out about her kid but actually liked him.

Fuck, she thought, as Killian caught her eye and gave her a little half-smile that had her gasping for air. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

—

“Well, thank you for a lovely evening, Swan.” Killian’s hand was on the doorknob but he seemed in no great hurry to leave, and she was equally not eager to see him go. “I had a wonderful time.”

“Me too. And thanks for being so nice to Henry.”

“Your boy is a delight, it was no hardship.”

“Still. It meant a lot to him.” She didn’t mention Neal and Killian didn’t ask, but she had the strangest feeling that they both wished they could.

You only just met him, damn it!

“It was my pleasure,” said Killian, and the way his voice went gruff on the word pleasure set her heart racing and heat blooming across her skin, and when his breath caught and his gaze dropped to her lips she had to force herself to remember that this wasn’t a date and she didn’t actually know this man. But she could tell from the rasp in his throat and the flush on his cheeks that he was feeling the same things she was, that he wanted the same things just as badly, and it would be easy, so easy just to lean in and press her lips to his—

Too easy, and far too risky. Emma gulped and stepped back as Killian gave a shaky exhale, closing his eyes as his Adam’s apple bobbed and Emma shoved her hands hard into her jeans pockets. He opened his eyes and then the door and gave her a brief smile before stepping into the hallway. Emma dug her fingers into her legs and firmly squashed the tiny part of her that wanted to beg him to stay.

“Well, ah, thanks for coming,” she said. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Aye.” He took two steps then stopped and turned back. “Er, perhaps next time you might allow me to provide the meal?” he said hesitantly. “Just for you?”

“Um. What?” said Emma, then immediately wanted to kick herself.

Killian’s nervous expression softened. “Well you see, as much as I enjoyed Henry’s company this evening, I’d very much like to take you out, Emma,” he said. “Just the two of us. On a date.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Aye, really. On Friday, perhaps, if you’re free?”

“Ah, yeah, I can be,” she replied, trying not to sound too eager. “I’ll have to see if I can get someone to watch Henry, but… yeah. I’d like that.”

That breath-stealing smile broke across his face as she knew it would, and yet she still wasn’t ready for it. “It’s a date, then,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear something warm.”

“Uh.. okay.”

“And love, if you can’t find someone to look after Henry at such short notice I’d still like to spend the evening with you.” Killian’s face was earnest now. “With both of you, I mean. We’ll just postpone our date until a more convenient time.”

A lump rose in Emma’s throat and for a moment she thought she might cry. “I—that’d be good too. I’ll let you know.”

He nodded. “Good night, then, Swan.”

“Good night.”

—

@katie-dub @thisonesatellite @spartanguard @kmomof4 @stahlop @mariakov81 @teamhook in case you’re interested :)

[depressedkakashihatake]

Animal Crossing In Konoha

About a year after the war, Animal crossing is put out over a new game system in konoha. It’s a test game to see if gaming will be a popular thing that can be explored a bit more.

To try and promote the game, Kakashi buts a copy for Naruto and tells him to give it a try. He even sits there and shows Naruto how to play the game, all the things that he can do, and how it has a friends aspect to it.

that last bit catches Naruto’s attention the most. He loves the idea of visiting friends islands and collecting fossels, flowers, fish, bugs and fruits from his friends. And it’s this aspect that make’s Kakashi’s plan work.

Naruto wants all of his friends to have the game. He has to play with them and see how they build their islands, so of course he starts talking to his friends about the game.

He buys a game for Sakura, who’s a bit iffy about playing at first but decides to give it a try one day when she has a bit of free time. She loves all of the villagers, and learning that she can try to get certain villagers on her island is an interesting challenge she gladly take’s part in, aiming to get all of her favorite villagers to move in and becoming best friends with them.

Sai is a bit more difficult to get into the game, but when they add the ‘design your own cloths’ aspect he’s hooked. He loves to just sit there and design interesting new things, and even ends up with his own ‘fashion line’ that everyone in Konoha is always asking him for the codes to.

Kakashi of course already has the game and even buys one for Gai so that he has something fun to do when he’s having a particularly bad pain day with his leg. They end up having competitions in the game, like who can find a certain fish first, or who can fill up their museum first. They also do a lot of co-op play, visiting each others islands and helping where the other person is missing things. Gai fills up Kakashi’s museum for him and Kakashi helps Gai organize his island to be absolutly gorgouse, for example.

Tenzo loves to play when he has some downtime, and he has one of the most beautiful forests that anyone has ever seen in the game. His whole island is full of trees with houses strategectly placed between them. He also make’s a habit out of visiting Gai’s island just to pull weeds, because that’s the one thing Kakashi doesn’t do for him in regards to making his island beautiful.

Kakashi and Gai having snow man building contests in their games and showing each other the ridiculous snow men that they come up with sometimes.

Naruto having the most friends to visit, and always bringing them gifts from his island. Whenever someone new joins the game he brings them one of each fruit and flower to start them off really well.

Both Kakashi and Gai decide to get a system and game for their teams, to work on team building and see how well they work together. Kakashi is both horrified and impressed because while his team doesn’t really work well together, they cover each others asses. Sakura make’s sure that they have the best villagers, Naruti instantly has all of the fruits and flowers for them from his friends connections, Tenzo makes sure that the island is full of plant life perfectly placed, sai makes sure they have a beautiful array of cloths to pick from (even making versions of their RL clothing for their characters to wear) and Kakashi keeps the island beautiful and well organized.

Team Gai works together much easier, filling up their museum quickly and always working together to keep their island in perfect condition. They just don’t have the variety of options in clothing and the A plus organization for plants and objects that Team Kakashi has, but they don’t care. Their island is beautiful and their team work is A+

[mary-nesbitt-larking]

Why I moved from Choices to Lovestruck (and you should too)

It’s no secret to anyone who knows me well that I was a BIG Choices stan. I ran three Choices blogs (begging-for-kamilah, ask-kamilah sayeed and ask-priya-lacroix) for a long time, fulfilling fanfiction requests and interacting with many wonderful people. During my time in the fandom, I made some beautiful friends and created brilliant memories that I wouldn’t trade for the world. Unfortunately, as time passed, I started to notice a decline in the quality of content that Pixelberry were providing, and after a lot of hesitation, I decided to remove the app and leave the fandom. I was very lucky in that a very good friend introduced me to a different app with a similar style. Lovestruck was something that I’d heard about on the grapevine but had no idea what it was or if it could possibly compare to the fun that Choices had given me over the years. After a lot of resisting and stubborn behaviour on my part, I finally gave it a chance and have never looked back since. Here are just some of the many reasons why you should too:

There are no forced love interests in Lovestruck. That’s right. You read that correctly. You choose your love interest BEFORE you start the story so there will never be any frustrating interactions with characters that you’re not interested in. Remember in Bloodbound Book 2 when you go to Paris with Adrian and Jax (leaving the only two female love interests at home) and you were forced to hold hands with one of them (until Pixelberry later apologised and altered the scene)? There is definitely none of that to worry about in Lovestruck. The person you’re interested in is the only character who will show interest in you, and the entire story will be centred around him/her/them. 

Speaking of which, it’s time to talk about the fantastic level of LGBTQ representation in Lovestruck. Non binary characters aren’t just side characters. They actually have their own routes, as well as a huge array of adorable side characters. There are also demisexual characters, asexuals and of course, plenty of lesbians and bisexuals. Voltage (creators of Lovestruck) also very proudly celebrate pride month by releasing incredible LGBTQ content.

On the topic of representation, something that has to be applauded is the racial and religious representation in Lovestruck. You can romance Jewish characters, black characters, south American characters, Asian characters and I’m sure the list goes on. Choices fans might be sad to find that you don’t have the option to customise any love interests or MCs, but I think that this is a blessing. 

Something that I find very cool about Lovestruck is that there are different stories for every love interest. For example, if you romance one person from a certain book, romancing another from the same book will get you a completely different story with a totally different route. It’s a stark contrast to Choices, in which Pixelberry- quite literally- copy and paste the same lines for all the available love interests. 

And along the same lines of copying and pasting, it’s very refreshing to see that Lovestruck doesn’t reuse faces. I always found it terribly off putting when you’d be playing a Choices book and a love interest from another book would be your waiter or waitress. 

One brilliant thing about Lovestruck is the way that they present the MC. Every MC has their own unique personality and backstory. Whilst that does mean “less choice”, it’s really refreshing having an MC with parents. With siblings. With a job. A life. An actual story outside their love interest. There’s one MC who discusses her experiences as a woman of colour, and I think that’s exceptionally important for the player. 

On a superficial note, Lovestruck has GORGEOUS art. I did love the art in Choices too, but I don’t think it has anything on Lovestruck. The backgrounds are stunning, but it’s the characters who are gorgeous. Not to mention, we get absolutely beautiful CGs. This is something Choices sorely lacks. In the later books, the LIs and MCs even blink and move which I find gives it a more engaging feel. There are also MANY more facial expressions for every character in Lovestruck. Blushing faces, a neutral face, smiles, angry faces, sad faces, shocked faces, anxious faces... It’s not just the same standard five like in Choices. 

Another superficial- but very cool aspect- of Lovestruck is that almost every outfit is 100% free. The MCs and LIs will change their clothes whenever appropriate and you don’t have to pay a penny. The only time when outfits will ever cost any in-game currency is if it will mean you gain a CG out of it, but in my personal experience, I’ve only ever seen this being the case for two books. 

This is just a side note but something I love in Lovestruck is that adorable animals aren’t paywalled. They’re just there. Your love interest might have a cat- or a bear in one book- and you don’t have to pay to love up on them. They’re just another part of the story.

Still on the more superficial side of things is the music. I will totally admit, I LOVE the music in Choices and have a fair bit of it downloaded to my iTunes. But for anyone hesitant to move over to Lovestruck for the sake of the music, don’t panic! The music is just as brilliant, just as catchy and just as heartfelt. 

One of the things that always stressed me about Choices was the in-game currency. Diamonds were expensive and unfortunately, every single chapter would involve multiple diamond scenes. In many books, the diamond scenes were so important to the story that to go without them would mean that huge chunks of plot were missed. The amazing thing about Lovestruck is that if you choose not to do the premium scenes (the currency is hearts) then it does absolutely nothing to the story whatsoever. The heart scenes are purely there to give you a little bonus but whether you choose to do them or not, nothing about the story or your relationship with your love interest will change. 

And whilst we’re on the topic of heart scenes, it’s important to note that whilst Choices usually has 3-4 diamond scenes PER chapter, heart scenes only pop up around 9 out of every 12 chapters, and you will VERY rarely find anything that costs more than 30 hearts. 

The system to earn these hearts is totally different to Choices. Whilst you could watch ads to earn diamonds a few times per day, plus playing chapters would gain you two diamonds, Lovestruck gives you “quests”. Every few hours, the quests refresh and all you have to do is read a certain amount of chapters of a specified love interest, and you get the hearts. It’s a win/win situation because the more you play, the more you get.

Not to mention, every day you get to earn a puzzle piece and when you complete a puzzle, you win a certain amount of hearts. It seems tedious at first but they add up fast! 

And it’s not just hearts you earn, either! In Choices, you would use “keys” to read a chapter. In Lovestruck, you use “tickets”. Some quests mean that if you read a certain amount of chapters, you get given 2, 3 or even 5 tickets so you can just keep on reading! 

Since I’ve addressed some of the Lovestruck mechanics, I just want to talk about how much I love that you can fast forward, rewind, autoplay (it plays hands free and there are three different speeds to choose from) and even choose the chapter you’d like to play. This is amazingly refreshing because when it comes to Choices, you have to start the entire book again if you want to get to a specific chapter, AND you have to click through it fast because you can’t fast forward. 

Oh, and when you’ve played a chapter, a little heart symbol will appear next to it if it has a premium scene so you know whether or not you need to save your hearts! 

I really want to address the smut scenes. I know that sounds like another more superficial topic but I think it’s pretty important. I think there’s something more “mature” about Lovestruck and smut. The sex scenes are tasteful yet somehow sexier. They’re not rushed at all. And Voltage aren’t afraid to include actual kinky moments. 

More importantly, though, is that Lovestruck addresses virginity and handles it incredibly tastefully. It’s done in a realistic fashion, too. Sometimes, characters don’t really feel like having sex with their partner. Sometimes they want to at first but then feel anxiety. Sometimes they’re scared. Sometimes they want to stop half way through. Sometimes they have trouble reaching orgasm. All very real scenarios that are addressed tactfully and beautifully. The virgins (be they the MC or LI) in Lovestruck are realistic. They don’t just dive into bed. It’s a process. There’s fear along with excitement. There are moments of panic. It’s not just smut for the sake of smut. It deals with adult situations, something that I always thought Choices struggled with. 

Actually, it’s not just sex. These character get anxiety, depression and genuine mental health problems. And it’s dealt with so perfectly, yet so realistically. They’re anxious when it’s appropriate. 

I don’t want to bash Choices too badly, as I don’t think Pixelberry are an evil company, but some of the things they did- particularly towards the end- were unforgivable. 

Hana Lee’s infertility and the way that it was merely glossed over was appalling. As someone who is also infertile, I can tell you that you don’t just “get over it”, even if your partner is carrying your child. 

I’ll also never quite get over the fact that when you’re almost raped in Red Carpet Diaries 2, you have to pay 30 diamonds if you want someone to stay and comfort you. As a sexual abuse victim, I think that’s grotesque, and a glorification of rape. 

I can safely say, there is NOTHING like that in Lovestruck, and just to reiterate, all the important plot points are FREE. 

To bring this mood back up a little bit, something I think is really cute is that when you’re choosing the love interest you’d like to romance in Lovestruck, you can see sweet little facts about them, including their birthdays, their height and their personality traits. 

Sometimes the stories cross over, too, and love interests will appear in each other’s stories. And the cute thing is, if you’re romancing an LGBTQ character, it will be canonical that whichever love interest crosses over will be in an LGBTQ relationship with MC. 

There are also fun little side stories that you can play, and to really make things interesting, you can often play the same book but from the point of view of your love interest! These do usually cost hearts but not many at all. 15 hearts can get you things like 4 chapters, for example! 

I just want to talk about how wonderful Voltage are as a company, too. You can tell this isn’t about money for them. They just want the best for their players and it shows. They are often asking the community what they want and bringing out polls, and they will always let us have our say.

There are also no false promises of stories being “in the works”. If a story is abandoned, they won’t lie about it. There are no “politician’s answers” from them. Just pure transparency. 

The last thing I want to talk about is the writing style. Lovestruck’s style is worlds apart from Choices. To describe it for you, Choices feels like playing a fun app with cool stories. Lovestruck feels like reading a book, immersing yourself in a novel. And the style is unbeatable. 

TLDR; it’s time to cut the apron strings and move on from Choices. Lovestruck awaits! Tagging @lovestruckvoltage because I love you and appreciate you.

[placecent74]

Need Style Suggestions? We Certainly Have Them

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[ LFRP ] Canary - ( tumblr/Discord )

❝ we who are born of the earth, rooted in all things, are bound to return to it. ❞

🔓– A lock icon denotes the presence of an additional something significant to be discovered only via roleplay. The more locks there are, the more difficult it will be to learn or come by this information.

☾ General Information ––– -

Name: Canary. 🔓🔓🔓 Epithet: Lichenpeal. Gender: Nonbinary. Age: You can’t be sure, really. 🔓 Race: Nu Mou. Birthplace: Somewhere within the Rak’tika Greatwood, presumably. Current Residence: An overgrown hovel a way’s away from the settlement proper. Were it not for the stone arranged about it, you might have missed the doorway entirely, and even then the masonry has been all but reclaimed by the forest. It seems built into the earth itself, disappearing into the side of the gentle slope leading up and away into the trees... not too unlike a barrow, you realize, with the air around the entrance alive with the presence of the wood. Standing there you suddenly feel a strange tickling at the back of your neck, like a hair or thread dragging lightly across your skin. You look back up. You feel compelled to knock on the door. Relationship Status: Single. Sexual Orientation: Asexual. Occupation: Apothecary. Herbalist. Diviner. Blue Mage. 🔓

☾ Physical Appearance ––– -

Hair + Fur: Straw-colored Thick. Long. Worn loose save for a scattering of braids decorated with thread and bits of bone. The fur on their tail and arms appears crimped like a sheep’s wool and feels much like the same. It’s not unusual for both it be rather unkempt from walks through the wood; they don’t seem to mind the twigs, leaves, and clumps of dirt that cling to them long after they’re home. Eyes: Moss green... although, as you look more closely, the left eye seems lighter than the right.  Height: 4 fm 9 im. Distinguishing Marks: White-tipped fingers. Claws that are kept aggressively filed down at all times. Lighter hands than is typical for Nu Mou. Common Accessories: Spools of variously colored threads. Skulls and bones from forest creatures worn on lengths of string. Mushrooms. Lichens. Gold earbands. Earrings fashioned in the style of old church bells that ring with deep, dolorous voices. 

☾ Personality & Tidbits ––– -

A strange Nu Mou of indeterminate age beholden to the wood. Though they live apart from others of their kind and people in general, they receive most visitors with a smile and an invitation to share a cup of tea. Quiet and courteous, Canary seems very much the kind of host you would care to have out in the middle of the wild Rat’tika, and yet you cannot help but feel unsettled whenever you stare at them for too long -- as though discovering inconsistencies in a painting that prove it a forgery. Like a smile with too many teeth their presence fills you with the sense of the uncanny, reminding you of a delicious meal that puts you to ill hours later. Something about them seems the conversational equivalent of seeing something always just beyond your field of vision, just at your peripheral, but just as soon as you realize your uneasiness you feel yourself soothed by their comfortable, welcoming manner. After all, it feels this cup has been brewed just for you.

Talents: Tarot spreads. Tea readings. Preparation of herbal medicines. Communing with beasts. Weaknesses: Disruption of the natural order. Things that are unnatural. Voidsent. Tidiness. Virtues: Pleasant. Soft-spoken. Knowledgeable. Intriguing. A natural host. Flaws: Difficult to read. Quietly intimidating. Unmovable when they believe they are right. Perhaps too much of an enigma to be trusted. Spiritual Views: Absolute reverence for life, death, and the natural cycle of one that leads into the other and over again forever and always. They are bound to no specific deities, believing instead in the will of the wood and the inevitability of nature reclaiming that which is rightfully its own. Hobbies: Gathering. “Tending” their garden and mushroom patch. Collecting new teas and bones. Fears: Wide open spaces. Clothing without pockets. Temperament: Phlegmatic-Melancholy. Alignment: Chaotic Neutral.

☾ Traits ––– -

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious / Spirited

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

☾ Additional information ––– –

Smoking Habit: Rather often, but you’re certain what whatever it is in that pipe, it certainly isn’t tobacco. The fragrance is as uncomfortably sweet as it is spicy; the aroma makes you sick to your stomach. Drugs: The contents of all these vials and jars is a mystery. Whatever labels they once bore have long since worn away or peeled up, leaving you staring at an array of dull, clouded glass bottles haphazardly wrapped in brittle parchment. Really, anything could be inside them. Alcohol: The Nu Mou occasionally reaches for a flash tucked into the sleeve of their robe and takes a quick drink. You can’t see the liquid, but even from here the smell is pungent, and you swear you see the already crimped fur covering their body curl all the bit more with each swig.

☾ Hooks ––– -

Region-related connections.

☆ The Rat’tika Greatwood - The Nu Mou rarely strays beyond the border of the forest, and so those living under the boughs or visiting from afar might have the luck of crossing their path. They do not make it easy to find them, but they also do not make an effort to hide. If you’re meant to encounter them you surely will. After all, anything can happen in the wood...

General connections.

★ Blue Magic - Canary’s Blue Magic shares far more in common with FFXI’s iteration than FFXIV’s, most notably the ever present danger of falling prey to “the beast within” as they assimilate and make use of the essences/souls of creatures. As a result their magic is far more feral and ancient than what has been established in-game, and their combat style + weaponry also differ wildly. They will not give out this knowledge to just anyone who comes by and asks, but they are also not above it... Should someone be willing to prove themselves worthy of the art, Canary might potentially teach them. Barring this, they could be a potential connection for Blue Mages or magic-users in general. ☆ Medicines + Divinations - In need of a reading or some traditional mending? Canary peddles their strange wares out of their forest hovel for a fair price. First divinations are free -- considering it your proper meeting -- but subsequent knowledge requires something equal in exchange... ★ Friendships + Rivals + Enemies - Always open! I am interested in any and all of these as options. ☆ Have an idea for something not already here? - Please feel free to pitch it to me! I would love to hear what you have in mind!

☾ OOC Information ––– -

Genres: Character development! Platonic relationships! Business contacts! Enemies! Rivals! Spooks! I’m into lots of things with my dirty danger muppet! Playstyle: No Nu Mou in-game, so all roleplay with Canary will take place through tumblr and/or Discord. Length: I like to write one paragraph at the absolute least, tending more towards a few to several (or even pages), but I will often do my best to match my partner’s reply length unless encouraged to do otherwise. Server: N/A. Timezone: CST. Availability: Threads will be passed back and forth as our schedules/writing mojos will allow! Contact Information: You are always welcome to poke at me here or my main blog over at @sunlitpeony, be it through asks or messages! I will give my Discord out privately to interested parties.

ft. art by drowsydraws !

[thewritewolf]

Marinette March Day 1 - Kindness

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Well, I’m a bit late, but still doing better than I usually do with these things! For today’s prompt, I’ve decided to showcase just how helpful Marinette tends to be - even at the cost of her own plans. Since this one shot is around 2.5k words, I’ve put most of it under a read more.

@marinettemarch

Enjoy!

Read on Ao3

Marinette’s phone alarm went off, officially starting her day with Adrien. Well, at least the morning she would be spending with Adrien. A couple hours, probably. She paused with a frown while brushing her hair in front of her mirror. Come to think of it, she didn’t really know how these photoshoots tended to go. From what she could tell from her well-researched Adrien schedule they could last anywhere from half an hour to half the day. Either way, she intended to make the most of this invitation.

An invitation which she had gotten by having her room, plastered with his gorgeous face, broadcasted on television. And yet still his first concern was for her safety and wellbeing. She sighed dreamily - such a gentleman. If today went well, then marriage and three kids and a hamster wouldn’t be such a distant dream for much longer!

Needless to say, she had taken every precaution against being late. The alarm that had woken her up was the first of five - at least her own excitement had helped her sleep lightly. Everything she might need was packed and ready to go, which included a sketchbook just in case he really believed that she was interested in his pictures for the fashion. She patted herself down to make sure she had everything - purse, sketchbook, backpack, drawing utensils, phone, cookies, and the most important thing of all…

“Tikki! Ready to go?”

“Whenever you are, Marinette.” The red kwami flew into place in her purse and Marinette made her way out the backdoor of the bakery. As early as it was, there wasn’t nearly as many people on the streets as there usually was, but that was sure to change soon. Clouds broke up the summer sunlight into mottled patches of bright and dark. “Where is the photoshoot, again?”

Marinette made sure to glance around before talking into her purse. There had been enough instances of people looking at her like crazy. “Not too far, but not that close either. Thanks to the clouds, they’ll be doing an indoor photoshoot, but the place they chose is just barely in walking distance.”

“That great! What about- wait. Is that Nino?”

Sure enough, Nino was standing in front of a flower shop looking about as out of place as he could be. He was biting at his nails at he looked around in uncertainty at the wide array of blossoms and bouquets. The poor boy was overwhelmed, occasionally reaching for a few flowers only to pull back at the last minute. Someone needed to help him. Tikki held her phone up. There was still plenty of time to meet up with Adrien - she had left early after all.

“Hey, Nino!” She tapped him on his shoulder, suppressing a giggle by biting down on her lips as he jolted at her sudden appearance. “You seem lost. Anything I can do to help?”

“Oh! Hey, dude. I’m just, uh,” He rubbed the back of his neck and his cheeks darkened. He glanced around before pulling Marinette into a huddle and whispering, “Listen, I was gonna surprise Alya with some flowers, right? Sounded cool and romantic and stuff, right? But who knew there were this many different types! I have no idea which ones she’d want!” He looked at her with pleading eyes. “You gotta help me, dude.”

She blinked, trying to make sense of the rapid fire information he just unleashed on her. Slowly, a grin dawned on her face. “Aw! That’s so cute! Of course I’ll help. C’mon.” She walked among the flowers slowly, searching very carefully while Nino stayed close behind and wringed his hands nervously. She helped his nervous tick by passing the flowers she found to him. “This one is her favorite, so we’ll have the most of them. Here are some that represent love and joy. And here are some to help balance out the colors and make it smell all the sweeter.”

His eyes lit up as he looked at the finished bouquet in his hand, around a dozen in all. “I can’t thank you enough, dude! You are a total life saver!” She followed him to the cashier. “Is there anything I can do to help you out?”

“Take a photo of Alya’s face when you give it to her, it’d be nice to see how much she appreciated it. Other than that, don’t worry about it, I was glad to help.”

After a brief hug, they parted ways and Marinette was back on track. She’d lost about fifteen minutes, but it was well worth the cost - Alya was going to love it. As she continued walking through Paris, doubt began nagging at the back of her mind. If she stayed on her planned route, she’d only get there just barely on time. Taking the shortcut through the park would save her a few minutes and she’d much rather be early and get that much more time with Adrien. With that precious extra moments, she was sure they would hit it off and then he’d propose and they’d live happily ever after and-

She was stirred from her pleasant daydream by someone crying. The tall trees and hedges did even better work than the clouds in blotting out the sunlight, creating an empty and shadowed section of the park that she had thought was free of people. For a brief moment, she considered turning away. Maybe it had just been the wind, or maybe she had misheard. But then the crying returned, stronger than before and there could be no doubt in her mind. With only a slight pang of regret, she looked for the tearful stranger.

Nestled away on a bench within the hedges, she found a familiar bob of red hair and Marinette once again hesitated. Sabrina may not have been as bad as Chloe, but there were plenty of times where she had caused someone else to run off in tears. This could have been justice, in a sense. Even so, Marinette couldn’t bring herself to leave, instead sitting next to the other girl.

Her head jerked toward Marinette, but the wild hope in her eyes vanished once she saw that it was her. “Oh… hey, Marinette.”

“Something wrong?” It wasn’t hard to tell what had happened - it was a common enough occurence for Sabrina and Chloe to fight, and it wasn’t like Sabrina was close with anyone else. Maybe because of her friendship with Chloe. Still, it wasn’t nice to presume without asking.

She wiped away her tears and tried to stifle her sniffles. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” She flashed a watery smile that went away quickly.

The silence stretched out. What could she say to help her? Past attempts to get her to not put up with Chloe anymore had ended in failure and trying now wouldn’t help much anyway. Which really just left her one choice…

“Did you see the latest episode of Fill My Shoes?”

...Distraction.

Sabrina latched onto the topic and they spent a good long while talking - drifting from the reality show with Jagged Stone to fashion to games, all the while dancing around the topic of why Sabrina had been hiding by herself in a shadowy patch of park. After half an hour, they got up to leave. The redheaded girl gave her a hug and a whispered thanks before quickly parting ways with Marinette.

She stood still and waved as Sabrina left, only hurriedly digging around for her phone after she had left her field of view. Now she was late - very definitely late. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Don’t give up just yet, Marinette!” Tikki chirped from her purse. “Maybe they started late, or maybe it’s a long photoshoot! There is still hope!”

Smiling down at her kwami, she nodded. “You’re right. Even if it is a shorter photoshoot, there should still be an hour left, right? Plenty of time to get Adrien to fall for me!”

“That’s the spirit. Now let’s go.”

With a bit of forced cheerfulness in her step, she resumed her journey to her dream day with Adrien. Yes, this wasn’t ideal, but she could still make it and have at least a nice time with him. Hopefully. Besides, the first half hour was all prep work probably. Did she really want to watch them apply make-up to Adrien? Yes. Yes she did. Well, he wouldn't be able to chat with her while they did so, thus it probably wasn’t a big loss. Everything was fine!

Until she heard the commotion and wailing come from inside the church she was passing by. She crouched into a combat stance, completely prepared for the panicked screams to start up, but it seemed that Hawkmoth had better things to do today. The door to the church was open and Marinette was curious, so she stepped inside.

It was pandemonium. Great care and been taken with elegant decorations. The church was practically packed with men in suits and women in dresses, all murmuring worriedly among each other. Every now and again another round of sobs could be heard coming from the back. Right at the entrance stood an older man in a suit, glancing nervously towards a backdoor.

Marinette tugged at his suit sleeve. “Excuse me, sir? Is something wrong?”

“My daughter’s wedding gown got torn when someone stepped on the bridal train and ripped the hem. They are trying to figure something out, but the store we got it from is closed and it would be expensive to get another tailor in without the warranty paying for it.”

“Well… I do design work in my spare time. Maybe I could try to fix it?” The man looked down at her dubiously. It sparked a competitive fire in her and she puffed out her chest pridefully. “I won a design contest by Gabriel Agreste, the fashion moghul.”

He seemed to weigh the options before shrugging. “Well, it’s worth a shot. Come with me.” They navigated the field of haggard loiters, the fraying best men, and the panicked bridesmaids. The door swung open and Marinette’s eyes widened. The dress was beautiful, to be sure, but what the man had described as a tear was even worse than he let on.

The harried bride turned at the sound of the opened door and Marinette saw the familiar flash of dashed hope when she saw it was just her and the older man that had entered. “Any luck, dad?”

“No word from the store, but!” He added quickly as he put a hand on Marinette’s shoulder. “This young lady thinks she might be able to help.”

She sighed and shook her head. “If you’d brought in a high schooler an hour ago, I would’ve declined. But now I’m desperate.” She walked over to Marinette. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Uh… Marinette. Marinette Dupain-Cheng”

“And do you think you can do it?”

Squaring her jaws, she reached into her purse and retrieved her pocket sewing kit. This was a challenge, just like any other. “I know I can, miss…?”

“Emilie.”

“Sit tight then, Miss Emilie and I’ll get this fixed in no time at all.” At least, so she hoped. Fixing it wouldn’t be the problem so much as how long it would take it pull it off. On the bright side, she had lots of practice with working under pressure.

In truth, Marinette didn’t know how long it had taken her to pull it off. After she had taken the silky material in her hands, the outside world faded away and it was just her and the task in front of her. That was the part she had always enjoyed about creating - everything becomes much simpler when the world shrinks down to pouring herself into her work. Emilie seemed curious at first of her industriousness and impressed when it actually looked like she would be able to pull it off. Once she had reached the final stretch, Emilie gave her a round of excited applause, all stress melted away.

“And to finish off, I’ll close this last little seem with some baby blue thread.” Marinette smiled up at her. “Something blue, right?”

Emilie hugged her as close as the dress would allow, and kissed her cheeks. “It looks fresh from the tailor! I can’t thank you enough, Marinette. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“No, no I just need to get going. I’m running behind for a date.”

“Oh? I’m so sorry for holding you up! My father can drop you off, it’ll be a little while before we can get started again anyway.” She held up a hand to cut off Marinette’s protest. “Please, it is the least we can do, my little hero.”

Marinette, growing slightly desperate, accepted and found herself in front of the building where the photo shoot would be taking place. And she was only… two hours late, she realized with a wince. She didn’t even have the opportunity to build up any hope before it was broken, since she saw camera equipment being moved out from the space and into waiting vans. She shambled into the building, completely drained and slightly depressed. Maybe she could still at least see Adrien. Then she could pretend like this had all been worth it, pretend that she hadn’t shot herself in the foot with this. Or maybe she should just slink out the way she came and pretend she had been sick today. At least then she’d have a believable excuse.

“Marinette!” At the sound of her name, she turned around, only realizing mid-turn that it was Adrien’s voice. He was frowning, worried. “Hey, I was wondering where you were. I saw Nino’s post about you, so I was sure you were going to be here on time.”

“Post…?” She pulled out her phone, and noticed the notifications - she’d been tagged by Nino. It was a candid photo of Alya smiling, eyes misty as she held a familiar bouquet in her hands. Marinette found herself smiling as well. Nino had remembered to take the picture for her. “Y-yeah, I got side tracked…”

“So I heard from Chloe. Apparently she and Sabrina had a fight, but Sabrina came back and they talked it out. You came up at some point in the walls of text she sent, so I guess that was what held you up?”

“Well, uh, sort of. See there was this wedding-”

A car horn blared from outside and they both looked back to see Adrien’s bodyguard standing outside his car, staring at the both of them. Adrien glanced back at her, then at the car before saying, “Could you stick around for just a minute?”

“S-sure…” He walked away and Marinette collapsed onto a chair in the lobby. She’d only managed to get a couple minutes with him, and she’d basically implied she’d had more important things to do than hang out with him. There was no doubt in her mind that he wouldn’t be inviting her to any more photoshoots and she couldn’t blame him.

Her bitter reflections were cut off when she saw Adrien’s car drive away, and she felt the tears coming on. Before she could really work herself up into a good cry, Adrien appeared, smiling.

“Hey! I just convinced the Gorilla to give us a couple hours to ourselves. Do you want to hang out? After the day you’ve had, I’m sure you could use something to eat. You can tell me all about it over lunch.”

Feeling like her soul had left her body, Marinette could only nod as Adrien took her by the arm and started walking her to their lunch date.

[batjadenaturechina]

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