#i usually have very early morning commutes

[heich0e]

keigo convinces you to quit your job less than a year into your relationship.

the pay is terrible anyway, and it isn't even a position in the field you'd gone to school to study (not that you'd graduated, but you did always plan on going back some day, if you could.)

but the problem is that your schedule is always the complete opposite of his. you always have to sleep at night (early to bed, early to rise) so that you can wake up at the crack of dawn each morning and commute to your shabby little office on the other side of town. keigo often doesn't get home from patrol until the sun is coming up, meaning that your alarm is set to be ringing just a few moments after his head hits the pillow next to yours--stealing you, and your warmth, and the soft skin of your thighs away from him under the blankets.

it feels like he never gets to see you. never gets to hold you. like you're never there. (you are, but that's not what it feels like to him.)

the first time he makes the suggestion, you think he's joking and you laugh.

keigo's eyes crinkle at the corners as he watches you giggle, his head resting atop your lap on the sofa on a rare evening that finds the two of you both home and snuggled up together in his living room--your living room now too, since you'd finally broken the lease on your apartment that had practically gone uninhabited since you and keigo started seeing each other. he watches you laugh like it's his favourite movie; rapt by every moment of your mirth.

"what's so funny, baby?"

you blink, your laughter petering out slowly like a leaky tap being turned closed.

"i can't quit my job, kei," you whisper, half incredulous and half scandalized at the notion, once you realize he's not making the suggestion in jest.

"why not?" he pouts, rolling onto his side where he rests on your lap and burrowing his face into your sweatshirt over your abdomen.

"it's... my job," you reply dumbly, unsure of how better to defend your point. your fingers thread absentmindedly through his golden hair as he nuzzles further into your tummy.

"you don't need a job," he counters, though the words are muffled. "especially not that one. they're awful to you."

he's not wrong, necessarily. your company is not known for being particularly kind to its employees, nor even for being a desirable place to work. but the salary was mostly liveable and they'd been willing to take you on even with only half a degree under your belt, and you've never taken that for granted.

"of course I need a job," you pinch at keigo's cheek gently, and he turns his face up towards you. his eyes, usually so soft and warm, look pained.

"for what?" he asks, his tone wounded. "what do you need that i can't give you?"

your chest tightens as you take in his sad expression. the jut of his lip, the disappointed crease of his brow.

"i... don't want to be a burden to you, keigo."

something in his gaze shifts, just for a moment. it almost looks like anger, but it's gone too quick to sting--a flame snuffed out before it has the chance to burn you.

keigo's wings twitch beneath him, the feathers bristling.

slowly, he pulls himself upright until he's on his knees beside you on the sofa.

he peers down at you, cupping your cheeks in his large, soft hands.

"you could never,"--he leans down towards you, filling up your field of vision until there's nothing left but him--"ever,"--he uses his hold on your cheeks to keep your your gazes locked, noses brushing gently--"be a burden to me."

keigo's breath is hot on your lips, the pressure of his touch firm, his very nearness intoxicating.

"what's the point of all of this,"--he doesn't pull away to gesture, or even break your gaze, but you know even without any sort of indicator what he's talking about: his apartment, his lifestyle, his status, his wealth--"if i can't share it with you?"

your stomach flips at how desperately he says the words.

"just..." his wispy lashes flutter as he blinks slowly, his tawny honey-hued eyes disappearing for a few torturous moments before meeting yours again. "think about it, yeah? promise?"

you feel yourself nodding, and his grip on your cheeks eases as he grins triumphantly.

keigo kisses you, slow and deep and sweet, maneuvering you onto your back on the sofa underneath him before you can even process it.

"say you promise," he breathes into your open mouth, his tongue chasing in after his words.

you hum, a dizzy, fond sound.

"i promise," you murmur against his eager lips.

he pulls away, his hands slipping up under the hem of your sweatshirt--the Pro-Hero Hawks sweatshirt he loves to see you wear so much--until it rucks up over his wrists as his touch continues to climb.

he smiles again--softer this time, more tranquil--his golden curls a backlit halo around his handsome face as he peers down at you sprawled across the sofa beneath him.

he sighs happily.

"good."

[mizusnose]

Hii!! I love ur writings AND UR ART TOO! I have a req 😈

Mizu meeting reader who has heterochromia!

And I miss you on a train, I miss you in the morning

Been missing Japan tons recently so this one’ll be set in modern day Tokyo. Here is a list of translated terms/phrases:

Gouchyui kudasai. Abunai desu kara.. : Please be careful, since it’s dangerous

Keigo: super politeful form of words/grammar.

Gaikokujin: foreigner.

daijoubu desu: It’s okay/I’m fine. In this situation, can also mean: I’m okay (without it)

arigatou gozaimasu: thank you (very much)

samu—!: cold/chilly. it’s actually 寒い (samui), but ppl shorten it in daily conversation by dropping the i.

arigatou: thanks, more familiar.

ohayo: good morning

Summary: A meet-cute in a train car leads to an unlikely friendship that blooms into something more. Discussion of beauty standards in Japan. Insecurities are discussed. Tons of flirting, some heavy petting.

SFW, some nudity but nothing blatantly sexual.

— — —

The first time you saw her, it had been on your morning commute to work. The autumn weather muted that far underground. The wind from departing and arriving trains was the only thing that would create a breeze in the otherwise stagnant air.

She was easy to notice.

Her height forced her to duck under the hanging advertisements with a practiced ease, neck long and slender. A white turtleneck against thin golden chains peeked out from her indigo jacket, spots of sunlight soaked into the snow.

And her eyes—a frozen-over ocean in the middle of the Marunouchu line, an early morning in winter. You breathed and suddenly it was the dead of winter in Sendai and the birds fluttered away up above you.

It’d only been a second, a millisecond, the flutter of a bird’s feather. Then she was gone. Her dark hair a shadowing eclipse against the sharp of her chin, the red of her nose—her eyes.

The train ride went uninterrupted. A jingle, shuffling, and then you were on your way to work. You didn’t quite notice though. Your breath a bleary thing in your ballooned-out chest. Belly wide and searching. An open mouth, fanged and hungry.

The next time you see her, it’s in the dead of night. The last train barely caught. Your mini skirt pressed against your bare thigh and the seat. Make-up dark and hair wild in the nearly empty train car. Winter’s fist had started to close around the Tokyo metropolitan area and the nights became a sharp kind of cold. You felt frozen in your seat.

She’d been sitting there, right across from you in the middle of the row of empty seats. Straight tapered office pants meeting her oxford shoes, that same indigo jacket, golden chains glinting in the glow of the moving lights outside. Her glasses caught in the passing stations, a muted orange that blocked the blue of her eyes.

You stared, entranced. You knew it was rude, but the image she made against the smeared nighttime Ginza scenery made you hold your breath, amazed. The last time you’d seen her, it was too quick. Barely a snapshot of a second. So you drank your fill, greedy and tipsy. The train shifted on the tracks and you both leaned into the bend, your bodies in line.

You distantly wonder if she’s willingly not paying attention to you after the doors automatically open and close following two stops. She hasn’t looked up once from her book, her fingertips a dull pink against the English title.

You want to put them in your mouth—a wild thought that conjures itself in your bleary mind.

When she finally does look up, her eyes greet your own and holds—a challenge. Her dark eyebrows furrow: anger. She observes you closer, focusing on your eyes.

You blush, and quickly look away.

You know she’s seen them: your eyes. People usually narrow their own eyes at you after realizing, and yet—hers shift when you meet them again. There’s no longer a scowl, her eyebrows rise instead, lips parted. A question, a surprise, Intrigue.

Oh, you think, oh.

Your chest buzzes and you wonder if your lipstick is still intact. If your eyeliner hasn’t been smudged. If you still look desirable.

There’s no one else but you two, so you quirk an eyebrow, satisfied to see her flush and look away. The cut of her jaw hidden by her short dark hair.

Her wired earbuds follow, they press against her chin and her hair, and you wonder what she’s listening to. If she can hear your breath quicken, heart rate spiked.

The train doors open at your stop and your stomach flips when she stands as well. Her head ducks underneath an advertisement about train manners, and she waits for you to stumble out first. You feel her hands around the air of your body, the pressure of the feeling against your waist. She doesn’t touch, but you wish she had.

“Gouchyui kudasai. Abunai desu kara..” She mutters down to the ground after you’ve both swiped out of the station. Keigo and all.

Her hair flutters in the tunnel wind, grey eye bags and pink cheekbones that make you wonder what her job is. You settle your miniskirt and nod quickly. The glow of the FamilyMart shines on you both, a play, an experiment.

Yet, as she turns to leave, you feel like it’s gone interrupted. Your story, and hers.

“I’ve! um—I’ve seen you around”

She stops, doesn’t turn around. You continue in clunky Japanese. The alcohol settling deeper in your belly, confidence rising in your throat,

“Are you free for lunch or dinner or..”

She freezes—and you feel like you’ve misread the entire situation, but as she turns back around, she nods. A jerky thing that heats up your face.

Her necklace glints in the nearby streetlights as she puts her Line info into your contacts. Her hand encompasses all of your phone, fingers long and palm wide. You ache at the sight.

“Mizu?” Your fingernails brush the character she’s entered after she hands it back to you: 水. Mizu, mizu mizu.

“Mn. My parent’s..Gaikokujin. Thought it sounded pretty.” She looks embarrassed, her short cut hair brushing her jaw, her ears. Yet, her eyes stay on yours. A lull.

“It is.” You swallow around your words. Greet her with your own gaze, a smile.

She doesn’t trust you to walk home in your stumbling state, so she guides you into the FamilyMart nearby.

She grabs a water bottle for you, a hot milk tea for herself. Like this, in the fluorescent light, she’s taller than the aisles and towers above you. Her nape meets her neck and the hair is shaved there. Short—like a boy’s. You want to touch the skin there, just below it.

She pays despite your assurance that you can pay for yourself.

“‘ts only 120 yen.” is what she says, turns to the cashier and waves away a bag, daijoubu desu, collects the receipt and turns to leave, arigatou gozaimasu. A barely there bow, the receipt crushed in her palm, and then you’re both outside in the softly falling snow.

She opens the bottled water for you and you hiss after you take it: samu—!

She chuckles, watches you take the lip of the bottle into your mouth: tracks your throat as you swallow. You feel like you’re burning up inside your chest and finish half the bottle in one go.

“Do you live far?”

“Just past the next streetlight. I’ll be okay, promise.”

She looks unsure. It’s not windy, but strands of her hair push against her face. She presses it away. Behind her ear that has a stud in the soft flesh of her lobe. You follow the movement in your tipsy state. Watch it glimmer in the night.

“Let’s meet again soon, then.” Her hand gestures to your bare legs, eyes averted and away—flushed, “Stay warm.”

She presses the hot milk tea into your hands. Swaps it out for your water bottle. It sloshes against the plastic when she meets your gaze. She’s inspecting you. Tracing the outline of your face, your eyes. Your fingertips welcome the warmth, and you open your mouth to thank her: arigatou

“Get home safe.” Her hands brush your own, and she grins at the touch, slow and soft.

A taxi’s unoccupied sign blinks on in the dark nearby. The rush of the trains sound behind you, a car drives by.

She leaves then, and you watch her go. Her shoulders sharp in the cold night. The snow falls on you but the unopened milk tea burns and you think of her again and again. Even after you turn and walk away too.

The walk back is slippery and when you get home, your phone sits content in your pocket. You smile, a big happy thing. Her name sits in your mouth, and you think: Mizu, mizu, mizu. As if your lips would forget in the morning.

—

You go out for dinner later in the week.

Mizu is shy. She jokes only after you’ve both ordered a round of sapporo, her flush an insistent thing. Her neck is long and you watch as it reddens through the night. The glow of the shop the only thing keeping your hands to yourself.

The conversation flows steadily. Like two lifelong friends. The banter is easy, and the flirting easier. You notice Mizu’s steady gaze on you and you smile to welcome it. A flower unfurling in the sun.

You both promise to do it again afterwards. Mizu’s hands linger on yours when you leave, and the touch sinks into you, a slow gulp of water against your throat.

It’s breathless and exciting, being with Mizu. She texts you ohayo’s and brushes your hair out of your face, stands close in the train, and slips her hand into yours when she walks you back home after your fifth date. The first night you spend together, her thumb slips against your cheekbones and she smiles,

“You are so beautiful.”

She kisses you and your body and your thighs. She fucks you the way she had promised over texts late at night. Kisses your eyelids afterwards, a love that blooms between you both.

“Did you ever get bullied about it?” She asks one morning.

You’re both naked, the sunshine glinting on the sheets and into the kitchen where you’re making coffee. The question is asked unsure, a train passes by in the distance.

“I did. Not too much, but yeah.”

“Me too.” Mizu shoves on her shirt, a button down that she leaves open, the space between her breasts littered in marks, “Kids can be mean.”

You nod, tilting your head to the side when Mizu comes up behind you and kisses your throat. The muscle in your shoulder. Your back: the bone there.

“You’re stunning.” She whispers. Moves her hands up your body, a warmth that stirs between your legs, “Fuck what anyone says—kids especially.”

You laugh, twisting around to face Mizu. Her eyes meet your own, a clash of colors and you let her gaze win. You tuck your face into her neck and blow a raspberry to the skin there.

“It’s not so bad now. Usually, people just think I forgot to put in my other contact.” Mizu huffs, lets her hands wander lower, “The plus side is that I got a hot girlfriend out of it.”

You pull back and peck Mizu’s unassuming lips. She stutters around the sudden labeling, and you smile to let her know it’s okay. It’s okay.

You spend the day together, a lazy Sunday. And when you see the scene you both make in the bathroom mirror after a shower you flush at it all: Mizu, naked, her eyes boring into you and tracing the lines of your body. And you, the color of your eyes, each a separate hue. Yet, the love inside them the same and as blatant as ever.

“You’re beautiful.” You say, grabbing Mizu and kissing her. Pushing her bangs away from her eyes, hand settling on her back. There’s a freckle there you’d kissed earlier. You press into it.

Mizu chuckles, finds your lips and pulls away to whisper into the opening of your mouth. A secret, a wish, a promise.

You keep every single one.

———

Haha, so I really just miss FamilyMart and affordable food and the stellar Japanese public transportation so here this is. Didn’t specify reader’s eye color so you can imagine whatever colors you want—including your own!

title inspired by about you by the 1975

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for trying to give my husband a bed time?

My [31F] husband [34M] has a horrible issue of not coming to bed. He usually falls asleep to the TV in the living room to ambient music or some YouTube talk show, usually sports or comics related.

I tend to go to bed pretty regularly around 10:30 or 11:00 as I need to wake up around 7 to take out the dog and get ready to commute. He doesn't need to be up until later so I don't mind that I go to bed alone, but I really hate being alone all night. It has felt constant that I wake up at 3:00am or 4:00 for the restroom and find he hasn't come into the bedroom. Something that's important to me is sharing the bed, and I have told him this, and that it makes me feel hurt and a little unloved. I feel like this was not a problem until just a couple of years ago so I don't know what changed.

He claims he needs the noise to go to sleep, as it has been his habit since before he met me to have a TV or radio on. I can NOT sleep with light or noise. Earplugs and face masks are uncomfortable. I was firm on no television in the bedroom when we moved in together. We have a white noise machine and that doesn't bother me too much. He's the kind of guy that can hit the pillow and pass out really quick though.

I asked him to at least set an alarm for 1:45 or so...even though half the time he is asleep by the time I take the dog out at night and get ready for bed. He won't come to bed even if he's already asleep that early and I don't know why. It's frustrating. There's nongood answer when I ask. He came to bed a couple of times with the alarm but then suddenly wouldn't anymore. Not sure if he is sleepily snoozing it or what. He keeps promising he will come to bed at a normal time, but won't. It feels like he's just constantly lying to me and I hate it. I feel like it's also contributing to a poor sex life but that's another story.

He claims he doesn't like getting up and having to go back to sleep but...neither do I. I shouldn't have to get him every night/early morning. I sleep lightly and not well in general which is why I would prefer him to come in by 2 or even earlier. I wake up when he does come in anyway and sometimes it's very hard to get back to sleep. Earlier would allow me more time to get back to deep sleep. Having to walk around the house at 3am makes it even harder on me.

He's mad because I'm trying to change his habits and "who he is". We fought tonight because he fell asleep on the couch extra early, maybe 9:30pm-ish. So I told him to just come to bed because he is already sleeping. Twice. He wouldn't, and of course the second I walked away he just fell asleep again, just like he always does.

He feels like I'm trying to control him and change him but I just want my partner to be in bed with me and I don't know what else to do at this point. AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[suddencolds]

Atypical Occurrence [1/?]

Happy birthday to my dear friend, @caughtintherain!! I wanted to give you some Vincent suffering to chew on for the occasion, so please take this fic (or, first part of a fic) as a gift <3

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! chronologically, this fic takes place a month or so after the last installment leaves off :)

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit)

—

Vincent is late.

Yves tries not to stare at the empty seat across from him. The meeting—their first meeting of the day—started five minutes ago. If there’s anything Yves knows, it’s that Vincent always comes in early. 

In stumbles Cara, handling a morning coffee with probably more espresso shots than anyone should have at 8am. Then Laurent, briefcase in one hand, paging through a folder of files in his other. Then Angelie, Isaac, Garrett, Ray, Sienna. Then they get started, and Yves turns his attention towards the graphs projected onscreen at the front of the room, and tries very hard not to think about Vincent.

It’s five minutes later that the door swings open, near-silent.

Sienna—who’s presenting—stops, for a moment, to look back at Vincent from where he’s standing in the doorway, which means that of course, everyone looks.

Cara turns around in her seat, raising an eyebrow. Angelie frowns at him. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Vincent says, quietly. “It won’t happen again.”

Isaac shrugs. Angelie looks a little concerned, but she turns back to her work, anyways. Sienna resumes her presentation. All in all, it’s nothing—or it should be nothing. Probably traffic, on the way here; a particularly unlucky commute. An unlikely occurrence, but—to anyone else—not anything worth dwelling over.

It might be a sufficient explanation, if Yves didn’t know better.

Vincent takes care to close the door quietly behind him, then heads over to the only open seat, across from Yves. He unzips his briefcase, quietly, unobtrusively, and takes out his laptop. Yves tries to focus on what Sienna is saying—she’s giving a review of a client’s current investment strategies; he’d reviewed her work on this just a couple days ago.

Vincent asks good questions throughout—he always has a good sense of what areas still lack clarity, Yves has found. Today is no exception. He takes part in the meeting with such calculated precision that Yves almost misses it.

Almost misses: the slight stiffness to his shoulders, as if it’s taking more than the usual amount of effort to keep himself upright. The way in which he clears his throat before speaking, like it might actually hurt. The way he rests his head on one hand, halfway into the meeting—as if even now, barely forty minutes into the workday, he’s already exhausted.

It’s subtle enough to go unnoticed, subtle enough that Yves wonders if he’s just reading too much into it—if, perhaps, Vincent is fine, after all.

—

He doesn’t see Vincent again until lunch.

Or, more accurately, he doesn’t see Vincent again until he’s headed down for lunch with Cara and Laurent. Vincent is already on his way out of the cafeteria, a takeout container in hand.

“You’re not going to eat here?” Yves asks.

Vincent doesn’t look at him. “I have some work to get done at my desk,” he says. He clears his throat again, like it’s irritating him.

“Okay,” Yves says. Vincent turns to leave, and Yves thinks of a hundred ways in which he could possibly prolong this conversation, and then decides against it. Vincent is already so busy.

“You look tired,” he settles on, instead.

He expects Vincent to dismiss this, to reassure him that it isn’t true. But Vincent looks up at him at last, blinking, as if he’s surprised that Yves noticed at all. His eyes are a little dark-rimmed underneath his glasses.

He doesn’t deny it, which is as much of a confirmation as Yves needs.

“The sooner I can get this work done, the sooner I can go home,” he says. Yves supposes he can’t argue with that.

“I guess I’ll see you around, then,” Yves says, even though he wants to say more, even though he feels like there’s more that he should be saying. “Don’t work too hard.”

Vincent nods, at this, and resumes walking.

—

Yves is probably overthinking it. There isn’t anything concrete, really, to justify his concern.

Vincent’s lateness to the meeting could just as easily be the consequence of an alarm he’d forgotten to set, his exhaustion just as easily a side effect—of recent late nights in the office, of arbitrary changes to the projects he’s on, of last-minute demands from clients.

The next time he sees Vincent is at the end of the work day. Yves always takes the elevators on the north end of the building—they’re ones that lead directly out into the parking garage. When he gets out to the hallway, Vincent is already standing there, waiting for the elevator.

Yves watches Vincent stiffen, slightly. Watches him raise one hand up to his face to shudder into it with a harsh, “HHihH’iKKTSh-hUH!”

A thin tremor runs through the line of his shoulders, as if he’s too cold, even though the office air conditioning is no colder than usual. His hand, cupped to his face, remains there for a moment more before he lowers it.

He sniffles, then, rummaging through his pocket for—something. When he doesn’t find it, he just frowns a little, sniffling again. 

“Bless you,” Yves says.

“Yves,” Vincent says, his shoulders stiffening a little. He clears his throat, turning around so that he can address Yves properly.

It’s only a few seconds later that he’s turning sharply away, tenting both hands over his nose and mouth for—

“Hh-! hHiH—HIHh’DZSSschh-uhh! snf-!”

“Bless you again.” 

Vincent sighs. “Don’t bother.” He really looks exhausted, Yves realizes. During their brief interaction at lunch, he’d already sensed as much, but the harsh white glare of the bright corporate lighting only makes it more evident.

Vincent looks a little paler than usual, if only slightly, and there’s a slight flush that spreads itself over his cheekbones. He looks—well, nearly as put together as always, distilled only by the slight crookedness of his tie, as if it’s been on too tight; the near-invisible sheen of sweat over his forehead. The slight redness to the bridge of his nose, the slight shiver to his hand as he reaches up to adjust his collar.

Yves frowns, taking this all in. “You look kind of…”

“Terrible?” Vincent finishes for him.

Yves winces. “...Well, terrible is a strong word. I was going to say, you look like you could use some sleep.”

“I’m… feeling a little off,” Vincent says, staring straight ahead, as if it’s not an admission at all. But Yves suspects, from the way he avoids eye contact, that perhaps it was something he was intending on keeping private. “You should keep your distance.”

The elevator dings. The sliding doors part, and he steps inside. 

“First floor?” Yves asks, hesitating next to the panel of buttons.

“Yes,” Vincent says. Then, quietly: “Thanks.”

“You know, now that busy season is over, the world is not going to end if you take a sick day,” Yves tells him. “Even if you do like, twice the amount of work as everyone else on the team, if you needed to call out, I’m sure something could be arranged.”

Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly. “I must look pretty bad if you’re saying this to me.”

“Yes, I was lying,” Yves says. “Clearly, you look terrible.”

It isn’t true at all—even here, even like this, Vincent doesn’t look terrible, not even in the least. But Vincent still smiles, at this—a tired smile.

The elevator doors slide open.

“Text me if you need anything,” Yves says, impulsively. “Seriously. Tissues, soup, medicine—whatever. It’s not far of a drive.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” Vincent says. “I will see you tomorrow.” And then he steps out of the elevator, and Yves is left with an inexplicable sinking feeling in his stomach. As far as he knows, it has no place there. Obviously, Vincent can take care of himself. Obviously, Vincent can handle a cold. Yves has nothing to be concerned about.

—

The next day is rainy—a constant, torrential downpour, which makes his commute to work take almost twice as long as it usually does. It wouldn’t be spring here, Yves supposes, without dreary weather like this.

Back in uni, when he rowed crew, they’d practice out for hours out in the rain. Now that he spends the majority of his day inside, he supposes he can’t complain. The shelter of the office building is a reprieve.

Vincent doesn’t show up.

“I think he’s out sick,” Cara says, when Yves asks. “You know, it’s funny. I don’t think I’ve actually seen him take a sick day before.”

“For how hard he works, he definitely deserves one,” Garrett says.

“He seemed fine yesterday, when I saw him,” Cara says, with a shrug. “Probably came on quickly.” Yves nods.

But that isn’t quite right, is it? Vincent hadn’t seemed fine, had he? Yves thinks back to the things he’d noticed—Vincent, uncharacteristically exhausted during the meeting, though it was clear he’d been just as engaged as usual. Vincent, shivering in the elevator, telling Yves to keep his distance. How poorly had he been feeling already, yesterday? How poorly does he have to be feeling today to have called off of work for it?

He finds some time just before lunch to text.

Y: how are you holding up? Y: yesterday’s offer stands if you need me to bring you anything!

He doesn’t get a response from Vincent, which is a little concerning. He checks his phone halfway through lunch, and then twice more, in between his afternoon meetings, just in case he’s missed a notification.

“Are you expecting a text from someone?” Cara says, looking a little curious.

“Just a friend,” Yves says, which is and isn’t true.

To make a point—to Cara, and possibly to himself—he shuts his phone off. He very pointedly does not look at it again for the remainder of the hour.

It’s not until mid-afternoon that he finally gets a response.

V: Sorry to get back to you so late.

Yves sits upright, fumbling with his phone to get it unlocked. The text bubble pops up again, somewhat intermittently, to show that Vincent is typing.

V: If it’s not too much trouble, there’s a blue folder on my desk labeled 2-A.

Yves blinks at this, a little disbelieving.

Y: you’re asking me to bring you work files? Y: arent you supposed to be resting 🤨 Y: paid sick leave, remember? as in, leave your work at work??

V: I meant to pack them yesterday.

Y: that’s like a genie grants you 3 wishes and you ask for an extra day of assignments Y: terrible waste of a wish if you ask me

V: As a genie, you’re quite judgmental

Y: ok ok Y: as your loyal lamp dweller i’ll be over around 8pm with folder 2-A  Y: you need anything else? 

V: Nothing else V: You can just leave them outside my door 

A beat. Then Vincent sends:

V: Sorry to trouble you

Yves thinks of twenty responses he wants to send to that text. Then, thinking better of himself, he shuts his phone off and gets back to work.

—

It’s a little past seven when he finally checks out of the office.

Outside, the rain hasn’t even begun to let up—it falls, straight and heavy, in large, globular droplets. The streets gleam with water. Yves leaves his umbrella in the trunk, tunes out everything but the static of the rainfall, and drives.

Yves has only ever been to Vincent’s apartment once—to pick him up for the New Years’ party Margot hosted—and even then, Vincent had met him at the door. But he recognizes the unit, nonetheless.

For a moment, he considers leaving the folder of files outside of Vincent’s door and taking his leave.

But it’s windy, and he’s afraid the papers might fly away, torn up by the biting wind, and get lost face down in a puddle somewhere, which would defeat the purpose of him coming here in the first place, and would probably also breach some employee confidentiality policy. So instead, he knocks.

It’s silent for a moment. Rain beats down on the slanted rooftops, a constant thrum. 

Yves is about to reach out to knock again, when the door swings open.

There stands Vincent, in a pale blue hoodie and loose-fitting pajama pants, with neat rectangular cuffs.

He looks tired. It’s the first thing Yves registers—the unusual fatigue to his expression, which he can’t quite seem to blink away; the flush high on his cheekbones. The way he holds himself, his shoulders stiff, carefully, defensively; as if despite his exhaustion, there’s a part of him which wishes to appear presentable still.

It’s only a moment later that he’s taking a halting step back, ducking into a hoodie sleeve. Yves catches the shiver of his expression, his eyebrows pulling together, before it crumples, and his head jerks forward with a harsh—

“hHihh’GKkTT—! Hh-!! iHH-’DZZSCHh-uuUh!”

The second sneeze sounds louder and harsher than usual, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve. It betrays his congestion all at once. 

“Bless you,” Yves says.

Vincent emerges, sniffling a little. When he speaks, he sounds a little hoarser than he did yesterday. “I thought I said you - snf-! - could leave them on the front step.”

“You did,” Yves says, glancing down at the folder in his hands. “But it’s windy, and it’s raining. I figured you’d prefer to have your files intact. How are you feeling?”

Vincent blinks at him. He’s leaning heavily against the doorframe, Yves realizes, one hand gripped tightly around the frame, his knuckles white from the pressure, as if it would take him too much effort to stay upright otherwise. 

“Alright,” he answers. “Thanks for making the trip here. I… it must’ve taken longer, in the rain.” He squeezes his eyes shut, as if his head hurts, as if the light coming from outside is exacerbating his headache. “If you ever need me to pick something up for you, I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Yves says. Despite himself, he reaches up to press his hand against Vincent’s forehead.

The heat under his fingertips is alarming, to say the least. Yves blinks, lowering his hand, and tries to keep the worry out of his voice. “Have you taken your temperature?”

Vincent shakes his head. “I don’t think I have a thermometer.”

“Have you eaten, then?”

Vincent averts his glance, looking sheepish. “I… was planning to stop for groceries, yesterday,” he says. Planning to.

Yves thinks back to the elevator ride yesterday. Vincent had probably already been feeling very unwell, then. And yet, he’d talked with Yves as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I’m feeling a little off, he’d said, as if anything about his current affliction could possibly be characterized as “little.” I will see you tomorrow—as if he had really, genuinely been intending on showing up at work. 

“So I take it that there’s nothing in the fridge, either,” Yves says.

“If it’s any consolation, you’ll be pleased to know that I slept,” Vincent says, in lieu of answering.

Then he shivers—the sort of concerning, full-body shiver that is a little concerning, coming from someone who is usually unaffected by the cold—and Yves is immediately reminded that the door they’re speaking through is open.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

“You probably shouldn’t,” Vincent says, before his expression scrunches up, and he’s ducking away with a— “hh—! hHih-II—TSSCHHh-UH! snf-!”, smothered hurriedly into the palm of his hand. He sniffles, emerging with a slight wince. “This came on pretty quickly. It might be the flu.”

“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I got my flu shot in the winter. And anyways, I’ll be careful.”

Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Then, frowning, he says, “I’d feel terrible if you caught this.”

That’s the least of Yves’s worries—he doubts he’s going to catch this. Even if he does, it will just mean a few days off of work. Not the end of the world, by any means. Nothing to warrant the expression on Vincent’s face—Vincent looks upset, as if he’ll really can’t think of anything worse than Yves catching this. Like even the thought of it is worth being upset over.

Yves shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, seriously.” He pushes past Vincent to step inside and shuts the door behind him. “Here, I’ll set these down on your desk. Where is it?”

“Down the hallway, to the left,” Vincent says.

Yves takes the folder, leaves his shoes at the door, and heads inside. 

Vincent’s bedroom is small and organized—it’s the kind of bedroom that’s tastefully minimal, in the sort of unified manner that implies that everything in it has been carefully arranged. There’s a small white desk in the corner, a stack of files arranged neatly next to Vincent’s laptop, its lid halfway to shut. There’s a bookshelf, leaned up against the wall far; the bottom shelf looks to be filled with textbooks; the top shelf lined with books, both in Korean and in English. The walls are painted slate gray, the carpets lining the floorboards picked out to match, and there are pale blue curtains hanging from the windows, pulled tightly shut.

There are signs here, too, of his illness, but they are subtle. A tissue box, nestled between his pillow and the headboard, half empty. A waste bin at the foot of the bed, conveniently in reach. A small bottle of aspirin on the bedside counter; an empty packet of cough drops sitting at the edge of his nightstand.

Yves sets the folder at the end of Vincent’s desk, next to the rest of his files, and turns to face him.

“You’re not going to work on these until you’re feeling better, right?” he asks.

“Only if I can’t sleep,” Vincent says, which Yves supposes is a satisfactory answer. Then he twists away, his eyebrows furrowing, lifting a loosely clenched fist to his face to cough, and cough. 

The cough is harsh and grating—his entire frame shudders with the force of it, his breaths shallow and raspy. He really sounds awful. This must have come on quickly, Yves thinks.

If it’s upsetting, seeing Vincent like this, it’s even worse to be standing here, in his room, doing nothing. So—if only to make himself useful, if only to convince himself that there’s something he can do—Yves ducks out into the kitchen.

The pantry is meticulously organized—glasses lined up in neat rows; stacks of bowls sorted by size. He fills a glass with water, shuts the cabinets, and takes it back to the bedroom. 

By the time he gets back, Vincent is sitting at the edge of his bed. His glasses are folded neatly, left at the very edge of the countertop.

“Here,” Yves says, crossing the room, holding out the glass for him to take. 

“Thanks,” Vincent says, taking it gingerly from him. He takes a small, tentative sip, and then another—his hands are a little shaky, Yves notices. “You - snf-! - should really go.”

“I’m not entirely convinced you’ll be fine on your own,” Yves says.

“Of course I will be,” Vincent says, with all of his usual certainty. He lays down, pulling the covers over his body. “I have been fine on my own for years.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, Yves supposes. But he doesn’t feel reassured in the least.

“Thank you again for bringing me the files,” Vincent says, at last, shutting his eyes.

“You could’ve asked me to get you groceries,” Yves says. “There’s a supermarket not far from here, right? And you’re out of cough drops.” He takes a few steps over, towards the desk in the corner of the room. “These—” He examines the bottle of ibuprofen on the table. “—are expired.”

“Just because you’ve extended this kindness to me,” Vincent tells him, “doesn’t mean I should take advantage of it.”

Yves blinks, a little taken aback. “It’s only groceries. I wouldn’t have minded, really.”

“See,” Vincent says, with a note of—something in his voice. It sounds a bit like resignation. “That’s just the kind of person you are.”

Yves doesn’t know what to say, to that. 

Before he can think up a fitting response, Vincent’s breathing evens out. Yves lets himself listen to the shallow, steady cadence of it. Lets himself acknowledge the heavy, painful feeling in his chest for just a moment. Then he shuts the lights off and heads back out into the hallway.

[jjkamochoso]

Summer Hair, Don’t Care

Choso x gn!reader (reader described as having enough hair to put into buns just fyi)

Fluff

Reader and Choso have the same hairstyle. Love and hijinks ensue !

Warnings: none

It was hot outside. Very, extremely, utterly hot. Summer had finally come around and with it, scorching temperatures. Thankfully it was the weekend so you didn’t have to brave your commute in work clothes that would end up being sticky and sweaty before you even made it to your job. No, today was a day for letting loose and living life in carefree and well ventilated clothes. As you went through your morning routine, you contemplated all the things you could do with your days off. Even though being outside was akin to walking on the literal sun, you decided that the day could be best spent surviving the trip to somewhere fun and cool—the mall. After you chose your outfit, all that was left before heading out was what to do with your hair. You were tired of the same old hairstyles that everyone else seemed to be doing. Ponytails, braids, and half updos were fun, sure, but you wanted more from your hair today. Going straight to Pinterest, experimentation with a new style was the name of your game. You scrolled through endless photos of perfectly poised ponys and crazy curled coifs. You were almost ready to give up and go back to your tried and true style when something caught your eye.

“Double spiky buns, huh? Looks interesting,” you mumbled to yourself, gathering the tools you needed. Your first attempt went well but the buns weren’t quite even. The second attempt was somehow worse, the buns in totally different angles on the top of your head. By the third try, thankfully, you figured it out because if you hadn’t, you were ready to just rip out your hair and go bald (your arms hurting from styling certainly didn’t help). You took a minute to admire your work in the mirror and you were glad you got out of your comfort zone because you looked great! Satisfied, you grabbed your belongings and hopped on the next train to the mall. Everybody standing near you looked as miserable as you felt because of the heat and your knee anxiously bounced up and down as you anticipated your destination. You had never clamored off a train as fast as you did then to escape into the sweet release of the air conditioned mall. Once the cool air touched your skin, you immediately got goosebumps, but unlike the winter ones, you appreciated these. You stood next to the directory for a few moments, making a plan of attack for what stores you were going to check out. Like any mall, there was an overwhelming amount of choices and you were in no mood to strategize so you just started walking. Little did you know, there was a group that had just arrived after you doing that exact same thing.

“Chosoooooo I’m bored,” complained Yuji, who was sprawled out on his bed. Usually the two boys slept in a lot later but the heat had them awake bright and early. Choso sighed as he took in the sight of his exasperated brother, running his fingers through his undone hair.

“Do you wanna stay home and play some board games?” he suggested, but Yuji shook his head.

“They’re fun but I wanna go somewhere. It’s too hot in these dorms.”

Choso couldn’t disagree with that. He didn’t know how his brother withstood the heat in his room during this time of year. Maybe they could buy some fans while they were out.

“Get your shoes on. We’re going to the mall.”

Yuji immediately got up, a huge smile on his face.

“Great idea! I’ll text Kugisaki and Fushiguro and ask if they wanna come too!”

As Choso began to put his hair up in his signature buns, he smiled softly at his younger brother’s antics. He was so relieved that Yuji found people he could have fun and act his age with. Sure, they were all going to run off and leave him behind with the bags, but what else were older brothers for? Choso was grateful he was able to be there for Yuji and his friends. Yuji, in turn, noticed how lonely Choso would get without knowing people who were his (physical) age and hoped he could help him find romantic companionship or at least some friends to start. That thought is what the three high schoolers were talking about as they walked in the mall while Choso was blissfully unaware, his attention occupied with finding the nearest electronics store.

“I’m glad he suggested it because malls are the best places to meet people. Especially girls, huh Fushiguro?” Yuji teased and Megumi’s face sported a blush.

“Shut up. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, looking away in embarrassment.

“It’s not fair that everybody flirts with Fushiguro when I’m right here,” complained Nobara.

“You’re so loud I think the whole mall knows you’re right here,” Megumi retorted. The two of them started to bicker when Yuji finally interjected.

“Guys! We’re here to help Choso, remember?

“I think he’s gonna need more help than we can give him,” Nobara grumbled, sparing a glance at the brunette who looked hopelessly lost trying to figure out where he was on the directory.

“I’ll help him with that. You two… just… whatever,” said Megumi, waving them off and walking toward Choso, who now had his face so close to the plastic map that his nose almost touched it.

“Okay, back to the plan. We’re trying to find a normal looking person for Choso to-”

“Yuji! They have the same hairstyle as your brother! I’m gonna go talk to them.”

Nobara marched away before Yuji could get another word in.

This is where you come back to the story.

You were almost in the door of the first store when you heard someone come rushing up behind you, calling for your attention.

“Excuse me! Excuse me!”

You spun around to be face to face with a spunky teenager with bright orange hair and a huge grin.

“Hi! I’m sorry to bother you, but I wanted to say I love your hair! Also, there’s this guy that I want you to please meet. He’s very lonely—well, no, that doesn’t sound right. Yes, he’s lonely, but not because he’s weird or anything, he just spends his time being a great big brother. I’m Kugisaki by the way.”

You had to take a moment to process everything this girl just told you. It was a surprise to be greeted like that but she seemed to be genuine and, to be honest, you were lonely too. The worst thing that could happen is that you didn’t get along too well but you could easily go your separate ways since you were at a mall.

“Nice to meet you, Kugisaki. I’m y/n. Would you like to show me this mystery man?”

You didn’t think her smile could get any wider but you were proven wrong.

“Come with me.”

She led you over to the directory where you were met with two teen boys and a man who seemed around your age. When the older guy turned around, you got a good look at his whole face and it almost took your breath away. He was absolutely handsome! His dark eyes suited his dark hair and light complexion perfectly. You were intrigued by what you thought was a tattoo across his nose. Whatever it was, you thought it was hot. The thing that caught your attention most, though, were the two spiky buns planted on his head in the exact manner as yours. You couldn’t help but laugh a little at the coincidence and you noticed the man’s face had a dusting of pink on it.

“I’m assuming you’re mystery man?” you asked as he nodded sheepishly.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know what the kids were up to. Please, don’t let us ruin your shopping trip.” The poor guy genuinely seemed distressed for seemingly bothering you. He was way too cute to be so nervous!

“So you’re not Tokyo’s most eligible but lonely bachelor?” you teased, making him blush some more.

“We’re gonna go shopping. I’ll text you later Choso!” yelled the pink haired kid who was dragging away his friends. You found the whole situation amusing and hoped the man opposite of you felt the same.

“Choso, is it? I’m y/n,” you introduced yourself and you noticed he had a shocked look on his face.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m just surprised you’re not weirded out by my brother’s friends. I know if teens ran up to me like that I probably wouldn’t have handled it as gracefully as you.”

“I remember being a kid and how kids that age act. Trust me, they seem to have good hearts. Besides, it’s better shopping with other people if you’re up to hanging out. I trust you make good choices, judging by your hairstyle.”

Choso tilted his head in confusion until the realization dawned on him. You two wore the same double buns!

“Your hair!” he exclaimed, “It’s great! But I’m obviously biased.” You two shared a laugh and started walking deeper in the mall when Choso struck up a conversation.

“What are you here for? Anything in particular?”

You pondered for a moment.

“Mmm, no. I just wanted to get out of the house but stay out of the sunshine. It’s way too hot outside.” Choso nodded in agreement.

“I get that. I’ve been staying at my brother’s dorm and it’s too hot in there too so I’m buying some fans while I’m here.”

“Oh! There’s a great electronics store around here somewhere. You wanna check there first?”

Choso was relieved because even with Megumi’s help, he still couldn’t figure out the directions to the store. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, the mall directory would’ve felt Piercing Blood cut it in half. Already, you’ve proved to be a great addition to his life. You were kind, funny, and definitely attractive. If he didn’t screw this up, he’d have to thank Nobara for her spontaneity.

“Which of the boys was your brother?” you inquired, wanting to get to know the quiet man next to you.

“He was the one with the pink hair, Yuji. Fushiguro was the dark haired kid and the girl you met was Kugisaki, if she didn’t tell you already.”

“Oh! I would’ve assumed the dark haired kid was your brother.”

“Yuji and I are half brothers,” he explained, a gentle smile on his face, “so the family resemblance isn’t all there. But we’re close anyway. He’s such a great kid, he’s always looking out for others and doesn’t have a selfish bone in his body. I’m really lucky to call myself his big brother.” Your heart absolutely melted hearing Choso talk about his brother like that. Kugisaki wasn’t joking when she told you he’s a devoted family man!

“He seems lucky to have you, too. Everybody deserves a doting big brother like you in their life,” you said, earning a bigger smile from Choso.

“How about you?” he asked. “What’s your family like?”

You dove into your family life and you could tell he listened with such intensity, like he was a sponge soaking up every little word you said. He nodded when appropriate, asked questions at the right time. Even as the topic changed and you shared more mundane details about yourself, Choso looked at you like you were holding a seminar on the most interesting topic in the world. Alternatively, when Choso spoke, you found yourself appreciating every subtle movement he made and how he pronounced certain words because he was just so mesmerizing. You had only known this guy about 20 minutes but it felt like you were old friends, or even lovers of a bygone age, who were rediscovering all of each other’s quirks and culminations of what made up your personalities and life experiences. You never knew you could be so comfortable around someone so quickly but Choso was simply intoxicating. You didn’t even notice you had been stopped outside the electronics store, talking about whatever came to your minds, for longer than what was deemed normal to not notice your surroundings. Finally, you and Choso gained consciousness of the world around you once more and headed into the store. It was a little gesture, but you really appreciated how Choso held the door open for you. Even while browsing fan selections, you two had a great time debating on which option seemed the best, what color to get, it didn’t matter—you both had a lot to say and you both wanted to hear the other one speak. Finally, after the exasperated salesperson left you two to figure out your choice on your own, you settled on three medium sized black fans.

“I think they’d be cute if they matched you,” you had argued, gesturing to Choso’s black shirt and black pants outfit. He couldn’t disagree with someone who effectively called him cute so you guys took the products to the counter and asked if they could be held until you were done shopping. The store clerk was just happy that the two indecisive chatterboxes were leaving and he eagerly took the merchandise from you, charged Choso, and ushered you two from the store in a lightning fast manner. You and Choso were so wrapped up in each other that you didn’t notice the employee’s behavior and headed out to see what else the mall had to offer. You found yourselves looking through manga, circling aisles of knickknack stores, competing to see who could find the cutest plushies, and ended up with stacks of clothes in your hands, doing fashion shows for each other.

“Alright Choso! I’m on my last outfit!” you called out, walking into the communal area filled with uninterested boyfriends and phone scrolling girlfriends who were waiting for their significant others to finish trying things on. Choso stood out among the crowd as he eagerly awaited to see what you picked. When he saw you emerge, his eyes widened and he gulped. The weight of the whole situation he was in had finally dawned on him—was he on a date?! Yes, he was having an amazing time with you, yes you were easy to talk to, but these were attributes of a friendly hangout. Admittedly, he found you so attractive it made his heart skip a beat when you looked at him and his hands clammy when you brushed them with your own—these were not attributes of a friendly hangout, but of something more romantic. And now, as you stood in front of him, goofily modeling your look, he weighed his options. He either tells you that he’d never seen someone so captivating in his entire life, or he stays quiet and laughs along like a good friend would. When you looked at him expectedly, he made his choice.

“You look absolutely astonishing. I’ve never seen anyone come close to as stunning as you are.” You were taken aback. You definitely weren’t expecting him to say that! You searched his face for any sign of teasing and tried to find a hint of joking in his tone, but he was serious. You felt your face warm at the compliment as you looked away, suddenly shy. The eye rolls of the other shoppers went unnoticed by you both who were too engrossed in your moment of puppy love. Choso was nervous at your lack of reaction. Did he make you uncomfortable? Was he too forward? Should he have waited—

“Do you want to grab some food after this?” you suddenly suggested, and for the first time today, Choso had no words. He silently nodded as you went back to put your normal clothes on. When you were out of sight, he let out a sigh and pushed his bangs off his face for a moment as he was suddenly feeling the summer heat even in the cool mall. When you came out once more, the outfit you had worn last was in your hands.

“I take it you liked this one?” you said, trying to ease the tension.

“I liked all of them,” he confessed, and you lightly swatted his arm.

“Well, how am I supposed to choose what to buy then? I want an outfit that’ll make you want to take me out on a proper date.” You giggled to yourself as you saw Choso getting flustered. Usually he was so composed in all other areas of his life, but romance had been neglected for far too long.

Brothers, lend me your courage and strength, he thought to himself before answering you.

“I would take you on a proper date even if you weren’t wearing anything.”

You tried so hard not to burst out laughing but you failed as Choso realized what he had said. Quickly backtracking, he was getting more and more flustered.

“No, wait! I did NOT mean for that to sound like that. Y/n, I’m so sorry, I’m not that kind of guy, I promise. I just meant that you didn’t have to buy anything special for me. You’re perfect enough as you are.” You wiped the tears that had formed in your eyes from laughing so hard as you reached over and gave his hand a quick squeeze, butterflies in your stomach at the touch of his skin on yours.

“Choso, it’s okay. I knew what you meant, it was funny but I understand the intent behind it.” You put the clothes on the rack to be sorted by the employees. “If it makes you feel any better, I’d take you out as you are now too, no fancy new clothes needed, because you’re really handsome just like this.”

Choso tried to keep his big, giddy smile internal, but he couldn’t contain his joy at hearing you found him attractive too. As you walked to the food court, he had a newfound burst of confidence and softly took hold of your hand, another trait of his you found completely endearing. He was a pretty bulky and intimidating man, but you liked how he treated things with a gentle touch. You both decided to get ramen bowls but with different toppings so you could share. Choso insisted on paying for your meal and you thanked him profusely for his generosity. When he let go of your hand only to pay and bring over both your orders to the table, you found that your hand was uncomfortably empty without his in it, even during such a short amount of time. Enjoying your meals, you both still had tons to talk about. There was never a dull or awkward moment with him and it was nice that you could be yourself around him with no fear of judgement. As you were listening to Choso talk about a funny story, he took a break from speaking to finish eating the noodle he had picked up with his chopsticks. You, too, were trying your hand at finishing a noodle but it was extremely long. When you felt tension on the noodle and noticed it starting lifting from Choso’s side of the bowl as well, your heart did a flip.

“Have you ever seen the movie “Lady and the Tramp?” you asked him, noodle dangling out of your mouth.

“Uh uh,” he replied, meaning no.

“Just follow my lead,” you said. Choso looked at you curiously but heeded your directions. You both slurped away at the noodle until it was obvious you two were eating the same one. You put your finger up to signal Choso to refrain from breaking it. You continued to bring the noodle further into your mouth, as did he, and your faces were now close together. You knew PDA wasn’t totally acceptable but the food court was surprisingly quiet for the time of day and no one was in the booths around you. If you were going to kiss him, now was the time. You gave him time to understand what would happen if you ate any more of the noodle and he had the chance to break it off and back away if he didn’t want to kiss you. Choso’s lips curled into a tiny smile as his eyes bore into yours, leaning in ever so slightly. You did the same, and your lips ever so slightly ghosted Choso’s as you—

“Hey! Choso!”

You quickly clamped down on the noodle with your teeth so it was no longer connected to the piece in Choso’s mouth. You had never moved so fast in your life to sit back in your seat normally as Yuji and his friends came barreling over to your table. Normally Choso was ecstatic to see his little brother, but he couldn’t have picked a worse time to interrupt. You were sure Yuji didn’t notice his brother pouting in his booth, the neglected noodle hanging at the corner of his mouth. As Choso sat, brooding with his arms crossed, you couldn’t help but find the timing hilarious. While Yuji was none the wiser that his brother was about to kiss someone, you were sure that Fushiguro noticed because his face was tomato red and avoiding your gaze while Kugisaki gave you a thumbs up and a wink. You shook your head, a light chuckle tumbling out of your mouth.

“I take it you had a successful shopping day?” You eyed the bags that the kids hauled over and were now strewn across several unoccupied tables.

“Of course! I love shopping. I’m very good at it,” a smug Kugisaki replied.

“Are you good at shopping or overspending on things you don’t need?” grumbled Fushiguro while Kugisaki flicked the side of his head. While they dealt with each other, you pulled out your phone to check the time. The mall was about to close! It didn’t feel like you had been here all day but time flies when you’re having fun.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but the mall is gonna close in like, 10 minutes and I should probably head home.”

Choso perked up at the sound of your voice while Yuji turned his conversation to his friends.

“I didn’t realize it had gotten so late, I was having such a good time with you. Can we walk you home?”

You beamed at him.

“I would love nothing more.”

The kids rounded up all of the bags as your eccentric little group headed to the train station. The entire time, Choso’s hand had found its home in yours and you couldn’t be happier at how today went. What started as a normal day ended with you potentially finding love. Even as you waited outside, sweat beginning to bead on your forehead and palms, Choso never let go of you. When you made it to your apartment door, you reluctantly let go of each other’s hands.

“I had an amazing time today with you, y/n,” said Choso, with the sincere look on his face that you had come to adore, “Would you like to go on a second date with me sometime soon?”

“I had a great time with you too, Choso. I’d love to go on another date with you.”

You both had huge smiles on your faces as you exchanged phone numbers. Before he turned around to leave, you caught his attention.

“Wait! Your hair got messed up on the train ride over here. Can I fix it for you before you go? I am an expert at this style, you know.”

He obliged, sitting on the steps so you could reach him easier. You couldn’t help but relish the feeling of running your fingers through his hair and he was equally just as happy getting his hair played with, letting out a content sigh. You twisted the hair into the right shape and got the ends to spike up to match the other bun. When you were done, you pulled out a Hello Kitty hair clip you had bought at the mall and placed it on the side of his head.

“Something to remember me by,” you explained as he stood up.

“I don’t think I could ever forget you,” he said earnestly. You leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek goodbye and Choso didn’t know if his poor heart could handle any more love from you without it going into overdrive. As you entered your doorway, Choso bid you farewell with a lovesick grin on his face. Hurrying back to the others, he couldn’t wait to debrief with them everything that had happened and get advice on what to do for the second date. When their train arrived at the station, Choso sat down and immediately slapped his palm to his face, groaning.

“Yuji?”

“Huh?”

“I forgot the fans.”

[vasito-de-leche]

iff its still alright for requests then maybe somethingg small n maybe sleepy with forget me not ? nothing specific otherwise just

sleepy eeby forget me not fic. either that or wrangling his soggy ass to sleep(for once

;R1999 FORGET ME NOT - "five minutes"

Forget Me Not x Reader. 2.8k words fluff Being in charge of The Walden has its ups and downs - Forget Me Not enjoys being the conductor of an orchestra composed of dying men and women, even if it costs him hours of precious sleep. You make sure to remind him that even the most powerful broker in Chicago deserves a little nap.

this mf has been fighting me for a month or so, it's so hard to write him SLEEPING, HE RLLY DOESNT WANT TO. I HAVE 3 DIFFERENT DRAFTS GRAAAA so here we are. I fought tooth and nail for this, theres 4 different drafts just about FMN getting some fucking sleep. this one even has like, a different version where you fall asleep on his lap instead bc he keeps FIGHTING ME

either way, ty for the request, nonnie! your ask was the perfect excuse to get this done. sorry it ended up being longer than my usual stuff, I just really love the guy

The amount of work needed to maintain an establishment like The Walden often goes unnoticed.

Its elegant ambience and decor, all the powerful and influential people to rub shoulders with, the precise and meticulous organization behind every single detail and decision - all of it can be attributed to a single man, the very same who leads the crowd and makes their drinks.

When the night arrives, he and The Walden come alive.

Hundreds of desperate rats crawl into his den, searching for things they don't deserve: money, fame, fortune, connections, assets. They want to find their place in the world before they're long forgotten, and this is when Forget Me Not steps onto the stage and finds himself in his element, surrounded by all the people who look at him in fear, disgust and awe.

Do they know? That at the end of the world, he holds their fate in the palm of his hand? Him, a simple broker, a middle man.

An inferior, an arcanist.

Of course, the high fades as soon as the sun rears its ugly head over the horizon, his spirits plummet to the ground when the world returns to that monotonous routine. All Forget Me Not can do now is wait.

He would never dream of being so careless as to have his own residence right above his workplace, but he rarely steps into his home in the first place. It's too much trouble to commute back and forth, wasting time in a building that is as devoid of warmth as the blood running through his veins. That private office nestled somewhere within The Walden has become his new safe haven, in fact - with one too many couches to lounge around and no bed in sight.

Not that he sleeps anyway.

Forget Me Not always fancied the most convoluted route into an early grave, and thus has replaced the bottle for something else: endless paperwork.

It's getting harder and harder to conceal the dark bags under his eyes for a semblance of professionalism. How very fitting that, despite all of his efforts and accomplishments, his quality of life continues to deteriorate. What a depressing thought.

The leather of his seat squeaks as he shifts, leaning backwards to fully take in the piles and piles of files atop his desk. His gaze turns to the clock just to confirm what he already knows - it's a little past 6 AM, the cold breeze of the early morning keeping him wide awake. A brand new shipment of materials will arrive in two hours, they will need to be stored but it's an easy enough job for the Disciples. This means that the next important event on his schedule is the meeting at 11 AM. Forget Me Not's face sours right away at the thought, and he reaches for his drink.

And just like that, without any sort of warning, the door to his office is flung open. It's a good thing that despite his awful, awful health, his grip is as steady as ever - not a single drop is spilled. If else, Forget Me Not remains still as a statue, retaining that air of composed aloofness as he raises an inquisitive eyebrow towards the intruder.

It's you, standing perfectly by his door frame. He almost drops the glass once he recognizes your face, but conceals his little slip by settling it back down on his desk.

"Ah, how rare to see you during the day, you're always so busy with errands. To what do I owe this loud, impromptu visit? Keep in mind, I don't start serving drinks until 8 PM."

You don't wait for him to finish, marching towards the small lounge in his office and picking up a small, decorative pillow before dropping backwards onto one of the sofas. A shadow passes over Forget Me Not's eyes - he doesn't know whether to resent you for knowing you have the freedom and privilege to act like this around him, or whether to feel insulted for the way you ignored him just now. He settles for his usual third, secret option - resignation - and makes his way towards you.

Unlike you, Forget Me Not has mastered the art of concealing his presence and so he makes no sound at all when he approaches. He stands right next you, leaning ever so slightly to hover above your face, as if his piercing grey eyes alone could pressure you into speaking.

It doesn't work, at least not right away. You hide behind that useless pillow, then you shift and turn to lay on your side, all while he simply stands in perfect silence. It's a battle of attrition, one he intends to win.

"I slept like shit, okay? Just give me five minutes here and I'll go back to work." Your voice is muffled, but he hears how tired you are anyway.

It's easy to forget that people aren't nocturnal like him, at least not by choice. It's easy to forget about humanity when most of his coworkers are puppets held by strings and ink, mindlessly following orders. When you curl up on the sofa, Forget Me Not remembers just how tired he is and sighs. Soon, he's walking towards the door.

This makes you sit up in a hurry, clearly misinterpreting his actions. "Five minutes, promise! Don't kick me out!"

There's a faint click, it's the lock on the door. Forget Me Not returns to his desk, making sure not to look your way lest his eyes reveal those wretched feelings bubbling in his chest. Did you seriously think he had the nerve to throw you out so carelessly?

"Ten minutes. Make sure not to waste them with chitchat." He can practically sense you silently cheering and getting comfortable in his office. On his couch. It's insufferable, the way you always get what you want while he slaves away with work.

But it's only ten minutes, he can tolerate you for that long.

Three minutes pass, and Forget Me Not realizes that he's spent more time glancing your way than reading the document in front of him.

From his spot, he can only see the top of your head, just a glimpse of your form as you rest your eyes. But every time you move, no matter how subtle, he notices and turns his attention back onto you.

Seven minutes, he only needs to focus for seven minutes. The document in his hand is important: he's negotiating for better materials for his potions at a cheaper cost. This simple deal could mean a lot for Manus Vindictae, always so low on funds, resources and support.

Six minutes. Forget Me Not hears you hum and he slowly turns his head on instinct. You're staring right at him, face resting on the armrest, squishing your cheek against the plush cushions.

"You have four minutes left, are you sure you want to waste them like this?" He lies, as if he wasn't ready to ignore the passage of time to give you a few more extra minutes, expecting you to comply. But you get back at him with a question of your own.

"Did you get any sleep?"

"Three minutes." It comes out as a warning. You ignore it.

"I'm serious! You look awful from here." By now, you're sitting down and he knows that if he doesn't stop you, you'll make your way to him. To invade his personal space, cradle his face in your hands and torture him with your gentle touch. "You're always here when I start my shift and when I finish. Where do you get the time to go home and all of that?"

Forget Me Not would rather swallow his own tongue than to openly admit that he essentially lives here. That he has spare clothes in the drawer by the window, that he showers, eats and sleeps in this office of his. You might've figured it out by now, but with his pride and dignity at stake, he pretends to ignore you in favour of work.

"Hey, c'mon. Don't just go back to work like I'm not even here talking to you!" He does exactly that, picking up a pen to sign a few documents. "Drop that. Drop the pen. Hey!"

You talk to him the same way one would talk to a misbehaving dog, and he hears that whiny, frustrated tone in your voice that he's come to appreciate. There is a pause and Forget Me Not does as told - the pen now resting neatly on the desk.

He finally deigns himself to look at you, returning a small smile.

"Thank you, now, like I was saying-"

Thud!

With his free hand, he stamps a document, never breaking eye contact. The pettiness is always worth it, but this time even more so when he sees that tic in your eye and the way you inhale sharply, absolutely done with him. You sit up, consider laying down again in frustration, then simply cross your arms like a child throwing a tantrum - seeing you get worked up over the smallest of things is always such a treat.

"Fine! Be like that! But don't come running when you- Uwaaah!" A yawn interrupts your words, you barely have time to cover your mouth.

Oh no. It's contagious. He feels that tell-tale tingle in his nose, and just like that, he yawns as well.

"Aha! You are tired, I bet you haven't slept properly in days!" An accusatory finger is now pointed at him, and Forget Me Not fights the impulse to roll his eyes.

"That's quite the leap to make over a simple gesture like that. Your time is up, by the way - please, go back to work."

"I'm telling on you, Forget Me Not. I'm so telling on you."

He gives a raspy laugh at this. "And who will you be telling about my horrible sleeping habits? The waiters? The delivery boy? Our esteemed guests?" The latter would definitely eat up any sort of information about his private life, especially if it was something to ruin his reputation, but he doesn't share this out loud.

"Ahh... So, you admit it, then? Having the worst sleeping schedule known to mankind?" Touché.

Before he can even reply, your mouth opens in a feigned yawn and Forget Me Not seethes when he finds himself imitating you. He seethes even more over the smug smile on your face. And he wishes he could just die on the spot when you scoot over and pat the empty seat next to you. Him? Rest? With you? Absolutely not.

"Ten minutes," a tight knot forms in his throat when you start to coax him in. "I'm sure you can spare that much, since you've been indulging me for this long! If you were actually busy, you would've just sent me home to rest. C'mere, sit."

What is the point in keeping track of time by now? Forget Me Not will be by your side until you decide to leave. Indulging you and your stupid ideas, your well-meaning and annoying habits, your reactions - all of it, they're his favorite vice and he never learned how to quit.

"Five minutes." He sits next to you.

"Fair enough." You scoot closer to him.

He watches when you link your arm with his, not bothering to ask for permission. Typical. Your palm is warm as you rest it over his forearm, fingers drumming idly over the soft fabric of his shirt. But you don't linger for too long, and slide down until your index and middle fingers reach the bare skin of his inner wrist, over the pronounced vein there. Can you feel his pulse? The shameless and frantic beat of his heart?

Forget Me Not is so entranced by this simple action that he fails to notice the sudden extra weight - your head rests on his shoulder, with your cheek pressed against the prominent bone. He knows it's an uncomfortable position, because you shift and nuzzle closer to his chest, the top of your head and your hair now tickling his neck and jawline. The knot in his throat returns and he holds his breath on instinct, like an animal at the verge of being devoured.

Nevermind the constant cycle of violence and doom he's turned his life into, these are the horrors that keep Forget Me Not up at night: your body against his, your displays of affection.

"Your eyes," the soft murmur of your voice pulls him from the awful, nonsensical noise in his mind. You're looking up at him. "You're meant to close them. That's what this whole thing is for. Unless ...you can sleep with your eyes open?"

"Don't be ridiculous. As if such a short amount of time could make me fall asleep." He huffs, a way to conceal just how out of breath he is. Part of him is afraid to close his eyes, knowing that he will feel each and every little thing you do - only tenfold. And what would he do with himself then, when all he can focus on is your finger tracing shapes over his palm? It tickles. It's distracting. It's unbearable.

His hand flinches, just barely, and you interlock your fingers with his in response.

"Hush and close them!" Always so obedient to your commands, Forget Me Not does as told, cursing you in his mind.

He gives you an inch, and you take a mile - the moment his eyes are closed, his body turns rigid but you still coax him backwards, so that he can lean on the backrest of the couch. It takes the coordinated effort of every single muscle in his body not to melt on the spot, to remain in a proper, sitting position. With you nestled so comfortably by his side, Forget Me Not makes the worst mistake in his life: he turns his head towards you, his nose now buried in your hair.

The content and pleased noise that leaves him is something that feels alien, entirely out of character for someone like him. Right away, he feels the tips of ears burning with shame and his body uselessly recoils away from you, trying to revert back into that persona he's created for the world.

It backfires immediately.

"...Hm? Is your arm getting numb? Here, let's switch." You move away, all while your hands cradle his face in order to guide him over to your lap.

It's a painfully slow process that is simultaneously over in the blink of an eye. Forget Me Not doesn't know what's worse, the fact that he didn't put up a fight or the way he feels so incredibly small, being held so lovingly by you.

He's laying on his back, hands resting uselessly over his chest like a corpse in an open casket funeral. If he glances upwards (a difficult thing to do, because you flick his forehead whenever you catch him wide awake) he can see you hoarding all the pillows available within your reach to support you as you lounge about, still hellbent on sleeping in with him.

Did he die at some point throughout the day without noticing? Is this his own personal Hell? Forget Me Not wants to speak, to say anything and regain control of the situation, but nothing comes out. All there is to do is to lay there, with your hands combing through his hair.

His heart might as well burst out of his chest. Even better, crawl up his throat and choke him from inside out.

Without thinking, he sits up. It's a nervous impulse. You can't see his face with his back turned to you and he's grateful for the small moment of privacy, as he steels himself to send you away. Or to fuck off into The Walden and walk around aimlessly to cool off, and then avoid you for a few weeks. Whichever comes first.

"Oh! Want a pillow or something? I kind of just took them all without thinking." He doesn't deserve this sort of contact, this domestic bliss - he doesn't want it either.

"Hey, do you think we could do this more often? Just... make some time for me in that busy schedule of yours?" And why would he? You're already pretty skilled at turning his life upside down with your constant nagging and your antics.

"Sorry for being this sappy so suddenly, it just came to mind...Oh, oh! Wait! While you're at it, mind closing the window, please? It's getting a liiittle cold in here."

Forget Me Not leaves his glasses on the table and lays back down, this time making sure to wrap his arms as tightly as he can around your waist, his face hidden in your stomach. What he receives is a weak chuckle, a weak complaint and a weak attempt at pushing him away. You don't mean it, of course - the same way he never means any of the things he thinks.

"Hm, I believe it's perfect like this."

"You're just saying that because you're going to leech off my own body heat, you little snake."

There's a hint of victory in your voice, you've won once again against him but you're always too nice to rub it in. Instead, you caress the scales on his neck, now on full display for you. It's a heavenly sensation.

"Perhaps," he murmurs, eyes closed. "But what are you going to do? Kick me out of my own office?"

"I might if you don't get some rest. Sleep, now."

And just like that, Forget Me Not unravels - he's been waiting so long to be given permission, for someone to allow him a moment of peace despite all these restraints holding him back.

He knows that the moment wakes up, he will act like none of this happened, that he will stubbornly deny everything until his very last breath, but right now, he clings onto you like his life depends on it.

And he falls asleep with your name on his lips

[rookthorne]

𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 | 𝐉.𝐁.𝐁

Pairing ➷ Baker!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader Word Count ➷ 965 Warnings ➷ Fluff, pet names Author's Note ➷ My third and final submission for @the-slumberparty's week 2 creator challenge - and it is also my late contribution to Valentine's Day... so happy Valentine's Day to y'all!

Slumberparty Masterlist

𝑪𝑶𝑶𝑲𝑰𝑬 𝑻𝑰𝑵  : ̗̀➛ a sweet biscuit having a fairly soft, chewy texture and typically containing pieces of chocolate or fruit.

There were very few plans you had come up in your life with that rivalled the sheer brilliance of what you decided to do - ‘twas the belated day for it, anyway. 

Time had slipped through your fingers, so much so you hadn’t realised Valentines Day had already passed by with not even as little as a notice, nor a message. It was the curse of working so hard; late nights, early mornings, so on and so forth. 

Your morning commute didn’t differ in its crowds - people bustling back and forth, rushing to get to their 9 to 5 jobs, or rushing to get to class on time. Though, you did not mind, your thoughts were too occupied on whether you truly were going to pull off such a brazen idea.

It wasn’t reckless per se, but it was out of your norm. A bakery on your usual route to work had signs out, declaring their cookies and treats to be the best in Brooklyn. You didn’t disagree whatsoever, but it wasn’t thoughts of the baked goods that your mind was clouded with, no–it was the baker that occupied the counter. His smile was beautiful, bright enough to light up even the dreariest days, and you couldn’t help but be pulled under the swell of his ocean blue eyes. 

Subconsciously, or instinctually, you found yourself before the very doors to that bakery with no recollection how you had got there, though you weren’t sour for the thought. You could see him talking with customers, bagging up fresh loaves of bread and slices of cakes with that same damn smile that enchanted you. 

The door opened with a whoosh and a tinkling of the bell, and you were inside.

“Have a nice day, ma’am,” he said, his voice smooth. The woman smiled and waved, leaving the bakery with bags and bags of sweet treats.

Another customer stepped forward to be served and you browsed the selection, a little overwhelmed; chocolate this and chocolate that, strawberry this and strawberry that, it was a wonder there were so many ways to use the same flavour in entirely new ways. You were no connoisseur, but you knew baking was an art. 

“Hey,” he called. “Whatcha after today?”

You turned and smiled brightly, trying to will your heart to slow the tattoo it beat against your ribs. “I’m not sure actually,” you offered, sheepish. “I lost track of time and…” A better idea struck you. “I didn’t have time to get a gift before Valentine's Day, so I have to make up for that.”

The man laughed and rounded the counter. “Alright, now that is something I can help with. My name is Bucky, by the way.” You offered yours, and Bucky smiled. “What does your partner like?”

“I want to surprise them, see, they don’t have a favourite–I just know that they love your sweets.” It was a wonder you kept a straight face at the admission, your plan depended on it, and the delighted smile on Bucky’s lips almost broke your facade. 

“The choc chip is by far the most popular, and not to be biassed–one of my favourites.” Bucky directed you towards the clear glass jars where a label was connected with twine, neat script defined ‘chocolate chip’. “And then there’s these,” Bucky continued, pointing towards a cream coloured biscuit with a heart shaped indent, filled to the brim with jam. “They are a safe, but still loved, classic for Valentine’s; even if it is belated.”

“Do you like them?” You asked, peering closer at the dusted sugar and how it sparkled under the soft lighting. 

Bucky nodded next to you. “It was my ma’s recipe.”

“Perfect,” you sighed happily. “I’ll take some choc chip ones and these,” you pointed towards the heart biscuits. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“No worries, doll,” Bucky grinned. Oh, the things you would do to see that smile all the time. 

A few moments later you met Bucky at the counter to pay, a shy smile on your face when you felt the slight crinkle of paper in your hand. Under the guise of digging through your bag, you wrote your phone number on a loose piece of paper and prayed to whoever would listen that this would work. 

Bucky gave you the total with a happy smile and you waved your card. “Here you are,” Bucky said, handing you the bag full of the sweets he had ever so carefully packed. “I hope they like them, be sure to give my thanks for such high praise.”

“I will,” you rushed, grabbing the bag. Bucky turned to the box behind him and fiddled with something, and you took your chance; the slip of paper with your number fell neatly on top of the sealed boxes, its placement obvious and impossible to miss. “Actually, Bucky?”

“Yeah?” Bucky said, turning with a raised brow. “What’s up?”

Taking a deep breath, you offered the bag back to him. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Bucky stared. Shock, bewilderment, and amusement flashed in his pretty eyes as they flicked between you and the offered bag, before finally settling on endearment; a smile and wide eyes softening his features. 

“Oh, doll,” Bucky breathed, taking the bag back and brushing his fingers against yours. His gaze flicked into the bag and his eyes grew even wider. 

Before he could say anymore, you squeaked and skipped to the door. “Enjoy!”

Not even ten minutes later, your phone chimed as you walked through crowds to get to work. You pulled it free and let out a breath. It was an unknown number and an attachment, though what it contained told you exactly who had messaged. 

Thank you for that, sugar. 😘

The attachment, much to your utter delight, was a selfie of Bucky’s bright smile, blue eyes, and he was holding up the piece of paper with your number. You floated on cloud nine for the rest of the day as you worked; giddy, excited, and happy.

↠  𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ↞

[imfinereallyy]

But You'll Have This Place to Call Home, Always

available on ao3

June 2008

Peering through the window of Starlight café, Steve Harrington watched the lively streets of Hawkins' City unfold before him. Early morning commuters had begun to pitter out onto the pavement, their eyes tired, heavy even, but each of them walked with purpose. None of them noticed as Steve’s eyes followed them, familiar faces he couldn’t name, but he knew their routine. It was an easy rhythm to fall in a city like theirs.

Smaller than Chicago but bigger than the small suburban streets scattered across the Midwest, Hawkins City was its own little world tucked between the pages of the known and unknown. A name, though recognizable, was not something a person would put much thought to. Steve Harrington thought of himself like his city some days, a friendly face amongst the cranky customers—someone you say hello to but not someone you’d ask how they are doing. 

Steve flipped the closed sign to open; he could hear Robin puttering around in the back. She was probably looking around for her brand of Earl Grey—it wasn’t the tea they used for customers; it was from a gas station off the highway. The brand was cheap and downright awful, but he knew it reminded her of the time Steve drove them across the country to escape their parents. 

It was a small comfort on stressful mornings. Robin had been having a lot of those lately, Steve had noticed. 

“In the cabinet below the register,” Steve spoke over his shoulder, careful not to shout this early. 

“ Huh , I had more than I thought,” Robin mumbled as she thumbed through the box. 

She didn’t. Steve had gotten up early this morning to go to the gas station an hour out. He bought all six boxes they had left, the rest under his bed at home. 

When Steve walked over to the counter, a hot cup of green tea sat there for him. He looked to see Robin heating water for herself and took a sip out of his mug.

Tangy and lightly sweet.  

“Perfect,” Steve mumbled to Robin; she gave him a soft smile in return. 

This had never been the dream for them, stuffed into a small corner on a busy street, but it felt good. They had fallen into a routine, something Steve thought the two of them would never have. Years of trying to appease everyone, stretching himself thin, only to fall short, had taken their toll during his teen years. Trouble used to follow Steve wherever he went, and he had begun to think he was the trouble himself. 

Now, though, in a city very far away from a life they once knew, Steve was content in the safety of knowing what came next. 

The chime above the door rang as a grumpy Hopper entered the café. Steve’s hands were already working to make his order: a large coffee with four creams, two sugars, and whipped cream on top. Of course, it was in a to-go cup, despite Hopper always staying at least an hour in the shop after ordering. Steve knew it was because Hop didn’t like anyone to know about his secret sweet tooth. 

Steve had found it funny in the past few years how often someone’s order never really matched them at first glance. He had gotten pretty good at guessing the more he worked, and it was rare for anyone to surprise him. 

Hop’s order never changed; Joyce always ordered whatever new double-shot espresso drink we had. Max had a cold brew on her days off and a banana smoothie during her shifts. Dustin always demanded a frappuccino even though they didn’t make them. Robin drank tea first in the morning and an espresso shot at noon. And Steve himself was simple.

Always tea, never coffee.

A fact, to those who knew, that was constantly baffling. 

“Here you go, Jim.” Steve smiled as the older man grimaced.

“I know that most people usually insist on using their first name, kid. But how many times do I have to tell you it’s Hop?” 

Steve’s smile widened as Hop put a five-dollar bill in the tip jar like he did every morning. “You drink your coffee without a lid, and I’ll start calling you Hop.” 

Hopper didn’t argue but frowned into this cup as he walked over to the red couch against the wall. 

Steve chuckled and turned to watch the sunrise over the city skyline. The café was on the city's outer edge, and although it didn’t get as much traffic as it would if they were at its epicenter, Steve wouldn’t trade it. 

The sunrise made it worth getting up this early every morning. It made the inevitable ordinary day ahead special, even if it looked the same as the day before.

Steve pulled down the sleeves of his yellow sweater and adjusted the little “ Steeb :) ” nametag Robin made for him as he returned to the register.

Another chime sounded throughout the café; it was time to get to work. 

‧𓍢ִ໋☕ ׂ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪

At noon, Steve handed Robin her espresso shot, expecting nothing more than the usual grunt of appreciation to sound throughout the busy café. 

Instead, Robin let the cup slip through her fingers as the sound of a motorcycle rumbled outside the café's doors. 

“Shit.” Robin screeched as the hot coffee spilled over Steve’s fingers. 

He hissed in pain; he knew his skin would pay the consequences of the simple distraction. 

“I’m so sorry, Steve; I wasn’t expecting that.” 

Steve couldn’t find it in himself to be mad at her; despite the many cars that passed through the streets, no one drove a motorcycle around here, and those who had only ever passed through. The deep sounds of the engine parked in front of their shop were all kinds of new, and they probably brought a bad memory or two for Robin. 

“It’s okay, Bobbi, you couldn’t have known.” Steve looked up at the ceiling as he tried not to let his eyes fill with tears; it was just another scar to add to the list. No one would probably even notice it amongst the others. 

Distantly, he heard the sound of the door chime go off, but he paid no mind as he watched Robin run off to grab a clean towel from the kitchen to wrap ice in. 

A throat cleared from behind Steve, and a small rush of panic surged through him. They were in the café, with customers around ; now wasn’t the time to panic. 

Preparing a bright smile, Steve turned to the awaiting customer. “Hi, how can I help you?” 

Steve clutched his burning hand as he took in the man before him. Dark chestnut curls framed an unhappy face. The man was undeniably gorgeous, the kind of guy Steve once upon a time would go for, a guy that Steve now stayed far away from. The man’s eyes were set in a glare that felt wrong to Steve. Someone with big eyes like his should have delight in them, should be lively and maybe even kind. Instead, all Steve got was a burning heat behind his stare, one that Steve felt that if the man could use to set Steve on fire, he would. 

Steve’s smile slipped a bit as he took in the man’s slight frown; the stranger’s five o’clock shadow moved with the contortion of his lips. He caught himself and returned his customer service smile on his face.

 “Sir?” Steve clenched his hand before him; the man’s eyes followed the movement, and his frown deepened. 

“You hurt often, sweetheart?” The man finally spoke, his voice rough and low against Steve’s ears. 

Steve wondered what it would be like to hear it close to his ears. The words would have stirred something in his gut if it were for the man's tone. Condescending. Bored. Done with Steve's shit before even knowing him. 

Steve’s smile slipped completely; he didn’t bother to try to fake it. He felt a spark of anger he hadn’t felt in a long time, since the last time he spoke to his own parents, to be precise. 

With his eyebrows tugging and nose scrunched, Steve prepared to give the stranger a piece of his mind until Robin came running back over. 

“Oh my god, sorry that took so long. Jon was using most of the towels to clean down the kitchen, despite me having told him too many times we have set towels for that! And so I had to run into the bathroom under the sink—the employee bathroom, don’t worry, Steve–and then I had to make sure I didn’t trip and fall on my way back because we can’t have two injured employees on our hands! And then–”

“ Robin , rant.” 

Robin cut herself off and thrust the towel, now filled with ice, into his hands. “Sorry, I just was so startled because of the— oh, hello. Do you need some help?” Robin said, only noticing now that Steve had been helping the sorry excuse of a customer. 

The man’s lips curved into a slight smirk, and Steve cursed his only little heart for skipping a beat. Way to be a cliche, he whispered to it. 

“I was just waiting for,” the man said, glancing down at Steve’s nametag and raising an eyebrow. Steeb , to take my order, but it appears you’re both busy, so I can wait.”

Steve felt all his blood rush to his cheeks; he was sure his cheeks were the color of Max’s hair. Usually, Steve didn’t mind the nametag, but now he was silently cursing Robin six ways to Sunday. Steve glanced down at the menace herself, and she at least had the audacity to flinch slightly at the situation. Steve hadn’t even told her this guy was rubbing him the wrong way, but she already knew. 

It was sometimes creepy how well she could read him. 

“It’s Steve. And don’t worry about it.” Steve forced a smile on his face as he repeated a mantra in his head. Keep people happy. Smile. Don’t worry about what others think. In that order.  “What can I get you, sir?” 

Steve rolled his shoulders back; he could hear the cracking echo throughout his body. He had such stiff bones for someone who was only brushing twenty-seven. When she caught him sitting on the stool behind the counter instead of his usual standing, Joyce had told him once that it was because his aches told a story. Steve liked to think of his body that way. It was easier to believe all the pain was a part of a story rather than a meaningless torment. 

The man watched Steve’s face closely, most likely taking pleasure in the discomfort on Steve’s face, before speaking. “ Eddie . You can call me Eddie, sweetheart.”

“What can I get you, sir?” Steve repeated, ignoring him. 

Eddie’s smile bloomed in full across his face. Dimples appeared on his cheeks, and the lines beside his lips proved that he probably smiled often. 

He should , Steve thought; he had a pretty smile.  

Steve made a note to remind himself to think fewer thoughts like that in the future. There was no use in making the note anyway, considering he was more than sure a man like Eddie didn’t stick around places like Hawkins. He should save himself the trouble of wasting his time on thoughts about men like Eddie. 

Still, Steve couldn’t help but wonder what the man would order. He surely wouldn’t surprise Steve. He was sure most people had Eddie pinned as a black coffee type of guy; it was easy to assume so at first glance. But Steve knew better to judge by the surface of it all. Sure, the guy wore a leather jacket and had a nose ring, but it didn’t mean anything. No, Steve was almost positive the man was about to order something ridiculously sweet, with something insane in it, like whole milk.  

“Medium black coffee with two sugars.” Eddie voiced.

Steve froze for a moment. He hadn’t gotten an order wrong in over a year. But here he was, making an ass out of himself with his jaw slightly open as he stared at the man before him. Eddie ordered a black coffee . He was so thoroughly surprised by how unsurprising it all was. 

Eddie’s head tilted at Steve, which made him realize how silent he had been. Even Robin had begun to nudge his side. “ Seriously , just a black coffee?”

Eddie’s smile once again slipped into a devious smirk. “Don’t forget the two sugars. I like it just a little sweet. Sometimes you need something to soothe the bite….of the coffee, of course.” 

Robin moved her head back and forth between them, biting her lip from saying something Steve was sure would only make the situation worse. 

Steve put on his best customer service smile. “I’ll get right on that, sir; Robin here will ring you up. Thank you for stopping by Stardust café on your way through our city.”

“Oh, it’s been a pleasure. And I’m not passing through; I’m gonna be here awhile.” 

Steve dropped his smile and didn’t even bother responding as he walked away to make Eddie’s boring coffee. He could hear Robing ringing him up in the background, the chatter resuming within the café. 

Steve felt sick in his stomach. He hadn’t even realized everyone had stopped talking, which meant everyone had seen the interaction. 

Great. Fucking fantastic. Steve Harrington was once again nothing but a car wreck everyone couldn't help but stop and stare at. 

Steve heard the slight pitter-patter of feet behind him. “Not now, Robin.” He clipped as he began to pour the sugar into the cup. He scrambled to find the lid.

“You know that was pretty weird, dingus. And I have a high threshold for weird. Considering we’ve been friends for almost a decade now.”

Steve searched for a Sharpie to write the name on the cup, although he mostly did it to be petty since no one else had ordered in the past ten minutes. “ Don’t , Robin. I don’t need to hear it right now, and jesus christ, where is the damn marker!” Steve ran his hands through his hair in frustration. 

Robin leaned forward and plucked something from Steve’s apron pocket. She held it out in front of him; it was the damn marker.

Steve sighed and snatched it from her hands. Ripping the cap off with his teeth, Steve grumbled. “I don’t have time to deal with men like him, Bobbi. He screams trouble. He had already stirred up enough with his damn bike. Plus, just look at him. He just screams trouble, Robs.” 

“Steve–”

“No, I know what you’re going to say. ‘ We don’t judge people like that, Stevie ,’ but you know what, Robin? Yes, we do. We gossip more than the church ladies back in Rose Hills. Especially when trouble like that comes our way–”

“But Steve–”

Steve placed the coffee on the counter, and as he saw Eddie approach, he whipped his head back toward Robin. “Don’t Steve me, Robin. You’re telling me that a guy like him doesn’t scream–”

“For the love of god, Steve!” Robin grabbed Steve’s shoulders just as Eddie scooped up the coffee. 

“What, Robin?” Steve blew out, exasperated. 

“Did you even see the name you wrote on the cup?” Her eyes widened in terror and, strangely, amusement. 

Steve glanced at Eddie, who was now reading his cup in amusement. As he saw Steve’s curious glance, he turned the coffee around, putting Steve’s handwriting into view. 

Steve almost died on the spot. Right there, in Steve’s loopy handwriting, was the word ‘ trouble .’ 

Eddie laughed, raising an eyebrow. "Guess I’ll make sure to bring trouble back around.” 

Steve knew at that moment he had stirred up more than sugar in Eddie’s cup.

‧𓍢ִ໋☕ ׂ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪

Read the rest of Steve and Eddie's story on ao3

A peek at my first contribution to @strangerthingsreversebigbang and contains lovely art made by my friend @sunflowerharrington

[l-starlight-l]

The love of a hero

Rush of Love

Master list

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3,

A/N: Here’s the next one!! I hope you enjoy!

Description: While rushing to the courthouse you run into your friendly neighbor on the subway who shares the same taste and music as you.

Warning: Drug use, Subways

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

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:Reference:

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The Gotham subway was usually full of junkies and criminals, although there were still a few civilians who chose to commute to work this way, many have switched to catching a cap or even walking. In reality the situation has gotten way out of hand and you wondered why one of the many vigilantes hadn’t done anything about it. Very rarely did you take the subway, only when you had to go to the courthouse for work. It was the fastest and easiest way there.

The morning of your second court date since starting at the asylum you had slept way through your alarm. You were racing around your home getting ready as fast as you could. By the time you made it to the station the doors were about to close and you ran like hell to make it. Though you were full of relief you were an out of breath mess. You looked around the train car and locked eyes with a familiar face. Jason patted the seat next to him, wanting you to come sit.

He smirked at you as you sat down. “Just made it huh” he teased. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, as you nodded softly. He looked you up and down and asked, “where are you going all dresses up?”.

“To court” you answered while fixing your hair in the window reflection.

He put his hands up and playfully backed away, “am I sitting next to a criminal?” He asked dramatically.

You let out a short laugh, “oh yeah, I’m obviously a crime lord in my pencil skirt and blouse” you rolled your eyes. Checking the time, you figured you wouldn’t be too late. You put in your head phones and started to listen to some music. You debated on whether or not to ask if he wanted to listen. Would it be seen as flirty? Would he think you were being weird?

His voice popped your thought bubble, “what are you listening to?” He asked peeking over your shoulder. You showed him your phone and he let out a breathy laugh, “I love that song” he smiled down at you.

“Wanna listen” you offered nervously while handing him the other earbud. A kind grin grew on his lips as he took the headphone and put it in his ear. A comfortable silence swallowed you two as you waited for your stop. You had started to dose off and your head rested on his shoulder. This caught him off guard and he jumped, waking you up. Your face grew hot with a blush. “Oh my gods I’m so sorry. I had a super late shift last night” you said flustered.

“Don’t apologize, I could be your pillow if you need a quick nap” he said confidently. You laughed nervously not sure if he was trying to flirt with you or not. Jason’s smile faulted as he realizes he may have made you uncomfortable. Before he could apologize your stop had arrived and you shot up.

“Thank god we got here early” you said grabbing your bag, “see you around Jason” you said with a smile and then hurried off. Hearing his name on your lips made his heart ache. You made him feel so weird and he didn’t know what to do about it. He enjoyed being around you whether he was Jason or the red hood, you made him happy.

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Word count: 567

Tag List: @princessbl0ss0m @mxtokko

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[writer-darling]

About You

Rating: G (General Audiences)

Pairing: Jack Russell (Werewolf by Night, 2022) x GN!Reader

Warnings: ANGST. Hurt/comfort. Mentions of injuries and bruises. More-than-friends-but-not-a-couple trope. Mutual pining. Coziness. If there are any that I missed, please inbox me to let me know and I will add them in :)

Word Count: 2k

Summary!: Based on the song by The 1975. Jack always responded to letters. Always. What happens the one time he doesn't?

******

Early morning train rides are always a gamble. Sometimes, they were peaceful. You could easily slip into a quick nap with how smooth the ride could be on those days. Sometimes, it was chaos. If it was riddled with teenage students who commuted to the nearest high school, it could easily be an hour’s worth of hell. But today was thankfully not one of those days. As the morning drizzle drips down the windows, the train seems to be in a world of its own. You’re tempted to take another one of those naps but honestly, the worry in your bones is keeping you from doing so. You glance around at the other passengers for a moment in an attempt to soothe your nerves.

The train is sparsely-packed today. A couple of girls sit a few rows away, college-age. They sit and smile at their phones, laughing quietly amongst themselves. The shorter girl with her hair in a ponytail tilts her phone screen towards her friend, who laughs and suddenly blushes, making her look so much younger.

A man in a brown suit sits on the other side of the aisle from you, also in a window seat. He has a pair of earbuds on and his laptop is open on one of the train’s small tray carts as he talks in hushed tones to the screen in front of him. Likely some sort of business meeting from the seriousness of his tone and the furrow of his brow. A black suitcase sits next to him on the unoccupied seat beside him. 

Another glance around shows you an elderly couple that sit beside each other at the very back of the cart. The two old ladies hold hands tightly as the blonder one of the two rests her head against the shoulder of her companion.

That last image makes you smile a little. But all too soon your thoughts go back to Jack.

You usually aren’t much of a worrywart these days, but Jack’s uncharacterisitic lack of correspondence has quickly changed that. You’re not exaggerating when you say Jack is an immediate responder. To texts, to calls, to letters even. His letters almost always get back to you within 1-2 days' time. The longest he’d gone without getting back a letter was a couple of weeks and that’s because his response had gotten lost and arrived later than he had assured you. Now, his last correspondence has been almost two months. Not to mention his last phone call or text had been a week or so before that. 

When you’d reached out to his mom, she had voiced similar concerns, though there was something in her voice that sounded much less worried than you felt.

“I’m sure he’s alright.” She’d said. “He’s likely just busy.” She’d said.

Still, it’s done little to reassure you. There was just something in your gut that told you something was very, very wrong. You were almost tempted to file a Missing Person’s report, but when you’d voiced that idea to Jack’s mom, she had assured you that she would do it herself. Yet, it’s been weeks since then and no police have reached out to you at all. 

Which makes you think that, hey if she’s not too concerned, why should you be, right? After all, other than Jack’s mom, you’re his closest loved one. You know that like you know the Earth revolves around the Sun. So then, what is going on? You sit there in the train’s window seat, watching the blur of the forest pass you by as the train makes its way into town. The City Limits sign greets you in another green and white blur. Why hasn’t he written back? 

Suddenly, an awful, gut-wrenching thought hits you:

Maybe he’s forgotten about you. Not literally, of course. But maybe, just maybe, he’s finally let go of that friendship you both have cherished so much. Maybe he no longer cherishes it the way you do. The thought tastes like bitterness in the back of your throat and you don’t realize you’re crying until you glance down at your open notebook and see the tears staining the blank page. That must be it. If his mother isn’t worried… if he hasn’t made any effort to reach out… then maybe… maybe he just doesn’t want to. Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest and suddenly, your pen is flying across the page, more tears staining and blurring the ink in some spots as you write.

You express your sorrows onto the page, and one page becomes two, then five. Possibly your longest letter to Jack yet. In 40-plus years of friendship, this is your longest and possibly most depressing letter yet. You’re still crying when you disembark into town and walk to the nearest post box. You slip the now-enveloped letter into the blue box and try your best to get a grip as you make the trek to your job now, opening up your umbrella as the drizzle starts to become a hard downpour.

Jack’s body ached like he’d been hit by several trains as he stumbled back onto the property, his body still recovering from last night’s transformation. His clothes were practically torn to shreds as he walked over to the mailbox, limping slightly. His body was near-entirely black and blue from so many bruises, but he’s not too concerned about that. Two months had somehow flown by as he’d been tracking monsters and creatures all over the country. Another rescue mission for Ted last-minute had stolen every ounce of his attention for the last three weeks. He’d been completely unaware of the passage of time. 

Until he saw the letters.

He knew it had been some time since he’d last responded but had it really been so long? It must’ve been. Given the five unopened envelopes sitting in his mailbox. It had made him smile to see so many of your letters greeting him home. Like the warmest hug he could ever hope for, only second to the real thing, of course. Until he opened them…

“I miss you on the train, I miss you in the morning… please write back soon…” Jack’s eyes immediately filled with tears as he finished the last of your many unanswered letters, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest. His fingers ran over every tear stain, every smudged letter, and finally on your rushed signature at the bottom of the page. He grabbed his phone from his desk drawer and finally turned it back on. An influx of messages and missed calls greeted him. All from you. How could he have been so careless?

His eyes scan over the notification banners of every message, each one sounding more and more saddened than the last. He’d missed you, of course he’d missed you. He always missed you. But these last few missions in particular had left him little time to breathe let alone think about anything other than what had been directly in front of him. He had been surrounded by different terrains and different creatures for so many nights. One of those times in his life where he’d been forced to be more monster than man, simply for survival’s sake. Thankfully Ted had kept him somewhat sane. So, when the ManThing had gone missing once again, he’d been pulled back into the Wolf’s mentality in order to save them both. 

As he read the last message he knew what he had to do immediately.

“Ay no. No, no, no, no.” He didn’t even bother to pack a bag, booking the quickest flight he could as he left the house only after a quick change of his clothing. 

He had to make this right.

You’re in bed, your mind still on Jack and the letters. It’s late in the day and the last twenty-four hours since you sent the last letter have been somehow harder than the last two months combined. Bleary-eyed, you grab your phone and open it up. Still no call-back, and your messages haven’t even been read by Jack yet. You decide to send one more text. Just one more.

“Have you forgotten about me?” 

You expected maybe a text. Or a call. What you don’t expect is an urgent knocking on your door only moments later. Your heart skips a beat and you almost run to the door, your mind telling you it's impossible even as you yank it open and take in the sight before you.

“Jack?” He’s out of breath, his hair hanging in his face as he pants, leaning himself against the doorway. You only barely notice the taxi that dropped him off leaving your driveway a moment later. “H-How-?”

“How could you?” He asks, and he sounds wounded. You’re at a loss for words, relieved that he’s here but confused as to how he got here. All you can do is take in his appearance. He looks tired, he looks worn down. His eyes have the deepest shadows you’ve ever seen on him and his scruff is the most grown out he’s ever had it. But all your mind can think is: heshereheshereheshere. You don’t realize he’s speaking again until he bends down slightly to meet your eyes. 

“Do you think I’ve forgotten about you??” He demands, upset, but not angry. His voice is a grave, intense whisper and the pain in his eyes makes the hazel in his eyes burn like molten amber. Pure incredulous disbelief paints his features and you can’t respond for a full minute.

“You… You didn’t answer my letter. My messages, my calls… You always answer my letters.” You mumble in response, your voice almost detached as your mind just can’t register the fact that he’s standing right in front of you. He slumps for a moment, nodding, before stepping towards you and sweeping you up into his arms. You both embrace each other tightly and despite the restriction, you find yourself able to breathe in what feels like ages. He’s safe, he’s warm, he’s here. Your eyes close as you melt into him, feeling one of his hands cradle the back of your hair, while the other rubs your back. You’re both silent, just breathing together and reveling in the fact that you’ve reunited. You pull away after a moment, just to look at him again. Your eyes dart all over him as you soak in as much of his appearance as you can.

“I was away. I wasn’t home. I felt my phone. I-I’m sorry.” The words stumble out of his mouth quickly as he makes you meet his eyes. Your gaze locks on his for a moment as you try to catch your breath, your mind still lightly spinning. 

“I thought you forgot about me.” Your voice is almost timid as you speak and you see something in his eyes change. A fierce shift of protection you rarely ever see in Jack. He hugs you again, even tighter this time and the two of you don’t speak for a long moment as he holds you close to him. His scent permeates your senses and you breathe in deeply, your eyes closing as you bask in his warmth.

“Ni lo pienses.” His voice is a low mutter into your hair as he rubs your spine gently with his palm, his touch comforting and reaffirming his presence. You let out a shuddering breath that’s almost a laugh as you melt into him further and he melts right back. Both of you somehow keep each other upright as you hug one another so tightly you’re almost sure you’ll have bruises in the morning. But that’s the last thing on your mind right now. You pull away to bring him into the house, getting both of you out of the chill and the rain into the warmth of your house. You both feel like thousand-pound weights have been removed from your chests.

He’s here... and he's not going anywhere.

******

I really need to write more Jack stories. He brings me so much comfort, I can't explain it.

Jack Russell TagList: @jedi-in-crocs @kayleezra @amandanik23 @mandy-sings

Links!

Join the Tag List here

Ao3 link here

TikTok here

[fallershipping]

Tight Squeeze

(Short Drabble) Looker x Anabel - Mutual Pining, Sensual Tension, SFW

It's the early morning worker rush, and an Interpol agent of any merit mustn't be late as to best keep up appearances. Looker glides down the flight of stairs, subway card on hand and sipping a takeout coffee with the other. A quick wave to the train gate and the card spins back into his pocket-- like a pistol to its holster.

Perfectly timed, his cup's all but empty when he reaches his station, and is promptly discarded into the same recycling bin as always. Around him, the same ol' reoccurring commuters. Same ol' chime of the station's alerts. Same ol' tired and groggy Ana--

Looker takes a second glance over and blinks.

"Chief?"

Anabel, covering a yawn with a gloved hand, slowly looks on over to her recently arrived companion. Her eyebrows raise just a teeny bit, rubbing her eyes when the fluorescent ceiling bulbs hit her vision.

"Mm... Mr. Looker?" Her voice is only just now waking itself, "Oh... Right, I've almost forgotten... This is the station you take..."

"Yeah, so it is." He scratched the back of his head. "And so it's yours? Don't you take Lat-- Your Pokémon as a ride to HQ?"

"I do... Usually." Anabel took a slow breath and exhaled. She softly smacked her cheeks, an effort to stir herself up to be at a more wakeful state. "And I usually... Am not up so early."

Not so early? Looker decides to keep his 'sleeping in' comment to himself.

"But LaaaaaaShit--.... He's a little sick."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that, Chief." Looker frowned a little, eyebrows drooping, "I hope he gets better...!"

"Thank you..." A weary smile. "All he needs is a little..." Another yawn. "Rest..."

A little bit of rest?

"It sounds like something you're in need of yourself, Chief."

That comment came out on its own.

Anabel hums in response, smiling in bemusement. Point taken there. Though with all her drowziness, Looker must note that she had already been present here before even his most punctual rhythm. He huffed, cracking the briefest of smiles at the thought; she never does cease to impress.

The pair's patience was rewarded with the oncoming alert of the subway tram. Methodically, the two agents took a step forward in preparation to board, once the blur of the moving vehicle slowed to a smooth stop.

The opening doors, however, revealed a rather unwanted sight: the car was already a fairly bit occupied.

Looker grimaced. He's met with this onslaught before, but Anabel...?

He turned over to her, once tired eyes a bit widened from shock. The woman took a step back in apprehension, but it was a futile move. There was quite a number of people behind them both, and the hoard threatened to charge.

Springing into action, Looker covered Anabel from her front, his arms guiding her towards him as he walked back into the tram.

"Ack-- Chief, with me!" And not a second too soon. Anabel was pushed forward, merely squeaking out a little yelp in surprise. Without Looker there to bear the brunt of the force, she feared a rather painful shove into the person in front of her. And just as soon as it started, the station chimed once more, and the subway doors sealed the sardines shut.

Though cramped, it was a moment of respite as the train gradually picked up speed down the tracks. Just this one train ride and it'll be a a short, open air walk until HQ...

... Ah... What are Anabel's hands up against?

In an act to shield her body from the forceful move, she must have raised her arms as a reflex. Looker felt a soft weight on his pecs, and finally looked down from finding and grasping the handle grip to investigate the source.

Oh.

Anabel's body was very, very pressed up against Looker's.

"Ah--!" The Chief turned a vivid pink at their predicament, lavender eyes looking up towards him not unlike a skittish Deerling caught offguard, "F-Forgive me Mr. Looker I can't move--!"

"N-No it's fine, it's fine!" Looker managed to turn whatever sound was coming out into an awkward chuckle. His throat now felt so suddenly clogged and dry. That other arm of his protectively wrapped around his boss is also yet to be addressed and is quite stuck itself.

Anabel cleared her throat. She lowered her gaze to the side and pretended she was not currently chest-to-chest with her coworker. Albeit, that thumping in her ribcage was hard to ignore and pray the gods that Looker doesn't notice just how loud that heart of her was at the moment. Goodness, those pecs are firm.

Looker wasn't fairing any better. He was close enough to smell her shampoo no matter how hard he faced away it was so cramped! Was that vanilla? No, Looker was a better man than this, this was no time to think about sweets! Or, perhaps it was the perfect time, because he would need absolutely everything in the world to distract him from Gods Chief don't you dare, don't you dare move a muscle because currently your hips are right up against my--!!

The tram car slowed to a steady stop. The overhead chime and electronic announcer stating the station they had arrived at.

It was not their stop, but it was a miracle nonetheless. A large chunk of the crowd exited the train onto the civilian traffic, and a much beloved and needed space became quite the notable gap between Looker and Anabel. There was finally room to breathe the necessary breaths after such a nerve-wracking ordeal.

Looker adjusted his tie, swallowing hard. He grinned sheepishly at his superior and hoped to break the silence between them both.

"... M-Maybe I'll consider Corviknight Airway for while, aha!"

"Y-Yes, of course." Anabel averted eye contact, though she carried the most bashful of smiles while tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "... And if you need to pay the tab... We can always carpool."

[eponymous-rose]

It's a fairly busy week, and this kind of thing always helps me stay on-task - here's the day in a nutshell.

7am: Wake up (groggily) - I've found that I like having extra time in the morning, especially early in the week. Cuddles with Clara the cat, a little yoga (I have accumulated enough broken bones and scars that being totally sedentary means my whole body promptly turns to stone), shower, a nice breakfast and coffee while I catch up on work e-mails. A scientist from Switzerland who wants to do a two-year postdoc with me has sent me a document summarizing the research ideas we discussed at our last meeting! It's very neat stuff, and we're going to be putting together an application in the summer to get the full two years funded externally.

9am: Dry hair and set off to work! Manage to catch the 9:20 bus and have a chill commute to campus. Check e-mail again on my way into the building and realize our facilities manager has responded to an earlier e-mail, so I detour to his machine shop and chat a bit about the issue (I'm teaching an instrumentation class this quarter, and one of my students has been having trouble with her datalogger). He gives me a new USB cord, so I jog upstairs to try it out - no luck, just empty com ports and error messages galore :(. I also check out some of the hardware, but there are no suggestively bent pins or anything to give clues as to what's happening, and it looks like the console has stopped remote readings altogether. At a bit of a loss, I send him an update and head down to the lounge to get some hot water for my tea, then sit upstairs and quickly skim through the slides for today's lecture, which I haven't actually seen since last year. While I'm doing that, our facilities manager comes up with a fresh new datalogger and offers to configure it for me while I'm in class!

10:30am: Class goes well! We talk about some fun topics that are near and dear to my heart, and while everyone is a little on the shy and less-talkative side today, two different people are brave enough to confirm they got the right answer for the in-class exercise. Early on, the facilities manager comes in with the fresh datalogger, and I hand it off to the relieved student. Hopefully this does the trick! I get through my slides a few minutes early (probably because of the aforementioned quietness), which gives me time before my next meeting to quickly post grades for the students who gave an in-class presentation on Friday, as well as to link to the cloud recording of today's lecture.

11:30am: Research meeting! A colleague and I are co-advising an undergraduate research intern on a project we're seeking funding for (and have just hired a graduate student onto). She's progressing really nicely and just had a couple questions about a polar stereographic projection she was working on ("Is it meant to look that weird?" "Yes, absolutely."). We got her pointed in the right direction for the next couple of weeks, then raided my candy bowl and hung around a couple minutes chatting about how her classes are going. As she and my colleague leave, I see a message from the student with the troublesome datalogger confirming that the new one works! Whew. I send the victorious news to our facilities manager, with my endless thanks. The meeting wrapped up quickly, so I have time to munch on a protein bar (I usually pack a lunch, but I know I'm going out for a big dinner tonight) and enjoy my tea.

I'm a little nervous about a class I'm teaching next quarter - it's a really specialized grad-level class and if it gets fewer than 5 students, it gets canceled. Currently nobody is registered at all. On my colleague's advice, I put together an e-mail to all the grad students to let them know what the course has to offer.

I still have some time before my next calendar item, so I jump into the early stages of a scientific journal review due on Friday. It's a bit of an annoying process - it was originally rejected, and I got brought onto the resubmission when it was a long-ass paper plus 100 pages of replies to reviewers, and now we've made it through TWO MORE ROUNDS of reviews, so it's basically just a giant novel-sized mess of people yelling at each other. But it's gonna get done!

Just as I'm getting into the swing of things, two of my students pop by and stand in the hallway giggling nervously. Apparently they can't find their TA for another class and have a question about class material, so they figured they'd ask me instead - I gently redirect them to, you know, the professor of that course. "Yeah, but we're scared of him," they say, and I try not to die laughing with the knowledge that his wife is in the office next door to me hearing all this. Mixed feelings on this one - on the one hand, I'm glad my students see me as someone they can come to with questions. On the other, it's a time crunch on me that my old-white-dude colleagues don't have to contend with. They eventually head off in search of their professor while I go upstairs for...

12:30pm: Forecast briefing! We have weekly meetings for a national weather forecasting competition we're all in - it involves issuing 4 forecasts a week. I'm... okay at it (usually in the top quarter of competitors, at least beating the models), but we have some RIDICULOUSLY talented forecasters in our group. Today's briefing is entertaining enough, and we all squabble over where we want to forecast next week (the ~1000 participants vote on the city).

1:30pm: Research meeting! This one is with my most junior graduate student, who's a bit overwhelmed with coursework (the first year of our Master's degree is 9 extremely difficult courses before they finally get to do research full-time). We talk through it a bit and he asks for my advice on project/time management, so we chat about pomodoros, the Star Trek Scotty method (always give yourself a buffer and act as though things are going to take more time than they really will), and not writing the entire day off if you wind up doing nothing all morning - you can still hit a reset switch and have a busy afternoon if you need to. Just generally "be kind to yourself, because in the end the self-imposed guilt of not finishing something will stop you from progressing more than anything else." We also talk organizing code and avoiding hard-coding even when it makes the initial time investment much higher. It's a good chat, ending with some restaurant recommendations when he finds out I'm heading to his hometown this weekend! We wrap up early with some specific goals for the next couple weeks, and, after sending in my forecasts for the day, I get back to my review. I also order 5 lbs of candy to refill my candy bowls. It's been that kind of quarter. An e-mail comes in from a student interested in my course and asking for more info! She confirms she's probably going to take it, after consulting with her advisor. Heard from another colleague that she's got one student interested - two down, three to go!

2:30pm: Research meeting! How obvious is it that I like to front-load my week with meetings? This one's with a freshman undergraduate student who's started working with me as a research assistant on a new project... except the project we were originally going to work on together is going very very slowly (our collaborators at a different university are dragging their heels). He met with my PhD student a while back and got really interested in his work, and he apparently knows more than enough coding to be able to follow along, so I went ahead and got him access to 300,000 core hours and 1,000 GPU hours on a national supercomputer to do some exploratory data analysis. As you do. Tragically, the initial project also only works on PCs, and he's a Mac user, so that's another reason to pull him off one project and onto the other. Alas. The project he can't do is a SUPER appealing project to me (very repetitive, boring work that requires little brain-power - please let me do this from time to time!), so I might participate for the heck of it. Meeting ends a little early, so it's back to the review.

3:30pm: We're hiring! It's a dual hire with another department, so it's been a bit fraught, but the grueling two-day interviews roll on. This is number 3/5, so we're getting into the swing of things, and it's time to go attend the public seminar portion of the interview for this candidate. He is... absolutely astonishing on paper, like a once-in-a-generation kind of mind, so I'm already excited to see his talk. We'd be incredibly lucky to have him, although I'm not entirely clear on why he's leaving a super prestigious professorship two years in. I didn't get to schedule a one-on-one meeting with him since he has to leave earlier than expected tomorrow, but I'll be joining him for dinner tonight. The talk goes quite well, although I hear the students buzzing over whether he's genuinely collaborating or just doing the tech-bro thing of coming in and claiming to solve all our problems... Plenty to think about at dinner tonight. I believe this will be what the kids call a vibe check. (We also have a chalk talk tomorrow where he'll present his work to just the faculty + postdocs, so more chances there!)

5pm: Got some time to kill before heading over to dinner at 5:45. I was originally going to do some work, but my brain is a little fried at this point and I may just zone out and scroll for an hour. More tea! That'll solve everything.

5:45pm: Meeting a colleague to go grab the candidate and Uber over to the restaurant together - I love this place! Lots of good food, and plenty of non-alcoholic cocktails and veggie/vegan/gluten-free options, so an ideal spot to bring a guest speaker or faculty candidate. He was very pleasant to chat with and really knew his stuff despite having just had an exhausting day. Good food, good chats all around. Home by 9:30pm, phew.

[alien-in-residence]

The Last Human Diplomat Ch.1

The Greatest Gift to Give is Hope, the glowing holo billboard said to Rhean on her way to work. It depicted a group of dirt-covered humans in tattered robes reaching up their arms towards a handsome looking Rouen-Ta with perfectly manicured horns and fresh, clean clothes. The billboard towered over the foot traffic of the station like a condemnation from the heavens.

Rhean could not help but look at it every morning on her commute. It sickened her. She did not look like that. The refugees she represented did not look like that. They were not dirty primates living in rubble. They were people struggling to tread water in the harsh political currents of The Exchange. And it was Rhean’s job to help chart the course for them.

While walking through the station she couldn’t help but feel a little lost at sea. A miasma of alien heads, tentacles, and eye-analogues bobbed their way through the pedestrian hallways. A sense of otherness threatened to take hold of Rhean. She repeated her mantra in her head, I belong here. I’m as alien to them as they are to me. I am a representative of humanity. I belong here. I am as alien to them as they are to me….

She made it to the embassy offices before most of the other ambassadors. She was the lone human in the cluster of self-important diplomats, but several others also shared her species’ isolation. The Rankart ambassador was a member of a new species on the stage, newer even than humanity. They had made some small talk with Rhean but the fate of humanity always made people nervous. That, and Rhean’s many scars.

Rhean sat at her desk and enjoyed a cup of coffee. Commonalities of biology meant that many species of The Exchange utilized mild stimulants and some of those that did, specifically used caffeine. It was not terribly hard then for Rhean to convince local fabricators to design her some coffee grounds and a machine to brew coffee. The fabricators could not have imagined how important it would be for Rhean’s mornings and for her meetings with other Human refugees. Little comforts like hot coffee went a long way in this alien land.

Rhean was early enough that she could enjoy her morning coffee without interference or interruption. The other ambassadors trickled into the annex and Rhean managed to greet some of them. Being seen and more importantly being seen as friendly were fundamental to her job. She had to fight to undo the message of the advertisement on that billboard. Humanity needed help but they weren’t a huddling mass of miserables waiting for a mighty savior. Humanity was scarred and determined. They would not be at anyone’s mercy ever again.

Rhean poured out her cold coffee as the Rouen-Ta ambassador finally arrived. She entered like a sovereign returning to their castle. Lhuk was the most senior ambassador and represented the most powerful nation in the annex, The Rouen-Ta Republic. Her importance dwarfed the other diplomats like a gas giant consuming a field of asteroids. Lhuk made her usual ‘good-mornings’ to the ambassadors she was clearly working down today. Rhean returned to her office to await her moment.

The human ambassador’s office was not sparse but it was not lavish. She had three paintings on the walls, all of which faced the one chair she had set up for visitors. Rhean’s desk was faux-wood of a dark color with complicated patterns in the grain. She had been very specific with the fabricator and even she didn’t remember her precise reasoning for its design. It contrasted with the generally light metal walls and their obnoxiously clean surfaces. Rhean liked to imagine that it gave her desk the impression of being something ‘real’ placed into a simulated world.

Rhean was pretending to read through messages as she waited for Lhuk to arrive. Lhuk would normally pop her bovine-like head through the door and ask some innocuous question then depart. She did it nearly every day, making appearances, being friendly, being important.

Lhuk was a born and bred diplomat. Among the Rouen-Ta that was likely literally true. Rhean did not dislike her for it, but she found some of her habits clearly disingenuous. Rhean hoped, somewhat naively, that among professional liars like the other diplomats, they could at least be honest with each other. But deep down Rhean understood that a diplomat’s job was being a constant actor, putting on display what she wanted others to think of her people.

Rhean stirred when she heard Lhuk chatting up the Rankart ambassador that shared a wall with her office. She arrayed her desk to have a thin layer of data sheets and print outs. Lhuk popped her head into the door frame and spoke through her ambassador’s translator. It expressed tone and inflection perfectly but the disconnect between lips and sounds could never be removed. “Morning, Rhean. How’s the atmosphere? Not too-”

“The air’s fine, Lhuk,” Rhean interrupted. Her voice was sweet and her tone endearing. She spoke the Rouen-Ta high-language well. “I’m glad you stopped by actually, are we still good for dinner tonight with the representative from the Yonk College?”

Lhuk kept her translator set to Rhean’s language, “Oh yes, of course. I’m glad you reminded me. I’d have been late again. You know how the Duoro ambassador is with his lunches. They always seem to stretch between two meals.” Lhuk dipped her large head almost imperceptibly as she continued her rounds through the office.

Rhean was quite pleased with herself. It took careful tact and fore-planning to get a bow from a Rouen-Ta. That slight head dip wasn’t exactly a bow but Rhean considered it a victory nonetheless.

The dinner with the Yonk representative had been extended to Lhuk, not Rhean. Rhean had been maneuvering for weeks to get her invitation. Four ambassadors were going, including Lhuk and herself. The Yonk representative had been unclear in his invitation and had used a formal plural pronoun instead of a singular one when addressing The Honorable Rouen-Ta Ambassadors. Lhuk, ever the opportunist, had used it as political leverage to lord the invites over the others in the annex. It was likely that any guests brought would be interpreted as servants by the Yonk. The situation had numerous social layers to it, but Rhean needed to be in that room with the representative.

Rhean set herself to actually reading and responding to her messages. Her position as ambassador was tenuous to say the least. For one, she didn't represent a nation or state. The rest of the workday was relatively relaxed. Rhean took calls with refugee representatives across the exchange and worked with suppliers to get relief packages shipped to where they were needed. Lhuk had disappeared around mid day to lunch with the Duoro ambassador who had afforded himself an isolated office away from the ambassador complex. It was clear his separate office was meant to convey prestige and put his Duoro clan on level with the Imperium, but Rhean just thought he was an ass.

With about a standard hour left in the station's main work shift, most of the ambassador complex was empty. They usually worked lax schedules. Working too late into the night could convey you were busy. And a busy ambassador looked stressed. And what would an ambassador be stressed about? It did not look good to be stressed.

Oh yes, what could I possibly have to be stressed about?, Rhean thought as she sighed and reclined in her chair. Everything’s cheery and fine for a human being these days. In her mind her inner thoughts oozed with vicious sarcasm.

Her final task of the day was not logged anywhere and she had been careful not to even write it down on the corner of a report anywhere. She packed up her things early, which to the other ambassadors was late, and locked up her office. Only the Rankart ambassador was still there when she departed. And they were likely to be there well into the night as their people tried to avoid war with the Imperium.

Rhean made her way carefully and casually to a ritzy part of the station known for its exotic food. She walked through the front entrance of an ancient looking establishment and then straight into the back. The staff knew her and some even waved as she came to pick up her order.

The restaurant served a wide clientele but specialized in food tailored for species near the core. This was one of the few places on the station that felt truly multicultural. It was a widely known secret that the chef was Kiran. If people on the station had any issues with him breaking from traditional caste roles, they didn't voice them.

Rhean found familiar faces in the kitchen. She had made herself a regular here and might have gotten a handful of Va-tess line cooks addicted to coffee. A sous-chef saw her and shouted something that Rhean did not recognize. Not soon after the head chef, Mikta, emerged. His facial tentacles moved in a pattern that Rhean had come to recognize as a sign of joy. The two hugged tightly and Mikta replied in Imperium Standard, “You showed up so late, I barely have time to eat with you before the dining room fills up.”

Rhean laughed and replied, “Late? I told you I’d come by seven and it's five!”

Mikta’s vocalizer laughed back, “Come over here, I’ve got your order ready.” He nearly waddled as he walked. His age was evident even across the species border. Rhean did not know what differentiates a young Kiran from an old one, but Mikta nearly shouts his age at the universe with his actions. “I might have some time to make you some guhbaht soup,” he offered.

Rhean raised her hands in defense and protest, “I have a diplomat dinner tonight, I can’t show up full again.”

Mikta waved her protest away, “Fah! Those diplo-corps cooks don’t know what they’re doing. You should eat something edible while you can.” Mikta approached a cook and sent them off to collect Rhean’s order. Before she could protest further, he began making something at the stove top. “You should know you’re not getting out of here without eating something.”

Someone found her a stool and Rhean sat down to watch the master at work. “I surrender, I surrender. But please, nothing too big. I have to at least pretend to enjoy these diplomat’s hospitality.” Mikta grumbled something that was likely another jab at the diplo-corps. Mikta expertly skinned and gutted a fish with more eyes than Rhean was comfortable with. He used his four arms to their full extent and was soon grilling a pungent collection of fish and vegetables. His arms were a flurry as they added spice and sauce. He finished by scooping the slurry into a flatbread cone. He said nothing as he handed it to Rhean and his eyes demanded that she eat.

She bit into the collection and closed her eyes in bliss. The spice was up front but not all encompassing. Whatever species of fish it was, its meat was perfect. It all crumbled together in her mouth as she chewed. Some of the alien vegetables crunched beneath her teeth while others formed a flavorful mash. She was foolish to ever resist Mikta’s cooking. If Mikta could smile, he’d be beaming like an old grandfather.

He turned to Rhean’s order and examined each item with a keen eye. The staff had learned their lesson from previous outbursts and none of it was sent back. Mikta took an extra moment to look over the loaf of human styled bread. He showed the full length of the baguette to Rhean and asked for her approval. He behaved as if she was the expert but Mikta never missed an opportunity to master a new culture’s food.

He looked through the final bag and pulled a long thin fish out of it. “Now be careful with this one. If you cook for any Yonks you have to be careful about deveining it.” He turned the fish over in his hands, inspecting it carefully. “Let me gut it for you.” He moved to grab a knife but Rhean stopped him.

“I can handle it. Don’t worry, I’m not cooking for any Yonks with this. I just wanted to try it.”

Mikta looked unsure but returned it to the bag. “Be careful, still. I don’t know how it would affect humans if you cut it up wrong.” “I’ll be extra careful with it,” Rhean assured him. “You worry too much Mikta.” She looped her arms through the bags and took another bite of her flatbread cone. “And thank you again for the food.”

Mikta switched from doting to adoring, “It is called a nueh. I will make you many more when you come to dinner here tomorrow.” Rhean laughed but agreed to come back for dinner. Mikta shoo-ed her out like a child late for school.

Rhean was running late. She considered taking the station tram back to her apartment but stuck to the pedestrian walkways. The tram would keep a record of where she got on and where she got off. So she took the longer route, sticking to pathways and sidewalks until she finally arrived at her apartment in one of the mid-rings of the station.

Her apartment was the stereotypical ambassador or politician’s home. Wooden surfaces had become the recent wealth display across the Exchange and Rhean had followed along. In her case all of the wood was false with metal or tile breaking up the monotony. Unlike her co-workers, Rhean wasn’t an ambassador for a sovereign nation. Her salary, her entire position, was funded through donation.

As much as Rhean hated the condescending billboard from her morning commute, the donations it brought in funded her job. If the Exchange didn’t pity humankind, they wouldn’t throw money at refugee relief. Without that pity money, Rhean couldn’t buy Mikta’s exotic fish.

She set to work carefully. She put all the produce in her cooler and organized the meats by the prep needed. She set aside a small collection of green vegetables along with the toxic fish that Mikta had warned her about. She turned on her stove top and quickly sliced a few cubes of the greens. She didn’t know what the veggies were called but they were close enough to cucumbers for her palate. She let all the constituent parts of her dinner sit in her frying pan on low heat. Her main objective became the deveining of the toxic fish.

The creature had a set of six eyes that Rhean tried not to look at as she cut off its head. The thing wasn’t a fish by earth taxonomy but translation was already tricky enough without scientific pedantry. The fish had a large chitin plate that ran the length of its back. She ran a thin knife between the plate and the flesh beneath. A web of membranes fought back at her knife. She was careful as she went, cutting as close to the chitin as she could manage.

As Rhean neared the tail of the fish she was tempted to just rip off the chitin. She was diligent however and carefully cut away the last few tendons connecting it to the fish’s flesh. Her reward was a disgusting view of the fish’s red on purple meat. All along its thin back muscles ran deep blue veins, filled with toxins that would kill a Yonk in a minute and make a human feverish. She had practiced this next task several times. She put on sanitary gloves before she started.

The deveining went even slower than the shelling. Her hands cramped before she could finish. The veins resisted careful extraction, wanting to tear in halves and spill their deadly contents. In the end, she had a half handful of loose veins and viscera. She took a portion of the toxic veins and tossed them into the composter. After cleaning her knife she chopped the remaining fish flesh into rough filets.

She threw the filets in the frying pan with little regard for seasoning while she collected the remaining veins into a mortar and pestle. She ground down the viscera until she was left with a pinkie sized pale-blue mash. This was finally deposited into a sealed plastic baggie that Rhean pressed flat into a coin shape.

She made a show of trying to finish up her staged dinner. She burnt the ends of the fish meat and took a few bites that were eventually spit out. Most of the dinner ended up in the composter along with the previously discarded veins. She threw her knives and the rest of her kitchen implements into a sterilizer. Hopefully if anyone got to this point, they’d see what she intended them to see: Rhean had cooked herself a somewhat exotic dinner.

The dress she had chosen was a reserved maroon pantsuit that was maybe a half size too loose along her waist. The designer was over a century dead and Rhean didn’t know of any seamstresses that could fix it for her. Her constructed appearance combined the vague impression of professionalism and a hint of enticing mystery. Or at least she believed it would’ve with a human crowd. For all she knew, she might be the spitting image of some Yonk chicken analogue.

She hid the disk of poison in a concealed pouch along her hip. The ancient designer had been gracious enough to stitch in pockets. Rhean looked to her data slate and saw she was definitely going to be late. She sprinted to the tram station near her apartment block. The wave of alien passengers pressed against each other as she pushed her way into the train car. As a thousand appendages pressed into a confined metal tube, that sense of otherness threatened to overtake her. The small disk of poison became her anchor.

I belong here. I’m as alien to them as they are to me…

[butterysalt]

Under The Mistletoe

Pairing: Serizawa Katsuya x GN!reader

Rating: Teen (16+)

Summary: Spirits & Such is decorating for the holiday season! You and Serizawa still have a newly-blooming relationship and you try to be smooth with mistletoe.

Word Count: 2.6K+

Contains: Fluff, awkward early relationship tension, the S&S family, rushed writing, I did Not Check this I'm sorry :'))

A/N: I really wanted to write something sweet and short with Serizawa so it's a little silly. Especially toward the end. Hope you still enjoy!

It was a short walk from the train station to Spirits & Such. Mornings during the weekends weren’t usually too busy in Seasoning City. You and Serizawa commuted to work together that morning like you would any other day. It was how you grew so close and eventually formed the early phases of your relationship in the first place.

When it was your stop, you and Serizawa left with clasped hands. One of your latest intimate gestures… You quickly learned that Serizawa was a very affectionate person. It would take a bit of patience and reassurance at first, but he loved being physically close to you. Even if the hand-holding still made you blush like kids.

It always flustered you knowing Serizawa’s hands are fuzzy and much larger than yours in size. His soft palms feel therapeutically warm against your frigid fingers. He silently rubbed his thumb in small circles on the back of your hand in hopes of transferring some warmth to you. It was a small wordless gesture that you appreciated.

“Did you get home safely last night?” Serizawa asked, matching your pace despite his long legs on the wintery sidewalks. Recently, he started initiating the conversations first. He was quick at adjusting to your relationship. It was endearing.

“Ah, yeah! Thank you but you didn’t have to stay with me on the train… I’m sure you’re tired from classes,” you said remorsefully, noting the dark blotches under his eyes. Serizawa only offered a small smile and shook his head.

“It’s okay… I wanted to spend more time with you,” he admitted softly and squeezed your hand. Whether or not he meant to say those words so casually, your warm cheeks tingled and your heart fluttered in your chest. You lowered your head to hide your wobbly smile. 

Christmas was still weeks away. But once the clock struck the first of December, Reigen was enthusiastically raiding the office early the next day wrapped in green tinsel with dusty brown boxes in his arms, red and gold glimmers shining through its worn lid. Evil and seasonal spirits are a must at Spirits & Such.

He wanted to have the office fully-decorated and bedazzled over the weekend to really wow the clients on Monday. Friday night, he rang up the S&S company for decoration committee help. Not because he couldn’t handle it himself but… Well, the holidays are no fun without the family.

You reached the office building and went inside, sighing at the warmer interior that welcomed you. The two of you exchanged simple small talk, talking about school, the snow lately, weekend plans. But as you got closer to the second floor, you could hear the recognizably clear drawl of your boss shouting through the walls.

“Mob! Bring it a little to the left!”

You and Serizawa stopped by the doorway, suddenly dropping whatever conversation you were having at the sight of a pink floating Christmas tree bumping the back corner of the office, scraping the entire wall. Their youngest employee with the bowl cut, Mob, stood near the entrance of the room in his blue turtleneck, using two hands as he relocated the bare tree with his powers. His eyes flicked between the tree and his mentor with concern.

“Shishou… I think this tree is too big.” A growing wooden crackle and snap attested to his hunch. The broken top of the giant tree hung sadly, quivering as the kid esper attempted to fit it into the gray corner.

“Ah, that’s just because my powers were so crazy strong the whole thing over grew when I touched it!! If someone else were bringing it up here, it would have stayed small!” Reigen barked dramatically, crossing his arms. Rubbing the bottom half of his face, he scanned the dangling snapped half of the winter tree wearily, trying to find a solution.

“Can you cut it in half with your powers?”

Mob threw his master a pointed look with hooded eyes and a flat frown that suggested: No, Reigen. He could not, in fact, cut the tree in half with his ESP.

Serizawa announced both your presences by clearing his throat next to you. Your coworkers all turned their heads and greeted you.

“Good morning, Serizawa-san, L/n-san,” Mob smiled over his shoulder, his attitude immediately changing when he saw you. Reigen switched right into boss mode, even without his coat on. He fixed his tie to his neck and waved the two of you over.

“Oh, perfect! Glad you’re here! We’ve just started decorating!”

“... Is that so?” You remarked, both you and Serizawa’s eyes lingering on Shigeo who was still trying to use his powers to cram whatever was left of the withering tree under their tiny roof. Your resident evil spirit, Dimple, flew into view, rolling his eyes.

“He’s trying so hard to make this work because he got this tree for free off the side of the road.” The blonde swatted the spirit away with an obnoxious fake cough.

“Hey! They were gonna dump the thing anyway! What a waste — I mean, look at the size of that thing!” Reigen whispered in a hushed tone.

“Did you look at the size of that thing before bringing it inside?” The green ghost retorted. Right on cue, a loud scraping noise tore through the room. Everyone turned to the tree, the jagged wood of the broken trunk top pierced through the ceiling to the upper floor. Various white dust particles and tile pieces fluttered from above their heads, ceiling lights flickering faintly. But most importantly, the tree stayed.

The middle schooler covered his mouth as he coughed, turning to the adults before giving a proud thumbs up. Reigen coughed quietly into his elbow, his eyebrows raised as he blinked in surprise, “...Well, I guess that works, too.”

…

Reigen divided the room in half. Mob and Dimple were on tree-decorating duty, Reigen would focus on his desk-area, and you and Serizawa would fancy up the rest of the office. Your boss would often jump sides bickering, getting distracted by the little things he found in his old Christmas decorations.

“Oh, these are nice!” he cheered, holding two jingling reindeer antler head pieces in his hands. “Mob!” He dashed over and subjected the boy to his accessorizing. But not before joining in with his own matching set of antlers.

“Haha! We look great! Ooh, I should get a picture. Hey- Stop that, you’re gonna get motion sick.” You laughed, watching Mob shake his head quickly to jingle the colorful bells on his headpiece.

You worked on untangling a roll of red tinsel for the walls, raising a quisitive brow at your boss. “What, you think this’ll bring in more business?” you joked. Reigen pointed at you and snapped excitedly.

“Yes, exactly! C’mon, who doesn’t love the holiday spirit? Here — hold these,” he explained as he handed two plastic candy cane props to Mob, sparing another two for himself. Where did he even get those?

“Well… not everyone celebrates Christmas, you know.”

“Pssh, I mean — Okay, sure, fine but- Look!” The blonde pawed at his deshi’s faux antlers, ringing the jingle bells and pointed at them.

“Jingle bells! They’re fun!”

“What are you, a cat?” Dimple commented while the man posed Mob for the photo like an action figure. You heard Serizawa’s warm bubbly laugh behind you as he passed by, carrying a box of little paper decorations for the entrance. You made eye contact, beaming at each other. Your eyes fell lower to the soft green collared sweater he was wearing.

“You look cute like that, Seri.” The words just slipped out. Your boyfriend made a tiny yelp and froze completely, staring at you wide-eyed. His entire face got hotter.

“S-Sorry?” You pursed your lips and tried not to make it obvious how hard you were staring at him.

“The sweater. I think you look nice in it,” you said quietly, holding back on your praise. Serizawa stood there opening and closing his mouth a little before he cleared his throat and awkwardly pulled his collar from his neck.

“O-Oh! Ahem! I-I see…! Yes, it’s new. My mom got it for me,” he smiled, rubbing the back of his neck as he explained. “...Thank you. I like it too.” You bit your lip. God, he was so cute without even trying.

You covered your mouth and turned your head, doing any random gesture to shake the embarrassed tingles out of your cheeks. “Are… you starting on the doorway now?” You hinted. Serizawa’s brows jumped and he looked between the doorframe and you.

“Um, y-yes! Yes, I am. I… Would you like to help?” You smiled and nodded, getting up to join his side. The two of you dug through Reigen’s old cardboard boxes, finding paper snowflakes, icicle cut-outs, reindeer, and candy cane decorations to stick on the walls.

Serizawa’s height was put to good use between the two of you. You handed him the tinsels and strings, leaving it to him to pin to the corners of the ceiling or wrap around the doorframe. All the while you stood beside him and appreciated the view.

“L/n?” You blinked back into the present.

“Yes?”

“Are there any white Christmas lights in those boxes? It might look nice for the door, don’t you think?” Serizawa wondered, leaning back and taking in the look of the entryway so far. You had to give it to him, he had quite an eye for these kinds of details.

“Let me see…” you checked each box, rustling loose leaves around, broken christmas lights, crumpled decorations… And then your eyes fell on something familiar.

“Oh!” Serizawa turned to see what you were exclaiming about. He startled at first, not expecting you to be standing right next to him. You pointed above your head. Puzzled, he followed with his eyes and they widened at the green and white bundle in your hands. He looked back at the plotting look in your eyes.

“Ahh, what are the chances? Looks like we have to kiss now. It’s tradition, you know?” The taller man blinked a few times before breaking into a blush, scratching the side of his face shyly.

“Isn’t it supposed to be when we’re standing under it?” You stiffened and scrunched your face quickly, searching for an excuse.

“Mmm, well yes! But you see, I’m having a little trouble getting this over your head. You’re too tall for your own good.” Serizawa only stood over you, tilting his head blankly like a puppy as he looked down at you.

You squirmed uncomfortably in this position, especially since it seemed like he was expecting you to make the first move. Maybe it wasn’t the right moment. Dumb joke.

You waved the mistletoe in your hand as you spoke, “Bahahaaah, kidding! Just- Just joking! I mean- Mistletoe under the entryway would… probably be a bad idea. Anyway. Um. Ahem! Sorry, let me find those lights.”

You moved to turn away from your boyfriend out of utter humiliation but felt the ground disappear from under your feet. Your eyes widened and you noticed the thin layer of deep purple energy coating your arms and legs. The ceiling felt a little closer than before.

“U-Um, Serizawa??” You chuckled nervously, hovering idly over him. He cupped his big warm hands around your face, pulling you a little closer to him.

“What, um…?” You swallowed shakily, your eyes unable to choose one place on his face to focus on… He was so close. You could see every wonderful detail in clarity. Had you never noticed the faint mole above his eyebrow? Or how long his lashes were? And the way his hair was starting to curl in again now that it was a little longer?

“…Does this help?” He asked you. You blinked. Your boyfriend smiled and pointed at the plant in your hand. You gasped and fumbled on your words excitedly, nearly dropping the mistletoe out of surprise.

“Oh! Oh, uh- y-yeah, sure! Um, yes, it’s… definitely higher now,” you stammered, shaking the plant in your hand. You looked back at him, finding a rosy smile on his face. Oh. No, wait that’s really cute. Your confidence came back.

“N-No choice! You have to kiss me now.” That familiar, deep, warm laugh of his met your ears again. He wrinkled his eyes, gaze lowering to your unkissed lips. He placed a warm thumb against the bottom one, parting it carefully.

“I guess I do,” Serizawa whispered closely. He leaned in gently and fit his plush lips between yours. His soft hands traveled to your shoulders, easing you back to earth. The weight slowly returned to your body and you sighed into the kiss you so wanted. His fingers danced behind your neck, other hand pressing you close against him. You tilted your head in an angle that allowed you to deepen the kiss more easily. Serizawa smiled against your lips, pulling you closer as he breathed in deeply. You ran your fingers through his curls and he caressed your cheek, kissing you one last time.

He pulled away first to your disappointment, resting his forehead against yours and looking down at you, catching his breath.

“This is new,” he hummed, pushing your hair from your eyes with two fingers. The soft pads brushing across your skin, making you shiver. “It’s cute when you’re the one embarrassed.” You gasped in surprise, your cheeks darkening upon seeing the teasing glint that appeared in his brown eyes.

This was new, indeed.

“Did I… do that right?” He asked, a hint of fear in the way his voice cracked. You couldn’t help but sigh, and stroke the curve of his cheek.

“You were just perfect, Seri,” Your boyfriend smiled but still looked worries. You leaned back and pretended to ponder.

“But you know… I think that traditionally, you actually need to kiss the other person twice under the mistletoe,” you said flatly, giving him a serious look. Serizawa snorted at this, losing composure and laughing into your shoulder. Your poker face threatened to crack as you wrapped your arms tighter around him. You smiled, watching any lingering traces of doubt slip away.

“AAAHHHHH! Serizawa-san!!” You quickly broke apart from each other and snapped your heads around, looking for the trouble. It didn’t take too long to notice. The two of you froze, eyes wide and jaws dropped. The office walls around you cracked and groaned as the Christmas tree slowly expanded outward, all of its leaves basked in a deep, glittery, purple haze. 

“N-Not good!” Serizawa cried, running towards the tree, attempting to push everything back into place. Handfuls of mistletoe erupted from the cracks in the wall and base of the tree, crawling across the expanse of the walls and floor. Mob frantically concentrated his powers on the tree, willing it to stop growing. But if anything, the addition of ESP only quickened the rate of the tree. His hand trembled violently as he lowered it, swallowing harshly. A single bead of sweat dripped down his face.

“I...I can’t stop it…!” Reigen whipped his head to the boy then back at the massive tree with disbelief.

“YOU’VE GOTTA BE KIDDING ME!” The ornaments fell off their hooks and exploded, more ceiling tiles crumbling down to the floor. The sprinkler system triggered and soaked the office, pipes and internal structures bursting at the seams.

You could do nothing but stand back and watch, powerless, mistletoe in hand, knowing you were the reasons for the third renovation of Spirits & Such.

[tortoisebore]

time after time (because its a funny name) approximately 3 years 2 months and 19 days into the future s'il vous plait

specific & unusual asks game!!!

eeeeeeee 🤭🥹😊💞☺️✨💓 this is gonna be very short and purposefully a little vague bc i don’t want to spoil the epilogue but here’s a quick and fluffy little callback to a particularly sappy and mildly angsty moment in chapter 6, three years, two months, and 19 days later 💞💓💕💖💗✨💞

The end of January brought a biting cold that seemed to embed itself into Sirius’ bones. The commute to work had become more of a waddle to the subway down the street, hopping down the stairs and straining to get his arm high enough to scan his MetroCard around the layers and layers of sweaters and jackets and scarves wrapped around his body. Winter in New York meant looking ridiculous, sporting frizzy hat hair four months out of the year and sweating under two puffer jackets to keep the chill out on the way to work, but it was a small price to pay to live in the city again, happier and lighter outside of the looming threat of being sent back to Lenox Hill.

The problem now was that he woke up freezing, curled into a ball under the heavy duvet at seven in the morning on a Saturday he was supposed to be sleeping in. Watery gray light filtered in from the windows on the other side of the room as he squinted one eye open, frowning at the empty space on the right side of the bed and grumbling unhappily to himself. That’s why he was awake two hours early; his big and tall and gorgeous—and usually very cuddly—personal heater was gone.

That simply wouldn’t do.

Sirius slid out of bed with a list of demands ready to go. It’d been a long fucking week, what with the new exhibit opening and trainings at the rink in Brooklyn every other night, and Remus had promised a relaxing weekend after Sirius had stumbled home exhausted from the opening on Thursday night. A relaxing weekend did not call for waking up by himself, let alone by himself and cold, and his sleep-muddled brain was was ready to argue about it.

He shuffled down the hall with what he was sure was a comical kind of frown, stopped in the doorway to the kitchen-slash-dining-slash-living room and spotted the culprit there at the table. He was hunched over his laptop, typing furiously for a moment before sitting back with a huff, squinting at the screen, and Sirius wanted to smile. Of course Remus was up working, he was always working nowadays—writing papers and prepping for exams, meeting with his thesis advisor once a month and worrying to Sirius about it over the phone immediately after. Sirius had gotten very good at soothing his thesis-related anxiety, whether that meant talking him off the proverbial ledge or making him close the laptop and go the fuck to sleep, and his Remus-attuned instincts were telling him this was a go the fuck to sleep kind of moment.

And if that meant Sirius got another couple hours of nice, warm sleep himself, well that was just icing on the cake.

He padded through the living room, dodging the giant armchair that was definitely too big for the space but Remus argued was too soft and comfortable to get rid of, and wedged himself against the wall behind Remus’ chair. He bent over a bit to slide his hands around his shoulders, tugged him back and pressed his nose to the blissfully warm skin of his neck.

Remus turned his head a bit in surprise—he’d been too busy reading what Sirius could now see was his open thesis draft to notice he’d been coming—and leaned back into him, took one of his hands and muttered “Hi, baby,” against his knuckles. “You’re up early.”

“Cold,” Sirius mumbled, refusing to remove himself from the delicious heat of Remus’ skin for even a moment.

“You’re cold?” Remus asked, a fond little smile in his voice that Sirius had memorized the shape of a long time ago.

“Too cold without you.”

“I’m sorry,” Remus said through another kiss to his knuckles. “I just have to send this back for review by eight, I was coming right back.”

Sirius grumbled something incoherent even to his own ears, gave a light, displeased scrape of his teeth to his neck and said, “Come now, ‘m tired.”

“Hold on just a second,” Remus said, drawing little shapes on the back of Sirius’ palm to try and soothe him into patience. “Let me save it and send this email.”

Sirius supposed that was reasonable, but he made sure to voice his complaints at being kept waiting in the form of squeezing Remus tighter and mumbling vague threats against his neck. Remus just smiled, took Sirius’ promise to throw all of his clothes into the street in stride because he was a saint, and only reread his email twice before hitting send and closing his laptop.

“Okay,” he said, tapping Sirius’ arm twice in an attempt to get him to let go. “Come on.”

“You come on,” Sirius mumbled, holding him tighter, and Remus snorted a laugh before he got with the program and wormed out of his chair with Sirius’ arms still locked around his shoulders. Sirius realized quickly that he had miscalculated a bit, and when his feet threatened to leave the ground when Remus stood up straight, he moved his grip around his middle instead.

It was better, he decided as he pressed the side of his face between Remus’ shoulder blades, hands tight around his waist to feel a breathy little laugh vibrate against his ribs as much as he heard it. Remus’ hands circled his own as he started a shuffle back across the room, and Sirius smiled against his back as he was led back to bed.

[r-ene]

10.22.22

Midterm exam week routine and recap: 10/17 to 10/20.

had our exams face to face and boy it was exhausting, but I'm proud of myself for surviving, passing and being able to arrive at uni at the same time everyday, haha

my routine went like this:

3AM: wake up, shower, some quick make up and double checking things to bring

4AM: breakfast while reading through notes - spent an hour with eating so I won't shock my digestive system because it's very inconvenient to speed through this and your stomach suddenly wants to let go of some baggage, yk?

5:10AM: leave for commute - I take 3 modes of transportation to get to uni and back

6:10AM: uni arrival (yes it's been consistent that I arrive at this time even if I wake up at 4AM, hahaha)

8:30AM: usual start of exams until about 11:30 or 1:30PM

the gap between this and my arrival to uni consists of a 7-11 visit for some sandwich or onigiri and studying at the uni student's garden conference area. morning fresh air is great, it eases my mind despite not being able to cover all that I need to study the day before then I leave uni usually before 3PM so I won't have to get stressed on the way home as well since rush hour starts at that time.

5PM: estimate time I usually arrive home since I run some errands once I get off near our village in front of a grocery

The rest of the evening I try to study but most times by 10PM my brain isn't functioning anymore that's why arriving at uni really early has been an important part of my routine this exam week, but after Wednesday's exam of pulmonary pathology and research I just hibernated when I got home at 2PM until 12MN, hahaha. The following day's exam was fortunately easy and I've already reviewed on the commute home so I could pay off some sleep debt

12MN: latest time to go to bed for at least 3hrs of sleep

with this post, I hope for those who also had an exhausting week to relax and unwind this weekend !! I made myself some tteokbokki to enjoy with some beer and Howl's yesterday as a celebration and a pat on the back for surviving and passing :)