#so I give myself points for that

[rosicheeks]

Dhxnsnskxmsksnkxnx

[iamanartichoke]

I don't know who needs to hear this, but as a creator -

I am fine with "the audience" -

downloading my fics

printing my fics

copy/pasting or screenshotting my fics

sharing your saved copy of my fics with anyone else who might want them in the unlikely but never impossible case that my fics are no longer available on ao3

making a book of my fic(s) and running your fingers across the pages while lovingly whispering my precioussss

doing these things with anything I create for fandom, such as meta, headcanons, au nonsense like 'texts from the brodinsons,' etc

I am not fine with "the audience"

doing any of the above with the purpose/intent of plagiarizing my work or passing it off as their own in any capacity

feeding my work into ai for any reason whatsoever

Save the fandom things. Preserve the fandom things. Respect the fandom things.

Enjoy the fandom things.

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[crabsnpersimmons]

"Hair dyes or perms or just a quick snip, you can always count on your ol' pal Clip!"

it's about time i officially shared my design for Clip from my hairdresser au! here's the silly boi himself!

a.k.a. the most complicated character i've ever designed...

close ups and additional comments under the cut!

that's my boi, despite his crazy design, i love him. his silly top knot hat, the horn-like points around his faceplate, his speckled colours, his four arms, and his funky pants. he's just soooooo fun.

Clip likes to play games and knit! he even made the patchwork pants he wears (he made Sun and Moon a pair too, but they're too precious for them to wear... also a little gaudy to wear in public—doesn't stop Clip tho!). He actually makes everything the boys wear, since there's not a lot of things in their size/shape.

instead of resting at night, he can be found in their living room, playing Kirby 64 for the nth time and/or knitting something. he's just too restless to stay still, he's always gotta be doing something and if it isn't gaming, knitting, or hairdressing, then he's up to No GoodTM.

Clip... likes popping balloons. he says "Goodnight!" with each popped balloon and once he's done, he tosses up the scraps like confetti all while giggling joyfully.

needless to say, he is not fun at parties. Sun and Moon don't let him near balloons for this reason.

and yes, he has sewing needles on hand at all times. for fashion emergencies... and for unsuspecting balloons.

Clip's not allowed to have a phone (just imagine all the in-app purchases Sun and Moon would have to deal with), but he likes to keep up with his customers and their games, even if he doesn't get their fixation over bluenets he'll never openly admit it but he prefers curly-haired blond hunks that look sweet in soft pastels but could also squash him like the spider he is

also, he's great at microbraiding! though i imagine if Sun and Moon are free, they'd come help to shorten the wait but also to compete and see who braids the most (Clip always wins of course—make anything into a game, and he's winning)

aaaaand there's this! i wanted to make sure Clip would be able to freely rotate his waist so his arms could have their full range of motion, and this was the solution i came up with: a crop top on top and a wrap around his waist. and Clip here is being a sneaky little scamp about it.

[cheesecakethots]

Part 2 to this.

He had never been so caring for another, the guard noted. Lord Scaramouche was not the caring type, after all.

Despite that, the man had watched the lord express actual worry for you, the one huddled away in his tent as he barked orders at soldiers to find medicine, make warm soup, and heat up water. One of them had had his fingers broken for making the food too cold for the harbingers liking.

On the very few occasions the guard was permitted inside the tent, he had caught glimpses of the lord knelt beside your feverish figure in bed, the back of his hand softly resting on your forehead. If they had been any longer in finding you…

The few medics in camp were situated nearby, with any and all injuries not held by you being mostly ignored for the time being. You had barely been conscious for the past few days, slipping in and out, with some mumbled and confusing phrases leaving chapped lips.

The guard is brought out of his memories when Lord Scaramouche passes him, dramatically parting the tent covering and entering with a few quick strides. He immediately makes a beeline for your cold, limp body tucked away in bed.

Scaramouche places a hand to your cheek. His frown deepens, and you groan, glazed over eyes opening only a fraction.

“M…Mother?”

A sigh escapes him. His soulmate really is pitiful… and weak.

“… You’re safe now,” he mutters, surprised for a moment at the tinge of emotion in his own voice.

“Do… I have to help c…cook dinner?”

“No. You’ll never be doing that again.”

“Oh… okay…” A yawn leaves your throat.

“Go to sleep.”

“Can we have… chocolate later? I bought some… to share,” you murmur, trailing off until your breathing becomes light, and your eyes fully close.

The lord sighs. A shiver wracks through your body, despite the multiple animal hides you have on. He’s certain that his men have destroyed the surrounding ecosystem just to keep you warm, but, oh well.

He stands, hesitantly turning away from you. You need more blankets, maybe some more soup, anything to keep the fever from taking you away from-

Oh. His eyes widen, and he glances back to you, and then at the shaking hand pulling on his fingers.

“Don’t… leave me…”

You’re still asleep. It’s not as though you’re conscious and would know if he left, is it? It’s not as though your plea is anything more than some deluded fairytale in your mind, is it?

“I won’t.”

Curses.

Curse him, and curse you for awakening something he didn’t think he had, something in his chest that for centuries he was sure was simply an empty void of nothing.

He wants to scoff and leave you here, to tell you that he has no need for someone as weak as you in his life. He wishes he had left you tied to that tree and just kept moving, that he had never felt the touch of your skin against his own. That he had felt absolutely nothing, that he hadn’t felt a stab of fear for the first time in a long time when carrying your freezing cold body back to camp. It would’ve saved him a lot of trouble.

He doesn’t let go of your hand for a long, long while.

The next morning he leaves you alone for a short time, an hour at most. He regrets it when he comes back to you standing on two wobbly knees, the parts that make him up jolting at the sight.

“What are you doing?!”

You flinch, yelping when you abruptly turn to him and lose your balance. Hands, ones that send a feeling of static and electricity straight to your very core, are soon grasping onto you, holding you up before you can hit the ground.

“Are you daft?” The man spits out, visibly aggravated.

“Wh-What? What?”

“Get back in bed. I won’t ask you again.”

You don’t move, the sensation that comes with his touch only growing the longer the two of you stand.

“You’re… you’re…?” You whisper, eyes widening.

He pauses, the irritation in his expression dropping a little. After a beat, his lips part.

“… Yes.”

“We were in the woods, right? My village, they…”

Any softness on his face is wiped away the moment you mention your old home, and the people that resided in it. No longer waiting, he lightly pushes you back, leading you into the makeshift bed below. A blanket is soon wrapped around your quivering shoulders.

“Eat this,” he orders, pulling something out of his pocket and holding it close to your lips.

Chocolate.

“I’m not-“

“Eat.”

You tentatively take it from him, and the atmosphere grows awkward, at least for you, while he watches you chew on the rest of it.

“Thank you, it was delicious,” you tell him, truthfully. You haven’t had chocolate in a long time, as it was simply too expensive for your family to afford. Your mouth curves downwards into a frown.

“Rest.”

You don’t. You’re not sure if you can.

“My family, they let them take me. They didn’t… they didn’t stop them. They must…” A gasp is torn from you, and you meet his eyes once more. “How long has it been?”

“… Three days.”

You begin rise to your shaky feet, “I-I must go back, they’ll think that I’m-!”

He pushes you back down effortlessly.

“Are you a fucking fool?”

You can’t help but flinch at the absolute venom in his tone, but he isn’t done yet, towering over you.

“What do you think will happen if you go back, hm? That they’ll accept you with open arms, or they’ll send you right back to where I found you? Or, better yet, maybe they’ll set you alight there and then, rather than troubling themselves in having you freeze to death, they’ll instead watch you burn. Would you like to test if your family would spare you from that? Hm?”

You have never felt this small in your entire life.

“I-“

“Enough.” It appears the question was rhetorical, and your mouth closes, quickly feeling very dry.

His chest shudders with each deep breath he draws in, and he closes his eyes shut for a moment, seemingly trying to calm himself.

“Sleep. We have a long journey ahead of us. Don’t ask me anymore stupid questions,” he turns on his heel, most likely deciding that he has something better to do. However, before he fully departs, he pauses at the entrance to the tent, still not looking back at you.

“You deserve better than that village, than that family who threw you out as though you were nothing to them. Know that I do not plan on doing the same, and that you… aren’t nothing to me.”

The intimidation you feel from him dimishes when you catch sight of the pinkish tinge to the tips of his ears. He doesn’t wait for your response, swiftly departing. You miss the few words of parting he gives you, as you tuck yourself into bed.

“Besides, it’s not as though you have anything to go back to, anymore.”

[intheconfessiondial]

Redraw of the cape post, because that entire concept deserved better than the illustration I gave it.

[stil-lindigo]

the candle.

a comic about rediscovering passion and recovering from burnout.

creative notes:

[fairweathermyth]

ROBIN HOBB’S REALM OF THE ELDERLINGS >> The Fool The Farseer Trilogy + The Liveship Traders Trilogy + The Tawny Man Trilogy + The Fitz and The Fool Trilogy

You know who I am. I have even given you my true name. As for what I am, you know that, too. You seek a false comfort when you demand that I define myself for you with words. Words do not contain or define any person. A heart can, if it is willing. But I fear yours is not. You know more of the whole of me than any person who breathes, yet you persist in insisting that all of that cannot be me. What would you have me cut off and leave behind? And why must I truncate myself in order to please you? I would never ask that of you.

[chalkeater]

they;re some sort of cousins. sorry

[canisalbus]

Whenever someone says "This would kill a Victorian child." Or "This would kill a medieval peasant." I have to think about Machete. Would he... would he survive eating a Dorito?

.

[3-aem]

im bored of animal crossing will be drawing gj again will be mental illness-ing once more.

[oneluckydragon]

Jumping onto the text post meme train w/ Echo and Sora ft. future trio because I can't help myself.

[napping-sapphic]

There really is something so magical about loving women for me like i love getting passing crushes and thinking someone is beautiful or handsome or cute, a girl can make me blush once and i’ll feel like im floating for the rest of the week

[hailsatanacab]

"give me a fandom and a prompt and i'll give you at least five sentences"

Ok then.

Jazz, Danny and Bruce are in the same age range, and Bruce has been harboring a massive crush on 7'foot tall Jazz since just after he began his training journey.

His kids know about and are mercyless. Danny thinks he's a bit of a fruit loop and 100% knows Bruce has a crush on his sister.

Into the future his coworkers find out that batman has been quietly pining after the Ghost Kings sister for years.

Chaos.

love that this reads as a challenge. Ok then. Write it. i will, let's goooo!

(sorry i kinda took it so that Jazz, Danny, and Bruce were all old friends but in that horrible adult way where you can only hang out with each other once in a blue moon when your work schedules miraculously align)

——

"Respectfully, Batman, you can take your "it's not necessary" and you can shove it up your arse. There's a demon the size of a skyscraper heading towards Metropolis and we need reinforcements."

"Superman can—"

"Superman can't. You do remember the part of the report I made telling you this, right? Or did your stubborn little bat brain just shut down when I mentioned magic?"

"Actually," Nightwing interrupts from the side, a shit-eating grin on his face, "I think his brain shut down when you mentioned the Ghost King."

"Nightwing." Batman growls in warning, his jaw clenching so hard Constantine can swear he hears the bones creaking.

Nightwing just snickers, and turns away to press a finger to his ear, no doubt letting the rest of the bat brood in on what's happening here... Whatever that is. All Constantine knows is that Batman is standing between him and fixing this mess for no God-forsaken reason.

Luckily, some of the more reasonable members of the League step in to try and talk some sense into Batman. It gives him some time to calm down.

"Batman. We need him. I know you dislike working with unknowns, but he's our best shot."

It actually looks like Wonder Woman might be getting through to him, Batman even opens his mouth to actually explain some things—a huge step forward for this incredibly emotionally constipated man.

Instead, Nightwing snorts and beats him to it. "Unknowns? More like—"

"Nightwing, please."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, get your head out of your arse and let me do this. The Ghost King is our only hope. I'm summoning him, no matter what you say."

For a long second, Constantine thinks that he'll refuse and he might have to resort to more violent methods of persuasion—which, honestly, Constantine has fantasised about many times during the more boring JL meetings—but eventually, Batman relents and steps out of the way.

"Fine. Nightwing, go check in with Red Robin."

Nightwing has the kind of devious smile that makes John glad he doesn't have kids.

"Oh, don't worry about it, B. Red Robin's coming here. So's Red Hood, I don't need to go anywhere."

"Nightwing—"

"Sh, it's starting." So saying, Nightwing then very obviously ignores Batman's protests with a poker face that even Constantine envies. What he wouldn't give to be able to shut the bat out like that.

The summoning goes quickly, thankfully. The lights flicker, the temperature drops, and the chalk circle erupts in green flames. Standard summoning practices, sure. Even the impromptu appearance of Red Hood and Red Robin—"Did we miss him?", "No, not yet! I got 2:37, what about you guys?"—doesn't throw him off.

It does pique his interest, though. Just what the hell is going on with them? Constantine's weighing up the pros and cons of asking them once all of this is over when the ground splits open and the clawed hand of the Ghost King begins to pull himself out of the ground.

John's a seasoned summoner. It's practically his job, he's done it countless times.

The icey fear that grips his heart, that freezes his breath in his chest, is new.

Pure, unadulterated power floods the area and he feels small, so, so small, like a child playing with things he doesn't understand. When he finally tears his eyes away from the portal, he catches a glimpse of the other magic users in the room, the same horror he feels clear in their faces. Even Captain Marvel stares slackjawed.

The pressure rises, death magic screaming in his ears, almost forcing him to his knees, and suddenly he's not so sure this is a good idea.

Too late to back out now, though.

Sickly green light pours from the crack in the ground, growing brighter and brighter as the giant figure rises, until Constantine has to close his eyes and look away. The last thing he sees are eyes, teeth, horns, a crown so bright that it burns an afterimage into his retinas.

When the light dies down and he opens his eyes again, a humanoid man floats in the centre of the circle. The ground is whole, nothing is burning, the man doesn't even have a crown. Instead, other than the wispy white hair, slightly green skin, and the—you know—floating, the Ghost King appears pretty normal. Huh.

Constantine blinks, rubbing his bleary eyes, and checks around to make sure everyone's okay. Most of the League are doing the same as him, taking fortifying breaths and trying to appear as if they've not just been completely blinded.

Most of them, that is, aside from the Gotham vigilantes.

Batman himself stands upright, arms crossed, looking completely unbothered by the whole thing and John's got to admit, he wishes he could do that, too. That was... a hell of a show.

The others, however, are waving frantically with huge smiles on their faces.

What?

There's a brief, taut silence, as everyone else tries to catch their breath.

As much as he would rather take a bit of a breather, John should probably start making introductions. Unfortunately, he only gets as far as opening his mouth before the Ghost King beats him to it.

"Oh, Ancients, hey guys! It's been forever, how are you? Look at you all, so grown up, wow—Nightwing, buddy, do a flip!"

It doesn't take much to get Nightwing going, and he certainly doesn't leave it at one flip. The whole of the Justice League and Justice League Dark watch with open mouths as Nightwing performs for the Ghost King.

What, and John can't stress this enough, the fuck?

As soon as Nightwing rights himself, Red Hood swats him across the back of the head and calls him a show off.

The Ghost King just laughs as he claps. "There's my little monkey, look at you go! And I'm loving that leather jacket, Hood, is that new? Looks good on you, really your colour. Brings out the red in your helmet."

"Thanks, Uncle D. At least someone around here appreciates fashion."

"Are you kidding me, you know I breathe fashion, need I remind—"

"Need I remind you of the Discowing incident?"

"That was era-appropriate and you know it! Uncle D, tell him it was era-appropriate!"

"It was era-appropriate, but so are crocs and it doesn't make them fashionable." The Ghost King—and holy shit, is this actually the Ghost King? Or did Constantine just accidentally summon a deceased family member, what the fuck is happening here?—turns to look at Red Robin with a smile, resolutely ignorning the argument he created. "How you doing, Double R? You get that tablet Tucker made for you?"

"Yes, thank you! It's so cool, how did he—"

"How's Tucker doing?" Batman interrupts, his hands now hidden underneath his cape.

As soon as the question leaves his lips, everyone groans. Red Robin makes a show of lifting up his wrist and staring at it intently.

"Incredible," Red Hood mutters with a shake of his head.

Even the Ghost King seems put out, rolling his eyes and answering in a flat tone as if he knows Batman isn't interested in what he has to say.

Not for the first time, Constantine feels like he's missing something.

"Tucker's doing very well, thank you for asking."

What follows is the most awkward silence Constantine has ever had the pleasure to be a part of.

All three of the Gotham vigilantes, including the Ghost King, are staring at Batman, waiting for something. Batman's cloak shifts as if he's moving his hands, fidgeting. If Constantine didn't know any better, he'd say he was nervous.

"Good. That's good, I'm glad to hear it."

Instead of saying anything else, the Ghost King just raises his eyebrows and continues to stare at Batman. Has he offended him in some way? Are they all going to die because of this?

After what seems like an agonising few minutes but could only really be a few seconds, Batman's shoulders dip and he takes a breath. "And Jazz?"

They all erupt into shouts, the Ghost King being the loudest. The only thing John can make out is when the Ghost King throws his hand in the air to point at Red Robin with a shout of "Time!"

"1:30.91, we got 1:30.91 on the clock, who's closest?"

"Did you even try to hold it in at all, old man? I'm so disappointed in you. People think you're cool. People think you're suave, I don't understand how they could be so wrong."

"Thank you for that, Hood."

"No, thank you, I won. Again. Because you're so predictable. Actually, I had one minute seventeen, so you held out longer than I thought you would."

Batman pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs loudly.

Constantine feels like doing the same thing.

Whatever. He's going to have to interrupt... whatever this is. There's still a rampaging demon heading their way that they've got to bargain for. He can untangle Batman's personal connection to the Ghost King later. Or he could leave it alone and forget everything about it.

Yeah, he'll do that one.

But before he can actually open his mouth to say anything, the Ghost King, again, beats him to it.

"So, B-Man, did you summon me here for a particular reason, or was it really just so you could ask about Jazz?"

There's a beat of silence before Batman mutters, "I asked about Tucker, too. We've not seen each other in so long, it's only polite."

"And I'm sure you meant it, you're the paragon of manners." The Ghost King nods slow and wide-eyed as if he doesn't believe him at all.

At this point, even Constantine doesn't believe him.

"It has been forever, though." The Ghost King muses, bringing his hand to his chin and folding his legs underneath him. "We should all get together sometime! If you get Alfie to make some of his cookies again, I'll get Clockwork to lend us a pocket dimension where we can spend as much time as we want, deal?"

"It's a deal."

No hesitation at all, incredible.

Hold on. Wait. John has to fight the urge to pinch himself, because this has to be a dream, right? Is Batman actually smiling? He didn't even know he could do that.

An itch niggles at the back of John's mind. He's starting to get an inkling of what's going on here and it's... weird, to say the least.

"Oooh," Nightwing singsongs, like a child in a playground tickled by the very idea of romance.

But then, who's he to judge? John's no stranger to strange bedfellows, that's for sure. Whoever this Jazz is, she must be something incredible—she'd have to be, if Batman can't even go two minutes without asking about her.

"Batman and Jasmine sitting in a tree," Nightwing continues, with both Red Hood and Red Robin joining in for the rest. "K—I—S—S—I—"

"Stop," Batman growls, completely drowned out by the Ghost King's laughter, but...

But.

It all suddenly clicks for John.

The Ghost King Phantom.

Her Royal Highness, Princess Jasmine Phantom.

Jazz.

"Holy shit, mate," John breathes, unable to stop himself as everyone looks his way. "You have the hots for the Princess of the Infinite Realms?"

The Justice League meeting room has never descended into chaos quicker.

[harbingersecho]

grif's surgery but just a little more... obvious?

I actually rly rly ADORE frankengrif but I don't have an in-show reason why he'd have extensive long-term allogeneic skingrafts on his face 😔

[atsoomi]

When you first see Sakusa, it’s at a regular coffee shop.

He stands tall, intimidatingly towering over other people as he reads the menu with a disgruntled expression. You take notice of him while you wait for your usual drink, and you can tell you’re going to think about the attractive stranger at your favorite coffee shop for weeks.

His mask conceals most of his face, but his eyes catch your attention. The striking pools of onyx scan the menu rapidly as he seems to lose patience, his frown growing more by the second.

You don’t stare at him for longer than five minutes, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to overcome the embarrassment of being caught. But the outline of his figure burns in your mind as you turn to follow the worker who’s making your drink, a Mari who you’ve befriended during the frequent visits to this shop.

You think about whether he’s just having a bad day or if he’s always like this, whether he’s going to order from here or not, whether he’s ordering for just himself or others as well— friends or a girlfriend. Or someone he just likes, no tags.

You don’t hear the sound of someone approaching you over the sound of your own thoughts; in fact, you don’t even notice his presence over your shoulder until he clears his throat.

Turning to face him, you feel caught. Your cheeks warm in embarrassment, as if he could hear all the obsessive thoughts you were having about him. He stares at you blankly, and you realize his eyes are not only nicer up close, but also sharper. Being close to him also allows you to take notice of his other features— like his moles, the curve of his eyebrows, his cupid’s bow.

He leans down to your level, still keeping a safe distance like you’re carrying an infectious disease. Must be a germaphobe, you think. Getting the hint, you turn your ear to him.

“Do they add nuts to every drink on the menu?”

His voice is pleasantly deep and the whisper-tone makes him insanely attractive to you, but he asks the question with such genuine distress that you have to suppress a giggle. You turn your head back slightly to face him with a smile.

“Yeah, they’re big on the nuts thing. If you’re not a fan, you can ask them to not add nuts to your order, that’s what I do.”

He nods, still seemingly unsure, and you reflexively continue talking.

“But the coffee is really good, trust me, it makes up for the nut craze.” He stares at you with a blank expression, “trust you?”

You pale slightly, feeling like you’ve overstepped with the friendliness. But thankfully, Mari comes up to the counter, chiming in with your drink. “Here’s your usual,” she chirps as she hands you the straw.

You smile thankfully at her and she gives you a questioning look as her eyes shift between you and the tall stranger. She smiles slyly at you and you ignore her as you grab your cup.

“Well, uh, it’s up to you really.” You turn to him one more time, “You’d be the one missing out after all.”

And then you’re out the door as fast as you can. When Mari calls you that night, she’s disappointed to say the least, but she provides you with crucial information: he ended up asking for whatever you had.

The second time you see him, it’s on the court.

You learn that the guy you crushed on in a coffee shop is actually the outside hitter for MSBY Black Jackals, Sakusa Kiyoomi. Mari, who sits next to you during the game, nearly screams when she recognizes him.

She jokes about how you could’ve asked for his autograph or became a micro celebrity by dating him if you had a single romantic bone in your body; you tell her you have plenty of romantic bones in your body but he was just too intimidating.

The teasing goes on throughout the game as you both continue to be completely oblivious to the volleyball game around you. The tickets to this game weren’t cheap, and if Mari didn’t beg you to accompany her because her cousin plays for one of the teams and bought her tickets, you would’ve never found yourself seated at the front row of a volleyball game.

Granted, it’s one of the least violent sports and it’s entertaining to watch for a while. But you just couldn’t be any less interested in adult men throwing a ball around.

This game, however, seems to be much more interesting to you. Whether that’s because Sakusa is unreasonably gorgeous on court, or because Mari makes really entertaining comments on the game, you couldn’t really be sure. But watching Sakusa play was a life altering experience, you’d think about him in those shorts for months to come.

Your eyes follow him the whole time; you take notice of all his physical assets and find yourself giggling like a schoolgirl with Mari about all the athletes’ physical builds by the end of the game. She teases you about having a favorite and you can’t find anything to say in denial.

When the game ends, you’re almost disappointed that you can’t watch Sakusa in action anymore.

Later, when you’re standing outside the huge stadium as Mari talks to her cousin, you spot Sakusa’s team celebrating their win, circulating around him like a tornado. He stands in the middle of the chaos rigidly, and his ability to not crack a single smile around such cheery people astonishes you. You smile to yourself at the thought of how practice goes for the team if this is how it was when they won.

While MSBY’s blond setter (you were too focused on Sakusa during the game to catch anybody else's name) is aggressively throwing an arm around him, speaking loudly over the others, his eyes fleetingly meet yours. Your throat constricts at the brief eye contact and you reflexively stand up straight. When his teammate has moved on from annoying him, he looks back at you, and this time, the stare lingers.

He’s so intimidating and yet so breathtaking to you— standing in the middle of his friends, he seems to stick out like a sore thumb. You wonder if there’s any emotion behind his stare, if he’s judging you or if he thinks that you’re hideous and that you coming to his game is an insult— or if he finds you pretty and intriguing the way you do him.

You wonder about his dating history and his type of woman.

Before you’re too far gone in the land of delusion, Mari is back with a wide grin and mischief written all over her face.

“You should really talk to mr.loverboy at one point. I’d like to attend a wedding once in my life.”

You laugh at her as you both walk to your car. Turns out both of you are already too far gone in the land of delusion.

The third time you see him, you’re not doing too well.

The walls of Onigiri Miya are terribly familiar to you because you find yourself in the same spot every few weeks. In your mid-twenties, you’ve discovered that one of the few things that lighten the burden of existence is food— good food, something that the gracious Osamu Miya always offers at his shop.

While the world constricts around you, the place offers you the kind of comfort that only a warm meal could. Your stomach is full even if your heart feels empty, and that makes you feel a bit better.

Your monthly breakdowns at the onigiri restaurant aren’t new to you.

What you didn’t plan for, however, is the unfamiliar voice that calls your name.

You push your head off the table with a grunt to look at the caller and you’re, once more, facing the beautiful stranger that you stumbled across in a coffee shop— Sakusa Kiyoomi.

His eyes widen slightly at your face and you suddenly feel self-conscious, you don’t particularly look your best on a night like this. Out of all the times to actually meet him. The surprise on your face must have offended him because his expression reverts to his usual frown.

He stands rigidly with his hands in the pockets of his coat. His mask is pulled down for a change and you finally see the rest of his face at a closer distance; if you weren’t in emotional shambles, you’d be much more thrilled right now.

His frown is heavy as he looks at you, almost like frowning helps him think.

But before either of you have the time to think, the blond setter from the game you went to barges in on your moment and casually swings an arm around Sakusa’s shoulder. Sakusa shoots him a deathly glare but he doesn’t waver. Must be pretty good friends, you think.

“Hey omi-kun, who’s your little friend?” he asks, eyeing you with growing interest, a crooked grin on his face.

“She’s not my friend miya, get your arm off my shoulder.” Sakusa grumbles as he attempts to shake the blond’s arm off, but it stays planted on his shoulder firmly as they begin to bicker like an old married couple. Yeah, definitely good friends, you smile to yourself despite the gloomy cloud hanging over your head.

You realize that the guy Sakusa not-so-affectionately called Miya looked similar to Osamu, and you vaguely remember Osamu mentioning a brother before— a twin to be exact. The puzzle pieces come together and you’re amazed at the way fate connects people. The restaurant you visit frequently is owned by the twin brother of Sakusa’s teammate.

How many times did you come close to meeting?

Osamu comes out of the kitchen and the bickering evolves into sibling arguments as you zone out in the corner. The familial scene with Sakusa in the middle makes you bite back a smile, who thought that something so silly could be so entertaining? And entertaining enough to distract you from the things weighing you down.

The blond twin suddenly turns to you and you instinctively flinch, realizing you’re about to become part of the conversation unwillingly.

“Are we annoying you, doll?” he asks.

You hesitantly shake your head and the blond jumps to grab a paper bag out of Osamu’s hands, “See?” Osamu gives him a blank look, “you literally pressured her.”

“Did not. Now come on Omi-kun, we’ve got places to be. Everyone must be starving.” You turn to look at Sakusa (Omi-kun, as you know him now), only just realizing that he’s standing closer to you than before.

He gives the blond a stare that you’re oblivious to, and they share a moment of silent communication. Osamu looks between them and momentarily at you, seeming to understand something you don’t.

The blond twin, whose name you still haven’t discovered , slowly smirks at you with recognition. “Oh yes, I’ll go ahead. Don’t take too long now Omi.”

Then he’s out of the door, and Osamu retires to the kitchen with a knowing smile. You wonder what secret they were sharing in front of you.

Now that it’s just you and Sakusa in a nearly empty restaurant so late at night, the realness of the situation hits you like a cold gust of wind. You slowly turn your face towards him only to find him already looking at you.

Unsurely, you smile politely at him. He doesn’t return it, but he doesn’t seem like the kind to anyways. Instead, he drags the chair across from you back and plops down in front of you. The fact that you’re sitting across from the mysterious attractive guy you saw in that coffee shop is surreal.

His face finally relaxes and you notice how much prettier he looks when he’s not frowning. In this state, you don’t find it in yourself to look away from him. The dim lights of the shop illuminate his face and he’s almost god-like with his pushy brows and sharp eyes.

He seems okay with the attention you’re giving him, and you’re not sure if it’s the midnight paranoia but you swear his cheeks go pink at one point.

You’re too engrossed in admiring his physical features to notice how he hesitates to talk.

“You’re.. are.. are you okay?” His question brings you out of your lavender haze and you don’t process the question at first.

“Am I okay?” you retort in confusion.

He nods reluctantly.

Your hand comes up to cup your cheek when you realize that they’re wet, and suddenly you realize what he’s asking about. Your cheeks grow hot in embarrassment.

“Oh yeah yeah, I’m fine. Or I will be.” That explains why he was surprised when you lifted your head.

He observes you with interest and it’s your turn to feel embarrassed at the attention.

The intimacy of the scene isn’t lost on you. You sit like old lovers who never fell out of love, admiring each other in a public place that feels like it only contains the two of you. You sit together like you’ve known each other for years. You want to salvage the intimacy of the moment but a burning question comes to the front of your mind.

“How’d you know my name?”

He blinks at you, seemingly confused by the question.

“When you got here, you called out to me.” You continue unsurely. “We’ve never spoken before, how do you know my name?”

He blinks at you again as the gears in his head turn. When he realizes that he did in fact call out your name despite never asking you about it, the tips of his ears turn red. You observe the changes in his face with a slowly growing smile; you’ve noticed something he hoped you wouldn’t.

“It was on the cup. Caught it when you were leaving.”

The cup. The cup of coffee you ordered at the coffee shop you first met at. When you ran away from him. You raise your eyebrows in amusement, how did he manage to catch that? Moreover, how did he manage to remember it for weeks when you’d barely talked.

The thought of Sakusa having an interest in you since the first meeting makes you feel like a teenager getting asked out for the first time.

You look at him across the table, observing his face and everything you’ve grown to like about it. Suddenly, you think about meeting him like this more often, about getting to see him much closer than this, about being the kind of woman he’d date, and about tracing his lips with something other than your eyes.

When you notice his eyes traveling across your face, you wonder if he possesses any similar thoughts, any burning urges to reach across and touch you and set off the reaction that's been brewing for weeks.

It's so close you can almost taste it.

You lock eyes and you slowly realize that neither of you are ready to jump straight into anything. He's as hesitant as you are, maybe even more. But, if you've got to start somewhere, you know exactly where to take him.

“Sakusa," you start, already smiling, “would you like to get coffee with me sometime?"