Work Text:
Last night, you prayed for a good night’s sleep, and a tiny wish to wake up earlier than usual. Your coworkers often label you as a ‘black sheep’ to the industry. You show up late, your assignments are always wrapped in excuses. It has always been this way. From the moment you were born, it was as if a black cat has kissed your forehead with a whisper, ‘go fuck the world, child.’
Having it in middle school was the worst. Middle school is when social hierarchy grows, insecurities, assignments, ass teachers and the teenage influence. To be talked behind people’s back hurts you enough, but to get it back to your ass–even if you didn’t do anything–was worse. Each time you try to stand up for yourself, luck reminds you of what you are.
You turn your head to nuzzle your cheek against your soft pillow, only to be flashed by the sunlight’s rays. Your eyes snap open as it remembers. “What time is it—,” you fumble for the alarm, “shit, 7:30?!”
You were quick to throw yourself out of bed, the floor almost grazing your skull. In all honesty, you were used to it. Rushed mornings, neverending stress. You make quick work of yourself in the bathroom, brushing your teeth while taking a shower, putting on your uniform and running to the metro station. “Sir—!” your foot halts before the metro worker. “What time does the 15G train leave?” you say out of breath. “It left just now,” the worker sighs, at this point a forever best friend of your late mornings. “Same destination as usual? Central city?” “yes.” you nod.
“Take the 14A bus, drop off at Janscile, and take the 67 train.”
“Bless you, Greg!”
“My name isn’t even Greg,” he chuckles.
You open the office door with a heavy sigh. You check the time on your watch, 8:21. Work was supposed to start at 7:55. Oh well, a new record.
You walk to your cubicle and sit down to answer emails. “Late again?” your coworker leans over his cubicle. “You know it,” you shrug.
The sky was a shade of clear blue, clouds swirling and painting the view. The sun adds luminance with a pretty shade of yellow. Somewhere above the skies, above the sun and moon, lies gods. Gods were a myth, a rumour, a legend in the mortal world. In the world above the earth, gods ruled. One particular god was leaning over the earth’s round shape.
Its hair cascaded over their nose, the black strands spiky enough to tear skulls. Their eyes are a mix of brown and green, the earth’s core. Their eyes are precise, always looking for someone to mess with. They wear a dark brown yukata with a black obi loosely wrapped around their waist. The okumi drags down their chest, baggy with all the carelessness only a god can carry.
“Oh, you little bug,” He giggles, poking you from the earth’s atmosphere. The nudge gives you another round of bad luck. The god wheezes as you slip from a banana.
There lies the eyes of a god, The God of Prosperity and Knowledge. The god is prayed to for blessing, for intelligence and luck. Ranpo Edogawa. His eyes are forever locked on you, but not to kiss your bad luck away. The complete opposite, really, he’s there to be the cause of it.
The moment your soul shimmered in the blue planet, the moment you punched your mother’s face after getting out of the womb, the moment where you cursed at him. Where you cried into the sky, cursing and insulting him for the cause of every bad luck. You weren’t afraid. You weren’t afraid of measly creatures, let alone a god. He liked that about you.
“Are you still bothering that human?” a god approaches his presence, exasperated by his antics. “Look how adorable they yell!” He giggles before flicking his fingers for another round of misfortune.
“Why do you even do this? Revenge? A grudge?” the other god asks,
“For fun!” Ranpo winks, “their parents were so greedy with everything, I just had to make their kid’s life a living hell! It’s not like it’s not valid. They begged for a flick of my intelligence, and I know I’m the smartest person in all the multiverses but—”
“Okay, yeah, I’m leaving.”
“Atatatatat—hey! I’m not done!” Ranpo pouts.
The cubicle was swallowing you whole as assignments piled on, stress stacking up like blocks. The soft, playful music through your earphones is the only thing keeping you sane. Your fingers are tired. Your eyes haven’t blinked in an hour. Your fingernails are bruised from the keyboard. You groan.
“I’m heading for a break—” You abruptly stand up, knocking a few things from your desks.
“Where are you going?!” your coworker calls you.
“Library!”
The walk to the library calmed your mind. It was quiet, serene. You sat on the couches surrounded by books. The library smelled like soft cinnamon and coffee. You look around the library, no one else was there. “You know, sometimes I wish I didn’t move out of my parent’s house,” you begin to rant, to who, you don’t know.
A certain muddy green eyes lock onto your tired stature.
“I haven’t realized how hard it is to actually make a living,” you sigh, “not to mention how unlucky my hands are.” The prying eyes narrow down in a giggle. “I’ve prayed so many times to gods and ancestors, it just doesn’t work. It’s like I’m cursed.”
Ranpo watches from the skies above, laying down on a stack of papers, using crumpled ones to rest his head on. The god of prosperity and knowledge glances down at the mortal. Their muddy green eyes glint under the mischievous ideas. “Why, at least you’re aware that you’re cursed,” he giggles.
You continue to lounge in the library before your alarm goes off. “Time to answer emails again,” you sigh. Walking back to the office, the sky growls. You look up to see clouds covering the sun. You pat your side to reach your umbrella to realize—you didn’t bring one. “Curse the gods.” you sigh, running to find a place to shelter in.
“Oh? Curse the gods? Curse me?” Ranpo leans down closer to the earth’s atmosphere, “why, aren’t you a brave mortal? Cursing me! The god of prosperity himself! You cannot be this jealous of my luck.”
He grins, zeroing on you. He knows she cursed him as a form of an expression, but it was fun to tease her. “Yoink!” he smirks, taking every person to fill each shelter she finds. You stand there, wet from the rain. Every bus stop is filled with people, every place under the bridge is full. “god, bless me with patience,” you mutter.
Ranpo bristles at the word ‘bless.’ His eyebrows furrow in annoyance, his lips forming a slight pout. He turns away from the earth, a huff escaping his mouth. “Praying to another god now are you?”
You walk back to the office in the rain, using every tissue in the bathroom to dry yourself. It’s humiliating, but it’s familiar. The steady beat of bad luck following your every step, the disappointment that comes after it. It’s familiar, predictable.
So when news of a promotion in the office was being spread, you trusted the feeling in your gut. The hurtful sting on your tongue, knowing that luck won’t be on your side. It has never been, it never will be.
When it’s time to clock out, you walk past the receptionist handing out the brochure. The brochure that spoke loudly, ‘how to qualify for a promotion!’ that went as a whisper into your ear. You walk the blocks headed to your apartment. Your apartment is cheap, but it’s good enough. You slam the door open–the lock is broken–to find your house wrecked. Your couch is upside down, your pantry is open–and gone—, your old TV is scratched and your money safe opened.
You drop onto your knees. $400, $780, $1300—2480—bills, $890, $567. $11.947 gone. Stolen. Your breath hitches, your eyes sting. You were hoping from the start of the year to treat yourself to a small vacation, maybe visit your family, or pay for a real TV. Gone. Stolen. Taken away.
You sob on the floor, even if your heart was familiar with the pain. Again? This time feels too cruel. You choke on a sob. You knew your luck was bad, so why put hope in things you won’t reach?
“Poor thing,” Ranpo murmurs from above. He watches you double over in sadness, your problems a tiny flick in the span of a globe. “Poor thing,” another god mocks, “didn’t you cause that?” “What is this bug buzzing in my ear?” He ignores the god.
Ranpo is the source of intelligence, of course he knows he was the one who did that—he has a whole timeline paper sheet!
“Should I let you rest, mortal?” He nudges your cheek, his heavenly finger going through your flesh. Even then, you still look up. It’s as if you looked directly onto him. The god stiffens. “Fuck you,” you finish before going to your room. Ranpo gasps, his breath finally arriving.
That was your first time actually looking at him.
Ranpo might like your brown eyes more than he’d care about.
Your side feels heavy. Your head rings. It’s too dark, and it’s too much. Your vision blurs as another round of tears meets your eyes.
Your phone rings, it luminates your dark room. You fumble with the button before answering the call.
It’s your mother.
Her voice is warm, inviting and always accepting.
“Hi dear, you didn’t answer my messages!”
“Oh—sorry, I was busy.”
“Overworking again?
“Something like that.”
“Not to dump more onto your plate, but are you able to come for New Years, sweetheart?”
How much is a plane ticket again…?
“Of course I’ll come, mom. I haven’t seen you in years,” a bitter laugh escapes you.
“Oh, that’s great news. I’ll hang up. It seems like you’re focused on work. Goodnight, love!”
“Goodnight.”
Your mom says the same thing every year. She calls at the same exact time, with the same exact words. With the same exact wish. Can you come home?
And each year, you’ll promise it. You’ll give her false hope before canceling the last minute tickets. She’ll always call you when the clock turns 00:00, even if her voice is a bit shaky. Even if her voice is a bit sad.
I’ll fulfill it this year. I promise this time.
“How do I get enough money to pay for all of that…?” a thought bubbles up. You’ll need to buy back a few things after getting robbed, not to mention bills, and the plane ticket itself. The payment your job gives only fills two of those boxes, and the plane ticket is not one of them. You certainly don’t want to get another job, it’s tiring enough to have one.
Ranpo almost looks down at you in pity, “fine, fine. If you need my intelligence that bad! I’ll give you a flick.” He cups your forehead, the hand materializing as a breeze of wind. Your brain was instantly refreshed, all of the noise stopping for a minute. “I can get the job! The—-The promo—I need to get the promotion.” Your voice sets in determination.
Ranpo relaxes on the cloud of books and gold coins humans offered to him. He nuzzles on a particularly soft page of a dictionary before snoozing off. He snores for a while before another god slams the gate open. Ranpo jumps. “What do you think you’re doing?! This is another god’s realm!”
“I need you to do me a favor,” the god spoke with a thick accent. There before him was The God of Mercy. “A mortal has wished upon me,” the god said. “And? That’s your business,” Ranpo yawns, already preparing to get another nap.
“No. This mortal—she’s yours.”
“What?!” Ranpo straightens up, “last I checked, I haven’t owned any mortals since the last decade.”
“Well, is she not yours?” the god snaps his fingers, a silhouette of her out of clouds. Her hair curls around her face, the smile crooked in all the ways that makes Ranpo’s heart jump. Ranpo stays quiet for a while. “She—is not mine,” he swallows it down.
“Well, whatever. She’s the one you keep targeting though, correct?”
“Not for bad intentions.”
“Anyways, she begged me today.”
Ranpo’s eyes drop into a small facade of nonchalance, hiding the shimmering anger inside him. Begging to other gods, are you? When’s the last time you begged for me?
“So?” he answers, almost petty.
“She begged for the mercy of the God of Prosperity.”
Ranpo’s heart drops. Has he been doing it too much? Has he gone too far, that she has to pray for his mercy, to another god?
“What have you been doing to the poor girl?” The other god spoke in anger. “I checked her deeds, she hasn’t done anything morally wrong.”
“Look, I thought it’d be funny!” The god of prosperity and knowledge looks down in guilt. “Well, make a deal with me,” the other god starts, “bless her with prosperity for a week, and I’ll give mercy to your pets I stole.”
“My raccoon?” Ranpo looks up in interest.
“A week.” the god holds his hand out
“A week.” Ranpo takes his hand, the godly magic sealing the deal till death.
You wake up 30 minutes earlier than usual. Weird. You pinch yourself, just to prove you’re alive and not dreaming. You cuss under your breath, your skin reddening. It’s real. You step out of bed with caution, expecting the ceiling to drop on you. It doesn’t. You take a bath and dress yourself, your clothes are perfectly ironed. Weird.
You walk to the bus to check the time, 5 minutes early. Weird. Scanning the streets for anything to trip on, the streets are clear. “Early today?” even the bus stop worker looked surprised. “Guess so, feels kinda weird though,” you laugh. “I guess you’re used to fighting for your life all the time, huh?” You both share a laugh before getting on the bus.
Your uniform is crisp and ready for the interview, your hair tucked neatly into a bun. The office is brimming with urgency as a lot of money-hungry people line up for a promotion. You’re not sure you might even get past the interview, but oh well. Desperate times.
“So, what did you say your contribution has been to this company?” The interviewer leans in.
“My contribution?” You repeat, voice cracking in all the wrong places.
“I think that I have done my job really well as an analyst in this company,” you clear your voice, “I triple check all the data I send, I scan them with a software I made and I am socially contributing by being active in this company.”
“I see, what are examples of you being ‘active’ in this company?”
“I go to work everyday…? That’s pretty active, I mean, I’d really rather just go to bed but—” you halt to a stop. “I mean—I always join icebreaking and bonding parties! Totally!” you grin.
“Damned girl, even with my touch of luck, you can’t even escape your own depreciation,” Ranpo watches you from the ruffles of books above. He’s hanging lazily over his cloud, his tiny heart yearning to maybe—go down to earth—to show you how lucky he is! Obviously! To show off!
“Safe to say you’re not getting that promotion, huh?” Ranpo chuckles demeaningly, “You gonna insult me all over again? Beg to another god?”
“You do know, you sound like a creep right now.” A god pipes up near his direction.
“Wanna bet how long it’ll take for her to start yelling at me again?” Ranpo challenges.
“Two days.”
“One.”
You walk out of the room clutching your head, tugging at your head. You failed the interview. You failed the first step for the promotion. The announcement isn’t out yet, but your heart already knows.
It didn’t even seem like you’ve tried.
You did, just not enough.
You were straining your eyes to stay open as you skim through another row of data. Your finger is numb from all the typing, your back aching. It’s quiet and dim before the liveliness wooshes through. Lots of people are running to the announcement board near the lift, head ducking and tip toe-ing to squint the information board.
There were loads of reactions. Hands pumped up with a loud yell. A victorious cry. A loud, disappointed sigh. A grin of defeat. ‘What’s this all about?’ you think to yourself. You continue to do your work while waiting for the crowd to ease out.
The crowd leaves one by one, and you finally get up to see what the commotion was. You walk up to the board to see the list of people that passed the interview. I know what this is going to feel like. You brace for it.
Skimming down the names, yours isn’t listed. You’ve failed.
You’ve expected this, known this would happen. The same feeling of familiar disappointment curls near your heart.
Still, a tear escapes. You knew from the start you wouldn’t pass with the shitty luck you’ve been blessed with.
It doesn’t comfort the fact that this time, you actually needed that luck.
Your room feels empty and cold. Loads of trash pile up near the bank of the bed, food delivery bags hung from the pegs. You laid in your bed, head to toe covered by a blanket. You haven’t had the energy to move since days.
You’ve skipped work, your boss has cut off your salary. You couldn’t bring yourself to feel sad about it, at least not sadder from the texts you’ve gotten from your family.
They asked about the plane ticket again, and when you told them how you got robbed, they blamed you. They blamed you for growing with that ignorant clumsiness. It’s not like you asked for it.
You don’t have the energy to blink. You fall asleep for the tenth time that day.
Ranpo—the God of Knowledge and Prosperity, a person who rarely ever cares for a mortal, a person who’s full of himself, someone who goes to sleep giggling after messing up a whole other person’s life—worrying about someone. Ranpo nuzzles his arm as he rests on his stomach, gazing down to the earth.
You don’t look pitiful in his eyes.
You look enchanting, even with all the depression clouding your mind. Ranpo’s eyes soften around the edges, seeing you lifeless. You’re always feeling something. Whether it’s blaming Ranpo for her luck, angry at the world, irritated from work or excited from your favorite food.
Not this. Not this person stuck in her bed, her eyes dim and crinkling with sadness.
Ranpo decides to finally do something about it.
He’s sick of watching you mope over your failures, and he’s even more sick to be the blame for it. It’s not that he did actually stripe your luck on the interview, just that he’s been making you feel so awful it came up to this point.
Ranpo was close to sealing the plan when a certain god stopped him. The God of Mercy in all their glory. “Don’t do this! You know the consequences!” “Yeah, and?” Ranpo continued his ritual, hands clasped in a prayer-like stand. “What do you mean ‘and’? Your powers will weaken if you transform!”
“Relax, you’re acting as if the greatest person in the world can’t come back,” with a wink, Ranpo delivers an airy blow. It flies everything in sight, his god features flaring—golden nails and silk hair—his yukata wooshing along. His hair bends over his face, his eyes squinting with focus. His hands are made of gold, the finger prints delivering chains of luck all through his body.
Ranpo’s god-like presence leaves.
He arrives in a city where a certain unlucky girl worked.
You come to the office late when you hear of the new trainee. “He looks really child-like, is he even legal to work?” You hear one of your coworkers gossip. It’s not like you care. What you care about is finishing that debt, earning more money, and maybe taking a nap.
You’re almost done checking all the emails, reporting them and opening Google Documents for the 20th time. ‘Scrolling on my phone would feel so good right now.’ You’re imagining laying on your bed, head tucked into the pillow’s embrace and hand almost sore from holding up your phone. You were planning what apps to open, the constant need of rest trailing your every move.
You glance at the clock, It’s almost 5PM. I can do this. Just 20 more minutes.
You were almost grinning at the thought of going home.
“Hey–You’re coming to the party later, right?”
Fuck my ass.
“Party–? Is it mandatory?” God, I hope not.
“Yeah? It is. They sent a text about it a week ago,” the coworker continued.
I haven’t checked my messages in almost a week. It’s not like I’m expecting anyone to message me anyways.
“Can I just—not go?” Your complaint was abruptly stopped by a cheeky—almost cheerful voice.
“And miss out meeting the new trainee?” said the trainee himself. He’s wearing a cocky smile, so sure of himself that he could charm you into ditching your relaxation plans.
You click your tongue, tsk-tsk-tsk. You hated cocky trainees, for how they think this job is so easy, as if it’s not life draining. “Exactly my plan, yeah,” You roll your eyes. “Come on, have a little fun with Ranpo?” the trainee grins, resting his chin on the back of his hand. He’s leaned over the wall separating your desks from the others.
“Ranpo? Like–the god?”
“You could say I have a little luck,” he grins.
Oh, you hated him already.
Cocky, cheerful, cheeky, arrogant and a show-off? Log off this server, I beg of you.
He is thrilled. Filled to the brim with happiness even.
This is the person he’s been messing with ever since they were born. This was the beauty standing right in front of him. Of course, just as he was in his god-form, why can’t he tease you in this form?
You’re just what he imagined. Overworked, underpaid, messy, lively and raw. In all his centuries of being the God of Knowledge and Prosperity, he has never given anyone true luck. Just temporary ones.
Surely, he has never given some to you. It’s not that he hates you, he just loves your reactions. When the wrinkles of your face musters into disgust, when you frown at any bad thing happening to you. He wonders what other reaction you can make.
“Come on, join the party with me,” he bribes.
Even though you were easy to tease, he must say, you were hard to convince. He has never begged a woman ever in his life.
“Why should I?” you ask.
“Because you get to spend time with me?” he shrugs, saying the obvious, “I’ll show you around for a bit, and when you get tired, I’ll take you home.”
“I’ll even help you get deals in this company,” he winks, knowing you need the money.
Your reaction was not what he imagined.
“I’ve worked here longer than you, and you think you can ‘show me around’?!”
It’s almost a yell of pent up energy and frustration.
You storm out of your office, at exactly 5PM.
“Should I actually go to the party?” You chime in on the phone, calling your friend. It’s easy how swayed you could get when someone got under your skin.
“Well, in my most, humble-st opinion, I think you should go! It’s about time you socialize with your coworkers.”
“But—”
“Plus, you also need to apologize to that new trainee. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get together with someone at the party” They let out a giggle.
So here you are, preparing yourself for the party.
You’re trying to tame your curls, but they puff up each time like a little rebellion group. You sigh. You take a soft pink bandana and place it in the middle of your head. Your dress is modest, but party-able enough.
You’re wearing a dress cut to the top of your chest, straps close to your arm, small pieces of fabric blowing out of your face. The top tightens at your waist–which is uncomfortable, but once in a lifetime—your skirt is long as it cascades to your ankles. You’re wearing black heels to match your hair.
Something is missing.
Just before you walk out of your room, you grab your large jacket. Just in case I get tired.
The party is loud. You’d never guess your coworkers could break it on the floor like that. Lights are pink, blue and orange, hues mixing all together with your make up.
You look around to find Ranpo chugging on sweets.
He’s the one who made you come here, might as well talk to him.
“Hey,” you call out.
“Oh,” he seems almost surprised. “You actually came.”
“What? Thought I’d ditch at the last second?”
“Well, you were yelling at me before, what’s a guy to think?”
“You seemed like you liked it.”
“Getting yelled at?”
“Probably, you a masochist?”
Ranpo looks almost bewildered. You tend to say the most outrageous things from your mouth, but hey, socializing.
“Last I checked, that is not how you start a conversation.”
“To keep you on your toes,” you grin.
Holy Lord, bless me from this woman. Can I get on my knees.
She looks almost different from her usual self. The tired, exasperated woman is not in sight.
Ranpo invites you to drink a bottle together. By the third glass, your words are slurred and full of emotion. You were half-ranting, half-crying about the boss being so strict, about how this work sucks ass and how you can’t quit even if you want to.
“And like—It’s not even that he—He doesn’t care—He just doesn’t!” you cry out, chugging another glass.
Ranpo is confused about what you’re saying, but like the man he is, he just nods.
“Are you even sober?” he asks.
Suddenly, your face locks in. “Oh yeah, I have a higher tolerance than this. I’m just using it as an excuse to complain.”
This goddamn woman.
You groan, clutching your back. “My lower back lowkey hurts from sitting in the same position everyday.” “Want me to massage it?” His response is almost instant, too eager.
You shrug, why not.
His hands are heaven. You’ve been holding back too vulgar moans, each of your tied knots loose. Your back is levitating. It feels so light, as if the weight is gone. Even your bones are melting. “C’mon, is it even that good?” He asks just before loosening another knot near your waistline.
The sound that escaped will cross borderlines. Your back arches, your mouth forming a small ‘o’.
“Feeling good, sweetheart?”
It’s as if suddenly, the temperature drops hot. His voice curls around your ears, the lights dimming as if it was just the two of you.
“Yeah,” you murmur.
“Want me to make it feel better?”
Your nod is eager.
He slides his hand below your thighs, locking around your knees as the other holds you close to his chest. He carries you to a nearby janitor’s room. “The janitor’s room?” You ask, almost disgusted. “No other place, just deal with it.” he pats your backside firmly.
He glances at you one last time, asking for permission. You give it to him.
You’re tired, overworked and underpaid. A little fling won’t hurt anyone.
Your back is against the wall as he pushes against you. You feel your chest against his, and each breath hitching like crazy. His hands are on your cheeks. No, the other one. The lower one.
His mouth blows filthy words that make your legs shiver.
“Make me feel good,” was the only command you gave, and he delivered.
His hands ride up your skirt, gripping one of your thighs to lift it. He places himself in between your legs, his crotch nuzzling your clit.
You moan. Freely, this time.
He smacks your backside, “they’ll hear us,”
“Do I care?” you rock your hips against him, harsh, just to shut him up.
His bulge settles in the middle of your clit, that alone left you both trembling.
Your legs are shaking like noodles when you step out of the room. Your breath is heaving, your skirt having a damp spot.
“Here,” Ranpo gives you a piece of paper. There he wrote his number.
You look up at him, confused. Afterall, it’s just a fling.
“Just in case you want to have another fun time.” He grins.
Okay. Not a fling.