#Spirit: Eastern Sun

[empyreanmirror]

sunflowers in our hair

[mymoneychronicles]

How many US airlines have you flown with?

[bishopmyrielfundraiser]

even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise--

--as Victor Hugo didn't actually say.

The Winter 2025 Bishop Myriel Fundraiser is now open. This year will be dedicated to immigrants, many of whom are languishing in private prisons whose stock just went way, way up.

Our goal this year is at least 25 auction items and over $1000 in funds raised. If you've never participated before, this is your year. DM if you would like to participate but need advice!

Get your fic, art, books, crafts, costumes, and other offers ready. You can submit them according to the rules under the cut, and bidding on each item will start as soon as it is posted. Bidding in REPLIES, NOT REBLOGS, will continue through the end of December 21st, the darkest night of the year.

The recommended places to donate this year are: 1) RAICES Texas, an immigration-focused group which freed more than 2,000 people from immigration detention over the years. They fought to reunify families when children were ripped from their parents' arms during the first Trump administration, and have now pivoted to using funds to provide legal support for the detained, while continuing to pay bonds for those clients.

2) Annunciation House, a shelter serving immigrants. Run by Catholics in Texas who open their doors to the stranger without asking to see their papers, this year they faced down a vicious attempt by the Texas government to shut them down as a "stash house." The attorney general claimed in court that they followed "a more Bohemian set of ‘seven commandments,’ including commandments to ‘visit’ people when ‘incarcerated’ and ‘care (for them) when they’re sick.'” What could be more in the spirit of this fundraiser's namesake, Bishop Myriel? If you are not in the US and/or find it difficult to donate via those pages and/or want to support a particular organization doing good work to assist immigrants that's not listed above, please feel free to select another organization. From groups funding rescue ships in the Mediterranean to those supporting refugees stuck in camps around the world, there is a lot of good work to be done.

Rules for submitting your offers and bidding on them under the cut

Rules

1. Offering

SUBMIT your offering post to this blog! Include a link to this rules post in your own post, and also a minimum starting offer for your item, which can be a fic, art, or a physical item--be creative! Your offer does NOT have to be connected to the Les Misérables fandom, although such items are always welcome! Any terms and conditions of your offer should also be included in the post, eg what fandoms you are wiling to write for, any hard no’s on content, etc. Offer posts can keep coming in through the SUBMIT button until the auction closes.

2. Bidding

Bidding on each item opens as it is posted. Only bid on items tagged #Winter25. There will also be a masterpost to help distinguish this year's items from last years. Bid in REPLIES NOT REBLOGS (this is important because replies enable me to figure out who bid when and avoid conflicts) until 11:59PM Eastern Time December 21st, 2024. The highest bidder at that time will be the winner. Bidding can start as each item is posted.

3. Claiming or delivering your item

Please do not donate your bid until I have contacted you to inform you that you won the item!

If you have won an item, I will contact you directly via DM and ask you to provide a receipt or other verification for a donation to an immigration organization in the amount bid. This DM may come from either @bishopmyrielfundraiser or my main blog @lifeisyetfair. After you have made your donation, send such the receipt or verification bishopmyrielfundraiser@gmail.com or in a screenshot on Tumblr. Make sure the proof contains the amount you donated!

AFTER I have verified your donation, I will contact the offerer to let them know they can deliver the item. If you do not respond at all to my attempts to contact you within one week, I will move on to the next highest bidder. So check your DMs.

4. Sending the item you offered

All items should be delivered by March 31st, 2025 at the absolute latest, unless you have made other arrangements, eg the custom item/fic takes longer than that to create or write and you communicate about this. Earlier is even better, but remember that the most important thing is to keep the winner informed and make sure everyone has a good time.

[alternate-real-ities]

Would love to see what other versions of myself are out there!

Hey there, cutie. I've been carefully observing the timelines across the multiverse and I think I've found some interesting ones I would say. Let me first start with one not far from ours. 😉

Meet your brazilian self.

In this sun-kissed universe, your parents were Brazilian, and it shows in every sultry curve of your body. You're a free spirit, always chasing the next wave or beach party under the tropical sun, where the only thing hotter than the sand is the lustful gaze of the locals.

Your olive skin glistens with a sheen of coconut oil as you soak up the rays, and your dark hair flows in the ocean breeze like silk threads begging to be tangled in a passionate embrace. When night falls, you trade in your caipirinha and board shorts for a tight pair of jeans that hug every inch of your physique, ready to heat things up on the dance floor or in a private cabana.

Now, I want you to imagine a reality where Arabs dominate the world and shaped every corner of existence, blending all races into their superior form through generations of intermarriage and genetic manipulation, with lesser races either becoming arabized over time or enslaved.

In this universe, you're the epitome of Middle Eastern masculinity - strong, commanding, and unapologetically in control.

You're a wealthy and powerful alpha male at the pinnacle of this genetically superior race. Your dark hair is always perfectly coiffed, framing a face that exudes confidence, power, and an insatiable drive for achievement.

You exude an aura of confidence and dominance, attracting both admiration and desire from all who lay eyes on you. Every inch of your chiseled body is honed to perfection - from the defined ridges of your chest to your powerful bulge straining against your luxurious clothes.

Next, in another parallel universe, your DNA took a different path, resulting in athletic prowess and an unrelenting passion for the game of basketball.

You're an unstoppable force on the basketball court - lean, muscular, and dripping with sweat after a grueling game. Your chiseled muscles were honed from hours at the gym and a work ethic that leaves opponents in the dust.

Your dark skin glistens with sweat as you leap for a dunk, your brawn and agility making you nearly unstoppable. Off the court, you're charming and charismatic, always ready to charm your fans or give back to your community.

Last but certainly not least, meet your latino fuckboy self in a reality where you're part of an irresistible majority. Here, everyone's got that extra je ne sais quoi - those piercing eyes, that chiseled jawline, that uncanny ability to make anyone fall head over heels in love with just a wink and a smile.

In this realm, you're a tatted-up playboy, always high on life and weed as you navigate the vibrant streets of your city. Your inked skin tells stories of your adventures and conquests, while your confident swagger and sly grins leave women and men weak in the knees.

You're the ultimate player, always on the lookout for the next conquest... but deep down, you crave something real, someone who can handle your wild side without getting too clingy.

So there you have it! As we gaze into these alternate realities, we're reminded that our perception of ourselves is fluid and malleable. These versions of you challenge traditional notions of identity, proving that with a shift in perspective, even the most familiar aspects of ourselves can be reimagined in provocative new ways. So the next time you catch your reflection, consider the infinite possibilities lurking just beyond the mirror...

[jisokai]

If you cross the river (will the fighting end?)

Contrary to what granny once said, Kita thinks he won't ever truly know who you are. You are the one who waits by the river, watching as he scrubs dirt from fresh carrots and dirty shovels. You are the one whose presence lingers like mist over his skin when you part. You are the one whose eyes he always feels, at every moment—the eyes granny reminds him of when they wipe the floor or prepare a meal together.

You are the one who knows that it does not matter, that he would still perform his rituals and hold unwavering conviction even if you were not there. Because he is Kita; he is Shin-chan—repetition, perseverance, and diligence is how he lives...because it simply feels good.

You are the same, committed to your duty to watch him from the moment you were pulled from the glory of a summit. And he is committed to being watched by you.

shinsuke kita x GN reader character study for shin, reader is a river/rain spirit, themes of disaster, mentions of dying/minor character death, fluff and angst, slow burn (i think), slight spoilers for haikyuu!! timeskip 20.3k words | oneshot, complete

notes: This fic is set around the premise that Kita's gran lives in the mountains of eastern Hyogo, just above Osaka. I have his parents living in the city while Kita is cared for by granny until it's time for him to start school, around 6 years old. He goes to Osaka during the school year and no longer spends time in the mtns. Since canon doesn't offer a whole lot of information, I took liberties with the setting and backstory to fit the plot of my fic. I hope this can help negate any potential confusion! + (It's another fic spanning childhood to adulthood. With a magical reader. I am unfortunately not able to escape my own tropes.) + shoutout to this fic for inspiration

ao3 option

One moment you are a carefree being, gleefully running along a series of falls wedged along the mountain summit. The sun is setting and you are soaking in the glory of the day: with swaying leaves and shimmering droplets, and the last bit of light streaming through pockets of trees.

The next you are falling, rolling, bumping your way through the water. A current sweeps you away without warning, your vision goes dark, and you have left your place above the sun to land in the depths of a looming valley. You have to carry onwards, knowing there is no going back, so you search for the one who brought you here.

There is a dim light beyond the bank. It seeps from the open screen of a traditional-style house, illuminating the wooden beams and eaves from behind. It's a bedroom, with a small boy dutifully putting his futon down for the night, smoothing out the bumps and lining the base to be in its exact spot. He has salt and pepper hair and you think he is the youngest old person you will ever see. He never looks your way, but you sense that he knows you are watching.

So you watch, now that you're here.

"Granny, who's that?"

He is a toddler, carried along the path next to the river by his grandmother, a thin arm clutching him tightly against her hip. Her eyes slowly move from his face to his finger pointing towards the water. She can't see what he sees: another child, waist deep in the gentle rapids, mysteriously faded—like a mist lingering instead of wafting to the sky. She smiles gently when she understands, bringing a hand to pat his hair softly.

"You'll learn when the time is right, Shin-chan."

She knows how this story will go.

Someone is always watching, Shin-chan.

Kita's life is built upon the small things he does everyday, and the end results are no more than a byproduct of that.

Someone is watching over you.

Rain streams down the mountain gullies and pools in the river at the center of the valley.

The sun rises. Over and over and over again.

Childhood

The morning light streams through open screens, crawling up the veranda and into the adjacent interior. It’s the beginning of June—cleaning day, the tatami mats moved aside for inspection and rotation while Kita and granny scrub the wooden floors together. Foam bubbles from the rag when he wrings it out, excess water trickling into the bucket. He wipes it across the floor of their living room, watching carefully as the wood darkens slightly, but not too much, leaving shiny streaks and stray bubbles behind. He smiles to himself gently.

A grin tugs at granny as she watches from the opposite side of the room. It was Shin-chan’s own decision to clean with her today. He gave her no reason as he simply said, “I’ll help,” when she grabbed her bucket and rags. He already started pulling the mats aside, then struggled to move the table in the center by himself. Granny chuckles to herself at the recollection before returning her attention to the floor, her section a little lighter than Kita's.

He looks to her side and the faintest crease appears between his brows, a slight purse of his lips. When he wrings out his towel again, he pulls the ends a little tighter before bringing it back to the floor with a new gentleness. The result brings the twitch of a smile to his mouth. It makes him feel good.

From outside, he hears the rustling of leaves, creaking as bamboo sways in a light breeze, and the scrapes of shrubs against the house. The morning is cool, bringing in air that will hopefully linger as the day drags on. The only chatter comes from the birds, quick raps of storks in the river and singing sparrows in the trees. Kita feels a warmth, one from inside, as he listens. Focuses.

He thinks it could be praise, from the spirits that are watching.

It’s still morning when they finish, the mats brushed and switched with the ones in the closet. After they return the table to the center of the room, granny quietly thanks Kita for his help. He only nods in return. Quiet Shin-chan. He thinks he’ll read until lunch, or maybe help some more if granny plans to work in the garden.

She interrupts his thoughts. “Let’s go for a walk, to Fujiwara-san’s.”

Kita's brow furrows ever so slightly, but he nods. Granny sometimes likes to visit the neighbors, though without any clear pattern or schedule. He thinks she might be doing it for him, so he can talk with other kids his age, especially with his sister always gone to a friend’s and his baby brother in the city. He would rather read, but agrees regardless since it’s granny asking.

They slip their feet into sandals and start down the path along the river, towards the right. Kita reaches for granny’s hand and she smiles down at the top of his hair. They walk slowly along pebbles and dirt, accompanied by the sound of water rushing next to them. Eventually they approach a bridge, granny having to grasp the railing as she walks up the steps. When she reaches the center of the river she pauses, a ritual, to watch the water run by.

“Fujiwara-san said he has exciting news,” granny offers in a delayed explanation. Kita doesn’t respond. 

Granny takes another minute to step down on the other end of the bridge and continue walking. They go left, towards the house that sits opposite of theirs. It takes slightly longer with the incline, but it’s quaint and Kita feels no hurry.

The house is open when they arrive, doors aside to let the last cool minutes waft through. There’s nobody home, however, and Kita looks up to granny curiously after they step onto the exterior veranda.

She only offers a smile as they wait a few moments. His attention is diverted when he hears the thumping of footsteps, small and quick, getting closer. They’re followed by Fujiwara’s muffled voice, worried. Kita's hand tightens in granny’s as he watches closely.

Out runs a child, his age, tracking dark footprints along the tatami mats from the back entrance. Not just with dirt, but smudges of mud, smearing on the woven grass. His chest tightens at the sight and he has the urge to scold, to clean the mess, but then he feels eyes on him and—

That watchful gaze he remembers clearly, despite only seeing it once, years ago. A gaze he still feels everyday, most intently at night. You are grown, but only as much as he is. And you’re…real. With a weight and embodiment, a person instead of a misty image on the river’s surface. You’re also brighter, both in appearance and spirit, as you put a small handful of grapes (fat and crisp and green) into your mouth (skin and seeds included) and chew quickly before swallowing and smiling widely at him. 

Again, Kita wants to protest the sight, tell you the skin is dirty and you can’t eat seeds, but the words are trapped. Something is tugging at his chest—something other than his apprehension, something that makes him want to physically step forward.

But then Fujiwara-san is rushing in, though not very quickly. He’s another old-timer in the village, with crinkly eyes and little hair remaining on his head, paired with a thin physique and hunch in his back. In one hand he carries a woven basket, filled with more bunches of grapes, shiny and wet. In the other is a wooden cane, pale with a reddish tint—Kita thinks maple. The old man never needed one before, and Kita wonders what’s changed.

He looks back to you, the one change he’s aware of.

“Shinsuke-kun,” his thoughts are interrupted by the call of his name. He hasn’t been listening, he realizes, and he turns his attention to the grandpa. “This is one of my grandchildren. My daughter has been busier with work lately.”

Kita, for a third time, wants to protest. He’s met all of Fujiwara-san’s grandchildren before, and if he hadn’t, granny would have certainly told him about another five year old. He doesn’t know how to respond, can’t, and so he watches blankly. You are smiling at him the entire time, with a joy he doesn’t understand—at least, not entirely.

(There is a tightness in his chest at the sight of you, like it wants to expand beyond its capability. He’s not sure what that means.)

“Have some grapes!” you exclaim in a soft voice, thrusting the bunch towards him. Two fall from the force of your sharp movements, and he watches as they roll on the ground, leaving another stain. He doesn’t accept them, just continues to stare at the mess.

Granny fights a smile as she encourages him. “Let’s try some Shin-chan.”

He wants to say that he’s already had them before. He knows they will be delicious and crunchy and refreshing, especially now that the heat is rising with the sun. He knows that Fujiwara’s grapes are the best, and now two have been wasted and splattered on the tatami. Instead of reprimanding you, he reaches his arm out to take the bundle. Since granny asked.

His eyes widen when you then crouch to pick up the fallen fruit from the floor and eat them (skin and seeds included) without so much as wiping them off.

Who are you?

The faintest tug on his hand makes him turn to granny, who’s pulling one off the bundle he’s holding to give it a taste. “They’re delicious as always,” she says. “I’m surprised it’s such an early harvest.”

Fujiwara smiles, eyes crinkling further. “Snow came early this winter,” he reminds her.

She hums thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. The weather has been quite unusual this year.”

Unusual, Kita wonders to himself. Because of you.

You smile at him again and that inexplicable tightness arises in his chest once more. He frowns, the first genuine frown of displeasure today. His mind tells him to ask granny if he can go home, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t understand how that could be possible, to want and not want something at the same time. His frown deepens.

Kita thinks his time at Fujiwara-san’s is excruciating. Kita is also hesitant to leave when granny says it’s time to go. He misses a knowing smile that rests on her face as she tugs him gently, watching as he glances back during their walk home.

You are nosy. Kita was already aware, given he could feel you watching him at every moment, even when he can’t see you. But you are nosy when you are physically near him. And you are around him often now, nearly every day for the past week. Whether you simply show up at random or granny is pulling him along to Fujiwara’s, Kita learns that being around you is inescapable, inevitable. 

At the very least you aren’t noisy, just curious. At granny’s you quietly hover whenever Kita switches tasks or activities, a ghost floating over his shoulder. Once you’ve fulfilled whatever interest you have, you keep to yourself in your own part of the room. You’re helpful in the garden, for some reason, but you make him grimace when you pull a carrot directly from the ground and take a bite, dirt and all. You don’t help him wash the harvest, just crouch next to him by the river water and watch his hands diligently scrub.

You are, however, incredibly messy. It’s as if you don’t even register what a mess is, mud and leaves and water following you everywhere. Always. Trekking through the door with bare feet, smudges of grime trailing behind, sometimes with dripping hair—undried hair—that leaves dark circles and puddles on the mats and wood.

Every time it happens his chest flares with irritation, that urge to scold you. But granny is near, so he says nothing and instead looks at her intently. Granny only ever smiles back, sometimes handing him a towel and reminding him that he can help, if he wants. He doesn’t want to. He’s not sure why the adults haven’t explained it to you, surely Fujiwara-san can’t keep up with the cleaning he must have to do to house you. If Kita and granny always have to scrub your mess after you visit, Fujiwara must be mopping every hour. Sometimes they clean when you’re here, while you just sit and watch, only to dirty the floor again the following day.

After a week of this passes and you show up again, uninvited and with your bare feet leaving mud on the veranda, he caves.

“Don’ come around here if yer jus’ gonna make a mess,” he says firmly—but also quietly, wary of granny’s proximity. Why do you always enter through the veranda anyways—not the genkan, where the mess would be easier to contain?

You don’t appear deterred, smiling as you hold up a basket. “I brought you grapes, Shin-chan.”

He blinks. “That’s kind,” he admits, “but I don’ want ‘em.”

“Well I do,” Granny’s sweet voice says from behind him. Kita tenses when he hears it, turns to look at her guiltily. Her calm, smiling face makes him uneasy.

He starts to protest, those disagreements he felt a week ago, since the moment she wanted to go to Fujiwara’s, bubble up together. “But gran—”

“Shin-chan,” she cuts him off. Her voice is gentle and soft, but holds a different kind of firmness that Kita can’t deliver. One that makes him listen, because he has to.

“It’s okay,” you say, interrupting the conversation that would have followed. You’re still smiling, unfazed. It flames Kita's annoyance, while calming his nerves. Again, he doesn’t understand these feelings. “I’ll go home if Shin-chan wants me to.”

The boy’s eyes widen at that, heart plummeting as if he’s done something wrong. Why do I care? he immediately wonders. Maybe because granny is watching over his shoulder, or because Fujiwara-san seemed so happy to have his not-actually-grandkid (Kita is still certain) around his house. He doesn’t know what home you’re referring to, Fujiwara’s or the city or…somewhere else. Regardless, it would be easier if you went back and let them rest, granny especially, since she must be tired from the extra chores. He still hasn’t answered, caught between wanting to agree, waiting to disagree. He’s not sure which part of him wants what.

Instead of caving to his irritation for a second time today, he sighs and says, “It’s fine…jus’ wash yer feet.” He realizes he’s resolved to clean up after you so granny doesn’t have to. What is he doing?

“Okay,” you say easily, smiling. That relief fills him once again, and he can only stare at you, as if explanations for that feeling in his chest will surface if he looks hard enough. They don’t.

“Here are the grapes,” you assert, raising them in front of you. He hesitates, staring at them in accusation after he finally grasps the handle of the basket. Then you say: “Okay, bye now!” and run off the veranda, your bare feet landing in the dirt and carrying you along the trail and across the bridge.

Kita watches you with a pained face, and he realizes his free hand lifted slightly, as if reaching for you. He scowls and forces it down. Then he turns to granny. She’s smiling at him, he can sense it’s with amusement. He wants to ask why you left, if you really are going home, wherever that is. But he can’t, not when granny is giving him such a look.

“Stop cleanin’ up after others,” he tells her instead. Granny blinks, wondering why she’s being scolded now, too. “I’ll do it. Jus’…jus’ rest.”

She smiles warmly. “You’re a good kid, Shin-chan.”

Kita doesn’t think so. Not right now, with the way you ran away.

“Some people need time to learn the ways we live,” she continues vaguely. “Not everyone comes from the same place.”

He wonders why someone from the city would run around without shoes, through mud.

That inexplicable relief returns when you stand in the outdoor veranda the next day. He still doesn’t understand why he would want to see you, maybe for the confirmation that his words did not actually send you away—that granny and Fujiwara-san can continue to enjoy your presence. Regardless, he stares pointedly at your feet, the dirt clinging to them.

“Sorry,” you say, with the tact to at least look sheepish this time. “I washed them at Jii-chan’s, but they got dirty again.”

Kita is too stunned to react. Do people from the city not understand how shoes work? Or water? Dirt? He sighs, attempting to find his patience, as he tells you to stay put while he leaves. He grabs two pairs of sandals from the genkan and re-enters the veranda. He slips on one pair, then ushers you to follow him down the steps to the spigot.

“Rinse your feet,” he instructs. You do, poorly, but he supposes he can only ask for so much. He puts the second pair of sandals on the ground and tells you to step your feet in after you rinse. It’s an arduous process, but finally you are mostly clean and in the sandals. He then walks you to the entrance of the genkan and tells you, “Enter here. Wear those shoes when ya visit and put ‘em—” he points to a cubby, “there when ya come in.”

You are smiling, always smiling, when you reply. “Thanks Shin-chan!” Then you kick off your sandals and toss them into the cubby. Kita's chest flares again with displeasure at your haphazard treatment of his things. Suddenly you grab his hand and pull him inside, and all he can think is that your skin is cold. He can’t find it in himself to comment, heart racing as he stumbles and tries to slip off his slides before you tug him to the main room. He watches as your undried feet leave dark prints in the tatami in front of him—he thinks of the mold that has probably started growing under them since your first visit.

He passes granny as you pull him through the rooms. He gives her a wide-eyed look, one that tries to ask for help. She only smiles.

Kita feels a little bad for his outburst, once a few days pass and he understands that you aren’t intentionally helpless. You enter through the genkan, with relatively clean feet. You’re careful when you eat after he points out that you tend to make a mess. You help clean, when he asks you to. You still leave crumbs around and wet patches, you scrub too hard sometimes and other times not enough, but you try. And Kita finds that he doesn’t mind so much anymore.

You just don’t know things.

The more he ruminates on your…unfamiliarity with the world, the less sense your story makes—the city story that Fujiwara-san told him and granny. It’s obviously not true, but it also has to be, if everyone believes it. Someone from the city wouldn’t look so surprised that their feet collect dirt. He recalls that evening a few years ago when he was only two, when he could see you in the river. He thinks about the never-ending feeling of being watched. You’re from here, from him.

It becomes apparent why you’re here, why you hang around him at home and linger in his presence. One night he wakes up hours before sunrise. He struggles to re-enter his slumber and curiously opens the screen facing the river, to gauge the time. The mountains loom behind the image of a small figure on Fujiwara’s veranda. You, offering a little wave.

He doesn’t react, just watches as you swing your feet. The moon sits high between you, illuminating the river below, the mist that lingers on its surface. He wonders if you’ve always been there, why he never saw you until a couple weeks ago.

The spirits are all around us, in every living thing. Granny’s voice calls from his memory.

As he watches you, the river, he wonders what defines a “living thing”— if it’s breath or blood or growth. Something else entirely. He thinks the river breathes; it absorbs the air when it bubbles over rocks. Its blood is the water itself. It grows in its own way, banks expanding and collapsing, body winding and pooling, collecting life, collecting stories and history. He’s curious about your story, why it’s part of his.

He closes the screen and goes back to bed.

Shinsuke is not the kind of person to ask unnecessary questions. Even as a child, he keeps those curiosities within, assuming they’ll be answered eventually. Like granny said, You’ll learn when the time is right.

So he doesn’t ask, instead infers. Analyzes and assumes. You aren’t the same. Throughout the summer, as you spend time together, you are always asking. Asking and smiling. Sometimes they’re necessary questions: how to properly wash a dish, or where to set a gift of vegetables. Most of the time they’re unnecessary, asking how Kita is feeling, what he thinks of the weather. Sometimes they’re downright invasive.

“Where are your parents?” you ask him one hot July day, laying in the main room. Kita is fanning himself and wondering why you aren’t sweating.

“Osaka,” he says curtly. He hasn’t seen them in a while, hasn’t thought about them either.

“Do you miss them?” You ask, nosiness unsatisfied.

He shakes his head, no unnecessary response. He likes it with granny, always misses her the few times he’s gone to the city.

You hum, like you heard his unspoken answer. He thinks that’ll be the end of it. It isn’t.

“Your hair must be a mix of theirs,” you say plainly. “Whose is grey?”

He shakes his head, “Neither.” They both have black hair, the same with his sister who’s never home and his baby brother in the city with a nanny.

You’re surprised. “Oh. Do you know whose it is?”

He shrugs, uncaring.

But you smile for some reason, with genuinely joyful eyes. “Maybe it’s your gran’s,” you say happily. It makes him blink in surprise, mystified. He inhales, chest lighter. “It’s cool how that sort of stuff happens.”

He can’t look away from you, your smile that pierces right through him.

That night after his bath, he looks at himself in the mirror, intense, searching in a way he’s never done before. He sees the traces of his mom in his eyes and his lips, his dad in his nose. Both of them at the tips of his hair, that lower section by his neck. He continues to stare, looking for granny. He sees the way she influenced the nose he got from dad. He sees the way she claimed his hair, cradling his head and framing his eyes and cheeks. He wonders what it means, to be chosen by the traits from a generation before.

When granny says goodnight, Kita puts his arms up for a hug. She’s warm, always is. His head nestles into her neck, his threads of grey and black hair tangling with her sea of silver. He doesn’t know what it means; he is a five year old without the vocabulary to articulate the tightness in his chest, something akin to longing and fear. He is a five year old incapable of grasping what it means to be alive.

Only a couple days later, Kita catches a new perspective of you. 

You are barefoot in the genkan and Kita is ready to scold you, this one he knows is deserved after all he’s taught you. Before he can, you speak.

“Come with me today.”

Your hand is outstretched and inviting, but Kita is apprehensive, not sure what you mean. Before he can ask, granny speaks from behind him. “Go on, Shin-chan.”

He frowns and looks at her. Neither of them know what you’re talking about, where you even want to go. But granny looks calm and assured, without a worry in the world.

You don’t wait for an answer, grasping his hand when he’s still turned away and giving it a tug. He feels that same chilliness on your skin, one that makes him think you might be sick. He manages to protest long enough to step into his slides before you pull him out the door. 

It’s a beautiful day. The sun still hangs to the side, the heat of July not yet settled in the valley. The sky is a bright blue, populated with innocent fluffy clouds, white and rolling in the breeze. A group of sparrows sing in a shrub you two pass, and a toad leaps off the path to get out of your way. Kita inhales deeply, the air humid but clean.

“Where’r we goin’?” he manages to ask, quickening his pace to match yours. Your hand has loosened its grip, but he doesn’t let go.

“The forest!” you cheer easily.

His eyes widen. The forest? He’s been to the forest before, to pick bamboo shoots and tea leaves with granny, but he’s not supposed to go without an adult. Does granny know? Why would she let them go by themselves? These are necessary questions, he thinks, and yet he swallows them down and lets you take him without protest.

You are fast despite being barefoot, rocks and sticks seemingly unnoticed as you dart along the path. Kita follows along diligently, stumbling only a few times. He wishes he wore his athletic shoes instead of the sandals. He glances back to the house, studies the way it shrinks from the distance. The two of you are still on the southern side of the river, not yet crossed to the northern mountains, where granny takes him.

Kita decides that he likes running like this, despite the heat and his shoes. It’s a gentle jog, with a destination in mind, his hand in yours as you lead the way.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, just follows you up and along the path until the two of you reach its end. It’s the first time Kita has seen it, the way it stops before a rock face that climbs up a mountain west from his house. He looks down the path, into the valley from the incline.

He looks back at you, waiting for an explanation for what to do next. You don’t offer one, walking to the bank of the river. To get in the river, he realizes, and for the first time since leaving granny’s he tries to pull away.

You turn back to him, smiling softly. “Trust me, Shin-chan,” you say.

He’s not sure why he should, why he did, to let you take him all the way out here in the first place. Because of granny’s encouragement, he thinks. Go on, she said. Did that mean all the way? To the ends of wherever you wanted him?

You have turned and continued down the bank. Kita does not try to escape your grasp, letting you pull him along.

The water of the river rushes over his feet, cool and surprising. It runs up his ankles, his shins, his knees, and finally his thighs. You are leading him forwards, upstream and past the rock face that marks the end of the trail. His toes bump rocks covered in algae, slipping and wavering as he wades slowly. You, however, are sturdy, never faltering with your sure steps.

You approach a pile of rocks, scrambling over them to bring yourself back onto land. You help hoist Kita after you. He pauses when he steps onto the forest floor, the softness catching him off guard. He looks down to see reddish-brown piles of pine needles coating the ground, dotted with lush bundles of ferns and patches of vibrant moss. The land rolls gently, small and soft hills of fallen pine covering rocks and dirt and life. A mist lingers from the proximity of the water, the sun pulling the moisture into the air. The scenery is dark, quiet from the hazy canopy above. Kita inhales deeply in attempt to regulate his exhausted panting, the essence of wood and mint taking over him. He is in awe, not used to being swaddled in pine. The forests here are mostly a mix of leafy trees, oaks and maples and chestnuts, with pockets of bamboo. Not secret havens of sweetness and tang.

You tug him along, bouncing through the fluff of the soft ground. He follows, eyes wide and soaking in the scenery, wanting to memorize every moment. You show him your enchanted forest, its mysterious darkness splattered with occasional sun that manages to seep through. He spots a white hare leaping away, watches birds flutter from the trees. At one point you guide him to cross the river on a fallen tree, green with moss and bundles of young sedge. Behind your skipping form he walks carefully, arms outstretched for balance.

His heart freezes when he steps down onto the other side, catching sight of a grey wolf waiting its turn. He clutches your hand as the creature steps forwards, two smaller ones following. They look at him blankly before leaping onto the natural bridge, continuing their own journey without looking back.

When he turns to you, you are smiling, and tug him forwards once more. The sun starts to stream in, brightening as pines transition to those oak and maple and chestnut trees. The ground is no longer soft, but firm dirt and clumps of rocks, leading to one larger slab of jagged earth that juts out from the mountain entirely.

You step out into the sun and he follows, taking in the view in front of him.

He is not at the peak of the mountain, maybe halfway there, but the outlook forces him to understand the vastness of the valley. He can see the large span of the mountains as they roll and crawl in the distance, his house a small square along others. The river is more apparent, winding intensely down the mountain and softening into a gentle curve next to the village. He can see crop fields and the road that has taken him to Osaka before.

You speak, the first time since bringing him into the water, “Some people climb mountains to look from above. I like when I still feel inside of it, can still see what’s happening.”

Kita thinks he understands, remembers the way the mountains from his house are like a promising wall, a guardian. How the depth of the valley cradles him. He thinks of the hare and the birds, the wolves, the journey here striking wonder and awe into his heart. He recalls that feeling of being watched, your gaze always near.

The sun approaches its peak in the sky, nearly noon. It illuminates the valley, brings light into the forest behind them. Kita watches it light up your face, already bright from your joyful expressions.

“Happy birthday, Shin-chan,” you tell him, taking him by surprise. He forgot, in the excitement of the past hours with you. Granny gave him some books this morning as a gift. You’re giving him the forest. His smile is small and reserved, but it’s the first time he offers one back to you.

He thinks he understands now: what you meant when you said home.

The sight of your back with a hand pulling him along defines the next year. After you show Kita the forest, he trusts you wholly, no doubt that you will look after him. He is happily tugged again and again into that realm of magic. He encounters more animals—badgers and pigs, bears and herons. In the winter he sees foxes and macaques. The river freezes and snow becomes the new carpet of the forest. You don’t shiver either, he learns.

You take him to the summit once, so he can see the view. The pine transitions to a highland, bald of trees and instead coated in grass and shrubs. It’s beautiful, a clear day when the entirety of the valley is visible and he can spot granny’s home, how it sits across from Fujiwara-san’s. When he looks up, there is only the blue of the sky, not a single speck of cloud coverage. They stay until dark and watch the Milky Way span across the blackness of night, its subtle hues of pinks and blues, the way meteors shower down in flashes.

He watches life rise from the ground when the weather warms once again, as seedlings sprout and newborn animals wander through the land. Flowers bloom, coating pockets of earth in the full spectrum of light. He is witness to deer learning to walk, stumbling awkwardly over roots and rocks. He sees the other clumsy ways animals go about the world, how a sparrow drops its worm, how a duck trips and rolls into the river behind its mother. He collects these moments in his memory, happy to observe, solely to understand.

And you observe him, because Kita knows that is what you are meant to do. He still doesn’t know who you are, or why him, but he feels your eyes constantly. He doesn’t admit it, but they are comforting.

On the days you two are not parading in the mountain, you are still usually in each other’s presence. Kita no longer reads while you look over his shoulder or sit on the other side of the room. He reads to you, the books granny rents him from the library. You like to lay on the veranda while he sits and swings his feet, paying close attention to pronouncing the words. He still cleans up after you, since you never fully get the hang of doing things yourself. It’s only crumbs and small puddles, untidy blankets or cushions, an untucked chair at the table after dinner. He finds himself volunteering to take granny’s extra harvest of leeks to Fujiwara-san’s, under the pretense that he wants her to rest.

He walks there briskly, and stays for an additional hour. You have a lot to say, your nosiness still strong even after nearly a year.

“Jii-chan told me you’re starting school soon,” you say, eating one of the leeks. He watches you chew the entirety of it, uncooked. Some water squeezes out and dribbles onto the floor.

“In April,” he replies. April is two weeks away. It’s when he’ll go to Osaka. He’s supposed to stay there for the week leading up to school to prepare. He gets the sense that you’re leaving too.

You don’t look sad, and his shoulders feel tense when he notices. He’s not sure why.

Kita doesn’t ever ask unnecessary questions, but right now he is compelled to ask you many things. Sometimes it seems like you understand what he’s thinking, but you never respond unless he says it outright. As a result, he never gets to know.

He surprises both himself and you when he asks, “Are ya goin’ to school, too?” He already knows you aren’t.

You shake your head. He wants to ask why, wants to ask if you’re going somewhere else. He wants to know if you’ll be here when he comes back during break. He wants to figure out why you came in the first place.

Another question: “Are ya goin’ home?”

You nod your head this time. He watches you, thinking you’ll return to the pine forest. You shake your head when he thinks it, and give him the reprieve of elaborating. “The river.”

He frowns, confused. The river? You were always in the forest, guiding him along its greenery. He thinks about how he has to wade upstream to enter the forest in the west. He recalls the memory from years ago, a child in the water watching him. 

“I came from the forest,” you try to explain, “but the water’s my home now.”

Kita is reminded that he was born in Osaka, but would always rather be at granny’s house in the northern mountains.

It’s hard for him to leave granny’s, more than any time before. When the driver comes to get him and he squeezes in the back with granny, he looks out the window towards Fujiwara’s house. You sit on the veranda, waving while your legs swing. This time the sun is high in the sky and the river releases a blinding reflection. When the car drives away and he can no longer see you, his chest hurts.

Osaka does not make it easier. His mother coos at how big he’s grown while his father watches disinterested. Kita is shown his baby brother, now a toddler awkwardly walking around and speaking. Kita doesn’t know how to talk to him, but he tries. He says hello to his sister—who he hasn’t seen since she decided to stay in the city—when she finally makes an appearance at dinner. Granny stays for the meal and the night, and then leaves in the morning.

That night, the second one in Osaka, he cries while laying in bed. He isn’t sure why, the feelings simply overwhelming and in need of release. The squishy mattress in a raised bed frame doesn’t comfort him. He thinks about you, about granny. The mountains and the forest. The river. When he looks outside his window—a square of glass punched through plaster walls—he only sees pavement and blocks of concrete. Other homes, maybe with other children crying for reasons they can’t explain. There is no mountain in the distance or river running along the ground. The sky is hazy, no stars in sight. The only twinkling comes from his own eyes, his teary squinting blurring streetlights and windows with every blink. Each time his eyes close, for a moment he thinks he can see you.

If Shinsuke is one thing, he is malleable. He can fit himself into environments, his adherence to routine giving him a means of finding comfort no matter where he is placed. Responsibility grounds him, distracts him. He can redirect his energy to doing well in school, looking after his brother. These things feel good to him, to simply do them well.

Even though you are not with him, he can feel your eyes at all times. He is reminded of being at granny’s, her washing the floor as she tells him that the spirits are everywhere, always watching. He finds himself cleaning up after his brother, thinking of you. He wonders what you think, if you’re reminded of the same.

School is as alien as Osaka, with its concrete exterior and plastered walls. They are painted white and lined with large sheets of glass. They slide open, but only for students to shout at their friends outside, not to let the morning air in. 

In class, he sits quietly at his desk and listens to the teacher. He doesn't talk with other students or pass notes under the desk. He doesn’t even wonder about you, the feeling of your eyes always on him. He watches the teacher closely, diligently records the lessons. He watches other students, gathering first impressions and additional observations. He notices the way some of them doze off or scribble in their books. He sees the meaningful glances some make to each other, usually girls as they eye each other and specific boys in the class.

When he studies for his first exam, he thinks that he can feel you in the room with him. First looking over his shoulder—a cool breeze wafting from behind him, and then laying on his bed—the sheets oddly chilly when he goes to sleep. He remembers how you sat by him while he read aloud just a few weeks ago. He murmurs to himself as he reviews information, wondering if you can hear him.

Kita scores at the top of his class. He doesn’t feel anything when teachers congratulate him and other students whine. There is no pride in his chest or sense of satisfaction at the results. He thinks back to his nights studying, your presence lingering over him. It just feels good, he thinks, to do things well. The process of trying and dedicating himself to something.

He makes a routine out of it, delegating time after school to review material. It falls easily into his schedule, after dinner and before he readies for bed. He still has time to play with his brother, usually reading or offering him toys. His sister is always gone, either busy with club activities or friends. His parents get home late too, but they usually manage to have a full family dinner.

They’re eating quietly, having debriefed their days as they reach the end of their meal. Kita glances at his family, realizing that they’re different from the people at school. He’s known them for his whole life, people without first impressions and instead ingrained understandings. He looks at them intently, notices the way they eat, listens to the way they speak. He knows them intuitively, no running list in his mind to keep track of information. He is reminded of the time you asked about his hair, and he stares at his mom, then his dad. His mom’s hair is long and brown, artificially lightened from its original dark color. His dad’s is black with a sprinkling of silver from age. Kita wonders if his will do the opposite when he grows old.

There’s another exam the following week, this one for his science class. Kita is the first one in the classroom, watching students filter in. The boy who sits next to him—Daiki, tall and skinny—plops down with a sigh just a few minutes before the teacher is supposed to arrive.

“Gahh, I’m so nervous,” he says to Kita, laying his head on the desk. When Kita doesn’t respond, he asks, “Are you?”

Kita shakes his head at that, not sure why he would be. He studied. 

When the results come back after a few days Daiki whines that Kita is a goody-goody, trying his hardest to get the teacher’s attention. Kita looks at his full marks and once again feels nothing. He thinks it is the natural result of his efforts. He wonders what you would say, if he could talk to you. He thinks you would ask nosey questions about his siblings. It makes his chest feel hollow.

Some kids try to be his friend, or at least try to talk to him. But he’s quiet, not very eloquent or forgiving with his words, and so they eventually leave him alone. He thinks about how you diligently stood by him, how you smiled when he scolded you.

When he gets home and returns to his room, it is exactly as he left it. There are no crumbs to sweep or puddles to wipe. His brother is out with the nanny, but he feels restless, the need to do something. He thinks he can get started on his homework early, pulling out his notebooks and folders. He can’t focus on the words, eyes skimming the pages without understanding. He knows that studying now is futile, and decides to continue later. He settles on bathing early instead.

His bath draws on, longer than usual. He finds himself pausing, getting lost in thought—though more lost in feeling, since his mind drifts blankly. He’s still restless by the time he finishes, but slightly relaxed. He stands to wrap himself with the towel and steps carefully onto the bath rug. Once he’s dried and his towel is secure around his waist, he leans over to pull the plug and let the water drain. Just as he grasps it, there’s a lurch of water that spills out and onto the floor. His eyes widen in disbelief and his chest flares with annoyance knowing he will have to clean the mess. He looks at the floor incredulously before turning back to the bath and—

His eyes widen further, mouth opening slightly at the sight of you—a misty figure over the water. You’re wearing a sheepish expression as you lean over the edge to assess the mess.

“Sorry,” you say quietly. Kita's disbelief increases at the sound of your voice. “I’m still getting the hang of it.”

Kita slams the plug back down and stands to face you clearly. He feels the water pooled at his feet, but all irritation has fled his body. Instead he is filled with a warmth, a contrast to the coolness wafting from you.

“You made a mess,” he tells you, unnecessarily. You know that already.

“Yeah,” you say. You apologize again.

“Don’ do it again,” he tries to scold. His body wants to step forward, to reach you. He’s not sure why, and he frowns with skepticism.

You nod, then lift your leg experimentally. When it’s pulled above the water, there are no droplets falling. Instead, you appear airy, like the water sits around your body. You step out and onto the bathroom floor, successfully avoiding increasing the mess. You smile brightly at your success. Kita continues to watch, wondering if you’ll disappear, evaporate at any moment. You look at the water on the floor and then meet his eyes, smile turning sheepish again.

“I should mop,” you tell him, breaking him from his quiet spell.

“I’ll do it,” he says immediately. “Jus’...jus’ don’ go anywhere.”

You nod.

Mopping helps him calm down, perhaps needing a task to manage his agitation. You watch, and then follow him to his room once he’s finished. He dresses while you distractedly rummage through his things, then walks over to you at his desk. He feels a wetness under his foot and looks down, seeing footprints scattered along the floor. They’re light and clearly yours, and he ignores them, continuing over to you.

“You can go back to studying,” you tell him.

He can’t bring himself to look away. He’s not sure why, chest tight with anticipation.

There’s a knock at the door, mom’s sign that dinner is ready. The noise startles you and there is a poof, the sound of you evaporating into mist, wafting up to the ceiling. Gone. The only traces of you are those faint, damp footprints and few misplaced items on his desk.

For the first time in a long time, Kita feels a sinking disappointment.

Adolescence

Contrary to what he expected, Kita doesn’t leave Osaka during break. His parents think it would be good for him to have a consistent lifestyle. Kita doesn’t protest, but he can feel a heaviness in his stomach. He asks about granny, if he’ll see her soon. They tell him she will visit some time, and she does, though rarely. He thinks about the forest and the mountains, when he’ll see them again.

On the first day of fourth grade, Kita wakes up on time. He uses the toilet, washes his face, brushes his teeth, and changes his clothes at his usual pace. As he splashes cool water along his forehead and cheeks, he is reminded of your touch and wonders if he will see you this morning. He often finds himself waiting, without realizing until a significant amount of time has already passed. You are irregular and unpredictable. It puts him on edge, that you might disrupt his perfectly crafted routine.

He is the first to sit down for breakfast and the first one to finish, everyone else but his mother just having started. He stands to put his dishes away and gather his school things when she rushes into the room. She’s fumbling with her shoe, trying to get it in place while collecting her things to fill her purse. Her face brightens when she sees him and asks about his first day, if he’s excited or nervous.

Kita shakes his head, neither. He’s been going to school nearly everyday for years now, what reason would he have to be nervous? What’s to be excited for?

He turns to leave, but she calls for him. She asks if he’s planning to join a club.

He shakes his head again, not sure why he should.

But his mother protests, “I think it’d be good for you to do a sport. You don’t exercise much, with all the studying.”

His father hums in agreement from the table and his sister stands to excuse herself. His brother knocks his bowl over, spoon clattering to the ground. Without hesitation, Kita walks over to return it.

“Just try one, okay?” his mom asks. Kita nods in response before finally leaving. 

In his room, he gathers his books and school supplies into his backpack, double checking that everything is there. He slips it over his shoulders and then turns to the window. It’s translucent with a sheen of moisture from inside. He wipes it away and glances at the sky. It’ll probably rain, he gauges. As he steps away from the window to leave, he catches a glimpse of you in the reflection.

His first day of school is like any other, spent seated at his desk near the center of the room, watching the teacher, observing his classmates. He diligently helps clean at the end of the day: sweeping duty, not missing a single spot. Once finished, he changes his shoes and makes for the exit. Some students say goodbye, and he nods in return. He can hear the soft pattering of rain as he approaches the door, and pops open his umbrella before stepping outside.

The walk home is quiet, with occasional groups of students chattering by. Kita walks at his typical pace, unrushed. He hears his shoes tap against the pavement with each step, the plopping of raindrops above his head. The occasional car rushes by, veering aside to avoid splashing him. He runs through a mental list of what he needs to do for school, but it’s short given it being the first day.

When he’s only a few minutes from home, he hears splashing behind him, as if someone is running through a puddle. You, calling his name.

He doesn’t turn to look, but his steps slow while his heart speeds, giving you time to catch up. Within a few seconds you are by his side, your now-usual misty and translucent figure at his side. You smile when he glances at you, but he appears unfazed. You’re unbothered as you walk with him, light on your feet.

When he reaches the door of his home and unlocks it, you let yourself in first. He closes his umbrella and gives it a shake before setting it on the rack. While he removes his shoes in the genkan, he eyes the light trail of footprints you left on your way to his room. He leaves them, knowing they’ll evaporate before anyone else comes home. He stops by the kitchen, dumping a bag of carrots onto a small plate, and then he briskly enters his room and closes the door behind him.

He sees you laying on his bed and he feels an itch of annoyance, knowing the sheets will be damp. But he doesn’t say anything, instead setting the plate on his desk and sliding his bag onto the floor. You smile and ask how his day was.

This has become part of Kita's routine, your irregular visits. He walks through life with an anxious anticipation, waiting for you to come. He is relieved when you appear, but he is never entirely pleased. There’s a warmth in his chest regardless, one that reminds him of granny.

He wonders if maybe that’s why he accepts the interruption so easily, because it momentarily brings him home, his life in the mountains, granny’s voice telling him that someone is watching over him. He knows that someone is you. He wonders if granny knows about your visits, if you ever tell her about him.

His answers are short, per usual. But he talks about his classes, his classmates, how mom wants him to join a club. He knows that you know all this, but he says it anyways, gives into you.

“Do you know what club you’ll join?” you ask.

He shrugs. “A sport, since I should exercise.”

You nod at that, “It’s too bad the forest is so far away. Exploring is good exercise.”

Kita thinks about the forest often, seeping into his spare time when he’s not caught up in classes or the growing responsibilities of life. He’s heard from mom about wildfires in Hyogo, ones that spring at random in the dryness of summertime. Luckily nothing near home, but still within the province. He recounts those memories of rabbits and monkeys, remembers the flowers that are blooming right about now. He's curious if it’s raining, how visible the stars are tonight. These questions bring a pain to his chest, one he can’t explain, one that doesn’t make sense. Sometimes he calls granny and the pain goes away. Sometimes it gets worse.

When you’re in his room with him like this, he thinks it’s a different pain entirely.

Eventually your questions lull and Kita knows that this is his queue to start his schoolwork. He doesn’t have much to do, though. Instead he wants to ask a question of his own. You can tell, and you wait.

He doesn’t know how to phrase it, so he never asks. As a result, you never answer.

A week later the school allows them to pick clubs. Kita looks at the other hopeful kids as they play rock-paper-scissors for a spot for the popular sports: basketball, football, baseball. He eyes the groups that are smaller, have less interest. The running club looks crowded, so he makes his way over. He still has to do a round of rock-paper-scissors, and he’s one of the three who have to find another option. To his right is another small group, and he asks to join without knowing what they are. Volleyball, apparently. He’s not sure if he’ll be any good, but he figures it’s only for the year and he can try something different in fifth grade.

Volleyball, it turns out, is difficult. He learns how to receive a ball, but it flies in the opposite direction of where he wants it to go. He watches the other players, trying to understand how to improve himself.

Volleyball, it turns out, is technical and requires a lot of practice to sharpen his skills. He diligently attends practice, two days a week for fourth-graders. The coaches appreciate his efforts, how he runs his full laps and takes every suggestion seriously. Kita finds that he just enjoys the process of training, improving his abilities and caring for his body. His legs feel tired at the end of the day and it reminds him of running through the forest. It reminds him of his efforts, makes him feel good.

Volleyball, it turns out, is the perfect distraction. From you.

It becomes part of his routine, filling in the gaps of time that he normally finds himself waffling in, waiting for you. He learns to walk through everyday as if it’s the same, just himself, but allows it to shuffle when you make an appearance. 

Volleyball helps as he enters middle school and your visits lose frequency. Your lack of presence, however, makes the feeling of your gaze on him even stronger. He feels it every time he’s on the court—though he only ever plays games in practice. He in turn watches his teammates, their ticks and habits. He watches his opponents, offers notes to his team about patterns and flaws in their styles. He’s not a powerhouse like the standout players, doesn’t have any exceptional talent, and so despite his hard work and consistent practice, he doesn’t play a single game, doesn’t even receive a jersey.

You ask him about it one evening, on break before high school starts.

“Are you going to join the volleyball club?” you ask, to which he nods. It makes you hum as you sit on his bed. He can see the wall behind you, how it darkens slightly from the moisture of your form leaning against it. 

“I hope you get the chance to play more,” you tell him honestly. “I don’t know why they don’t let you.”

But it means nothing to him, that sort of attention and recognition. He just plays to play the game, do the drills, learn the mechanics—to take care of himself. You know this, but you like watching him, the way he watches the game, moves with it, into it.

He doesn’t say anything in response, knowing that you know what he thinks.

Instead of pushing further, you change the subject. “I’m not going to be able to visit very often,” you tell him. You sound regretful, and his chest is agitated. He thinks of the fires, happening at random across the country.

“I know,” he tells you. He could sense it, recognized the increasing infrequency of your presence. He wants to ask why, but he can’t get the words out, for whatever reason.

You look at him closely and say, “I’ll be around though.”

He nods at that. He knows.

Inarizaki is a prestigious school, known for academics and athletics alike. Kita makes it in easily with his grades, and joins the volleyball club despite knowing he will likely never play in a match. The coaches note that Kita is inexperienced in competition, but they know an asset when they see one. His skills are too sturdy, too well-practiced for Inarizaki to not take advantage of him.

During his first year, he hardly plays. Even so, he is the first at practice, one of the last ones to leave, and the most diligent athlete on the team. He runs the entire length of the track, finishes every rep during weight training, and completes every drill and penalty without complaint. The coaches find that he does not have star power—he is unassuming and ordinary—but he is exceptional in his efforts, and his efforts meet returns when it counts, when they need him on the court as his usual Kita-san.

Some of the older players tease him for his diligence, others admire him because of it. Everyone realizes that he pays no mind to what they think, only ever doing what he wants, what fits his values. He respects his elders even when he disagrees with them, but he is blunt with his fellow first years, unafraid to call out their behavior, especially if it contradicts something they’ve said before. Some say it’s rich coming from him, someone who only warms the bench.

Aran is the one who talks to him, one day in the locker room. A tense conversation between Michinari and Shinsuke unraveled earlier when Kita commented on how the libero attempted too many unpracticed receives in-game, that he should have stuck to underhand until he perfected his overhand off the court. Michi has a temper, and his frustration was pushed by the spiker’s comment. He shouted that Kita wouldn’t understand, that he hasn’t been put in a game, hasn’t had the opportunity to feel the pressures of expectation.

Aran lingered when the others filed out of the locker room—partially to make sure Kita was okay, and partially to suggest he cool it with the critique.

“Don’t take it to heart,” he offers. “Akagi-san gets bad nerves. He knows what he needs to do.”

“I don’t understand the point of being nervous,” Kita responds.

A machine, Aran thinks. This guy is a machine. He says as much, and thinks there’s truth to Michi’s comments, that Kita must not understand because he’s never played in a match that counted.

But Kita explains—that it doesn’t make sense if you’ve practiced the skills and know your capabilities. That it’s the same with eating, shitting even. He thinks Michi’s underhand receives are enough, that they have saved the ball from Inarizaki’s own powerhouses in practice. Why would he need to try anything else?

Aran’s eyes widen as Kita speaks, starting to understand his perspective. It becomes apparent that his criticism towards Michi was more of a poorly delivered compliment: that their first-year libero is enough as he is, that he could save them with the tools he knows—he doesn’t need miracles. This glimpse into Kita puts Aran’s teammate in a new light, recontextualizes his diligent attitude towards their training and the criticism he gives his peers. He trusts the process, knows that the results will follow suit.

Aran begins to notice how Kita fades to the back, his presence unassuming on its own. Kita does not play for recognition or adulation, he simply does what needs to be done. His diligence to get every ball in the air goes unnoticed when the flashy ace pulls an impressive cross against three blockers—a move that would not have been possible without Kita, committed behind him. But Kita doesn’t care, doesn’t ask for attention. 

Aran already held immense respect for his teammate, for his repetition, diligence, and perseverance. But now he feels a special type of awe when he watches him more closely.

Kita does not make a fuss of convincing others of his praiseworthy traits, but Aran takes it upon himself to point them out to his team, to give new context to Kita's seemingly harsh words. Slowly but surely, they will understand, too.

What Aran doesn’t know is that Kita feels like he has already been noticed and recognized, always has been and always will be, at every moment—by you.

(Your eyes continue to bore into him no matter where he is. They feel stronger the longer he goes without seeing you. Your visits are few and far between, but he has his routine, knows to follow it independently and let it shape around your irregularity.)

The following season, a handful of talented first years join, including a freakishly synchronized twin duo and a sly middle blocker. They fight with each other. Some of them cut corners. One particularly troublesome one likes to work himself through illness, inspiring misguided awe in other first years. Kita as a second year has no qualms scolding his teammates, now sometimes including his upperclassmen. The underclassmen pout and grumble while the elders know the intent resting behind his abrasion. 

You only visit him twice during the school year, both times at the hotel for nationals. The first is during the Interhigh National Tournament; he is sitting in the tub at the end of the day, running through his observations of other teams he saw, considering what would be useful to share with the others, to exploit. His head is resting on the ledge of the tub, staring at the blank ceiling as a canvas for him to visualize what he saw: bad crosses, a fragile ego, delayed timing for a back attack. He thinks about the team they’re playing tomorrow, the most imperative information to note. He thinks he should finish bathing so he can write it down.

When he straightens his head to look forward, he jolts in surprise, water splashing out and onto the bathroom floor.

You’re there, sitting on the other end of the bath in your misty form. Your eyes are wide, head turning to look at the puddles on the tile. Kita can’t even consider the mess, body tense at your proximity. He’s never been flustered around you before, never felt strange about his nakedness if you appeared after a bath. It’s been a long time since you’ve come from a bath. And this—this is a closeness and intimacy he has never imagined. You, sharing the water, right beside him. He is frozen when your eyes move back to his face.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper, and he recalls another variable to add to the situation: Aran, likely still in their shared room.

Kita shakes his head, not knowing what to say. “You—” he stutters, unlike him. “What’re ya doin’.” Ever since middle school you only appeared in the rain. He didn’t know bathtubs were even still a…vessel of transportation.

You smile. “Good luck tomorrow.”

Kita blinks, torn between the urge to scold you, the urge to reach for you, and the urge to make you leave before Aran learns of your presence. He finds it exhausting, the way you pit these conflicting pieces of him against each other.

Instead he tells you, “I probably won’ play.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re doing it right now.” The analysis of his opponents, you mean.

A sound at the door makes you jolt, the water softly rippling around you. It’s Aran, asking if things are okay. He doesn’t comment further, but he swears he hears the murmuring of voices.

Kita calls back that he’s fine, just about to get out and be done for the night. He gives you a look afterwards, a sign that you can’t stay. He wishes you could.

You surprise him by leaning forwards, reaching for him. He is suddenly swept into your chilly embrace, arms wrapping around his shoulders. His body is tense, on edge from the intimacy, but he only feels your body above the water, arms and chest and head as it settles into his neck. Despite your cold temperature, Kita's body heats at the contact.

“I’ll see you,” you say, and then you are mist, dispersing into the air.

When Kita exits the bathroom, Aran thinks for the first time that he looks amused—a mirth settled in his eyes and his lips slightly quirked.

A few months later during the Spring High Nationals, you appear in his room, again shared with Aran. Luckily the spiker is out for the moment, allowing Kita the freedom to speak with you. He’s getting dressed from the bath while you flop onto his bed. When he finishes he stands over you, inquiring why you came.

“To wish you luck again.”

Where you’re laying on the bed, his hand hangs by his hip only inches from your face. He is called to reach for it, hold it gently. He’s not sure why but this visit makes him uneasy, like it could be the last. He wonders if these are nerves.

The sound of the key opening the door interrupts his thinking. You have already faded into the air by the time Aran enters, followed by the twins barreling their way past him.

Atsumu (the obnoxious) immediately makes for Kita's bed. He flops down onto it, not unlike how you did minutes before, but immediately tenses and shrieks. He rolls himself off, pushing Kita back from where he was standing, all while shouting, “Kitaaa! Why’s it wet—”

Kita thinks he should thank you, next time you visit.

You don’t visit again.

Rather, Kita goes home to you. He decides to leave for break instead of sticking around for club practice, a choice he’s never made since he started volleyball. Something in him calls to visit granny. So at the end of March he boards the train headed towards the north station, and then hails a ride to the village. Granny is home when he arrives, and she marvels at how tall he is, not having seen him since she visited in middle school.

He towers over her small figure, awkwardly hunching in a hug. Granny says that he’ll be a big help with his height, and over the next day she sets him to dust the high shelves and put away dishes. She comments that he can move the table in the main room all on his own, no longer small, five year old Shin-chan.

The ease Kita feels in himself when he is here, with granny in the mountains, is undeniably because this is his home. He is malleable, shapeable to the life he’s lived in Osaka, but this is where he should be. He knows that when he enters this final year of high school, he will be given a sheet that asks for his three career plans. With his grades and diligent work ethic, he knows that he can put himself on any path and make it work. But in this moment, in granny’s embrace, the warmth of a home lined with screens and tatami, Kita knows that he wants to be here, no matter what.

That night he lays out his futon, smoothing out the creases and carefully lining it to be perpendicular with the wall. He smiles, this routine of preparing his bed one of many things he missed in the city. Before he lays down, he is overcome by the feeling of being watched. He turns to the screens that lead outside, towards the river. He walks over and opens them, looking into the darkness of the night.

The moon hangs low in the sky—a crescent, a smile. It shines softly on the water, Fujiwara-san’s house behind it, and the form of the mountains beyond. You aren’t there, but the river is misty, a bluish haze settling thickly on its surface.

In the morning he decides to go for a run, an attempt to maintain conditioning while he’s gone from practice. He goes left—west—towards your mountain.

The jog is peaceful, with March air cool and crisp against his skin. He is calmed by the sound of the water rushing next to him, running the opposite way. There are birds singing when he passes and a small hare jets by his feet. Running feels like a trip through his memory, recounting the times he tried to keep up with your pace, the adventures you went on together. He is running through the blue of wanderlust, along the breathing water and between the distant mountains, under the bright sky above him. He is running through the green of nostalgia, the lush vegetation, stalks of bamboo and solid trees, mostly oak and maple and chestnut, but occasionally the mysterious pine.

He is running to you.

It isn’t apparent until he reaches the end of the path, to that rock face at the foot of the mountain, and you are there—in the flesh—waiting in the river. The water is cold during spring, and yet you smile warmly, unfazed by the temperature. When he takes your hand to let you guide him through the water, through soft pine and hazy light, your touch is cool and refreshing against his—hot from exertion.His heart lurches at the contact, an inexplicable mix of tightness and lightness blooming in his chest. He can’t tell if it’s hollowing him out or overfilling him. It feels like hello and farewell all at once. There is a knot in his stomach, one that feels like nerves. It is exhilarating, magnetizing, like falling into you completely. He lets himself. He has no other option.

You come back with him to granny’s and have breakfast together. She doesn’t say anything, only calls you “dear” and thanks you for your help cleaning up. She does not mention Fujiwara and neither do you. Kita feels whole, sitting on the floor at this table.

At night you sit and watch as he prepares his futon. He looks at you and asks, “D’ya need one?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Don’t sleep.”

He nods before getting up to turn off the light. He opens the soft blanket and lays down. He turns to you, hesitating. He wants to know if you’re staying, if you’ll be here all night. Part of him wants to invite you to lay next to him.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you curiously.

You are smiling over him, as always. One of your hands reaches to smooth back his hair and he softens. Even with your skin always cold, his body will forever warm at your touch.

These days continue and Kita feels light, enjoying time with you, as a person. His questions fade after he succumbs to focusing on soaking in your presence. It feels good, not unlike the satisfaction of completing his daily rituals.

He looks at you closely, the way you’ve grown with him. You are still smiling, still diligent in ways that he initially failed to see as a five year old. Watchful, joyful. He doesn’t feel the smile on his face, a small one that granny notices. You are smiling too, as you take dishes he’s finished washing and run a rag across their surface. You miss some spots, little droplets sticking to the ceramic. Some fly off and land on the floor and counter.

Kita is entirely at ease. It is quaint, quiet, content.

After a few moments, you suddenly pause your drying and turn thoughtfully, towards the river. Kita watches as the faintest furrow appears between your brows, your face both pensive and concerned. You drop the rag on the counter and step away. He stares curiously, still scrubbing a plate.

“I’ll be back in a second,” you say. Nothing else, no unnecessary information. 

Fear germinates in his chest, his heartbeat picking up speed. Granny smiles at him, reassured. He wonders how she retains her calm demeanor.

When nearly ten minutes pass and you don't return, Kita tells granny he’s going to check on you. She nods in understanding as he slips on his sandals and exits through the genkan. He spots you immediately, standing between the house and the river. You’re facing the northern mountains with a frown on your face. Kita realizes this is the first time he’s seen you anything but joyful.

You answer his silent question when he stands beside you, “There’s something wrong.”

“In the forest?” he clarifies. You nod, looking onwards. He watches you for a silent minute, the way you study the sky over the ridge. 

“I think…” you start. Pause. “You should leave, with your gran. And everyone else.”

Kita's brow furrows as he looks at you skeptically. You turn to him, eyes unwavering. You never look this serious. Always nosy, unnecessary questions. Lighthearted. Messes on the floor.

“Shinsuke,” you say firmly. He startles at the sound of his full name. “Tell everyone there’s a fire—in the northern mountains. I’ll try to keep it at bay, but it’s spreading. By the time they see it, it’ll be too late. If you can evacuate the houses on the other side of the river before it’s visible, things should be okay.”

He feels a strike in his lungs, like he’s gasping for breath. He wants to ask for details, but you’ve made it clear there’s no time. You are grabbing him, your cool hand holding his wrist, as you start towards the bridge in a run. He is momentarily brought back to his sixth birthday, running behind you as you guide him along the path to the base of a mountain—your mountain. He remembers thinking that running behind you was fun.

This time you are serious, almost panicked, bringing him across the river and pointing at the houses, which ones he should evacuate first. The ones with the oldest people. Fujiwara-san is one of them. You let go of his hand and run, sprint towards the base of the mountain. He feels panicked, wondering how long it’ll take for you to come back. What it means for you to keep the fire at bay. You fade away, the blue of distance settling between you two, mistiness.

The next moments are a blur. He knocks on doors and is greeted by elders he hasn’t seen in years, ready to exclaim at how he’s grown. Their coos are interrupted by his apologies, an explanation that he got news of a wildfire and wants to make sure people have time to evacuate. He suggests that they get into their cars and head east near the highway, and to wait for official advice for next steps. He says the words, but they don’t fully register when his mind is still occupied with the memory of you sprinting to the danger. The families look at him skeptically, but they get a move on when they remember this is Shin-chan, the quiet and good-natured village boy.

He makes his way down the homes to relay the news. He asks neighbors to tell the others, and to call emergency services. There are 26 homes on this side of the river, and by the time he knocks on half the doors, smoke hangs over the mountains. No fire is in sight, but the signs are there. It makes the next conversations much quicker, and he is relieved as he watches cars pile out towards the highway.

Suddenly an alarm starts blaring. The emergency intercoms spaced along the neighborhood release a sharp and repeating warning sound. A deep voice calls out between the noise, commanding evacuation. Kita's breath is labored from the exertion of running between houses, but his chest feels lighter knowing that his responsibility has been lifted.

By the time he crosses the bridge back to granny’s home, the sky has darkened significantly, black smog blowing along and spewing upwards. There’s the slight lick of a flame creeping over the ridge and he feels his heart begin to gallop. His stomach clenches roughly when his mind flashes with images of the western mountain forest, deer and wolves and rabbits and birds. Flowers and pine and ferns. He glances that way and sees that it’s still untouched, for now.

He runs inside granny’s, calling for her to get in a neighbor’s car, since she doesn’t own one herself. She stands slowly, at her elderly pace, and Kita is restless as he helps her exit the house as quickly as she can. He takes another glance at the mountains and his heart plummets at the sight. The fire has crept over the ridge, and he can hear the distant crackling as it runs forward. Kita's eyes trail down to a figure by the bank on the opposite end of the river and recognizes you. His chest constricts with relief and concern at the sight. He tells granny to walk down to the next door neighbor, to see if she can evacuate with them. He has to lower his head to her ear so he can be heard over the sounds of the sirens and the voice on the intercom.

He starts jogging towards the bridge, to cross it, but you yell his name. It’s loud and fierce, a demand to stay put. It has a firmness that forces him to listen.

His feet stop, now directly across from you. He can see your face, the intensity in your glare. You’ve never looked at him this way.

“Don’t come!” you yell, voice almost lost over the commotion.

Kita is frowning, brow furrowed and mouth open in disbelief. He doesn’t have time to yell back before you continue.

“You have to go, Shin!” You shout. Kitas chest is heavy, and his shoulders are rigid. The flames are growing closer, rolling down the mountain. There’s a gust of wind and it blows the smoke towards the village. He can feel the heat of the burning forest.

Suddenly there are popping sounds, loud like fireworks squealing and shooting through the air. He doesn’t understand where they’re coming from, what they mean. They don’t stop, ringing through the valley and compounding with the blaring alarms, the warning voice on the speakers.

Kita doesn’t want to leave. When he looks at you, the despaired expression on your face and the many layers of hurt—layers he doesn’t understand, has never understood because he never asked—he knows that he can’t leave you. He has to do something, he is restless, like a child waiting for something that has no regular pattern, no rhyme or reason to be there in the first place. You, visiting him in Osaka.

But you won’t have any of it. “GO, SHIN!” you yell, voice booming—akin to a clap of thunder. The popping and splintering noises grow louder, and it strikes him that they are from the bamboo at the base of the mountain, the moisture in their chambers expanding enough to turn into deadly explosives. He sees a flock of birds lift from the forest behind you and fly east.

He tastes salt—tears, rolling down his cheeks and through his open lips. His voice is choked as he yells back in a desperate attempt for you to leave with him.

“I’m yer burden,” he reminds you, face scrunched in pain. His voice isn’t as loud as it should be, for you to hear him across the river. But he knows you can anyways, knows that you know he means don’t leave me, I’m the one you’re supposed to look after.

You smile sadly. He can’t tell if you’re crying too, but he can feel the same pain on your end. Your voice is equally too quiet to be heard when you respond, but it rings clearly in his mind.

“But I’m not yours.”

Your gaze is looking behind him, beyond him. He turns and his eyes widen, spotting granny slowly making her way down the path. His stomach churns—she didn’t catch the neighbor driving away. She’s coughing, unable to walk at the same time. With the smoke blowing over and granny’s old lungs, she can’t carry onwards alone. Kita hears himself curse and he rushes to her side, no hesitation as he lifts her frail body against his chest. Her head lands against his neck—her hair soft against his—and she coughs another long fit. He knows he has to leave. 

He takes one last glance at you, then at the fire crawling towards the now-emptied homes on your side of the river. The heat is increasing, blowing towards him with more smoke and ash. Five deer appear from the woods behind you and run across the bridge. You are staring at him, urging him to follow their example. He knows that he has to take care of granny, but he thinks this is the most pain he’s ever felt, buried deep in his chest. It’s the kind of pain that comes from hollowness, recognition that something vital is missing and yet somehow life is forcing him onwards regardless. He doesn’t know why this tension is there, when there’s a clear job for him to do, to do well. His face pinches, another round of tears welling before he blinks and turns to run down the path.

In this moment, he summons that unwavering confidence he has in himself. Not one of arrogance, but from the knowledge of what he is capable of, what he does everyday without failure. He runs east along the river, clutching his grandmother close. He tells himself this is any normal day of training, running to improve his endurance for volleyball. He is running besides Suna-san, who’s looking for a shortcut. He is running behind you, on your way to explore the enchanted section of pine in the mountain.

He is a toddler, carried along the path next to the river by his grandmother, seeing a mysterious child his age standing in the water. He asks who it is, pointing to a figure that granny can’t see. She tells him that he’ll learn one day, when the time is right.

He is sprinting down the same path, through smoke billowing over the valley erupting from a fire to his left, separated only by a river. Separated by you.

The honk of a car sounds behind him, a noise he barely catches with the sirens and the voices and the explosions pounding around him. He turns and sees the car of another neighbor, ushering him to get in. He veers to his left, letting the vehicle pull up beside him, and he yanks the door open, climbing inside with granny still against his chest. They lurch forwards as the driver steps on the gas and Kita guides granny to the seat beside him, reaching over to buckle her in. The interior blasts cool air and Kita is handed a water bottle.

“The fire department’s tellin’ people to evacuate to the next city,” the neighbor says. Kita nods numbly in response, unscrewing the bottle and helping granny take a few sips. She still coughs, but they’re smaller, less frequent.

With granny somewhat stable, Kita looks out the window to his left, facing the burning mountains. The car nears the ramp to the highway, starting up a mountain east of the fire. It gives him a clear view of homes being swallowed, Fujiwara-san’s one of the first.

Kita is breathless at the sight, reminded of everything these people will lose. He recalls what is already lost: the forest, the animals, the delicate combination of life that dwells in this valley. He thinks your mountain will be lost too, watching as the fire creeps west.

The popping sounds are dwindling, with the fire moving past the burnt bamboo sections and the car speeding away from the scene of destruction. But it is not quiet. There is a sudden clap of thunder that rumbles, long and gritty and deep. Kita watches as winds blow ferociously. Untouched trees sway while burning ones topple from the force. The sky is dark, a mix of smoke and storm clouds, though Kita isn’t sure when the storm began to form. He can see the water falling from the sky, blown at a sharp angle from the strength of the wind. It pelts over the mess of heat, releasing bouts of swirling steam into the air, to condense back into rain clouds.

As the car climbs higher up the mountain and the road, Kita watches the battle unfold before him. The power of rain as it fights the flames of red and gold eating the landscape. He watches the mist rising at the contact between elements, the water evaporating on impact.

He sees you in his room, that first time in Osaka when you were startled by a knock on the door. The way you went poof and disappeared.

They house granny in Osaka, taking over Kita's sister's room since she's at university in Tokyo. Kita is the one who looks after granny most carefully. It reminds him of caring for his brother when he first came to the city. He learns that granny’s house wasn’t caught in the fire. The river was an effective barrier and the rain came in time to manage any embers that had gotten blown over. The reports on the event stated that it was a miraculous storm, one that came from nowhere, completely unpredicted. It was an eventual downpour, enough to contain the fire within minutes and smother it completely in less than a half-hour. Footage from a helicopter shows the water rushing down the gullies and pouring into the river. With it carried embers, soot, ash, all piling together and flowing downstream. The next town down the river reported black water filled with sediment. A truck came in to deliver hundreds of cases of bottled water.

Aerial images reveal that nearly every house on the northern bank was claimed, only a few saved towards the east. He sees photos of the destruction. Your forest didn’t manage to escape in time, the fire stealing your enchanted pine. He wonders if you could have saved it if you didn’t prioritize his home.

There was one death: a backpacker, the person everyone believes is responsible for the disaster. Her body was completely charred, things almost entirely unidentifiable. Emergency services only picked out the metal of a stove—the decided perpetrator.

Kita has no time to grieve, with only a week before school starts again. After helping granny get situated in the house, he immediately goes to practice as a distraction. His teammates are appalled at the news, offering pats on the back and words of condolences, sighs of relief that he was lucky to leave in time.

But they don’t know what he lost. Not just the forest and the mountains, or the ability to visit his real home for months at the earliest. Even with the fire out there may be coals smoldering underground, or dangerous air wafting in the sky. The mountains won’t be green for at least a year, needing time for seeds to take root and sprout, needing seasons to accumulate rich dirt again. There’s no telling how long it will take for animals to return, birds to nestle back into shrubs or rodents to burrow again. The wolves and the deer are surely gone, evacuated to the next viable plot of land.

These aren’t the worst of his losses. What grasps his heart tightly, enough that sometimes he struggles to breathe, is the sight of you running into that smothering roll of flames. The loss of your eyes watching over him.

He dreams of fire, of heat and searing pain. His mind flashes with streaks of red and orange, billowing greys behind it. He hears the crackling of a burning forest and the popping of erupting bamboo. He wakes up panicked some nights, coated in sweat from the searing sensations he conjures in his sleep. In these moments he thinks it would help if he could be with you, your body always cool and damp, the sort of comfort that eases him, that could put out the fires of fear that grasp him.

A week later during practice, coach hands out jerseys. Kita is called first, given the number 1—captain. He blinks in surprise, having expected it to go to Aran. Nonetheless he takes the jersey and the title, and sits on the gym floor. He doesn’t register that he’s crying until he sees the teardrops fall onto the fabric, little spots of grey appearing where it was originally white.

He can hear Suna’s comment about the unfeeling robot showing emotion. He doesn’t care. He sniffles. There is a warmth in his heart that he hasn’t felt the past two weeks. He doesn’t understand where it comes from, why this of all things brings him comfort.

He tries to explain while walking home with Aran.

“I tend to agree with the adults…that the journey is more important than the destination.” His words remind him of granny at home, the way her hair skipped over his dad and went straight to him. The ace turns to him curiously, not sure what he’s getting at.

“I am built upon the small things I do everyday, and the end results are no more than a byproduct of that.”

He’s not good enough to go pro or make a living off volleyball. He just does what needs to be done, what fits into his routine—taking care of his body, cleaning up after himself, being courteous, and…volleyball. He holds up this jersey, looks at how it’s branded with 1, the captain’s number.

“Maybe this is just another result of the things I do.”

Aran blinks, stutters for a moment when he realizes what Kita is implying. “Don’t just—don’t sweat the small stuff! You don’t have to have some sort of logic behind your feelings!! If you’re happy, then you’re happy…that’s it!”

They hold eye contact after Aran’s outburst, and then Kita erupts into laughter. The ace watches his captain skeptically, not intending for his heartfelt advice to be amusing. His shoulders slump when he realizes this is the hardest he’s seen Kita laugh, ever.

Kita is reminded of all those times he couldn’t understand what he was feeling, why he was being drawn to do something he knew he logically didn’t want. All the moments he saw you and felt skeptical of the questions he wanted to ask, the embrace he wanted to pull you in, the warmth he felt in your presence—the way his brain and his logic denied him something he wanted, because there was no explicable reason for it. He thinks of the way you left, the way it hurt like no injury he’s ever lived through. He thinks of the lack of your gaze following him since just two weeks ago, the way he misses it but refuses to admit to it.

“You’re right,” he tells Aran.

By the time school is ending and he plays his final match, you are still not watching him. He feels the eyes of his granny and the eyes of his school on his back. The brooding eyes of Karasuno are on him when he is subbed for Aran in the second set. But yours are still missing.

He, however, has his eyes on his team the entire game, picking out their mistakes and what he knows is the misguided thinking behind them: Gin’s impatience, Atsumu and Osamu’s carelessness, Suna’s laziness. He stands behind them, the defense specialist who will receive the ball, and the one who’s eyes linger on their backs. He is watching them. He is like the lingering mist that wafts behind them, telling them that someone will see, whether they work hard until the very end, or let themselves succumb to their impulses. 

Kita has lived his entire life under your careful gaze. To cope with its absence, he has learned to become the omnipresent eyes backing up his team.

Adulthood

Granny always told him that someone was watching, and your gaze was proof. But at some point he realized that he wasn’t doing it for the spirits, that it didn’t matter either way. His work ethic would be the same even if you never saw him. This realization holds more weight when it is carried out in practice, Kita living his life with the same repetition, perseverance, and diligence in your absence. It makes him feel good, eases the emptiness. So he does it well, and he does it everyday.

He graduates at the top of his class, with grades that could get him into any university, launch him into any career he could imagine. And yet when the year passes and granny says she wants to return to the valley, Kita knows where he will go.

When he pulls into the neighborhood, his eyes are glued to the mountain. There are still trees and bamboo standing, though they are charred corpses. Debris of coals and fallen leaves litter the ground, coating the forest in brown and black. A light layer of green sits atop the earthy tones, sprigs of saplings and shrubs breaking the surface. Kita’s chest expands at the sight, a glimmer of hope.

There are only a few other neighbors who have returned, most still with family in the city. Kita speaks with some of them and gathers that they figure it’s a sign to leave the countryside—to better opportunities and a more convenient life. He wonders what will happen to this village if everyone decides to flee, who will take the land. Maybe the government will turn it into a Hyogo heritage site, a place people will flock to as a sort of pilgrimage. To see the brittle remains of homes and the earth’s attempt at recovery.

Kita knows that he wants to stay here, that granny does too. He’s not sure how it’ll work, but he can’t imagine himself anywhere else. His parents are skeptical, figuring that he’ll make an attempt only to eventually fold for a city job, but they forget that one of Kita’s life pillars is perseverance. He will find a way.

The way opens itself to him the following day. The April air is cool when he goes for a midday walk, crossing the bridge to the burned edge of the river. He trails along the slight incline towards the skeleton of Fujiwara’s home. There is only the charred foundation and a couple ragged beams standing upright, the rest collapsed into rubble. For a moment he can imagine you, running from the back door and into the front room with a bundle of grapes. He hears the distant whispers of Fujiwara’s protests as he follows slowly.

Kita walks to the once-veranda, experimentally standing on the elevated foundation. The charred wood creaks beneath him, but feels sturdy enough to hold. He carefully ambles along the collapsed room, scanning the damage. He manages to cross the house and reach the back exit, and he pauses at the sight.

The ground outside is similarly littered with earthy debris, patchy with occasional new grasses and saplings. Fujiwara’s garden is gone, no more grape trellises or rows of starches. But there is a small square, less than a tsubo, dug into the dirt. Kita knows what this sort of sunken patch means, has seen them in some of the neighbors’ backyards growing up, flooded and filled with lines of grassy crop. He steps carefully from the foundation of the house and curiously stands over the square, imagining the rice that would be planted at the end of the month.

He hears footsteps from near the house and turns to see Mayumi-san, the one who drove Kita and granny out of the valley during the fire. She looks healthy despite being in her seventies, carrying a shovel and a hoe as she makes her way over.

“Ah, Shin-chan,” she greets him. “S’been a while, good to see ya again. What’re ya doin’ out here?”

He bows slightly as he greets her and explains that he was exploring the neighborhood, since he only just returned. He asks about the rice garden.

“I was testin’ to see how it’d grow, since the ash can help sometimes,” she explains. “I came back early after the fire, n’Fujiwara said I could use his yard since he’s probably stayin’ in the city with his daughter.”

An excitement sparks in Kita’s chest, like something clicked into place. He’s not sure what it is exactly, but he presses her. “How’d it do?”

Mayumi smiles, one that looks devilish and would be frightening if he wasn’t accustomed to seeing it. “Shit’s the best yield I’ve ever had. M’gonna try to dig a few more plots, maybe sell ‘em at the city markets.”

This is his way, he realizes. He sees the shovel in her right hand and hoe in the left and speaks before he can register the words. “Y’want any help?”

The rest of April is spent preparing the land with Mayumi and pouring over books on agriculture. He soaks in his elder’s expertise on the subject, in the abstract and the field. When the end of the month rolls around and the two of them begin sowing seeds, Kita thinks that for the first time since your absence that he feels whole. He is here in the valley, between your two homes, dedicating himself to the land that you led him through as a child. He thinks he can feel your presence while working, your hands misting over his, transplanting seedlings with him. The rains that come in are well timed, bringing rushing water down the mountain to flood the few squares of crops.

The days pass with granny, some quick and others slow. She does well in the village, with other people her age, though the company is sparse. Kita can sense that it’s hard for her sometimes, but like himself she is malleable to her environment, can make do as long as she has her routines. Her lungs aren’t as strong as they used to be, but she enjoys her walks and can maintain the chores—the ones Kita lets her.

When September comes in, Kita and Mayumi spend one sunny day harvesting. Kita wields his scythe carefully, the movement unpracticed. He grasps the dry stalks and runs the blade across the taut stems, bundling them on the ground to be collected. They gather the clumps and carry them to the house next to Mayumi’s—another neighbor who hasn’t returned since evacuation. 

Mayumi prepares a sheet across the main room for them to work on. Then they thresh the harvest, grabbing the bundles and smacking them against the floor, pelts of rice springing off the stems. Kita is reminded of water, of rain splashing against the surface of the river. When all the stalks have been emptied, they spread the seeds of gold with their hands, like smoothing the creases of a futon. The day’s work is over, now waiting for the crop to dry. They exit, leaving a few of the screens open to let new waves of dry air flow through.

Kita finds these processes fulfilling, like his own daily routine. It’s another series of tasks that can be learned and done well. The result is his own sustenance, something he can live off of and share with others. It tastes better, he thinks, once he’s experienced the entire journey.

He tells his old teammates that he’ll be in Osaka next month for the markets. They only have a few dozen bags to sell, but he wants to get his friends’ opinions.

The markets are energetic and amiable. Kita shares with curious shoppers the story of the valley, how the burned houses and their backyards left ash that the rice took to. People find the narrative compelling, and they buy the rice despite the hefty price tag. Other vendors are interested, some make purchases to try in their food. Kita enjoys the atmosphere, the way these people and their businesses are connected. He and Mayumi manage to sell all the rice they brought. It’s hardly a profit, but it’s promising.

The next day Kita is in the Miya’s home with the additional company of Suna and Gin. They talk about life, preparation for nationals, what they’re thinking of doing when school ends. Atsumu is going pro, taking volleyball as far as he can. Osamu is ending it here, contemplating career options. He says he’s looking for restaurant jobs; he wants to be a chef.

“Yer gonna be a farmer, huh?” Atsumu asks, laying back on the couch. “It suits ya, that simple life.”

Kita nods. “Knew I needed to take care of granny, that I was gonna be in the valley anyways. One of the neighbors was growing some an’ I asked to help—wanted to see what it was like. S’gonna take time, but we’re gonna try to get the land from the neighbors, see if we can apply for subsidies ‘cause of the fire. Then we’ll try t’upscale. The market yesterday was good.”

Gin sighs, “Ever the considerate and diligent Shin-chan.”

“The rice is good,” Osamu interjects. “It’d be good for onigiri.”

It is, it turns out. After three years, Osamu decides to leave the restaurant he started working for out of highschool and open his own onigiri store. Kita is their main rice supplier, and a customer who never has to pay. They have classic flavors in the beginning: tuna mayo, pickled plum, ikura. When Kita comes with his next delivery, Osamu sits him in the dining room and has him try new options. The former captain takes his job as taste-tester seriously, his diligence appreciated by the former spiker. They decide that the shrimp and beef flavors are ready to be sold, but the chicken needs reworking.

Kita gets into his truck that evening and drives home. The sun sets by the time he enters the valley, winding through roads in the black darkness. When he arrives at granny’s and exits the car, he sees that the sky is beautifully clear. The Milky Way spreads itself over the northern mountains, where life is still recovering, slowly but surely. He takes in the view for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet noise of the night—soft rushing water from the river, chirping insects, occasional wind.

He notices the blinking lights that cross the expanse of stars: planes and satellites. He sighs, remembering a time when he could sit on the top of the mountain and witness an unobscured view of the sky, taking up the entirety of his visual landscape.

Suddenly there is a shooting star, the most intense he’s ever seen. It’s a bright flash of light, he thinks for a moment white and orange and pink, that darts from the east and disappears as it curves west. Its trajectory gives the illusion that if it touched the ground, it would land on your mountain, that special enchanted forest.

After a few more minutes of watching, of relishing the awe, he makes his way inside. Granny is asleep, so he heads straight to bed.

When he wakes the next morning, for the first time in years—since that fire crawled along an entire mountain and you left to put an end to it—he feels the prickly sensation that he’s being watched.

Life doesn’t change with you watching him. Life didn’t change when you stopped. It’s something he knew, something you knew. He carries onwards, his routine of life, one that he does well and does everyday. He and Mayumi expand the fields again, creeping their business along the length of the river. Kita slowly takes on more farm responsibility, knowing enough to work independently when Mayumi needs to rest with increasing frequency. Granny is similar—she likes to help sometimes, with the easier work, but her lungs still struggle, never fully recovered.

It’s a beautiful morning, with cool air entering the house and light diffusing through the shoji. He can hear the birds and the rustling of leaves outside when he wakes, blinking away the lingering visions of orange and red from his dreamscape. He opens the screen towards the river while he puts away his futon and prepares for the day.

Granny isn’t in the main room as per usual. Kita pays it no mind, assuming she’ll be in soon. He makes breakfast and waits for her. She doesn’t come in on time. Kita stands to search, thinking she may have missed the time.

He enters her room and sees she’s still sleeping. He crouches over her to gently rock her awake, but there is no response. At that moment he realizes she is not breathing, not making a sound. He freezes, feels his heart plummet. He carefully lifts her hand from under the blankets—still warm—and checks to see if there’s a pulse. It’s quiet, flat.

He moves slowly, processing, sitting back on his heels next to her. His throat is tight and his chest—it’s hard to breathe. He shakily inhales through his nose and holds her hand in both of his. There’s a stinging behind his eyes and suddenly he is crying, weeping openly as he holds onto her. Death is the logical consequence of living, one of the only certainties of life; knowing this does not make Kita’s loss any less painful. While the hurt sits heavily in his chest, there is a growing spark of gratitude for her, that they were able to spend the beginning of his life and the end of her’s together.

Granny’s passing brings her closer to Kita, in a way. He feels that there are now two pairs of eyes on him, watching over him. When he looks in the mirror and sees his grey hair, granny’s hair, he thinks that he will always be a piece of her living on, that it’s his duty to live earnestly for her. He makes a shrine for her in one of the rooms of the house, placing her urn in the center. It is a beautiful grey clay, narrow and unglazed. A black thread ties the lid to the body.

She becomes another part of his routine, sitting before her remains and her images with his hands clasped and eyes closed.

Life goes on.

A month later he is in the field, tending to his crop. It’s late in the day, when the sun is near setting. The pink of the sky reflects onto the flooded beds, interrupted by sprigs of green. He inhales, appreciating the scenery, before exhaling and continuing his work. When he looks up a moment later, he is frozen by the sight.

There’s a wolf, large and grey, like the first one he saw as a child in the pine forest. He is not afraid, but in awe. A wolf returning means there’s prey: rabbits and deer. It means the forest is recovering, that creatures are finding their way back. He takes in the strong figure of the predator in front of him, sturdy and confident. A movement flashes in his peripheral, three pups catching up. Shin notices that one is nearly white, standing out from the others. He thinks of himself in Osaka, with his relatives.

When the pups catch up, the mother turns away and carries on.

Kita finishes his work before the sun fully sets. A light rain begins, clouds absorbing the vivid hues of sunfall, and he hurries to collect his tools before crossing the bridge home. The drizzling turns into solid pelting by the time he makes it to the empty house. He turns back briefly, squinting through the water collecting in his eyelashes, to see how long the downpour will last.

There’s a figure, at the other side, and his eyes widen in shock. He drops his tools and takes a few hurried steps closer, searching for confirmation.

Through the rain he can see you, standing at the other bank. You are smiling, he can tell, with your shoulders pulled upwards as if embarrassed. He thinks he is dreaming, that this is impossible. You, in flesh and bones, standing in front of the remnants of Fujiwara’s once home. He does not realize that he is smiling back, eyes crinkling and collecting water—his own tears as they spill—and grin spanning impossibly wide. His chest feels like it’s lifting, floating him in the air, to you on the other side.

Suddenly you are running forwards, not towards the bridge, but down the bank, to cross the water. Kita’s face flashes with concern and he starts down his own side, slipping through the mud. By the time he reaches the shore you have swum halfway across, long confident strokes despite the speed of the current. Kita marches forward, water touching his waist when he finally reaches you. He grabs your outstretched hand and tugs you into him, engulfing you in his chest and arms. You are as cold as the water surrounding him, but his body explodes with warmth at the contact, at finally being with you.

His heart races as he clutches you close, in an iron grip that refuses to relent. He thinks he hears you laugh against him, and he chokes out some strangled mixture of a laugh and sob. The water makes it hard for him to stand steady, so he brings one arm beneath you to lift you from the sediment and carry you to the bank. There he sets you down and grabs your waist firmly, staring at you with disbelief. You are smiling with all the glee in the world, eyes nearly closed by the force of it.

“I made it, Shin-chan.”

He doesn’t know what that means, but he thinks of the shooting star and the wolf, the rice fields filling easily without additional irrigation.

You lean forwards and wrap your arms over his shoulders, clutching him close. His arms come around your waist and he thinks he can recognize his feelings: relief and homecoming. There is a fullness, one that is close to painful, a pain he had been living with for years in your absence. He pulls you up the bank, to bring you into the house. He leaves his tools out, to be dealt with tomorrow, and goes straight for the genkan. 

You try to protest when he passes the spigot, “Shin, the mud—”

But he doesn’t care, kicking off his boots to be cleaned later. The mixture of river water and mud splatter on the tile of the genkan, leaving brown puddles and smears. Kita removes his socks and drops them behind him, letting his clean feet be the barrier between himself and the floor. He carries you to the bathroom, to deal with the mess together.

At night you are in his room, watching him set up the futon. He looks at you to ask, “D’ya need one?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Let’s share.”

His heart pounds loudly in his ears. He nods quickly and pushes the blanket aside for the two of you. He clutches you close under the soft comforter, your head slotting snugly in the space of his neck. It sends a shiver down his spine, the chilliness, but it coats him in warmth. He can feel his heart still racing, never fully calmed since seeing you. He feels those questions and thoughts bubbling up, words he always found unnecessary to say. Something about this moment lets him release them, lets him be curious about you.

“Didn’t know if I’d ever see ya again,” he says quietly, into your hair.

You nestle your head further into his neck. He can feel your lips against his throat as you speak. “It took a lot from me, the fire. Always need time to recover.”

His hand comes up to cradle your head, smoothing through your hair.  The image of the rainstorm flashes before him, the way the clouds swarmed from a previously blue sky to pour everything it had—everything you had—to put out the fire. He remembers the awe he felt, the sublimity of the view from a car fleeing the scene.

He doesn’t dream that night, his mind like an empty gulley, letting the soothing rainwater rush through him.

He cleans up after himself in the morning, retrieving his tools and mopping the genkan. It takes a while, though, interrupting his work several times to check that you are still in his room. You haven’t risen by the time he finishes making breakfast. A panic sits in his chest as he enters to wake you. You are still asleep, and he relaxes when he sees the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath the covers.

He sits on his knees beside you and gives your body a gentle rock. Your eyes peel open after a moment of stirring, and you are already smiling. Kita thinks it brightens the room more than the sun streaming in, that life is breathed into him from you.

You notice the granny’s shrine at breakfast. After assisting with cleanup, you ask if the small urn is all the ashes he has of her. He shakes his head and shows you the drawer in the display, where a box lays with the majority of her cremated remains.

“I wasn’ sure where t’put her,” he tells you.

You have an idea.

Only a few minutes later the two of you are exiting through the genkan, dressed for a day in the woods. Kita has a backpack on, the box from the shrine tucked safely inside. He lets you take the lead, turning left down the path and towards the western mountain. He is reminded of his sixth birthday, running to the end of the dirt road for the first time, panting to keep up with you. This time you are calmly walking hand in hand, in no hurry. Kita squeezes yours tightly, a necessary action to express the feeling in his heart.

You smile at him, and bring his hand to your mouth, kissing the back of it. Kita inhales in surprise and you watch his ears turn red, giggling at the sight.

When you two reach the end of the road, the rock face is still standing sturdy. He can see burned trees standing at the base, your mountain not untouched by the disaster. However, like the other forests, it is recovering, hope sprouting in the form of ferns and saplings. He sees a rabbit scurry away and a soft smile crosses his face.

You head first down the bank and into the water as usual, him following with his hand in yours. The cool water creeps up, only up to his knees now that he is grown. The water is easier to navigate in his adult body, and he effortlessly steps up the rocks to the forest floor, ones he used to scramble over on his hands and feet. The ground crunches beneath him. There is a patchy layer of pine needles—short ones—spreading along. The ground is not fluffy from decades of accumulation, but it’s a start. Small saplings bring bursts of fresh green, prickly when he brushes against them. The ferns hide beneath them, avoiding the scorching sun.

History repeats itself as you pull him forwards, along the river and through the early rebirth of the enchanted pine forest. The fallen tree that once served as a bridge is miraculously intact, though the top is scorched and he feels unsteady walking to the other side.

Wandering through the forest is another type of home. He hadn’t taken it upon himself to explore since returning, not wanting to disrupt the delicate healing of the ecosystem. He trusts you, though, and the path you’ll lead him to experience the land without damaging it further.

He notices that you are taking him to a section that he hasn’t been often, not a regular spot during your times together as kids. But it makes sense when you arrive at the small clearing and he sees the massive pine from his memory. It is thick with twisting branches, sturdy. Some of them are blackened from the fire, but others are coated in fresh needles, long and green, waving gently in the wind. He is surprised he hasn’t seen this miracle before, from the house. Maybe the distance obscured the view.

Kita walks slowly to the base of the tree and looks up towards its canopy. He can see the contrast of the charred and ashy sections of trunk against the rich brown of its healthy, resilient branches. The green shines brightly against the black and grey, proud of its revival.

He shrugs his backpack from his shoulders, understanding that this is where granny should be. He lowers to his knees before he unzips the bag and carefully removes the box. It’s a light wood, with tan streaks running along the grain. Pine, he thinks to himself in disbelief.

He slowly unlatches the box and sets it on the bed of brown needles near the trunk. There’s a plastic bag inside, tied with a simple overhand knot. He undoes it gently, slowly unfurling it to roll open and over the edge of the box. It’s the first time he’s looking at her remains, he realizes, and he notices that they are grey, grey ash with clumps of small black coals.

You watch as he moves slowly, cupping soft remains in his calloused hands.

“It’s like your hair,” you say.

He cries, letting out soft, ragged breaths between quick inhales. His weeping lasts the entirety of the time it takes him to spread the ashes at the base of the tree, where it meets the ground. When he finishes you crouch behind him and wrap your arms around his torso. He continues to cry. You feel it, his chest heaving with grief and mourn, love and gratitude. He brings his palms to his eyes to wipe the tears, but they continue to fall, splatter the earth beneath him with feeling.

You listen quietly as his sobs fill the space between rustling leaves and distant cooing birds. Eventually you take one hand from his torso to rub his back slowly, soothingly. 

His noises eventually lull, quieting to the occasional sniffle. He gently pushes the bag into the pine box and then slowly closes the lid and does the clasp. He returns it to the backpack with careful, practiced motions. Your arms release him when you sense he wants to stand. He turns around to face you, you and the valley below.

He watches you closely, runs his eyes over your face, eyes and nose and lips. He wants to memorize your soft smile, the way it warms him like the sun.

You bring your hands to his cheeks, their coolness refreshing after crying so heavily. He leans into your touch and closes his eyes, soaking in the contradicting ways you make him feel—this tug between heat and cold. He feels you press a kiss on his temple, then the other. They’re smeared with the grey ash and black coals, transferring the dust onto your lips. He sighs, in peace, and brings his hands to cover yours. 

When he opens his eyes once more, he looks behind you through the space between the trees, to the valley below him, spanning wide. He is reminded of the thousands of years it took these mountains to form, the thousands of years it took for the forest to grow on top of it. He knows that the fire he witnessed was not the first to rage across the land, and it certainly won’t be the last. He takes in the growth and change that has developed in the past few years, sparkles of hope in a collapse of despair. He recognizes that the destruction is an opportunity for something new, for him to be part of building the next beautiful forest that will rise.

He has lived for what feels like forever, and yet an entire life lays ahead of him. A life with the forest and the mountains and the river. A life with granny’s spirit watching over him, her hair and remains guiding him forwards. A life of working the land and growing something for himself, for others.

A life of unnecessary questions, ones he struggles to ask. A life of inexplicable feelings, ones he’s learning to let in.

A life with you. Here.

i know i said minor character death and then killed granny,, she's a minor character in haikyuu!! but she is a main character in my heart

anyways here's the afterword

[phoenixeclipse-lmkau]

so as it seems that you seem to be busy with life, it seems only fair to drop what idea crumbs I have to help tide you over while you deal with life.

imagine this if you will, in one of the many days they spend travelling, reader spirit and the cubs have found a hot spring to relax in after harsh and cold weather, and everyone is taking the time to clean and enjoy the warmth. the cubs are out of sight, assumingly having fun in a further part of the spring, and reader and spirit have bonding time talking about their pasts, helping clean each other’s hair and whatever else girls do in a girls night.

during all of this, the conversation ends up on readers family and how she is worried about their reactions to her being missing. spirit asks about her family, and reader respond; mum, dad, any applicable siblings and pets. and spirit asks if reader is married/mated/whatever term spirit is familiar with. reader says no. fiance? nope. boyfriend? nope. so… any crushes? none on any real people but do fictional count? spirit says sure, tell the stories of your fictional crushes

so

do you remember the ask?

where you said that reader has a crush on sun wukong and macaque?

what are the odds reader has figured out that she is in jjtw and not generic chinese/eastern fantasy?

from her perspective, they would absolutely be fictional with what little info she had. so she spills all the info about them and their adventures and why she had a crush on them, only for spirit to go at the end:

“you know that they're real, right?”

“wat”

“and warlords?”

“???”

and so spirit informs her with what info she has on them, their battles and conquests, and what exactly they tend to think of humans and do to them.

“best to avoid them at all costs, and keep your knowledge between us”

and so, everything said is kept secret between reader, spirit, and the six eared macaque who immediately spills the secrets to sun wukong.

his ears still work, even in the form of a cub, you know?

what would they focus on, her knowledge about their future, or the fact that she has a crush on them?

anyways hope life gets better and you get good sleep soon.

Eek!! Thank omg the feels!!

Spirit would totally try to keep Reader away before she even finds out who the cubs are. (I'm still trying to think of a reason that she hasn't clued in on Macaque. Oh, maybe most people just can't see his ears. They why would reader? Damnit I'm ranting my own questions for my own au!! )

They would totally be concentrated on how she likes them. A few exchanged words on how she knows about them sure and the future. But mostly, their darling likes them!! So why is Spirit telling her to stay away!? No that won't do at all.

They will be righting that... by righting that Wukong will probably give Spirit several scratches. He's a monkey cub. They can't really hurt her and adult monkey demoness.

At least not yet anyway. I gotta say that Spirit is putting a target on her back. Of course, they have figured out that by now, they can't kill her. That would absolutely wreck Reader's life in a bad way. They saw how she reacted with Spirit getting hurt.

But Boi, they will be very vocal about how she had crushes on them once they return to normal. Oh boy, they will be over the moon!

She can definitely expect (though unknowingly) to get lots of Monkey cuddles tonight.

Of course this also brings up how she'd react to knowing that they are real and warlords!? Okay so finding out that they're real is scary enough. She may have a crush but that doesn't mean she isn't also afraid. They killed people after all. Sun Wukong fought against the celestial realm and almost won! And to her limited knowledge of the jttw storyline Macaque had almost as much power as he did.

Of course in the original Macaque was cannibalistic apparently. (I haven't read that part. I know more of lmk than jttw but I'm trying to read it, slowly) HE IS NOT CANNIBALISTIC IN MY AUS! Why because I said so.

But Reader doesn't know this and so she is absolutely terrified. They were also last spotted where she had appeared when she came to this world. Did they know who she was? Did they hear her? She of course pushes these thoughts away, she shouldn't be ridiculous.

"They are the Demon Monkey Warlords. They don't just hunt humans, they hunt for their territories and valuables. They won't go out of their way to hunt you... unless they get curious or they might. No, no don't cry!"

Let's just say she will definitely be stressed, luckily her little monkey friends are their to give her some stress free snuggles.

Thank you! I got to write something today cause of this. I am still working on other asks I have. But for now, this is what I've got. If anyone has ideas like this... send them my way. This made me really happy.

Thank you!!

I loved this ask!! Thank you!! Hopefully, I'll have some time this weekend to finish writing out the responses for the asks I have in my inbox. And hopefully work on the next part some more. Hehe~ the monkeys thought they could- shoot no spoilers.

[vermillioncourt-if]

In south of the Siji Empire, there is a kingdom the sun favors, staying warm and bright through the year. Clothed in luxuriant ruby red silks, the gold of the sunrays, and adorned in feathers, its people are said to house the spirit of fire within themselves. They live their lives loving, desiring, and hating with incandescent fervor. Fueled by the flames of their namesake and the blessing of the sun, the air is ripe to burst into a unstoppable wildfire. Welcome to the Vermillion Court.

The Vermillion Court is a current WIP and new interactive CYOA novel. The focus is heavily on romance, drama, and the characters. It is inspired by fantasy period-piece C-Dramas (Chinese Dramas) and historical romance manhua/manhwa. It will combine pieces from multiple fantasy period-pieces, both Western and Eastern. It's being written in ChoiceScript.

Note: Because this is still a WIP, some names of characters or places may change. All names are presented as "Last Name" "First Name" and I will provide pronunciation guides in the game as well as on the info pages on the blog!

Genre: Romance, Drama, Court Drama

Rating: 18+ (Will include sexual content, potential violence, and typical warnings attached to fantasy period-pieces)

Tracked Tag: #the vermillion court

Status: In Development (Writing)

Demo || Romance Options || Side Characters || FAQ || Ask Guidelines || World Lore || Tag Navigation || Dev's Main Blog ||

In The Vermillion Court, you are taken to the fantasy period-piece inspired world and continent of Nian. You play as the Fourth Prince or Princess of the Xiatian Kingdom, the child of the King of the Xiatian Kingdom and one of his consorts. As Fourth Prince/Princess, you have a pretty open schedule and a nice cushy life. Being among the first five princes and princesses makes you a prominent enough figure and with six siblings ahead of you in line, no one's really paying attention to what you want to do with your life.

The year is 730 and spring has just given way to the summer season. Various festivals and events are held across the Siji Empire to celebrate the season. At 21-years-old, you're all but happy to attend the social events of the season. Before you leave for the main city, your grandmother informs you that you should look for a partner while there. Apparently your father has been convinced by his favorite wife, Consort Xing, to start marrying you and your siblings off to the other kingdoms. You suspect it has to do with trying to make her son the Crown Prince and are dreading seeing your whole family together again.

Your personal guard and maid accompany you to the capital of Xiatian, where you start a season of festivities, social events, and romance, while also maneuvering the politics of your court and the drama that comes with it.

Play as a man or woman. Choose to be gay, straight, or bisexual

Customize the way you look. Decide what to wear to events to make an impression on the guests

Attend various festivals, parties, and social events to boost your reputation and make allies to help defend you against courtly drama

Choose to romance 1 of 6 characters: your Personal Guard, your Maid, a Lord from the Chuntian Kingdom, a Lady from the Dongtian Kingdom, a Merchant from the Qiutian Kingdom, or a Courtesan

Each route follows the same set of 6 events, but each varies greatly from the others

Find a fiancé(e) before summer ends!

The Fourth Prince/Princess of the Xiatian Kingdom - You (he/him) or (she/her)

You play as the 21-year-old Fourth Prince/Princess of the Xiatian Kingdom. Your father is King Nan Shaimian of the Xiatian Kingdom and your mother is his consort, Consort Huo Qinwen. You are 1 of their 4 children, having 1 older brother and a younger brother and sister, but that fails in comparison to your 18 half-siblings.

You are one of Dowager Queen Nan Niexing's favorite grandchildren, which she proudly states much to the chagrin of your father's 4 other wives.

Appearance: player determined.

Your Personal Guard - Si Huaiqiao (he/him)

Huaiqiao is your personal bodyguard. He is 25-years-old and has been guarding you since you were children. He is very serious and a tad grumpy, always wearing a frown. He doesn't take his job lightly, coming across overprotective, even for a personal guard. He tends to be clueless when it comes to romance, often missing the many women and men flirting with him. You appreciate his work, but maybe you've come to see him more than just your guard?

Appearance: Huaiqiao is a very tall man, standing at around 6'4. He is muscular and fit and is considered to be very attractive. He has straight black hair pulled out of his face that falls to about mid-back when loose. He has clear fair skin and deep black eyes.

Your Maid - Xu Chanyu (she/her)

Chanyu is your personal maid. She is 20-years-old and has been helping you since you were 15. She is a clumsy maid, fumbling over her words and feet quite often but she tries her best and you've come to find her incompetence rather endearing. Besides, it's not like you keep her in your company because she's a good maid, but rather because she's the only assassin who's came close to killing you. Maybe you've come to see her in a different light?

Appearance: Chanyu is a small and lithe woman. She's about 5'0 and is deceptively strong, regularly holding her own against Huaiqiao. Her hair is a dark reddish-brown and her eyes are a dark brown. Her skin is tanned with some freckles.

The Lord from the Chuntian Kingdom - You Kounao (he/him)

Kounao is a noble from the Chuntian Kingdom who's arrived at the Xiatian Kingdom as a diplomatic envoy. He is 21-years-old and is suave and charming. It's easy to see why the Chuntian Kingdom sent him as one of their envoys. Despite holding a position of importance, he tends to be a bit immature and childish, enjoying playing pranks on the other envoys who accompanied him. You find his company refreshing. Maybe you could pursue him as a potential husband?

Appearance: Kounao is man of average height and build, standing at about 5'9. He is fit, but not muscular. He is of partial foreign descent with clear brown skin and short straight black hair. His eyes are dark brown, nearly black.

The Lady from the Dongtian Kingdom - Shen Sandong (she/her)

Sandong is a noble from the Dongtian Kingdom who's arrived at the Xiatian Kingdom as a diplomatic envoy. She is 22-years-old and is very quiet. Her facial expression doesn't change much and she prefers to keep to herself. She doesn't have much to say, but enjoys letting you talk. She's a welcome change of pace to the typically hectic palace. Her icy demeanor intimidates some people, but maybe you find it charming?

Appearnace: Sandong is a woman of average height at about 5'5. She is beautiful with long straight black hair and icy blue eyes. Her skin is pale and clear. She is thicker with a fuller figure than her counterparts from other kingdoms.

The Merchant from the Qiutian Kingdom - Wei Duqiong (he/him)

Duqiong is a merchant from the Qiutian Kingdom who's come to the Xiatian Kingdom to boost his sales during the festival. He is 23-years-old and comes off as a bit shady. He's an effective business man able to charm even the hardest of buyers, but he's very private about his life, not enjoying small talk. You find him to be mysterious and intriguing, not really having met someone like him before. Maybe you'd like to take the time to get to know him better?

Appearance: Duqiong is a tall man standing at around 6'0. He is thin and lean. He appears to be from partial foreign descent. He has medium-length straight blonde hair pulled into a low ponytail and warm brown eyes. He has smooth light brown skin.

The Courtesan - Wu Nahou (she/her)

Nahou is a courtesan from one of the more popular courtesan houses in the city. Unlike her some of sisters, Nahou doesn't provide any physical services and just entertains at parties by playing music, dancing, and reciting poetry. She is 24-years-old and is pleasant and demure while working. Off the clock, she is more rowdy with strong opinions and a confident, self-assured attitude. Maybe you'd like to spend more time with her?

Appearance: Nahou is a shorter woman at about 5'3. She is of partial foreign descent with wavy red hair and hazel eyes. Her skin is pale with freckles and she's considered to be very beautiful. Her frame is more slight and willowy than simply thin.

[talonabraxas]

"Splendid You rise in the lightland of the sky, O living Aten, creator of life ! You have dawned in the eastern lightland. You fill every land with your beauty." -Great Hymn to the Aten, 1-4.

Aten/Aton Talon Abraxas

Ancient Egyptian Aten: Sun God And Creator Deity Symbols: sun disk, heat and light of the sun Cult Center: Akhetaten (Tel El-Amarna) Aten was a being who represented the god or spirit of the sun, and the actual solar disk. He was depicted as a disk with rays reaching to the earth. At the end of the rays were human hands which often extended the ankh to the pharaoh. Aten's origins are unclear and he may have been a provincial Sun-god worshipped in one of the small villages near Heliopolis. Aten was called the creator of man and the nurturing spirit of the world. In the Book of the Dead, Aten is called on by the deceased, "Hail, Aten, thou lord of beams of light, when thou shinest, all faces live." It is impossible to discuss Aten without mentioned his biggest promoter, the pharaoh Amenhotep IV, or Akhenaten. Early in his reign, Akhenaten worshipped both Amon (the chief god in Thebes at the time) and Aten. The first as part of his public duties, the latter in private. When he restored and enlarged the temple of Aten first built by his father Amenhotep III, relations between him and priests of Amon became strained. The priests were a major power in Egypt and if another god became supreme they would lose their own prestige. Eventually, relations became so strained that Akhenaten decided to built his own capital by the Nile, which he called, "Akhetaten", the Horizon of the Aten. At Akhetaten, Akhenaten formed a new state religion, focusing on the worship of the Aten. It stated that Aten was the supreme god and their were no others, save for Akhenaten himself. It has been said that Akhenaten formed the first monotheistic religion around Aten. However, this is not the case. Akhenaten himself was considered to be a creator god and like Aten was born again every day. Aten was only accessible to the people through Akhenaten because Akhenaten was both man and part of the cosmos. Akhenaten systematically began a campaign to erase all traces of the old gods, especially Amon. He erased the name of Amon from the temples and public works. He even went so far as to erase his own father's cartouche because the word "Amon" was featured in it. Even the word "gods" was unacceptable because it implied there were other deities besides Aten. It is clear that the Egyptian people never accepted their king's religion and view of the world. Even at his own capital, Akhetaten, amulets featuring Bes and Tauret have been found. Following Akhenaten's death, Atenism died rapidly. Mostly because the people never really believed in it and also because Akhenaten's successors did all they could to erase Akhenaten and Aten from the public eye. Eventually, Akhetaten became abandoned and the name "Akhenaten" conjured the dim memory of a "heretic king."

[weirdnotal]

My Accent headcannons for the lu chain (and etc):

Time: was taught hylian by trees???? Almost has no tone/infliction in voice (he's working on it)

Malon: Tennessee accent all the way, with that nice hook at the end too (non southerners imagine dolly parton)

Lullaby: very formal proper hylian, dignitary style

Warriors: British military like he's reading from a manual

Sheik: I don't know much about her but the sheikah definitely take inspiration from Japan

Twilight: Appalachian accent as thick as raw honey (non appalachians have yall ever heard of one looking it up)

Midna: try 'n' convince me she don't have a loud ass Louisiana accent (non southerners go watch princess and the frog) (this is totally not for my Midna is African American agenda)

Dusk: real formal like n all that

Sky: That's a Midwesterner (he genuinely tried to get Wild and Rulie to eat jello salad once)

Sun: completely Midwestern

Groose: spends a lot of time around the other two^ but his parents are Gerudo (Arabic/middle eastern)

Four: the minish have always reminded me of the Icelandic tales of little elves

Dot: same formal accent, maybe more like Four's

Age/Cal(calamity): very formal british accent almost royal but also uses some Korean (Zora) words

Mipha: Korean accent (thicker than Sidon's)

Fauna: royal and tight lipped british

Wild: used to be more British (kinghts!), but now is more southern cause twilight has corrupted him

Flora: much more informal than the other zeldas

Legend: Scottish accent, but he usually hides it really well, so you can't really tell at all unless he's mad or tired

Fable: Scottish asf (non Scottish people imagine Merida)

Ravio: fairly normal, but if provoked, he will speak like an Italian mobster wife until he gets his way

Hyrule: Rulie is Irish or Welsh all the way (especially with half fae/fey Hyrule)

Dawn: pretty similar to Hyrule

Aurora: transatlantic accent!!!!!

Spirit: he's always reminded me of Hugo Cabret, so cockney british accent it is (this grates on War's patience)

Phantom: can be formal if she has to but usually just sticks with cockney as well

Wind: Okay look, I love scottish pirate Wind, but I raise you patois or creole pirate Wind

Tetra: Wind's accent but double the amount and also the volume she says it at

[kraekat29]

Lust or Love?

Summary: in which JJ learns what true love making feels like.

There is a difference between having sex and making love. I would have been unconvinced of that, through any explanation or demonstration, no more than a few years ago. And not that there is anything wrong with having sex - I enjoy sex as often as I can, but making love is different.

Making love is two souls touching, intertwined and wanting, until the wanting is so intense that the souls, even if for just moments, become one.

Ruby is a great example of a soul that, once touched, is now part of me. I carry a piece of her with me wherever I go.

The moon was almost full and the moon's beam decided to do a little dance against her skin. Maybe that's how the moon gets full, maybe its beam dances off of the sweet flesh of beautiful girls and beautiful women.

Maybe the moon even wanted to start inside of that tank top, start from the inside and work its way out. I certainly thought about that, obsessively, and after a short while, the moon's desire was no match for my own.

There was something about Ruby that made me crazy. There is something about her that will never leave me. Even now.

Ruby was complex, a lovely dichotomy of feminine aura; sensuality and sexuality shined from her spirit like the sun’s rays in deep summer afternoons, and her form was inviting, even compelling. When she spoke, it was eloquent yet practical; and she could be alluring as a princess and flirty like a schoolgirl all at the same time.

We drank and chatted and got close as the air began to cool and the palm trees slowed their sexy dance.

She would touch me on the hand and the arm just to make a point in conversation, and soon I began to respond with an erection whenever she touched me, and she would coyly glance away after noticing that she had achieved her objective.Once I had calmed down, she would start with the hands again,

sneaking looks downward every so often, and it didn't take much until my cock was hard, obviously straining to be let loose. Embarrassed at first, I stopped caring after a half-hour or so, she was obviously enjoying herself.

And me? I couldn't have been more turned on. Conversations about philosophy, music, literature, and humanity mixed with my desire to devour her body and her obvious delight at completely turning me on. I was her toy, and I loved it.

I never talked to her about that night, but I think she knew. How could she not know? The breeze was warm, maybe even hot, and I slowly walked down the street to see Ruby.

The moon, now full, welcomed the twilight in the eastern skyline, and I made my way up the pathway to the Chateau. I knocked, and a moment later the door opened.

"I wasn't sure that you would show, JJ.” She smiled. "Um, I didn't know what you might like to do, so I brought some wine to drink while we talk about it." "Oh, that sounds good right now.” Ruby cooed, and she grabbed some glasses while I fought open the cork in the wine bottle with a pocketknife.

We slowly sipped wine and sat on the couch, talking away for a good while, and then the subject of what we were going to do came up. It turned into a whatever-you-want-to-do-is-great-with-me-fest, and I broke it finally by offering up the obvious.

"Ruby, I really enjoy your company. We don't have to go anywhere unless you want to, I'm happy right here." "Honestly, I'm happy right here, too.” She told me.

"But since we're staying in, I'd love to change out of the work clothes.” She added. "By all means.” I said. She went to change, out of direct view in the closet alcove.

It took me a few seconds to realize that there was a mirror in back of her on the opposite wall; and for a moment, I treated myself to Ruby, beginning to undress, slowly as if she wanted to make sure that every piece of clothing received the proper care it deserved. And then I felt a twinge of guilt, that I was violating her privacy, so I reluctantly looked away and down beside the couch.

I glanced up just in time to watch her remove her bra and panties, and she stood naked, admiring her own form. She was stunning and my cock reacted instantly.

I decided to make small talk. "It was really hot today.” I said loud enough for her to hear. "Really? I was inside all day, unfortunately.” She said, cupping her breasts and swiveling from side to to side. "

Oh, you would have loved it outside, your skin soaking up the sunshine.” I tested. "Do you think I might need more sun, then?" Ruby countered, modeling every sexy aspect of her form in the mirror, obviously aware that I was watching, even looking at me now in the mirror awaiting my response.

"Oh, no, I think you have fantastic skin.” I said. My cock was hard, not just from admiring her body, but because I was convinced that she set this scene up.

I brought wine for us to relax, and she wanted me to know that it was okay to want her. And I did, as I watched her slip a flimsy sundress on over her head. She wore nothing underneath it.

"Much better.” She said, her body perfectly suited for the low-cut cotton dress, her breasts straining against the soft fabric. "You look incredible, sweetheart.” I told her.

She smiled and I poured us each one more glass of wine. We sat on the couch and faced each other, inches away from touching. She had glanced at my cock bulging from my shorts and then looked away, grinning.

"To you, and you're incomparable sexiness.” I toasted. Our glasses clinked and we sipped. "Funny, that's what I was going to say about you.” She reflected.

We looked at each other and I had to kiss her, so I did. Slowly, sweetly, watching her close her eyes and accept my lips. I slowly stopped and backed away slightly, grinning.

Ruby bit her lower lip and looked into my eyes for a moment. Then, she slowly stood up and moved in front of me, took her dress from the bottom, arms crossed with both hands, and lifted it up and over her head.

She stood there in front of me, watching me being turned on, looking at my hard cock in my shorts. "You look a little uncomfortable, JJ.” She said, "I think you might want to slip into something more comfortable. Like your naked skin, maybe?" I stood up and took off my shirt.

I went for my pants, my cock straining due to my erection, but her hands stopped mine and went for my buttons in their stead. I was naked underneath, and she slowly undid the buttons one by one, and then spread my jeans at the top and let the pants fall free; except I was too hard for the laws of physics at that point, so she slowly slid my pants down at the sides, my cock straining against gravity. Slowly, she teasingly exposed the base of my cock and then more of it as the pants went lower, until she could see the top of my cock head.

Then, finally, with another inch lowered, my cock, so completely erect, sprang up so hard it smacked my stomach and then stood throbbing almost straight up. She reached down with one finger and traced around my cock, which repeatedly responded with uncontrollable spasms of delight.

Pre-cum quickly appeared and she gasped, then moaned and touched the tip of my cock and spread the precum around my cock head. I was gently teasing her nipples, left handed, because she seemed to be favoring her left hand while gently teasing my grateful cock. I kissed her, deeply, our tongues in each other's mouths, until I couldn't stand it.

"I think it's bedtime.” I teased. She giggled and I gently pushed her backward onto the bed and followed with my stiff cock bouncing with every inch of progress, somehow getting out of my shoes and socks and leaving my pants behind.

I crawled toward her as she backed into the bed, slid my body on top of hers, and kissed her lips and then sucked on her lower lip. I pressed my body against hers, lining up the tip of my swollen cock head against her hot wet pussy, and began grinding into her with our arms wrapped around each other, mouths interlocked and tongues exploring.

I separated my mouth from hers and went to her left ear and gently explored it with my tongue. She shuddered and tensed against me and giggled. "I want to taste all of you." I whispered. "Oh, God yes.” She encouraged, and I moved all over her neck.

Her skin was sweet and my mouth wanted all of her, all at once, tongue and lips everywhere. Down between her breasts and then all over them, I licked and sucked one nipple while gently fondling the other, and slowly switched.

Working my way down to her stomach and then her thighs, I teased her like she teased me, until finally my tongue fluttered and barely grazed her wetness, and then again; this time barely touching her clit, swollen and slightly protruding from the top of her hood, making her body convulse.

"Fuck, JJ.” Ruby cried out, as she squirmed. I continued, grabbing the top of her thighs, now flittering my tongue over, around, over, around, and over her clit, unpredictably, and she panted and squirmed as my cock throbbed below us.

"God, you're making me crazy.” She barely got out between panting and moaning.

I slightly turned my lower body sideways and pressed my hard cock up against her lower calf, I wanted her to know how much it was turning me on.

And I was throbbing. Ruby’s pussy tasted so good, her delicate clit turning me on, my tongue loving every minute she let me turn her on. "Fuck, JJ.” She moaned, feeling how hard her sweet pussy made my cock, and it set her off.

She gently grabbed the back of my head, she wanted more pressure, and I let her have it, on and then off and then on and then off again, and I kept repeating that unpredictable rhythm for as long as she wanted, waiting for her to want more.

Her back was arched and I released my grip on her hips now, and Ruby pushed against me, she wanted it now, she wanted to cum and I was rubbing my cock against her leg, I couldn't control it. My tongue was firm on her clit now, my right hand playing with her breasts and nipples and my left middle finger was down below teasing the opening of her lips, darting slightly in and out of her soaking wet pussy.

And then, without warning, my tongue started in harder and faster and wilder. "Oh, God. Fuck, yes. JJ, you're gonna make me cum.” Of course, hearing that and feeling her body tremble in pre-orgasmic ecstasy, I began concentrating firmly and deliberately on her clitoris, and I could feel her about to cum.

I was so turned on I couldn't open my eyes, I brought my right hand from her chest and planted my right arm on top of her pelvis to hold her down, reaching around to cup the outside of her ass.

I wanted to keep her from pulling away until she came all over my mouth. She bucked wildly and then came hard all over my mouth and I kept going until I knew she was finished, and then she desperately pulled away and pushed my forehead off of her.

I kissed her thigh and opened my eyes to see the last of the convulsions. I kept kissing her thighs as she panted, trying to catch her breath. "Oh, baby.” She groaned.

And her respiration slowed little by little and that wonderful giggle returned about every ten breaths she took and I looked up at her, her hand running through my hair, and I smiled, her juices all over my face. "You're more of a mess than I am.” She giggled.

I got up and grabbed a small towel and wiped it all off, and the taste of her sweet pussy lingered in my mouth. My cock, still rock hard, bounced as I walked and Ruby watched me walk back to the bed, and she seemed to delight in watching my hard cock bobbing up and down.

I started to get back into bed and she sat up and stopped me. I stood before her, my throbbing cock inches from her lips, her hands on my hips as she sat on the bed.

"JJ, your cock is so beautiful.” She said, licking her lips. "If that's true, then it's you that makes my cock beautiful, Rubes."

She licked my cock, starting at the base and moving slowly up to the head, and my cock convulsed and quickly shot upward, smacked against my stomach, and then landed on her waiting tongue. From her open mouth, her tongue then licked around and around my cock head, then licked that sweet spot underneath.

Then, she stopped and looked up at me. "I'm going to make you cum. I'm gonna suck your huge, gorgeous cock, and you're going to cum in my mouth and I'm going to swallow every drop of your juices.” She lustfully announced.

And she had my cock in her mouth before I could say a word. She sucked me hungrily, moaning - the buzz from her voice vibrating so good against the skin of my cock and then she stopped for a moment just to feel me throb against her tongue. She was sucking me again, so good, so skillfully, it felt so good, she was making love to my cock.

"Fuck, baby.” I moaned. It didn't take long for her to bring me to the brink of orgasm; she was amazing.

Every movement of her tongue, her lips, the rhythm of her head motion going up and down, made me crazy, felt better than the moment before until it became impossible for me to know how I could feel so good and not explode.

"You're gonna make me cum, sweetheart. I'm gonna cum for you," was all I could manage.

She went faster, smoother, and she was groaning with my cock in my mouth, and I was going to burst. She knew.

She cupped by balls gently and that sent me off on the best orgasm anyone ever gave me with their mouth.

It took all I had not to jam my cock down her beautiful throat, but my patience paid off in a better orgasm than if I had given in to natural instinct.

I came so hard and so good and so much, and somehow she took all of it, swallowing as she sucked more out of me. “Shit, Rubes.” I panted, coming off of the orgasm, and she slowly pushed my cock out of her sweet mouth with her tongue and admired it while it half-relaxed. She smiled and giggled.

I knelt down onto the bed with her and kissed her in the mouth, tasting my own cum with her, I wanted to be a part of her wanting me. Our mouths and tongues went crazy again, and we wound up in each other's arms.

I finally rolled to one side, grabbed the wine bottle, and drank from it. So did she. We rolled around in the bed for a while, playing and laughing and giggling, and I started to get hard again.

She looked down and began gently rubbing my stomach.

"Wanna play some more?" I pulled her up on top of me. “I thought you might like a ride. Twenty five cents for three minutes.” I teased, cupping her breasts.

"Can you break a hundred dollar bill?" She teased back.

I positioned her wet pussy directly on top of my now fully erect cock, pulling and pushing her hips with one hand so that she began to rub back and forth, her pussy lips on my cock.

I teased her clit, barely touching it at times with the fingers of my other hand.

"Fuck, JJ.” She moaned. I positioned myself and found the angle to enter her wetness, slowly, very slowly just the head of my cock and then out, and then the head again and pushed slowly another inch, and then out, and repeated this several times, I wanted more but slowly.

"God, you sexy tease.” It was all I needed to hear. I pushed slowly up and she brought herself down and I entered deeper, slowly, until I was grinding against her, and she took all of my cock, I could barely feel the tip of her cervix with the tip of the swollen head of my now throbbing cock.

I held it there and she squirmed on top of me, her vaginal walls getting pressure all around my cock. Ruby pulled back an inch and lowered her pelvis, angling the top lip of my cock head against her G-spot and moving against it.

Then, she sat straight up and slowly let herself take all of my cock again. When she leaned forward, I grabbed her hips, steadied her, and thrust my cock up while changing angles to probe her G-spot. "Oh, God.” She said, closing her eyes. "I want you so bad, I want this so much, Rubes.” I said between moaning.

I started in rhythm, then faster, her moans got louder, and I went faster and faster until I could feel her soaked pussy throbbing and I watched her dripping all over my cock, I could feel her tensing for release.

"Oh, God. I'm gonna cum.” I was lighting fast, grunting and groaning, making myself not cum but wanting to so much. I barely held it, I wanted to cum with her, but I wanted to make her cum even more. My cock felt so good; my soul felt so good. "Cum on my baby, cum on my cock.” I maintained the speed through her orgasm, slowing when she started breathing again, and then finally, her thighs wobbly, I pulled her down on top of me and felt her breath on my shoulder, slowing little by little, my hard cock still inside of her, and I held her as she started to relax.

I gently rolled us both over, my cock still hard, still inside of her. I wanted her, I wanted every inch of her, every breath, every thought. I wanted to blend all of her and all of me in a mixing bowl, I wanted our souls to meet and tangle and graft.

She made me want that somehow. I grabbed both of her hands and we interlaced our fingers over her head and I kissed her and again our tongues played; and then deeper, our mouths lusted and I moved, my hard cock gratefully responding with a twitch.

I began thrusting, slowly, my cock becoming even more swollen, finding the right angle. Our breathing became too quick for the kiss.

I grabbed both of her hands and we interlaced our fingers over her head and I kissed her and again our tongues played; and then deeper, our mouths lusted and I moved, my hard cock gratefully responding with a twitch.

I began thrusting, slowly, my cock becoming even more swollen, finding the right angle. Our breathing became too quick for the kiss. "Fuck, I want you so bad, JJ.” She said, thrusting and matching my rhythm.

I changed my angle and began to fuck her deeply, sliding against the spot that Ruby loves so much, the spot that I love so much, and the rhythm increased tempo, and I felt this wonderful fire consuming me. Her soaking wet pussy tightened around my cock, feeling every millimeter of movement, every twitch and throb of my ever enlarging cock.

Our bodies pressed and we fucked each other harder and faster and our loud, incoherent, uncontrollable moans serenaded our unbound desire and we read each other's thoughts and we were going to cum together.

We exploded together, she felt me ejaculating inside of her convulsing pussy, our bodies shook and we lost all control, our souls, intertwined in the ecstasy we were sharing, took over and held us while our juices violently burst from inside of us.

My ejaculations and her convulsions seemed to last so long, so good, so much. Slowly, we began to get control of our limbs and our souls gently parted, sifting back into our bodies, and I lay on top of her, we were panting, holding each other.

We finally caught our breath, and remained in the embrace, not wanting to let go of each other, my cock still inside of her.

"Is that what love is supposed to feel like?" She asked, rhetorically perhaps, maybe even innocently.

"I have no idea, Ruby. I don't think what just happened has a name."

Tags: @cristina-t @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles @redhead1180 @heybank

@pankowkisses @haven247 @princessmaybank

@maybankskiss @starfxkr @rubiehart

[quitealotofsodapop]

When does MK figure out his mate and son are in line for the Jade throne?

Also I know his pregnancy happens after the brotherhood, but I want Azure's reaction to his crush's son carrying and being mated to the royal line. ( Given other au's he'd see it as double black mail against Wu kong and the emperor.)

MK probably finds out that he's now connected to the royal family sometime after Red discovers his own connection to them.

One idea for the Au is that MK met Xiwangmu & the Jade Emperor on accident after one of his medical checkups with Lao Tzu. The Emperor feeling a guilt he had not felt in millennia, whilst the Empress cradled the distressed soon-to-be-parent in her arms.

Soon when he runs into her again around S4/5;

MK: "Hi Queen Mother lady!" Xiwangmu, smiling pleasantly: "Hello Xiaotian." Red Son, aghast: "What?! How do you two already know each other!?" MK: "I had a big-sad moment after one of my appointments, and after I unloaded a bit onto this tall guy in the gardens, the Queen appeared and started comforting me. She gave me a much-needed shoulder to cry on." Xiwangmu, soft laugh: "That tall guy you encountered was my husband." MK: "OH! Sorry I hadn't know at the time! I really feel bad I hadn't a chance to get to know the guy before the... you know." Xiwangmu: "It's perfectly fine, your mind was preoccupied with thoughts of yourself and your future child. My husband thought you were a charming spirit." Red Son, thoughts malfunctioning: "How in Buddha's grace did Noodle Boy meet my grandparents before I did!?"

Once MK and Red Son are a confirmed mated pair - MK realises from context clues that his mate is actually a Prince. Not just the heir of a demon clan - but "The Prince of the Cosmos" even!

MK has a little panic episode when he realises that in future, he might be considered the new Queen Mother (or King Dad) since he'll be married to the only other heir besides too-busy-for-romance-rn Nezha!

And his baby is considered an heir too!!!

Wukong finds his successor four-noodle bowls deep into a stress eating binge. He rubs MK's back until he calms down. He's quick to point out that the Queen Mother isn't retiring anytime soon, and that no one can really "replace" the Jade Emperor after he's been a fixture for the last thousands of years.

He's got forever to prepare.

Unless Nezha finds a certain handsome icy eastern dragon prince, or Erlang gets an heir within that time, and they beat him to the succession race. Then he doesn't have to care at all about celestial politics and just focus on being the Monkie Kid. That makes MK feel a little better. XD

As for the pregnancy itself! It actually started before the Brotherhood!

Possibly even as early as Season 2 with no Wukong to check if MK has buried himself recently (spoiler; he did on accident while trying to meditate the ick of LBD out of his brain). Lao Tzu could grab the gang to ask where tf his Furnace went, only for MK's human form to glitch out from hormonal changes, exposing the pregnancy on accident.

Wukong and Macaque both spend S3 staring at MK like he's Schrödinger's pregnant. He smells like he is. But clearly he isn't that clumsy or unfortunate to accidentally self-spawn a stone egg, right?

Spoiler; he is.

LBD has more ammo to torment MK with.

As for the Brotherhood themselves...

If Azure had sensed/smelled the Egg on MK when they had first met, he would have been shocked. Not only has Sun Wukong chosen a successor - but the same successor has an heir of his own cooking in the oven! How time flies.

Azure would more gently try to convince MK about the Brotherhood's plans, only for MK to go berserk thinking of how the Queen Mother, Nezha, or even Red could be hurt in the coup. But the monkey boy's powers are too weak and erratic to prevent canon from happening.

Peng and Yellowtusk are hesistant to raise their weapons to he pregnant demon. Peng has suffered the loss of a young niece and nephew before. And Yellow Tusk knows the anger a pregnant demon can wrought when pushed to their limits.

Red Son was another thing the Brotherhood was surprised to learn about when they busted down DBK's door - they had heard rumours but were not invited to any family events. The former agents recognise Iron Fan as a former celestial princess, and therefore her child an heir to the Jade Emperor's throne.

One slip of the tongue also reveals that MK is connected to all this... as the mate of the Emperor's grandson! Small world.

The scene with The Brotherhood vs The Demon Bull Fam still plays out as in canon, though with the Brotherhood more focused on taking hostages than convincing Bull to rejoin them. The Emperor's daughter & grandson would make pretty big bargaining chips after all. Red Son still manages to get away - his father pushing him aside to take the brunt of the Scroll's power.

During the attack on the Celestial Realm, Azure steps one foot towards MK, and suddenly has multiple blasts of Samadhi Fire to his face.

Red Son, burning furiously: "DO NOT TALK ABOUT MY MATE! DO NOT EVEN LOOK AT HIM!" DBK & PIF: (*surprised but proud clapping from the Scroll!!*) Mei, is amped up with her own fire: "I FUCKING KNEW IT!"

MK was a bit far away to hear Red's words amongst all the fighting and flames, but Macaque def heard it.

At that moment; Azure knows if he got his hands on MK, that the Queen Mother or even the Jade Emperor would bend to his will.

As selfish as the emperor is; even he would not risk the life of the one carrying his first great-grandchild...

If the boy doesn't tear him to shreds first.

Heaven hath no fury like a Shí Bǎomǔ protecting their kin.

[varijeri]

so i was watching Fit's stream and he was cleaning up a Federation outpost.... what's up with the outpost names huh? long post warning TL;DR at bottom.

Sector A's outpost names are derived from Slavic mythology; specifically special places from the myths. after searching these names online i found this website: https://meettheslavs.com/slavic-mythological-places/ taking from the website; 1. there's a "mystical mountain of Vitor" that's "built in heaven" and "hard to find because it changes its location as soon as the wind blows in a different direction". it's also said to have dragons living on it (this is the one Fit was sent to for repairs, and it also had weird blue draconic-looking creatures around it. it was also an icy mountain...) 2. there's a "Buyan/Bujan Island", described to "appear and disappear with the tides" and be the "dwelling place of three brothers, the Northern, Western and Eastern winds". 3. there's a "Kingdom of Opona", an "imaginary place [that] existed at the edge of the Earth which [ancient Russians] imagined as a flat plane." it was believed "free and happy [peasants]" lived in this country under a "true and just" ruler. 4. there's a "Vyraj/Viraj", a "resting place for the souls and spirits" AKA the equivalent of Heaven in Slavic mythology. it's "a place where birds find their retreat in the winter". (notably this outpost is inactive) 5. lastly there's a "Nav/Nawia", a "mysterious place for the souls of the dead", and "often interpreted as another version of the imaginary place Vyraj", so AKA Hell or the Underworld. (the Hell outpost is active but not the Heaven outpost???) If Outpost Vitor sort of matches the description from the myth, maybe the other outposts do too? so like Bujan is on an island in the sea, Opona is super far out in a village maybe, Viraj and Nawia i have no clue... Sector B's outpost names are derived from Norse mythology; specifically Norse gods. being a nerd i noticed this instantly which was what tipped me off to search up Sector A's names. taking from various sources, but mostly from their Wikipedia articles: 1. "Tyr" is an one-armed god representing justice and fair treaties despite being a god of war, who lost his arm in the process of binding Fenrir the wolf. he dies in Ragnarök. 2. "Odin/Woden/Wodan" is the ruler of Asgard, the All-Father, and the one-eyed god of wisdom war, and death. he presided over Valhalla, a sacred hall that housed dead warriors in preparation for Ragnarok. he dies in Ragnarök. 3. "Thor/Donar" is probably the most popular Norse god, the god of thunder. the embodiment of strength, he is the protector of the Æsir and the humans. he dies in Ragnarök. 4. "Máni" is the god of the Moon and brother of Sol, the goddess of the Sun. they is eternally chased by Skoll and Hati, two wolves who seek to plunge the world into chaos by eating the Sun and Moon. he dies in Ragnarök. 5. Outpost Frïja I believe is "Frigg", the Queen of Asgard and the goddess of marriage, family and motherhood. she lives in Ragnarök. notably, all five gods (and goddess) lend their names to days of the week (Máni -> Monday, Tyr -> Tuesday, Woden -> Wednesday, Thor -> Thursday, and Frigg -> Friday). none of these outposts are active, they are all inactive or under maintenance, so i'm inclined to believe these aren't as important right now as compared to Sector A... still, these outposts are named after Slavic and Norse myths for a reason possibly so these might be significant. Nothing particularly comes to mind but if anyone has any idea feel free to add on... TL;DR: Federation Outpost names from Fit's stream have Slavic/Norse mythology inspired names, possible significance?

[whencyclopedia]

Arapaho Creation Story

The Arapaho Creation Story is the account of how the world was made from the mud at the bottom of the endless waters by Father (also given as Pipe Person in some versions) with the help of the duck and the turtle. The story is similar to one of the versions of the Cheyenne Creation Story.

Eastern Painted Turtle

Greg Schechter (CC BY)

Both of these accounts are also similar to the Lakota Sioux Creation Story as well as those of other Native American nations, many of which begin with the world as a great expanse of water and feature a central character – usually supernatural – who brings the earth into being with the help of waterfowl or the turtle. The Arapaho tale is also similar to that of the Cheyenne and others in that there is no mention of the concept of 'evil' or corruption. The Father, inspired by the Grandfather above, creates a perfect world, completely in balance. Any aspects of life humans will later find objectionable are entirely so because of their interpretation, not because of any flaws in the creation itself.

In some versions of the story, the Grandfather is the Creator God Be He Teiht (the Great Spirit) and Father (or Pipe Person) is understood as the First Arapaho, meaning the spirit of the Arapaho people, not the first man. In other versions, Father seems to be the Creator God and Grandfather is not mentioned or the Father figure goes by the name of Flat Pipe or, as noted, Pipe Person. There are also variations in how humans, plants, and animals are made in different versions, but, in all, the world is created for the greater good and its inhabitants, all related as family, are expected to share it generously with each other.

Versions of the Story & Arapaho Religion

These different versions of the Arapaho Creation Story are all fragmented and some incomplete because they were passed down through oral transmission by the people's storytellers, and so many of these were killed by US troops and settlers in the latter part of the 19th century – in conflicts such as the Sand Creek Massacre – or died of diseases or malnutrition on reservations that the story was almost lost completely. The best-known and most complete version comes from Traditions of the Arapaho by George A. Dorsey and Alfred L. Kroeber in 1903, given below.

In this version of the tale, after the duck and turtle have brought up the primordial mud, Father creates the earth and then the sun and moon before creating humans out of clay. In another version, he accomplishes this through prayer-thought – purposeful thought generating change – and literally thinks the world into being. All things, therefore, come from the mind of the Father, and are all closely related. This is a core belief of Arapaho spirituality – the close connection of all living things that inhabit the World House together. In the World House, every living thing is a brother or sister and all children of the same Father. This belief informed Arapaho rituals, including the Sun Dance, as well as the "medicine" objects (spiritual artifacts) the people carried. Scholar Loretta Fowler comments:

the Arapaho origin story focuses on Pipe Person's creation of the earth from mud below the surface of an expanse of water. Pipe Person, through prayer-thought, created all life, including the first Arapahos. Arapahos henceforth kept a replica of the Flat Pipe as a symbol of their covenant with the life force or power on which Pipe Person drew. Rites centered on the pipe bundle helped ensure the success of Arapahos generally and of individuals specifically. Seven men's and seven women's medicine bags contained objects and implements that symbolized forms of power, and these passed from one custodian to another. Prayer-thoughts could affect events and lives, and the sincerity of a petitioner's prayer-thought was validated by sacrifices of property or of the body by flesh offerings and fasting. (1)

Although the Arapaho observed the Sun Dance, they did not engage in the self-torture aspect of that ritual as the Sioux and other Plains Indians did. The "flesh offerings" Fowler mentions would be sacrifices of an individual nature, though still performed for the greater good. The Sun Dance was known as the Offerings Lodge to the Arapaho and, instead of self-torture, they would donate personal items or space (land) to the community. The flat pipe was (and still is) central to the Offerings Lodge ceremony – as it is to other Arapaho rituals – as it symbolizes their connection to the Creator just as the Sioux ceremonial pipe does to that nation. When the Arapaho separated into Northern and Southern, and were then forcibly relocated to reservations, the Northern Arapaho kept the flat pipe with them, and the Southern Arapaho kept the sacred stones symbolizing the pipe. These are still used in rituals today.

Native American Sun Dance

Jules Tavernier and Paul Frenzeny (Public Domain)

In yet another version of the Arapaho Creation Story, this one incomplete, the flat pipe is featured prominently. In this tale, the Creator God is known as Flat Pipe and he walks about on the endless water with his pipe (a flat pipe) looking for some place where he can safely rest it. His entire purpose in creating the world is for a place to securely rest the pipe because, from this pipe, he will draw the power to begin the work of creation. He appeals to a flock of ducks flying past and they dive down into the water for him, bringing up some mud. This is not enough to create land from, however, and so he then asks various other creatures for help. One by one, they dive into the deep, six times, but none of them are able to reach the bottom. The seventh time, the turtle goes and brings back the right amount of mud for creation to begin.

Although the name of the main character and certain details differ in these versions, the central message remains the same: as all things were brought forth by the Creator, all are related to each other as family. One should therefore treat the earth, plants, animals, and others as kindly as one would one's own blood relatives because, in fact, that is what they all are.

Continue reading...

[krsnaradhika]

In which I narrate the story of the Syamantaka jewel rather quickly.

Roughly five thousand years ago, in the auspicious land of Aryavarta, when the pseudo emperor wrecked havoc upon the Yadava tribes— there came a savior who uplifted their melancholic spirits. Fighting off Jarasandha seventeen times, during the eighteenth ambush, Krishna: the sole surviving son of Devaki and Vasudeva, took his kinsmen to the safety of the sea.

The thalassic city of Dwarka as it was named, the one with numerous gates was the capital of the Yadavas. There lived a prosperous merchant named Satrajita. He had the gem Syamantaka, and a gem among women for his daughter— Satyabhama. Several springs back, while offering his dawn worship to the solar god, he had found her in a gigantic lotus bloom floating on a pond.

Now, it was when the Syamantaka jewel went missing that the merchant lost his senses, clouded by roaring vexation.

“This! This Vrishni prince, this Krishna of notorious mien has stolen my property which was a blessing from Suryadeva!” Satrajita shrieked, fixing a furious gaze at the dark-complexioned lord who had arrived at once when he heard of the unfortunate incident. Krishna gaped at him incredulously, wordless at the pang of emotions that hit him like the celestial Vajra. With his signature grin robbed away, he shook his head ever so slightly, war-like shoulders sagged in sadness.

The father of Satyabhama continued his lament, “He had come wishing for the Syamantaka to be submitted in the treasury. Surely I turned him down, for it belongs to me. Now he took it away by force when his vanity was injured!”

Behind the slightly parted gates of her residence stood Satyabhama, aghast and devastation written on her golden visage, oddly mirroring the turmoil of the accused. An emptiness swirled in her chest and she staggered a step, never knowing when her knees would give in.

The lotus born was not a stranger to the kingmaker. She knew him like the back of her palm— like the rains know petrichor, like the constellations know the moon and how the sun is wont to the seamless ether. She’d admire him from a distance, barely in touch but so much in his mind, Krishna could never truly shake off her orphic presence.

All her dreams and all his exuberance shattered at the wrath of Satrajita.

“Father, you sent Uncle Prasena to the eastern forests with the gem, didn’t you?” Satyabhama strode into the privacy of her house, turning the heads of her extended family along with the beautiful dusky prince. Her eyes pooled with fury driven tears and she turned her head down, ashamed by the shock in her father’s eyes and found him let down by her gall. But how could she let go of her strong sense of justice?

Prasenajita, the brother of Satrajita and Satyabhama’s uncle was known to be fond of hunting. Since not many days, neither him nor the gem were heard of.

“The jungle is guarded by the king of the bears, the immortal Jambavan. I apologize for the humiliation, Your Highness. I’m terribly sorry for my transgressions against you too, father.” She hastily brushed away her tears and swallowed the guilt gnawing at her throat. Her parents were rendered mum by her demeanor, known to maintain dignified silence unless not spoken to. She was immensely self respecting and knew her strengths— but this was something not envisaged.

“Be victorious in your pursuits. I must take my leave.” And she marched into her chambers and shut the doors in a frenzy, cursing at her stars.

Taking his cue, Krishna set off to find the jewel and clear his reputation. Even the common folks were influenced by the senseless words of Satrajita and eyed him with suspicion, him who had earned a venerable position for his clan in the political dynamics of the subcontinent. But he was known to steal butter back in his boyhood days, and old habits die hard.

Krishna’s ilks who had accompanied him in his quest, returned from the frightening jungle. However, without him by their side.

For twenty-nine days and twenty-nine nights, Satyabhama neither knew rest nor sleep. Her thoughts would often drift to the ignominy of the man she had come to love and the dejection in her father’s eyes. She tossed and turned on her bed all night, haunted by all sorts of morbid possibilities. “Why did you pit me against my own father, Gauri Maa? Will you not protect the marital serendipity of Princess Rukmini who has left everything and all for him?” She wept afore the mother-goddess presiding over the local temple, never knowing how to face the first wife of her beloved. Am I the root of her sorrow? I shouldn't have led him to his doom. The wretched thing isn’t worth the dust of his feet.

On day thirty, His Highness made a grandiose reappearance. Darker and gleaming like winter eventides, brawn and glorious in the same vein as that of rain clouds— Krishna came, like an elixir upon barren earth, with the Syamantaka tied around his nape in a flower festoon and a new wife in his arms. The woman was about as tall as him, if not more, which was surely a lot. She had the complexion of blue water lilies and embodied the goddess of the forests, Aranyani. Like Seeta would follow Rama and like how Rama would be fond of his bride, Krishna and the woman casted coy glances at each other. Satyabhama added two and two to find she was Jambavati, the daughter of Jambavan.

Prasenajita had been mauled to death by a lion and the beast was vanquished by Jambavan, who had then acquired the jewel. Nearly two moons of a brawl later, Krishna had defeated the bear king and revealed to him that he was the Raghava Jambavan had aided in the previous era.

Satyabhama knew neither envy nor dismay. All that mattered was Krishna being safe and sound, and happy.

Dwarka clamored in bliss once again, echoing the chants of the god incarnate’s name. People fell at his feet and he patiently made his way through them, making them rise again and beaming their way. Eventually, he reached the palatial foyer and formally greeted his family and friends.

Satrajita mumbled endless apologies, bowing to the usually gregarious youth who was going beet red in shame at the wallowing of the merchant. Elders weren't supposed to be belittled so, Krishna believed.

“Please- this is the least I can do, son. I have falsely tarnished your image when—”

Krishna shook his head, the opal diadem with a fluttering iridescent feather the only thing adorning him. He was ethereal through and through, the ocean of compassion. “I cannot have your gem, Arya. It should be under your protection. I have never desired it for myself. Besides, this is not the best jewel that you have.” He turned to glimpse at Satyabhama who gaped blankly at the trio— Satrajita, Krishna and Jambavati.

The bear princess winked at her. I know your secret, her mischief seemed to articulate.

“In that case.” Satrajita took his daughter’s crimson painted palm in his own and led her entranced self to the kingmaker with a flute. “You may have the best one, Vaasudeva. You are the only one I deem competent to have my true fortune. She has guided my maligned mind away from the dark and brought me undying glee. My sweet child Satyabhame, do you consent to this marriage?”

Flustered, she nodded in affirmation and her bridegroom gladly looped an arm around her. Rukmini circled the veneration platter around the three of them, a broad grin splitting her gentle face.

Reverence softened his lotus eyes and he whispered to her, slightly leaning to her side, as if praying for Devi Lakshmi to grace him, “Welcome home, Bhame. I could never not have wished for your hand in mine.”

[eventideluminary-games]

In south of the Siji Empire, there is a kingdom the sun favors, staying warm and bright through the year. Clothed in luxuriant ruby red silks, the gold of the sunrays, and adorned in feathers, its people are said to house the spirit of fire within themselves. They live their lives loving, desiring, and hating with incandescent fervor. Fueled by the flames of their namesake and the blessing of the sun, the air is ripe to burst into a unstoppable wildfire. Welcome to the Vermillion Court.

The Vermillion Court is a current WIP and new interactive CYOA novel. The focus is heavily on romance, drama, and the characters. It is inspired by fantasy period-piece C-Dramas (Chinese Dramas) and historical romance manhua/manhwa. It will combine pieces from multiple fantasy period-pieces, both Western and Eastern. It's being written in ChoiceScript.

This game is my palate cleanser for my main game, Under the Eyes of Themis. Updates may be slow since that game will receive most of my attention, but I will try to update at least once a month! Please feel free to send asks or anything, since this has quickly become a bit of a passion project!

Note: Because this is still a WIP, some names of characters or places may change. All names are presented as "Last Name" "First Name" and I will provide pronunciation guides in the game as well as on the info pages on the blog!

Genre: Romance, Drama, Court Drama

Rating: 18+ (Will include sexual content, potential violence, and typical warnings attached to fantasy period-pieces)

Tracked Tag: #the vermillion court

Demo || Romance Options || Side Characters || FAQ || Tag Navigation || Pintrest || Dedicated Side Blog

In The Vermillion Court, you are taken to the fantasy period-piece inspired world and continent of Nian. You play as the Fourth Prince or Princess of the Xiatian Kingdom, the child of the King of the Xiatian Kingdom and one of his consorts. As Fourth Prince/Princess, you have a pretty open schedule and a nice cushy life. Being among the first five princes and princesses makes you a prominent enough figure and with six siblings ahead of you in line, no one's really paying attention to what you want to do with your life.

The year is 730 and spring has just given way to the summer season. Various festivals and events are held across the Siji Empire to celebrate the season. At 21-years-old, you're all but happy to attend the social events of the season. Before you leave for the main city, your grandmother informs you that you should look for a partner while there. Apparently your father has been convinced by his favorite wife, Consort Xing, to start marrying you and your siblings off to the other kingdoms. You suspect it has to do with trying to make her son the Crown Prince and are dreading seeing your whole family together again.

Your personal guard and maid accompany you to the capital of Xiatian, where you start a season of festivities, social events, and romance, while also maneuvering the politics of your court and the drama that comes with it.

Play as a man or woman. Choose to be gay, straight, or bisexual

Customize the way you look. Decide what to wear to events to make an impression on the guests

Attend various festivals, parties, and social events to boost your reputation and make allies to help defend you against courtly drama

Choose to romance 1 of 6 characters: your Personal Guard, your Maid, a Lord from the Chuntian Kingdom, a Lady from the Dongtian Kingdom, a Merchant from the Qiutian Kingdom, or a Courtesan

Each route follows the same set of 6 events, but each varies greatly from the others

Find a fiancé(e) before summer ends!

The Fourth Prince/Princess of the Xiatian Kingdom - You (he/him) or (she/her)

You play as the 21-year-old Fourth Prince/Princess of the Xiatian Kingdom. Your father is King Nan Shaimian of the Xiatian Kingdom and your mother is his consort, Consort Huo Qinwen. You are 1 of their 4 children, having 1 older brother and a younger brother and sister, but that fails in comparison to your 18 half-siblings.

You are one of Dowager Queen Nan Niexing's favorite grandchildren, which she proudly states much to the chagrin of your father's 4 other wives.

Appearance: player determined.

Your Personal Guard - Si Huaiqiao (he/him)

Huaiqiao is your personal bodyguard. He is 25-years-old and has been guarding you since you were children. He is very serious and a tad grumpy, always wearing a frown. He doesn't take his job lightly, coming across overprotective, even for a personal guard. He tends to be clueless when it comes to romance, often missing the many women and men flirting with him. You appreciate his work, but maybe you've come to see him more than just your guard?

Appearance: Huaiqiao is a very tall man, standing at around 6'4. He is muscular and fit and is considered to be very attractive. He has straight black hair pulled out of his face that falls to about mid-back when loose. He has clear fair skin and deep black eyes.

Your Maid - Xu Chanyu (she/her)

Chanyu is your personal maid. She is 20-years-old and has been helping you since you were 15. She is a clumsy maid, fumbling over her words and feet quite often but she tries her best and you've come to find her incompetence rather endearing. Besides, it's not like you keep her in your company because she's a good maid, but rather because she's the only assassin who's came close to killing you. Maybe you've come to see her in a different light?

Appearance: Chanyu is a small and lithe woman. She's about 5'0 and is deceptively strong, regularly holding her own against Huaiqiao. Her hair is a dark reddish-brown and her eyes are a dark brown. Her skin is tanned with some freckles.

The Lord from the Chuntian Kingdom - Shen Kounao (he/him)

Kounao is a noble from the Chuntian Kingdom who's arrived at the Xiatian Kingdom as a diplomatic envoy. He is 22-years-old and is suave and charming. It's easy to see why the Chuntian Kingdom sent him as one of their envoys. Despite holding a position of importance, he tends to be a bit immature and childish, enjoying playing pranks on the other envoys who accompanied him. You find his company refreshing. Maybe you could pursue him as a potential husband?

Appearance: Kounao is man of average height and build, standing at about 5'9. He is fit, but not muscular. He is of partial foreign descent with clear brown skin and short straight black hair. His eyes are dark brown, nearly black.

The Lady from the Dongtian Kingdom - You Sandong (she/her)

Sandong is a noble from the Dongtian Kingdom who's arrived at the Xiatian Kingdom as a diplomatic envoy. She is 21-years-old and is very quiet. Her facial expression doesn't change much and she prefers to keep to herself. She doesn't have much to say, but enjoys letting you talk. She's a welcome change of pace to the typically hectic palace. Her icy demeanor intimidates some people, but maybe you find it charming?

Appearnace: Sandong is a woman of average height at about 5'5. She is beautiful with long straight black hair and icy blue eyes. Her skin is pale and clear. She is thicker with a fuller figure than her counterparts from other kingdoms.

The Merchant from the Qiutian Kingdom - Wei Duqiong (he/him)

Duqiong is a merchant from the Qiutian Kingdom who's come to the Xiatian Kingdom to boost his sales during the festival. He is 23-years-old and comes off as a bit shady. He's an effective business man able to charm even the hardest of buyers, but he's very private about his life, not enjoying small talk. You find him to be mysterious and intriguing, not really having met someone like him before. Maybe you'd like to take the time to get to know him better?

Appearance: Duqiong is a tall man standing at around 6'0. He is thin and lean. He appears to be from partial foreign descent. He has medium-length straight blonde hair pulled into a low ponytail and warm brown eyes. He has smooth light brown skin.

The Courtesan - Wu Nahou (she/her)

Nahou is a courtesan from one of the more popular courtesan houses in the city. Unlike her some of sisters, Nahou doesn't provide any physical services and just entertains at parties by playing music, dancing, and reciting poetry. She is 24-years-old and is pleasant and demure while working. Off the clock, she is more rowdy with strong opinions and a confident, self-assured attitude. Maybe you'd like to spend more time with her?

Appearance: Nahou is a shorter woman at about 5'3. She is of partial foreign descent with wavy red hair and hazel eyes. Her skin is pale with freckles and she's considered to be very beautiful. Her frame is more slight and willowy than simply thin.

[voraciouskingdom]

Sunday's full moon is the Moon Before Yule or Long Nights Moon in honor of Yuletide and celebrating the return of the sun at the Winter Solstice.

"The coming of winter earned December's full moon the name Cold Moon. The final Full Moon of the year is also called Oak Moon, the Moon before Yule, and Long Night Moon — but it doesn’t coincide with the actual longest night of the year in 2024. The Winter Solstice is Saturday, December 21 at 4:19 a.m. Eastern. The Abenaki call it the Winter Maker Moon, the Ojibwe, and Chippewa call it the Small Spirits Moon, the Kiowa call it the Real Goose Moon, the Lakota call it the Moon when deer shed their antlers, and the Sioux call it the Moon of Popping Trees."

~The Institute for American Indian Studies

🔥❤️‍🔥🔥