#lemon's patience is remarkable

[orangecrush]

Lemon and Tangerine being sick together (because of course they infect each other every single time) & Lemon just getting comfortable in front of the TV with a huge mug of tea to watch Thomas & Tangerine grumbling about absolutely everything because he’s not feeling well and he hates not feeling well and they can’t take on a new job because they need to be in top form in their line of work and he's bored out of his skull & Lemon ignoring him and his attempts to pick a fight & Tangerine eventually getting exhausted & Lemon making room for him under the blankets

[watevermelon]

Practiced Patience | Yandere Jing Yuan x Reader

✧ Summary: Close friends with members of the High-Cloud Quintet, you wished every day was filled with peaceful sunsets and drinks, even if you and Jing Yuan bickered at every occasion. Who would have known it would all come crumbling down?

➳ High-Cloud Quintet!Jing Yuan x Reader ➳ Notes: LONG ONE SHOT; Forced Relationship, Emotional, Dark Angst, Lemon with Plot, dubcon, possessive, abuse of authority, hate sex ➳ Navigation

You knew better than to trust someone like Jing Yuan.

Jingliu claimed he was nothing to worry about.

An ambitious boy with no known birthplace, a thorn in their side as he often bickered with the rest of the Quintet. But you knew what you saw, a quiet tactician more meticulous than the others gave him credit for. 

You stood to the side, not as a member of their infamous group, but rather a friend to both Jingliu and Dan Feng. They were both private in their ways, but remained steadfast when their minds were focused on a mission. It was clear that it was working, notching many glorious victories under the belt.

With only one notable issue…

After each triumph, Jingliu and Dan Feng were unabashedly transparent in their feelings, their one weakness that never failed to elicit an amused roll of your eyes.

Nonetheless, you found yourself in the unofficial role as matchmaker of the hopeless High-Cloud Quintet. It was almost amusing, how you rushed to sit in the middle of the table and beckoned Jing Yuan to your side, forcing the two couples to sit together. 

Jingliu shot you a withering glare that could have pierced steel, her warning palpable in the air. Meanwhile, Dan Feng and Yingxing exchanged a knowing glance before simultaneously rolling their eyes at your antics. Without missing a beat, they moved to sit together, Jingliu and Baiheng on the other side.

Whatever, at the end of the day, you were the successful one with each couple sat together instead of pretending that the last few days of pining looks and flirtatious quips were nothing. Another night under the moonlight with your friends - it was perfect.

“I must say, watching you scurry around like this is nothing short of amusing.”

Almost perfect.

“Must you, Jing Yuan?”

“What?”

“Mock me if you will, but they will appreciate it in time.”

Fortunately, the man remained silent, content to sip on his drink while his gaze remained fixed on you. Despite your attempts to feign disinterest by gazing up at the night sky, he refused to look away, the unwavering attention in your peripheral unnerving. Enduring Jing Yuan's company was a small price to pay if it meant facilitating the blossoming romance between your friends. Glancing to the side, you couldn't help but smile as you observed Dan Feng leaning closer into Yingxing's space. 

You closed your eyes, allowing the moments to slip by as you savored the peaceful ambiance of the night, accompanied by the gentle sway of the breeze and the comforting presence of drinks in hand. Their voices, though soft-spoken, enveloped you in a comforting embrace as you absently listened to their murmurs with quiet reverence.

“And when will you finally appreciate my attention?” A sudden whisper startled you out of your reverie, the warmth of his breath against your ear sending a shiver cascading down your spine.

Time and time again, Jing Yuan had made his peculiar infatuation with you known, yet it remained just that — an infatuation, devoid of any deeper significance. You couldn't help but notice the way his gaze trailed up your form, lingering on the curve of your bosom with a hunger that bordered on unsettling.

“Back off, boy.” You stated clearly, quietly shoving him out of your space.

"You see me as a boy, but it's been quite some time since I've surpassed even you in height," Jing Yuan remarked, his tone laced with a hint of amusement and a touch of defiance.

He was right, undoubtedly so. 

Yet, clinging to the image of him as the young boy who first joined the Quintet served as a tether, keeping you grounded amidst the whirlwind of his affections. Despite the low timbre of his voice and the undeniable presence of his newfound muscles, you refused to dwell on such details. 

This was Jing Yuan, the boy who often found himself embroiled in arguments with the others — the very same one you staunchly refused to entertain any romantic feelings for.

Jingliu called you an idiot on multiple occasions, stating that there was nothing wrong with getting involved with the now up-and-coming warrior.

Jing Yuan was a far cry from the boy you met eons ago, but even back then he had already made a name for himself. A troop member who had somehow led a bloodless victory aboard the Navis Astriger. It was no surprise that he was appointed quickly to a position of importance within the Cloud Knights.

And while he and Jingliu were not particularly close, they had mutual respect for one another as mentor and student. She had mentioned to you multiple occasions that the warrior was not a bad catch.

Rumor had it that Jing Yuan was going to be named the Arbiter-General of the Luofu Cloud Knights, not that any of that mattered to you.

But your friend did not see it , not like you did.

Beneath the surface, beyond the facade of a valiant hero defending the Xianzhou, you sensed an unsettling undercurrent lurking behind his golden eyes. While he exuded an aura of bravery and strength, there was an undeniable sense of something darker, something twisted, concealed within the depths of his being. 

As you held his gaze, peering into the abyss of his golden stare, you could not shake the feeling that there was more to him than met the eye — a darkness that whispered of hidden desires.

And worst of all, they were aimed at you.

“And yet just a boy you continue to be.” You gave him a scathing reply back, raising your glass to your lips as if bringing that conversation to an end.

But Jing Yuan easily captured it from your grasp, drinking the rest before asking. “And what must I do for you to see me?”

“There is nothing.” You said with an air of finality, standing from your seat and excusing yourself for a moment - not that the others noticed, now in their own worlds.

Thankfully Jing Yuan had not followed, instead continuing to stare at you as he drank from your glass.

There it was again.

You almost regretted rising from your seat, subjecting yourself once again to his unrelenting stare. There was a palpable appreciation in his gaze as it roamed over your standing form, tracing the lines of your long legs and lingering on the expanse of skin you exposed. Sensing his intent to meet your eyes, you swiftly pivoted on your heel and turned to walk away, leaving behind the weight of his scrutiny.

Whatever, asshole. 

It was still a fine night, even if he openly leered at you with a clear intent that you decidedly ignored. 

These moments were perfect, not even Jing Yuan could ruin them. 

And while these nights usually unfolded this way, with banter exchanged between you and Jing Yuan, you cherished these moments with your friends. 

You treasured Jingliu's gentle smiles toward Baiheng, like whispers of affection carried on the evening breeze. You adored watching Dan Feng's earnest attempts at being suave, his efforts endearing despite their failure. Yingxing’s soft smile in response, unfazed and full of quiet adoration, was like moonlight gracing the night. 

These small interactions, these cherished bonds, were the heartbeats of your evenings together.

And sometimes, just sometimes , Jing Yuan was not so annoying as usual. 

There were moments when he would casually throw an arm across the back of your seat and you would allow it. He would lean into your space, a smirk playing on his lips, his presence somehow both familiar and infuriating. Yet, inevitably, he would push the fold too far, his smirk widening just before you pushed him back, reclaiming your space and restoring the delicate balance of your dance.

At times Jing Yuan would surprise you. A cup of your favorite tea, one you had briefly mentioned in passing. The next book in a series you rambled about. A beautiful necklace from a merchant who was in town for only the weekend, one that Jing Yuan did not allow you to refuse.

Once you had even watched him train, watching the sweat trail down his muscular build as his hair bellowed in the wind. It took everything in you to fight down a rosy blush. 

But that was…

Something you did not even want to acknowledge. 

Anyway. 

In the company of your friends, surrounded by the serene glow of the moonlight, you felt an overwhelming desire to freeze time and remain in this moment forever. With a drink in hand and laughter in the air, you cherished the bond you shared with the Quintet, longing for eternity in their companionship.

But nothing ever truly worked out the way you wanted it to.

Baiheng, your dear friend who wanted nothing more than to gaze upon endless stars, would never get a chance to even see the Astral Express.

She paid the ultimate price, sacrificing herself for the others in their fight against Shuhu. 

“The so-called heroes of the Xianzhou… And yet we can do nothing for our friend.” Dan Feng complained constantly, “How useless these titles are now.”

You could not shake the worry gnawing at your heart for Dan Feng and his deteriorating mental state. Increasingly, he voiced his anguish over the ceaseless cycle of death wrought by war, his spirit weighed down by the heavy burden of loss.

The spark that once ignited Dan Feng's eyes whenever he discovered a new book or shared a captivating story had dimmed, overshadowed by the relentless pursuit of unattainable dreams. He seemed consumed by a fervor akin to madness, his mind teeming with theories and schemes to resurrect Baiheng into the waking world.

Each member of the splintered Quintet grappled with their own demons, their sorrow manifesting in different ways, hidden behind veils of stoicism. At least Dan Feng was willing to speak to you, Jingliu appeared as nothing more than a hollow shell, her once vibrant spirit dimmed by the weight of her burdens. Yingxing refused to leave Dan Feng’s side.

You turned to Jing Yuan, the usually aloof schemer, now consumed by grief as he withdrew into the confines of his office, reluctant to emerge.

Casting aside your own hesitation, you ventured to visit Jing Yuan late into the night, bearing a steaming cup of tea procured from Tingyun's shop not long ago. At the time, you had hoped to bring it along on a night of victory.

He stood at the window, a solitary figure silhouetted against the backdrop of the moonlit sky, his hands folded behind his back as he gazed into the abyss beyond. The office was devoid of any other presence, engulfed in a palpable silence that hung heavy in the air.

“Jing Yuan?” You broke out the moment, surprised that he hadn’t moved at your appearance.

With a flick of his wrist, Jing Yuan beckoned you over, his expression tight with emotion as he silently invited you to approach. You extended the cup of tea towards him and he accepted it with ease, taking the kettle from your hands and placing it on his desk without a care for the watermarks it would leave on the papers below.

He sipped the tea slowly, his gaze fixed once again on the night sky as you stood beside him at the window. Did he truly need or even want your company in his moment of grief? With not a word spoken between you, a twinge of guilt gnawed at you for not reaching out to him sooner.

“If you need anything Jing Yuan, I’m here for you.” You broke the silence.

His golden eyes cast a glance downward at you, cloudier than you had ever seen them before. Despite the heaviness weighing upon him, a flicker of affection still lingered in his gaze, one that had always been there. Perhaps, in your haste, you had been too harsh on him, failing to recognize maybe he did sincerely have feelings for you.

You could not help the blush that spread across your cheeks, having the unabashed attention of the warrior. “Jing Yuan?”

Setting the cup down on the desk, he enveloped you in his arms, pulling you into a tight embrace that seemed to swallow you whole. Your senses were overwhelmed by Jing Yuan's presence — from his musky scent that surrounded you to the warmth of his touch. Despite the flood of sensations threatening to engulf you, you pushed them aside, focusing instead on returning his embrace, wrapping your arms around his middle and holding him close.

You felt him bury his face into your hair, inhaling deeply as if committing your scent to memory. It was a rare display of tenderness from Jing Yuan, perhaps the longest moment of gentle care he had ever bestowed upon you. It was always silly puns and flirtatious banter, never this new brand of sincere heartfelt affection.

In that fleeting instant, a wave of shyness washed over you, caught off guard by the intensity of the moment.

There was a sudden urge to pull away, but Jing Yuan moved to press his forehead against yours as he whispered. “If anything were to happen to you, I would not be able to take it.”

Your heart raced faster, his unexpected display of care contradicting the image of the young boy you had always perceived him to be. Even now, he loomed over you, his deep, husky voice sending a pang of want within your core.

Jing Yuan's hand moved to the back of your neck, holding you gently in place as he pressed his lips against yours in a tender kiss. You stood frozen in shock, never having imagined that this unexpected turn of events would transpire when you visited him tonight.

As his lips met yours in a tentative kiss, you felt a flutter of uncertainty mingled with a growing curiosity, unsure of the depths of your own feelings for him. Before this he was the one you refused to glance twice at, but now there was too much -- too much grief to think clearly.

“Jing Yu--!” He interrupted your voice, taking the opportunity to deepen the kiss and swipe his tongue across yours.

Yet, despite your hesitance, Jing Yuan's passion remained unwavering.

For a heartbeat, you hesitated. This was not the time to be making moves like this - he was transferring his guilt and his grief into something that needed more time. But as you felt the heat of his touch searing through you, igniting an ignored fire deep within you, you found yourself yielding to the overwhelming tide of desire.

With a soft gasp, you surrendered to the kiss, allowing yourself to be consumed by the intensity of the moment. His tongue danced against yours in a fervent embrace, each movement sending waves of pleasure coursing through your veins. In that fleeting instant, doubts and uncertainties melted away, leaving only the raw, unbridled passion that surged between you.

Jing Yuan lifted you effortlessly by the back of your knees, easily done with his strength. He gently placed you on his desk, the surface cool against your thighs. His actions were fervent, his desire unmistakable in the way he moved. Yet, despite the intensity, his touch remained surprisingly gentle.

He ravaged your mouth with his, his lips insistent and demanding, but tempered with a tenderness that belied the raw emotion of the moment. His hands cupped your face, fingers splayed along your jawline as he deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring the contours of your mouth with a fervor that left you breathless. Each movement was precise and deliberate, as if he was savoring every second of your shared intimacy.

Your hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping tightly as you responded to his lips, your own desire growing with each passing moment. The world around you faded into oblivion, leaving only the two of you, locked in an embrace of unspoken feelings.

The moment was laced with a gentle urgency, beckoning you to wrap yourself around him and return for more kisses. You leaned a hand on the table as he kissed at your neck, accidentally brushing the kettle off the desk and shattering it on the floor.

“Fuck.”

Jing Yuan's voice dropped to a husky whisper, "What an uncouth tongue. Shall I punish you for it?"

You smiled at his teasing, his usual banter back in full force. “Jing Yuan…”

“Say my name again, sweetheart.”

The moonlight cast an ethereal glow over the warrior, illuminating his long white hair as you held each other in this surprising embrace. With only the soft glow to witness your intimacy, everything seemed perfect. 

Yet, you knew the truth. 

It was too soon to be acting like this — his actions were driven by grief rather than genuine connection. 

Fighting the urge to widen your smile at his response, you placed two steady hands on his shoulders to catch his attention.  “You… We shouldn’t have done this.”

His smirk faded, replaced by pinched brows, but his hands remained firm at your waist. “Do you regret being with me?”

“That’s not it at all. Jing Yuan, this is the grief speaking.” You immediately responded.

“No, no it’s not.” He was incensed immediately, running a frustrated hand through his long locs.

You tried to grab his arm, to bring him back to you. “Then let’s wait together. You fought side-by-side with Baiheng for decades, you need more time to grieve.”

“Can you not admit that our feelings for each other have been building this entire time, not just at a time of loss?”

For each other?

You hesitated, unable to refute his question in fear of making the situation worse. Before this moment, you refused to even entertain any romantic notion toward the warrior. It was always him, taking and taking until he hit a boundary you refused to let him cross.

It seemed your words were unnecessary, since the grimace on his visage grew.

“How could I forget? You still underestimate me like the others.” He spit out, frustration mounting in his voice.

“That’s not true, Jing Yuan.’

“Yes, it is. Otherwise, must you think my affection is fleeting? I have wanted to be with you since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Then we should wait until after --”

“Why? Because you believe my sorrows have taken hold of me?” Jing Yuan was clear in his words, “Even now you think low of me, a boy unable to even sort out his own feelings.”

“That’s not what I meant--”

“Leave me. And do not return. It’s clear to me now that I love you, but I was nothing more than a passing fancy you enjoyed in your orbit.”

You whispered his name as he turned back to his place by the window, leaving you to sit dumbly at his desk. How had the argument progressed to this? To a nuclear proportion that he did not even want to glance in your direction?

A few minutes ago, you were lost in his touch and now Jing Yuan seemed to want nothing to do with you. Ashamed and saddened, you gathered yourself and left at his request.

Even if you wanted to make this right, to apologize and explain your thinking, the days to come were thrown into absolute turmoil.

To think it was Dan Feng that committed the unthinkable, attempting to resurrect Baiheng and betraying the whole of the Laoufu. And Yingxing, his closest confidant and possible love of his life, had even assisted him. Neither man had warned you of their plans that day, not even as it backfired in one of the worst ways possible. 

You were at the wrong place at the wrong time. 

You were not a member of the High-Cloud Quintet.

You did not even have an elemental power granted to you by a path.

In the past, Dan Feng would offer to train you in case you needed it. But Jingliu had waved him away with a reassuring smile, saying that they would always be there to protect you anyway.

And yet here and now you were rendered flat on your back, the wind knocked out of you with scrapes littering your body. Phantom pain coarsed through every limb, making you question if your arm was even supposed to bend that way. With effort, one of your eyes struggled to open, but the pulsating pain in your head made it a daunting task. Despite the haze of agony enveloping you, you fought to grasp onto consciousness, struggling to make sense of the chaotic scene unfolding right in front of you.

Jingliu's movements across the Scalegorge Waterscape were swift, but also tinged with a recklessness that you had not seen before. You found it challenging to even breathe, having been blasted in the air after Dan Feng’s failed experiment.

With each passing moment, the burden of his and Yingxing’s failure weighed heavier upon you, pushing your body to exhaustion as it tinged with an unending pain.

There was no doubt about it in your mind.

You were struck with mara.

Why?

Why had Dan Feng betrayed his closest companions?

You doubted you were the only one with this new curse. 

Yingxing was never one for the front-lines, usually a presence with the other military engineers. And yet you watched as a savage look overtook his visage and he wielded his hammer against the Cloud Knights.

You barely caught a glimpse of Dan Feng being led away in chains, Jing Yuan declaring his crimes just a few steps behind. To your shock, the Cloud Knights then turned their attention to you, hauling you off the ground and listing off accusations as you were dragged away to prison alongside him.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, the solitude of the prison cell weighed heavy on your spirit. There was no one by your side, no friendly faces to offer solace. The smaller cuts and bruises that adorned your body had been tended to, evidence of some form of care during your unconsciousness. Yet, as you cursed your own helplessness, a sense of frustration and despair settled in your bones. You were powerless here, unable to flee, unable to prevent Dan Feng's actions, and now trapped in the confines of this unforgiving prison.

The guards whispered of the unforeseen events, the heroes of the Xianzhou now a taboo topic - one dead, two in exile, and the catalyst of their ruin in his own cell somewhere in this very building.

And Jing Yuan, somehow now the Arbiter-General of the Luofu Cloud Knights.

The guards of your cell refused to speak to you, ignoring your pleas to even identify your accused crimes or to get in contact with a Master Diviner. This felt surreal, unjust. You had never assisted Dan Feng in his plans, and if you had known of his intentions, you would have done everything in your power to stop him. Desperation clawed at you as you tried to reason with the unyielding guards, your voice echoing futilely in the cold, unfeeling corridor.

Days, if not weeks, passed in the cold, unending prison. Isolation gnawed at you, the silence suffocating. You hadn’t spoken to anyone and your mental state frayed more each day, teetering on the brink of breaking entirely. Despair settled in, a heavy blanket that dulled your senses and made time blur into a continuous, agonizing stretch.

“How pitiful you have become.”

You blinked up at his tall stature.

Jing Yuan.

Of all people to come to your lone cell.

“To think I held love for you in my heart.” He spat out, “You aided the traitor of the Xianzhou.”

“I never helped Dan Feng in his great sin.” You defended yourself, “And if you truly knew me like you claimed to, you would know that.”

"You dare turn on the one willing to hear you out?" Jing Yuan taunted, his voice dripping with cold truth. "There are a few who claim to have seen you assist Dan Feng.”

“That’s not true!”

“So all of them are lying?”

You shook your head and turned, “Of course you would not believe me.”

Jing Yuan scoffed, “Is my presence here not tantamount to my desire to see you? There is no one else here. No one else to turn to. In all your years of loyalty to the Xianzhou, only I am willing to listen to your defense." 

His words echoed in the cell, a cruel reminder of the precariousness of your situation. His eyes bore into yours, challenging and unyielding, leaving you to grapple with the bleak reality of your circumstances.

“And what? If I can’t convince you?”

“Then you will be exiled, like the others.”

Exiled.

To work as a slave for the IPC or end up in some other clutches, far from your home.

You felt useless, unable to fight. Unable to defend yourself.

"Nothing to say?" Jing Yuan's voice carried a mocking edge, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

You were always quick with your rebuttals, but now? Now that your life hung in the balance, at the mercy of someone who seemed to want nothing to do with you? He had already cast aside his closest friends; what fate awaited you?

“Then offer me one last favor Jing Yuan -- kill me.”

That was clearly not the response he was expecting. Surprise flickered across Jing Yuan's face, momentarily breaking his stoic demeanor.

Why should he be surprised?

As a Xianzhou native, you were destined to live hundreds of years of this now pitiful life. And to think that now you were struck with mara at such a young age. If you were to get caught up with the IPC, would you become their workhorse for centuries if not all of eternity? How long would it be before you decayed into a shell of who you were with nothing but a debt hanging over your shoulder?

It would mean bidding farewell to the life you once knew, condemned to an existence devoid of purpose, unable to end it even if you wished to.

“What?” His voice broke you, “You would rather die than beg me for your life?”

“You already hate me, don’t pretend. This outcome has already been decided. And if I were cast aside from the Alliance, it would be a death sentence that I would be unable to claim.” You scoffed, one last rebuttal that you could afford. 

Jing Yuan remained silent, a storm of emotions swirling behind his eyes. You could discern a few - confliction, surprise, but mostly anger simmering just beneath the surface. Had he not known that you were struck with mara?

He stepped up to the bars of the cell, “I could never hurt you.”

“Someone can.” You refused to look at him, furious at his attempt to capitalize on your lowest point. “Make the funeral private, at least.”

The general remained at the prison bars, his presence looming over you like a shadow. Despite your refusal to engage further in conversation, his imposing figure seemed to fill the room with an unspoken tension. The realization of your irreversible fate struck you like a hammer blow. 

If you were to be exiled from the Xianzhou, who else could comprehend the curse that had befallen you? With each passing century, you would grow and mutate, becoming a grotesque monster. Eventually, even the simplest acts of thought would be beyond your reach, leaving you trapped in a nightmarish existence for eternity.

You would rather end it now than be trapped in a body that would never die.

A young diviner was the next to visit you. She made it known she was only here at General Jing Yuan’s request, attempting to scry into your past to help prove your innocence at the Sedition of Imbibitor Lunae.

(A part of you found it holy ironic. The Quintet had served the Alliance for decades as their hero, but now all they would be remembered for is a single person’s moment of weakness.)

And yet… 

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing of use for your trial.”

“Nothing?”

“It seems you were rather close to Dan Feng… Including the early days of when he first concocted the idea of his sin.”

“I was always close to Dan Feng.” You argued, “It was not a secret that I was a friend to all the members of the Quintet. What of the people who claimed to see me during the incident? Why are they claiming something they never saw?”

The diviner glanced at the guards briefly, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It is a member of the Quintet who is citing your involvement.”

What?

Who?

Forget it, now was not the time to be dwelling on that. You had her attention now, perhaps the only time you would be allowed to speak to the diviner. You had one more question to ask, one more selfish request despite all he had put his friends through.

“What about asking Dan Feng himself, surely he can prove I was not involved?”

Immediately, her face looked conflicted, a frown deepening the lines around her mouth as she considered how to respond to your question. Her eyes darted away from yours, searching for the right words or perhaps the least painful truth. 

“Dan Feng no longer exists.”

No. 

No. 

She jumped at your outcry, a harsh wail contrasting her previously soft tone of voice. You did not blame her when the diviner made a swift exit after. There wasn’t much else she could do anyway, leaving you to wrestle with your anguish alone. 

The room seemed to close in on you, each shadow deepening the sense of despair. You were left with your thoughts, heavy and suffocating, attempting not to think of the molting rebirth your friend was possibly forced through.

Dan Feng had been your friend. 

And now he no longer existed.

How long ago had it been since you were joking around with him and Yingxing, sharing quiet moments as the sun dipped below the horizon? That memory felt like a distant dream now, tinged with the bitter sting of reality.

You cried endlessly, your tears only a single drop of your despair; how you wished fervently for the clock to strike backwards. To think that the kind-hearted Baiheng had sacrificed her life for her closest companions, only for her noble act to be twisted into the catalyst for one's descent into betrayal and madness. 

How could life be so cruel?

Tears flowed incessantly, streaming down your cheeks like a relentless downpour, transcending even the hours that you wallowed in your grief. The guards complained at your wailing, but you ignored them in your unending sadness.

But not even you could ignore a phantom touch that gently caressed the crown of your head. Blinking through the haze of your tears, your vision blurred by the curtain of familiar white hair that surrounded you. His lips brushed against your forehead again, a tender gesture that stirred confusion.

Jing Yuan in all his glory, inside your cell and offering small kisses to your person.

What the fuck was he doing here?

“You could have it all back — your family, your life here on the Xianzhou.” He murmured between open-mouth kisses, “I promise I will do everything in my power to take care of you.”

Jing Yuan.

Presumably the last remaining member of the Quintet still on the Laoufu.

Both Jingliu and Yingxing fled the Alliance the moment they were called to be imprisoned. Dan Feng was long gone. None of them would even have the chance to implicate you.

Jing Yuan.

The one person who could benefit from your imprisonment.

You had nothing to offer - you were not a legendary artisan like Yingxing or a formidable fighter like the others. Jingliu had always joked that you were under her protection, if anything were to come to pass, that she would always be there for you. But now she was gone and Jing Yuan’s authority was unchecked.

The boy they argued with ceaselessly.

The one whom many constantly underestimated, as if he had not already proven the power of his meticulous schemes. 

He was the cause of this. 

You had no proof, but the warning bell in your gut was at full blast as he attempted to lay more kisses on your person. 

The general was the only one with the authority to let you out of this dreary cell. And time and time again, Jing Yuan had made it known exactly what he wanted from you. Except now, you could no longer deny him. 

Jing Yuan had truly ripped apart every last defense you had. 

Face exile from the Laofu, left to wander the cosmos forever as either a slave and eventually a monster. Or, be subject to his every whim and want. 

Everything came with a price.

What must you pay?

You felt the heat emanating from Jing Yuan's body as he drew you closer, your lips meeting with a hunger that spoke of desires long held under the surface. 

His tongue met no resistance, roughly exploring past your lips to get you to succumb to his advances. The sound of your shared breaths, ragged and hurried, filled the air between you, punctuated by hungry moans. A hand threaded through your hair, holding you fast as your lips clung to each other, each kiss a promise and a plea. 

But how could you forget the true reality around you - this dingy prison cell where the person you felt the most conflicted for held the key. And with each second, he tempted you into this swirling vortex of his carnal hunger, the slickness of your mixed saliva and the dizzying sensation of his lips a constant reminder of what he truly wanted.

It was clear the silent command he was giving you. 

He had the power to grant you your life back. 

And if you wanted it, you needed to work for it.

That look on his face, the one that Jingliu refused to see, returned back in full force. It was predatory, charged with a lust that had long been at bay. And now, Jing Yuan held the reins, his eyes gleaming as he finally claimed the upper hand.

You hated him.

Why was he the only thing you had left?

Had he planned this all along?

All you felt was molten fury, wanting to spit at his face and push him aside.

You surrendered to his embrace, reciprocating his kiss with a fervent response. Waving that internal white flag, Jing Yuan had all but broken down every last barrier in a total victory. His tongue explored every contour of your mouth, leaving no inch untouched, as if staking a possessive claim over your very essence.

Suddenly he pushed you down with an unexpected force, the impact jolting through your body as you landed flat on your ass, the rough surface grazing your already tattered clothing. Gasping, you barely had a moment to gather your thoughts before the general followed suit. With Jing Yuan’s knees on either side of your hips, he loomed over you, his presence dominating as his lower garments were pushed down further and further.

Your mind teetered on the brink between shock and arousal, allowing only seconds of thought before Jing Yuan had unapologetically held his cock inches from your face.

The veins, engorged and pulsating, seemed to dance beneath his velvety, erect flesh. The prominent ridge glistened with a bead of pre-cum, its presence nearly tangible in the charged air. The sight of it, so close to your face, ignited a primal fire within you. And without thought, you licked at your lips, a reflexive reaction to the sudden craving for the taste of him. 

You had rejected him, constantly. 

Refused to look in his direction.

And yet here you were, eyes drinking in every nuance and curve of his bold offering.

The general’s smirk deepened, a predator reveling in the sight of his prey's desire. With a firm grip carding through your hair, he roughly forced your head closer to the throbbing, tenacious length of his cock. He was surprisingly gentle as he rubbed his hard dick against your face - the hot, slick flesh slapping against your skin.

For so long you only had biting words and quick rebuttals, calling him nothing more than a boy for decades. 

Even if you gave up your body to him, there was still that undeniable indignant look on your face as he rubbed his hard length against your skin. Jing Yuan would give anything to be in your head right now, imagining all the scathing words that you were surely throwing at him with each passing second.

He had broken your defenses, ruined all your plans to keep him at bay.

The general’s eyes glimmered with dark satisfaction at the sight of your submission. The absence of your fiery verbal retorts, the hallmark of your indomitable spirit, struck an unexpected chord within him. 

He wanted more.

Jing Yuan wanted to ruin you.

Being gentle and kind did nothing, falling only on deaf ears. It was only when you were cornered, trapped and alone, did you finally take a second glance in his direction.

You could barely manage tentative, small licks at the head of Jing Yuan's throbbing cock. The salty taste of his arousal danced on your tongue. With an unrelenting yet deliberate force, he pushed your head further, forcing you to take more of his length between your lips. The intrusion stretched you, cheeks hollowing as you struggled to accommodate him.

The general’s eyes raked over your flushed features, taking in the rapid rise and fall of your chest and the slight tremor that followed his shallow thrusts. How many nights had he imagined this very sight? From under his desk to the soft sheets of his bedroom, Jing Yuan must have thought of taking you over a thousand times. The dreams of you disheveled beneath his touch was nothing compared to the submissive, wide-eyed expression you were shooting him now. 

Jing Yuan knew that your apparent submission to him was nothing but a ruse, glimmers of defiance still shimmering in your gaze. He could almost hear the torrent of curses that must have been flung his way in the privacy of your thoughts. And oddly enough, the knowledge that you were harboring this fierce, passionate hatred for him held a perverse allure for Jing Yuan. He wanted to hear every venomous word from your lips, more passionate than he had ever seen you.

It was better than the cold vacuum of indifference.

“Choke on my cock, sweetheart.”

You let out a small, involuntary moan, embarrassed at how his harshness had ignited a fierce pang of want in the pit of your stomach. The sight of Jing Yuan's triumphant smirk only served to stoke it further, pushing your head down as he forced you to accept his length more fully.

Each time you tried to pull back, his hips would follow, driving himself deeper. There was no fighting his strength, especially as he loomed over you with his cock down your lips.

It was obscene, the guttural sound of his hard length entering your mouth. Your hands flew to his stomach, open palms against his clothes as he overwhelmed your senses. But it hardly held him back, more and more inches disappearing behind your lips. 

“Mhmmm—!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to return the favor later.” He murmured appreciatively, enjoying the view.

Unable to resist, you could not help but look up at him, eyes locking as he rushed to thrust impossibly deeper.  You regretted the eye contact a second later, since you felt his cock twitch in your mouth at the connection. Of course he loved any amount of attention you would give him.

He was insatiable.

And you had been making him worse and worse, a ticking time bomb until he could forcibly stake his claim.

You could only imagine what you looked like, panting like a whore in need as you choked on his cock, the only one you had ever sucked. 

He fucked your mouth like a hole, eyes rolling heavenward as he was relentless in his movements. You could barely move your tongue, his thrusts merciless even in the face of your tears. Even worse, shame pooled in your stomach as you felt slick pool at your cunt, turned on somehow by his rough handling.  

The general lifted a knee upward, forcing an even deeper angle down your throat as tears trailed down your cheeks. The sudden, brutal change in position left you gagging, throat constricting in a futile effort to resist the invasion.

You nearly screamed for mercy before he pushed you off entirely, barely catching yourself with outstretched palms on the floor.

“I hate you.” You spit out, unable to stop yourself.

But his smirk only grew, gentle hands methodically peeling each article of clothing from your body. The tattered garments, your last vestiges of dignity, fell like a rain of defeat to the cold, unyielding floor of the prison cell.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

Pride all but shattered, you could only do as he asked as he maneuvered you facing the prison bars. Your palms were splayed out on the rough ground, knees digging into the uneven crevices of the prison. 

The bed was for lovers, Jing Yuan was fucking you like a whore.

A cacophony of curses raged in your mind. Your fury, however, faltered at the sound of a throat clearing, the interruption echoing past the prison bars. The realization of the two guards flanking the door, their attention fixed on the wall in the distance, weighed heavy on your heart. They could not see you, but surely they could hear every single moan and movement.

Fear prickled at the base of your spine, a reminder that your forced intimacy was not as private as you had initially presumed. 

Truly, there was no one in the entirety of the Xianzhou who was on your side. 

Not anymore.

Your eyes, now wide with apprehension, flickered from the guards to Jing Yuan, uncertainty and trepidation clouding your gaze. And, of course, what had the asshole done? The general simply kept on smirking, that infuriating look on his face making it clear he knew about your worry.

“All will know that you are mine.”

He shoved you further, head down ass up as he kneeled down behind you. You expected more rough handling, a vicious cock down your hole at best.  But instead a soft, wet appendage rubbed about your clit. You whined in surprise as he licked your lower pearl, fingers trailing circles along your entrance. 

The last thing you expected him to do was give you any pleasure, focused solely on him. 

His fingers, trailing gentle circles around your now-sensitive entrance, left you on the precipice between shock and arousal. The change in his demeanor, from the strong general to a teasing lover, left your heart racing, your body caught between desire for his touch and the lingering fear that their privacy was a fragile, fleeting illusion.

“ This is my greatest treasure.” He clarified, his breath felt right on your skin. 

You groaned once more, feeling him lick and prod at your hole. 

You could endure his rough handling and harsh words, but Jing Yuan’s version of love was a torment of another kind. It was a twisted, sinister force, dark and corrupted. Each kiss carried a haunting shadow, every touch a reminder of the darkness entwining his affection. 

His love was a cruel paradox, making you question every moment of tenderness you shared in the past. 

Jing Yuan cradled the skin of your hips gently, his fingers delving into your velvety depths with a tenderness that was both unexpected and disconcerting. His thumb, circling your engorged clit, teased a sweet, exquisite ache, while his tongue flicked at your entrance in delicate, probing motion, each touch drawing a guttural moan from your parted lips.

The gentle invasion of both digits and tongue, however, was hard to deny. The pleasure that blossomed within you fought against even your mental resistance. Fear and lust mingled, leaving you teetering on the edge of a precipice.

In this quiet moment, the only sounds were your ragged moans, the soft wet suction of his mouth, and the squelching of his fingers entering and withdrawing from you. The tenderness of his actions made you squirm uncomfortably, expecting more from the general. 

But Jing Yuan was deliberate in his slow actions, tongue dancing along the contours of your clit, and eliciting delicious shudders through your quivering body. Your thighs trembled, the muscles tensing around his head as he feasted on you, savoring the sight of your body succumbing to the ebb and flow of his expert touch.

“Please--!”

“Please what, my love?”

But you refused to answer further, choosing instead to roll your hips, your body pleading for more of his touch. Jing Yuan reveled in the attention, the desperate plea in your voice only fueling his satisfaction. His fingers moved with swift purpose, exploring your depths until only his knuckles remained outside your messy hole. 

“More, more!” 

You teetered on the edge of begging, your parted lips dripping with saliva as you struggled to contain yourself. Jing Yuan heard your desperate pleas, but for whatever reason refused to yield to your words. Each repetition of his name escaped your lips like a fervent prayer, punctuated by the rhythm of your shallow breaths. The sound elicited a guttural moan from him, a raw expression of arousal as his tongue danced tantalizingly over your lower pearl.

“Who do you belong to?”

You were keenly aware of the answer Jing Yuan desired and the allure to comply with his wishes was almost overwhelming. He had you panting, your breath hitching in your throat as you eagerly rolled your hips back in time with his fingers, craving every inch of his touch. With each movement, you were propelled closer to the precipice of ecstasy, your body trembling with anticipation. His tongue traced rough circles on your pearl, each stroke igniting a fiery wave of pleasure that surged through your veins. You were on the cusp of climax, your hips rolling in rhythmic harmony with his touch as you chased the elusive edge of release.

“Who do you belong to?” The general asked again.

He had your body.

The only thing you could afford left was your mind, and stupidly you refused to give in.

“ No one .” You barely uttered a response, stubborn even as you panted like a bitch in heat.

“No one, huh?” Jing Yuan chuckled, not surprised by your continued resistance.

He would enjoy making you take that back.

Your whines of frustration filled the air as he abruptly ceased his actions, leaving you dangling on the precipice of cumming. You were on the brink of finishing, the tantalizing edge of release just within reach. His chuckle cut through the silence, mocking your desperate movements as you shamelessly thrust your hips towards him, consumed by a primal need to release the building tension. 

With a firm grip, he lifted your hips, pressing your front against the unforgiving ground as you struggled to muster the strength to support yourself. The unmistakable sensation of his cock against your backside sent a pang of short-lived happiness, his arousal pressing against the tender skin of your ass, a silent promise of what was to come.

Your desperate whimpers filled the air as his girthy length continued to evade you, teasingly rubbing against your heated skin. A surge of need flooded through you as he toyed with your clit, his hand wrapping around your front to caress your cunt with tantalizing strokes. With agonizing slowness, he traced the outline of his erect cock against your slick entrance, each time making you moan. The teasing friction left you trembling as you yearned for him to finally plunge into you fully.

“Please more--!”

“Perhaps you can take a lesson in patience.” He murmured against you, leaning in to plant kisses along your back. His white hair grazed your skin, causing an involuntary tremble to ripple through you.

“Need more, please please please…” You repeated absently.

“Then give yourself fully to me.” He commanded.

But you, in your stupid brain, refused yet again to give in.

With calculated precision, Jing Yuan teased the head of his shaft at your entrance, eliciting gasps of pleasure from both of you. The yearning for more was undeniable, a mutual desire to envelop him whole. 

His heated moan reverberated in your ear, sending waves of arousal through your body as his free hand explored your form. With a fierce grip, Jing Yuan seized the soft skin of your breast, his touch both demanding and electrifying. With each shallow thrust, his urgency grew, pressing against your skin with an intoxicating intensity.

“Give in, my love.” He whispered in your ear hotly, his deep voice making you clench around nothing. “I am the only one who can make you feel this good.”

You shook your head in denial, but you were unable to convince even yourself anymore that this was the right choice.

“Fine, I can make this night much worse for you.”

Before you could even rethink your refusal, Jing Yuan seized your hips once more, exerting pressure to push the plush curves of your ass together as he slid his hard cock between them. 

“Wait-!”

You wanted to scream as he rubbed his cock against between your ass cheeks, the sensation brought little pleasure for you. The only source of arousal stemmed from his wandering hand, which continued to caress circles on your sloppy clit.

“This is enough for me, is it enough for you?” Jing Yuan goaded you, still an asshole even as he slowly lost himself to your body.

His escalating moans filled the air, matching the quickening rhythm of his thrusts against the skin of your ass. The sight of him, sweaty and panting, was undeniably enticing, his deep voice resonating as he indulged in pleasure. The seductive allure of his arousal made you yearn for more, already regretting the decision to withhold your answer.

“Please, I take it back! I take it back…!”

He ignored your pleas and thrust against you with a relentless force, showing no signs of stopping. The general harshly pulled your waist back to meet his hips, rubbing the contours of your ass against his throbbing cock. The controlled rhythm of his thrusts dissolved into frantic urgency, his panting breaths a sign of his hurried pursuit of release.

In a final act of cruelty, Jing Yuan positioned himself at your entrance and prodded the head of his shaft at your tight entry. Immediately you clamped down on him, receiving a moan in response as you wanted nothing more than to be fucked. 

Finally were you about to experience relief? 

Or was he about to--?

“Jing Yuan…!”

His cock pierced you with little reprieve, the slap of his balls against your thighs as his warm essence spilled into you. You were hardly close to the end, having been denied by the pause of his teasing hands. His hips pressed firmly against yours as he reached the peak of his ecstasy, an uncomfortable wave coursing through you like a sudden tide.

Jing Yuan indulged in a few more shallow thrusts, relishing the sensation of your hot pussy clamping down on his cock. You could not ignore the uncomfortable sensation of his cum dripping out of your hole, surprised at how much he released inside you. Despite the lingering need for more, you doubted that anything less than total surrender on your part would be acceptable to him.

“Have you made up your mind? If not, I’m not against pushing together your tits and making you watch as I fuck your--”

“Fuck me, Jing Yuan.”

The general notably paused, gently lifting you by the waist to face him. You were effortlessly drawn into his lap, his powerful arms guiding you as you instinctively wrapped yours around his neck. Close to him now, his voice was low and intimate as he spoke.

“What was that, my love?”

“My body belongs to you, do whatever you want with me.”

“Uh-uh, that’s not the right answer and you know it.” He tsked at your words, “You know what I want. Give all of yourself to me.”

You pouted at the general, always astute even as he was losing his sanity.

“All of me is yours.”

“And all of my love is yours.” He replied back, connecting your lips together in a much more intimate embrace.

Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck as he kissed you, his lips fervently exploring your skin. He feasted on you, leaving red splotches along your neck and collarbone before descending lavish attention to the soft skin of your nipple. A moan escaped your lips at the sensation, earning a reciprocal groan from Jing Yuan as he reveled in the pleasure you shared.

“ Fuck .” The general murmured this time, a wandering hand going to your pussy to rub circles there yet again.

His firm fingers, hard and calloused from battles, circled your entrance, feeling the remnants of his earlier creampie drip out of you. A moan of appreciation escaped Jing Yuan as he pushed some of his cum back in, eliciting a mixture of surprise and pleasure from you. Despite the odd sensation, he silenced any protests with his passionate tongue on yours.

At the end of your sanity, you rolled your hips against his in a desperate plea to finally feel his hard cock inside you. His groan of approval echoed loudly in the room, happy to see you finally take some initiative.

“Fuck yourself on me, my love.”

Not one to be told twice, you aligned yourself with his erect length and immediately shoved yourself downward. 

A simultaneous groan of pleasure escaped the both of you as you joined together, throwing your head back as you barely managed to maintain your grip around his neck. Jing Yuan enveloped your nipple back into his mouth, his tongue teasing the sensitive skin as you lifted your waist up and down, setting a rhythm that drove you both to new heights of ecstasy.

“That’s it; lose yourself to me.” He encouraged you loudly, his moans resonating in your ear, yet you reciprocated with equally vocal responses.

You watched as even he arched his head backward in sheer pleasure, his eyelids fluttering as he stared at your bouncing tits. With every movement, you fought the urge to release a scream, the sensation on the verge of overwhelming you completely. Sensing your desperation, he effortlessly lifted his hips to meet yours, assisting you as you rode his length up and down.

It was hard to remember your hatred for him as he brought you to new heights never seen before. His long cock hit all the right places, prominent veins running against your slick walls. It beckoned you to give in, to lose yourself and beg for his cum.

Your body glistened with a sheen of sweat, legs locked around his hips as your core enveloped his leaking cock. The cell was alive with the primal sounds of your coupling, the slap of flesh against flesh punctuating the air in a rhythm that mirrored the pounding of your heart. Encouraged by his support, Jing Yuan intensified the rhythm, urging you to delve deeper and move faster, propelling you both towards the edge of euphoria with each relentless thrust.

“I’m.. close! More more more…!” You babbled without thought, making his dick twitch at your unabashed whine.

“Cum around my cock.” The general urged you on, “My sweet, sweet love.”

The frenzied pace of your hips accelerated, bodies colliding in an undeniable chase of raw want. In that moment, time seemed to stretch and warp, as the crescendo of your climax blinded you like a flash of lightning. The world around you dissolved, leaving your body to writhe and buckle under the euphoric onslaught. The spasms of your orgasm rippled through you, each contraction of your inner walls like a vice around Jing Yuan's shaft.

You felt your essence mix in your belly, spilling out as Jing Yuan continued in his onslaught. You cried out in a mixture of pleasure and new pain, your senses overwhelmed by the stimulation as he continued to fuck your womb with unbridled fervor, treating you like an abandoned, wet hole. Desperately, you pushed at his hard abs, pleading for him to cease, but he remained undeterred, thrusting into your pussy with the unstoppable determination of a man possessed.

“Less, less! No more Jing Yuan!” You begged between tears.

“You gave yourself up to me. Which means I decide when you are done.”

“Wha…”

“Open your mouth.”

You mechanically followed his request, your body bouncing in rhythm with each forceful thrust into your tight cunt. The inches of his hard cock rubbed deliciously against your velvety walls; you barely grasped his movement as he leaned closer, his dominance palpable as he spat down your throat. It was a visceral display of his control, leaving you breathless under his commanding presence.

You swallowed his saliva without question, your mouth opening wider as if beckoning more. His moan of approval reverberated throughout the room. Meanwhile, his cock appeared to swell even larger inside your sloppy pussy, responding eagerly to your submissive display.

Possessed to get a deeper angle, he seized your hips and swiftly flipped you around, placing you on your back on the unforgiving ground. You grimaced momentarily at the sudden movement, but before you could protest, he lifted a single knee to rest on his shoulder, positioning himself for better access. The angle was torturous, his thrusts delving further inside you, amplifying the already heightened sensitivity of your dripping wet pussy.

“Jing Yuan…!” You repeated his name continuously, singing high praises that stoked his ever growing ego.

“What do you want me to do, my love?”

“Cum inside me..!” You screamed out this time, sure that all the other prisoners could definitely hear you.

He smiled like a man overtaken by desire, before crashing his lips onto yours, a hand behind your head steadying you against him. Lost in the overwhelming pleasure, you could barely respond to his open mouth kisses. The harsh slap of his balls against your skin barely registered amidst the cacophony of pleasure coursing through you. All your focus was on the hard length of his shaft disappearing further into your eager cunt, each thrust driving you further into a blissful oblivion.

All you could hear was your name, spilled eagerly from his lips.

It was somehow too much and not enough, all at once. 

He maneuvered another one of your legs above his shoulder, ensnaring you in an unyielding mating press from which there was no escape. Drool escaped your mouth as he thrust downward into you, his movements devoid of rhythm as he relentlessly pursued his own climax. Your shared essences splashed disgustingly with each roll of his hips, the slick sounds loud as his cock pierced you. He was a man driven solely by desire, his golden eyes darkened as he fucked you with reckless abandon.

Abruptly, Jing Yuan's body stiffened, his hips jerking forward to press against yours. Once again, he released his hot cum deep within your stuffed pussy, the scorching liquid overflowing into your womb and cascading onto the floor below in a torrential rush. You felt many dribbles down and across your trembling thighs. Despite your overflowing cunt, Jing Yuan refused to part, plugging up your still-quivering entrance.

“I love you more than I know how to love. And I will spend every day reminding you of that fact.” He murmured on your skin, breath warm as he spoke.

Your senses returned to you immediately, a wave of shame and embarrassment washing over you. You berated yourself for succumbing to Jing Yuan's advances, feeling foolish and naive for allowing him to cloud your judgment. There was no way the general would ever let you forget the day you begged for his cock like a whore.

And now, it was highly possible that this coupling would connect your fates together in a future child forevermore.

The weight of regret must have been evident on your face, as Jing Yuan responded by rolling his hips and pressing his lips to your neck in a tender gesture. Despite the discomfort brewing in your lower regions, he only responded with a deep, satisfied moan, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil raging within you.

You were in awe at the sudden realization.

There was undoubtedly still a hard, erect cock inside you.

“Oh my god.” You could not help but comment.

“Perhaps I am better off fucking you within an inch of your life?” He punctuated his question with another shallow thrust, “This seems more to your liking than gestures of my love and affection.”

You hated him.

You hated how well he knew every inch of your soul.

And you especially hated how the veins of his cock felt against your messy pussy.

But Jing Yuan remained indifferent to your pleas. 

He was determined to demonstrate just how much he loved and wanted you, his actions speaking louder than words ever could. Despite your constant begging for reprieve, for him to pause and give you a moment's respite, Jing Yuan showed no signs of stopping. He continued to fuck you relentlessly on the floor, heedless of your tears. He lifted you against the wall next, adjusting your legs wide above his shoulder to reach an even deeper angle.

“No! No more please…!”

“I will make you regret ever seeing me as less than a man.” He whispered against your skin, balls slapping against you.

And you cried even more as he brought you to the bars of your prison cell. Your heart sank as you caught sight of the guards stationed at your door, the sole witnesses to the scene unfolding before them. Desperately, you begged Jing Yuan to stop, to consider the audience to his actions, but he remained unfazed. With a callous disregard for your pleas and ears of the guards, he pierced his cock into you against the cold metal bars, his climax marking yet another instance of his dominance over you, uncaring of the audience as he released himself inside your womb.

Jing Yuan claimed he was making you pay for your freedom. 

He subjected every inch of your body to his abuse, leaving a trail of red hickies adorning your skin as he claimed your body. From your sopping pussy to your small hands to your bruised tits, his mouth had explored every inch of your flesh, leaving you unable to keep track of the countless times he spilled his cum inside you.

In hindsight, you doubted there would be a single night henceforth that did not end with him emptying his balls in your hot cunt. 

Perhaps being sold as a slave to the IPC was a more merciful fate than this.

You woke up in an unfamiliar place, sprawled on a vast bed covered in layers of plush, fluffy blankets. As you sat up, the luxurious feel of fine silks against your skin caught your attention. The loose robe you wore was exquisite, its fabric whispering against your freshly cleaned skin. 

Despite the soft, decadent surroundings, the marks Jing Yuan had left on you remained, stark reminders of the previous night's intensity. 

Your hair, now free of knots and tangles, flowed smoothly over your shoulders, a far cry from the disheveled state it had been in during your imprisonment.  The room around you exuded opulence, a stark contrast to the cold, harsh cell you had endured for a seemingly unending amount of time.

“‘Morning, my love.” Jing Yuan greeted as he entered from the other room. 

He had that same infuriating smirk on his face, his eyes glinting with satisfaction as he approached the bed. Placing his palms firmly on the mattress, he leaned over to you as he brushed his lips against your forehead in a soft, lingering kiss.

“Perhaps we can go clothing shopping together today.”

The audacity of Jing Yuan to sport such a carefree smile, oblivious or perhaps taking joy in the turmoil he had inflicted upon you. How could he possibly pretend that everything was alright after coercing you into surrendering your very existence?

Your simmering anger must have been palpable, evident in the tightening of your jaw and the quiet fire smoldering in your eyes. Yet, instead of recoiling at your fury, Jing Yuan's smirk only widened, his demeanor remaining infuriatingly composed as he observed your seething discontent.

“Or would you rather stay here?” He tapped the bed with his fingers, “I’m sure we can think of plenty to do.”

You pushed away the blankets and stood, “I’d rather go out.”

“Without me, right?”

You held your tongue, eyes ablaze with tapered fury. In the face of Jing Yuan's smug demeanor, you feared that silence was the only retort you were allowed to show.

The general leaned over the bed, catching your elbow and shoving you back onto the bed.

“Say it.” He goaded you as he loomed over your body, a hand caressing the cascade of hair that spilled around you.

“What?”

“I can almost hear those scathing comments you once graced me with. I want to hear it.”

“I hate you.” 

You seized the chance to finally speak your mind, refusing to hold back as your statement held every ounce of hatred you harbored towards him. Perhaps you would express yourself more in as many ways as he would tolerate.

“Again, my love.” He whispered against your skin, lowering himself to nip at your neck.

“I hate you more than anything and anyone.”

“How passionate you must feel for me.” How infuriating his tone was, if only because Jing Yuan was being genuine. “I’ll be what inhabits your mind for all time. Your love, your hatred - this is enough for me.”

“I will never love you.”

His tongue traced a path along the curve of your collarbone, leaving a lingering sensation that you decidedly chose to ignore. With a slow, deliberate movement, he then brought his nose to your neck, inhaling deeply as if to fully appreciate your scent, the creep.

Foreheads pressed together, your gaze locked with his, unable to look away from his golden gaze.

“And I cannot wait to prove you wrong.”

[mwritesc]

A brief look at the (partially) scrapped first encounter with Adonis in the game. Enjoy, and let me know who you'd like to see next! - M

You look up though squinted eyes, reflexively from the sun, to the balcony built into the side of the house right above the front doors. There stands a figure, arms crossed over the stone balustrade.

Adonis wears an impish grin, brown hair shining golden underneath the summer sun. You can tell instantly from the smug look in his eyes that he's going to give you some playful quip regarding your state, sweat rolling down your temples and underneath your shirt. You decide to steal the first word for yourself before you give him a chance.

"Save it"

->"A nice day, isn't it?"

"Shouldn't you be harvesting?"

"A nice day, isn't it?" You say, releasing a breath of exhaustion. You cover your eyes with the back of your hand before looking back up to Adonis.

He chuckles, leaning further over the balustrade to peer down at you. The top of his hair brushes against the leaves of a lemon tree growing over the balcony. "I'm surprised you still think so," he notes with a smile. Of course.

Adonis, a dreamer before all else. Light as the wind, and quick as it too. He loves with a fire that burns bright, but burns out. He's a thorn in your side for it, but you love him nonetheless.

You roll your eyes at Adonis' last remark, leaving your spot across from the balcony with a small smile. He grins, leaving his place against the balustrade to head back into the house.

You push through the tall ashy front doors of the house with your shoulder, letting a ray of sunlight spill onto the stone floor in your wake. You're in the foyer, a room open to both floors with archways branching off to the rest of the house, and a staircase ascending to the upstairs. Earthy tapestries hang from the walls, depicting scenes of the earth and its natural beauties. They were all stitched at Cenchreis' loom, with her own patience and care.

Adonis rushes down the stairs, hand on the bannister, before stepping beside you to walk in sync.

"I would ask if you were in the mood for a hunt-"

"Does it look like I would be in the mood for a hunt?" You cut him off.

Adonis chuckles, spinning around you so that he walks backwards as you walk forwards, yet still stays right beside you. He's light on his feet, you note, even as you speed up.

"The grapes aren't going anywhere," he notes, gesturing with the tilt of his head to the basket of grapes you carry on your hip. "Gods, lets go somewhere."

"If you're bored, you can head out to the vineyard and get your chores done," you recommend.

Adonis frowns, brow creasing in thought, though in almost an instant his disappointment fades away. He seems to come to an idea.

"Lets swim."

"What?"

"In the falls. Just for a moment. It's cool, you can escape the heat."

Your steps slow, and your shoulders fall just a little. The sweat collecting at the back of your neck is getting more uncomfortable by the moment, and the thought of a quick swim begins to settle.

Adonis seems to see it, taking your forearm in one hand and pulling you to a gentle stop. He's got that soft, crooked smile, the one he uses whenever he tries to convince you to accompany him on one of his many adventures. Even now, after years, it's hard to say no.

"Just a quick swim?" You ask, jaw set.

"Just a quick swim."

[drinkacefahz]

THE SPIDER & THE BUTTERFLY | Improved Cocktail, Old-Fashioned, Sazerac-Style, Sidecars

“I didn’t create these drinks to be wasted like that.”

The third in my series of Improved Cocktail/Old Fashioned inspired TRIGUN cocktails, following the Life and Love and the NOMAN’S Eucharist 

First, fill serving glass with ice* and add about .25-.33 fl oz of absinthe to glass. Then, in a mixing glass with ice, stir together 

2 fl oz or 60ml Mezcal, preferably a Joven(unaged) one

.25 fl oz or 8ml Apple Schnapps or Liqueur (NOT Sour Apple Pucker) 

1-2 barspoons of dark agave nectar

1 dash Angostura bitters 

1/2 dropperful/1-2 dashes floral bitters of choice. I used the Burlesque bitters and Old Forester’s Hummingbird bitters but I think the apple blossom bitters from Hella would work great if I could uh find my bottle of it 

1/2 dropperful of Bittermen’s Winter Melon Tart Bitters. You could also use a dash of vinegar, a citrate, or even a pinch of citric acid -- a very small pinch! 

Meanwhile, the asbinthe rinsing your presentation glass will have begun to louche and turn cloudy from the ice melting. Anyway, you’re going to take a strainer that fits your glass rim, and strain that louched absinthe into a sidecar, like a shotglass or a glass used for drinking baijiu or vodka. Then dump out the ice and strain the cocktail into your serving glass. I’d go with a smaller glass than a double old fashioned/rocks glass if you have one. Express a lemon twist or garnish with a herb like basil, mint or sage. To consume, alternate between sipping the cocktail and the absinthe. I believe it’s Simon Difford who serves his Sazeracs with a sidecar of the absinthe used to rinse the glass.

This is a powerful drink to sip slowly, with patience. I’ve stayed mostly in a Southwestern motif for ingredients but Knives being Knives, what common people are limited to isn’t a limit here, and both the sharp, aggressive, occasionally gasoline-like qualities of many young mezcals suits his personality. The absinthe also speaks to his obsession -- and madness -- as well as the common depiction of absinthe as a “green fairy” with butterfly like wings, while the appearance of the agave plant and its many spines calls to mind the legs of a spider. The variety of plants and flavors involved in the combination of bitters make it remarkably balanced -- the Burlesque Bitters feature hibiscus, acai, and long pepper -- a distinct reddish motif -- and realizing I use them in this and Wolfwood’s drink, I think they’re somewhat representative of Vash. 

And, the modifying liqueur here, well... read Trigun Maximum if you haven’t. 

*Fun fact, before the invention of big freezer units we could store glassware in for service, this is how a bartender in a saloon in the 19th century would prepare a glass to provide a cold cocktail.

[unitedstatesofworld]

Shari Ann Chinnis Indianapolis: Unveiling the Journey of a Remarkable Personality

Ever heard of Shari Ann Chinnis in Indianapolis? Her story is fascinating, full of unexpected twists and turns. With deep roots in Indianapolis, Shari Ann has left a lasting impact on everyone she meets. Her life offers many lessons, from resilience to passion, and today we’ll dive into the journey of this extraordinary individual. Buckle up as we uncover the story behind "Shari Ann Chinnis Indianapolis" and what makes her a name worth knowing!

Who is Shari Ann Chinnis?

To truly understand Shari Ann Chinnis Indianapolis, we need to take a step back and ask: Who is she? Shari Ann isn’t your average person from Indianapolis—she’s a powerhouse of determination, creativity, and kindness. Having grown up in the vibrant city, Shari Ann developed a unique perspective that blends small-town charm with big-city ambition.

Born and raised in Indianapolis, Shari Ann’s early life was shaped by her strong family ties and community values. She’s someone who stands out, not just for her achievements but for the way she stays grounded despite the success.

The Journey from Indianapolis to Success

Like many journeys, Shari Ann's path wasn’t always smooth. Life threw curveballs, but she turned them into stepping stones. Indianapolis was her home base, but Shari Ann’s ambition took her beyond the city’s borders. What were some of the challenges she faced? Well, balancing her personal life and career was no easy feat, yet Shari Ann Chinnis Indianapolis found a way to manage both with grace.

Her journey speaks volumes about resilience. You know the old saying, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade?" That’s Shari Ann’s mantra. Instead of being bogged down by obstacles, she embraced them and learned from every experience. This attitude allowed her to make a name for herself not just in Indianapolis but beyond.

Shari Ann Chinnis Indianapolis: A Community Leader

Being successful is one thing; giving back is another. Shari Ann Chinnis Indianapolis is more than just a name in the city—she’s a community leader who believes in paying it forward. Whether it’s through charity work, volunteering, or simply mentoring younger generations, Shari Ann always finds ways to contribute.

It’s not hard to imagine why people in Indianapolis hold her in such high regard. She’s someone who leads by example, constantly pushing for positive change while keeping her feet firmly planted on the ground. When was the last time you saw someone balance success and humility so perfectly? Shari Ann does it with ease!

Building Bridges in Indianapolis

One of Shari Ann’s most notable contributions is her ability to build bridges—literally and figuratively. From forging meaningful relationships in the business world to connecting different communities in Indianapolis, Shari Ann’s influence is far-reaching.

Her knack for bringing people together is something Indianapolis greatly benefits from. With her leadership, the city has seen collaborations that might not have been possible otherwise. It’s these qualities that have cemented her place as an integral part of the Indianapolis landscape.

Challenges and Triumphs

No success story is complete without a few bumps along the road. Shari Ann Chinnis Indianapolis faced her fair share of challenges, but these obstacles only fueled her determination to rise above. Whether dealing with personal setbacks or professional hurdles, Shari Ann kept moving forward.

It’s a lesson we can all learn from. Life doesn’t always go as planned, but how we respond to adversity often defines who we become. For Shari Ann, each challenge was an opportunity in disguise, and she never hesitated to seize those opportunities with both hands.

Lessons from Shari Ann Chinnis

What can we learn from Shari Ann Chinnis Indianapolis? Plenty! First, perseverance is key. Success doesn’t come overnight, and Shari Ann’s story is a testament to the importance of hard work and patience. Second, it’s essential to remain humble. Despite her accomplishments, Shari Ann never lost touch with her roots in Indianapolis, and she continues to give back to her community.

Let’s not forget about adaptability. Life is unpredictable, and Shari Ann’s ability to pivot and adjust to new circumstances is one of the reasons she’s been so successful. From switching career paths to embracing new opportunities, Shari Ann’s flexibility has served her well.

How You Can Apply Shari Ann’s Lessons to Your Life

Stay grounded: Never forget where you came from, no matter how far you go. Like Shari Ann, maintain your connection to your roots.

Embrace change: Life is full of twists and turns. Instead of resisting, learn to adapt, and you’ll find success just as Shari Ann Chinnis Indianapolis did.

Give back: Success is sweeter when shared. Find ways to contribute to your community, just like Shari Ann has done in Indianapolis.

What’s Next for Shari Ann Chinnis Indianapolis?

As Shari Ann continues to grow and evolve, the future looks bright. Indianapolis remains her home, but her influence stretches far beyond the city limits. Whether she’s embarking on new professional ventures or deepening her ties to the local community, Shari Ann’s journey is far from over.

But what could be next? Perhaps new partnerships, innovative projects, or even a broader platform to share her story with the world. Whatever it is, we can be sure that Shari Ann Chinnis Indianapolis will approach it with the same passion, determination, and heart that has defined her career thus far.

Conclusion

In the grand tapestry of life, Shari Ann Chinnis Indianapolis is a thread that weaves together success, resilience, and community spirit. Her story is one of perseverance, humility, and the power of giving back. From overcoming challenges to making her mark in Indianapolis, Shari Ann continues to inspire those around her. She’s a true testament to what one can achieve with hard work and a heart full of compassion.

[mirrorreview]

“Muggles” may not believe in magic, but J.K. Rowling does. She is an author who gave us one of the most remarkable book series of all time. She captured our hearts through the fictional world of Harry Potter. Rowling is known for her dry and witty humor. Before becoming a successful author, she faced many challenges, but despite that, she was very successful in her career and life. Through the JK Rowling quotes, inspire yourself to squeeze the bitter lemons life gives you.

[reveriixs]

Emir let out a slow breath, rolling his eyes skyward as if asking the universe why he had to deal with this nonsense before he'd even had his coffee. He could feel Mia’s glare drilling into the side of his face, her frustration practically radiating off her. She had that look—like she was a hair’s breadth away from either snapping or crying, and he wasn’t sure which would be worse. Her biting remark made him snort, a sound that was more exasperation than amusement.

“Oh, trust me, sweetheart,” he drawled, sarcasm dripping from every word, “my vision is just fine. It’s your perception that might need some work.” He shot her a quick, sharp grin, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

As she reluctantly agreed to share the cab, he couldn’t help but notice the way her face twisted in irritation, like she was sucking on a lemon. “Closer than I think, huh?” he mused, voice tinged with mock seriousness as he opened the door for her. “- thank you for enlightening me. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind for the next showdown over public transportation.”

He held the door open, gesturing grandly. “After you, Your Highness. Let’s get this over with, shall we? Time’s ticking, and I wouldn’t want you to be late for whatever crucial thing you’ve got going on.” His tone was light, almost teasing, but an edge was underneath it—a sharpness hinting at just how little patience he had left.

mia's patience was wearing thin, the sting of losing yet another cab making her blood simmer. she had been here first — at least, that's what her frayed nerves were insisting. and now this guy, with his smug smirk and pointed remarks, was pushing her buttons in all the wrong ways. "really? then you should probably get your eyes checked."

she gave him a hard look, her eyes narrowing as she weighed her options. the idea of sharing a cab with him was far from appealing, but time was slipping away, and she couldn't afford to be late to her meeting. with a sigh, she decided to swallow her pride, but not without a parting shot.

“fine,” she said, her tone clipped as she met his gaze head-on. “we’ll share. but just so you know, i was closer than you think.” she stepped back, giving him just enough room to open the door, but not enough to hide her annoyance. “are you getting in or what?"

[onceuponatown]

In 1869,  Albert Smiley purchased a ten-room inn on Lake Mohonk and expanded it into the sprawling, marvelous Mountain House it is today—now in its fourth and fifth generations of Smiley family proprietorship. Albert Smiley’s vision was to preserve a natural paradise for guests, a place to rejuvenate away from the stresses of work and city life. But Albert was more than just a hotel proprietor. In 1895, he convened the first of many Conferences on International Arbitration at the Mountain House, bringing together leaders to meet and discuss world issues.

Over the decades, distinguished visitors to the Mountain House have included five U.S. presidents, naturalists, theologians, business leaders, actors, artists, musicians, and more. 

The early story of the Mountain House begins with two identical twin brothers, Quakers Albert and Alfred Smiley. Albert was co-principal of the Friends Boarding School in Providence, Rhode Island, and hoped to retire to a place in the country. In September of 1869, his brother Alfred felt he had found the perfect location. On an outing to Paltz Point, now the site of Sky Top Tower, Alfred was so taken by the stunning vista he telegraphed Albert and implored him to make a visit. Initially claiming he was too busy, Albert relented and made the journey that would chart the course of the rest of his life.

A ten-room inn, Stokes Tavern stood at the time on Lake Mohonk. Albert purchased the tavern and the surrounding acres with $14,000 in savings, $300 contributed by his wife Eliza, and a $14,000 bank loan. The era of Mohonk Mountain House had begun.

The ten-room inn was renovated and expanded, and the Mountain House underwent a grand but gradual conversion to the place we see today. The facility opened with accommodations for 40 guests in June of 1870. Over the years that followed, rooms and buildings were added, then torn down and rebuilt as the need to grow larger became paramount. The current Dining Room was completed in 1893, the Lake Lounge and Parlor in 1899—both with electricity, so changes have been minimal in these areas. In 1910, the Dining Room Circle extension was completed, and this marked the end of additions to the Mountain House until the modern era. At its highest capacity, the Mountain House boasted 300 rooms (currently 259). The Victorian ambiance of the decor and furnishings has been maintained since the Mountain House’s inception.

There is no single architectural style reflected in the sections of the Mountain House. They are, from south to north, the Spa wing, the Rock section (so named because it sits on the rock cliffs), the Stone building (as the walls are made of hand-cut stone, making them appear “castle-like”); the Central building (including the Lake Lounge and Parlor); the Grove, and the Dining wing. Using various materials (stone was an early favorite due to concerns about fire safety), they contribute to an eclectic mix of styles that helps achieve the near magical look of Mohonk Mountain House.

Mohonk Mountain House is located in the Shawangunk Mountains, designated by The Nature Conservancy as one of Earth’s “last great places.” When Albert Smiley purchased the Mountain House, the grounds were largely untamed wilderness. Herculean efforts were required to create the system of carriage roads and trails that are still in use today. Albert Smiley was a passionate gardener. He and the early groundskeepers trucked in tons of soil and applied near-infinite patience to establish the Mohonk gardens. These gardens were influenced by the English style of landscaping of the mid-19th century.

Beginning with Albert, the Smileys began a process of land acquisition, buying up surrounding farms in an effort to preserve a pristine area around the Mountain House, free from development. Guests engaged in hiking and carriage rides throughout this property, enjoying stunning vistas such as those seen from Copes Lookout and Eagle Cliff Road, as well as Sky Top with its views of six surrounding states. A belief in the beauty of nature motivated these acquisitions. Preservation was further enhanced in 1960 when the Mohonk Trust was established; the trust later became the Mohonk Preserve, a non-affiliated sister organization to the Mountain House, which is now the largest visitor supported nature preserve in New York State. Mountain House guests have access to 8000 acres of Preserve land, 1200 acres of Mountain House land, and nearby state park lands, for access to a total of over 85 miles of hiking trails.

Rock scrambles such as the Labyrinth (with its famous Lemon Squeeze) have been popular since the early days of Mohonk, allowing guests from all eras to navigate these remarkable tunnels and fields of boulders. Rock climbing was a popular activity at Mohonk.

Lake Mohonk is a glacial lake, fed from sky water, not from nearby streams. It stretches a half-mile long, and is 61 feet at its deepest. The lake is stocked with trout (perch, sunnys, bass, and pickerel can also be found). There is swimming at the beach, and guests enjoy canoeing, boating, and paddle boats. Dotting the majestic cliffs and the carriage roads are over 125 scenic summerhouses, a mainstay of the Mohonk experience since the early days.

See our first post on the Mohonk Mountain House here.

[heartsofminds]

saudade

I think I fell in love with him the same way that the seasons come and go. 

Our timeline is one of blistering colors and ever changing temperatures with birthdays, school dances, and holidays thrown in the mix and if you linger for too long, you’re looking at January from the perspective of December when you swear it was just July and you were comparing the size and itchiness of your mosquito bites with all your friends. The pink stains of cherry popsicles on white t-shirts turn in to pink cheeks during biting snow storms in November when prayers of school being cancelled are answered. 

I fell in love with him like I did with the spring. My affection and care for him growing subtly and slowly, but beautifully through the same lens. The ice wall of winter I had built around myself slowly but surely melting away and being able to stand talking to him for more than ten minutes without wanting to wring his neck. 

We blossomed like the flowers through random inside joke texts that never made anyone feel pressured to respond. Wet grass feeling good on your bare feet like how the teasing smirks and “Hey!”’s and “Hi!”’s and “What’s up?”’s are thrown around like you’re playing catch in the hallway between passing periods. I fell in love with him like I did with the spring because for once my feelings for him weren’t frigid or blazing; they were calm and collected and for once in my life I was content with the thought of him sticking around and us forever living in this comfortable limbo of “what could be” and “what is.” Back then the former and the latter didn’t make my head spin. 

I fell in love with him like I did the spring because for a long time I felt the chill of winter and in a flash, the comfort of summer, hot and humid, crept up on me and the sweetness of freshly pollenated flowers stuck around just short enough that I could never get sick of it. 

I fell in love with him like I did with the summer. Blistering heat, funky tan lines, friendship bracelets, and sunsets that emulated cotton candy and lavender fields. Our friendship growing and my head above water in a refreshing pool of compliments and endless banter. The cacophony of cicadas and long walks and the thrill of being places together without getting caught.

The guilt was fun; having a secret that no one was to know about. Sitting on picnic blankets at dusk; legs across his lap and the endless circles and smiley faces drawn into my calves by his dull, half moon thumbnails. The stars and the lightning bugs forcing the words out of ourselves. “We’re taking things slow. Right?” even though neither of us were known for our remarkable patience. 

His smile warmed me and the idea of being each other’s exclusively routinely drowned me. The fear of diving into a shallow pool, the knowing that if it ends it would end badly, so deathly terrifying that I almost turned it away. Through rainbow colored embroidery thread and lemon ice cream I fell for the goofy grins and the lingering hugs. I fell for the sunset watching and the shared childhood stories and the idea that maybe, quite possibly, this could be an ocean instead of a pool. 

I fell in love with him like how I fell in love with the summer because I could never tell if the warmth in my body was from my sunburned cheeks or the compliments he used to give me. 

I fell in love with him like how I fell in love with the fall. Football games and meeting him at his house after, painting my face with his jersey number, and homecoming thrown somewhere in the mix between advanced placement calculus and chemistry. The chill in the morning walking from the car into the school building and the heat of the summer still lingering like an afterthought at 3 PM; the sweater brandishing your arms immediately coming off at the end of the day before cranking up the A/C in the car to drive the eight minutes home. 

We snuck in kisses between splitting ways to attend after school practices. The leaves falling off the trees and hot teenage hands that possessed the warmth of summer in places where they shouldn’t have been. I fell in love with him like how I fell in love with the fall because my days and nights flipped, and when you’re falling for someone you can’t exactly pinpoint when and where these things happen. 

I fell in love with him like how I fell in love with the fall because I was convinced he was perfect for me and he would never change, just like the oak tree in my next door neighbor’s yard. 

I fell in love with him like how I fell in love with the winter. The snow on the ground and seeing the heat of your breath in the air. Ice skating around my heart and planting himself further into me; making sure I never forget our time together and what was to come. We ignored the elephant in the room of having to make up our minds. 

I learned that every snowflake is unique as well as every moment spent with him. He blew hot air on my cold hands. He walked me to my car and gave me prolonged hugs as it warmed up so I wouldn’t have to drive home in the cold before the heat actually did what it was supposed to do. 

I fell in love with him like how I fell in love with the winter and if I think about it for too long, my eyes start to water and my lips start to shake. I fell in love with him like the winter, because then I knew he could never love me the same way. 

I sat through the seasons with and without him; the life I had before in high school forcing its way into my conversations with old friends. His name buzzes in my ears like the wasps in their nests in my aunt’s backyard; the location of my many birthday parties. Parties that involved him, of course. 

I fell in love with him through grainy FaceTime phone calls in shitty dorm rooms with even shittier wifi. I fell in love with him through inside jokes and flirtatious looks. I fell in love with him through my own selfish hopes; the idea that I no longer wanted him but didn’t want someone else to have him and that we could work. The hope that we could make sense long term being the daylight savings to transport us back to summer, back to where things were good and happy and warm and we were free. 

My heart used to shrivel and my stomach used to drop at the thought of someone else having him. My heart used to swell with pride at the idea that I was the only girl who had him during the seasons of him I had witnessed and that no other girl could take that away from me, no matter how intelligent or gorgeous or sweet or obnoxious the next one is. I’ll always have been some of his springs, summers, autumns, and winters. But then I realized that I won’t ever be that girl again and that I myself will never have him the way that I did. The seasons changed and so did he and so have I. 

So now I fall in love with him from afar, thankful to have been loved by him the best way he knew how. I sit and wait for new flowers to grow and the next lavender and peach sunrise to come on a cool spring morning. I fell in love with him during the spring and I am waiting and seeing if the sunrise brings me some more clarity this time. 

[sinkix]

《Haikyuu! Mafia Boys [AU] x Fem!Reader》

Warning: Contains NSFW & 18+ content 

Characters: Kuroo, Iwaizumi & Akaashi.

Hope you enjoy, if this is something you guys would like to see more of then let me know! 

Song: Beast - Mia Martina

The drag of a cigarette before squishing it under the sole of his shoe. That’s Kuroo for you, savouring the pleasure in things before discarding them once the satisfaction sizzles out. What makes you so different, then? Well, I’ll tell you, you keep him on his toes like no one has before. He first met you while gazing longingly at you from across the club, loosening his tie and spreading his lips into a seductive grin no one could resist. Maybe he should take you back to his hotel? He pondered in his mind how it would feel to have his head between your legs, fingers furling around his unruly locks as he drags his tongue across your slit till your toes curl and thighs spasm. The thought pleased him, if only for a night. Strolling up to your seat at the bar like a predator hunting its prey, his gold clad fingers twinkled under the warm lights of the bar, eyes glinting with an irresistible mischief. “How are you doing tonight, sweetheart?~” The low, rumbled purring rolling off his tongue all too easily as if he had tangoed with it many times before. Quick steps back and forth, slithering toward you with temptation no woman could resist, yet here you were rolling your eyes at his advances and stepping on his toes in rejection. Oh? Trying his upmost to serenade you, his teeth grit in growing impatience at your cold dismissal, he could tell all attempts were futile. And that’s when you turned to face him, heart stopping and head spinning at the sight of you.  Those bright, ‘come to bed’ irises staring back at him with a strong sense of defiance. “Listen buddy, I’m not interested. You seem experienced in this so why not sniff up someone else’s leg tonight? You won’t be getting it from me.” Twirling the head of his own pistol and aiming it toward his temple, you refused to be in range of deadly fire that could shatter anyone’s heart. You made it known you were the one in control, and it projected loud and clear. Stumped with total loss for words, his brows raise with a hammering pulse against his chest. What’s this? A rush. Clearing his throat and deciding to take up your little challenge, he persisted. How could you turn him down so easily? No woman had ever refused him before. Single, married, rich, poor. None of it mattered once his sights were set, he knew anyone would give in to his advances. Not you though, and that’s what excited him. He had to work for what he wanted. After an hour of conversing with you, albeit pretty one sided, you sigh in defeat and raise from the bar, slipping him a piece of paper and walking away, glancing over your shoulder with an indecipherable expression. “Look, I gotta go, but if you’re that interested in entertaining me, give me a call. You’re not all too bad.” Lulled by the soothing sway of your voice, he chuckles with bitter perversity. If only you knew how many counts of murder and extortion he had strapped under his belt and carved to his name.  He sat there and watched as you walk away, body melding with the music and hips squeezing the satin dress stained a deep crimson in the best ways possible, oozing a seduction rivalling his own. Kuroo made an internal vow then and there, he would chase you to the ends of the earth until he could call you “mine.” And so he did. Running tirelessly after your back, extending a hand until you slowed, if only a little, allowing him to grasp hold of what he so desperately longed for. No one could compare to you, and he strongly believed no one ever could. You had this black-haired bad boy mafioso wrapped around your finger like a thread,  twirling it effortlessly and dragging the heel of your stiletto under his chin, toying him with the feeling of your dripping core wrapped tightly around his member, sliding your hips down like a professional working the pole. His tattooed hands hovering over your breasts and groping them with an insatiable hunger that only you could fulfil.    And that’s when he knew, He’d never be satisfied with anyone else.

Song: Dog Days - Richard Freeman

The soft sound of jazz music floods the bar, taking an elongated sip of the embered whiskey and curbing the craving of a spiced kick to the throat. Iwaizumi Hajime, a stern and business oriented man who pays no mind to anything that doesn’t reward with monetary gain. He eyes the waitress carefully, pupils crawling over her tightly-clothed backside wrapped in black apron accented with blue ribbon.  Humming to himself, this captures the attention of the mysterious and enchanting woman. You. “We have a karaoke night on Thursdays, maybe you should sign up, you have a quite a nice voice.” Smirking impishly with a chuckle, you eye him with equal intensity.  “You know, it’s a little rude to stare at someone without reason, do you need another drink orrrr...?” Trailing off with soft seduction, it’s corrupting to the ears and Iwaizumi can feel his groin shift uncomfortably in his seat. Good looking, sarcastic, a little bratty and more than capable of conjuring a clever quip or two to decline his patience.  Huh, kinda sounds like someone he knows. If it’s some playful mental sparring you want, then it’s what you’ll get. “Mmm, I wouldn’t mind another drink, though are you sure it’s not against staff policy to be so troublesome toward clients?” His voice is gravelly and rough, the husk reverberating throughout the room devoid of people, washing over you like a tidal wave- no, tsunami. It leaves your knees trembling from below the bars island. “Well there’s no one here to scold me, is there?” This time it’s Iwaizumi’s turn to chuckle, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that darling.” His veiny hand curls around the empty glass, sliding it in your direction as you eye his exposed forearms, revealed by the rolled up sleeves of his white button-up shirt. The top two buttons are left carelessly undone, giving him a rugged quality you couldn’t help but appreciate. Drinking in the sight of him with Iwaizumi doing the same, you spot a beautiful tattoo peaking from the top of his shirt and decorating his chest. “That a beautiful tattoo.” You remark as you take the glass from his hands, shivering from the gentle way your fingers brush. Iwaizumi jolts slightly, his brow furrowing in what seems like... restraint? “It is, what a shame you can’t see the rest underneath.” He responds gruffly, his mouth quirking into a grin as you place a sprig of lemon around the rim of the glass. “Mmm, it is.” You counter, deciding to harness the sexual tension brewing in the air and deem it your personal puppet, pulling the strings until he caves, breaking the silence once again.  “Tell me, what’s your name?” “Iwaizumi, Iwaizumi Hajime.” “What a lovely name... Hajime.” you purr, resting your elbows on the counter and pushing your chest forward, locks of hair dancing in your vision that you drag between your fingers and tuck behind your ear.  Normally, somebody addressing him on a first name basis so informally would leave him seething, but from you it sounds like heaven, and he wants more. Needs more. “Fuck this.” He mutters. At wits end and grabbing the front of your apron, he pulls you across the counter, lips colliding with yours hungrily as his hands find their way to your neck, squeezing just enough to make your eyes water. You break away with a gasp, a string of saliva connecting your mouth and tempting you with more.  “Someone’s eager, aren’t they? What if someone walks in?” You hush, teeth grazing across your lower lip while propping yourself on the top of the island, skirt hiking up your exposed thighs and pricking at the cool of the air con. “Let them, they’ll see how much of a little whore you are.” “Ah ah ahh, that’s not very nice is it baby?” you tut, quirking a brow and sliding your legs closed as if to deny him access. “Don’t be a brat with me, I’ll have you begging soon enough.” His hands roam over the soft skin of your legs before finding their way to your core. Grinding his fingers against your lace-clad slit, he hums in satisfaction. “Well someone’s soaked, is that all for me princess?” You whimper in response, struggling to stabilise your breathing and retain your composure. A needy moan escaping your lips before he silences you with his own once again, fist balling against his shirt with increasing desperation as the squelching sound of his fingers pumping into you begin to sound through the air. The thought of you begging for someone had always been ludicrous, but here you were, being finger-fucked recklessly on the counter with the risk of your manager imposing at any second.  It doesn’t take long before you realise, He wasn’t wrong.

Song: Havana - Camilla Cabello

Inky 8-piece hat, polished off with red tie looped through a black tuxedo, Akaashi Keji was made of the finer things in life. All thanks to his profession that was less than holy. Standing at the entrance to an alleyway, you can’t help but turn your head as you walk past, carrying the grocery bags holding tonight’s meal and admiring his commanding aura. The sound of gunshots knocks you out of your reverie as you’re grabbed harshly by the shoulders and slammed against the cold walls of the backstreet, encased by his body which was looming over you protectively.  The steely gaze of gun-metal blue pierces into your own, enraptured by this mans eyes you almost forget to breathe, heart pounding erratically in your chest when it hits you. Had he just saved your life? You stand there for a moment until the gunfire ceases, the sound of sirens blaring in the distance.  Grabbing hold of your wrist, he bolts down the concrete pathway with you in tow, thudding leather shoes echoing off the walls as he simply tsk’s, as if running from the police was no more than a menial chore. Hastily attempting to match his pace, you can’t help but let your mind wander and wonder what the hell you’d just gotten yourself into. Once he seems satisfied with the distance put between you and the scene, you come to a halt. Panting and on the brink of keeling over, you take a moment and stare in awe at the building before you. A classy, 5-star hotel polished from head to toe. “You really need to work on your stamina.” he quips, eyeing you up with an unreadable expression. “Shut up. What are you, my mom?”  “Come, now that you’re a witness they’ll be after you too.” “Wh-huh?! You can’t just-” Before your brain can process the speed of events, he’s pulling you behind him once again, you sigh in frustration at how you’re allowing this man lug you around like a suitcase. You’ll allow it just this once, being your saviour and all. He saunters up to the desk, and the woman working behind visibly flushes. “Your name, sir?”  “Akaashi Keiji.” While he checks in, you take in your surroundings.  A gleaming chandelier that probably costs more than your entire apartment, sparkling water fountains streaming with water that pools into a crystal encrusted surface, and sleek statues crafted like something out of the renaissance. It was all too much, you’d never been in such a wealthy environment before.                  The woman slips the keycard over the counter, eyeing him up and down. She clocks your presence and narrows in annoyance. You can’t help but shake your head at the woman’s actions, have she no shame? “Thank you.” Is all he says before hauling you behind him once again. “I can follow you by myself you know.” You huff in frustration. Turning his head, he watches as you pout like a petulant child and can’t help but chuckle. “What? what’s so funny?” You bark, folding your arms as he presses the button to the elevator. Before you can refuse, you’re pressed against the back wall and hoisted up by his knee. You moan involuntarily as the jolt of the elevator grinds you against his leg. “Akaashi what are you-” “Shit. Say my name, say Keji.”  “you- HUH?”  “Think of it as payment for saving your life.” He murmurs, lips ghosting against the skin of your neck, your hands find their way to his tie and yank him forward indigently. How long had it been since you’d gotten laid anyway? You couldn’t remember, and this man wasn’t helping by abusing all the right places tenderly with his teeth. Butterflies swirl in your stomach at the close contact, cheeks firing up and fuelled by the burning chemistry your bodies shared. “Shouldn’t saving someone from that situation be human decency?” you squeak, melting beneath the feel of his large palms slipping under your skirt and scathing the skin of your hips. “No, normally I wouldn’t bother, too much effort” He groans between kisses, almost lazily at the thought of it. “I’m not quite sure why I felt compelled to help, and now I’m regretting it because of your ungrateful ass.” He smirks, eyes darting with a sense of playfulness you hand’t quite expected. “Oh how charitable of you” you spat. “Mmmm...” he groans, so dangerously close to your ear that your legs buckle without protest. You stare shamefully at the floor. “Weak at the knees for me are we, baby?” He coos, rubbing the ridges of his thigh roughly against your clit. “Get used to it. Now you’ve been seen with me, you’ll be hunted until they inevitably kill you. Unless..” He trails off, the ding of the elevator snapping you out of your daze. Adjusting himself and sweeping you into his arms effortlessly, he stares at you with his irresistible gaze.                                             “You stay with me.”                                                                                                        Swept away in the unfortunate world of crime with no means of escape, you’ll be in for the ride of your life. Stuck by his side with no room for objections, he’ll lovingly train you to the bone till you’re as lethal as him. Though one day, you’ll meet a gruesome death. Intertwining your fingers with his as the name ‘Bonnie & Clyde’ is revived through the streets. Meeting your fateful end and knocking on deaths door, you share one last ghosting kiss, reminiscent to the first. Binding the two of you with an internal promise to be inseparable even in the afterlife. And you can’t help but smile as one thought crosses your mind. It was worth it.

[themurphyzone]

Nova Ch 9

AN: I know it’s been two months since the last update, so thanks for your patience!

Ch 9: Gravity

AO3 Link, FFN Link

Brain didn’t remember walking back to the lab. While his thoughts meandered in many different directions, they all converged into one harsh truth.

He’d lost his only lead to Snowball.

If only he’d been faster. If only he’d noticed the Selenian camera sooner. So many ifs, so many actions he could’ve taken to prevent losing such a valuable item.

He’d allowed himself to be distracted from his goal. Terra was a fascinating planet, yet burgers and karaoke and sunglasses wouldn’t bring him closer to establishing his dominion over it. Pinky’s short attention span must’ve affected him too.

How else could he explain it?

His feet were on autopilot, his mind in a daze. Pinky tried to start a conversation several times, mostly about trivial things like the shape of a cloud or a flower that grew between the cracks of the sidewalk. But he trailed off once he realized Brain wasn’t interested in any of them.

His tears had ceased by the time they arrived on the lab’s doorstep, but the raw ache in his chest remained. The neck of his shirt was damp and slightly darker from where the tears had splashed down, and there were similar dark patches on Pinky’s lavender blouse.

No physical reminders could remain of his momentary weakness, so he quickly took off the shirt and shorts Pinky had given him, leaving them behind on the counter. Then he snatched up his black jumpsuit and pulled it over his body.

Though it didn’t make him feel better. Somehow, the jumpsuit seemed more restrictive than before. He unlatched the window and sat down on the protruding edge, the fabric pulling tightly against his limbs.

It was designed for efficiency, not for comfort.  

Behind him, Pinky gathered up the crumpled clothing, and Brain tried not to feel guilty for treating the items Pinky had generously given him like trash.

It was Pinky’s fault for distracting him in the first place.

Find Snowball. Take over the world.

Two simple steps. Anything not related to the above was unnecessary.

“You want some tea, Brain?” Pinky asked. “I can put lemon and honey in it too if you want.”

Brain’s ear twitched, but he said nothing. He swung his legs over the edge of the windowsill, hoping Pinky would take the hint and leave him alone.

But Pinky was incapable of recognizing subtle cues.

“Brain?” Pinky called again. 

Pinky’s footsteps increased in volume, then Brain felt a hand on his shoulder. It was a soft touch, but even so, Brain didn’t want it.

He didn’t need pity.

Brain shrugged the hand off, and Pinky made a tiny, surprised noise that was quieter than the vehicles rushing down the road, but was far too loud for Brain’s ears.

He knew what Pinky had done for him, even if they were strangers.

But Brain was going to rule the world soon. He shouldn’t feel guilty over this. This arrangement was temporary. 

He looked at Pinky and caught the downturned blue eyes, the rejected hand still poised to comfort. Pinky’s other arm clutched the bundle of clothing Brain had discarded.

“Leave me alone, Pinky,” Brain ordered, turning away so he didn’t have to see that hurt expression.

“Narf…” Pinky whispered, and his sadness was palpable as he trudged back into the lab, leaving Brain alone with his thoughts.

It was what he asked for. He couldn’t take back commands once issued.

He had to be unyielding at all times.

Laying back against the cool surface of the windowsill, he stared up at the faraway crescent that was New Selene.

It was so tiny from his current location. Curiously, he raised one hand to the sky, and New Selene was hardly bigger than his own body part.

Though it was a matter of perspective, he found that it was a concept even his brilliant mind had difficulty comprehending.

Logically, he knew New Selene wasn’t big. Simply empty and barren, with life concentrated in tiny little pockets, which gave the illusion of largeness.

In the grand scheme of the universe, Terra was simply an insignificant body as well. Even the sun, the very star that all life depended on within this section of the universe, paled in comparison to the largest stars.

And if comprehending size wasn’t enough, there was also a matter of distance. While many alien cultures had developed technology that enabled ships to travel faster than the speed of light, the simple truth was that light was the fastest naturally occurring substance in nature.

Stargazing meant looking into a canopy of history, stars only appearing as they did millions or billions years ago. It was a sobering thought, that stars could exist for that long when recorded history for many civilizations was hardly a fraction of their timespan.

Then there was his life.

Though some part of him knew that nothing lasts forever, and no matter how much he wished to be remembered as a wise and powerful leader, there would come a day where his name would be forever lost and his legacy forgotten.

He just hoped that day wouldn’t come shortly after his death.

There was noise around him. Chirping from the vegetation, the roar of vehicles, Pinky humming from somewhere within the lab.

Though the background noise was more welcome than the near silence of New Selene, it still didn’t drive away all his spiraling thoughts.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring into the night, but a rustle from the bushes underneath the windowsill drew his attention.

Then he spotted a familiar tuft of amber fur, the stubby antennae, a flash of pink eyes—and Brain tumbled off the windowsill in shock, landing in the dirt with a painful thud.

Snowball?

Brain rubbed his head, clearing away the dizziness. Maybe he was just clinging to false hope. That he wanted to find Snowball so much that he imagined his presence.

Then the familiar chill hit him, and he knew Snowball was actually here.

The aisam studied his claws nonchalantly, letting a fine mist coat them and evaporate into the night. His control over his enhancements was impeccable. Perhaps the haughty, refined air Snowball wielded should’ve been a warning, but Brain was far too relieved and exhausted to care.

Snowball was back. Soon they’d rule the world together.

That’s what truly mattered.

Slowly, Brain got to his feet, wincing as a muscle pulled on his left thigh.

Snowball simply waited, and while part of Brain was annoyed at Snowball for not helping him up, he was also glad that Snowball allowed him to keep his self-sufficiency intact.

“I was looking for you,” Brain breathed, unable to keep the relief out of his voice. “Where were you? What happened to the rest of the Conquistador?”

Snowball draped an arm over Brain’s shoulders and pulled him closer, and Brain nearly stumbled over his feet. He sighed, the cold electron flow seeping into his antennae and body, but this was a special occasion, so he decided to put up with it just this once.

He must’ve been spoiled by Pinky’s warm and lively electrons. A shiver ran up Brain’s spine, and he clenched his fists together so his involuntary reflex would be less noticeable. 

“Oh, how I missed you and all your idiosyncrasies, Brain,” Snowball said, patting Brain on the head. Brain scowled. The move felt awfully condescending. “You see, the Conquistador’s back section wasn’t structurally stable. It must’ve broken off when we entered Terra’s atmosphere.”

“That ship is my magnum opus!” Brain snarled, his fur bristling. He shoved Snowball off and crossed his arms. “My engineering skills are top of the line. There were no flaws in the structural integrity!”

Snowball didn’t look all that impressed. “I’m sorry, old friend. But even the most skilled engineer can’t salvage second hand equipment.”

Brain sighed, reluctantly conceding Snowball’s point. The Conquistador was built out of scrap metal, not the newest and flashiest pieces of technology. Deep down, he knew that the ship would never function as well as the most advanced fleet of vessels, though he’d never admit it.

“And what about you, Snowball? How did you find me?” Brain asked, deciding a slight change of topic was in order.

“I managed to land my portion of the ship without incurring too many injuries,” Snowball said, gesturing to his body. If he was injured at all, he hid it remarkably well. Brain looked for any telltale signs of bruising or bandages, but didn’t find any. Not a single piece of singed fur either. “The internal communication system was fried, but the landing gear was mercifully intact.”

Then again, Snowball could’ve spent some time grooming himself before he came here. He liked to appear his best.

Perhaps he should’ve refined the communication system more. Then they could’ve avoided this entire mess and gotten around to world domination sooner.

Though some tiny part of him protested that statement. If he hadn’t crash landed in the field, he wouldn’t have met Pinky.

He quickly beat down that notion.

Pinky was an easily distracted idiot. Just a mere convenience until he found his footing in this new world.

“And the cameras were in working condition as well. I figured you landed somewhere nearby, and I sent them to scour the city to find you,” Snowball continued. “Naturally, you can imagine my surprise when one of them located you in a public location, singing with some moronic Terran.”

“You witnessed that?” Brain asked. He felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

He didn’t know much about music on this planet, but when Pinky had dedicated his last song to Pharfignewton and Snowball, somehow he felt that he had to drop everything to listen.

It was a kind gesture for someone who never personally met Snowball.

And Brain felt uneasy at the scorn in Snowball’s voice. That simple action didn’t deserve mockery.

Snowball shrugged. “You can’t let anything distract you, Brain. Not fairy tales, not the whims and trivialities of this planet, and certainly not incompetent nincompoops who only care about stuffing themselves with food.”  

This wasn’t how he’d wanted their reunion to go.

Somehow, he’d imagined it to be happier. He thought Snowball would be more concerned for his well-being.

It took all his strength to hold his ears high. He wouldn’t show any sign of weakness.

“Now, onto business…” Snowball clapped his hands together, but before he could announce what he planned, there was a sudden burst of activity on the windowsill above their heads.

“Braaa-aaain!” Pinky called. “Where’d you go? I made tea with lemon and honey! Wanna try some? Poit! I was gonna put in rainbow sprinkles or confetti but I didn’t know what you liked so I just left those out!”

Pinky came into view, holding a thimble out to where he expected Brain to be, but he paused when Brain wasn’t there. He paced around, his footsteps steadily growing more frantic and his tail twitching erratically.

Brain felt Snowball’s gaze boring into the back of his skull, obviously questioning why he’d acquaint himself with such a clingy buffoon, but he ignored it.

“Down here, Pinky!” Brain shouted.

Pinky looked down, nearly spilling the steamy contents of the thimble. The worry etched in his face vanished and was replaced by a ridiculous grin. “Oh, there you are, Brain! I was looking everywhere for you! And egad, you have a guest! Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gotten a thimble for him too!”

“Yes, Brain,” Snowball smirked, and Brain knew he was being irritating on purpose. “Why didn’t you tell him I was coming over? It’s really quite rude. Then again, I can hardly expect you to be tactful.”

“And I can hardly expect you to not be a nuisance, Snowball,” Brain grumbled. 

Snowball just folded his arms, as if he were proud of that fact, and Brain scowled at him. Then Snowball turned to Pinky, who set the thimble down and began twisting his own ears in a vain yet valiant attempt to fly.

“So you’re Pinky,” Snowball said. There was a hint of disdain in his voice, but Brain assumed that was just because he wasn’t used to Pinky’s brand of idiocy yet. “I must admit, you aren’t quite what I expected.”

Pinky beamed. “Zort! Well, can’t say I was expecting you either. Brain’s told me so much about you! Won’t you come up for some tea? Oh, we can have our own tea party with Nicholas and Mr. Button! Hmm, maybe I should invite Madame Daisy too? Short notice, but I’m sure she’ll agree! She’s got the loveliest petals! I don’t think you’ve met her either, Brain. But this would be a good time to introduce you! And oh, you’ve never tried my no-bake cheesecake, have you? It’s very easy to make!”

“Before you run off with your inane ideas, throw something down so Snowball and I can get up there!” Brain shouted.

Saluting eagerly, Pinky scampered out of view, then brought back a pencil and threw it off the windowsill. The pencil landed a few inches away from Brain and Snowball. Unimpressed, Brain glared up at Pinky, who smiled bashfully and tried again.

“A rope or cord would suffice,” Brain sighed just as Pinky was about to throw a paper clip to them.

To Snowball’s credit, he showed little reaction to Pinky’s bizarre logic and casually studied his claws instead. 

This time, Pinky tied a long, thick strand of yarn to the window latch and let it fall to the ground. Brain climbed up first, allowing Pinky to pull him onto the windowsill.

“About time,” Brain muttered.

Snowball pulled the yarn to check its tensile strength, but didn’t climb up. “Ah, I just remembered something,” he said, in a manner that suggested he didn’t forget at all and was just being dramatic. He disappeared into the bushes for a moment, then dragged out a large blue cap. It had been well-hidden among the leaves. Snowball took his end of the yarn and tied it around a hole in the back of the cap, one end of his lips quirked in a smug smile.

“Is that for me?” Pinky pointed to the cap in disbelief, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He clasped his hands and swayed from side to side.  

It was the same cap from the electronics store. The one Pinky had earned through singing. It didn’t contain money anymore, though coins and dollar bills were considered valuable commodities on Terra and Brain would’ve been more surprised if they’d been left alone.

He never realized Pinky had left the cap behind.

“I thought you wanted that cap, Pinky,” Brain said. “Why leave it behind?”

“Well, I couldn’t chase after you and carry the cap at the same time,” Pinky shrugged, like it was no big deal that their trip to the mall had been for naught. “I didn’t wanna lose you. The mall’s a big place.”

Brain gritted his teeth. This was the second time Pinky had abandoned his goal in favor of helping someone else. He’d allowed the incident with the wallet a pass since Pinky wasn’t used to setting objectives yet, but he thought Pinky would’ve learned the second time.  

Even if it was for Brain’s benefit.

But Brain didn’t need help. He was a self-sufficient mos.

Once Snowball set foot on the ledge, Pinky immediately wrapped him in an enormous embrace and danced around with him while the poor aisam’s limbs flailed in a futile attempt to escape. “Thank you, Snowball! Thankyouthankyouthankyou! Narf!” Pinky squealed. “I will never forget this as long as I live!”

Brain pretended he was very, very focused on pulling the yarn until the cap was on the windowsill with them and ignored Snowball’s protests.

A bona fide Pinky hug was appropriate punishment for all the worry and stress Snowball had put him through for the past few days.

“Keep it up and you won’t have very long to live,” Snowball muttered once Pinky finally showed mercy and let him go.

Pinky just hummed and took the cap from Brain. “Everything’s perfect! Lemme set everything up for you!’ He skipped away, leaving Brain and Snowball alone.

“Snowball, you knew Pinky wanted a specific object,” Brain said over the incessant sounds of Pinky persuading Mr. Button to join everyone for the tea party, and it was a statement of fact. It wasn’t necessary to ask a question when he already knew the answer. “And you obtained that particular cap.”

Snowball shrugged. “I see the malfunction hasn’t dulled your keen observation skills, Brain.”

“Which suggests you were in the area. Why use a camera to spy on us? Why not come out yourself?” Brain asked.

He hadn’t known if Snowball was alive or dead. He chose to believe Snowball was alive, because if he could survive the empty, vast desert of New Selene, then surely he could survive a crash landing.

The alternative was unthinkable.

And Snowball didn’t care enough to alert Brain that he was-

No, that was ridiculous. There were simply extra factors at play. Limited communication range. Injuries to prioritize. 

There were more variables to the equation. That’s all.

“Don’t you remember, Brain?” Snowball tapped Brain’s head with one finger. Brain scowled and shoved him off. “We planned to use the cameras to scope the area around our landing site for safety reasons. I simply stuck to the plan, though neither of us anticipated our unfortunate separation.”

Brain looked away. He refused to admit Snowball’s point. He was already smug enough as it was. “You could’ve attached a message.”

“And allow a hostile party to intercept it? Communicate our intentions before we’re ready to carry out the plan? Come now, Brain. You’ve engineered a marvelous ship out of scrap. You shouldn’t let a freak accident scramble your neurons.”

Brain bristled at the insinuation of his intelligence dropping as a result of the accident. He’d only been temporarily disoriented.

A harsh scraping noise interrupted him before he could retort. On the other side of the counter, Pinky arranged six tiny stools around an upside-down bowl. Then he seated Nicholas the Nickel, Mr. Button, and a potted specimen of Terran flora that Brain assumed to be Madame Daisy. Pinky’s blue eyes sparkled with joy, a frilly white apron tied around his waist. He was completely oblivious to the tense atmosphere between Brain and Snowball.

“Hello, narf! So glad you could make it to the tea party!” Pinky exclaimed, shaking Brain’s hand vigorously. Brain had to clamp down on his arm to stop the shaking as Pinky subjected Snowball to the same treatment. “Don’t be shy now, I’ve got some lovely neighbors to introduce you to!”

Too stunned to speak, Brain and Snowball took their seats on the wooden stools. Nicholas—and celestial bodies above, now he was personifying inanimate objects like Pinky—was lying on top of the stool to his right, while Madame Daisy was on his left. Snowball was trying to compose himself on the other side of Madame Daisy, but he couldn’t hide the annoyed tapping of his claws against the bowl. Brain assumed the empty stool between Mr. Button and Nicholas was meant for Pinky, unless he planned to invite more ‘guests’. 

And Brain hoped there weren’t more. It was crowded enough already, even if only two beings at this table could stage an intelligent conversation.

He was mildly concerned at Pinky’s mental state. Surely naming inanimate objects couldn’t be conducive to one’s well-being.

“Nicholas and Mr. Button, I’m sure you already know Brain,” Pinky grinned. 

“We’re acquainted,” Brain muttered. “Unfortunately.” 

Pinky gleefully clapped his hands together. “Troz! Great, then you can help introduce them to Snowball! And Madame Daisy, did you do something with your leaves? They look so green and perky! Oh really, you think I could pull off Daisy Dukes? Stop that, you’re making me blush! Though I guess I do have the legs for it…”

He giggled, his cheeks coated in a light red blush.

“Yes, Brain. Why don’t you introduce me to your Terran friends?” Snowball grinned, casually leaning one elbow against the table.

“Fine,” Brain spat. “Nicholas. Mr. Button. This is Snowball. I believe you’ll find him particularly irksome.”

“Oh please, they already know you,” Snowball rolled his eyes.

“Madame Daisy, why don’t you tell them all the gossip you heard from the birds and the bees and flowers and the trees?” Pinky asked, kissing one of Madame Daisy’s leaves. “Now, now, Nicholas and Mr. Button, don’t fight in front of our visitors. Everything’s ready in the kitchen. I’ll bring it out to everyone in a jiffy! Brain, I’ll get you a hot thimble. Your last one’s all cold. Snowball, did you want anything extra with your tea?”

Snowball sighed. “A pinch of sanity, perhaps..”

“Double for me,” Brain added.

Pinky tilted his head. “Hmmm, I dunno if I have that brand, but I’ll look! Be right back!” 

“And I require my beverages either cold or room temperature,” Snowball added. “My species can’t have hot food or drink.”  

Pinky nodded eagerly. “One cold tea and five warm, coming up!” He skipped away, humming an upbeat tune under his breath. 

And Brain was once again alone with Snowball. Unlike Pinky, he refused to count the inanimate objects as sentient creatures. 

Pinky was an idiot at the best of times and a distraction at the worst. But he prioritized Brain over the hat he desired so badly. 

An action Brain dared to describe as...sweet. 

Then Snowball coughed, breaking the silence and Brain’s momentary lapse into sentimentality. “By any chance, have your broadcasts reached your target demographic?” Snowball asked, drumming his fingers on the makeshift table. “I’d hate for all that time you spent communicating our intentions with less than stellar technology to go to waste.” 

From the way Snowball’s lip curled at the very mention of the radio broadcasts, Brain knew he wasn’t asking out of courtesy. Most likely, he’d figured out that nobody on this planet except for one incredibly stupid specimen had heard Brain’s long distance communications. 

Nobody recognized the Conquistador, despite Brain giving detailed descriptions about his engineering pride and joy. He’d failed to garner the attention of the media when Terra was in a period of rapidly advancing technology. 

And most damning of all, no human had come to sing his praises, genuflect on bended knee, or bothered to host a welcome parade in his honor. They showed no concern that their new ruler had crash landed instead of making a grand and powerful entrance. 

But the sun would have to burn through the rest of its lifespan before Brain would ever admit it. 

“Your silence is answer enough, Brain.” Snowball shook his head in disappointment. “And here I’d hoped most of our work would be finished upon arrival. Sadly, it appears nobody listened to-” 

“Pinky listened,” Brain interrupted. 

Snowball gave him a look of mocking sympathy, and Brain pretended the engravings on Nicholas the Nickel were very intriguing. He hated that look. 

“Allow me to rephrase,” Snowball said. “It must be upsetting to find that nobody of importance listened to your broadcasts.” 

Pinky bandaged his injuries, tried to help locate Snowball in his own ridiculous way, and introduced him to the wonders of cream cheese. 

Those weren’t unimportant things. 

But at the same time, Pinky didn’t have the influence to help him ascend to the throne. 

“Cut to the point, Snowball,” Brain snapped. “Spare me the monologue.” 

Snowball shrugged. “Then tell me our current location.” 

“Read the sign yourself,” Brain retorted. Did Snowball believe he was so disoriented he couldn’t tell where he was? “It’s just above the front door. You can’t possibly miss it, unless you’ve somehow become illiterate during our period of separation.”

“Humor me.” 

Brain gritted his teeth. “A primitive Terran laboratory known as ACME. I haven’t discovered what the acronym stands for.” 

“Never mind the acronym.” Snowball dismissed the tangent with a flick of his hand. “As you observed, this is a laboratory. And do you know what they specialize in?” 

“I can do without the condescension,” Brain muttered.   

“Behavioral studies and genetics,” Snowball said as if Brain had answered properly. “Why else would that idiotic Terran be here? He’s the equivalent of a mos on New Selene. Approximately the same niche on the food chain and social hierarchy. Higher than parasites and bottom feeders, but not by much.” 

Well, Pinky had shown him the gene splicer which doubled as a bagel warmer. It wasn’t that much of a surprise. 

And it was a scientific wonder, even for a less advanced piece of machinery. But he had the suspicion that bagels weren’t the only things to go through that device. 

“Why bring Pinky into this?” Brain asked. 

“I’m only speaking out of concern for my associate,” Snowball replied. He stood up, kicking Madame Daisy’s stool out of the way as he marched over to Brain. The flower slid off the stool and fluttered to the floor. “Isn’t this setup enough proof for you, Brain? Having a useless tea party, surrounded by toys and drivel...why, if you’re not careful, you might end up just like...him.”

The him was spoken with such vehemence, it took Brain aback. 

Brain leaned away from Snowball, a shiver traveling up his spine. It wasn’t the usual chill he got from Snowball’s natural physiology. 

“I won’t end up like Pinky,” Brain said, as firmly as he could, which wasn’t as firm as he would’ve liked. “I’m his intellectual superior.”  

“Then act like it.” 

A claw jabbed the center of Brain’s chest. The jumpsuit’s insulation did nothing to protect him from the fine, icy tendrils that threatened to choke his heart. 

Snowball stood over him, narrow pink eyes boring into his own. Then Snowball went back to his own seat, scoffing at the flower which laid lifelessly near its stool. 

If it weren’t for the simple fact that Madame Daisy wasn’t sentient, Brain might’ve felt sorry for it.  Then he mentally kicked himself for that notion.

He was an intelligent being. Plants don’t talk or have feelings. 

Snowball was watching him. So Brain remained in his seat. 

Then Pinky came back, oblivious to what transpired among his guests while he was away. There was a skip in his step as he balanced three trays, one in each hand and the third resting on his head. His balance and upper strength were impeccable. 

“Narf! Sorry for the delay!” Pinky chirped as he set the trays on the bowl and passed the thimbles around, taking great care to ensure the cold tea went to Snowball. “I was looking for sanity, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. Not among the spices, the cupboards, or in that moldy ham sandwich they keep forgetting to toss out. So I just stirred in a spoonful of honey with a generous sprinkling of lemon for...oh, Madame Daisy! Are you alright?” 

Pinky quickly set the last thimble at his place and rushed over to Madame Daisy, gently cradling the stem in his hands as he set her on the stool. He waited a moment, then wiped his brow in relief. “Phew, I’m glad to hear it! Anyway, drink up! I’ll join you lovely folks after I grab the cheesecake.” 

Brain sniffed his tea as Pinky took the trays and ran back to wherever he came from. The thimble was pleasantly warm under Brain’s fingers, a scented trail of steam rising from the golden liquid inside. It was an oddly relaxing scent. 

He picked up the thimble and took a tiny sip of his drink. And once again, Pinky had shown that he was full of surprises. The tea was warm, yet not scalding. Slightly sour, with a tinge of sweetness.

Snowball was entirely focused on his own drink. He didn’t give any outward signs of enjoying or disliking it though. Just as always, he was poised and controlled. Every movement calculated, no thought wasted. 

Brain tried to replicate that level of control many times. But he’d never been able to figure out how to stop his ears from giving away his emotions. 

A few minutes later, Pinky returned with the promised cheesecake in tow. Once again, he balanced one tray in each hand and the other on his head, carefully setting them on the table without dropping a single plate. 

There were two plates on each tray, each one containing a triangular pile of cream cheese. There was a brown, crumbly coating on the back and underneath the cream cheese. A spiral of white fluff rested on top of the cheesecake, and within that fluff was a bright red fruit with tiny seeds dotting its surface. A tiny fork laid on the side of each plate. 

“Bon appetit!” Pinky grinned as he passed the plates of cheesecake around. Snowball gave Pinky a curt nod and accepted his plate. “I call it no-bake cheesecake! It’s a family recipe. My mom passed it down to me, and she got it from her mom, who got it from her mom, and she-well, you get the idea. What you’ve got there is cream cheese at room temperature, laid on a bed of crushed graham crackers for that nice, crumbly texture. And I added a little whipped cream, topped with a juicy strawberry because everyone knows strawberries with cheesecake are absolutely delish!” 

Pinky set Brain’s plate down, fussed over Mr. Button, who was apparently not sitting properly on his stool. Then Pinky finally sat down at the table with everyone else and began to chow down. He scooped as much cream cheese as he could fit on his fork and jammed it into his mouth, humming in delight. 

Brain was struck with an odd urge to forgo the fork entirely and stuff his face with little regard for table manners or dignity. Logic and intellectualism didn’t hold a candle to the sheer heaven that was cream cheese. 

He could feel Snowball’s eyes on him though. 

And he forced himself to take small bites. 

Pinky talked about everything and nothing between mouthfuls of cheesecake and tea. While Brain’s mind was well-equipped to handle large floods of information, the topics Pinky pursued were completely beyond his understanding. Even Snowball’s impeccable control was being pushed to its limit, judging from the eye twitch he’d suddenly developed. 

“Troz! I’m sorry I never noticed your new polish, Nicholas! Very shiny!” Pinky smiled, his tail swishing happily behind him. “Mr. Button, have you tried vinegar and baking soda to get that stain out? No? Oh, well I use it all the time for my cage, and it really works. No problem! Egad, Madame Daisy, your son’s gonna marry the potted geranium? I always knew he had a thing for her!” 

Perhaps Snowball’s concerns about teaming up with Pinky weren’t completely unfounded. 

Brain was halfway through with his cheesecake when Snowball tapped his fork against his plate repeatedly, interrupting Pinky’s futile efforts to bring Brain into a conversation with Mr. Button. Brain sipped his tea to disguise his gratitude. He had no wish to debate philosophy with a button.   

“This has all been quite...enlightening,” Snowball said. He put his fork down and pushed his half-eaten cheesecake away. “But I didn’t make this trip just for a first meeting or reunion. Rather, I came with a purpose and opportunity in mind.”  

Of course. Snowball never did anything without purpose. 

But Brain found it hard to ignore the lack of general inquiries into his well-being. Even so, he pushed the rising bitterness down. If Snowball had found an opportunity to take over the world despite all the setbacks, then Brain was going to hear this out. 

“You went to the mall earlier today,” Snowball continued. Another statement of fact, not a question. 

“Yes, we did!” Pinky exclaimed. “We ate burgers and sang karaoke and played on a boat-” 

Snowball cleared his throat to stop Pinky before he strayed too far from the topic at hand. “The day before, I’d staked the mall as an area of interest due to its popularity among Terrans. While I wasn’t expecting to see you on my camera there, Brain, I decided to satisfy my curiosity and follow you. And during your excursion, you ran into a gentleman named Joe Lamont.”

“He was anything but gentle,” Brain muttered, recalling the cruel man’s shoe digging into his antennae and his total helplessness. And now he had the knowledge that Snowball bore witness to that incident. 

“And he was mean!” Pinky added. “The meaniest meanie who ever meaned!” 

Snowball’s eye twitched. “While Lamont’s actions were that of a brute, I assure you I did not mention him just to garner a reaction from you.” 

“So why mention him at all?” Brain snapped. 

“If I may continue without further disruption?” Snowball’s tone was carefully measured, barely concealing his impatience. “Now, I was able to guide the Conquistador’s front safely to the ground after the malfunction. From there, I sent many cameras to scout the area. Some to search for Brain, others to collect intel on the Terrans. And I noticed there was one figure in this city that everyone feared greatly. His vehicle is a common sight, given that at least five cameras I assigned to different areas had spotted him, and nobody dares to double-cross him.” 

“We’ve heard similar,” Brain said.

The worker who’d admonished him after the attack wasn’t the only one who was afraid of Lamont, it seemed. 

“Lamont is an influential figure,” Snowball continued. “So it’s prudent that we attend the elite party he’ll throw at his manor in two weeks.” 

Pinky’s hands flew to his cheeks. “A party?” he gasped. “Narrrrrf!” 

Brain glared at him. “Why would you ever want to attend a party thrown by this brute?” 

“But it’s a party, Brain!” Pinky protested. “It’ll be fun!” 

There was no way he was attending a party. The fact that it was thrown by that uncultured brute of a man was the least of his worries. 

No, instead he would be paraded around and meant to socialize…

He shuddered at the very thought. 

“Pinky, would you mind fetching the cap I gave you?” Snowball asked. 

Pinky immediately scampered off, still tittering about the party, and Brain nearly dragged him back by the tail to force him to stay put. 

“You may not be one for small talk, Brain,” Snowball said. “But several members of Lamont’s security detail mentioned that he possessed a powerful military weapon within range of my camera’s audio. Attending the party is necessary to gaining access to that weapon! Isn’t a little discomfort worth the world in the end?” 

He could put up with some momentary discomfort, but…

“And just what are you intending to do with that military weapon?” Brain asked. There was something in Snowball’s tone he didn’t like. 

Something foreign and out of place. 

“What else would I use it for other than world domination? And don’t speak so loud!” Snowball hissed, slapping a hand over Brain’s mouth and looking over his head to make sure Pinky wasn’t coming back just yet. “That idiot won’t keep his mouth shut if he knew. It’s imperative for you to not mention that weapon!” 

Brain wasn’t worried about Pinky blabbing. Instead, he got the feeling that Pinky would have something to say about using powerful weaponry to subjugate the populace. 

Not that he was wholly comfortable with this plot either. But a little discomfort now would be worth the world later. 

“Very well. We shall spend the next two weeks preparing for the party,” Brain said, pulling away from Snowball. “In addition to gathering more intel, of course.” 

Two minutes later, Pinky came back, dragging the cap behind him and bouncing with glee. “Oh, I can’t wait for the party! Say, do you think there’ll be a chocolate fountain? I love chocolate fountains! Especially when they make you all gooey!” 

Chocolate fountains didn’t sound particularly appealing when he put it that way.  

Snowball flipped the cap over, revealing a small card attached to the inside. Then he tore it off and handed it to Brain with a flourish of his hand. 

“Don’t show off,” Brain grumbled as he ripped it out of Snowball’s hand. Pinky read the card over his shoulder, growing more excited by the minute as he read the card. 

Dear Mr and Mrs Clarke,

RSVP by 4/27 to 707-231-0009

Masquerade Ball at Lamont Manor 

Event begins at 8:00 pm 

Present this card to security at front gate upon entry 

If Pinky was excited before, he was bouncing off the walls now. So the card contained all the information they needed to know. It wasn’t terribly exciting news. Just informative. 

“It’s a masquerade ball!” Pinky squealed. Brain tried to dodge, but Pinky was just too fast for him. His legs kicked feebly in the air as Pinky danced around in circles, towing Brain like a ragdoll. “We get to be extra fancy and wear masks and nobody will know who we are!” 

Well, that was one consolation if he got to hide behind a mask for this event. He broke out of Pinky’s hold, and took another bite of cheesecake to calm down. Having the creamy flavor in his mouth helped slightly. 

“I already have my alias and invitation. Who knows? You might find this experience rather educational,” Snowball explained. He moved over to the table and downed the last of his drink. “Well, this was an interesting night. I’d love to stay and indulge your need for company, but I’ll be taking my leave now. Data isn’t going to analyze itself.” 

He’s leaving already?

Snowball walked over to the window, preparing to climb down by using the yarn they’d left tied to the latch. 

“Wait!” Brain said, bits of cream cheese and strawberry spraying out of his mouth. His ears flattened in embarrassment as he hastily swallowed. “You can’t be leaving already!” 

The rusuprhi! In the light of all the information that had been thrust upon him, he’d completely forgotten to split the remaining bag with Snowball!

Snowball raised an eyebrow, and Brain cursed himself for sounding so desperate. 

“Pardon me for not wishing to be a slave to the dominant species again,” Snowball said. “And I’m far more efficient with my tasks when I’m alone. You want accurate intel, don’t you, Brain?” 

“Yes, although-” 

But Snowball was already gone. 

Again. 

Brain stood on the windowsill, clutching the card Snowball had left behind. New Selene hung in the sky above him, no bigger than his finger. The faraway stars twinkled. 

He didn’t want to be out here anymore. Slowly, he trudged to the bed in the cage, dropping the card and not caring what happened to it. Let Pinky take care of it since he was so eager for this party. 

He ignored Pinky asking if he was going to finish his food and pulled the blanket over himself, unable to summon the strength to thank Pinky for the excellent tea and cheesecake. 

Snowball had left again. And he didn’t know why. 

AN: Poor Brain. Starts the chapter sad, gets hopeful, then gets the rug yanked out from under him. 

Also since neither Brain nor Snowball are gonna say this, thank you Pinky for working so hard to be a good host for your tea party.  

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

Hello, everyone! A long while ago, I had this request sitting in my Inbox, and the entries proved too long to be all in the same post. I'd like to thank you all for your patience. This post focuses on Arthur and Lovino, but Ludvig and Gil's entries can be found here! Hope y'all enjoy~☆

England:

“Arthur?”

Curious eyes turned from the pile of papers on the desk before him, narrowing in confusion as he glanced between you and the clock.

“Everything alright, luv? It’s the middle of the night.”

Were you in better spirits, you would have pointed out the hypocrisy of his statement, the stacks of files, open ledgers, and cold tea all indication of his own insomnia.

But your nightmares kept tormenting you, Darkness tracing its finger along the fringes of every passing thought. You couldn’t shake the memory of the smoke, of the-

Weary, you heaved a sigh, your head dropping to rest at an angle against the bookcase. “Artie, I-”

His eyes flashed with alarm, recognizing immediately from your tone, from your inability to look at any one thing for longer than a moment- It was a haunted look that he had seen in the mirror far too many times.

You couldn’t believe that something so small and mundane had crippled you like this, shattering your defenses and leaving you piteously vulnerable.

You-

Arthur was surrounding you before you were even aware of his approach, the blanket that had been on his lap wrapping around your shoulders before he completely engulfed you in his warmth.

You resisted for a moment; you were surprised and unprepared for the sudden gesture. Slowly though, you let yourself collapse into him, face falling into his shirt and your eyes drifting shut.

For a moment, for maybe even an infinity, nothing existed except the blessed warmth around you, the familiar scent of shortbread and apple tea on each steady exhale teasing your neck.

His grip was firm, certain, strong, and so damned reassuring that your fingers were bunching into the fabric of his jumper, your own arms trying to pull him even closer.

You needed this assurance, needed proof that he was here, and he was yours, and that nothing would take that away from you.

Normally, he would tease you for your moments of intense affection, but he simply pulled you even closer, nuzzling into your hair.

You had no idea how long he held you, each breath tickling your skin, his heartbeat certain and steady beneath your ear. His grip never once faltered, the only change coming when he would shift his hand, fingers dancing with each new caress.

Your eyes had opened once more, and you found yourself staring mindlessly at the distant wall, watching the candlelight- he never outgrew the need of having one lit while he was working- dance with the shadows.

“What’s troubling you?”

His words were so quiet that you thought you had imagined them, going unacknowledged until he shifted once more, lips hovering near your ear. “Luv?”

You breathed a sigh, letting yourself cling to the temporary peace that was already starting to slip away, angling your own head to whisper your reply. “Just-”

You cut yourself off, a vivid, aggressive flash of your night-terrors breaking into your haven, stealing your breath once again. Your grip on his jumper, which had slackened considerably, strengthened once more, your passing panic having you bite your lip to keep yourself from reacting too severely.

“Dearest?” The concern in his voice nearly shattered you, your eyes slamming shut as you buried your face into his chest once again.

“Just hold me, please.”

You hated how pitiful you felt, how weak you must sound. You could only imagine his expression right now, could only imagine what he must think of you.

He said nothing, half confirming your fears. But when he sighed out your name and pressed a firm kiss to the top of your head, you felt them dissipate entirely.

You let yourself simply cling to him again, soaking his warmth into your bones.

He was here, and you were safe.

There was only this small bubble, the sanctuary of his embrace.

“I-” Your voice came out in a small crackle, throat drier than you had realized.

Arthur hummed in curious encouragement, drawing away enough to tuck his finger beneath your chin, drawing your gaze up to him.

The warmth, the concern, the love-

You cleared your throat before speaking once more. “I had a nightmare, and this one kind of-” You trailed off, searching for the right words, but nothing came to mind apart from: “It kind of fucked me up.” Your voice seized towards the end, words almost catching in your throat.

There was a flicker of conflicting emotion in his gaze, passing in merely a moment. His thumb brushed against your arm, his expression softening. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Part of you ached to do just that, to tell him of the eyes and flames that had invaded what had been an otherwise pleasant dream. Tell him that-

But you couldn’t find the words, thoughts instead shifting to your original goal, sudden bashfulness making your voice drop to near silence.

“Actually, I was hoping you could make me some tea? If you’re not too busy?”

Arthur offered you a pointed look, one fully conveying his disbelief. “As if I could ever be too busy for you.”

You felt yourself melt at the sincerity in his words, a warm wave of comfort enveloping you from the inside out.

Even these few moments with him were enough to soothe your restive heart, his words as he walked you to the kitchen weaving through your spirit.

Sitting on the countertop, listening to him recite a small spell into the electric kettle, measuring the perfect ratio of lavender buds and lemon juice, you felt your fears trickle away even more.

Whatever demons that had crept into your dreams were powerless, every lingering trace of their presence banished as Arthur pressed another kiss to your brow, gentle arms once more enveloping you in his warm embrace.

Romano:

You weren’t entirely sure how long you had been standing by the window, watching, yet unseeing, the city below.

Your dreams had been filled with darkness, ghosts that were beyond your reach, continuing to haunt you for what must have been hours.

Your only reassurances came from the hum of the room’s mini-fridge and Lovino’s breathing, a familiar not-snore serving as a steady melody in the otherwise too-quiet space.

You rested your forehead against the glass, eyes slipping shut once more as phantasms tried again to harass you, their words and accusations and remarks incomprehensible, yet still leaving you raw.

It was most irksome that they were from your distant past, memories weaving together and leaving you hopelessly vulnerable.

You huffed silently to yourself, unaware of the shifting figure in the bed behind you, oblivious to the exhausted, anxious eyes that had been searching for you, ignorant of the plaintive gaze that was steadily tracing across your form, the narrowed brow and worried frown as he vacated the bed.

Hearing your name pulled you from your thoughts, your companion’s approaching trudge making you open your eyes.

You frowned, upset that he had awoken to find you like this, almost ashamed of the amount of apprehension to his expression.

“What’s wrong?”

You offered a small hum, a tired shake of the head. “Just- nightmares.” At his look, you were hasty to reassure him, hand waving the concerns away. “I’m okay, Lovi.”

The deadpan countenance he cast your way revealed just how obvious your lie had been. “Certo. Of course you are.”

You huffed in irritation once more, yet again turning your focus to the overcast skies, taking in the brushes of light pollution against the low-hanging clouds. You tried to ignore him, but his footsteps only brought him closer, his warmth radiating against your back.

His arms eased their way around you, his fingers weaving with your own, before he tugged you back into his embrace. He was all-but surrounding you, his chin settling on your shoulder.

He began to hum, gently using his position to guide you into a small shuffle, slowly shifting your weight from side-to-side.

You felt your eyes close on their own accord, the smallest hints of a smile tugging at your lips.

The memory of your nightmare- the fear, the adrenaline- was fading away to a wisp, disappearing as his humming slowly shifted into coherent lyrics, each note teasing your skin, the tempo of the impromptu dance increasing ever-so-slightly.

Not that you could really call it much of a dance; if anything, it was more swaying in place, the city lights beyond the window twinkling with the passing traffic.

You weren't entirely sure how long the two of you lingered there, he pressing kiss after kiss to your shoulder, your cheeks, your neck- Any piece of exposed skin he could find fell victim, the soft brush of his lips accented with each line of the lullaby.

You guided his hands, still carefully intertwined with your own, to your upper arms, tugging him into a firmer hug.

He released a soft chuckle as you let yourself surrender entirely, standing only through his careful balance, his embrace tightening slightly.

His lullaby faded for a few moments, his temple resting against your own as you both watched the world beyond your window.

"Feeling better," he breathed, pitch deeper in his fatigue, the whisper teasing your skin.

You hummed in affirmation, closing your eyes and letting your posture droop, confident in his ability to support both of you.

Somehow, you weren't sure how, just being surrounded by his warmth, having his arms around you and another firm kiss lingering against your cheek, this was enough to chase the remnants of your passing nightmare away, all the echoes of the past crumbling to dusty ruins.

You offered a sigh, squeezing his hands in assurance; you could tell by the tension in his posture that he was still worried for you, unsure how else to comfort you.

Slowly, you turned to face him, dropping your head into his chest as you tugged him closer, sighing deeply in contentment when he started to massage your back.

Each light scratch with his nails brought another wave of sleepy pleasure, senses nearly overwhelmed when he started to hum yet again, his lips pressed to your hairline.

His swaying continued, steady, slow, subtly shifting so that you were making your way back to the bed.

You offered a small sound of protest, quickly swallowed as he shifted his fingers once more, intentionally massaging that one spot that always made you melt.

"Ass," you half-whined, half-sighed, earning another quiet chuckle.

There was nothing left of your dreams, consciousness scarcely keeping its fragile grip on you as he continued his ministrations, guiding you back down to the mattress, his words making you shiver as he whispered into your ear.

"Torni a dormire, amore."

There was still some sort of protest in your mind, some fleeting reason your mind wouldn't let you relax. But with each steady brush of his fingers, and the ebb and flow of his singing, you couldn't-

"I'm right here. You're safe."

You felt yourself collapse entirely at those words, unsure if your praise and adoration were even spoken aloud, or merely the final passing fragments of coherence, his singing guiding you into a peaceful rest.

[kareofbears]

wither with you

Akechi raises a gloved hand and coughs, wincing ever so slightly. “I don’t want you here,” he says as bright petals escape through his fingers. “I don’t know how to make that more clear.”

“Why not?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you want me here?” Sumire brings her knees up to her chest. It does little to block out the cold. “Being here, by yourself. It gets tiring, doesn’t it?”

--

Hanahaki Disease is a disease where the victim of unrequited love begins to vomit or cough up the petals of a flowering plant growing in their lungs, which will eventually grow large enough to render breathing difficult.

read on ao3 or below the cut 

Tokyo is a busy place.

It’s constantly jam-packed with excited tourists and impatient suits and laughing teenagers. There’s lights, there’s cars, and there isn’t a lot of patience for those who can’t keep up. Eyes dart around, taking in the people, the atmosphere. It doesn’t matter how many times someone’s been there—there’s always something new to see. There’s always something new to miss.

There are spots, however. Spots that go under the radar of the hustle and bustle, of the city life so ingrained into the concrete and roads. They go undetected, and people can live their entire lives in Tokyo without knowing that these spots ever existed. With how fast life moves, these spots are respites; they act like small pocket holes of air for whoever wants it, or for whoever needs it.

Though the park is open to the public, very few people come to this section of the garden—it’s long been overgrown with weeds and tree roots make it dangerous for children to play in. When it rains, the ground turns into mud, making it unpleasant for strolls. The only plus side that it has going on for it is the aging, olive-toned gazebo with a bench that creeks whenever someone sits down.

In the end, it was the sound of retching that gave Akechi away.

He’s slouched over on the bench, eyes clenched shut. His breathing shakes along with his shoulders as he rasps for air, the rain doing little to muffle the noise. Even from this distance, she can see the petals fall and join the pile on the ground, bright and yellow like lemons.

“Would you like some water?”

He stills, and for a long moment, only the droplets ringing from the roof made a sound. Sumire lowers her hand, still clutching the bottled drink.

“Did you follow me here?” he asks, voice guttural.

There’s no point in lying. “Yes.”

A beat passes.

“That looks painful,” she says quietly.

Slowly, he raises his head, jaw tight. “Are you mocking me?”

“No. I would never.”

“Bullshit,” a smile splits across his features, and she winces. With a bright yellow petal still stuck at his bottom lip, he’s an uncanny match to a cat who just ate a bird. “You follow me here, to the middle of a random park to, what? Hold my hair back? Give me water? Give me a break and fuck off.”

Sumire shifts the umbrella in her hand. She doesn’t want to enter the undercover area just yet. “This is a nice spot,” she remarks. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”

“And you won’t be coming here again.” His eyes narrow. “Are you really so bored that you stalk me all the way here for some chit chat? For small talk? Or are you just not getting the hint?”

“It doesn’t have to be small talk. I was thinking we can just...talk.”

“Talk?” he repeats, incredulous. “I don’t know how to make it more obvious that I have no interest, no willingness to talk to you. Why don’t you just run back to the little circus troupe and I’m sure that they’ll peel back some time out of their busy schedule instead of bothering me.”

“Are you busy, Akechi-kun?”

“What?”

She can’t help it anymore—her eyes flicker downwards to the small pile of petals by his feet, captivated by the vivid colors. He doesn’t miss it.

“Oh, I see now,” Akechi lets out a bark of laughter, the sound echoes against the trees. “There’s two things that you could possibly be here for: one, you’re here for a show. I don’t know how you found out, but you want to see it up close. You want to see the Detective Prince fall to his knees, for flowers to shoot out of his lungs and come out of his throat like a magic act—”

“That is not why I’m here.”

“Okay,” he shrugs. “Then we come to possibility number two, and to be honest, this one is much more infuriating and revolting than the last: you, Yoshizawa Sumire, pity me. You and everyone else in that ensemble of faux-heroism carry this guilt complex that gives you the drive to demean the people around you into believing that they need help, that they wanthelp, so you can show up, capes blowing in the wind, to feel needed. I don’t want any part of that—”

“I don’t pity you, Akechi,” she cuts in, stepping into the roofed area. He recoils ever so slightly. “And I’m not here for a show, either.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he reiterates, unwavering. “Because if you aren’t, then why are you here?”

“Because I’d rather be here with you than be back there with them.”

Akechi stares at her, and she stares back. After a moment, he shakes his head and stands, shoes nearly stepping into the delicate yellow pile.

“I’m done wasting my time,” he strides past without looking in her direction. “I don’t care why you’re here. I don’t care what your game is, or what you plan on doing. All I care about is you never stepping foot here again, so leave me alone.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving her in an empty gazebo. Despite having predicted that outcome, his rebuke still stung.

The rain was loud, then grew louder still. His footsteps on the mushy ground can no longer be heard from where she was standing.

Sumire takes a shallow, shaky breath, and lets out a cough.

A single, pink petal falls into the yellow heap as the rain continues to pour.

—

She was already sitting on the bench with a plastic bag at her side when Akechi arrived the next day.

He studies her, and she lets herself hope for a heartbeat.

Then he turns around and walks away.

—

Her bottled tea has long since cooled in her hands as she waits for him to show up.

When he doesn’t, she tosses it in the trash with a grimace.

—

Rain continues to pour down from the gutter of the gazebo, plastic bag swaying from her fingertips.

Sumire coughs, and again. Each time, a flurry of petals escaped from her lips. She doesn’t see him today, either.

—

“Are you going to keep doing this?”

She glances up from reading the label of her ginger tea to see him leaning against the wooden pillar.

“Yes, I think so.”

Akechi raises a gloved hand and coughs, wincing ever so slightly. “I don’t want you here,” he says as bright petals escape through his fingers. “I don’t know how to make that more clear.”

“Why not?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you want me here?” Sumire brings her knees up to her chest. It does little to block out the cold. “Being here, by yourself. It gets tiring, doesn’t it?”

He doesn’t even wait for her to finish speaking—by the time she gets her question out, he’s already leaving tracks in the mud.

—

For three days, Sumire has the gazebo all to herself, with nothing but her drink and the autumn leaves to keep her company. Occasionally, a petal joins her. She doesn’t know if it’s from pity or punishment.

—

“Maybe you’re too stupid to understand what I’m saying.”

His cool mockery can’t be found anywhere today—with his open glare and tight jaw, it’s clear that annoyance has taken its place. Hesitantly, she calls that a good thing.

“I won’t mince my words,” Akechi runs a hand through his hair roughly. “I do not want you near me. I do not want you near this place. Every time I see you sitting on that bench, I feel sick. You’re a nuisance to me, Yoshizawa. I don’t know if your existence is to punish me, mock me, or worse, you’re here because your sad little heart feels sorry for me, but I do not care. Get out of my sight, or I swear I’ll—”

His voice falters, and his eyes flutter shut.

Sumire peers at him curiously. “Akechi? Are you—”

“Shut up.”

“You don’t look—”

“Shut up,” he hisses. “Don’t breathe, don’t move, or I’ll make you regret it.”

She stays deathly still, afraid of what’ll happen if she makes any movement. All she can do is stare as he clamps a hand over his mouth, brows furrowed, chest rising and falling shakily. In just a matter of moments, a light sheen covers his forehead. In the faint light coming through cloudy skies, he looks more exhausted than she’s ever seen him.

And just when she thinks that he’s got it under control, his eyes fly wide open and he lurches forward, his torso hanging over the edge, making the entire gazebo creak under a new weight as he vomits out a stream of bright, yellow dandelions. Petals burst forth and sank into autumn foliage in a grim way. She watches him heave up an entire bouquet, desperately clutching the railing to the point where there’s a risk it might snap underneath his hand. After what seemed like hours, Akechi finally slumps back, hair sticking to his forehead and sheer with sweat. The rain mingles in seamlessly with his stuttering panting.

Automatically, Sumire reaches forward to...what? Comfort him? Rub his back? She makes a fist around her plastic bag instead.

When he finally speaks, he doesn’t raise his voice above a whisper. “Was that what you wanted?”

Yes. No. “I don’t know.”

“I should have asked this the minute I saw you here,” his eyes slide sideways to meet hers, and there’s still a single petal stuck to his coat collar. “But why are you even here?”

When she doesn’t answer, he rolls his eyes. “Oh, I see. So you tail me, force me out of my own makeshift hideout, wait until I display a humiliating act of weakness, for seemingly no reason? And here I thought I was the sadistic one.”

“You’re wrong about that.”

“Then enlighten me, Yoshizawa.”

Before she answers, Sumire rummages through her plastic bag to pull out bottled hot lemonade (still warm this time), and places it next to Akechi.

“Might help your throat,” she smiles slightly. He ignores it, so she pushes forward. “It’s what I said, from before. It must be tiring. Exhausting.”

“To what?”

“To be by yourself. All the time. Especially with what you have to go through.”

“So you do pity me?”

“Far from it.”

“Then what is it?”

The smell of petrichor seems ingrained in the old wood, but fresh rain only makes the smell of fallen leaves even stronger.

"You're in love with Akira, right?"

Akechi gives her an empty stare, not a single emotion leaking through. "And what about it? What does that have to do with you being here?"

Sumire opens her mouth to respond, when she feels something catch in her throat. Quickly turning away, she coughs, hard. Hard enough that her chest constricts in pain and her throat feels like it's on fire and full of water at the same time, like a dam imploded and now all the debris is stuck in one area. For each time she coughs, a flurry of pink flies from her lips—a macabre hanami in the middle of autumn.

By the time she turns back to him, his eyes are wide, before it dawns with understanding.

“Huh.”

She can’t help but smile, just a little. “Sounds about right. That’s...that’s how I found out about you, actually. With how you looked at Akira—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in, and for the first time, his composed expression cracks; enough to reveal the hurt underneath. “I know. You don’t have to say it.”

It looked exactly how I would stare at him, too.

“Okay,” she whispers. “I won’t.”

Despite everything, Sumire feels...good. Better. The seemingly-permanent weight on her shoulders eases as the words left her mouth. It felt inexplicably good to finally say it out loud, to let her thoughts leak into the world, and to have someone listen in return.

“Is that why you’re here?”

She glances at him. He’s staring at the puddles accumulating at the foot of the steps, the stillness constantly interrupted by the never-ending raindrops that seem to favor them to no end.

Does he mean the loneliness that comes with this? The isolation? The feeling of being stuck, unable to move forward and impossible to ever move back, despite being willing to do anything to get rid of this humiliating sickness? The fact that even her own body is ashamed of her feelings to the point where it wants to make it known to everyone around her?

It doesn’t matter. The answer won’t change.

“Yes.”

Akechi nods like he understands, like he really, truly understands. And he does. Sumire lets out a breath.

“Sorry, by the way.”

“What for?”

Sumire gestures vaguely. “For invading your privacy. For following you to a place that’s pretty much become your oasis, and forcibly taking it from you.” She rubs the back of her neck. “That was kind of horrible of me.”

He scoffs. “You think that was enough to bother me? That was nothing but a nuisance. A drop in the bucket.”

She lets out a sigh of relief. That had been a point of anxiety for her, and there was a good chance that—

“As for forgiveness, however, I have to put that on hold.”

Sumire blinks, and he continues. “You’re right. You invaded my privacy by following me, and persisted even when I told you to leave me alone. That’s not something I’m willing to forget,” he readjusts his gloves. “I might be an atrocious human being, but even I’m allowed to have reservations.”

He glances at her, and he must see something in her crestfallen expression. “I’m not asking you to grovel for my forgiveness. I don’t want that—dear Lord, do I want anything less than that. I’m telling you that’s currently where I stand in terms of your apology.”

In truth, she doesn’t know how to reply, or if she even should. Sumire’s hardly spoken to him before this, and she’s not sure if they’re speaking now. Akechi Goro is incredibly hard to read. She brought this on herself—still, this is better than the alternative.

“That being said,” Akechi twists his torso to face her. “Why did you go through such an ordeal just to sit in this garbage, over glorified bus stop?”

Sumire frowns. “I think this place is beautiful.”

“That was absolutely not the point of the question.”

“I know, but I feel the need to defend it.” After all, it was the only thing separating them from the never-ending waves of rain. “You’re lucky to have claimed it before anyone else did.”

“Not lucky enough to keep it claimed, apparently.”

She huffs out a laugh. “True.”

He stays silent, and it’s enough of a hint that she takes a second to collect her thoughts.

“I’m pretty sure you already know what I’m going to say.�� Sumire says it like a plea, like she’s crafting her own olive branch, but she should know better than that. It’s the price to pay if she wants to stay here.

“I know. But if there’s one thing that I hate, it’s guessing games.”

Sumire leans back against the bench, the wood cold enough to be felt through her sweater. “This place really is beautiful,” she repeats softly. “But it’s lonely, isn’t it? Especially if it’s just you here. It doesn’t matter where I am nowadays. It’s the same each time.” She tugs on her sleeves. “Ever since I fell in love with Akira, it’s been lonely wherever I am.”

She rubs her hands together. “It’s another level of isolation that comes with this disease, don’t you think? It’s one thing thing to be rejected before you even had a chance to confess; it’s another to have it broadcasted—” a familiar tickle makes its way into her throat, and when she clears her throat she can feel a few petals shift in her esophagus. It’s tough to repress another cough. “For everyone to see.”

“So you hid?”

“By myself, yes. In my room, in alley ways, bathrooms.” It becomes unbearable—she turns the other way, and frowns at the pastel blossoms. “It’s exhausting. It’s like having to hide your existence for no real reason.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

“But then I saw something that I can say, without a doubt, shifted my entire world.” Sumire looks up. “I saw how you looked at him.”

He stiffens. If she closes her eyes, she can see that same, open expression that he wore when they were in Leblanc. “I thought at that moment, I wasn’t the only one dealing with this.”

“And here we are now,” he finishes.

“And here we are now.”

A bright orange leaf breaks off from a nearby branch, landing gently into their shelter. Akechi crushes it with his shoe.

“Compelling story,” he commends. “But I still want you gone.”

She can’t quite muster the feeling of surprise. “Why do you want me gone so badly?”

“That’s what the problem is, Yoshizawa. It’s not that I want you gone—it’s because I want everyone gone.” He grinds his shoe into the leaf. “I don’t care about you, or much else out there. To be frank, I hardly care about the person I’m humiliatingly head-over-heels for. You want to know what I care about? Myself. Me.” When he’s finished, he kicks it away, pliant and smushed. “And I don’t want anyone seeing me like this.”

It makes sense; it lines up with everything she believed Akechi stood for. It makes sense, and yet— “Isn’t it so, horribly lonely?”

“It is,” he nods. “But I’ve been like this before I’ve met Akira, or the rest of the Thieves.” Akechi shrugs. “You learn to overcome the silence. It’s long since it stopped being a real problem for me. I don’t mind anymore.”

“Just because you know how to overcome it doesn’t mean you have to live with it, Akechi.”

“Live with it? There’s a lot of things I have to live with. This is just another one.”

For a minute, Sumire can only stare at him; at his crossed arms, his defiant eyes, and when she speaks, her voice comes out soft. “You didn’t even try with him, did you?”

He laughs, the sound filled with scorn. “Of course not. Can you imagine? Confessing to Kurusu Akira, only to be laughed at? Or worse, pitied? There’s no point. It’s the epitome of a fruitless endeavor, with the way Sakamoto has him wrapped around his finger.”

It’s both a blessing and a curse: once flowers begin to bloom in your lungs, it can only mean that the one you love more than anyone else in the world does not hold the same feelings for you. Detached, unrequited love. It’s efficient—quick, swift, but far from painless. The only reason one may even try to confess is to convince the love interest to try and fall in love with them.

Strangely, she felt a sense of relief at his words. At the very least, two people out there can have a proper love story. She almost feels happy for them.

“Figures,” Sumire says. “I didn’t either.”

“Let me guess,” Akechi rolls his eyes. “‘How tragic would it be if I were to even create a possibility of splitting up these two idiots. I would never, because I’m Yoshizawa and I have eighteen guilt complexes to take care of.’ Am I close?”

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing? There’s no reason to make it harder for him when I already know the answer. When there’s no hope of him loving me back.”

“See, it’s shit like that that pisses me off.”

“You think that I can make him fall in love with me?” she says, incredulous.

“No,” he clears his throat, wincing. “It’s the fact that you’re letting all of these people walk over you even when you’re clearly suffering and lonely and or whatever else came out of your poetry book. It’s the fact that you’re still somehow worried over Kurusu, when you’re the one in agony.” He coughs into the crook of his elbow a few times. “It’s the fact that you’re weak enough to push your pride aside and spend time with someone who doesn’t even want you here.”

Sumire watches a full flower land in between them, still bright yellow and horrifyingly intact. “You’re so obsessed with weakness, Akechi.” She glances at him. “But do you hate it more than being alone? Than being stuck here, in this gazebo, for who knows how long?”

When he doesn’t respond, she mutters, “Isn’t being here, in and of itself, weak?”

The rain slows down ever so lightly, unnoticeable unless someone’s been watching it for the past afternoon. Even the wind seems to be taking a break—the trees are no longer under vicious scrutiny, and the flowers around them don’t have to worry about breaking off from their stems anymore.

“I don’t know,” he says, and it’s the most honest Sumire’s ever heard him speak.

—

When she arrives the next day, he doesn’t say anything when she sits at the opposite end of the bench. When she offers him a drink, he firmly ignores it.

She considers it a win.

—

It’s quieter now. It’s always been quiet, but this is one she isn’t used to.

Instead of the white noise keeping her company, it’s a boy who barely looks in her direction, who coughs yellow dandelions up like he has a wild field growing deep in his lungs. Instead of the silence keeping her company, it’s the combination of rain and breathing that rings through the air. It’s not the still air of her bedroom, or an unfamiliar bathroom that she hides herself in; it’s fresh air, it’s the autumn chill, it’s a near-stranger sitting on the opposite end of the bench.

It’s a good kind of quiet.

They spend days like this. Quietly arriving, quietly leaving. Wrapped in silence and in each other’s company. Sometimes, one of them gets into a coughing fit, and the other knows to look away. The fits are mostly harmless, but sometimes they get rough. Intense. And it happens for Akechi more often than not. Every time she feels that she should reach out. Every time, she talks her way out of it.

Curiosity is enough to make the quiet step away for a moment, though.

“Does anyone else know?”

Akechi’s eyes slide from the horizon to meet hers, his gaze scrutinizing. “Are you joking? Of course not.”

“I should’ve known,” she shifts so that her hands are under her thighs. The weather is brutal, but she expected it. It’s better than the alternative. “I’m just surprised to meet someone else who has it too, given how rare it is.” Sumire pauses. “Then again, it kind of makes sense that two people who awakened inner monsters from our souls end up having to cough up a bouquet every once in a while.”

He doesn’t respond, which isn’t out of the ordinary. Usually, he likes to keep their small talk as short as possible. It doesn’t do much to discourage her. After all, it would be nice to befriend the boy she’s been seeing every day. There’s so little she knows about him, so many questions she wants to ask. There’s no one else she can possibly talk about this curse with, no one to share the burden of knowing how this feels. So she holds onto hope that he’d like to talk about this too. In terms of her odds in success though, she’s not holding her breath.

Still, she’s nothing if not resilient.

—

Every day, she brings a snack and a drink from the nearby convenience store and places a bottle of hot lemonade in between them. When he ignores it, she reluctantly throws it in the trash. It makes her grimace. What a waste.

On the fourth day, he sighs.

“Why do you do that?”

Sumire pauses in chewing her rice crackers, surprised—it’s the first time he’s talking to her without prompt. “Sorry, am I loud?”

“No. Actually, yes, but that’s not what I’m asking.” His eyes dart down at the cooling bottles and back at her. “Why do you keep trying to give me these cheap drinks when you know I’m not going to drink it? You obviously hate throwing them away, but you still do it.”

She’s about to answer when he holds up a finger. She pauses, knowing what it means by this point: Don’t you dare say anything about this.

He stands and leans over the railing, and she looks away just as he alternates between vomiting and wheezing. From the corner of her eyes, she can see him tremble ever so slightly. Her hand twitches towards him, but she stops herself. It would only do more harm than good. She hasn’t experienced this point of the disease—at least, not yet, but it’s inevitable. It’s a matter of how long someone’s been in love, rather than the strength of the love itself.

Questions pop into her head, and she isn’t as eager to ask these ones. Judging by the frequency of his coughs and his occasional tendency to get very sick, he’s been in this longer than she has. How long has he had it? How long has he been coming here? How long has he been alone?

Somehow, she knows that it was far before the disease took over.

When he finishes, he sinks back into the bench, hair sticking to his forehead. “The drink?” Akechi repeats, continuing as if nothing happened.

“It’s supposed to relieve throat pain. And you have throat pain.”

He squints. “Then why don’t you drink it?”

“I don’t like lemon.”

If she didn’t know better, it almost looks like the corner of his lip twitched upwards. “I don’t want you spending money because you pity me, Yoshizawa. It’s demeaning.”

“I don’t pity you,” she nearly sighs. “And fun fact: these drinks are buy one, get one free! So I can get my tea, and you can get your throat-healing lemonade.”

Akechi opens his mouth, a retort about to fly out, when he begins to cough instead. She gently inches the bottle closer to him.

When she looks away to give him any privacy an open gazebo can offer, she doesn’t miss the way his hands tuck the bottle inside of his jacket packet.

—

“You’re a liar.”

Sumire’s eyes widen and hopes it comes off right. “What?”

Today is a rare sunny day, and it gives the whole area a glow that she’s never seen before—the sun’s rays hit the still-moist grass in a way that’s pleasant to her eyes, and the colors of the autumn leaves strewn around the park had never been brighter.

“Your stupid ‘buy-one-get-one’ spiel? That doesn’t exist?” Akechi acccuses, looming over her. “Who lies about hot lemonade, of all things?”

She suppresses a sigh. Lying had never been her forte. “Okay fine, you got me.”

“I knew it—!”

“But I only lied because I knew you’d make a huge fuss over nothing!”

“This isn’t a fuss, Yoshizawa. You know how much I—”

“—hate being pitied,” they say in unison.

“See? I knew you’d say that,” Sumire groans. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t have pity for you. We have the same problem.”

“Then why lie?”

“Because you’d never accept it otherwise!”

The exclamation jolts something from within her throat, and Akechi must recognize her expression. He huffs and reluctantly turns sideways as she coughs, paying no mind to the pink petals that must fly into his field of view. Once she settles down again, Akechi raises an eyebrow.

“Well?”

She tests her breathing before she speaks again. Clear, for now. “Look. I know what you’re going through. I probably know what you’re going through better than anyone else in this world. Me buying you hot lemonade isn’t an elaborate plan to make you look stupid, Akechi—it’s because I’m worried that your throat’s going to split someday.”

“I don’t need you taking care of me.”

“That’s why I lied,” she repeats, for what feels like the millionth time. “But you just had to use your detective skills on me.”

Akechi glowers at her, and she gazes right back. “Are you going to keep getting me shit lemonade?”

“As long as you keep coughing the way you do,” she shrugs. “Yeah, I probably will.”

After a moment, the tension leaves his shoulders. “I don’t like feeling the feeling of owing you.”

“It’s a hundred yen.”

“So,” he ignores her, rummaging through his jacket pockets before throwing something small at her. She catches it and peers down at her hand: a bottle of ginger tea. “Apparently this is supposed to help your throat, too.”

She stares at it with wide eyes. “You bought this for me?”

“In a sense. It’s more because I don’t want you to think you have one over me.”

She can’t help it—a smile splits across her face. “You bought me tea so you can sleep better at night?”

“‘It’s a hundred yen,’” he mocks. “Get over yourself. And stop getting me the lemonade so I don’t have to keep owing you.”

“But you like the lemonade?”

Akechi shoots her a look. “This isn’t about the lemonade, it’s about you unnecessarily buying the lemonade. So, I am asking you politely: don’t buy me lemonade.”

—

When she places a bottle of lemonade the next day, he immediately stands up and leaves the gazebo.

Five minutes later, he returns with hot ginger tea and a fierce scowl.

“Stop.”

“It’s good for your health,” she argues, accepting the bottle from him. It’s almost a little too hot, given the lingering tingle from her palms.

“It’ll be bad for your health if you keep pissing me off like this.”

Sumire realizes something as she unscrews the lid. It should’ve been obvious from the very beginning. From the way he acts, to his hatred of weakness, to his actions and even something as simple as accepting convenience store drinks:

Akechi Goro hates to lose.

—

“You’re bullshitting me.”

She sets down a full plastic bag on the bench. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I ended up getting a lot.”

The heat of his glare almost stings her cheek. Ignoring him, she continues to rummage through her groceries. “Are you more of a chips sort of person? Pocky? I like rice crackers myself, but I’m willing to share if you—”

“I don’t want any of this,” he hisses, coughing a little. “Why are you bringing a pantry into my gazebo?”

Our gazebo, she almost says. To be fair, it’s hardly his gazebo either.

“A few reasons.” Sumire starts setting down the contents of her bag onto the bench. Maybe if he sees something he likes, he’ll take it. Like a stray cat. A feral cat. “We’re here pretty often, and other than the drinks we keep forcing down on each other, we don’t eat.”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“And I stopped by the convenience store to get your drink—”

“That I never wanted.”

“When I saw this poster on the wall that said something along the lines of,” she stretches her arm out, painting a grand picture for him to imagine like a second-rate salesman. ‘Hot pot: the meal that warms the heart and body.’ And I thought since—oh, warning, I’m going to be blunt for a second—we’re both pretty heartbroken and diseased, that maybe we could use some of that healing hot pot.”

Akechi blinks slowly. “I don’t even know where to start with that one. That ad actually worked on you?”

“Why on earth would they lie to their customer base?” She frowns. “Obviously, I can’t just bring an entire hot pot with me to a park, so I had the idea of buying a bunch of snacks instead. So,” gesturing at the pile of junk food laid on her seat, and threatening to topple to his side of the bench. “We feast.”

The rain that starts to fall only works to emphasize the silence between the two of them.

And then he tilts his head. “You’re sort of chatty, aren’t you?” Akechi says, his tone surprised.

“It’s fine if you don’t like the snacks, but you don’t have to be rude about it.”

“No, it’s not about your sack of low-cost goods—it’s an observation.” He shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t think you’ve ever been this chatty.”

She stills, hand frozen over a bag of seaweed. The weight of the petals suddenly seem heavier in her throat, making sure that it isn’t forgotten. Her stomach twists slightly, and she feels sick. A foreign sick, not the one she’s used to.

He’s right—she’s not chatty. At least, not anymore. Not since the loneliness took over. And Akechi doesn’t hesitate, nor does he miss anything. The minute he saw a shift in her, he picked up on it like it was nothing. Like he’s starting to know her.

This is what she wanted, wasn’t it? To stop having to hide? To know someone who understands what she’s going through? That’s why she chased Akechi down the way she did; it was stifling to have to live with this curse by herself, to have a secret that’s literally too big to keep inside. And now that it finally, finally seems like it’s going in the right direction, a realization looms over her like a shadow from an impossibly tall structure. For the first time, she understands what Akechi’s been saying to her, with venom and a sureness of his words: I don’t want anyone seeing me like this.

Not hiding comes with something she forgot to account for—making herself known.

A wave of nausea settles inside of her, stronger this time. The first time she made herself known, she lost her in an infuriatingly avoidable car rash. The last time she made herself known, it made flowers bloom from within her lungs like an inescapable garden, a siren call that she’s paying the price for.

And here she is now, again.

“Oh, very funny.”

His words pull her out of her spiral, and she blinks into focus. “Sorry?”

He crinkles something plastic in his hand, his expression incredibly unamused. “You think that bribing me with jewelry is going to make you more superior to me? That it’ll make me buy you three more of your silly drinks in an attempt to get the upper hand? This ploy won’t work.”

“I’m not following,” she admits. Jewelry?

Sighing, he opens his hand to reveal a Ring Pop in his palm. “Even by the usual standards, this is an inept method of strategy. It makes me feel almost sorry for you.”

The rain picks up, a pleasant pitter-patter of droplets hitting the roof of their aging gazebo.

She can’t hold it in anymore.

Sumire bends forward and snorts, the sound echoing unappealingly across the park, but she can’t even bring herself to care. And when Akechi quickly turns his head away from her, all sense of self-control breaks loose and she’s gasping so heavily that she feels light-headed.

“I understand that we have an unspoken agreement not to mention the sickness,” Akechi starts, looking vaguely uncomfortable and still avoiding her gaze. “But I’d really appreciate it if you...did your business outside of the roofed area—”

A burst of laughter cuts him off, and her side is starting to seriously hurt. “Akechi—” Sumire tries, before a fit of laughter overtakes her, the sound so loud that she swears she’s probably disturbing the wildlife in this area.

“You’re so,” she gasps out. Her lungs are burning, and for once, she doesn’t want it to stop. “Funny!”

“I’m what?”

“This isn’t the petals! I’m just laughing!”

Just as she was starting to get her breathing back in control, he turns in her direction, brows furrowed. “Why are you laughing? This is a serious matter.”

That’s all it took to send her back into a spiral of hysterics. She’s laughing so hard that she can hardly see past the tears in her eyes. She’s laughing so hard that the sharp intake of breath hurts her throat, but it isn’t enough to discourage her. She’s laughing so hard that she forgets what she was so worried about.

In the back of her mind, she wonders when was the last time she smiled so intensely that her cheeks hurt.

She wouldn’t have felt this if she hadn’t come here. If he wasn’t there to say those words, or if she didn’t get oddly competitive with Akechi for no good reason.

If it meant laughing like this, talking like this, smiling like this, then maybe she can find it in her to make herself known again.

—

It doesn’t matter how many times it happens.

He could have a hand over his mouth, a narrow finger held up. He could be gripping the edge of the bench like a lifeline before running to a nearby tree. He could be leaned over the railing, knuckles white as he pukes out wave after wave of bright, yellow petals.

It doesn’t matter how many times it happens—Sumire will always have the desperate urge to reach out towards him. She isn’t even a particularly tactile person. In a way, they have that in common; neither of them seem to be in need of physical touch, and they’ve both been firm with each other about scrapping together whatever privacy can be offered in the wall-less architecture of their established gazebo. So she doesn’t reach out.

But today is particularly bad.

By the time she gets there—jeans soaked from the rain and shivering through her coat—it only takes her a moment to realize that his retching wasn’t normal.

Akechi’s sitting at the very edge of the bench, his head between his legs as he vomits. Again. And again. The stream of petals were there, except now there're the occasional fully in-tact buds that were so large that it makes him choke. It’s as gruelling to listen to as it was to catch a glimpse of it—a sound torn between a wheeze and a groan, interrupted only by more coughs. His body was curled in on itself, seemingly without his permission. With the way his entire form juddered, she can only guess how straining it was for him to carry.

She swallows. As slowly as she can, she sits beside him. If he notices her presence, he doesn’t say anything.

The rain continues to pour, unaware of two teenagers taking refuge in a spot that was never theirs to claim. Raindrops make a sort of haze that takes over the park, making it difficult to discern anything past a few meters from where she is. It gives their spot the feeling of a snow globe: encapsulated. Familiar. A stream of water drips down from the roof, to the gutter, and eventually makes its way to an ever growing puddle.

Sumire raises her hand and, before she thinks too hard, lightly rests it on his spine.

He stiffens, taking in a sharp breath. It’s entirely possible that she’s imagining it, but it almost feels like he might be leaning back.

And then the retching resumes, more punishing than before. Her hand gently slides up his back, and down again in what she hopes is comforting. Grounding. The whole time, she’s watching for minute changes in his expression, wanting nothing less than to decrease his discomfort.

She doesn’t find any.

After what seems like hours, he finally slumps forward, exhausted. Too worn out to muster much other than his breath. When she offers him his drink, he silently takes it, downing it all in one go.

The rain pours on.

—

Sumire hasn’t even stepped onto the wooden platform when Akechi bluntly asks, “Do you even do anything?”

“Please try to be more specific if you’re trying to hurt me before I even get to say hello.”

“Hello,” he sighs, impatient “And I’m not trying anything. It’s a question—what do you do when you’re not, I don’t know, crying in your bedroom and whatnot?”

He passes her drink as she passes his, repressing the urge to throw it at him instead. At least it seems like he’s feeling a little better than yesterday. “You’re rude, you know that?”

“I’ve been made aware, yes.”

Sumire flops down onto the bench, thinking. “Lately I’ve been keeping up with school. I’m having a little trouble with history. There’s this new anime I’ve been watching, but I have to say, it’s a little boring.” A pause. “Um, is there anything specific you’re wondering about?”

“Not at all,” he breaks open his seal and takes a sip. “Is that it?”

She scratches her head, strangely embarrassed. “I’ve been trying to learn how to cook smaller portions, since I’m not moving around as much lately. “ Not exactly easy to do her routines when she’s in constant fear of adding petals to her cartwheels. “I need new boots, considering my old ones are falling apart. I see everyone at school, too. They always ask me to have lunch with them.” She doesn’t mention the part where she declines every time. Shame and guilt bubbles inside her, but it’s less painful than what would happen if she says yes.

Sumire shrugs. “Between that and coming here, there’s not much going on.”

“I see.”

She breaks her own seal and takes a long drink. “Okay, I give up. What was that about?”

To her surprise, he looks genuinely caught off guard—his brown eyes widen every so slightly, and he raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve never done that before,” she says. “Small talk, I mean. It’s kind of strange.” That’s an understatement.

“What’s so strange about this? Just because I never made conversation before doesn’t mean I couldn’t. I’m fairly good at conversation when I need to be.”

“I can imagine.” In the few episodes of Good Morning Japan that he caught with him as the guest, he had no problem being charismatic and lively and enchanting to the audience. It’s weird to even imagine that now. “But you don’t do that anymore.”

“And thank God for that,” he scoffs. Tightening his scarf, Akechi turns to her, condescension clear in his eyes. “Am I not allowed to wonder what you do outside of the confines of this muddy park?”

Sumire blinks, before a smile stretches over her face. “Don’t tell me…”

“Ugh, you have the wrong idea,” he rolls his eyes.

“Akechi—”

“Stop.”

“You care?” she feels herself absolutely beam at him. It’s oddly endearing, witnessing his roundabout way of compassion.

He shifts so that he’s turned away, arms crossed. “Nevermind, you’re too annoying to put up with. Leave. Begone. Get out of my sight.”

Tapping her feet on the wood, she can’t stop grinning. “No, you’d be too worried about me if I just left you here.”

Akechi throws a dark glare behind him, and she holds up her hands. “Kidding!”

It’s more fun than she thought it would to tease him. Too bad he’ll probably go off if she keeps this up. “And how about you?

“What do you mean?” he mutters, still turned away.

“What do you do? Other than bullying people and buying me drinks, I mean.”

Akechi shrugs. “Nothing noteworthy. Since I don’t do detective duties anymore, I’ve had no obligation to make public appearances or work cases.”

“Well, you must have a lot of free time, then,” she presses. It’s something she hasn’t considered until he had bought it up—it’s not as if the world stops and starts whenever they’re both sitting here together, despite what it may feel like. “Do you have hobbies, maybe?”

He stays silent for a second, before: “Reading.”

“Reading,” Sumire repeats, considering his answer. “It suits you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, spinning to give her a look. “How do I look like I read?”

She gives him a once over; from his tawny coat and his green scarf, it always makes him look sharp, but it’s more in the way he holds himself; his back is almost always straight, his shoulders pulled back. Akechi always seems confident in what he does, so sure of himself that it might take people a second to realize what he’s actually saying instead of being pulled along blindly. She coughs, a petal escaping her lips. “Just trust me.”

“Whatever.” He leans back into his seat, his expression curious. “Do you read?”

“Mangas, mostly? I used to read more when I was younger, but then gymnastics took over my life.”

“I’ve never been interested in that genre,” he admits. “It seems a little too close to make-believe to be enjoyable.”

She huffs out a laugh. “I can understand that.”

They lapse into a silence, and she can’t tell if this is weird. If this were anyone else, it wouldn’t be, but she’s pretty sure this isn’t normal. Sumire’s grown accustomed to Akechi’s distant demeanor, his emphasis on privacy. This is an oddity, a confounding variable she hoped they would eventually head towards but she still isn’t ready for.

Sumire doesn’t know what this is, but she knows she doesn’t want it to end.

“Do you have a favorite book?”

Akechi’s eyes slide towards hers. “I have a few.”

“Can I borrow one?” she asks. “I’ve been wanting to get back into reading for some time now, but I don’t know where to start.”

He stares at her, and Sumire almost laughs—only Akechi can be this wary about book sharing. After a moment, he looks away.

“I’ll bring it tomorrow,” he says quietly. A gust of wind blows, but all she feels is warmth.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

—

The bench is empty.

She studies it, scrutinizing the empty space where Akechi sits. It’s not the first time that she arrives before he does, but it’s rare. A tinge of smugness sets in her chest as she makes herself comfortable on the bench—it’ll be fun to tease him about winning today.

It starts to drizzle once again. The smell of wet grass and moist wood slowly fills the air, only adding to the atmosphere that she’s come to memorize and appreciate. The soft pitter patter makes itself prevalent on the leaves, so relaxing that it almost never fails to comfort her. Before, rain had brought her nothing but repressed memories and puddles of red. Rain had been a source of tragedy, a reminder that mocks her whenever cloudy skies loom above.

Now, rain can only be a source of pleasure. The smell clears her mind, and the gentle sounds are company that she looks forward to greeting. Even in silence, all she can associate with it is snarky remarks and quiet confessions. Of arguments and hot drinks. Of brown hair and sharp eyes.

And then her world starts to spin.

A horrible sensation takes over her without warning, a crossbreed between nausea and suffocation infects all of her senses, forcing her to lurch forward and retch so hard she can feel tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. It doesn’t stop there—the minute she thinks she can catch her breath, a wave of petals rises up her throat, choking her, demanding that she coughs and coughs until a hint of blood begins flooding into her mouth.

This is a torture she doesn’t recognize, an unfathomable overencumburance of agony. She retches again. No, that’s not true. This is familiar, but it’s evolved to a new level that she can’t even begin to comprehend. It makes her coughs from before feel like butterfly wings flapping in her throat. is a merciless tidal wave that shows no signs of stopping.

Her hand grips the edge of the bench, trembling. This is insane. The sheer amount of pain makes her nerves throb, her heart pound. It’s nearly on par with her Persona awakening; two different types of fabled events that no one should ever have to experience. Feeling lightheaded, she leans on her knees and concentrates on breathing, eyes clenched tight though she has no trouble imagining the flurry of pink falling between her boots.

For a time, Sumire stays like this: choking, coughing, retching, alternating between suffocation and sharp pains in her esophagus. It’s like she’s floating, tether snipped away, and now she’s drifting in an endless open space, with nothing but the petals keeping her company.

And then she isn’t.

A weight rests on her back, warm and present. She can’t bring herself to look up, and she doesn’t even have the strength to twist her head, but the presence is familiar enough that she doesn’t need to.

The touch is light, hesitant, and Sumire finds herself leaning into it before she can stop herself. It’s warm, enough that she feels heat through her coat, and he starts to gently drag his hand up and down. The feeling of that warmth spreads through her. She exhales shakily.

Sumire gets it now. Why Akechi had let her comfort him had been a mystery, but it’s clear. Obvious, even.

When you don’t want to show the world what’s wrong with you, you hide. Keep the world at arm’s reach, so that nothing else can get to you, to protect what little you have left. But in the process of maintaining that distance, you lose what you didn’t even know you had. That loss, it builds and builds, festering. And Sumire doesn’t doubt that Akechi’s been building it for longer than she has.

In the act of defending themselves, they’ve forgotten how nice it feels like to be comforted.

It still hurts, and she’s still suffocating, but she’s not floating anymore. Her petals aren’t the only ones who stay with her anymore.

It could have been minutes, or hours, but they both stay like this. The downpour continues, droplets intermingling with the sound of her choking and coughing. He doesn’t say a word throughout. If his hand wasn’t there, she wouldn’t have thought there was anyone beside her at all.

Finally, Sumire collapses back against the bench, mildly sweaty and shivering slightly, as if she had just run a marathon. She feels disgusting, and slightly unnerved—the sheer amount of petals at her feet is unsettling to say the least. Like the remains of a massacre taken place in the middle of a flower field.

Too drained to fill in the silence with conversation, she leans her head back and closes her eyes, enjoying the chilling breeze that hits her overheating cheeks. Akechi presses a cold bottle into her hands, and she has just enough energy left not to let it slip from her fingers.

“Your flowers aren’t violets, are they?”

Sumire opens an eye to find Akechi peering down at the petals, curious. “Though it would be amusing if they were.” He looks up. “What flower is it? I don’t recognize them.”

“Oh,” she rasps. “Cyclamens.”

He hums. “I’ve never seen them before. They’re an interesting shape.”

She can only nod. “Yours are nice, too.”

Akechi’s face twists. “There’s no need to pretend. We all know dandelions are barely considered flowers, if ever. Bottom of the barrel weeds, frustrating nuisances. I don’t even get the wishing type, only the yellow ones.” He smoothes out his features, turning it carefully blank. Her chest tightens. “Pathetic.”

“Pretty.”

He blinks, before turning towards her. “What?”

Sumire clears her throat, wincing. “The yellow ones,” she whispers. “I think they’re pretty.”

“No, you don’t.” He rebukes, measured and sharp.

“Nice colors, self-sustaining. Resilient.” She shrugs. “What’s not to like?”

When he doesn’t respond, she glances at him before looking away. There’s something so open about his expression, something vulnerable that she feels like she shouldn’t be allowed to look.

The air tasted wet and heavy with rain.

“Is it too late to accept your apology?” he asks, and she didn’t know he was capable of having a voice that soft.

Delight cuts through her fatigue long enough for her to scoot towards him, shoulder to shoulder. He’s surprisingly warm.

“You’re just in time, I think.”

—

She’s about to leave when Akechi stops her.

“Here.”

Sumire glances at the plastic bag hanging from his fingertips. “My birthday’s in March.”

“It’s the book, you massive hassle,” he rolls his eyes, impatiently shaking his hand. “I didn’t get a chance to give it to you yesterday.”

“Oh! Thank you!” she takes it, peering inside. “Are you sure you want to lend me this? If it’s your favorite book—”

“It’s fine,” he waves a gloved hand. “It’s doing nothing but collecting dust anyway. Take it.”

Sumire nods, and considers putting it in a sealed plastic bag to keep it safe. He’d probably make fun of her for it. “It’s not very long,” she notes.

“I wanted to start you off light. That’s only one of the ones I liked, if you want more—”

“Give me those too!” There’s something exciting about seeing Akechi’s interests, similar to seeing someone’s bedroom for the first time. “They’re probably really good, too.”

“Hold on, see if you like this one first,” he says. “I’ll give you the others when you finish, so you don’t have to carry around all of them.”

She gives him a wide smile. “You know, it’s really sweet to see you care this much, Goro.”

The name slips out without her consent, and even though she was the one teasing him, Sumire feels a rush of heat floods her cheeks. “Um, sorry, that was—actually, it’s fine, right? Unless it isn’t, but I mean, I feel like we can start—well, it’s up to you but—”

Akechi lets out a sigh, striding past her, boots sinking into the mud. “Let me know when you’ve finished the book, Sumire.”

Her chest constricts, not unpleasantly. “I will!”

She waits for him to leave her line of sight, before sitting down on the wooden steps. Pulling out the book, she begins to read.

—

“What on earth is all of this?”

“Paying my debts,” he replies, four full paper bags threatening to topple off his lap and off the bench. “You didn’t think I’d forget about something like that, did you?”

“No,” she says, staring as he struggles to reign them all in. “Because a normal person probably would.”

“A normal person would forget because they’re weak.”

“Yes, and you didn’t forget because you’re not very normal, Goro.” Finding it too hard to keep watching, she finally moves forward to catch them before they hit the ground. They’re lighter than she thought they’d be. “Snacks?”

“In that one, yes. But in these ones,” he gestures to the other two bags, a smirk settled in his expression. “I have legitimate food. Onigiris and sandwiches—none of that processed trash you keep feeding us.”

“Onigiris?” she throws his bags back at him forcefully (“Ow?”) and dashes to the others. “Salmon filled! Oh my God, you’re amazing.”

Akechi rubs his shoulder, but he’s still smug. “Aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Sumire bites into the onigiri, a burst of flavor seeping into her mouth. Amazing. “The greatest in the world.”

“Alright, that’s enough.”

“The best friend I could ever ask for!”

“Calm down, it’s just an onigiri.” He sighs, exasperated, but a little pleased—his own version of smiling. He’s been doing that a lot lately. “Pass me some, I’m starved.”

“I thought you don’t get hungry?”

“Just pass me the damn sandwich.”

Sumire huffs out a laugh and starts rummaging through the bag (Does he want an egg sandwich? Teriyaki? This is more stressful than she thought it would be) when he makes a noise of interest. “Is that a new sweater?”

“Huh? Oh, sort of.” She decides on the teriyaki, and he takes it from her hand. “I found it in the back of my closet the other day. I’m surprised you noticed.”

He shrugs. “Of course I would.”

Sumire blinks, but before she can ask what he meant, he’s already taking a bite.

She chews her onigiri, relishing in the flavor. She forgot how good these taste.

—

There’s a lot of things she’s been noticing about Akechi lately.

Once you get him to start talking, he won’t stop. He has an opinion on everything—from school (“A waste of my time, but I would never be a high school dropout”), to the police force (“Incompetent idiots”), and convenience stores (“Convenience, indeed. I’m a supporter of their existence.”)

He hates getting cold, so he has an alarming three layers under his coat. It makes her wonder how he’s even able to move with all the fabric he’s hauling around. It’s sort of cute, in a sea otter way. (He didn’t believe her when she told him that they have the thickest fur in the world, producing a forty minute debate. It was brutal.)

Akechi hates wasting food, so they have to eat all of the snacks that they buy for the day. It’s not easy to impress Akechi Goro by any means necessary, but the way his eyes bugged out of his head when he watched her swallow an entire onigiri whole is probably one of the funniest moments in her life. On the other hand, Akechi barely eats. He can’t stomach anything more than a sandwich and half a bottle of hot lemonade. She’s pretty sure she can eat three times that much without breaking a sweat.

At one point, she made him laugh. She remembers the way his eyebrows raised in disbelief, the way his hand flew to cover his mouth, but there was no muffling the snort that escaped through his fingers, a complete absence of his usual poise. Or the way his shoulders shook and his eyes were glowing with mirth, his laughter quiet compared to his normal speech, but it captivated her all the same. She remembers laughing with him, even though she couldn’t remember what she even said. That’s fine—she doesn’t really care about that part anyway.

He’s still rude, he’s still snarky, and he’ll still find a way to make sure he ends up on top. But she sees more than that, the layers hidden underneath.

Akechi is incredibly kind, as long as you can pick up on it. He’d never give out compliments, but he picked up on her favorite drink right away. He’s annoyingly smart and clever. He’s resilient, he’s proud (more proud than anyone she’s ever met), and he’s, without a doubt, her best friend.

He's also observant.

He scoots over when she’s shivering without saying a word. He asks her how her test went even when she forgot she told him about it. He knows what jokes make her laugh the hardest and which ones make her smack his arm. He can tell when she’s feeling distant, quietly opting for silence to give her space.

This doesn’t surprise her.

After all, it only makes sense that he sees her just as much as she sees him.

—

“Do you like the rain, Goro?”

“Not really. It slows down the city, makes everyone take cover and cram under roofs and random nooks and crannies. It’s nothing but annoying, really. I used to hate it.”

“But you don’t anymore?”

“I’ve come to appreciate it.”

A long beat passes.

“I think I know what you mean.”

A begrudging smile. A swooping feeling in her stomach. “I knew you would.”

—

Akechi reminds her of autumn.

Maybe it’s his hair, the shade reminding her of the leaves that fall to the ground when they snap from their branches. Or it’s possible it might be his green scarf that’s the same color as damp grass after light rainfall. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

But it isn’t the chill that reminds her of him—at least, not anymore. He’s too much like the ginger tea he gets her, too much like the warm shoulder that she’s grown used to having. He isn’t like the outpour of rain that flows down from the roof either. He isn’t slippery, he isn’t incalculable. He’s a constant, he’s the one thing she knows she has, one that won’t just wash away once the clouds clear up.

The truth is she doesn’t know why Akechi reminds her of autumn. All she knows is that for some reason, when he asks her what her favorite season is, only one comes to mind.

—

“Taste it.”

“Ugh, no thank you. I told you I never liked that.”

It’s storming, probably.

“Then why did you buy it for me if you think it tastes like trash?”

“Because unlike some people, I care about the well being of others.”

She can tell that the raindrops were hitting much harder than it usually did. The splash is bigger with each drop that falls from the deep-gray sky, creating dozens of other, tinier splashes—a domino effect, a never-ending cycle.

“You’re foul, Sumire.”

“Oh, so you’re saying that to me?”

Thick tree branches shook and shuddered under the onslaught of the torrent, quivering and swaying. A curtain of water flow is coming down from the roof of their gazebo. Like a protective sheen that makes them invisible from everything else.

“I’m not mean, I just don’t like to lie to save someone’s feeling from being hurt. That’s an issue that they have to take care of.”

“That’s really nice of you. I’m still not drinking it.”

She’s not too sure if it’s storming though, because all she notices is the boy in front of her—the way he’s pushing his bottle of hot lemonade into her hand and speaking loud enough that the rain ceases to exist.

“A single sip.”

“No,” she bats away the ever-inching hand reaching towards hers. “I’m happy with my tea.”

“Yes, that I got you. My judgement is good, so drink it.”

“Why are you so bad at listening?”

“Why are you so bad at taking directions?” he mocks, shifting towards her. She shifts away. Sumire’s keeping herself an inch apart, though she doesn’t know why.

“Goodness, you’re something of a headache, aren't you?”

“What did you say?”

“I said that you’re a pleasure to be around!” She’s physically incapable of keeping the smile off her face at this point. “If it really means so much to you, fine. I’ll take a sip.”

“Finally!”

Triumphant, though she has no reason why, he offers the drink. Sumire stares at it with a frown. “Why do you care so much?”

“I already told you—it’s only fair that you drink it after you practically force it on me.”

“I did not force it on you.”

“Yes, I perfectly recall you lacking the capability of minding your own business—”

“Hey!”

“And I’m not saying I mind it anymore, but that’s when you really started irritating me—”

“You are being so unfair,” she pulls a face at him. “I wasn’t doing it to irritate you, and you know that. I did it because…” It clicks, and Sumire feels her eyes widen. “You!”

“What?” he asks, bewildered.

“Don’t try and act dumb, Goro.” She snatches the bottle from his hand, inspecting the sloshing liquid inside. “It’s interesting how you’re still trying to lie to me even if you know you won’t get away with it.”

When did they start leaning into each other like this? When did they stop taking the edge of the bench, shifting so deep into the middle that they can’t even lean on the handle anymore? When did they start talking like they’ve known each other for years, jumping off of each other’s banter like it’s nothing?

“Stop being difficult, and get to the point.”

“You’re making me drink this because you know it’s good for my health, even if I think it tastes like bleach.”

Akechi crosses his arms. “And what if I am?” he challenges her, his eyes twinkling with defiance.

“Then I’d say you should’ve been straightforward from the start.” Unscrewing the bottle, she finishes it all in one mouthful. A grimace twists her features. “It tastes like sewer water.”

“What kind of sewer water are you drinking?” he asks, incredulous.

“That’s no concern of yours.”

“Hmph. Whatever’s in it is probably the reason why you’re like this, Sumire.”

“Excuse me, and what’s that supposed to mean?”

Sumire. Sumire. She’s heard her own name thousands of times, relearned it in dozens of different ways, found herself time and again, but she feels like she’s never heard the right way to say it until now. She wonders if he’d make fun of her if she asks him to say it again. It would be a price she's willing to pay if it means hearing it roll off of his tongue one more time.

“It means that I don’t think anyone else could be as strange as you.”

“You’re one to talk. Goro, please listen to me. You are, and I’m not exaggerating here, the absolute most unusual person in the world.”

“You can’t say that unless you’ve spoken to everyone in the world.”

“That is such a you thing to say.”

When did she get to the point where she can say that and mean it? She should’ve kept track of it. Day X: Sumire gets to know Akechi better than she did yesterday. Tomorrow? More of the same, hopefully.

Instead of responding, he bumps her shoulder hard enough that she almost topples over. “Hey!”

“It’s not my fault,” he sniffs. “Perhaps if you were to wear six inch heels, you wouldn’t be having this problem.”

When did she get to the point where she never wants to leave such an old, abandoned gazebo?

“I mean in this in the kindest way possible, but are you out of your mind?”

“You know you shouldn’t be asking me that question.”

When did she stop seeing a gazebo whenever she came here?”

“I know, I know.”

Akechi glances at her. “I know you do.”

When did she start seeing only him?

A lull passes through them, and from the distance, thunder rumbles. She pays it no mind.

Sumire yawns, the rain making her sleep. His shoulder is only inches away, looking irresistibly soft. She straightens up, instead. Lack of sleep can be pretty dangerous.

They haven’t exchanged any words for a few minutes now. Sumire’s never felt the urge to break the silence with Akechi, but this is different. It’s not out of fear of making things uncomfortable, but it’s more like she wants to keep talking to him. She wants to see how he’ll react to what she does, or what she says. To see him furrow his brows, or roll his eyes. To have him complain about the world but praise the veiled corners of it. She wants to hear his voice.

She racks her brain for something to say—it would be too obvious if she brings up the arguments again, right?—when she becomes aware that it wasn’t between them at all. Not completely, at least, because Akechi was humming.

The tone isn’t one she recognizes, but her heart swells all the same. At the very least, that’s one thing she has over him: he’s a pretty bad singer. It’s off-tune and he misses every third beat. It can only ever be endearing to her.

Her eyes wander around, taking in the park for the upteenth time but feeling like she isn’t taking in anything at all—she’s too busy committing the hum to memory.

The foot of their gazebo was almost entirely surrounded by a few inches of muddy water, and it’s almost mesmerizing to see the large puddle react to being disturbed by rain drops. She lets her eyesight trail to the splintering beams that support the roof and cover their heads, and she almost wonders if there’s ever been anyone like them who sat on this bench. It would be impossible to tell.

And then, tucked into the aging floorboards, something makes her squint. After a moment, she realizes what it is.

Her heart stops.

Akechi pauses in his humming. “What?”

Sumire opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her eyes are glued to it in a hazy, half-lidded state. The kind where you just can’t seem to pull your attention from it, no matter how hard you try.

“Did you see a squirrel somewhere?” he huffs. “What’s gotten into you?”

Her fingertips tingle. She feels her lungs beginning to burn. Taking a breath, the burn goes away.

“...Sumire?”

“Goro,” she mutters. “When…?”

Akechi glances, and he must see something because he immediately turns towards her. “What is it?”

“When was the last time,” she takes a shaky breath. And then another. When she speaks, it feels like she’s loud enough that the entirety of Japan can hear her.

“When was the last time that either of us let out even a petal?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Their eyes lock onto each other. Sumire stares at him, and he stares at her. Brown and red. Both filled with disbelief.

Akechi breaks the silence, standing to saunter over the edge of the railing.

Gripping the edge hard enough that she can imagine his tendons stretching taut, he coughs. Nothing comes out. He does it again—still nothing. Then he tries coughing, forcing himself to retch, squeezes his torso with the tips of his fingers and tries to shift any part of his lungs for something to happen.

But nothing does.

Slowly, he turns around. His expression is unreadable.

“Did you do this?” he asks, voice trembling. “Did you do this to me?”

“Huh?” It’s like she can barely hear him, like there’s a glass wall between them that nullifies his words until they’re nothing but goop by the time it reaches her.

He gestures wildly at himself, eyes wide and crazed and something she doesn’t recognize. “You. Did you do this to me? Did you fucking do this to me?”

The rain was loud, then grew louder still. “Did I do what?” she quietly says. “You’re not being clear—”

Akechi takes a step towards her, teeth bared. “Don’t shit with me right now, you know full well what I’m talking about.”

“Then stop dancing around it and ask me the question.” She needs him to say it. If he says it, maybe her world will stop spinning for just one second. After a second, she recognizes the odd expression, so strange and foreign on him that it was hard to recognize: fear.

Even the wind takes a break from its howl to hear his words.

“Are we in love?”

Sumire studies him, studies the person she’s come to fall in love with. “Are you asking if I planned this?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Then what are you saying?”

She can pinpoint it. The moment Akechi snaps. “I don’t know, Sumire. I don’t fucking know, okay? First, I’m alone, and that’s fine, that’s fine and goddamn dandy, because what can I do about it? Then I mess up, commit a couple of atrocities to make sure that I stay alone, and you know what happens instead?” he lets out a laugh, so loud and unhinged that it almost makes her flinch. “I fall in love with him, because of course I do, because of course I latch onto the first person I meet who didn’t treat me like shit. Then I’m alone again, and good fucking riddance because I can’t stand anyone else around me. And I was fine. I was good. I was alright, and then you come out of who the hell knows where and—and—”

Akechi tips his head backwards, shoulders sagging. “And before I knew what was happening, I’d let you take anything from me. Anything.”

Absently, she realized she’d been crying. When had they gotten here? Slowly, she wipes away the stream of tears that have cooled on her cheeks, only for it to be replaced by a fresh one.

With wobbling knees, Sumire stands, and takes a deep breath.

“I need to go,” they say in unison.

They blink. And Akechi huffs out a laugh, but the sound comes out hollow. Fake.

Sumire smiles with him, but it doesn't come out right. "I need time,” she says, even though she feels her heart break when she does.

"So do I," he mutters, before his eyes flash. "But—"

"But not too long," she finishes. "I know. It's just—"

"Stop." Akechi cuts in. "Don't try. It's fine, you don't need to understand right now. I don't either. Just…” he hesitates, and it looks like his heart is breaking alongside hers. “Just be back here when you do."

Sumire opens her mouth, and the words are there, at the tip of her tongue. The words her body understood before her mind was able to catch up, a sentence so true that she never stopped to consider it's possibility. She can say it, and it would be much faster, much easier than this. She wouldn't need to go.

"I'll see you in a bit," she whispers instead.

Turning around, Sumire opens her umbrella, and walks away. She doesn't know if he's left, or if he's watching her go. She doesn't check.

The rain continues to pour down, drop by drop, falling from each cloud like it's inevitable that anything else were to occur.

—

The ground is littered with orange and brown leaves, a gentle breezy picking them up and taking them somewhere they’ve never seen before. It’s sunny, but for some reason, she can hear the sound of rain.

True to her word, she doesn’t see the gazebo the next day.

—

Or the day after that.

Sumire considers calling, before realizing that she doesn’t even have his number. That wasn’t something she considered, before all of this.

—

She considers buying a drink from the convenience store, and immediately dismisses the idea.

Instead of taking a left to the muddy path, she keeps going.

—

It takes her four days.

Four days before she can muster up the courage to see the bench, to see the gazebo. Four days of imagining this scenario, of seeing it from every angle, from every possible outcome. In every scene, she knows Akechi won’t be there. At least, not yet. And that’s fine—more than fine. He’s been in this hell longer than she can imagine, and that’s not something you can just walk away from.

She’ll sit on the bench everyday if she has to. He’ll show up eventually. She’s done this before. They’ve done this before, in what feels like a lifetime ago.

Rounding the corner, she stops walking.

Akechi’s leaning against the far support beam of the gazebo, just under the roof so that he stays dry. He looks ethereal like this, still except for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. His eyes flicker to her when he hears her footsteps.

“Making me wait, Sumire?” he says, ever arrogant. It does something to her pulse.

“That depends,” she replies, though her pulse is so quick that it's distracting. “When did you get here?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“Hasn’t been long, then.”

“Long enough, I’d like to think.”

She lets out a laugh, mostly to release some of the flutters she’s harboring in her stomach. (It feels so different from the clogging in her lungs and the suffocation in her throat.) “Still so demanding, Goro. I’d say our timing was on point for this one.”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile only gets wider. She can’t help but think he looks so good when he smiles. “I can’t help but agree.”

“Can—” she hesitates, and then steels herself. “Can I be clear? With you?”

“You don’t even need to ask.”

Sumire needs to say it. This isn’t something she can just hope he understands, not something someone can say for her. It’s the reason why she needed time, time to unjumble the words in her head and resting in her heart.

She swallows. Does she look as wretched as she feels? Can he feel her heart race a mile a minute?

“I followed you here because I was scared of being alone. Because I couldn’t stand to listen to silence anymore, or the white noise that everyone gives off. I was scared to live my entire life having to hide, of having nobody that understands what’s happening to me or what I’m feeling. That all changed recently.”

Sumire tucks a strand of hair back, letting her gaze fall down. “It’s because you were there, Goro. You let me stay with you, you let me be with you. You let me be seen. Now I’m not scared to be alone. Now I’m just scared of losing you.” She looks up, feeling unmovable with the strength of her words and the truth behind them. “And if you’re not ready for anything, that’s okay. I’ll still be here. I wanted you to know that, no matter what happens, I'm here.”

By the time she finished, her voice had fallen to a whisper. Nerves overtake her moment of bravery, though it does nothing to quell the lightness in her shoulders and stomach. It feels impossibly good to say it out loud, to put her love, her feelings, her thoughts, her everything into words for him to hear.

A beat passes between them, so heavy that it feels solid.

“Hey,” he quietly says. “Come closer.”

She blinks, before doing as she’s told. When she comes under the roof with him, he raises his far hand—gripped between his thumb and index finger holds a single bright dandelion paired with a soft pink cyclamen.

“I’m in love with you, Yoshizawa Sumire.”

He speaks simply and to the point; he doesn't feel the need to coat his words at this moment.

Her eyes widen, but he isn't finished. “Being alone was my plan. Dying alone was my plan. To rot here, to live my days here. I’ve come to accept it. I had already decided that this was my future. But, if it’s okay with you…"

Akechi Goro does not get nervous, nor does he feel the need to emote strongly if it isn't necessary. Yet right now, he shuffles his feet, and the fondness in his gaze threatens to overwhelm her. “I’d like for you to be my future, instead.”

He says it in a breath, as if eager to get it out, or terrified to keep holding it in. She can't tell—she's too busy trying to comprehend despite the sheer ringing in her ears. But even if she were to lose her hearing in that moment, or lose her sight as he spoke, she still would have understood the meaning in his words. The impact of it pierced her heart ruthlessly in a way she'd never forget for as long as she'll live.

A sharp intake of breath and three strides was all it took for Sumire to throw her arms around Akechi’s shoulders. He stumbles back, surprised. “What—”

“I love you,” she cuts in, unable to wait any longer. He stiffens. “I love you. I love you. I love you, Akechi Goro.”

Slowly, gently, he wraps his arms around her waist, and squeezes back just as tight. “I know that.”

“Good.” She’s so close to him that she can hear his breathing, his intake of breath—rhythmic, stable, and healthy. “You better.”

“But…”

She waits for him to finish. “Yes?” she says, when he doesn't continue.

Sumire feels him shift, uncomfortable. “But can you say it again?” he asks, not quite shy, but small, almost. Like if he said it too loudly, he might get in trouble.

Pauses, she arches back, confident that he would never drop her. “Are you sure?”

“Confident.”

Grinning, she says, voice clear and deliberate and tinged with defiance:

“I am so in love with you, Akechi Goro.”

He throws his head back and laughs, delighted, and she can’t help but laugh with him. In his arms, she is warm. She’s so, so warm.

It only makes sense that it all leads to this. It only makes sense that they fall in love with each other, in the midst of a gazebo that’s falling apart and an area of the park that everyone’s forgotten about.

It only makes sense that they have each other.

—

The two of them bypass the line (Akechi with a smug expression and Sumire with an apologetic one) to enter the busy restaurant. A rush of steam comes at them, mouthwatering broth and the scent of spice wafts in from all angles—a staple of hot pot dishes. Waiters and servers bustle around, hustling to every seated customer. They make no move to call attention to themselves—waiting isn't a hassle.

“You like it?” she asks. Her stomach grumbles and prays he can't hear it. “I thought it would be a pretty good first date idea.”

He sniffs. “It passes.”

“It more than passes! This is an A to me, and it should be an A+ to you.”

“It passes,” he repeats, conveniently looking away when she starts frowning at him. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I approve wholeheartedly."

“Good,” she puffs out her chest. “I was really looking forward to this.”

“Were you?”

“Absolutely. I mean, this is the first time that we’re not eating outside in a public area.”

His lips turn downwards. “While I can agree, I’ve grown fairly attached at our bench, as feeble as it is.”

Our bench.

“Oh, that reminds me." Sumire unbuttons her jacket, pulling out a book from the pouch inside. “I’m ready for the next one.”

Akechi glances at it, surprised. “Already?”

“It was a good book, but it’s sad.”

“Only in the beginning,” he argues. “It needed to be slightly depressing, don’t you think?”

“Maybe, if that’s how you see it.” She’s about to pass him the book when she remembers something. Flipping to the last page, she pulls her bookmark. “Oops! Almost forgot. Can't lose this.”

“Oh.”

“You like it?” she twirls it between her fingers, the pressed cyclamens and dandelions pairing spinning together, intertwined. “I love it. It's almost like you're reading along with me.”

She relishes in the way his eyes widen before flickering away. “I’ll give you the next one tomorrow.”

“Hurray!” she exclaims, sneakily moving her hand so she can hold his. But just before she can go in for the kill, he pulls away.

Akechi removes his gloves, shoves them into his pocket, before twining his hand with hers. “You don’t have to use stealth strategies in order to win my affection, you know.”

“I know,” Sumire says, swinging their hands back and forth. “I was just seeing if I could get away with it.”

“You know you’re not very sly.”

She shrugs. “I guess I’ll just have to keep practicing, right?”

The host finally greets them at the door, apologizing profusely and ushering them further into the restaurant.

Tokyo is a busy place.

It’s constantly jam-packed with excited tourists and impatient suits and laughing teenagers. There’s lights, there’s cars, and there isn’t a lot of patience for those who can’t keep up. Eyes dart around, taking in the people, the atmosphere. It doesn’t matter how many times someone’s been there—there’s always something new to see. There’s always something new to miss.

There are spots, however. Spots that go under the radar of the hustle and bustle, of the city life so ingrained into the concrete and roads. They go undetected, and people can live their entire lives in Tokyo without knowing that these spots ever existed. With how fast life moves, these spots are respites; they act like small pocket holes of air for whoever wants it, or for whoever needs it.

As they’re being led to their table, she feels him tighten his hold on her hand. Her heart leaps.

This restaurant is a different spot. It's loud, crowded, and filled with people who don't look past their own bubble. But in the end, the restaurant isn't her spot. Their gazebo wasn't her spot, either.

She glances at Akechi, and when he catches her eye, he tilts a brow up, curious. Unable to hold back, she smiles, wide enough for her cheeks to hurt.

Sumire finally found a spot of her own.

[thecaffeinebookwarrior]

A Writer’s Guide to Viewpoints

Most of us know that there are three major viewpoints from which stories are told:

First Person -- “I tell my own story with the pronoun ‘I’ because I’m just so damn awesome.”

Second Person -- “You are a character in this story, and you can’t do anything about it.  If it makes you uncomfortable, tough shit.”

Third Person -- “He muttered himself and pulled the blankets over his head, wishing this asshole would stop narrating his life.”

Those are the three viewpoints, and that’s all there is to it.  Just pick your favorite, and you’re ready to go.  Right?

Well.  Not exactly.  

You see, my fellow scribblers, there are actually multiple sub categories of each viewpoint -- beyond even the “Third Person Omniscient” or “Third Person Subjective.”

To be specific:

First Person:

First Person Informant

First Person Reminiscent

Unreliable

Second Person:

Reader as Character

I Substitute

Third Person:

Objective 

Limited 

Multiple Selective Omniscience 

Omniscient

This might seem overwhelming, but fear not!  Each perspective is fairly easy to break down, and ultimately, apply to your own work and understanding of literature.  This post will elucidate each.

So let’s take charge of our narratives and delve in, like the active protagonists we are.

What is the First Person?  

I’m sure we all know this, but a First Person narrator tells their story from the pronoun I (or sometimes we, though this is quite rare.)

The different factions of First Person narration are somewhat under-discussed -- certainly not as widely known as the Third Person Omniscient versus Objective viewpoints -- but, as these examples prove, they do exist.

As you read, you’ll likely think back to your favorite narrators, and realize that not all First Person viewpoints were created equal.

The First Person Informant:

“I’m telling it like it is.  As it’s happening.  I’m living in the moment, and watching it unfold with you.  Look at us, charging blindly into the future together.  Isn’t it exciting?”

This dude conveys the events as they transpire, or appear to transpire, in the present.  There’s no “once upon a time” for him.  Merely the unfurling now.

Examples:

“Vampires in the Lemon Grove,” by Karen Russel

“In every season you can find me sitting at my bench, watching them fall.  Only one or two lemons tumble from the branches each hour, but I’ve been sitting here so long their falls seem continuous, close as raindrops.  My wife has no patience for this sort of meditation.  “Jesus Christ, Clyde,” she says, “You need a hobby.” 

Russel’s narrator – a world-weary vamp navigating the tribulations of eternal love and insatiable bloodlust in an Italian lemon grove – is an excellent example of a first-person informant.  He isn’t telling us about the lemon grove as it was, but as it is.  The lemons fall before his eyes as they fall before ours.  We are in this lemon grove together.

“Natural Selection,” by Jacob M. Appel

“The stolen baboon.  On the evening news, she’s an irrelevancy -- a simian mug shot tucked between National Hairball Awareness Day and an interview with the Boston Strangler’s Children.  Six hours later, she’s lounger on the sofa in our living room, smacking together her protruded lips, scratching her back on the damask.  Suburban Tampa is apparently far more fun than a lab cage in Atlanta.”

Here, we are transported directly into a father’s dilemma after his well-meaning yet painfully naive and somewhat spoiled daughter “liberates” a mistreated lab baboon -- a decision that could effectively ruin both of their lives.  The informant perspective amplifies the reader’s suspense, as we are in the moment with him and can only discover the outcome by watching events unfold (or skipping pages.)

“What I Do All Day,” by Hellen Ellis

“Inspired by Beyonce, I stallion-walk to the toaster.  I show my husband where a burnt spot looks like the island where we honeymooned, kiss him good-bye, and tell him what time to be home for our party.”

This one is just great.  We are transported into the perspective of a seemingly chipper, affluent housewife as she quietly goes insane from suffocating domesticity and the horror of a meaningless life.  And, emphasized by the informant perspective, we feel all of this with her!  It is characteristically brilliant and hilarious satire from Ellis’s brilliant and hilarious collection, American Housewife.

The First Person Reminiscent:

“It was on a dark and rainy night when I decided to tell this story.  I tell it as I remember it, after these events have transpired.  Let’s look back on them together.”

In this perspective, the narrator is looking back on events after they have happened.  He isn’t describing these events as they unfold;  he is telling a story.

Examples:

Life of Pi, by Yann Martel

There are actually two reminiscent narrators here.  The titular Pi, and the author who has elected to tell his story.  

“This book was born as I was hungry.  Let me explain.  In the spring of 1996, my second book, a novel, came out in Canada.  It didn’t fair well.  Reviewers were puzzled, or damned it with faint praise.  Then readers ignored it.  Despite my best efforts at plating the clown or the trapeze artist, the media circus made no difference.  The book did not move.  Books lined the shelves of bookstores like kids standing in a row to play baseball or soccer, and mine was the gangly, unathletic kid that no one wanted on their team.  It vanished quickly or quietly.”

So opens this immensely clever novel, which, in all regards, blurs the lines between allegory and reality.  However, most of it is narrated by the eponymous Pi, who becomes this author’s muse.

“I've never forgotten him. Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in my dreams. They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of the human heart. I still cannot understand how he could abandon me so unceremoniously, without any sort of goodbye, without looking back even once. The pain is like an axe that chops my heart.”

Here we have Pi, reflecting on his spiritual and allegorical companion, Richard Parker (an oddly named tiger whom we come to love as much as Pi does.)  Pi’s retrospective narration allows for the clear-sighted view of his complex feelings that can only come with time and distance.  Thus, this reminiscent narration enhances the power of the narrative.

The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger

“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”

My feelings towards J.D. Salinger are somewhat negative (I recommend you watch the documentary Salinger to figure out why) but this book is timeless for a reason.  This opening line offers up countless questions that leave you thinking long after you turn the final page.  Moreover, it impeccably establishes the voice that will carry us throughout its meandering narrative.  Catcher in the Rye would not be the same without its reminiscent narration, and this line establishes that.

Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov

“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.”

This opening line makes me somewhat sick to read, because, of course, it is the floral soliloquy a frothing, rabid pedophile, about a “four feet ten” twelve-year-old girl.  But, as a piece of art, it is still remarkably done -- the perspective of a monster, putting himself on trial before an imaginary jury, and telling a story that is invariably partial towards his warped perspective.  Once again, the retrospective is integral to this grotesquely fascinating narrative.

The Unreliable Narrator:

“I am the King of the Lizard People, and no one will acknowledge it but me.  Don’t believe me?  Too bad.  I’m the one telling this story, and you have no choice but to believe my dubious rendition of these events.”

It’s widely debated as to whether this should be its own category.  Why?  Because all first person narrators are inherently unreliable.  We just have little choice but to take their information as it’s denoted to us.  Oftentimes, they win our trust;  but other times, it is their unabashed unreliability that makes the narrative memorable.

Don’t believe me?  All of the past three examples were unreliable narrators.  And I examine several more in my post on types of unreliable narrators here.

In the meantime, let’s move on to the oft-underrated Second Person.  

What is the Second Person?

This highly controversial viewpoint uses the pronoun “you.”  Most people associate this perspective with amateur fanfiction or pretentious purple prose, but let me tell you:  when this perspective works, it is stellar.  And I’ll explain why.

The Reader as a Character

“You’re walking down the street, and you realize the narrator is talking about you.  Maybe you like this.  Maybe you don’t.  The narrator doesn’t care.  The narrator is a cruel and indifferent god.  You put in your headphones to tune the narrator out.  The narrator finds this incredibly rude.  You can’t escape me, motherfucker.” 

This is what most people think about when they picture a Second Person Narrative.  Okay, not this specifically -- being frank, most people probably think about reader-insert fanfiction (which can be amazing as well.)  This viewpoint asks the reader to imagine themselves as a character -- usually the main character -- in the narrative.

Examples:

“This is a Story About You,” from Welcome to Night Vale, by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Craner

“‘This is a story about you,’ said the man on the radio. And you were pleased, because you always wanted to hear about yourself on the radio.”

Even if you’re unfamiliar to this podcast, I highly recommend you listen to this episode (or read the transcript) immediately.  It shows you virtually everything reader-insert can be, and what a remarkable effect it can have.  It virtually envelops you in this perspective, this town, and this surrealistic reality. 

“The Young Immortal,” by Brooksie C. Fontaine (me!)

“When it started, it was the February fourteenth of 1945.  An American plane was hit in the engine by Japanese fire, fell from the slate gray sky like a shooting star.  Its blazing red reflection ignited the swell of colorless water.  And then it was gone, taking with it all the color in the world.

In that plane was my fellow air force pilot.  The love of my life.

You.

I know what you’re thinking:  you weren’t alive in ‘45, and you weren’t a man.  Well, I’m gonna tell you you’re wrong on both counts.  You’ve been a man before.  You’ll be one again.  It doesn’t matter to me, so long as it’s you.”

This one is unique, because it includes both the First Person Reminiscent (the eponymous immortal narrator) and the Second Person Reader as Character.  The reader is in the perspective of the narrator’s oft-reincarnated love interest, and so I decided to include it as an example. 

The “I” Substitute

“You were fifteen when you realized you could only get hard if you were thinking about carnivorous dinosaurs.  Not me.  You.  This has absolutely nothing to do with me, and I resent the insinuation that it does.  This is your problem, dino-fucker.  This is your story.  This is about you.” 

This one’s interesting.  The narrator is in denial, and using the second-person to distance themselves from the events of the story.  It is a substitute for the First Person, and a thinly-veiled one at that.

Examples:  

“Freaks,” by Alden Jones

“From the cluster of mourners, Kristen’s mother had emerged; she strode towards you.  Her straight brown hair was limp and flyaway.  She wore the expression of an animal who wanted to devour you.  Her eyes were cushioned by the bluish puffed skin beneath them, but they flashed hot with fury.

‘You,’ she said.  She pointed her finger.  She began to gallop.  ‘You think you see something no one else sees?’  she called.  Mourners turned to watch her progress towards you.  Heather took a step away.

You dangled the camera by your side.  You froze.  You did nothing but watch the thing happen.

‘YOU,’ the mother said, charging.  ‘YOU.  YOU.’”

These are actually the concluding lines of this haunting story from Jones’s collection, Unaccompanied Minors.  I had the pleasure of hearing her read this story for my graduate program;  in the Q&A afterwards, she explained how the narrative, and the characters’ mentality throughout the story, depended on the Second Person.  “It was a different story without it,” she said.  

“The Other Person,” by Nathan Leslie

“You write the story in the second person.  It’s your go-to point of view now.  You like it’s edge, its resonance of irony, even if your story lacks said irony (it adds irony).  You makes anything possible.  You is the new me.” 

This one is simultaneously hilarious, sad, and strangely invigorating.  It encapsulates the deep trenches of insecurity that come with being an author, and whittles them into sharp, sly satire.  The “I” Substitute doesn’t just emphasize the story;  it is the story.  This story would not exist without it.

Now that I’ve successfully changed your mind about the Second Person (and if you still don’t agree with me, you’re wrong), let’s move on to the ever-popular yet difficult-to-master Third Person. 

What is the Third Person? 

You know what the third person is, but I’ll suspend my disbelief and pretend you don’t.  It uses the pronouns he, she, or they, but the perspective can be virtually anywhere.  Which makes the Third Person such an interesting thing to explore.

Third Person Objective

“She slaps him.  He touches the red mark her ring left behind, and stares at her with wide eyes.”

This one is also known as The Dramatic, The Camera Lens, or The Fly on the Wall perspective.  It describes the events as we would view them, with no inside information into the thoughts or motivations of the characters.  What we see is what we get, and we have to discern the characters’ feelings based on what they say and do.

Example: 

“Meanwhile.  A Conversation,” from American Gods, by Neil Gaiman

“‘Miz Crow?’ 

‘Yes.’

‘You are Samantha Black Crow?’  

‘Yes.’

‘Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, ma’am?’

‘Are you cops?  What are you?’

‘My name is Town.  My colleague here is Mister Road.  We’re investigating the disappearance of two of our associates.’

‘What were their names?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Tell me their names.  I want to know what they were called.  Your associates.  Tell me their names and maybe I’ll help you.’ 

‘...Okay.  Their names were Mister Stone, and Mister Wood.  Now, can we ask you some questions?’ 

‘Do you guys just see things and pick names?  “Oh, you be Mister Sidewalk, he’s Mister Carpet, say hello to Mister Airplane?”’”

In this unique and hilarious chapter, we witness an exchange between (bisexual icon) Samantha Black Crow and a minor villain who has been assigned to track down the protagonist.  We aren’t privy to either of the characters’ emotions or thoughts, or even their actions, yet we can discern all of it from dialogue alone.

Third Person Limited 

“She’s had enough of his bullshit.  Something in her snaps, and her open palm collides -- hard -- with the side of his stupid, stupid face.  He touches the red mark she left behind, staring at her like he can’t believe she actually did that.  Good.  Maybe that’ll teach him to stop being such an pugnacious fuckwad.” 

This one is tethered to a specific character, whose thoughts and feelings we are aware of.  However, we are not inside the mind of the character in the same manner as a First Person narrator.

Examples: 

American Gods, by Neil Gaiman

“Shadow had done three years in prison.  He was big enough, and looked don’t-fuck-with-me enough that his biggest problem was killing time.  So he kept himself in shape, and taught himself coin tricks, and thought a lot about how much he loved his wife.”

Though American Gods features an impressive diversity of perspectives, we spend most of the book tethered to the lovable ex-con Shadow Moon.  We are never trapped inside his head, as we would be if the story were First Person, but we know what he is thinking and feeling.  He is our viewpoint character.

The Giver, by Lois Lowry 

“It was almost December, and Jonas was beginning to be frightened.  No.  Wrong word, Jonas thought.  Frightened meant that deep, sickening feeling of something terrible about to happen.  Frightened was the way he had felt a year ago when an unidentified aircraft had overflown the community twice.  He had seen it both times.  Squinting toward the sky, he had seen the sleek jet, almost a blur at its high speed, go past, and then a second later heard the blast of sound that followed.  Then one more time, a moment later, from the opposite direction, the same plane.”

Lois Lowry’s timeless, haunting dystopia is introduced through the guileless eyes of twelve-year-old Jonas.  We are aloud to see the world from his perspective, but the distance of Third Person Limited allows us to feel the horror of each situation with more clarity.  Lowry demonstrates how to utilize POV to one’s advantage, similar to how Neil Gaiman uses Third Person Limited to enhance the horror of his masterful modern fairy tale Coraline.

Multiple Selective Omniscience 

“She decides she’s had enough of his bullshit, and slaps him.  Hard.  Hard enough that her ring leaves a red welt on his cheek.

He feels his eyes go wide, and he touches the side of his face.  He keeps waiting for her to apologize, but her eyes are narrowed and her lips are pursed.  She doesn’t look sorry.”

The viewpoint shifts between characters.  It can be extremely effective, as long as we are aware of when the proverbial camera changes angles.

Examples: 

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, by Betty Smith

First of all:  if you haven’t read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, do it.  Do it right now.  It is the piece of classic literature I recommend to everyone who hates classic literature, because it’s devoid of all of the traits that make people hate classic literature to begin with.  It has oodles of complex, idiosyncratic, autonomous, and tough-as-hell female characters, bad language, and frank discussions of sexuality, poverty, and classism.  Read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  

Anyway.  Though its protagonist is Francie Nolan, who, like the eponymous tree, perseveres and thrives against insurmountable odds, the viewpoint bounces around an immense deal, between Francie’s family and neighbors to the most minor side-characters.  Because of this, many people believe that the true protagonist is Brooklyn itself, and the people in it. 

The Twelve Tribes of Hattie, by Ayana Mathis 

This is a captivating, gut-wrenching book, similar to A Tree Grows in Brooklyn in its highly effective depiction of poverty.  The book follows the children of Hattie Shepherd, a formerly young and optimistic mother, who lost her firstborn twins to an easily preventable disease in the aftermath of the Great Migration.  The viewpoint changes with each chapter, showing the perspectives of each of her children and how they are haunted by this loss.

The Vacationers, by Emma Straub 

A far cry from its poverty-focused predecessors, this book focuses on the problems of the affluent and privileged.  It is, however, a deeply interesting read, as it swerves between the perspectives of the titular vacationers after a patriarch’s fore into adultery threatens his family and marriage.

Omniscient 

“She decides she’s had enough of his bullshit, and to his surprise, she slaps him.  Hard enough that he feels her ring leave a red welt on his flesh.

He touches his cheek in shock, and stares at her, awaiting an apology.  But she isn’t sorry.  All she feels is satisfaction.” 

Just what it sounds like.  The character is an all-knowing entity.  Or Lemony Snicket.  Perhaps both. 

Examples:  

Everything I Never Told You, by Celeste Ng

“Lydia is dead.  But they don’t know this yet.”

Celeste Ng’s beautiful and haunting novel begins with the wordless affirmation of the narration’s omniscience.  The narrative knows things the characters don’t, though it doesn’t always choose to relay its secrets.  In this case, it doesn’t answer the mystery of Lydia’s death until the very end -- an answer that the characters themselves will never discover.

The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.  Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat:  it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”

Tolkien’s book shows us how useful omniscience is for worldbuilding.  He doesn’t need to cleverly sneak this exposition into Bilbo’s dialogue;  he can tell it to us outright, and immediately draw us into this world while doing so. 

Good Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett

“Current theories on the creation of the Universe state that, if it was created at all and didn’t just start, as it were, unofficially, it came into being between ten and twenty thousand years ago.  By that same token the earth itself is generally supposed to be about four and a half thousand million years old.  

These dates are incorrect.” 

This delightfully Pratchett-esque opening immediately puts us into a -- literally -- godlike perspective, in which we are given insider information about the start of the universe.  It immediately establishes the tone of this amazing novel:  one in which life and creation are too important to be taken seriously.  And for this purpose, this uniquely omniscient perspective is the only way to go. 

That’s all I’ve got for now, my fellow scribblers!  As you contemplate perspective, just think about how different the same events would look from a two disparate viewpoints.  Even if two people are sharing a moment, that moment is different for both of them.

The perspective isn’t something you tack on to your story.  Oftentimes, it defines your story.  So choose carefully, and don’t be afraid to explore!

Happy writing, everybody!  <3

[yandere-sins]

Can I have a scenario of yandere aizawa trapping his darling in a broom closet at school for a ‘lesson’ She’s a teacher at UA and is dating Vlad King so Aizawa is furious because SHES HIS and wants to make that point clear to her?

Thanks for requesting my fav! I always get really happy to write for Aizawa (*´ω｀*) Wasn’t sure if you were implying specific rating, but I hope it’s okay that it’s rated Lemon, hehe

»»————-———— ♡ ————————-««

One last time did he glance around the hallway, confirming that no one saw the two of them as Shouta led her into the supply closet. The last thing he needed was someone starting rumors about the two teachers disappearing in between brooms and other school-related junk. He really had other things on his mind as that he could deal with that too.

“Hmm, I’m not sure,” she sighed from the inside, brushing her hands between the overload shelves while searching for the missing keys the two were searching. “He’s such a muddler sometimes. He also forgets his car keys at home a lot.” Chuckling to herself, she didn’t mind Shouta’s presence as he slipped into the already small room, letting the door fall into its lock behind them. “I’m really not surprised Sekijiro would lose his keys somewhere around the school too, even if they are really important. Hopefully, no student picks them up and uses them for something bad- oh, Aizawa-sensei, please turn on the light it’s gotten dark--”

Her request was interrupted by a sudden yank at her shoulder, turning her around to face him. The squeal that left her mouth was shut-off before it could attract anyone’s attention outside. Shouta’s lips were harshly crashing down on her, instantly engulfing her in a less than proper kiss. His darlings fingers clawed into his shoulder, wanting to break through to his skin, causing him to stir, to move, to do anything. It was as if she knew without trying that there was no way to push him away from her, even less when his arm wrapped around her midriff, pulling her closer.

Her cut-off mumbles were followed by the hammering of her fist against his shoulder. But the longer she tried, the sooner her strength left her, unable to resist a moan as he bit her lip, pulling it back with him roughly before letting it go. “W-What are you doing, Aizawa-sensei?” she snapped back to reality as he finally let go. “What are you doing,” he hissed back. “Losing his keys in a broom closet, what a joke. Tell me what you did with him here, Kitten.”

With a forcible push of his leg between hers, she had no chance of resisting while Shouta propped his foot on the lowest shelf, causing her to stand on her tiptoes if she didn’t want to sit on his thigh. His demand got clearer when he pushed his leg upwards, black jeans rubbing against the fabric of her pants. “What is wrong with you?!” did she simply remark, not humoring his questions.

Anyone would have disapproved of such a behavior, but Shouta had years of teaching on his back, so not only did he have knowledge but also the patience to put her back into the right place. “Did he fuck you in here, is that what you two were doing? Did his keys fall out of his pocket because you pulled his pants down like a good slut?” Bopping his leg, Shouta was pleased to take in the surprised gasp from her mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders to desperately hold on to something while she lost her steady footing.

“What are you even implying--”

“Oh, you heard me. ‘Dating’ that’s what you two call it, right? Interesting, considering the relationship you and I have, don’t you think?”

“We don’t even--”

“Ah ah ah, be careful what you say, Kitten.”

By now, an anxious knot was forming in her stomach, alongside the prickles of pleasure that hit her from below. She knew exactly what he meant, and even in the dimly lit room with only a small, very high up window, he didn’t miss the gleam of understanding in her eyes. “Yes... yes, you do know. Remember the time I brought you home, too drunk to do it on your own? The faculty desks after hours? Or do you need a new lesson of who you belong too?”

Gulping, hard, she held back the moan stuck in her throat, shaking her head. “Good, now open your blouse,” he ordered. His darling only croaked a pitiful, slightly whiny, “Why?” before complying with shaky hands, feeling his hands press her even harder onto his leg. Not giving her the satisfaction to know, Shouta leaned forward, driving his lips over her collarbone and up into the crook of her neck.

An almost gentle kiss overcame him at first, raising goosebumps all over her skin before he broke the bubble, biting and suckling at her skin. He felt her muscles tense, heartbeat racing against his lips, and his hand precautiously slipping over her mouth and pressing down. Who knows what she’d be doing while he worked the delicate skin into a bruise, marking her, making sure everyone would know who she belonged to. Though all he could feel was warm, panicked breath against his fingers, followed by muffled pleas to let go.

When he did finally let off, the hickey had already started to form, red and bothered right there on her neck. Even with a collar, it would be hard to hide, it was perfect. Finally, he let her off, pulling back his leg and let her land on unsteady feet, arms struggling to catch her body on the shelves. Reaching up to touch her neck, she felt the burning patch of skin, whining softly. However, Shouta wasn’t quite done yet, catching her chin between thumb and pointer finger, pulling her gaze up towards him.

“Who do you belong to, Kitten? Say it.”

The strength to still hesitate was remarkable, even though she knew she had no way out. “Y-You...” she eventually muttered, biting her bottom lip in frustration as she felt tears shoot into her eyes.

There was no escaping him, Shouta had always made it clear before. It was her own fault to think just because he wasn’t stalking her anymore, showing up at her house every night and demanding anything he wanted at any given moment from her, that he ever took his eyes off. His darling had felt safe, thinking he moved on, so they tried to do the same with the person they fell in love with.

“You should break up with him. Be nice and do it, or I will take care of it, got it, Kitten?”

Waiting for the shaken, “Yes,” to roll off her lips, he let her go, leaving her behind, disheveled and with a burning hickey on her neck, hoping she’d learn her lesson.

Shouta wasn’t about denying that the thought of him making sure his fellow teacher Vlad King got the message loud and clear wasn’t enticing to him. But he rather wanted to watch the break-up and soak in the feeling of his darling knowing her place.

[honeymoonjin]

10k for 10k drabble

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 namjoon x reader || 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 1k || 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆 fluff, sfw, g-rated

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 determined to find new scents for his candles, namjoon takes you to a plant nursery to scout flowers.

PART OF THE 10K FOR 10K MILESTONE CELEBRATION and sponsored by  a donation to the Black Lives Matter movement.

Please read the original first if you haven’t already.

–

“What do you think? Too tangy, right?”

“Tangy?” you question in disbelief. Yet, when Namjoon holds the potted plant up to your nose and you inhale deeply, there’s no better way of describing it. The green freshness of the leaves and the slightly citrusy notes of the petals mix together in a scent just bitter enough to make you wrinkle your nose. “Yeah, I don’t like that one.”

Namjoon hums in thought, placing it back on the rack. Amongst all the rows of vegetation, the air was ripe with life, that thick smell of healthy dirt and lush growth. In the flower section, the two of you had gone painstakingly down one potted plant at a time; each one was worthy of inspection, and the plant nursery was a far enough drive away that you needed to make the most of the trip.

With a chunky sweater the color of rich coffee, Namjoon looks at home here, glasses tucked in his collar so he can appreciate each scent. Even as the expert of his olfactory senses, your partner never forgets to ask your opinion too, no matter how vague or uncertain your answer is.

“This one?” Namjoon considers a pot practically spilling with life. Tall stems flop over the sides with the weight of their petals, which are bell-shaped and a deeper purple on the inside than they are on the outside. He sniffs slowly, eyes blinking but unseeing. “Mm, this one is nice, actually. Warm but very light. Don’t you think, love?”

Heavy with soil, you carefully take the terracotta pot out of Namjoon’s hands, immediately catching a whiff of the petals once they’re under your nostrils. As always, Namjoon’s explanation is perfectly fitting, and you find your eyes slipping shut to savour the delicate sweetness. “Reminds me of ylang ylang,” you say, “but not as strong.” You huff again, once of the silken petals stroking the underside of your nose. “But like a tiny bit, um, clean-smelling. Like if cotton was a flower.”

“Cotton is a flower,” Namjoon remarks with a fond quirk of his lips. “But I understand what you mean. Add to cart? I reckon that would be an excellent top note to give a bit of depth to a Fresh Linen candle.”

Your eyes slip down to the metal trolley beneath you. On the grated bed rests a calendula, several variations of roses, a wide trough filled with potting mix that would soon bear strawberries, some forget-me-nots, and a budding black dahlia, a find that Namjoon couldn’t stop buzzing about. The price was quickly racking up, but you knew how he’d obsess over whatever he didn’t buy until you’d have the chance to go back again. Besides; it would make a really nice addition to the Fresh Linen candle. “Add to cart,” you chirp, choosing the easy way out.  

Namjoon lights up, inspecting it one more time before he nestles it safely on the bed of the trolley. “That’s good,” he surmises happily, eyes crinkling cutely as he looks over his hoard. “Let’s keep looking.”

When it comes to things he loves, Namjoon has an infinite patience and quiet dedication that never fails to endear you, and so even as the sun hangs fat and low in the sky, and the air begins to thin with the evening drawing close, you still remain happily by his side, a second trolley added to the first as you finished off the flowers, moved back through the fruit trees, and finished up kneeling in the gravel of the herb garden, considering every plastic pottle.

You end up walking out with so many new acquisitions that they fill up the boot and the backseat of your car, and Namjoon can’t stop beaming all the way home, twisting around in the passenger seat to look back at them like an excited child bringing home a puppy.

Planting them in the greenhouse or the flower beds is a job for another day, and the two of you instead spend the last few remnants of the day snuggled together in bed.

Namjoon rushes to get into his pajamas – an old grey shirt with a tiny Ryan on the breast, and some plain plaid boxer shorts – so that he doesn’t miss his favorite quiz show, and you can’t help but beam at his satisfaction at calling out the right answers before the contestants answer them.

It didn’t surprise you that Namjoon was so smart, but as the two of you got closer and began spending the nights together, his habit of watching game shows every night to wind down wasn’t something you’d expected. Nevertheless, you curl up beside him now, playing along with him.

“Cameroon!” he yells as you settle down, hissing out a triumphant yes as the contestant, who also chose Cameroon, is proved right. Namjoon turns to you, pressing a kiss to your forehead between questions. “All good?”

You smile up at him. “Fantastic,” you answer honestly, “though I do hope you know that I’ll be stealing some of those lemons from the new tree once they ripen.”

“Is that so?” Namjoon asks with a grin, eyes darting to the TV screen as the host reads out the next question. He gasps. “Ooh, uh, what was it? 1840, I think…” He glances back at you again while the contestant gapes like a fish, stumped. “What do you want the lemons for, love?”

“I wanna do some baking,” you murmur, “I feel like I need to do something with my hands, you know?”

Namjoon must sense something in your eyes, because the TV blares away unwatched as he keeps his focus on you. “Is it the case?”

He always could read you like a book. You shrug. “The son said he hadn’t seen anything suspicious that day, but-” You bite your tongue, trying not to let the frustration of the day get to you. “The details aren’t adding up, I just need to get out of my own head to make sense of it.”

Namjoon nods understandingly. “I’m always here to help. But you’ll get there, I know you will.”

And when your partner turns off the television so that he can take the worries off your mind some more, you believe it too.