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nordschleifes · 6 months

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life is what happens to you

➝ the life of a mother is not simple but it does not surpass that of the mother of a child who, in theory, does not exist to the world

➝ word count: 5,8k

➝ warnings: mentions of smut, coparenting.

➝ author's note: let's just say the idea of a formula one driver having a secret son gave me ideas.

The doorbell made you jump from the couch, relief filling your chest. As you walked to the apartment door, the sound of laughter made you smile. Finally your heart was home. When you opened it, you found a man and a little boy standing in the doorway, both with huge smiles on their faces.

— Mamá! — the boy exclaimed, throwing himself into your arms as he laughed.

— Hi, my love — you replied, pressing a kiss to his brown hair — How are you? I missed you so much.

— I missed you too, mamá — he murmured, his head nestled against your sternum, his hands resting firmly on your back, as if he were trapping you between his arms. After what felt like an eternity away from him, you never wanted him to let go.

— How was your week? — you asked.

— It was good — the boy replied, turning his head toward the man behind him — I biked a lot, didn't I, papá?

You looked up into a pair of brown eyes that were similar to your son's. The man in front of you had a tender, soft expression. One of his hands gripped the handles of a carry-on bag that you’d packed, and the other was stuffed into the pocket of his dark jeans. He looked exactly the same as the night you had met a Richard Mille event, seven years earlier.

You had been working as a designer for the watch brand for a few years at that point, and had gained a reputation for creating some especially bold pieces. At that time, you were celebrating the launch of your newest creation, the RM 19-02, which featured the first automatic movement for the brand, featuring a magnolia flower that opened and closed as the internal mechanism moved.

Seeing people enchanted by your creation, praising the little details, felt incredible, but all of it became background noise when an incredibly well-dressed man stopped to look at the display. You had seen his face before, but you couldn’t recall his name.

— This is yours, right?

— What? — you asked, half confused by the vagueness of his question, half captivated by how smooth his accent was.

— The design. It’s yours?

— Yes, it's mine.

He smiled.

— I can tell.

— Why? — you said, raising an eyebrow at him.

— It's beautiful like you.

Before long, he had introduced himself as Fernando and that he was a longtime friend of Richard Mille himself. You had a feeling that he wasn’t just any ordinary guest at the party. As the two of you continued talking, he started talking about cars, but you’d long stopped paying attention. His lips were of much more interest to you than the words coming out of them.

Ending up in bed with Fernando felt inevitable. Later that night, you didn't care about the marks on your neck or the volume of your moans. You didn't care how tightly he held your hair or how your hips bumped against his. You didn't mind when he mumbled something about the condom, his words were all lost in the post-orgasm haze.

Three months later, you realized that maybe you should have cared a bit more.

Finding yourself calling Fernando and then showing up at the front door of his house in Lugano with a positive pregnancy test in your purse made you feel like you were in a bad serial drama. You were fully prepared for him to humiliate you and tell you that it couldn’t have been him, that he would have never gotten a woman pregnant on a one-night stand. A pit formed in your stomach as you braced yourself for the inevitable paternity lawsuit you would have to file.

To your surprise, though, he didn’t take the news badly. He didn’t look angry or shocked, but contemplative. He asked you a few questions about birth control and the morning after, but when you told him that you’d forgotten to take the morning after pill in the blur of the hangover the next day, he sighed.

— Well, I guess we're going to have a baby, then.

Your mouth dropped open in shock.

— What…?

He looked at you, his gaze serious.

— You don't want to? I mean, don't you want to continue with the pregnancy? Of course, I'm not forcing you to do anything, if you don't want to continue, we can look at our options and, and I’ll help you pay for the procedure, of course…

— No, no, I want to have this baby... In fact, legally I can't do anything at this point — you stuttered, shaking your head — I mean... Aren't you going to ask for any proof?

He knit his eyebrows together.

— Do you want me to take a paternity test to verify?

— No, not because I have any doubts, you were the only guy I had sex with in the last few months. It’s just — you said, letting out a nervous laugh — It’s just thought, I thought you’d react in a very different way.

— Different?

— I thought you would be pissed and that I’d have to leave here and find a lawyer — you said softly.

Fernando smiled, taking one of your hands.

— I always wanted to be a father. It’s not the most conventional way, but now that I have the chance, I won't waste it. You can count on me, Y/N.

He had been sincere in offering his support. It wasn’t just monetary, either; even from the first few doctors appointments, Fernando was nothing less than the best co-parent you could have asked for. He was sincere in his willingness to wade waist-deep into the world of pacifiers, dirty diapers, doctors’ appointments, and toys.

However, the joy of having him around didn’t come without a lot of sacrifice and sadness.

Before long, you realized that Fernando was incredibly famous, especially in Spain, his home country. Because of this, and his incredibly public persona as a Formula 1 driver, a lot of legal rules had to be established with regard to the baby. His best friend and business partner, Alberto, diligently drew up a document outlining a custody schedule, restrictions on posting any identifiable images of the child, a future move — paid for by Fernando — when the child came of school age, and an agreement not to disclose the child’s paternity. It was all to protect the privacy of you and your baby, Fernando said.

However, it was worth it, and still was, especially when you saw the sparkle in your son's brown eyes. He was named Leon Alberto Luis, after Fernando’s best friend and father. All the effort was worth it when it came to your little boy, the greatest love of your life.

— Yes, we biked a lot — Fernando replied, looking up at you after dropping your son's bag on the ground — We went all around Parco Ciani, didn't we, Leon?

The boy nodded excitedly.

— And what else did you do? — you asked, as you stroked his hair.

— We played football and papá ordered Japanese food for us...

— Calamari? — you asked, looking up at Fernando again.

— As always — he replied, putting his hands in his jeans pocket. Even after seven years the similarity between Leon and Fernando still caught you off guard. It wasn’t just the physical similarities, either, but their personalities were almost identical. They both were shy at first, but had a great sense of humor once they were comfortable with someone. Both of them were also incredibly witty, with intelligence and mischievousness in equal measure.

— That's good, my dear — you replied, kissing his head — Now, say goodbye to your father and go straight to the shower.

— Do I have to take a shower now? — the boy questioned.

— Yes, you do. I could smell the sweat as soon as the car pulled up.

— I told you she would smell it — Fernando said to your son, ruffling the boy's hair — Now come here, let me give you a kiss.

Leon walked over and hugged his father tightly, his face pressed against his belly. Bowing down a little, Fernando placed a kiss on the boy's forehead and murmured something in Spanish to him, who nodded his head.

— Don't forget to ask, okay, papá? — the boy said, toddling off to his room with his overnight bag. As you looked back up at Fernando, he seemed to have a sheepish look on his face.

— You have something to ask me? — you asked, giving a small smile.

— Yeah, you could say that — he murmured.

— And what would it be?

— I wanted to know if you could... Not that, it's... If you'd like to bring Leon to a race at the end of the month — Fernando stuttered, running a hand through his hair — You know, it's going to be my birthday on the weekend and … You know…

You clenched your jaw. It was a tense subject between the two of you.

The first and only time you took Leon to a race track was, in short, a disaster. It was at the end of 2018, when Fernando had decided to retire from Formula 1 to dedicate himself to other projects, and to spending more time with Leon. The last race would be special, and he wanted his entire family to be there, including you and his son.

However, the steps that Fernando and his team had taken so that you and Leon could enjoy the race in peace was all for naught when journalists began to speculate who the woman and child were who were accompanying the Alonso family around the paddock. In the end, the plan to watch the race from the McLaren garage went down the drain and you ended up hiding away in a small room inside the McLaren motorhome, trying to calm down a screaming four-year-old boy because he wanted to see his father on the track and not on a screen.

— Fernando…

— I know Abu Dhabi was a disaster, I know — he interrupted you — But it was stupid of me to take you to a place where I would be the center of attention, but this time it's different.

— Different how? As far as I know, your season has been brilliant.

The shadow of a smile appeared on his face.

— Are you watching it?

— Leon keeps me updated. He’s watched every single race. Six podiums in eight races, right? — you said, leaning against the doorframe.

— That's right — Fernando said — The last few races weren't so good, but I believe we can recover, and having you and Leon at the track would be wonderful.

— That's why he told you to ask me, right?

He pursed his lips before letting out a heavy sigh.

— Yes, Y/N — he replied — But, like I said, this time it will be different. My parents and sister won't be there, so it will be easier for you to blend in with the rest of the team’s guests…

— Look, Fernando, I would really like to…

— I asked for normal credentials, without my name, so that you can enjoy the weekend — the driver continued — Please, Y/N, it will be so good to have you there with me, and on my birthday...

— Fernando…

— He even told me what he's going to wear, it's going to be that lime green Kimoa sweatshirt...

— Fernando! — you exclaimed, interrupting him — I know you love Leon, that you want him around but, as you said when I got pregnant, we have to protect him from the media circus.

— I know…

— So you understand that taking him to the middle of a paddock for a race is not the best way to do this, right? I know you both love Formula 1, but we can't risk his safety and privacy because of this.

— But I want him to watch me race…

— And he watches you, Fernando, every weekend. He loves watching you on television, he screams every time you make an overtake. But we have to face the reality of it, and you know that it’s too much of a risk to his safety and privacy. You know that more than anyone.

— I know, which is why I took so many extra steps this time — he replied, running a hand through his hair — Forget about it, okay? When I get back from Spa, let's see about doing something together, okay?

— As long as it's not on a go-karting track — you said, laughing a bit.

— I can't promise that — Fernando said, putting his hand back in his pocket — See you, Y/N.

— See you, Fernando — you replied, as he turned and headed towards the elevator. After a few seconds of staring at his back, you finally closed the door, letting out a long sigh.

It was hard to be the person who said no. However, it was often necessary to curb the impulses of both Leon and Fernando and bring a rational view of the situation to make decisions. Of course, you wanted them to have the most normal coexistence possible, to be able to do normal things that fathers and sons did, but, above everything else, you needed to protect him, even if it meant having to deny what would probably be an amazing experience for the boy.

— Are we going? — Leon's voice broke you out of your thoughts. You turned around to see him in the hallway, looking hopefully at you.

— What?

— Are we going with papá to the race?

— Leon…

— Come on, mamá, it'll be nice. I swear I will behave, I will stay only with you...

— My love, you know it's not just that. There are other things…

— Is it because of Andrea? — he asked.

You swallowed hard, feeling your shoulders tense. It wasn't like Fernando's love life was any of your business, after all, your romantic relationship with him never went beyond the night Leon was conceived. However, you couldn't help but feel a certain distrust every time he showed up in the paddock with a new girl on his arm.

His most recent girlfriend was Andrea, a journalist who covered Formula 1 for an Austrian broadcaster. Even though Leon thought she was kind, and loved playing with her dog, a yellow Labrador named Bodhi, you always felt uneasy in her presence. There was something in the way she looked at you that made you uncomfortable, as if she was studying you, trying to understand your relationship with Fernando and Leon, if there was something more.

— No, it has nothing to do with your father’s girlfriend…

— Papá said she's just his friend now.

— What? — you asked, confused.

— Bodhi wasn't at papá's house when I got there, so I asked where he was and papá told me that he went back to Austria with Andrea — the boy explained — I asked if he was going to Austria too, and papá said no, because he and Andrea are just friends now.

You couldn't help but notice that Leon looked a little upset. You knew he loved dogs, but the fact that you lived in a small apartment prevented you from having a big one, which were his favorites. It also didn't help that Fernando had plenty of space to have a big dog, but wasn’t home often enough to care for one.

You brought a hand to your son’s face and stroked his cheek.

— You liked him, right?

— Bodhi was nice, mamá — he said — He was always happy to see me. Did you know he liked to lick my face?

You laughed, lifting the hair that fell over his forehead.

— And you loved letting him lick your face, didn't you?

— Yes — the boy said with a mischievous expression — I also liked playing ball with him and Andrea...

— Did he bring you the ball? — you tried to keep up the conversation, ignoring the mention of the woman.

— Yes, he would look for us and ask us to play. I always managed to throw it further than Andrea — Leon said, until his face lit up — Mamá, what if we go to the race and ask Andrea if we can visit Bodhi?

You paused, unsure of how to answer your son’s question.

— We’ll see, my love. Now, go take a shower.

With a hopeful smile on his face, the boy obeyed.

His smile was what made you want to kick yourself. Leaving the possibility of going to the race open was fueling the expectation that Leon had already cultivated within himself for a long time. Doing that just to break your son's heart made you feel like a terrible mother.

“Would it really be so bad if we went to a race?”, you thought as you dropped onto the sofa, looking at the photo on the end table. It was a photo of you and Fernando holding Leon when he was just a few months old, both of you looking at the boy with pure admiration and love. It was as if it was impossible to believe that you had been able to create something as beautiful and pure as Leon. It was precisely that innocence that you wanted to protect from the media monster that prowled the circuits, sniffing out stories and devouring its prey without mercy.

Leon couldn't become another victim. You wouldn’t let it happen.

Over the next few days, you managed to avoid talking about the race, dodging the question any time Leon asked. However, your efforts were in vain when Fernando made a video call with the boy, directly from his room in Budapest. He had no restrictions on seeing Leon, quite the opposite. There were very few days that Fernando didn’t speak to his son somehow. Most of the time it was through calls or text messages, and you were proud of them for managing to become close in spite of Fernando’s insane workload.

During the conversation about what Leon did during the week and in his football practices, your son asked the question you were most afraid of.

— Will I see you next week, papá? — Leon asked.

— Ah, well — Fernando stammered, his eyes seeming to search for your image on the phone screen — You know I'd like to see you, but it's your mom who decides that.

The boy turned to look at you, his face full of hope.

— Can we, mamá?

— Leon…

— Please, mamá, I'll behave, I promise!

You sighed. Something inside you told you that this wasn't a good idea, that it was too risky for his privacy. However, what kind of mother would you be preventing him from seeing his own father? What kind of mother would you be if you kept him trapped in a bubble? What kind of mother would you be to deny something so simple?

— Do you want to go see your papá race?

— Yes, mamá!

— Are you going to stay by my side the whole time and not talk to strangers?

— Yes.

— I mean it, don’t talk to anyone other than me, your papa, and your uncle Alberto.

— I won't talk to any strangers, I promise, mamá — he said, while Fernando smiled on the device's screen.

— Then we can go, my love — you said to Leon, who immediately looked at the cell phone screen with a giant smile on his face.

— Papá, I'm going to the race! — he exclaimed.

On the other side of the call, Fernando laughed at the boy's excitement, but the way his dimples framed his smile indicated that he was overjoyed with the news.

— Yes, you are! And we’ll have that waffle filled with chocolate sauce I told you about instead of the birthday cake.

— With candles for us to blow out?

— Yes, we will find some candles to put in it, okay?

The boy talked about what he would like to take with him and whether he could sit in the car, which Fernando was happy to confirm. At the end of the call, he blew several kisses to his father, telling him he would see him in five days.

Those five days that seemed to pass in the blink of an eye.

On the private flight that Fernando had hired to take you and Leon to Belgium, you couldn’t help but feel restless. Even with all the assurances that you wouldn't have any problems, you couldn't reassure yourself. Terrible scenarios came to mind, unprompted, each one worse than the last. By the time the plane approached the small airport in the region, your anxiety had reached a fever pitch.

— Mamá? — Leon's voice bringing you to reality — Are we there yet?

— Not yet, my love — you replied, looking at him — There’s still a little bit left.

— Is papá going to pick us up at the airport? — your son asked, as you took off the hood of the sweatshirt he had chosen that morning to fix his hair.

— Yes, along with Alberto and Fabri. And we will go straight to the circuit.

The joy on Leon’s face when learning that information was only exceeded by the joy on his face when he saw Fernando waiting for him on the landing strip, a slight smile beneath the hood of his black Boss sweatshirt. The hug between the two made something warm fill your chest, and so did seeing them laughing and joking like any other father and son.

— Thank you for agreeing to come, Y/N — he said, as Leon pulled his father's credential from his sweatshirt pocket and showed it to Fabri.

— It's the least I can do, Fernando — you replied, crossing your arms — And, considering he's your biggest fan...

You both looked at Leon at the same time. The boy was questioning Alberto relentlessly, wanting to know where his credential was and if it was the same as Fernando's. When your eyes met again, you knew that your concern was more evident than you would have liked.

— Look, I — you started, only to be interrupted.

— I know you're scared, especially because of what happened in Abu Dhabi. But rest assured, nobody will bother you.

— Are you sure? — you asked.

— Absolutely — Fernando said, before being interrupted by his son clinging to his arm.

— Let's go, papá! — Leon exclaimed, anxiously — I want to see the track!

The trip to the track was fairly short, with Leon excitedly talking about playing games on the Nintendo Switch in his backpack.

At the entrance to the paddock, you decided to separate, in order to avoid unnecessary attention. Giving Fernando one last kiss, Leon made him promise that they would meet inside so he could show him the car.

— Your passes are inside — Alberto said, handing you an envelope — I'll send you a message when Fer is free, ok?

— Perfect — you replied, before getting out of the car with Leon, as he waved to his father one last time before Fernando disappeared through the turnstiles.

The last time you’d come to a race, the paddock was incredibly crowded, but the fact that this was not the final race of the season and the weather was cold and dreary seemed to be keeping the crowds down.

— Where is everybody? — Leon asked you softly, gripping the pass around his neck.

— Well, there's nothing on the track today, so there aren't many people around here — you said — Which means we can make the most of it.

The boy nodded, holding your hand as you both walked past the rows of paddock buildings. However, when you were passing the structure set up by Red Bull Racing, you felt your phone vibrate in your purse. You let go of Leon’s hand to paw through the contents of your purse in search of your phone.

— Where, where… Here! — you said, as you unlocked the screen and saw that the call had gone to your voicemail.

However, that became a secondary concern when you realized Leon had run off somewhere. You felt your heart pounding as you started looking for the boy’s brown curls and gray coat. You had only let go of his hand for a second…

— Leon, Leon, my God, Leon — you stammered, about to scold him for not staying by your side even though he promised to do so on the phone call with his father...

— Mamá! — you heard Leon calling out — Here, mamá!

You turned around and found the boy waving at you a few feet in front of you. He was next to a woman wearing a pink coat and her hair in a ponytail, who was sitting on a bench. You walked toward him briskly, your words for him dying on the tip of your tongue when you realized who he was standing next to.

— My love, why…

— Remember I said I was going to talk to Andrea about Bodhi?

You blinked, looking up at Andrea, who had an embarrassed smile on her face and a cup of coffee in her hand.

— Good morning, Y/N — Andrea said softly.

— Good morning, Andrea — you replied, trying to mask your apprehension — I hope Leon isn't bothering you.

— No, never. Leon was just asking me about Bodhi…

— Can we go visit him, Andrea? — the boy asked, expectation shining in his eyes. Placing a hand on your son's shoulder, you were thinking about the best way to say that it wouldn't be possible to go to Austria to visit a dog when the woman gave a warm smile.

— Of course, I can talk to your father and we'll see a day for you to go play with Bodhi — Andrea said, looking up at you. As if she sensed your hesitation in the air, she added quickly — If your mother agrees, of course.

— Let's see, maybe during your school vacations, right, my love? — you replied, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, forcing a smile.

— Yes!

— Perfect. Now let’s go, we have a long day ahead of us and so does Andrea — you said, looking at the journalist with the hope that she would follow your lead.

— Yes, media day is always busy for me — she said, smiling — See you later, Leon.

The boy waved goodbye to Andrea and allowed himself to be led toward the Aston Martin motorhome as you gripped his hand extra firmly. During that short journey, you tried to focus on your own breathing and not on the anxiety that took over your chest and made your stomach turn.

— Mamá…

— Not now, Leon — you replied, trying to remember what color the facilities of the team Fernando was racing for that season were.

— Mamá, you're crushing my hand — your son protested, making you stop suddenly and bend down in front of him.

— Why did you do that?

— What?

— Why did you leave my side?

— Because I saw Andrea and you said we could talk to her...

You let out a long sigh.

— My love, you said you wouldn’t leave my side, remember?

— She wasn’t far from us…

— I know, but you can't run off alone here — you said, placing a hand on the boy's face — Imagine if it were a day with more people, how would I find you? You know that I love you more than anything and that losing you would be the worst thing in the world for me.

Leon pursed his lips, looking upset about what had happened.

— Sorry, mamá — he murmured.

— It’s okay, my love — you replied — Now let's go to the motorhome.

The rest of the day was divided between watching the activity around the track and catching glimpses of Fernando as he circulated around the paddock giving interviews, checking the car's assembly and meeting with the engineers. The highlight of the day was the trip to the garage with Alberto, who introduced you and Leon to the mechanics and allowed Mikey, their leader, to explain the car to the boy.

— Can I get in? — he asked with his eyes shining.

The red-haired man looked at Alberto, who gave a positive nod.

— Of course you can — Mikey replied.

With Leon settled in Fernando's seat and with his hands on the steering wheel that had been positioned just in front of him, the boy seemed completely ecstatic. It felt like he was finally in the right place, where he should have been all along. It was no wonder his grandfather, Luis, was so insistent that they consider getting him into karting as soon as he was old enough.

— You can't see anything from here — he said, looking at you. The mechanics working on Alonso’s car chuckled.

— The drivers are a little taller, so they can see the track — Alberto explained — But, when you're a little older, you’ll be able to see just fine.

Leon smiled, before looking ahead again and pressing his fingers on the steering wheel. It was impossible not to notice how much he looked like the pictures you’d seen of Fernando as a child, so much so that you made a point of taking a picture of him to show Fernando at dinner later.

However, you didn't have that opportunity.

Leon was already lying in bed, watching a cartoon on Netflix. Despite what you had agreed on, Fernando hadn’t been able to leave his meeting with his engineers in time to have dinner with you. His message fell like a bomb on his son's mood, and he barely touched the ice cream that Alberto had offered to share with him.

— Mamá?

— Yes, my love?

— Is papá coming?

You swallowed hard. The last message you had received from him stated that he was leaving the circuit, and it had been right after you arrived at the hotel suite. At that point, you had no idea when or if he would hit there, especially after that day.

— I don't know, my love — you said, running your hand through his hair — You know that this is still papá's job and he's very dedicated...

— But didn't he say when he's coming? — the boy questioned.

— He texted — you started, only to hear the sound of two knocks on the door. Looking back at Leon, you found his excited expression — Wait here.

You got up from the bed and went to the entrance of the room, feeling relief take over your chest when you saw that it was Fernando.

— Can I come in? — he asked softly, running a hand through his hair.

You nodded and stepped aside so he could come in. Smiling, the driver walked by you, kissing you on the cheek as he passed, before walking over to the bed. Leon had an enormous smile on his face.

— Papá! — he exclaimed, as Fernado lifted him up into an enormous hug.

— Hola, mijo. I came as soon as I could. Did you have fun today?

— Yes!

— What did you do? Tell me everything.

— Yes, it was really cool. Mamá and I stayed with Melina in the morning and she showed us everything inside. She even got us waffles!

— Does that mean you got the waffles? I always ask them, but they always say they don't have any waffles — the driver said, as you walked around the bed and sat on the other side of Leon — I think I'm going to have a serious talk with them.

— Maybe the waffles are just for the VIP guests, right, my love? — you suggested with a wink, which made your son laugh.

— Yes, only for special guests!

— But I'm their driver! — Fernando exclaimed, in mock indignation — I deserve waffles too!

— Don't you have a weight to keep, Fernando? — you asked.

— Yes, but that doesn't mean I can't eat waffles, especially with my son — he replied, before pouting — But I don't think he likes eating waffles with me...

Almost immediately, the boy laughed.

— I like eating waffles with you, papá…

— You mean we can eat waffles together?

— Yes! — Leon exclaimed.

— With chocolate sauce or honey?

— Hm — the boy thought for a few seconds — Mamá, could it be chocolate?

— Don't you think you ate too much chocolate today?

Leon looked away from Fernando, looking embarrassed.

— It wasn't that much...

— Yes, it was. And I have a photo to prove it.

— You do? — Fernando asked, raising himself on one elbow.

— Yes, I do — you replied, taking the phone that was on the bedside table. A few taps later, the plate of waffles was on the screen in front of Fernando, who seemed somewhat impressed.

— Did you eat all of that? — he asked looking at Leon.

— Yes, every last bit — you replied — He didn't give me any.

The driver laughed.

— I can imagine the sugar rush you had afterwards…

The conversation between you continued for some time, until Leon began to slowly close his eyes while his father stroked his hair. It wasn't long before he was fast asleep, with his face against Fernando's chest and one of his arms resting on his waist in a hug.

— Y/N? — Fernando asked softly.

— Yeah?

— Was Leon very upset that I couldn't have dinner with you?

You pursed your lips.

— Well, a little. He was really looking forward to seeing you and telling you everything but…

He snorted, looking at the boy.

— I didn't want to stay late — Fernando murmured — But tomorrow there's only one practice session before qualifying for Sunday, so I couldn't avoid it...

— He knows that — you said — I told you that, as much as it's fun, it's still your job and you're very dedicated to it. And you can't win if you don't dedicate yourself, so we have to understand and support you, even if it means you're far from us.

The driver looked up at you, his expression completely unreadable.

— Do you think I'm dedicated?

— That's a stupid question, Fernando.

— I just want to know your opinion — he smiled.

You rolled your eyes.

— Yes, I think you are dedicated and I admire you for that.

— You admire me, huh? — the driver asked in a suggestive tone.

— Professionally speaking — you said, the emphasis in your words causing a giggle to escape his lips.

— I also admire you a lot, Y/N.

— Professionally speaking?

— Personally speaking.

You stared at him in silence for a few seconds, trying to read between the lines of his words. However, the smile on his face made you completely lose your train of thought. It always did.

— Well, thank you — you managed to say, before your eyes found the face of his watch, which indicated that it was already past 11 o'clock at night — But I think it's past your bedtime

— No problem, I can stay a little longer…

— I'd like to rest, since I've had to deal with your son all afternoon.

Fernando laughed.

— He's also your son, in fact, he has a lot of you in him — he said, as he carefully got up from the bed, placing Leon's arm close to his body.

— I know that. But I prefer to highlight your participation so you can understand why I need a good night's sleep.

— And you will have it, I'm sure — Fernando replied, before heading towards the door of your suite. However, before leaving, he turned and smiled at you — Good night, Y/N. See you tomorrow.

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cloudshuffle · 3 days

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a rose and its thorns. yan!sunday

nobility au

It was supposed to be a pleasant morning.

The maids had awoken you by drawing the curtains, letting in the clean, cheerful morning light. It was bright, but not so, just perfect for spending a day out in the garden.

Aventurine was away for the day, and Sunday told you as such, hands clasped behind his back in the mirror.

"Don't you have to be with him?" you ask. The maid doing your hair keeps her eyes low, feigning disinterest in the conversation. Sunday's eyes flick to her briefly, assessing her presence in the room - a familiar expression you see him wear a million times every day, observing, discarding, or filing away for future use. There's no wonder why he's the prince's most valued asset.

"No." Sunday smiles thinly, his version of wry humour. "My place isn't among the smell of soldiers and mud."

You laugh, and you don't catch the way his amber eyes glint in the sunlight flooding your room.

Dr Ratio was away for the day too - rare, but not unusual.

"He has a lecture to impart in the city library," Sunday says. "Seeing as the prince will be away today, I thought it best to make efficient use of his time and arrange him to be away from the palace today as well."

"So no lessons?"

"No lessons," he concurs. "Will you have your breakfast in the gardens?"

You would, of course. And with a snap of his fingers, servants are scurrying off to do his bidding. Sunday offers a gracious arm, and the two of you make your way downstairs.

"Lucky both the prince and his tutor aren't around today, isn't it? Boothill isn't around either; it's just you and me today."

Your words pierce him - have you caught on? He isn't ready to take you away just yet, and he hasn't quite had his fill of fun. But a glance at you tells him that it's just an off-handed comment.

"Oh, I'm just teasing." You mistake his tension for misinterpretation, and squeeze his arm lightly. "I just hope I'm not too much of a bother."

You? Never. "It is a butler's duty to be bothered by his wards."

You laugh lightly, and it lightens his heavy heart. Just a bit.

He leads you out to a quiet corner of the garden, one furthest away from the driveway and sheltered from the palace’s prying eyes by the old apple tree.

“I know everyone’s supposed to prefer roses,” you’re telling him. “But I do quite enjoy apple blossoms too. They smell so sweet, and they’re nice to wear in your hair.”

Sunday’s fingers twitch. Oh, how lovely it would be to see you with apple blossoms in your hair, to weave them in himself, to be able to bury his face in your hair and inhale your scent mixed with the blossoms. His heart throbs.

But he has to content himself with less. For now.

“I could arrange for the maids to gather some flowers and put them in your hair tomorrow.”

“You would? Whoops.” You wobble in your impractical shoes over a particularly tricky patch of ground, and Sunday’s treated to the warm press of your body against his arm for a brief moment. He thinks he can feel your heartbeat, light as a bird, through the many heavy layers you have on. “I think Ven would like that!”

Ven. The nickname sours his mood, despite your beaming smile.

“Oh, sorry.” Your face falls. “It’s improper to call him by his nickname with other people, isn’t it?”

Sunday forces a polite expression back onto his face. “Not at all. I was simply… caught off guard. I wasn’t aware you were close in that way.”

You blush, faintly. “Well, I suppose we are.”

He’s eternally grateful when the topic turns to other things.

“You should sit.” You pat the table across from you.

“Thank you for offering, but I don’t need to sit.” With his hands behind his back, Sunday surveys the area. Where was that maid who was supposed to bring your breakfast?

“Don’t your legs hurt?” A glance at you reveals a full pout that tugs at his heartstrings. “I always feel bad for you whenever I see you standing all the time.”

He sighs, though he already knows he’d do it because you asked. “I suppose a moment wouldn’t hurt.” Sunday moves to take the chair opposite you.

The maid chooses this moment to make her appearance, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed like she’d just caught wind of some juicy gossip. You seem to chalk it down to the weather, however, and give her a cheerful wave.

This was the maid who did your hair.

Sunday realises this, just as she comes up to the table, trips, and goes sprawling towards you.

You yelp as hot tea and biscuits come flying, but what frightens you more is how quickly Sunday gets to his feet and hauls the maid away from landing straight into your skirts.

“Ow!” you gasp. A few scalding droplets land on your arms - nothing bad, just enough to catch you by surprise.

And there’s a smack, and a tearful exclamation.

Sunday towers over the maid, one of her slender arms gripped tight in his fist. Her other hand cradles her cheek, and she pulls desperately against his hold, both terrified and confused. Fury seems to have lent him a different sort of presence - something that feels almost like the butler’s true self.

“Sunday!” you gasp. When he doesn’t respond, you rest a hand on his arm. “Sunday, please. You’re hurting her.”

He turns to you, and you catch a glimpse of something in his amber eyes, dark and great.

You can’t help but flinch backwards.

His expression returns to some sort of normalcy, and he lets the maid go. She flees without another word, and you get the feeling this is the last time you’ll see her around the palace.

But neither of you are paying any attention to her. And as Sunday takes in your expression, his own dissolves into something akin to panic.

“I… I’m sorry. I really am.” He takes a step toward you. “I lost my composure. Please…”

Don’t be afraid of me. You can hear the words almost as clearly as if he had spoken them. Sunday’s gloved hands, always so steady as he signed important papers, handled the prince’s tea, guided you around the palace, were now trembling ever so slightly.

You take a step back. And the space between you feels like a chasm to him.

#cloud writes #honkai star rail #hsr #yandere honkai star rail #yandere #yandere sunday #sunday #sunday hsr #hsr sunday #yan!sunday #yandere sunday hsr #yandere hsr sunday #x reader #yandere x reader #sunday x reader #i received passive damage of 10hp for every hour i had this stored in my drafts

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aloysiavirgata · 2 months

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(if you are accepting prompts!) what iffffff you wrote a soft gentle little fic in which Scully has a spectacularly unlovely head cold and after some grouching Mulder looks after her? There are so many moments of peril on x files that sometimes it’s nice when the enemy is just a simple rhinovirus, lol.

He doesn’t even attempt to make it himself. Calls ahead to Loeb’s with his order, which he accepts from a stylish young Mexican man whose name tag reads Pierre.

“A sheynem dank,” Mulder says, echoing the grandmother who called Samantha a shaineh maideleh.

Pierre nods. “Bitte, baby,” he says. “De nada.”

***

Mulder clomps up her stairs with Puritan determination. He feels that since he did not cook the food himself he must exert some other effort for it. His soul is at eternal war with itself.

He doesn’t knock; lets himself in with the Home Depot key Scully had made for him around the time that Tooms wanted into her pants for all the wrong reasons. It sticks a little still, even after so many years. He’s rarely had to use it - when aren’t they together?

A hacking noise from her bedroom, something wet being coughed. Spat.

Mulder helps himself to a bowl, a plate, a spoon.

“I’b arbed,” she rasps from down the hall. “I’b a Federal Agent.”

“Don’t shoot,” Mulder calls back, hunting down a napkin. “I am a poor boy from a poor family.” Her mother wears Revlon and his wears Guerlain.

He tips some soup and two of the matzo balls into a bowl, wedges one of the challah rolls next to it. He puts the leftovers in the fridge.

Mulder carries the plate down the hall, the nearly-full bowl sloshing dangerously atop.

He enters Scully’s bedroom. She’s been upgrading over the past couple of years, replacing her IKEA basics with good secondhand finds in cherry and walnut. The candle she’s lit smells like white flowers with thick, creamy petals.

Scully is tucked into bed like an Austen heroine, all delicate pallor and genteel unhappiness. Her nose is pink-tipped and raw, hair in a ponytail. She’s wearing a gray sweatshirt instead of her usual pajamas.

Mulder sets the food down on her nightstand, next to a vase of dried roses and her Yaqui slide holster. A speed loader. There’s a well-framed Monet print over the bed.

Pat Conroy’s Beach Music is open face down on her lap, surrounded by crumpled tissues. She doesn’t look happy to see him, her purple-shadowed eyes narrowing a bit.

“Go away,” she says. Sneezes.

“Brought you some soup,” he says, unnecessarily. Points at it, also unnecessarily.

“Bulder,” she sniffs. “Go hobe. I don’t like being fussed over. I hab a cold, dot Ebola.”

“Too bad,” he says. “I’m going to. Do you have Vick’s Vapor Rub? You really should have Vick’s Vapor Rub.”

She closes her eyes. Pinches the bridge of her nose, centering herself. “It’s dot your fault I’b sick,” she says, looking back over at him after a moment.

“I dragged you into the woods again. You fell down a hole full of corpses! You’ve been in remission for like…twenty minutes.” He jabs the spoon at her.

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t get a cold frob being in the woods. Or frob being chilly. You get a cold frob a virus.”

He feigns outrage. “Excuse me, but are you contradicting noted excellent mother-slash-world-class-epidemiologist Doctor Teena Mulder MD?”

This sends Scully into a flurry of coughing. She swats at him in annoyance. “Ugh,” she says at last. “You see why I can’t hab you here, you’re a lousy durse.”

Mulder takes her hand, pale as a kid glove. He shoves the spoon into it, squeezes her fingers about the handle. “Eat the soup or I’m calling your mom. I’m calling BILL.”

She narrows her eyes again. “You wouldn’t.”

“I think you’re well aware that I’m capable of being overly dramatic when the wind is southerly and the fancy strikes.” He holds the plate before her like an offering to a goddess.

Scully considers him. “You did get us out ob the teabwork sebidar,” she observes. “Techdically.”

“I did,” he agrees.

“You bade be sing,” she adds. Reproachful.

He grins. “The angels all were singing out of tune, And hoarse with having little else to do, Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, Or curb a runaway young star or two.”

Scully looks at the spoon in her hand for the first time, as though wondering how it got there.

“Byron,” she says, a little smile. She picks up the roll, examines it. Peers at the soup. Sneezes again. “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”

“Caroline Lamb,”Mulder replies. He doesn’t point out that Caroline Lamb had been Byron’s lover, that she’d sent him a clipping of her pubic hair in the mail. He certainly doesn’t think of the juncture between Scully’s thighs at all, whether it matches the drapes, whether it tastes like kettle corn and Vineyard whitecaps in July. Lobster rolls and saltwater taffy.

He’d meant it, about the sleeping bag. He wishes there had been a sleeping bag and he is so, so grateful there was no sleeping bag.

Scully sniffles again, defeated. “You got be batzo ball soup?”

He thumbs an escaped tendril of hair back from the sweep of her extraordinary cheekbone.

“I did,” he murmurs back. He sets the plate down between them. He peels the roll open, yeasty and fragrant, and dunks it into the golden broth.

He raises it to her mouth.

Scully sucks at it, draws it past her lips. She bites. Chews, swallows. She holds his eyes with hers. She catches an escaped droplet with her tongue.

“Good,” she mumbles. Watches him dip the dry part back into the bowl. “Thank you.”

He feeds her another bite. Her mouth opens like a snapdragon, like an oyster in the tide. She drops her gaze this time. Her guard.

They complete the entire roll this way, and one matzo ball. Silent, slurpy. Scully’s lids droop, her lashes brushing her cheeks.

“Sleepy,” she mumbles, curling onto her side. Her paperback falls to the floor.

Mulder returns the food to the night table. He strokes her hair until she’s out cold, snoring a little. He curls into the bed as well, his nose to hers. He touches her philtrum with his pointer finger. He traces the tender pink whelk of her ear.

They sleep for hours until she coughs awake, gasping, her thin chest heaving. Mulder rubs circles between her scapulae.

“Go hobe,” she says, knees drawn, leaning against his chest. “You deed to sleep.”

He puts his arms around her, drops a kiss on her tangled head. “Okay,” he agrees.

She’s out again in moments. He holds her upright until he drifts off as well.

They sleep until morning. He feeds her soup for breakfast, calls into work with a case of Ebola.

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #msr #my fic #sick fics #detour post episode #fluff #inbox #prompt

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thelampisaflashlight · 7 days

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Cryptid Biology Season 2: Litha

[Previous entry: Here. Edit: I legitimately forgot to write the easiest part of this entire thing, the description. Rain helps Bea set up for the abbey's summer solstice bonfire party and reaps the rewards of a hard day's work. I don't know how Rain wound up the way he is, but he's not changing anytime soon.] Below the cut.

It's hot as Satan's balls out -a misnomer, considering the Morningstar's junk is stuck in a frozen lake for all of eternity, or at least until the end of days- and Rain wishes more than anything that he was in the lake instead of lugging tables and chairs across the sandy shore, but at the very least he can use his magic to keep himself cool.

Bea, on the other hand, is positively drenched in sweat despite having stripped down to what is absolutely necessary... which Rain has to say is a LOT more clothing than he expected to see the groundskeeper in on a day like this.

She's dressed in a bright, electric yellow work shirt with "MINISTRY STAFF" emblazoned on the back.

It's supposed to protect her skin from UV rays, as is the floppy bucket hat she has on, but Rain can't help but find the whole get-up a little silly.

The shorts she's wearing doesn't make it much better either, to be honest; A pair of white swim trucks with multi-colored flowers splattered across them without any real rhyme or reason to the pattern.

It makes him feel a little nauseous trying to make sense of it.

Does blue come after orange and blue? Is red and yellow before purple and brown?

Why are some of the flowers brown?

Are there brown flowers?

...He files that question away for later, when he has his phone with him... or Mountain.

He'll ask Mountain later.

Then again...

"Are there brown flowers?" he asks, eliciting a grunt from the groundskeeper, who is preoccupied trying to make sure that the tables are level.

"Are there brown flowers?" he asks again, setting down another one of the folding tables, "Or is that just not a thing?"

Bea pauses, thinking.

"Ya know, I'm not sure." she says after a moment, reaching into the pocket of her shorts before clicking her tongue and looking across the lake at her cabin, "A question for later... or Mountain. Just ask Mountain. He knows more about flowers than I do."

Rain snorts.

"Glad to know the gardens are in your capable hands." he jokes, and Bea flips him the bird, crouching back down to lock the legs of the table in place, "So..."

"Mn?"

"Are you going to come to the party with anyone special tonight? You know, since it's the solstice and all."

Bea looks over her shoulder at him.

"Huh? Why would I do that?" she questions, turning back to the stubborn latch, "No, I'm staying in my cabin with the curtains drawn, and pretending y'all aren't out here throwing a rager..."

Rain blinks.

"...You're not going to come to the bonfire at all? Even though you're setting everything up?"

The groundskeeper shakes her head.

"I plan on being in my bed by the time things kick off tonight," she says, "sorry to disappoint."

"Mountain doesn't mind?" he wonders aloud, causing Bea to make a choking sound and look at him like he's sprouted another head, "What? I just figured, since you guys have something going on-"

"I dunno who said what about what, but Mountain and I aren't..." she throws her hands in the air, "...We don't have 'something going on', unless you count having a couple, uh, adult sleepovers, but it's not like that... We're just friends who fuck occasionally."

"Oh." Rain lets this information sink in, "And... And, again, Mountain doesn't mind? Just being friends? 'Cause he... You know how he is."

Bea turns to face him head on, arms crossed.

"You're asking a lot of bold questions here, water boy, you wanna cease the inquisition for a minute?" she huffs, "Look... Mount and me, we're both adults, and we've talked about 'us' before, enough to know that's not how either of us feel about what we've got going on. If he and I did have something going on, I wouldn't have fucked you that time."

Rain's ears twitch, and his face heats up.

"I... I mean, here... we're all pretty open and..." he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck, "I just assumed..."

"You know that they say about assuming things, Rainy, it makes an ass out of you and me." Bea chastises, then sighs, "I'm... just not looking for that sort of thing right now, and, like I told Mountain, I don't want to tie anyone down if I don't know if that's actually what I... what I want."

"It's... It's complicated, and I..." she frowns, crossing her arms, "I don't want to jump into a relationship on a whim, or because we had sex one time... I like Mountain, don't get me wrong, he's a good guy and he makes a lot of people happy, he's a loving and devoted partner from what I've seen, and a very attentive lover... but I'm not ready for that kind of thing."

"...Romance?" Rain asks.

"Love in general." she says, sticking her hands in her pockets, "Look, I really don't know how to... words. I'm not good at articulating this shit, I just know I don't like Mount like that. He's got a fuckin' good heart and a ten out of ten dick, but he's not for me."

Rain snorts.

"What?"

"Ten out of ten dick."

Bea rolls her eyes.

"You've seen it, you know what I mean."

"I do, I do..." the ghoul places a hand on his chest and stares out over the water wistfully, before turning back to the woman in front of him, "Still though, you should come to the party. You could just post up by the fire and play around with it. That's what all the fire elementals will be doing, might as well have someone around to supervise them and make sure they don't go ham..."

"Nah, I don't need more work..." Bea waves her hand dismissively, then looks at the ground, toeing a rock with her shoe, "...But, ya know, I might need a little help falling asleep, wat with all the noise and shit..."

Rain stands up a little straighter, taken off guard, "O-Oh?"

"The party starts in two hours, and the siblings are going to be swinging by any minute now to take care of the decorations, so..."

"Miss. Milne, are you propositioning this humble servant of the lord?" Rain raises his eyebrows, putting on a posh accent, laughing when Bea swats at him, "Okay, okay, I won't tease... We should hurry though, because if I have to endure another second seeing you in that outfit, I'm going to throw myself in the lake."

"Asshole."

"I guess we could try that hole this time."

Bea takes her hat off and hits him with it.

"Ow! Ow! I'll behave, I promise!"

"I have no idea why everyone thinks you're such a sweet, shy man, you're honestly the worst." Bea pouts, putting her hat back on.

"Who says that?" Rain asks, following Bea along the trail leading around the lake towards her cabin, "...Don't tell me you've been looking things up about us online, haven't you?"

"Not really, no." she says, "I mean, I looked up Sister Imperator once."

"You did??"

She nods.

"Obviously, I didn't find more than what anyone else already knows, but, I mean... Look at me." she gestures at herself, "Look at where I am. Do I look like I deserve to be here? Clearly, that woman has other plans for me, and, fuck, if I get to keep living like this in the meantime, I think I'll be okay if she... ya know..."

Rain bites his cheek.

"No, I don't know." he furrows his brow, "Bea, are you... Is anyone... How should I say this...? Is someone keeping you here against your will? Are you in danger?"

Without hesitation, Bea parts her lips and says a single, "No."

And for a moment, Rain wants to believe that's true.

But even as they ascend the porch, leaving their shoes outside the door as they slip inside the cabin, hands peeling away more clothing, Rain can't help but feel like he's trailing after a ghost.

Bea seems... weirdly resigned to her fate.

Detached.

He tries not to dwell on it, not right now, not when she's pulling him towards her bed, tugging at his belt like a leash.

She bumps the mattress and tumbles backwards, giving a soft gasp as Rain takes advantage of the undignified pose to slide her shorts off, revealing pink lace.

Her shirt comes off with a bit more of a challenge, the long sleeves catch as he tries to free her from it, and he growls his frustrations into her lips the moment its gone.

"You don't make this easy, do you?" he pouts, purring when she crooks her fingers under his chin, scratching at his beard for a moment before running her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp a bit, "...I'll forgive you just this once."

Sitting upright, Rain straddles Bea's hips before kneeling down to kiss between her breasts; They're small, less than a handful, but they're soft and have little freckles dusted across them that are fun to trace with his eyes...

He's peeked at them more than he should probably admit to, even before he got to see them up close and personal, but given the harried nature of their encounter in the lake, Rain hadn't had much time to admire them.

He gives them a tender squeeze, bunching up the baby pink bralette in his hands, and watches as Bea bites her lip to contain a squeak.

"I like this." he says, thumbing over her nipples through the fabric, "Your fashion sense might be questionable at best, but you do know how to pick out some lovely lingerie..."

"I didn't..." Bea arches into his touch, "...I didn't pick it out."

"Oh~? A gift then? From who?" he gives a slightly harsher press, "Who should I be thanking for this?"

Bea writhes beneath him.

"...Don't wanna say..."

"A secret admirer then?" he lowers his head back down, licking one of the rosy buds, "Not Mountain then..."

Bea shakes her head, whining when Rain nips at her chest.

"N-Not Mountain..."

"He is more of a natural sort..." Rain hums, blowing a puff of air out of his mouth, making her shiver as his unnaturally cold breath wicks the saliva he's left behind, "He likes a bit of hair..."

Bea shifts her legs and Rain raises himself up so she can slide them out from beneath him, moving so that she can sit up in his lap.

"So do I..." she admits, gliding her hand over the trail of coarse hair that runs down his stomach, pawing at the soft pudge there, "...Well?"

"Well?" Rain repeats.

"Are you going to fuck me or what?"

Rain grins devilishly.

"Oh, Honey Bea, I'm going to ruin you."

"Anyone know where Rain got to?" Dew asks, looking around at the gathered partygoers, "He sent me a text, like, ten minutes ago saying he needed five more minutes, and then another one that looks like a keysma-...Well, well, well, look who it is."

Rain lowers his head apologetically, still in the process of redressing himself as he strolls up to the other ghouls, shoes untied and his fly undone, "Sorry, sorry... Got carried away with... stuff."

Dew hands him a cup of cider, "Does 'stuff' have a name, or are you going to keep us in suspense?"

"My lips are sealed." he draws a line across his mouth.

"Yeah, but your pants aren't."

"Aw, fishsticks..."

"More like, fishdick, bro, I can see your pubes!" Swiss chortles from nearby, "You going commando, or did you leave your panties with 'stuff'??"

Rain does a little hop as he buttons his fly.

"You guys can tease me all you want, I got what I wanted out of the evening, here's to you maybe, MAYBE, getting the same, my friends." he raises his cup in a toast and downs his drink in one go, "Guh, fuck..."

"Gentleman," he salutes, "I bid you adieu."

Dew and Swiss watch Rain saunter away, scoffing as he plops himself down in one of the chairs on the beach overlooking the lake.

"He's always so weird post nut, I swear to fucking Satan..." Dew mutters, "...He seems like he had a good time with whoever stuff was though."

"Yeup." Swiss sips his beer, "...Where do you suppose Mountain is?"

"Huh, now that you mention it, he's missing, too... I guess he's hooking up with someone, too... Man, it seems like everyone's getting laid but us."

"...I might have a solution to that." Swiss says, side eyeing Dew before sliding his hand down his back.

"What are you-Oh. Oh-ho-ho~"

#lamp writes #shitghosting #nameless ghouls #rain ghoul #ghost band #the band ghost #ghost bc #swiss ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #ghost band oc #sibling of sin oc #sibling of sin #Cryptid Biology 101

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happyanderes · 11 months

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⚠︎Bribery⚠︎

☎︎003-001

Yandere reaper (Kane) x AFAB Ghost reader

Word count:3.4k

⚠︎Warning:dub-con, size kink, ghost anatomy, handjob,manipulation

(A/n): Finally finished it. Woohoo

The seed of death was planted in your mortal body the moment you were born, you’ve been dying since you began living, but you thought there would’ve been more time before it takes complete root over you.

But the flowers bloomed much faster than you anticipated, death took over you much too soon as red splatters on the road, on your cold body.

You kneel in front of your dead self, long forgotten how to stand because of the sight in front of you.

You try, you try so hard to be brought back to life, to give yourself a heartbeat, but your hands simply phase through everything, you can only feel the rocky ground under, hurting your knees as your half transparent skin appears red from your hands.

You sniffle, you want to see, you want to find a way to wake up from this dream, but tears blur your eyes, and your knees sting.

“I spy with my little eye……a weeping little ghost.”

You jump at the sudden low voice, even in the chaotic sound of cries, his voice was clear like a siren.

You turn around, only to face nothing but black mist.

“Boo.” You yelp at the voice next to your ear and back off fearfully, palms scraping against concrete.

Then, you see a man, a tall, giant man. Who had chains on his body and a daring smile.

He only chuckles at your fearful expression and extends his hand out for you to hold.

“C’mon, up you go.” As soon as you place your hand in his palm, he pulls you up to your feet and twirls you so that your back is facing the scene and casually slings an arm around your shoulder.

You don’t know what to do, only able to be led away like a puppet.

“Look at you, cute as a button, lying on the streets is not somewhere you belong.” The man says as he boops your nose. “Someone like you don’t deserve hell, don’t you?”

“Ahh, but do you really belong in heaven, though……”

He whispers by your ear, his breath making you shiver. You feel nauseous, you think your cheeks are heating up, if your heart didn’t stop, it would be beating like crazy by now.

“Now, let’s see where you can go, hmm?” He holds a file up, the words are almost unable to be deciphered, the writing has a……personal flare to it.

“Ah……you’re such a little sweetheart,” he says as he flips a page. “But there’s a little problem, you see.” His words made your stomach churn, your gaze trail down to where he’s pointing. When you finally see what is written on it, you feel your cheeks grow so hot it’s cooking your skin, a small gasp leaves your lips.

“I see there’s a lot going down there at night, eh?” He says as you see him glancing down at the spot between your legs. You shift uncomfortably and move your hand to cover it as discreetly as possible, but your hand was only snatched by the reaper’s larger one.

“Covering it won’t do anything, sweetheart, see?” He holds your hand up for you to see, you realize your hand is similar to that of a colored wine glass, your skin tone at the edges while the middle is almost transparent, tinted in your skin tone.

He plays with your fingers, brushing your knuckles with his thumb.

“To think that you pleasure yourself with these small fingers……surely it’s not enough, no?”

Your fingers are only small because they’re compared to the hand of a literal giant, this man is at least seven feet tall (about 213cm). But you couldn’t answer, mouth opening and closing like a fish. You try pulling away, but he only laughs as your effort is nothing more than a mere tickle.

“Oh there’s nothing to be scared of, I’m helping you!” He says, pulling your body flush against his, but instead of feeling stickiness and heat from him, he is cold as ice, you shiver slightly.

“A little sweetheart like you don’t deserve eternal torture in hell! You don’t want pain, don’t you?” He says, looking into your eyes. “I know just the way to help you, but I need a bit of…..convincing.”

Your eyes widen, and you see his eyes trailing up your body.

“It’s easy, really, just a little…...bribery.” He says, you see the way his tongue darts out to lick his lips.

“Do you agree? It’s a small price to pay!”

You can only lower your head, after all, you would probably go to hell if you don’t.

The two of you enter a different dimension entirely, you find yourself standing in front of a rather large house, the colors red and black. Almost like the home of a villain.

“Make yourself at home!” The reaper says as he leads you inside by your hand, his grip feels a little too tight, his strides a little too fast, you feel your heart tightens, not knowing what to do in a situation like this. But soon, you find yourself standing in front of a king sized bed, with the reaper, who you now know is called Kane by your side. You see the bed has black sheets and pillows, they look soft to sleep in, but the reality kicking in makes no room for your mind to think about sleep at all. You feel that your stomach is churning, like a sinking feeling, so you look up at him with worried eyes.

Even though it’s for going to heaven, you’re hooking up with someone you simply just met.

“I……I’m not sure about—“

“Do you want to go to hell?” With a smile, he looks down at you and says, his brows slightly furrowed. You seem to be annoying him a bit.

You say nothing and shut your trembling lips tight, shaking your head lightly. “No……”

“That’s what I like to hear.” His eyes soften a bit and gently place both of his hands on your shoulders, pushing you down to sit on the bed.

“Lay down for me, my little ghost.”

You comply and lay down on your back, he smirks.

Your life and death is in his grasp, hanging over your head. While he’s nicer about it than you think, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s enjoying the fact that he has control over you, that you are not only his little ghost, but a doll, a toy, something made solely for his entertainment.

A shadow is casted upon his face, but it’s hard to miss that wide grin as he straddles you, locking you under his large body.

You nervously look up at him with dampened eyes, body shivering not only in slight fear, but also rising excitement and anticipation.

You can’t shake the feeling that he can read your mind when an amused huff leaves the reaper’s lips, then he gently runs the back of his hand down your jaw and holds your chin in his hand.

Without a word, he leans down and pulls you into a hungry kiss, all teeth and tongue. You grasp onto his clothes with your fingers due to being overwhelmed by the suddenness, you’re supposed to be dead, yet why are you out of breath?

His tongue invades your mouth, exploring every little detail inside, his arms wrap around your body, pulling you close to him.

After what felt like forever, he pulls away, not breaking a single sweat and his breathing is completely fine. He licks his lips and grins.

“You taste sweet.”

He says and places his hands on your clothes, the blood on it still wet for some reason, you let out a small hiss as his fingers brush through a scratch wound on your shoulder. He stops his hands.

“Poor thing, you look just like when you died, here, let me fix it.” He says as a cold dark mist covers all your wounds, and by the time you open your eyes, the wounds are gone.

“The higher ups keep the souls’ sense of pain intact so hell can torture them.” The reaper says in a tone like he’s talking about the weather as he peels your clothes away from your body, the cold air hits your skin, sending goosebumps down your body.

“……we can explore that in the future.” He whispers with a smirk as he places his large cold hands behind your back.

“What was that……?” You ask, not hearing what he just said.

“Nothing important,” He smiles knowingly, you decided not to push it, you couldn’t anyway as you feel his hand removing your bra. Out of reflex, you try to hide your chest, but the reaper was quick to it and grabbed both of your wrists in his hand, giving them a squeeze that’s almost painful, a small whimper escapes your lips.

You feel your entire body heat up when his eyes look into yours with a hint of warning for a brief second, then back to your mounds.

“There’s no need to hide them, little ghost.” He whispers, “they’re perfect, just like you.”

Gently, he let go of your hands, unleashed the chains and took off his shirt. He wasn’t wearing a lot from the start, but now without the obstruction of that fraying fabric, but now you can see perfectly. He’s really muscular, which you already have a clue just from how he looks with his clothes on. But you still suck a breath in when you see them, every curve and line of his muscles distinct and clear, like a sculpture, the tattoo written in an unknown language right across his broad chest makes it even clearer, following the lines on his body. You raise your hand up, asking him for permission, he chuckles and gives you the go ahead. With great hesitation, you place a hand on his chest, feeling it ripple under your palm, you can see it through your hand, as it’s half transparent. You spread your fingers and squeeze it gently, they feel rock hard.

He seems to enjoy your touch and hums.

“My turn.” He mumbles and places a large hand upon your marshmallow-like softness, a hand easily enveloping one. He squeezes and massages one side, his cold hands sending shivers down your spine. An involuntary noise leaves your lips when his calloused thumb brushes over the tip of your nipple. You bite your lips while he chuckles with mirth.

“That was the sweetest little noise I heard, tell me, do you make noises like this when you touch yourself?”

You shake your head out of embarrassment, and he chuckles, but decides not to push it, instead moving his lips to envelop your other nipple between his lips. He plays the little nub with his tongue, rolling it and sucking on it, when suddenly, he uses his teeth. It was light, yet the sensation made you gasp, you feel your lower abdomen clench.

You hear his laughter.

“Now, how about some help before we get to the real deal?”

He stands up and away from the bed, you sit up and look at him, slightly confused until he unbuckles his belt and unbutton his jeans, pulling it down slowly. You couldn’t help but stare at the bulge in his jeans, and the outline of it.

Alas, he is bare in front of you, his erection standing in front of you. You feel a shiver run down your spine when you see the size of it, your mouth feels dry.

His cold palm pets your hair gently. You look up at him in slight fear, he wants you to use your mouth on that? But it’s big, you don’t think you can take it without your jaw breaking, and is it leaking?

Your lips purse shut as tears well in your eyes, seeing you like this, he gently takes your hand in his, caressing the back of your hand with his thumb.

“Don’t be scared, use your hand first, m’kay?”

He whispers, “we have all the time in the world.”

He guides your hand to his crotch and with his hand upon yours, he wraps your fingers around his cock, it’s cold to the touch, your breath hitches when you realize your fingers can’t completely wrap around the thick rod.

“Your hands are so soft.” He sighs fondly, then he guides your hand to slowly slide up and down his length. It’s smooth for the most part, aside from a vein trailing up to almost the tip of it. It’s straight, but the upper half is noticeably larger.

As the two of you reach a steady rhythm, he let go of your hand, you can see the red flush of his cock through your transparent fingers, you feel the way it pulses under your hand. The more you notice, the more that feeling in your lower stomach intensifies.

He sighs and grunts occasionally, petting your hair, he wants you to just continue until he paints your body white, but he shouldn’t be the only one enjoying this.

After a while, takes your wrist in his hand, pulling it away easily, his cock aches immediately, longing for your hands to wrap embrace it again.

Without a word, he picks you up and places you on his lap. Through your fabric, you can feel his hardness pressed against you, you tense up at the feeling.

He chuckles and tells you to relax before reaching into your panties to slide his finger along your slit, feeling the contact on your private parts, you squirm uncomfortably, but it only causes friction against his length, making him want you more. With his other arm, he holds you down by wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush up against his chest.

“You’re not ready yet,” He whispers in your ear when he pulls his fingers out and places it in front of you to examine it, there isn't much fluid on them.

You yelp when he goes back and plunges a finger inside of you. You hold onto his arm and pull on it almost pathetically, but he doesn’t budge, in fact, he stops, the room is silent, only your heavy breathing.

“Don’t you want to stay in a good place?” He says, his voice almost threatening. Hearing those words, you have no choice but to let go of his arm. He kisses your temple and mumbles “that’s my little ghost.” Then he gets back to it, preparing you and exploring you with his ice cold finger, the unusual low temperature of his skin stimulating you like little electric shocks. You whine and hold onto his arm that’s around your waist when he hits a certain spot, you try not to struggle or dig your nails into his arm, even though something tells you he won’t mind it.

“That’s it……” he coos and adds another finger in, it’s a stretch, and it stings a bit, but the pleasure is undeniable, your walls squeeze around him so tightly and that knot building up in your stomach tightens.

Sensing you’re close, he curls his fingers up in that particular spot, like that, your vision flashes white for a split moment, your head throws back, hitting his chest as a long moan spills from your lips. He continues to thrust his fingers inside of you, to help you ride your high.

You fall limp in his embrace, your chest heaving up and down as you breath heavily.

“You’re so warm, to think you’ll go all cold in a few days……” he mumbles with a smirk, you see his canines, sharp and longer than a normal person’s, it looks menacing, cunning, sly, like he relishes in the fact that he knows something you don’t.

But you’re too out of it to think.

He pulls his fingers out and holds onto your waist, easily picking you up and placing you on his bed, this time more harshly than before. You see that he too, is excited, his expression matted with sweat and his breathing heavy.

After taking off the remaining clothing you’re wearing, he takes one of your ankles easily and places it on his shoulder, the other holding your hip.

He moves to align his length against your entrance, sliding up and down your slit to cover the head of his cock with your slick.

“W-wait……!” You breathe as you weakly press a hand onto his lower abdomen.

“Please, just a little break……it’s too much……” you say with a whimper, looking into his eyes with your own, tears of overstimulation prickling at the corner, threatening to spill, you beg him to give you some time, but instead, he smirks.

“Don’t be scared, you’ll forget about being tired soon.” With those words, he mercilessly sheaths his whole length inside of you, ignoring your struggling and crying, it stretches you way more than his fingers did as your pelvises meet harshly.

“Feels better than touching yourself, huh?” He rolls his hips teasingly, drawing a whine out from you, painful pleasure washes over you like waves crashing against the shore.

“And look what we have here,” he says, his finger slides down your stomach, to a certain point.

He guides you with his arm to slowly push yourself up and look down at where he’s pointing, when you do, your eyes widen.

Through your transparent stomach, you can see his massive cock inside of you. The sight is unusual, and embarrassing, so you squeeze your eyes shut and turn away, but he grasps onto your jaw and turns your face to see your stomach almost forcefully.

“Look at it, see who’s gonna fuck you so well.” He says with that grin as he begins to thrust into you. Your tired self can only watch as his cock moves in and out of you, every slam against your pussy gains a whine from your lips.

He leans down to kiss your neck, sucking and biting the flesh there, almost enough to draw blood, the pain mixed with the feeling of him pushing in and out of you and that vein rubbing against your insides is just overwhelming. You feel that familiar knot forming inside of you again, you moan louder, echoing in the room along with the noise of your pussy squelching and his grunts.

His speed grows faster and faster, your whole body is trembling, you’re close.

As if sensing you’re near your orgasm, Kane’s thrusts grow sloppier and more desperate, chasing his own high, the bed creaks and your body bounces along with his movements.

You can’t take it anymore, with a loud scream, your back arches, your walls tighten around him, making him almost unable to move, the reaper groans at the sensation of you being so tight around him, but pushes on.

After a few more thrusts, he came, you feel something warm and hot fill you, the first bit of heat you’ve felt from him today. You slowly look down, to see that your stomach is no longer transparent, a trail of white clear as day as it leaks out from where the two of you are still connecting.

You lay back down and sigh tiredly.

“Does this mean……I can go to heaven……?” You ask with a small, hopeful voice.

Kane looks down at you as if you said something funny, his eyes crinkle as a loud laugh escapes his mouth.

“Oh little sweetheart, you could’ve.”

You feel your stomach drop.

“W-what do you mean……? You said I could go to heaven if I……do this with you……” you begin to panic, your head clearing up as you push yourself to sit up.

“Heaven? Who said anything about heaven? I said you can go to ‘a good place’ if you agree to my conditions,” he says while shrugging. “Plus, touching yourself was no big crime, people like you probably gets reincarnation. But now……bribing your reaper so you can get to heaven? Now that’s a one way ticket to hell.”

Your face pales, but he sees your fear as something adorable, a game, the childish cruelty of crushing a bug for fun. He pulls you close to his chest, you feel his cock hardening inside you again.

“Oh don’t worry, I mean it when I say you don’t deserve hell, you’ll stay with me, this is the only ‘good place’ for you now.” He laughed as he began to thrust into you again.

Your heart sinks to the bottom, tears stream down your face at the devastating truth, you were lied to, betrayed. Yet even if you blame it all on him, you have no choice but to become his, like he said, you have no better place to go.

#yandere smut #yandere #yandere oc #yandere writing #yandere x reader #yandere fic #yandere stories #yandere oneshots #yandere drabble #OCKane #yandere thoughts #yandere lemon #smut #oc x reader #yandere oc x reader

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stormyweaver · 4 months

Text

Birthday Blues || H/azbin H/otel, V/ox

Did you really think I'd be able to stay away for long? HAH. Anyway this is lowkey a kind of 'it makes me feel better' drabble thingie. So anyway yes, hopefully ya' like it! Also yes Pap/ermint is the name of Vox's assistant and I feel like this is a horrible error to be occurring but lol

Vox sniffled - a pathetically plugged, bunged up sound that crackled with static - before promptly blowing his vents clear. Well, as clear as they could get all things considered. He was so sufficiently blocked up, congested to the point that he could barely speak without sounding like someone had surrounded his audio processing units with cotton. It was almost painful, but for the moment it mainly bordered on uncomfortable and infuriatingly inconvenient. “Haaaappy Birthdaaaay to youuuu~!!!”

His left eye twitched as he heard the sounds of a kazoos and party poppers going off. Gaze flitting back to the screen he’d been watching previously, it narrowed as the scene lay out before him: multiple of his associates gathered in the lunchroom, surrounding a table where behind the crowding bodies, an elder demon sat at the very edge. There was a cake in front of her - nothing extravagant, likely home-made judging from the mis-matched candles and frankly shoddy frosting flowers. Everyone was all smiles, including the sinner's gummy, wrinkled lips. Vox’s own upper lip curled slightly. An office birthday party. How… ghastly.

He’d gotten the request months in advance from Papermint, who seemed to be quaking more than usual when presenting it to Vox. Technically he would have been within his rights to deny the extension on their lunches, but… he’d been busy at the time, and it didn’t raise any real concerns so he’d signed just to get the other back to working on IMPORTANT matters.

Now, he was sorely regretting not filing it into the trash bin. … Okay, not really. It was a birthday party - who didn’t like birthdays? It was one of the few moments where those in Hell could actually forget about the fact that they were actually damned for all eternity. A chance to celebrate something. Vox had even attended a few gatherings himself, in the past. Back when…

Nope. Not opening that can of fucking worms. Not any time soon.

A round of clapping brought Vox’s waning attention back up towards the screen, and his left eye began to dilate as he spotted a familiar face on the monitor. Velvette!? Seriously? Why would SHE even want to be seen with such lowly… wait, that was her employee, wasn’t it? One of her tailors. A bloody fantastic one, to use her own phrasing. He thought she didn’t like old people, though. Fossils, or something along those lines. But - he supposed there was no bias to be had when it came to doing a good job.

It made sense, and softened the feeling of betrayal just a smidge. Still didn’t stop his temple from throbbing in irritation, though.

Sniffling again, Vox plucked a tissue from the side of his desk and tended to a leaking vent. It wasn’t like he’d even wanted to attend their little bitch-ass party anyway. He had better things to do. Not like he’d been told to attend in the request. Tch. Stupid underlings… stupid fucking granny tailor… stupid… STUPID... … He needed a smoke. The cigarette was dangling from his lips, thumb barely brushing against the tip when Vox’s breath caught. “Hhh… f-huuugck– hHHRRZZSCHHH’HUE!!” The sneeze was harsh, jerking Vox forward as his razor sharp teeth snapped the cigarette in half. Spatting out the remaining piece, he clutched the side of his head as his shoulders shakily rose and fell. “Ahh- hahh..! hHZNGT’SHUE! Hh’IZZSCHh! hhheh’Ī̧̠͂̚Ȋ̡̧͇̙̟̦̗̣͚̫̜͙̲͔̞̩̜̻̙͉̻̻̉̎̔͗̌̓̒ͦͤ̔̀͂͘͘̕͘͠Ž̖́͋̕͠Z̶̢̢̯̟̬͉̞̩̬͈̰̭̀̂͊ͯ̓ͣ̐͑͊ͭ̊͂͑͛̏͘S̠̺Hhiew!!”

Fuck’s sake. Fuck’s SAKE.

Growling in frustration, Vox tossed the rest of the packet into his drawer, then thrust his upper half onto the desk in a huff. Fuck birthday parties. And fuck being sick.

#greywrites;#tag: one helluva time #hmmm maybe i'll change the tag later but for now i'm gonna go through and start tagging all my HH fanfic that way #bc it's fuuuun to have things organiiiized #snz #snzblr

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idyllcy · 1 year

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fun to believe, but they always leave

Word count: 11.5k

Warnings: Smut. (not explicitly described but still), teacher/student, immortal/reincarnated mortal

Summary: The sun chases after the moon for eternity.

What's the point of living?

You're not quite sure yourself.

Friedrich Nietzsche would argue that there is no point in living. He claims the question is meaningless since we're in no position to determine whether our lives hold value, and stepping outside of the process of existence to answer is impossible. It's not like we're some omnipotent being watching all of this unfold. Nietzsche had even claimed that god was dead. You assume that may be where you end up one day. Philosophy majors were just as ancient as those who created it were. All your professors resembled stone statues put up in colleges. What was with them and having beards? But even if you pondered the universe for ages, you would never understand it. Love was just as complex yet, so much prettier to study.

As you step into the classroom again, you spot a new face among the same group of students that you studied in that class with. He's pretty. Yet, his hair is so white that you could almost mistake him as a teacher if it weren't for the fact that he had not a single wrinkle on his skin. You wonder if he's a student-teacher here. It wasn't uncommon that they taught classes, yet you're surprised at the male teaching a course on love of all things. He has pretty green eyes. You wonder if he could be aphrodite with how pretty he was. But alas, beauty was subjective.

You sit down at a desk, laptop out. The rest of the class files in, and the male you had been staring at steps to the podium. Resting his books onto the podium, he pulls out a laptop and a stack of papers. You tilt your head in confusion.

"Welcome to CAMSUA 428 - Love Eternally," The student-teacher hums. "I'm the professor for this course, Professor Komaeda. If you're taking this course, you're either a psych major, deliriously in love with someone, or you came to learn how to manipulate someone into loving you. I'm not one to judge," He pauses. "Did any of you read about me on rate your professor?"

"Yes! Your course sounds like a lot of fun!"

"I'm glad to hear that," he smiles. "I'm also a lot of analysis and everything. This class ranges from neuroscience of a person in love to the body habits of a person in love. I cover everything."

"Prof, are you married?"

"No," He shakes his head. "Unfortunately, the soul I am waiting for has not returned."

"But you wear a ring from on your ring finger?"

On Komaeda's ring finger rests a flower ring set in resin. The flowers are a little dried out, but it's still pretty. "Ah, that's from a childhood sweetheart."

"How old are you?!"

"That's a secret," Komaeda winks at them, a finger over his lips. "Wanna guess?"

"Twenty-eight!"

"Thirty!"

"427!" You blurt out. You're not sure why that number came to mind specifically, but it's left your lips before you can even think it through. Your professor looks familiar. You don't know why. He looks like he's barely in his 20s; why the hell would he be 427-

Komaeda stares at you, and he smiles. "All excellent guesses. Though, I wonder why one of you know how old I actually am."

"H-huh?!"

"Just kidding!" Komaeda laughs.

The light in the room shines on him in the center, causing him to stand in a nearly holy glow. He's pretty. You see the way the other students in the class stare at him in awe. Now that you take a closer look at him, the top buttons on his royal green button-up are open, his white turtleneck resting underneath. His sleeves are folded up to his elbow, and a gold watch rests on his left wrist. He stares at the class as he shifts his weight onto one leg; you take note of his cuffed black jeans and the skull chain hanging off the belt loop. He's wearing... are those combat boots? His hair is nicely combed, yet it had a sense of madness to it. Actually, it doesn't look that combed upon second look. The round glasses on his nose have little chains dangling off of the sides, and he smiles at the class. He looks straight out of a movie.

"Say, Y/n-chan, you didn't say that on purpose, did you? Think I'm too old for you?"

You're caught off guard when he calls you by name.

"I know a handful of you by name; please don't feel creeped out," Komaeda chuckles. "Pull out your syllabuses. We're going over that today."

Professor Komaeda resembles the moon almost. The way his voice is breathy despite young, and the way his eyes always look so distant while teaching. His voice resembles those of the sirens. He pulls and lulls you closer and closer to him. You kind of wish this was a lecture class instead of a discussion class. You stop caring when Komaeda flashes a pretty smile at you though. Oh, he's pretty. You wonder how old he was. There had been rumors that this year's professor was completely new instead of the old one. Apparently, last year's professor left after his wife was transferred to another school. But then again, according to the front office, he just took a year off last year. You wonder what kind of professor gets privilege like that.

You don't find it in yourself to care. You're much too focused on the way your professor looks no older than you. You'd fuck him. He doesn't even look like the hot professor in the dilf way; he just looks like a college preppy boy who ends up railing you stupid after the first date. You wonder if that's what he is. The corners of your lips curl into a smile unconsciously, and your professor takes notice. He doesn't comment on it, but turns to continue rambling about the syllabus. You want to kiss him breathless. You wonder how you're having such awful thoughts about your professor of all people, but you can't deny that you're not the only one who wants him in more ways than one.

"During the first quarter, we study the science behind love. Neuroscience is strange, and for the basic gist of it, your brain is royally screwed over when you're in love with someone," He chuckles. "Then, in the second quarter, we dive into the works of the works of Solaria and all the others. According to the artist, each reincarnation of theirs, no matter how far away, always found themself back at the museum their lover built them in their first life. It's kind of funny watching that relative find them after a century or two. Though, those are only rumors. Reincarnation is rare, if not completely a bluff."

"Ah, is it the artist Solaris? The one who has a recurring theme with the sky?"

"Correct!" Komaeda smiles. "Mi-chan, was it? Solaris is one of many souls that reincarnate and continue to pursue art. Have you been to the museum dedicated to them?"

"I have!" Another student calls. "Their art pieces through each life are gorgeous! And that portrait is so jaw-droppingly gorgeous! Professor, you kind of look like the portrait."

"I've been told," Komaeda smiles. "But that's not the point, because we're going to admire another piece of art by them. We're studying the man in the stars, not the man in the sun."

"The stars?"

"This one," Komaeda presents a photo on the board.

It looks like Komaeda. The blue of the night seems to cover him in a thin veil, the paleness of his eyes are so vibrant. The boy looks sick, yet he looked elated. The smile on his face and the finger pointed at the moon. The painting seems to come to life; the excited cheering of the boy rings through your ears. Eyes wide with fascination, you can almost hear his words. "There; there! Doesn't it resemble me? Right? Cuz I'm your moon?"

"Yes." You mumble under your breath. "It does."

Komaeda glances at you, and he chuckles. "But of course, this piece is compared to the sun piece later on. That one's in their museum, so we'll be going over it later on. There's a lot of parallelism in their works. It seems as if everything they draw reflects the stars."

"I heard their muse was a boy they grew up with."

"It was," Komaeda smiles. "You see him in a lot of their works, if not all of them. All of the paintings include him and two others, if not three. The pink haired girl, the brown haired boy, and then the black haired male. The three of them are always trailing behind the white haired boy. Other times, they sit on a cloth, a picnic set with them. The three of them are always smiling, the black haired boy only cracking a smile occasionally. They looked peaceful. Even in the scenery paintings under the stars or sun, there was never once when they weren't smiling."

The students stare in awe. "Solaria grew up without parents as an orphan who painted everything they saw. The paint they used was hand made at first, the majority of the colors were things you could find in nature. Eventually, they would meet their sponsor out in a field under the moon. It's anticlimatic in a way, but that sponsor would eventually grow to become their muse."

"How romantic!"

"Exactly!" Komaeda laughs. "So then the reason this class focuses on Solaria's works so much is precisely because of how they only loved one person in their life. There was no other in their relationship. Of course, other than them, we also cover all the other people. We just so happen to cover Solaria the majority of quarter two."

"Professor are you in love with them?"

"Maybe," Komaeda smiles. "After all, their life was quite the fairytale."

Komaeda is pretty. You don't know if he's caught on, but you haven't been paying attention for ages by now. It's funny. He looks exactly like Solaria's muse, the only thing different was the hair. Well, it's the same shade. You wonder if he's aware of that. Maybe he was addicted to the artist because they had painted someone who looked like him centuries ago. You ponder all the possibilities, but you don't worry about it too much. The content of the syllabus goes in one ear and out the other. You miss the entire syllabus. You don't even know that he left homework today. Oops.

Komaeda stares at the clock, and he smiles. "I'll dismiss you all early today. Go get some rest before your next class."

You blink out of focus, and then stare at the clock.

A handful of students rush out firsthand, and you slip your laptop back into your tote bag.

"Ah, Y/n," Professor Komaeda smiles. "Did you catch anything I said in class today?"

"No," You grin. "But I'll go over the syllabus when I get home. Mi-chan pays more attention than I do."

He clicks his tongue. "I'll just go over it with you right now."

He slips into the seat next to yours, and he smiles at you. "how old are you?"

"Trying to catch a case, professor?" You chuckle. "I'm not telling you."

"Just curious," He smiles. "Did you miss everything?"

"Almost." You grin. "I heard the part about Solaria and neuroscience though."

"The rest goes that we're working outside the majority of the time," Komaeda laughs. "And a handful of the classes are going to be at my place since my family holds all of their works."

"How rich," You mumble. "Alright. Anything else?"

"No," He smiles.

"Thank you, professor!" You grin, throwing your bag over your shoulder.

You stroll out the door, and Komaeda's eyes linger on you. You never change.

The world is an interesting place. Nothing determines the way we live. Many live just to live their life to the fullest. Why do people study? Knowledge is power. But is all that knowledge really power if the only thing you need to know is how to survive? What made man develop into what they are now? Why is mankind this way? Nietzsche said the world would end if mankind didn't stop destroying the planet, yet here we all are. The carbon in the air is worse than ever before, and we have barely a few years before carbon emissions, and the climate is changed permanently. So then why do people live? It's amusing to think of.

Komaeda only teaches one course in the entire university. He's well known amongst certain students; something along the lines of losing a hand in a bomb incident he caused. You're confused as to how a student who was a literal terrorist was teaching a philosophy course, but you suppose there is no sane philosophy student. The previous professor nearly destroyed his school, but then again, he has a cute little gamer girl wife. You wonder what you did wrong for the universe to hate you like that. When would YOU get a man like that? When would you live out the life of your dreams with a man who only loves you?

He's also never on campus.

You set your dinner tray down, and you stare at the Italian stained glass plastered everywhere on the windows. It had a nearly gothic vibe to the dining hall. It's never this empty, but then again, it's late into the evening. Traces of the sun are gone, instead, replaced with the blue glow you see from the moon. The glass would look prettier in the day, though. You sit down next to your roommate, her smiling at you.

"He looks familiar." You mumble.

"Well no shit, he looks like the boy in the portrait." Your roommate shrugs. "It's his relative, no?"

"No," You hum. "Same person."

"Huh?"

You open your laptop, and you show your roommate. "Our professor is either a direct descendant, has reALLY strong genes, or he's the same person. Since the professor lost his parents when young, there's no record of his parents whatsoever. I'm just assuming that he's the same person."

"So a reincarnator?"

"Maybe," You shrug. "But those are rare, so it might just be a coincidence. Wouldn't you fall in love with someone who adored you centuries ago to the point that you're hung up in a museum dedicated to your artist?"

"Perhaps," Your roommate smiles. "Have you read the first chapter on neuroscience yet?"

"Nope!" You grin. "But I know the basics of it."

"Why are you in this class again? You don't even need this to graduate?"

"Something told me that I'll find something important here." You smile. "Well, not that it matters. I just want to understand what creates art and the pieces that it adores."

Your roommate chuckles. "It's a shame, if you recalled your past life, I would have asked if we were friends."

"I have a feeling we were," You hum. "I always include you in my warmup sketches."

"And yet you're not an art major," She hums, a smile on her face. "Why'd you choose psychology?"

You stare at her. "Because science explains everything, if not putting a label on it."

"True," She mumbles. "But even then, with hands like yours, I wouldn't be surprised if you could create life one day."

"That'd be hilarious," You chuckle. "But it's pretty, isn't it? That hands like Solaria's could create such beautiful art. Their muse was gorgeous in their paintings."

"Yeah," Your roommate sighs. "I wish someone would love me like that."

"Oh, please," You grumble. "At least you have someone who loves you."

"You're single by choice."

"I'm really not," You stab your broccoli. "I get no bitches."

"Oh, you do," Your roommate mirrors your move. "Only under the pen name."

"Yeah, but that's not me," You shrug. "Say, if our professor is single, do you think I have a chance?"

You dodge the spoon she throws at you.

"The moon loves their stars. The nerves in your body seem to resemble the stars in some way. A bridge to another, the running and spinning to chase after it desperately. The neurotransmitters being held by the dendrites. The way your skin lights up at the softest of touches. Love is a strange thing." Komaeda hums. "Do any of us know the names of the chemical released when in love?"

"Oxytocin!"

"One more," Komaeda smiles at the student.

"Half," You mumble to your roommate, the two of you taking notes.

"On his nerves?"

"No," You mumble. "Not her. Someone else. I know who that someone is, but they're doing it on purpose."

"Vasopressin!"

"Good job," Komaeda raises his brows, a smile on his face.

"Close enough," You mumble.

"Y/n-chan, Mi-chan, do you two have something you'd like to share with the class?"

Your roommate pauses, and she stares at you.

"Professor, what's on your mind?" You thrust your chin gently.

Your roommate stares at you, eyes wide.

"Nothing, why?" He smiles, eyes closed.

"Catch that?" You mumble, your roommate clicking on the keys. "Lie."

"Are you psychoanlyzing me in class?"

"Reading your microexpressions, but yes," You smile. "Sorry about that, professor."

Komaeda sighs, and he goes back to the lesson.

"First one to figure out what's pissing him off gets free dinner."

"Oh, it is on."

"What part of the brain isn't active while we're in love?"

"Amygdala," You call.

"Correct," He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"What a genuine smile," Your roommate shudders. "Disgusting."

"He's barely any older than we are," You type a note into your doc. "He's irritated because I wasn't participating. Bingo."

"I hate you," She grumbles.

"The amygdala, frontal cortex, parietal cortex, and middle temporal cortex are all at minimum activity when you're in love," Komaeda smiles. "You know that euphoric feeling of being in love and fearing nothing? That's what love feels like. The amygdala is mainly for fear and anger, so the decreased activity in that area, which means you feel safe in their arms. To add on that, your frontal cortex makes decisions, which means love is blind. Literally."

You finish the notes, and you hum, closing your laptop.

Your roommate stares at you, something clicking in the back of her mind.

The milky way revolves around the sun. To people like her, they're just meteors passing by in your life. You stand at the center of everything. Nothing can touch you, you can touch nothing. It hurts. Loving you burns at their body until there's nothing but flames and smoke in their lungs. You're up in the sky to remind people that you exist. You spread warmth at a distance; you burn when close. If the moon froze everyone in their way, then the sun burned everyone who got close. Icarus lost his wings because of you. The boy who got greedy, who fell to his death at a single touch of you. The sun burns people who get close.

She supposes that you're not the only one.

Komaeda resembles the moon. The way his hair is pale without color, the way his skin looks dainty and delicate. He freezes anyone too close. The frostbite is hard to recover from. Komaeda doesn't have close friends. A simple look at him, and people would realize that he's the only one at the back of the room. He's the type to talk to people out of courtesy; yet never approach anyone first. He's cold. Perhaps that's why you were so eager to take up his case. Something to calm the ramming of your heart against your chest, anything to keep you cool-headed. But it's going to kill the both of you if you get too close. It's like mixing fire and water. It will never calm down.

So begins the vicious cycle of the sun chasing the moon.

"Professor," You smile at him. "Were you bothered because I wasn't participating today?"

"Huh?" Komaeda raises his brows. "No? Why so?" he rubs the back of his neck.

"I don't like liars, professor," You purse your lips, pouting at him.

Komaeda blinks, scratching his cheek. "Sorry. You just remind me of someone I study."

"Huh?"

"The newly arising artist? Ah, the one who paints the sunflowers like Van Gogh." Komaeda smiles. "I stayed up late last night, and I was a little annoyed at how their art style resembled Solaria's so much."

"Perhaps Solaria's their inspiration?" You look up, avoiding his eyes.

"Are you not telling me something?"

"Huh?" You stare at him. "No?"

"Mm," Komaeda hums, tapping his chin. "You see... I'll let you in on a little secret. I'm incredibly perceptive, which means I can tell a lie from the truth easily. Now, tell me what you know about what you know."

"No," You stare at him, all signs of lying gone. "I just know that they're an artist who visits the museum often."

"Well, many artists visit the museum often," He hums. "Have you been?"

"No," You shake your head, a smile on your face.

"It's a very nice place. You should visit sometime," Komaeda smiles.

Komaeda is kind to you. His words soothe you, and when you remain after class to talk to him more, there's so much that he breaks down for you. He doesn't ask why you didn't understand the piece and took the course, but he helps you digest it. It's hard to understand what the two of you are. Student and professor? Too foreign. Yet, saying the two of you were friends sounded strange. But then again, it's probably out of character to be sitting in a cafe booth with your professor discussing about Solaria's art.

"You know most of their early life, right?"

"Yeah," Komaeda smiles. "They were a pretty child, but they were poor. Their parents died because of a lack of doctors in the village, and they became a wandering painter. They took up side jobs to pay for the art supplies at first, before their art was found and then sponsored by an old friend. That friend became their muse."

"Their muse was gorgeous," You bite on the straw of your coffee. It hurts; you forgot it was your metal straw. "If someone as pretty as their muse was sponsoring me, I'd draw them for the rest of my life too."

"You draw?"

"A little," You smile. "In my free time."

"That's nice," Komaeda smiles. "Show me sometime?"

"If you'd like," Your eyes trail back to your laptop, and you continue typing. Komaeda has his laptop in front of him, the rays of the setting sun brushing his face. You want to stare. You really do. You force yourself to keep working instead. He isn't a student. Why are you out with him again? Wait.

"Ah, um," You stare at Komaeda. "professor?"

"yes?"

"Why are we at a cafe again?"

"You said you needed help with the assignment."

Oops.

"Right... I did," You blink. "I was not expecting to end up at a coffee shop with you."

"I don't do well in the classroom cold," He smiles. "My apologies. Is this a little too casual for you?"

"No," You shake your head. "It's just... a little strange, perhaps."

"Ah, because you're out with your professor?"

"Well, it's not like you're old or anything," You smile. "So unless they take your class, they probably won't know you're a teacher."

"I hope so," He smiles. "My luck has a tendency to wear out in moments like this sometimes."

"Is that so?" You continue on the assignment. "I heard that Solaria's original muse had a luck cycle as well. If you look closely on a handful of their pieces, you'll find traces of water on the canvas. Probably from rain."

Komaeda stares at you. "You noticed that?"

"I did," You smile. "Because I had a dream or something. Also, because Solaria's muse never married or had children, so the art belonging to someone that's a descendant sounds impossible."

"Is that so?" Komaeda shrugs, pressing his tea to his lips.

"Ah, back on our psychoanalyzing schedule," You laugh, a smile on your face. "How'd your family get your hands on Solaria's art?"

Komaeda stares at you, eyes mirthed. "How do you think?"

You smirk.

Komaeda's excuse for how he got the art was that he bought it from the black market. Though, it is arguable since the museum was started by the muse himself. There had been no records that he had any children, but people talked about how he probably never died. Immortals of their age weren't unheard of. Though, many of them died of heartbreak. You wonder if Komaeda is the muse. Well, it's not like it matters. Even if he was the muse, you find it breathtaking that he still loved them after so long.

His lectures grow boring sometimes. Occasionally he goes on a tangent about how love was filled with a hope that could overcome any despair. He makes a comment or two about how he's undeserving of it, but then he moves on before anyone can point it out. He has something about his confidence. Though, you don't really think too much about it.

Class ends at 4, and you pack your things up slowly. Your roommate ran off first chance for her date. You wonder what it feels like to be loved.

"Ah, Y/n-chan," He smiles. "Did Mi-chan run off?"

"Yeah," You hum. "Did you need something, professor?"

"I was wondering," He smiles. "If you were an art major."

"I am," You're not surprised he caught on so early.

"Could I see?"

You take your laptop back out, and you pull up a website of your art. Komaeda smiles at the art.

"So you are the rising artist?"

"yeah," You scratch your cheek. "Um, Solaria is kind of an inspiration, but I do genuinely share their love for the stars."

Komaeda stares at you, eyes glancing at the moles on your fingers and then at you. He smiles. "Your art is lovely. I'm sure Solaria would've loved it."

"You speak like you know her, professor," You chuckle as he scrolls through the rest of your art. He pauses at the sight of a child that looks like himself. "Is this..."

"Ah," You turn red, your neck burning in embarrassment. "It's going to sound weird but I see him in my dreams occasionally."

"Ah," Komaeda stares at you, and he smiles. "Perhaps a soul connection?"

"Like soulmates?" You close your laptop and slip it back into your bag.

"No," He shakes his head. "like memories from a past life."

"Maybe it was the bibliography that I read..." You brush it off, waving your hand. "Thank you, professor."

"Of course," He nods. "Stay safe."

Fondness. Komaeda was fond of you. You remind him of Solaria. Hell, you are Solaria. Their soul rests in you, even if you're not aware of it. No matter how many times you reincarnated, you were still them. Komaeda feels disgusted. Times and times he fell in love with you, and you had seen him as nothing more than a muse. Even when you were on your deathbed, you were still sketching him. You offered him no words of advice or love. You had always been like that. You had always seen him as a muse. In the first life, you adored him with the love that you would for a best friend. The second, you had adored him with the love that an artist had for a muse. The third, it was the love for a parent. The fourth, it was the love of someone who would never confess or accept. The fifth was the love for the sun and stars and the way he seemed to glow. You had never loved Komaeda with the love that one has for their lover.

He wants to throw up every time he's reminded that you're cursed to never love him.

"Are you cold?" Komaeda raises a brow. "You're shivering."

"It's a bit cold," You smile. "Don't worry about it. It's not an issue."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Komaeda frowns. It feels hot in the room. He can't tell if it's because he's normally cold or if it's actually hot. By the way you're shaking, though, he's sure that it's warmer than he's used to, and colder than you're used to. He wonders if it's the room. He takes off his coat, and he hands it to you. You reject it, a smile still on your face.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," You nod. "That was all I wanted to ask. Thank you, professor."

"The pleasure is all mine," Komaeda beams. "Stay safe out there."

You don't love him.

"Right, professor," You stare at him. "I hope I'm not intruiding, but how much do you make in a year? I heard the school doesn't pay well."

"Oh," Komaeda chuckles. "No worries, you're not intruding on anything. I make around 13,787,696 yen a year. I also yield from money, so it's quite a bit."

"Then... what do you do in your free time?"

Komaeda smiles. "I'm sure you know."

"I'll think of it," You grin. "Thank you for your time!"

"Pleasure was all mine. Email me if you have any other questions." Komaeda stands up from his seat, adjusting his sleeve.

"Of course, professor." You smile. "Have a lovely day."

You don't love him.

The sun chases after the moon for eternity. That's how it's been, and that's how it's supposed to be. Yet, Komaeda chases after you forever. Each time you're in his arms, he suffers. He's stuck in the endless space between the two of you. The sun has so many people adoring it, how could a simple moon be anything to compare with the other nebulas? The moon has her stars, so the sun had turned away; but the sun has his galaxies, so the moon had looked away. Komaeda will spend life after life chasing after you.

The first life, you had painted hundreds upon thousands of portraits of him and his friends. Even as a child, when you first met him as a child, you had sketched him in the sun. Though you gave him a small ring made of flowers, you were a painter. You painted until your fingers grew numb, but you had continued to. Even as you were old and sitting on your deathbed, you were still sketching Komaeda. He was your muse. He was ethereal in your eyes. The way his eyes were pale with fear because of his luck, the way his skin was light as a result of his childhood. The way his hair was pale without color, fading out into a pink that you adored. You had passed with a smile on your face.

The second life, Komaeda spoiled you with whatever marble you desired. You had chipped away at the rock until it came to life. The way Komaeda saw himself as a rock, one with life. You had called him the boy. Just the plain name of 'the boy'. Your skill was recognized everywhere, and you had created life with the rocks Komaeda had given you. His wealth ran endless for you. You would sketch the basics, and then you would bring them to life. The way you created wings for Icarus, patting the pink of roses onto the lips of Aphrodite, you did everything. You sculpted all of Komaeda's friends, all of them perfect copies. Chiaki's pink hair was replicated with granite, you making sure that it was accurate. Your hands traced Komaeda's skin, carving him to perfection. You created life with your fingers, even when the rock had crushed you to your death.

The third, you worked with gems. You had thousands of rocks provided to you by Komaeda. He never knew what form of art you would pick up in the next life. He found you when you were a child this time. In whatever life you lived, your parents never lived long enough to see you grow up. Komaeda had taken you in as your caretaker after finding you on the street, staring longingly at the craftsmen working with gems. You had joked about he never aged, and you had stayed next to him. You created thousands of jewels. You created all of Komaeda's accessory drawers. The green of the emeralds brought out his eyes; the red from the ruby brought out the tips of his hair. You had crafted each band carefully whenever you asked. Even when he requested a set of jewelry your size, you had joked with him. "I hope they let me call them mom." You died from lead poisoning.

The fourth, you had been a tailor. Every yard of fabric under your hands was treated with care. Komaeda had found you at the place he got his suits tailored regularly. You had never changed. With a brief discussion, he had managed to hire you to make suits for him exclusively. Any fabric you wanted to work with, he let you try. The silks from China, the satin from Greece, the cotton from the commoners. You worked with everything. Komaeda had requested little from you. Only a wedding dress your size, and a suit in his. Even as your eyes swirled with hurt while creating the dress, you had never told Komaeda you loved him. Even as you coughed from the smoke of the factories, you never stopped. Three days after the creation of the dress, you lost your life; and Komaeda lost his only chance.

The fifth life, you made people dance with joy. Your fingers would bounce off the keys of the piano, stringing the crowd's heart along. The sun and moon would bow for you, conducting the sky to shine along with the melody. Your music left the taste of honey on peoples' lips. Their mind was hazy with adoration for your pieces. Komaeda found you before you grew famous. He met you in the street under a streetlight, a violin in your hand, placing it into your case. He had recognized you immediately. But even as the chandelier slammed on top of you during your piece, your corpse had been found with a smile on its face.

The boy in your dreams is older today.

"Hey, my sun?"

"Yeah?" Your lips move unconsciously.

"Do you think... I'll ever be healthy enough for another sun portrait?"

"After that sunburn? I think not," You grumble, going back to sketching the boy lying down next to the window. "You're still recovering from that."

"I know... but I wanna-"

"No buts," You feel your lips curl into a pout. "Your parents are rolling in their grave right now."

"My nanny isn't," the boy folds his arms, a frown on his face. "Would you paint me once I recover?"

"I'm sketching you right now, am I not?"

"I know you are," he mumbles. "But I want another portrait."

"Maybe when you recover." You feel yourself in their body. "Say, what's your name again-"

"It's N-"

You wake up in a cold sweat. You stare at your hand and then at the mirror. There aren't any lead stains or blood stains from the dream. You reach for your notebook, and you sketch the same image down. Your roommate snores from her bed, and you paint out the boy's face. He looks exactly like your professor. You're worried, but as the sun rises and you step out of bed, you toss it to the back of your mind. Maybe you would pay Solaria's museum a visit sometime.

Even as you wander through the streets of the university, there's always something holding the back of your mind hostage. It's like the tale about the moles. You pray that it's true. The moles on your fingers and skin make you happy. One is on your ring finger, and another is on your wrist. You feel loved every time you see it. It's like your lover had adored you to pieces. It was a funny concept to think about. There was love about everything. You wonder if reincarnation was one. You would worry about that later.

Komaeda spends his days in his galleries and staring at the portraits. He lingers in front of a picture of a male in the sunflower field. He bears a striking resemblance to him. The piece is gorgeous. Komaeda misses the person who painted it. It had been centuries since he last saw them. He wonders how much longer their reincarnation would take to visit the museum. Well, it wasn't like he needed to wait. He knew where they were.

You bump into Komaeda on accident in the museum. You're in awe at the portrait of the same male who seemed to have taught your class. He looks breathtaking. The way the sun kisses his skin and the flowers hug him. The red on his cheeks from smiling is ethereal. He looks alive with his rosy cheeks and pretty lips. You know the art is from ages ago, yet he just looks so happy. The way he basked in the sun's light made you happy. You don't know why. The green jacket and white shirt make you nostalgic, an overwhelming amount of bitterness drowning you. You don't know what happened to him. You don't know why this piece makes you so sad.

"Y/n-chan?"

You turn to stare at your professor, eyes wide, lost in thought over a feeling you didn't know.

"Are you crying? What happened?"

You don't know what to tell him. That you were suddenly overwhelmed with an emotion you didn't know? That you had no clue why you felt like crying? That the feeling of seeing someone for the first time in eternity burned the back of your head? That you felt like the artist was in utter bliss while painting the piece? The fact that you could feel the artist laughing melodiously as they painted? The fact that you were overcome with the suffocating urge to touch the painting? How would you even begin to explain it? It doesn't matter. You stare at your professor, tears dribbling down your cheeks. You're crying. Eyes wide with confusion, you're crying.

Komaeda panics, and before his mind can reprimand him for cupping your cheeks and wiping your tears, the thought is gone. You're crying. Fuck. You're crying in front of him. Are you crying because of him? Did he bring you that much discomfort? Oh, maybe he should go. But it isn't rude to leave someone you know crying by themselves? Komaeda feels bad. He stays with you, wiping your tears gently. His hands are a little rough, but they give you comfort. You're happy with it.

"I'm sorry," The words spill out of Komaeda's lips unconsciously. "Are you crying because of me?"

"No," You mumble, reaching to wipe your tears yourself. Komaeda offers you a handkerchief, and you mumble a gentle thank you. "I'm crying because the painting makes me feel some way. I'm just overcome with such nostalgia over the portrait. It hurts my chest."

Komaeda knows why it hurts. Hell, he remembers it. That is him. He even remembers the words their soul told him while painting it. The sun made him sweat a mess, but they went home with a rough sketch, and an even prettier portrait. They had shown it to him with such a big smile on their face. Komaeda had sworn nothing had ever shone so brightly. His parents scolded him for being out under the moon so long despite being a sickly child, but he had adored the portrait so much. He had it hung in his room. Even as they grew older and older, the life that they brought out in their art was still so alive. They had painted thousands of paintings in your past, every single one given to Komaeda after they finished. Komaeda has their paintings decorated in a room at his mansion for the day he meets their soul again.

The portrait under the sun was their best piece. The way Komaeda's eyes crinkled with joy, his cheeks red from the heat and embarrassment. Komaeda looked euphoric, the way his smile stretched from one side to the other, the absolute joy in his life. Oh, he adored it so much so. The sun had left him with a sunburn that they treated when they returned to the mansion. His sun had scolded him to tell them earlier, but the look on Solaria's face when they had finished the portrait was just so pretty. It was dazzling. He wouldn't have been able to tell them even if it killed him.

Komaeda has the best ones hung up in the museum he sponsors. Each one is signed under the same pseudonym, and though some people find art boring, the pieces bring light to their eyes. He loved them. He adored the childhood friend who sat him down for hours at a time and painted him times and times again. They were the sun in his life that brought him warmth. They helped him heal during the times that he needed to heal. Even as they had lay in bed, a pencil in their hand in the first life, they had never stopped drawing him. Their unfinished piece was Komaeda hunched over in pain before they passed. Komaeda can't stand to look at that piece.

"I'm sorry," You wipe your tears. "Professor, what are you doing here?"

"My family owns the museum," He smiles. "Every single piece in here is by the same soul."

"Soul? Solaria?"

Komaeda swallows. "They're a treasure to my- me."

You stare at him, eyes watery. "You're the muse?"

"Yes," Komaeda swallows. "Are you alright? You were crying pretty hard."

"Ah," You stare at him, eyes wide with newfound realization. "No. I just... Solaria's art has that effect on me, I guess."

Komaeda smiles. "Understandable. What brings you here? You could have texted me to give you a tour?"

"I didn't know you owned this place," You mumble. "Does that mean you have no family?"

"It's just me," Komaeda smiles. "I never married."

"So you own this place?"

"Everything I own is for my sun's soul to use," He smiles. "I work hard for when I meet their soul again."

"So..." You stare at him. "Are you a government secret?"

Komaeda laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. "No, my darling student, I am not. In fact, the government knows I'm alive, but they don't do anything about me. I haven't done anything weird like the other immortals."

"Others...?"

"All of Solaria's muses were immortal," Komaeda smiles. "You'd be surprised at how many immortals are teaching at this school."

You blink at him.

"Professor Nanami, Hinata, Kamukura..." Komaeda counts on his fingers. "You know? All of them were muses."

You blink at him.

"Ah... do you have the portraits of them?"

Komaeda holds his hand out to you, and you grasp it loosely. He pulls you to the back of the museum and unlocks a room with a card. You let go of his hand, and you stare at the paintings on the wall. It's the other professors. You blink at the portrait of your roommate on the wall and pause.

"That's..."

"She's also an immortal," Komaeda swallows. "I don't know if she-"

"I suspected it," You mumble. "So this is a government secret? Are you all part of the men behind the curtain?"

Komaeda laughs. "No. We just choose to not tell people. It's much safer that way."

"I suppose so," You stare at him. "So, what made you trust me?"

"Solaria's art triggered... something about you. I guess," He smiles.

"Ah, do you have any of their sketches?" You turn to him, and he nods. "Which ones?"

"There was a boy laying under the sun." You mumble. "That I read about." You add. You don't think your professor wants to know that you keep dreaming scenes of Solaria's life.

"Oh, when I got a sunburn?" He pulls a drawer open, and he reaches for the sketchbook. "It hurt that day, and Solaria did not make it any better."

"I thought she was with you the whole day?" You take the sketches from his hand, and you pull out your phone. It's an exact copy of what you drew in the morning. Your face is relaxed, but your mind swirls with emotion. You have their soul. Their soul is yours.

"Are you alright, Y/n-chan? You look sick again."

You shake your head, a smile on your face. "No worries. You just look like you're in immense pain."

"I was," He chuckles, but his eyes are gentle with tenderness. "But they made it better."

"Did they have a name?"

"No," Komaeda shakes his head. "It was always Solaria."

You should probably continue to sign with Solaria on your art pieces.

"Anything else?"

You shake your head. "Thank you, professor."

Komaeda grows closer to you after the event at the museum. The two of you go out for coffee, and while it's taboo for a student and professor to go out for coffee every week to discuss an artist, the two of you stopped caring. Komaeda's way too old to care, and you're too into Solaria's past to give a fuck. You never bothered confronting your roommate about this whole thing, only asking her for advice on your art.

Komaeda spends a lot of time with you. For the most part, he forgets that he's in love with Solaria. You remind him of the soul, yet you're a completely different person in his eyes. He can't bring himself to compare you to Solaria. Yet, as you wave at him as the sun rises from their slumber, Komaeda finds a sense of peace with you. Maybe it was his sign to move on, not that he wanted to.

The students in the class are lively. When midterms end, the class throws a party. You tag along, mainly because your roommate had bet you fifty bucks that the professor wouldn't come. You had raised a row at her, lip quirked into a smirk, and tagged along. It doesn't take much to convince you to party. Though, you were drowsier at night. You wonder how you ended up tipsy at the edge of the second-floor balcony when you told yourself you wouldn't drink. However, the bigger question was why your professor was next to you.

"Hey, professor?" You giggle, cheeks flushed from the alcohol.

"You're drunk, Y/n-chan," He mumbles, taking off his blazer, resting it over your shoulders.

"You know," You spin gently, the glass of alcohol still in your hand. "I chased after the sun for eternity and rest while the moon illuminates the field. I am neither the sun, the sky, the stars, nor the moon, but I am an observer. I am the child that stares out the window of their worn-out cabin, dreaming of a love like theirs."

Komaeda watches you slow down, and he takes the glass from your fingers.

"I can only pray for someone to chase me like the sun chases the moon," You turn to glance inside the flat. "The way the moon loved the sun, but finally turned to notice how much the stars adored them. The way that the sun chased the moon but finally glanced ahead to stare at the plenty of nebulas that adored them. I want to be loved the way that the sky loves."

Komaeda stays silent from next to you, and he stares at you in a way that makes you lighthearted.

"Ah," You grin at him. "But who am I to wish for something only the stars have?"

Komaeda smiles. "Aren't you afraid of me taking advantage of you?"

You're drunk at this point.

"I'd jump you before you could do that," You smile at him. "Hm? Professor?"

Komaeda inhales sharply as you drape your arms around his neck. He leans against the railing, trying his best to keep his hands off of you. You look ravishing. The way your outfit hugged your figure in all the right places, and the way your lashes batted innocently up at him. Fuck. You're his student for fuck's sake. He grimaces and clings to the balcony railing instead.

"You're drunk."

"I won't regret this in the morning," Your eyes focus on his throat, and he swallows. "A drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts, you know?"

Komaeda sighs, and his lips part.

"So?"

"You better not regret this in the morning," Komaeda doesn't resist as you press your lips to his.

Komaeda is a pleaser. He listens to every whine and beg that slips past your lips as he fucks you. He pays attention to when your expressions change, and the way you squirm under his touch. His touch is gentle, yet as he grips your waist to keep you in place, you think they're more firm than gentle. You wonder if he's fucked you like this in one of your past lives. Well, it's not like it matters. He must've taken up at least a lover or two while waiting for Solaria's soul. You don't mind. Your brain is too hazy to think straight anyway.

Komaeda wants to make sure you feel good. The only thing racing through his mind as he presses his lips to your skin is to please you. So he drinks up each sound that your pretty lips make. The purple and red decorate all over your skin in places you can hide. He's sure you don't want to get caught sleeping with your professor of all people, even if he is young. Komaeda drinks you up like you're the nectar of the gods. Like you're the water from the fountain of youth. He could spend eternity under you, worshipping you for your worth. So Komaeda makes sure that you know he loves you. Even if you won't remember it in the morning, he would please you to no end.

Komaeda worships you like the people adore the sun. To you, he's just an insignificant worshipper at your feet, doing his very best to please his god. Oh, you're just so pretty to him. You clench the sheets until they're stained with the remnants of you, your lipstick messy on his collar. He's sure he looks more of a mess than you, but he doesn't care. His wrist is drenched by you, but as he pulls another breathless whine from your lips, he supposes you'll be fine for the night.

"In me," You whine. "I want you in me."

He swallows, unsure.

"Please," Your mascara stains your cheeks, and you jut out your bottom lip for emphasis. "...Nagito?"

Who is Komaeda to turn down your request?

As Komaeda complies with your request, you mumble incoherent thoughts. It's usually mindless praise for how good he was, or a breathy whine about how it was too much. Komaeda doesn't stop until you finish, and even then, you're crying for him to finish inside of you. Ah, inside of you? inside? He can't argue with that if it's what you want. So as your eyelids finally flutter closed, Komaeda pants on top of you. You look so vulnerable under him. Komaeda gets off of you, and he stares at the room in his mansion. He has a brief fantasy before he gets to work to clean you off.

You wake up to the smell of takeout and a shirt draped over your body. It takes you a moment to recall where you are, and then turn an unrecognizable shade of red when you recall this is Komaeda's apartment. The shirt smells like him. Wait. No. Holy fuck, you fucked your professor. You wonder if any of your past lives had done this with him before. Well, it doesn't matter since you did. You get off the bed. You're glad he didn't fuck you brainless.

"Good morning," Komaeda smiles at you.

"I can't believe I fucked my professor," You mumble a quiet thank you before biting into the rice.

"Well, a lot of things are surprising," Komaeda hums. "I canceled class today."

"Because of this?"

"Yeah," He shrugs. "Also because we start studying Solaria's art next week and I need to pull out a couple of portraits to set up the room we have class in."

"Oh, right," You stare at his kitchen. "We have class at your place."

"Mhm," He hums.

"Um... professor?"

"I believe we are well beyond formalities, Y/n-chan," He raises a brow at you in amusement.

"Komaeda."

"Nagito." He leans onto his palm, staring at you. "You had no problem with it last ni-"

"I got it," You flush red again. "What does this make us."

"Up to you," He sips on his tea.

"Up to me?"

"We could've been a hookup," He grimaces for a moment.

"Annnd there you go," Your lips curl up knowingly. "You don't want it to be a hookup."

"But even if it isn't," Komaeda places his mug down. "You can't date your professor."

"You talk as if you hadn't fallen in love with the same soul again and again." You shrug.

"So?" Komaeda reaches for a biscuit. "What do you suppose we are?"

"I wanted to say friends with benefits," You mumble. "But I suppose it'd be professor and student."

"You're not fucking me for a grade, are you?" Komaeda raises a brow in amusement.

"No," You grin. "The grades would be a bonus."

"Too bad I don't do bonuses," He smiles. "It was on the syllabus."

"Another time when not reading has come to bite me in the ass," You sigh blissfully. "So what are we?"

"At this point," Komaeda mumbles, fingers dancing up your forearm. "It's a rhetorical question. We know what we are."

"I suppose so." You mumble, eyes distant.

There's no label for the sun and the moon. Lovers, perhaps? Yet, they aren't together. The sun attends to the people and the moon attends to their stars. They chase after each other on the brief moments of eclipses and rises. The sun kisses the moon good morning when the moon kisses the sun good night. The brief moments when the sun and the moon are both in the sky is what the two of you resemble.

The moon spends his mornings waking up in the sun's arms. Komaeda spends his mornings waking up to food that isn't from a local market down the street. He wakes up to actual food, and gentle kisses on his skin. Komaeda worships you, yet you love him the same. You're the one he wakes up to in the morning, and sometimes he falls asleep in your arms. With you, Komaeda feels loved.

He counts the dots on your skin in the morning, reminding you that it's normal to stress over things. He's old with wisdom, you're young with life. Komaeda wishes that one day you could become immortal. If you did, then he wouldn't need Solaria's soul anymore. Maybe he could introduce you to his coworkers. You'd get along well with Chiaki or Hinata. You seem like you'd fit right in. Komaeda tucks your hair behind your ear as the moon lights up your skin. You're really pretty.

Komaeda feels you press gentle kisses to his face when you wake up, and then leave the room to make breakfast. You like the way the sun hugs his skin. He looks holy under the rays of the sun. Komaeda's eyes meets your half-lidded ones, a peaceful smile on your face. You look mundane; like a cup of tea in the morning with a simple breakfast. Komaeda wants to stay with you forever. He didn't mind if you were staying with him for personal gain or private lessons; You were his.

But he should know nothing ever goes his way.

He's had many meetings with his luck, after all. Each time he had loved you, you had ended up dying because of his luck, two out of the five deaths you had experienced. Komaeda should know better than that by now. He stares at himself in the mirror less nowadays. He doesn't berate himself outwardly, settling for your arms instead as you massage his scalp and work out the knots in his shoulders. Komaeda should really know better by now.

Among the many nights he stays over to study with you at your dorm, he never touches your stuff. He gets curious. Once. He peeks into your bag while you're off to grab the two of you coffee, and he's caught off guard. Carbon copies of Solaria's art. Each one was something you had asked him to see before. Were you an art thief? No. It's impossible. You couldn't have snuck something that big. You didn't even have the keys to the room to begin with. Komaeda racks his mind for an excuse. Something. He finds nothing, so he chooses to flip through the rest of the pages.

"I'm here with the order," You smile.

"Ah, thank you," Komaeda smiles. "Sorry, I wanted to see your sketches."

"Ah," Your face pales. "That sketchbook..."

He stares at you, noticing the way your skin turned white.

"The sketches... are they stolen?"

"Heavens no," You shake your head. "I could never do that to them."

"Then...?"

"Dream log," You swallow slowly. "I log scenes from my dreams."

There's a moment of silence. It's tense. The way that the string could be cut and either of you could bubble over with emotion. You aren't sure what to feel as you stare at your professor. You can see him fight back the realization. It hurts. He doesn't want to admit it. Maybe he does. Maybe he feels hurt that you hadn't told him about it. You stare at Komaeda's eyes, trying to read his emotions. Maybe you would feel better if you knew what was on his mind.

"you're the soul." Komaeda's eyes are wide with hurt, something bubbling in the back of his throat.

You stare at him, eyes swirling with emotion. You wanted to fall in love with him first as an apology for all the pain you had caused him before. You had never loved him with something romantic. It had always been a platonic love that left him longing for more. You felt bad at first. You're sure this isn't just a feeling of pity of guilt anymore. Great, the one time you actually tell him you love him, you accidentally hurt him.

"Did you... actually love me?" Komaeda stares at you.

You swallow, eyes meeting his, voice shaky. "I do. I still do."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

The sun burns anyone it grows too close to.

"It didn't seem like something important to our relationship," You avoid his eyes.

"I thought we trusted each other about everything." Komaeda stares at you, and you stare at him.

"I'm sorry for being a coward," Your voice is cracked as you put down his coffee on the table. You grab your bag, and you're out of the cafe. Komaeda stares at the coffee on the table. His chest hurts.

He isn't sure if it's from the fact that you knew you were Solaria all along or the fact that you had just left him at the coffee shop, but it hurt. He stares at the door to the store, and he sighs. He would apologize later, but he had to sort out his own thoughts first. Even if you weren't the artist or sculptor, your soul had always adored communication. Perhaps you were hurt because of how freely he communicated his feelings to you when he didn't know you were Solaria. But you weren't playing him. Perhaps you had just wanted to make up for the hurt you caused him in your past life.

Komaeda and you go about your ways. He teaches class about Solaria, masking his emotions about the artist. He didn't want to get you in trouble for something that could have been handled differently. You mask your emotions well. Had Komaeda not known what happened, he wouldn't have been able to tell that you were worse than before. He supposes he's the only one to blame for this. Maybe a part of himself had just convinced himself that Solaria could never love him. Maybe that was why he was so surprised at the revelation.

In the first life, you loved him with the love that you had for a best friend. He was the center of everything you did. Even if you had died before you could tell him that you loved him as one would love their partner; you prayed he could tell from the messy sketches and ornate paintings. The second, you had loved him with the love that an artist had for a muse. You wanted to give the stars in the sky to him, even if you couldn't. You prayed that the delicate hearts at the end of your signatures on his statues would tell him. The third, it was the love for a parent that you knew you couldn't love as anything else. He had raised you, and even if you weren't related, it was taboo to fall in love with your caretaker. The fourth, you loved him from behind the millions of cloths of fabrics. You had shown your love through the carefully crafted outfits of his. The fifth, you loved him as the sun loves the moon, quietly, without word. You had always loved Komaeda with the love that one has for their lover, but you had never told him in fear.

The two of you go back to the old cycle. Simple comments and plain questions after class. Neither of you overstep your boundaries, pretending that everything is fine when it's not. Your roommate grows concerned for you, yet you don't overstep your boundaries. The sun is supposed to burn everything that gets too close.

"Ok, dumbass," She forcibly sits you down one evening.

"Look, I-"

"I am not taking excuses right now," She glares. "Spit it out, Solaria."

You stare at her. You don't even have the energy to argue with her anymore.

"What happened between you and moon boy?"

"I told you," You hum. "We got into an argument."

"There has to be more than that. It takes a LOT to piss Komaeda off."

"It was about my identity," You sigh, changing into your sleepwear. "That was all. We're just... taking a break."

The moon freezes everything in its way.

Komaeda's words are only unpoetic when he's caught off guard. Usually, his words have a graceful ambiance around them. His words are lovely to hear; they resemble the siren's songs. His words hurt you that day. He feels awful. The urge to throw up each time he meets your eyes while teaching claws at his throat. When you stop after class to ask questions, he just wants to grab your hands and pray that you would forgive him. Yet, neither of you speak up, because the sun and moon are supposed to be in an endless cycle of chasing after each other.

Finals are around the week, and with each step you take inside of the classroom, you feel yourself grow sicker and sicker. Your stomach churns, but you still pull through the exam. Did he feel as bad as you? Was his heart clenching each time he saw you? You haven't bothered staring him in the eye since the breakup. It's the last final you have. You don't bother staying when you finish, turning in your paper to Komaeda. He stares at you, and the two of you pause for a moment.

"Thank you for this year, professor," You smile to the best of your ability.

"Ah," He flips through your page. "You missed a section."

"Sorry," You mumble. "I can-"

"It's on your mind, isn't it?" Komaeda's voice is quiet so no one else can hear. "If you want, we can grab dinner later."

You stare at him, paper in your hands crinkling.

"If you don't want to, it's fine," He smiles. "I just... want to apologize."

"I'll go," You mumble. "Where?"

"The same place as before," He hums lowly. "Stay safe."

"Of course," You sit back in your seat, pulling out your pen again to finish the final.

Komaeda feels bad. He has the urge to throw up. His stomach churns in disgust, and he stares at himself in the reflection of his laptop. He looks worse than usual. As each student turns in their test, he feels a little more of himself die. You finish your test at the same time as your roommate, and he stares at you walk off. Your roommate stays behind.

"Listen," Your roommate stares at him, eyes hard. "If you hurt Solaria again, you won't hear from any of us ever again."

"I know," Komaeda collects her test. "I know."

"We're rooting for you," She mumbles. "We've been waiting for the two of you to get together for just as long as you've been in love with them. It's their 6th life, please."

"I know," Komaeda doesn't have the confidence to meet her eyes.

Komaeda has no confidence in himself. Even as the two of you sit down to eat, it feels like the fruit is stuck in his throat, the fruit of the tree of knowledge. He wants to talk. Yet, as you stare at him and the two of you eat in silence, it's more suffocating than comforting. He's just glad you haven't gotten up to leave yet.

You stare at Komaeda, and you continue eating. His words are caught in his throat, huh? You don't rush him to talk. You needed to talk to him anyway. Your graduation was in a couple of days; it didn't matter. If he wanted to break things off, he could. You wouldn't blame him. Yet, as the two of you sit under the stars, you find yourself wishing he doesn't break anything off. You don't really want it to end. It'd be like wasting an entire life before you reincarnate again to find him again. You wonder if this life is the time you actually have to leave him.

"You mentioned once... that you had wished someone would chase after you like the sun chased the moon. You don't need someone like that," Komaeda swallows, staring to the side. His voice is quiet, but he still continues speaking. "because to me, you were my sun. Even if you had never turned back to look at me or love me like I did you for eternity. I adored each ray that was pressed onto me as you awoke life in everyone else. I never needed the stars of the sky if it meant you would look at me."

You glance at him.

"Because the world adores you. Because there's nothing worth more than you that could ever be bidded for. You were the sun of each age, turning the page to a new era. You were the Helios of the age, turning each new day and rising up to greet us in the morning," Komaeda laughs pathetically, running his fingers through his hair. "You don't need a story like the sun and the moon; because to you, everyone else is like a galaxy other than the moon. You would only turn to thank the moon as you found someone better, yet the moon wishes they were more to you. When will you learn to adore the moon like it does you?"

You stare at Komaeda, and your voice is quiet as it comes out. "The sun loves the moon, Nagito. Since centuries before, you had been deemed my moon. I was your sun. Does that not prove how much I adore you? Forgive me for being foolish and believing that you did not love me because of the stars. I love you; and I have loved you for eternity past."

His eyes widen at you, and his lips part in surprise. His eyes aren't hurt like before. He stares at you like you're a revelation. Like you're a sudden epiphany in his life. He stares at you with stars in his eyes. Like you had stopped the sun and moon's cycle to give him a longer moment of peace. Komaeda stares at you like he's in love. He stares at you like every single doubt in his life had just been a misunderstanding and that the sun had come out after a rainy day. Oh, you love him too? Was he dreaming? Oh, how could his luck finally fix him?

"As the moon loves the sun?" He stares at you, and you grasp his hand gently, giving it a squeeze.

"As the moon loves the sun."

And for the first time, the cycle stops.

#komaeda x reader #nagito komaeda x reader #nagito x reader #nagito komaeda #dangaronpa x reader #sdr2 x reader #sdra2 x reader #☾.nsfw #☾.fics

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csolarstorm · 2 months

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The Eternal Flower Files: The Sun King

Let's talk about King AZ, the king that became a wanderer.

Pokemon X and Y draw a lot of connections between King AZ and King Louis XIV of France. Remember that portrait in Parfum Palace? The one that reminds our player character of AZ? Well, Parfum Palace is based on the Palace of Versailles, and the painting looks a lot like like Louis XIV. He called himself the "Sun King" for reasons that will be clear later in the post.

Screenshots from Pokemon Generations Episode 18: The Redemption

Notice how in AZ's last scene at the end of Pokemon X and Y, the sun is beating down hard on him in nearly every shot, including during the battle. Then when when Floette appears, she descends down from the sun.

While X and Y compare AZ to the Sun King, here it seems like the sun symbol...is Floette herself, as if the sun is Floette watching AZ. Floette's Eternal Flower is likely associated with light, but the sun itself? I don't have a full theory about this. Not yet anyway.

Another symbol associated with King AZ is the inchplant, historically known as "Wandering Jew". It's a vine that shares some similarities with the Eternal Flower, especially the reddish-violet variants. It even has three-petaled flowers, like the trillium. The zebra-like stripes on the leaves especially remind me of the black triquetra markings on the Eternal Flower's petals.

Sources: Succulent Depot, OrchidWeb: Tradescantia zebrina

If you've listened to Z-A theories lately, you might have heard of AZ's widely agreed on other inspiration, the story of the Wandering Jew, or "Eternal Jew". This is the antisemitic folk tale of a Jewish man who was cursed with immortality after mocking Jesus on the morning of crucifixion, and made to wander the earth until the end of days. This story has fueled centuries of antisemitism, even being used by Nazis for propaganda in WWII.

We know anime can't resist playing with European history and western religious symbols. Pokemon wouldn't be the first anime to be inspired by Ahasuerus (Fate/Requiem), Xerxes (Fullmetal Alchemist), or Cartaphilus (Ancient Magus' Bride), which are all names associated with various versions of the Wandering Jew. Personally though, I imagine this story catching GameFreak's attention because of the plant, considering how much flower symbolism runs the Pokemon franchise.

Sources: (1) Getty Images, via History.com, (2) Internet Archive via Wikipedia

So here we have a set of conflicting inspirations for AZ: the Sun King, and the Wandering Jew. "Conflicting" is an understatement, because Louis "the Sun King" XIV actively persecuted French Jews. He called himself the Sun King because he considered himself God's representative on Earth. Not only did he expel the Jews from the French West Indies, he stripped Calvinists of their religious liberties, and sometimes even went after other Catholics. (Source: History.com)

What do we make of these conflicting inspirations? Well, fiction can be cathartic. I think GameFreak switched the roles of the Sun King and the Wandering Jew for their story. In real life, the Sun King enjoyed a nice, long reign, unscathed by the people he persecuted and exiled. But in Pokemon X and Y, it's not the innocent religious minorities that wander the earth. It is the Sun King himself, forced to live eternally with the crimes he committed as the ruler of Kalos.

...

Multiple drafts of this post were reviewed by @fluffybunnybadass, who helped me cut straight to the substance. Thank you!

Want to know more about Eternal Flower Floette's connection to sacred geometry? Or how about all the Pokemon characters named after the fleur de lys? Ever since the announcement of Pokemon Legends: Z-A, I've been serving up lots of Gen VI theories, so check out them out below:

The Eternal Flower Files: Flowers of the Fleur de Lys

Eternal Flower Files Short: Thismia

The Eternal Flower Files: Sacred Geometry

Xerneas and Yveltal are Fungi: Let Me Explain

Poll: What Does the Λ in Legends Z-A Symbolize?

Pokemon Legends Z-A: What Is the Λ?

Aaah, it's an A! Is the A in Z-A the Tree of Life?

How much longer am I going to have to wait for a freakin' Unova remake?!

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eternal-love-song · 1 year

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Eternal’s Danganronpa Fics

Masterlist of all the Danganronpa Fics that I’ve written. I’ve arranged them pairing, since I mostly write shipping fics. List to my AO3 where you can find all of these easily.

Oumaki fics (Kokichi x Maki)

Hour To Midnight

Sleepless

Bite My Tongue Until Blood Soaks My Shirt

Fitting Together Broken Pieces

A Warm Mug And Hands In My Hair

A False Smile To Make Flowers Bloom

Bloodstones

Did It Hurt When You Fell In That Dark Alley?

No Bad Dreams In Bed

Oumatsu fics (Kokichi x Kaede)

Sleep Walking Reality

Wrong Number, Right Call

Promise To Protect

Who You’ll Be When You’re Already Dead

Dance Across The Sky

Irouma fics (Kokichi x Miu)

Filthy Hands

Hungry Mouths To Feed

Do At Least This

Virgin Lips

The Odd Taste Of Unspoken Words On My Tongue

Lay Back And Be Loved

Tojouma fics (Kokichi x Kirumi)

Clothing Request

Peeling A Label Off A Bottle

To Look After Another

A Proposal of Love

Saiouma (Kokichi x Shuichi)

Don’t Look Away

A Promise To Those Left Behind

Oumami (Kokichi x Rantaro)

Honest Body

Freely Offred, Fairly Stolen

Treasure Our Escape

Tenkouma (Kokichi x Tenko)

Yellow Flowers, Purple Stems

Ounaga (Kokichi x Angie)

The Warmth Of A Smile

Snapshot

Shirouma (Kokichi x Tsumugi)

Die Another Day For Me

Sainaga (Shuichi x Angie)

A Diving First Meeting

Saimatsu (Shuichi x Kaede)

Tea and Compliments

(Kirumi x Himiko)

A Healing Potion

Kirumaki (Kirumi x Maki)

I’ll Clean Your Hands

Amasai (Rantaro x Shuichi)

Four Days, A Fortnight, Or Forever

OT3 fics

Kiiboruma (Kokichi x Miu x Kiibo)

On My Shoulder

Cigarette Smoke and Engagement Rings

Case File: Kidnapped Kaede

Saioumatsu (Kokichi x Kaede x Shuichi)

Hats and Hairpins

Let Me See You Smile

Every Day, Every Nighht, Every Note I Play...

(Kokichi x Kaede x Maki)

Nail Polish

(Kokichi x Miu x Angie)

The Lake House

Oumamitojo (Kokichi/Rantaro/Kirumi)

A Home To Return To

OC fics

A Taste of Kimchi

Scattered Memories

Twinswap

No One Has To Know

Don’t Talk About It

Getting to Know Each Other

Wear Your Face, Carve A Place

Tea Time Talk

Long fics

Powerful Skeletons (Killing Game) (Saioumatsu)

Dice Daycare (Pokemon AU)

Alley Cat and Street Rat (Miraculous AU) (Oumatsu)

Fire Emblem AU

Children of Blood and Blades

Point Your Blade Toward Freedom

Monsters Out Of The Box

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champion-of-the-jotnar · 1 year

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Something, something about it being already established that the archons’s true names are their goetic titles (Barbatos for Venti, Morax for Zhongli, Beelzebul for Ei and Baal for Makoto, Buer for Kusanali/Nahida/Rukkhadevata since Nahida and Kusanali are the same titles for the same person and Nahida is Rukkhadevata reincarnated, Focalors for the Hydro Archon, etc etc)…

Something, something about how it’s already been established within the Genshin Community that those names are the names of demons from the Lesser Key of Solomon, more specifically the Ars Goetia…

Something, something about how it’s outlined in Before Sun and Moon that before the archons and current world order of Teyvat, there was a single Primordial God who colonized Teyvat by defeating the Seven Dragon Sovereigns after creating four shades of themselves…

Something, something about how the Unknown God (who claims to be the SUSTAINER of Heavenly Principles) is named “Asmoday” in Genshin Impact’s files, which immediately reminds me of the demon Asmodeus who also appears in the Ars Goetia…

Something, something about how Asmoday seems to manipulate space-like elements, which could mean she’s one of the Shining Shades, presumably of Space…

Something, something about how in the Amethyst Crown artifact description from the artifact set “Flower of Paradise Lost” it says that the Primordial One gave the message:

Something, something about how Celestia nuked all the ancient civilizations in Dragonspine, the Chasm and the Eternal Oasis and how since their ruins the same architecture style, they were probably once one large prospering civilization, with Sal Vindagnyr getting a huge nail dropped on them, referencing back to the ‘nail of retribution’ the Primordial One presumably threatened against their own children out of fear…

Something, something about how it was outlined in Before Sun and Moon that the Primordial One might be Phanes…

Something, something about how Kairos/Isatroth is already an established shade, and Isatroth is probably her goetic title with Kairos being an alias since Kairos is from greek mythology and so is the name “Phanes” (who was the god of creation and light in Greek mythos)...

Something, something about how Aether and Lumine’s names are a play on the words ‘luminiferous ether’ which is the medium by which light travels through space and is thereby associated with light and space…

Something, something about how Aether in Greek Mythos is the god and personification of, and I quote: “light and bright, blue ether of the heavens”...

______________________________________________________________

Something, something about how if you look in the Enkanomiya achievements, you see the following achievements: Kairos’ Constancy, Phosphorous’ Guidance, and Hesperus’ Boons…

Something, something about how if Kairos, the Shade of Time, is in those achievements, then Phosphorous and Hesperus are most likely shades of Phanes/The Primordial One as well…

Something, something about how Phosphorous means The Morning Star, which is the planet Venus in the morning, and how Hesperus translates to The Evening Star, which is the planet Venus in the evening.

Something, something about how Aether and Lumine have sun-themed and moon-themed clothes respectively (Aether being more warm-toned, Lumine being more cold-toned), which might parallel morning and evening star in addition to their white and gold and blue and brown pure color schemes paralleling that of angels...

Something, something about how they had fallen from heaven (Celestia) in the form of the brightest shooting stars…

Something, something about how Mona says this in her final ascension line dubbed ‘Conclusion’: “In the reflection of the water, I see the ascension of the morning star.”

Something, something about how the fallen angel Lucifer is also related to Venus just like Phosphorous and Hesperus are…

Something, something about how Lucifer was once a powerful and glorified angel and a figure of enlightenment and glory according to the Bogomil and Cather Text in the Gospel of the Secret Supper, just like how the Traveler twin we play as is portrayed in the game…

Something, something about how Lucifer fell from heaven to establish his own kingdom and became the prince of darkness, just like how the Abyss Twin becomes the prince/princess of the abyss…

Something, something about how Kairos/Istaroth is a parallel to the demon Astaroth… something, something about how Paimon is most obedient to Lucifer in the Ars Goetia and is his most loyal and devoted servant...

Something, something about how the Primordial One’s true goetic title, consequentially, could be Lucifer.

Something, something about how Aether and Lumine are related to the morning and evening star, and thus, the planet Venus, and could be related to Lucifer or the Primordial One.

Something, something about how perhaps… the twins ARE Shades… or perhaps…

They are the morning and evening stars. The brightest stars. Glorified, nigh-almighty figures of the heavens that have fallen from grace. Perhaps... they are Lucifer. Perhaps...

#aether genshin impact #lumine genshin impact #traveler twins genshin #traveler genshin impact #theory post #shitpost #for legal reasons I'm not a devil worshipper #this is just a theory #genshin impact #primordial one genshin impact #phanes genshin impact #kairos genshin impact #istaroth genshin impact #ars goetia #lesser key of solomon #unknown god genshin impact #y'all don't understand #im going insane rn #Paimon genshin impact

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infidesveritas · 1 month

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Dear Obikin Fandom,

You're a good lot. You really are. It's a wonderful fandom, and I wish for it to stay that way. Which is why I want to bring an important issue to attention, unpleasant as it is.

There's been plagiarism going around in the past year that has been disheartening. Some of you might know about the Teen Wolf situation where an anon posted an "Obikin fic" (Tenure Be Damned) which in actuality is a Sterek fic from 2016. (Untouchable). Some of you might not. There's been other cases, but they've been handled privately, or the authors in question have left the fandom rather than deal with the evidence of theft.

However, there's one author who has not left, and that is AO3 author lady_evelin. The majority of their body of work is in a gray area as to what constitutes plagiarism and what doesn't, but there is one fic (technically two) which flagrantly steals from a book.

This author has been known to toe the line (or step over it; everyone's judgment may vary on the situation) for the past six months or more, but for various reasons, it was kept quiet, though knowledge of this behaviour still made its way throughout the fandom.

Reports have been filed with AO3, but they have yet to do anything. That is not a fault on the part of AO3, they are volunteers and process many, many reports. But it's been months, and this author has begun joining collaborative projects in the fandom, which has started to have a direct impact on perceptions of these events, and as such, on the people involved in them.

The fic(s) in question are Flowers in the Attic / Flores En El Ático. The fics profess to be based off the movie (of the same name) and that, in itself, is fine. Fanfiction using a movie or a book as a basis is not plagiarism.

Outright copying word for word from a book, however, is.

[CONTEXT BREAK: Flowers in the Attic is a 1979 novel by VC Andrews. Flowers in the Attic has sold over 40 million copies, and has been translated into multiple languages. It has two movie adaptations, and several sequels.]

Proof will be underneath the cut (text & pictures). I invite you to verify with your own copies of the books. This is not an invitation to attack lady_evelin either on AO3, Twitter or on Tumblr. Please do not take it as such.

It is, however, an accusation (one not made lightly) and an open letter to the fandom. There have already been people hurt by lady_evelin’s actions, and it has become a rippling effect with greater and greater consequences.

This is not this is not an isolated event, but the most prominent and obvious one. In a fandom where plagiarism and theft has happened in the past, it's best to pay attention when these things happen, especially when they relate to a published book. This isn’t a case of one fic author taking from another fic author; this is copyright infringement. The sort of thing we do not want lawyers to be interested in.

Do not harass the author. Read the post and make up your own mind.

Please keep in mind that lady_evelin is copying directly from the Spanish version of the book, and then "into" English, so there are some minor differences in text, which do not exist in the Spanish fic compared to the Spanish translation of the book.

But as the main audience of this post will be people who read in English, this is where I will begin.

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[CHAPTER 2 OF FLOWERS IN THE ATTIC, BY LADY_EVELIN]

When I was young, in the early 1950s, I thought that my whole life was going to be like a long, splendid summer day. After all, that's how it started. I can't say much about our early childhood except that it was very enjoyable, for which I should be eternally grateful. We weren't rich, but we weren't poor either. If we lacked anything, I can't think of what it could have been. If we had luxuries, I couldn't say what they were without comparing our lives to everyone else's, and in our middle-class neighborhood, no one had more or less than we did. That is to say, comparing one thing with another, our life was that of ordinary, average children.

Our father was in charge of public relations for a large computer company based in Gladstone, Pennsylvania, with a population of twelve thousand six hundred and two. Our father was very successful at his job because his boss often came home for lunch and praised the job that Dad did so well.

Our father was perfect. He was six feet tall, weighed eighty-two kilos, and his hair was long and deep brown blonde and just straight enough to be very attractive. His eyes were sky blue and full of life and good humor. His nose was straight—not too long, not too narrow, not too thick. He played tennis and golf like a pro, and swam so often that he stayed stiff year-round. He was always flying abroad for work, while we stayed at home, in the care of our omega mother.

When he came home and walked in the front door every Friday afternoon (he used to say that he was horrified at the thought of being separated from us for more than five days in a row), even if it was raining or snowing, the sun seemed to shine again as soon as he gave us his big, happy smile.

"Come greet me with kisses if you love me!"

My brother and I used to hide near the front door. As soon as we heard his greeting, we would run out from behind a chair or the sofa to throw ourselves into his wide open arms, which would greet us and lift us up immediately. He pressed us tightly to his chest and warmed our faces with his kisses. Friday was the best of days, because he was bringing us back to Dad to be with us. In the pockets of his suit, we found small gifts, but in the suitcase, he kept the larger gifts, which he gave us one by one as soon as he greeted our mother, who used to wait patiently in the background until she had finished with us. After receiving the presents, Anakin and I would step aside to watch Mom approach slowly with a welcoming smile that made Dad's eyes sparkle as he took her in his arms and stared into her face, as if he hadn't seen her for at least a year.

On Fridays, Mom spent all day at the beauty salon getting her hair and nails done, and then she'd go home and take a long bath of scented water. I would go into her room to watch her come out of the bathroom wrapped in a transparent dressing gown. Then, she would sit at her dressing table and carefully apply makeup. And I, eager to learn, absorbed everything I saw her doing to become, from the beautiful woman she was, into a being so strikingly beautiful that she didn't seem real. The most amazing thing was that our father was convinced that she hadn't put on makeup, and he thought that Mom had stunning natural beauty.

The word "love" was squandered in our house: "Do you love me? I love you very much. Did you miss me? Are you glad to see me home again? Did you think of me these days, every night? Were you restless, longing for me to come back to you?" He hugged us. "Look, Shmi, if it weren't like that, maybe I'd rather die."

And Mom knew how to answer these questions very well: with her eyes, with soft whispers, and with kisses.

One day, Anakin and I were running home from school, while the winter wind pushed us, making us get into the house as quickly as possible.

"Hey, take off your boots and leave them in the hall!" Mom yelled at us from the living room, where I could see her sitting in front of the fireplace, making a knitted sweater that looked like it was for a doll. I thought it would be a Christmas present for one of my dolls. "And take off your shoes before you come in here," she added.

We took off our boots, winter coats, and hats in the hall and then ran into the sitting room, with its thick white carpet, in our socks. That room, pastel and decorated to accentuate my mother's soft beauty, was almost always forbidden to us. It was our guest room, our mother's room, and we never really felt comfortable on the apricot-covered couch or the velvet chairs. We preferred Dad's room, with its dark coffered ceiling walls and sturdy plaid couch, where we could roll around and play, never worrying about messing anything up.

"It's freezing outside, Mom!" I exclaimed, breathless, throwing myself at his feet and putting my legs close to the fire. "But the ride home by bike was beautiful, with the trees gleaming with bits of ice that looked like diamonds, and crystal prisms in the bushes. It looks like a fairy landscape, Mom, I wouldn't want to live in the South, where it never snows."

Anakin wasn't talking about time and its frozen beauty. He was two years and five months older than I, and much wiser than I was; I know that now. His icy feet warmed as I did, but his eyes were fixed on Mom's face, and his dark brows were furrowed with uneasiness.

I, too, looked up at her, wondering what Anakin would see to make me feel such concern. Mom was knitting quickly and surely, though she glanced at the instructions from time to time.

"Mom, are you okay?" Anakin asked.

"Yes, of course," she replied with a soft, sweet smile.

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[FLOWERS IN THE ATTIC BY VC ANDREWS]

Truly, when I was very young, way back in the Fifties, I believed all of life would be like one long and perfect summer day. After all, it did start out that way. There's not much I can say about our earliest childhood except that it was very good, and for that, I should be everlastingly grateful. We weren't rich, we weren't poor. If we lacked some necessity, I couldn't name it; if we had luxuries, I couldn't name those, either, without comparing what we had to what others had, and nobody had more or less in our middleclass neighborhood. In other words, short and simple, we were just ordinary, run-of-the-mill children.

Our daddy was a P.R. man for a large computer manufacturing firm located in Gladstone, Pennsylvania: population, 12,602. He was a huge success, our father, for often his boss dined with us, and bragged about the job Daddy seemed to perform so well. "It's that all-American, wholesome, devastatingly good-looking face and charming manner that does them in. Great God in heaven, Chris, what sensible person could resist a fella like you?"

Heartily, I agreed with that. Our father was perfect. He stood six feet two, weighed 180 pounds, and his hair was thick and flaxen blond, and waved just enough to be perfect; his eyes were cerulean blue and they sparkled with laughter, with his great zest for living and having fun. His nose was straight and neither too long nor too narrow, nor too thick. He played tennis and golf like a pro and swam so much he kept a suntan all through the year. He was always dashing off on airplanes to California, to Florida, to Arizona, or to Hawaii, or even abroad on business, while we were left at home in the care of our mother.

When he came through the front door late on Friday afternoons--every Friday afternoon (he said he couldn't bear to be separated from us for longer than five days)--even if it were raining or snowing, the sun shone when he beamed his broad, happy smile on us.

His booming greeting rang out as soon as he put down his suitcase and briefcase: "Come greet me with kisses if you love me!"

Somewhere near the front door, my brother and I would be hiding, and after he'd called out his greeting, we'd dash out from behind a chair or the sofa to crash into his wide open arms, which seized us up at once and held us close, and he warmed our lips with his kisses. Fridays--they were the best days of all, for they brought Daddy home to us again. In his suit pockets he carried small gifts for us; in his suitcases he stored the larger ones to dole out after he greeted our mother, who would hang back and wait patiently until he had done with us.

And after we had our little gifts from his pockets, Christopher and I would back off to watch Momma drift slowly forward, her lips curved in a welcoming smile that lit up our father's eyes, and he'd take her in his arms, and stare down into her face as if he hadn't seen her for at least a year.

On Fridays, Momma spent half the day in the beauty parlor having her hair shampooed and set and her fingernails polished, and then she'd come home to take a long bath in perfumed-oiled water. I'd perch in her dressing room, and wait to watch her emerge in a filmy negligee. She'd sit at her dressing table to meticulously apply makeup. And I, so eager to learn, drank in everything she did to turn herself from just a pretty woman into a creature so ravishingly beautiful she didn't look real. The most amazing part of this was our father thought she didn't wear makeup! He believed she was naturally a striking beauty.

Love was a word lavished about in our home. "Do you love me?--For I most certainly love you; did you miss me?--Are you glad I'm home?--Did you think about me when I was gone? Every night? Did you toss and turn and wish I were beside you, holding you close? For if you didn't, Corrine, I might want to die."

Momma knew exactly how to answer questions like these-- with her eyes, with soft whispers and with kisses.

One day Christopher and I came speeding home from school with the wintery wind blowing us through the front door. "Take off your boots in the foyer," Momma called out from the living room, where I could see her sitting before the fireplace knitting a little white sweater fit for a doll to wear. I thought it was a Christmas gift for me, for one of my dolls.

"And kick off your shoes before you come in here," she added. We shed our boots and heavy coats and hoods in the foyer, then raced in stockinged feet into the living room, with its plush white carpet. That pastel room, decorated to flatter our mother's fair beauty, was off limits for us most of the time. This was our company room, our mother's room, and never could we feel really comfortable on the apricot brocade sofa or the cut-velvet chairs. We preferred Daddy's room, with its dark paneled walls and tough plaid sofa, where we could wallow and fight and never fear we were damaging anything. "It's freezing outside, Momma!" I said breathlessly as I fell at her feet, thrusting my legs toward the fire. "But the ride home on our bikes was just beautiful. All the trees are sparkled with diamond icicles, and crystal prisms on the shrubs. It's a fairyland out there, Momma. I wouldn't live down south where it never snows, for anything!" Christopher did not talk about the weather and its freezing beauty. He was two years and five months my senior and he was far wiser than I; I know that now. He warmed his icy feet as I did, but he stared up at Momma's face, a worried frown drawing his dark brows together. I glanced up at her, too, wondering what he saw that made him show such concern. She was knitting at a fast and skilled pace, glancing from time to time at instructions. "Momma, are you feeling all right?" he asked. "Yes, of course," she answered, giving him a soft, sweet smile.

--------

Skipping to chapter 5 to compare the Spanish fic to the Spanish book. Even if you are not fluent in Spanish, I invite you to compare and contrast, as this is where the 1:1 usage of text is most prominent.

[CHAPTER 5: la casa del abuelo (grandfather's house) by lady_evelin]

El día amaneció apenas luminoso tras las pesadas cortinas corridas que se nos había prohibido abrir. Anakin se incorporó primero, bostezando, estirándose, sonriéndome. "Hey, despeinado"

Su pelo aparecía tan despeinado como el mío, incluso mucho más.

No sé por qué Dios les había dado a él y a Leia un pelo tan rizado, mientras que a Luke y a mí nos concedió sólo ondas lizas. Y con toda su energía matutina, se puso a cepillarse bien los cabellos, mientras yo, sentadoen la cama, me decía que ojalá se le escapasen a él de la cabeza para tenerlos en la mía.

Permanecí así, sentado, mirando aquella habitación, que tendría, posiblemente, seis metros de largo y otros tantos de ancho. Espaciosa, pero con dos camas dobles, una cómoda grande y un gran aparador, dos sillas muy mullidas, y un tocador entre las dos ventanas delanteras, además de una mesa de caoba con cuatro sillas, era un cuarto pequeño. Demasiado lleno de cosas. Entre las dos grandes camas había otra mesa con una lámpara.

En total, contábamos con cuatro lámparas en el cuarto. Bajo todos estos pesados muebles oscuros, se extendía una vieja alfombra oriental bordeada de rojo. En otros tiempos, debió de haber sido bonita, pero ahora se veía vieja y gastada. Las paredes estaban empapeladas de color crema, aterciopelado en blanco. Las colchas de las camas eran doradas, y estaban hechas de una tela pesada.

Tres cuadros colgaban de las paredes, pero, ¡por Dios, la verdad era que le dejaban a uno sin respiración! Demonios grotescos que perseguían a gente desnuda por cavernas subterráneas, casi enteramente rojas. Monstruos sobrenaturales devorando a otras almas lamentables, que todavía pataleaban, colgando de sus bocas babosas, de las que brotaban colmillos largos, agudos y relucientes.

"Eso que miras es el infierno, como algunos creen que es" me explicó el sabihondo de mi hermano. “Estoy casi seguro de que fue nuestro angélical abuelo quien colgó esas imágenes aquí con sus propias manos, para hacernos ver lo que nos espera si desobedecemos.“

Mi hermano, la verdad, lo sabía todo. De no ser médico, lo que él quería ser era pintor. Era excepcionalmente buen dibujante, y sabía pintar acuarelas, al óleo, y todo lo demás. Casi todo lo hacía bien, menos poner en orden sus cosas y cuidar de sí mismo.

Justamente cuando iba a levantarme de la cama, Anakin saltó de la suya y me ganó. ¿Por qué tendríamos que estar Luke y yo tan lejos del cuarto de baño? Lleno de impaciencia, me senté al borde de la cama, agitando las piernas y esperando a que saliera.

Leia y Luke, con muchos movimientos inquietos, se despertaron al mismo tiempo. Se incorporaron, bostezando, como reflejos gemelos en un espejo, se frotaron los ojos y miraron, soñolientos, a su alrededor. De pronto, Leia exclamó, en tono lleno de decisión. "¡No me gusta este sitio!”

No me sorprendió. Leia era muy obstinada. Desde antes mismo de saber hablar, y empezó a hablar a los nueve meses, ya sabía lo que le gustaba y lo que no. Nunca había términos medios: para Leia, todo estaba por los suelos o a la altura de las nubes.

Tenía la vocecita más linda del mundo cuando estaba contenta, como un pajarito que gorjea lleno de felicidad en plena mañana. Lo malo era que gorjeaba el día entero, excepto cuando estaba dormida. Leia hablaba con las muñecas, con las tazas, con los ositos de trapo y otros animales del mismo tipo.

Cualquier cosa que se estuviese quieta y sin responder era digna de su conversación. Yo, al cabo de un rato, dejaba de darme cuenta de su charla incesante; desconectaba y la dejaba seguir hablando todo lo que ella quisiera.

Luke era completamente distinto. Mientras Leia charlaba sin cesar, Luke se estaba quieto, escuchando atentamente.

"Obi-Wan" murmuro mi hermanita con cara de bebé, “¿me has oído decir que a mí no me gusta este sitio?”

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CHAPTER 5: La Casa de Abuela (Grandmother's House) by VC Andrews

El día amaneció apenas luminoso tras las pesadas cortinas corridas que se nos había prohibido abrir. Christopher se incorporó el primero, bostezando, estirándose, sonriéndome.

—Eh, desgreñada —me saludó.

Su pelo aparecía tan despeinado como el mío, mucho más.

No sé por qué Dios les había dado a él y a Cory un pelo tan rizado, mientras que a Carrie y a mí nos concedió sólo ondas. Y con toda su energía de muchacho, se puso, lleno de entusiasmo, a cepillarse bien los cabellos, mientras yo, sentada en la cama, me decía que ojalá se le escapasen a él de la cabeza para posarse en la mía.

Permanecí así, sentada, mirando aquella habitación, que tendría, posiblemente, seis metros de largo y otros tantos de ancho. Espaciosa, pero con dos camas dobles, una cómoda grande y un gran aparador, dos sillas muy mullidas, y un tocador entre las dos ventanas delanteras, además de una mesa de caoba con cuatro sillas, se diría que era un cuarto pequeño. Demasiado lleno de cosas. Entre las dos grandes camas había otra mesa con una lámpara.

En total, contábamos con cuatro lámparas en el cuarto. Bajo todos estos pesados muebles oscuros, se extendía una desvaída alfombra oriental bordeada de rojo. En otros tiempos, debió de haber sido bonita, pero ahora se veía vieja y gastada. Las paredes estaban empapeladas de color crema, aterciopelado en blanco. Las colchas de las camas eran doradas, y estaban hechas de una tela pesada, semejante a satén colchado.

Tres cuadros pendían de las paredes, pero, ¡por Dios bendito, la verdad era que le dejaban a una sin respiración! Demonios grotescos que perseguían a gente desnuda por cavernas subterráneas, casi enteramente rojas. Monstruos sobrenaturales devorando a otras almas lamentables, que todavía pataleaban, colgando de sus bocas babosas, de las que brotaban colmillos largos, agudos y relucientes.

—Eso que miras es el infierno, como algunos creen que es —me explicó el sabihondo de mi hermano—. Estoy casi seguro de que fue nuestra angélica abuela quien colgó esas reproducciones aquí con sus propias manos, para hacernos ver lo que nos espera si desobedecemos. Yo diría que son de Goya —comentó.

Mi hermano, la verdad, lo sabía todo. De no ser médico, lo que él quería ser era pintor. Era excepcionalmente buen dibujante, y sabía pintar acuarelas, al óleo, y todo lo demás. Casi todo lo hacía bien, —menos poner en orden sus cosas y cuidar de sí mismo.

Justamente cuando iba a levantarme de la cama, Christopher saltó de la suya y me ganó. ¿Por qué tendríamos que estar Carrie y yo tan lejos del cuarto de baño? Llena de impaciencia, me senté al borde de la cama, agitando las piernas y esperando a que saliera.

Carrie y Cory, con muchos movimientos inquietos, se despertaron al mismo tiempo. Se incorporaron, bostezando, como reflejos gemelos en un espejo, se frotaron los ojos y miraron, soñolientos, a su alrededor. De pronto, Carrie exclamó, en tono lleno de decisión.

—¡No me gusta este sitio!

No me sorprendió. Carrie era muy obstinada. Desde antes mismo de saber hablar, y empezó a hablar a los nueve meses, ya sabía lo que le gustaba y lo que no. Nunca había términos medios: para Carrie, todo estaba por los suelos o a la altura de las nubes.

Tenía la vocecita más mona del mundo cuando estaba contenta, como un pajarito que gorjea lleno de felicidad en plena mañana. Lo malo era que gorjeaba el día entero, excepto cuando estaba dormida. Carrie hablaba con las muñecas, con las tazas y con los ositos de trapo y otros animales del mismo tipo.

Cory era completamente distinto. Mientras Carrie charlaba sin cesar, Cory se estaba quieto, escuchando atentamente. La señora Simpson solía decir que Cory era «agua quieta, pero profunda», y yo continúo sin saber todavía lo que quería decir con esto, excepto que la gente silenciosa suele estar como circundada por una ilusión misteriosa que le hace a una preguntarse lo que habrá debajo de la superficie.

—Cathy —gorjeó mi hermanita con cara de bebé—, ¿me has oído decir que a mí no me gusta este sitio?

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#obikin #obiani

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