#Hymns of leaves and Strings

[inkeyjay]

Another post where i talk about my Oc's! And it is *drum roll* ✨Clover's✨ time!

Why now? Because of this post, that's why:

I can't really say much about Clover since it's kinda a mysterious antagonist. Spoilery territory. Who are they? What do they want?? The thing that matters is that this character singlehandedly added a few content warnings to my campaing.

Clover is the leader of a gang that has control over The Drunkman's Luck, a casino famous among sailors for it's brewed nectar, located on the southern part of Alumbra near the secondary waterway and it's famous distillery.

Or at least it was a few months ago, for the distillery is now a pile of debree, ashes and rusty pools of metal after an incident during the winter's solstice festival that ended up in a fire.

The thing is, while part of the party was running from Clover on the distillery that night, trying to fight them off, another character stumbled upon their corpse, rotting under the casino. Clover was too.

This creature, that is referred to as Not-Clover by my players (and evil dacre Montgomery by me), took on the poor soul's appearance and identity, reasons yet unknown. It is a shapeshifter of some sort but it looks like they like their last victim's face.

Now,

In a final face off on the distillery's roof, while the other part of town was immersed in celebration, this creature:

collapsed a hallway killing a child.

cut one of the PC's arm

On top of

Murder

Treason

impersonation

Non consensual mind reading

And other secret ones i won't discuss because spoilers to my players

Causing:

A Npc betraying the party

A PC's immolating himself so the rest of the party could escape

All this while:

Looking fab

Using a deck of cards to attack sakura card captor style

Regenerating while bleeding floating black goo

So yes. I do think they could apply to be a tumblr sexyman. Thank you for your time and attention, have a good night.

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

OUUH WHAT ABOUT spencer watching her do her makeup, pick out an outfit, get dolled up to go meet his team

fem bimbo!plus size reader, wc: 498.

a/n: AWW OMG writing this actually gave me cavities. this is probably the fluffiest thing i've ever written on this account!! i really tried to get into the mind of our precious bimbo reader, and i feel like i did a pretty good job if i do say so myself! 😏

You always liked to say that you did your best work under pressure, so why in the hell wasn’t your eyeshadow… eyeshadowing?

You looked at yourself in the vanity mirror, your gloss covered lips turned down into a deep frown. The lines caused by your frustration left behind little creases in your carefully laid foundation. You were one more mishap from a total breakdown.

Tonight was the night that you were going to meet your boyfriend’s team, which in your mind translated to his family. You had met his mom already, and she liked you, so why were you so intimidated? Maybe it was because these people were like your precious boyfriend just twenty times more terrifying.

Tonight had to go well, or you swear that you might just die!

“Spence?” You turn around in your porcelain white chair that  completely contrasts the dark coziness that was Spencer’s room. 

“Yes, sweetheart?” Spencer responds from behind the book he had his nose buried in. He had been resting against the headboard, the lower half of his body relaxed and his legs were stretched out carelessly. The advantage of being a human string-bean, you supposed.

“Does my makeup look okay?”

Your exasperated tone in your voice forced his eyes away from the page and onto yours.

He was surprised by the light tones of eyeshadow you had picked, they were a lot different from the bold pink, purples, and blues. That could only mean one thing.

“There’s no need to be anxious, honey. You look beautiful.”

Usually, you were very susceptible to Spencer’s praise, often turning bashful and shy, as well as giggling and grinning like a schoolgirl. Nope, not today. Today felt like not even the sweetest of hymns could bring you down from your anxiety ridden stupor.

“Really? Because I don’t know about the color… I feel like the eyeliner makes it look clumpy.”

Spencer Reid was trained for this, if the hours of cosmetology research he had done counted for something. Why you may ask? Well, the first time you had asked him about your makeup was when you two had first started dating, and it had unfortunately gone a little bit like this:

“Does this look okay?”

“It looks fine, angel.”

“Oh God, I should just start over, shouldn’t I?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Spencer smiles fondly, “It doesn’t look clumpy at all. In fact I think the dark and light colors complement each other well, they make your eyes look large and enchanting.”

And just like that, all of your apprehension melts away. “Oh, good!” You all but cheer.

He watches with a lovesick smile on his face as you pull out outfit-after-outfit from the closet – that’s really more yours than it is his – with an excited grin.

“How about this one?”

Spencer knows he’s in for a long night; with his book long forgotten, he doesn’t have the heart to tell you that you have an hour before you guys have to leave.

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @their-love @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @celtic-crossbow @hallecarey1 @bunnybabe-babydoll @dixonzzgirl @violettavirus @khxna

[running-with-kn1ves]

Hi lovely, to celebrate the new year! I was wondering if you could please do a fluff/smut with Cirden.

Does not have to be hardcore smut only a taste!! thank you so much 4 taking the time out of your day and writing we all appreciate your work.

A/N: took it in me to get this done before January ended!! putting this man in the spicy is so bittersweet b/c it feels so wrong (but so right). And thank you for your kindness!! Lord knows I've been needing some grace. Thank you for being so sweet I'm glad people actually see my stuff <33

CW: NSFW/SMUT, public(?) doing the dirty in the woods, hunting, elf X reader, established marriage

WC:2.8k

Gender Neutral Reader X Male Elf husband

"Raagghh. I haven't caught ANYTHING..." One of your arrows lands in the dirt, it's blade skinning against the ground before it fell flat. You couldn't even manage to stab a lizard that blundered past you, it's skittering body running as your arrow slumped.

"Don't get discouraged," Cirdan mumbled with unmoving lips, focused on the prey only a few meters in front of him. "It's only your first time with a bow and arrow."

He still managed to whisk away your heart in his crouched battle stance as you curled on the forest floor, his arrow flying as it released with a snap. The harsh squeak of a cottontail broke the silence of the ancient trees, a fatal jump being it's last movement before it succumbed to the ground in a helpless flop. Your husband moved forward without you to slice it's throat. You looked away in shame; he had been hunting for your dinners ever since your joint movement into the cottage currently a mile away; he had cut the heads off deer and ducks while you sat back and covered your eyes. You couldn't even shoot down a bird, not only from your poor aim but your heart lurched everytime you saw its feathered breast beat with life, its beak release a hymn of song. Every now and again you could garner the courage to help him defeather or clean the bones of his latest catch but when seeing their heads or lifeless eyes, it made your insides churn.

It was dispiriting, knowing you couldn't provide in the way he had learned to do since he was a child. But by Gods and Goddesses, did he not look fine holding that bow and pulling back its string, showing the strength in his chest and the unwavering focus in his grey-blue eyes. You memorialized the image in your head, toes scrunching deep in your sewn leather boots (created by cirdan and his many talents) with your knees pushed together, gaze focused on the ground.

"Whats wrong?"

You looked up from your place in the dirt and dead leaves, your spouse like a pretty ice mountain that you had to strain upwards to see. He placed three dead bunnies by their ears into the sack that was once on his back; if he were alone, he would've just carried them by hand back to the cottage.

"Nothing, I was just... thinking. It's beautiful out here."

You looked up at the canopy of trees, dappled light speckling between the small empty holes that neither branch nor bushy leaves covered to block the evening sun.

Cirdan bent down, placing his sack on the ground as a warm hand came to cover the top of your head. A calloused palm pushed your hair back, patting you with deadweight.

You couldn't see the rest of him with his gigantic arm in the way, his voice like an omniscient invisible God of the forest. 

"Don't worry if you can't hunt...I'll do enough for the both of us," His palm slid to your cheek in a messy fashion, attempting to be heedful of how firm his touch was, too used to handling his bow with untamed strength for the day. His hand was a pillow on your cheek as he pressed his thumb against your temple. "It's my job to take care of you."

He spoke as if mostly to himself, thin silver lashes disguising his eyes while he watches your lips with a small, almost unnoticeable quiver. But he didn't waver as you stared back, gaze running from his deep pupils to his strong nose bridge, down to his dripping jugular.

It was tension inside you and it was unbearable. It took choking yourself back to not scream "just kiss me, dammit!"

But elves weren't the hasty type,(especially your aloof husband), and you didn't know what Cirdan would think if you came forward so hungrily. Would he think you were just some lust-crazed old bat that replaced the careful spouse he once knew?

"Come, let's go back; the wind is picking up. I won't let you catch a cold."

The forest was all but blowing, a leaf tumbling every now and again but practically silent. And yet, who were you to argue with the seasoned elf who had survived in forests like this?

You took the outstretched hand cirdan put in front of you, allowing him to practically lift you to your feet as your bow held limply in your other hand with defeat. Alas, another day with no progress in conquering your woodland fear.

You let Cirdan lead you, following him past old oaks and emptied burrows, unable to keep your wide eyes off of him. It was nice, to distract your disappointed mind from your empty game sack to the hauntingly beautiful portrait of the manly elf before you.

"What is it?" Cirdan stopped, looking at you with those long locks covering his scarred eye, the other staring with a darkened brow.

"Nothing!" You'd repeat, looking away with your antsy feet bouncing, hoping he'd somehow read the growing need inside of you. And this carried on a countless too many times before you saw the clearing that led to the desire path back home.

What were you to say? That you wanted him here and now? That you wished he'd just smile and hold you and tell you to take off your hunting clothes and everything underneath as soon as you got back home? Yeah, right. As if the stoic beast that you married would be so forward, as hopeful and desiring as you.

You sneaked glances, learning better than before when aiming to witness the veins in his forearm that traveled to the hand interlocked with yours, the pants that fit his slightly toned ass just right. Gods, were you really so sinful? But, was it so wrong to want your husband, to think of him panting above you and his beautiful thighs encasing you with heartache and hunger?

Cirdan stopped again. You were about to tell him now this time you really weren't looking but he didn't face you, instead dropping his bag along with an unused set of arrows accompanying his bow.

"I think... I understand."

You tilted your head at him, maybe at a poor attempt to get him to look at your cute side.

"I'm supposed to do more than...be a a simple protector."

You would've pressed for more information, if it weren't for the oddly timed shove towards a nearby tree. Cirdan took the bag from your hands faster than you could ask "what the hell are ya doing," his sharp face only mere inches away and angled as if he was about to kiss you.

But maybe, that was just your imagination, your mind centered only on his smoothened pinkish lips.

"Is this what you wanted...?"

The elf brute inched down, nudging your nose with a deep exhale. His hands engulfed yours, holding them down at your sides as he pressed his lips snuggly to your cupids bow.

The sheer power of his face pushed your skull against the tree; along with it a warm, humid hand came from behind to press along the curve of your back. His pointer finger inched, massaging into your tailbone as the elf's thigh quickly entrapped you between he and the old oak.

That hand moved down to the waist of your hunting trousers, digging beneath them to reach more savory skin.

You almost jumped at the slight clutch of your left ass cheek, your husbands eyes shut as he rubbed his forehead against you.

Lost words were grumbled under his breath with a gentle rasp, his other hand leaving your fingers as they braced against the bark of the tree behind you.

"Cirdan-- wha," you tried to figure out what you were feeling, what the right thing to do would be. Which was, to tell him that this was not the right place, nor the right time. But that gentle nudge of his tented crotch against your leg made any thoughts of lucidity drift.

"Want you..." He spoke, barely above a hum. "Isn't this, what you needed? Looking at me, at my..."

"Don't finish that sentence," you warned, unable to meet his gaze as he softly squinted open his eyes. "Maybe so but--! Right here?? Right now? In the woods?! Even I'm not desperate enough to make us do it...here."

"No creatures come to the edge of the woods... too smart for that. We're too far away for any hunters to venture close enough." You could see even he wasn't one to normally suggest this idea; but if anyone knew this forest, it was him. "Besides, said I want to take care of you.. did you not think I'd follow through on that..?"

"But, wait, I mean-" you nearly whined, hardly able to contain yourself with the hand massaging your backside, the fat of his buldge grinding into your quadricep. He was almost as bad as the rabbits he so skillfully caught, their known libidinous currently rivaling his own.

It was still atleast a 15 minute walk back to the cottage when following the path directly back. Could you make it that long? If not, could you bare the anxiety of having him bend you over in the woods completely out in the open?

"I didn't know you were so... pent up." You choked. "I mean, you're not just doing this for me, right?"

Who were you kidding? He was practically rubbing on you like a fox in heat.

"Please don't make me beg." He looked at you directly, finding your lost-at-sea eyes that had been rapidly searching for any creature or holy figure nearby witnessing you and your husbands' immoralities. He wasn't whining nor desperate but rather asking you, to please, not make him put himself even lower at your mercy-- if that was even possible.

His directness caught you off guard; sure, you had been on the edge of ripping your clothes off and throwing yourself at him but-- to have him beat you to the punch?

You couldn't help yourself when he leaned in, his soft locks brushing against your shoulder as the tip of his pink tongue swiped your lower lip, his confidence having grown since the first time you made love to him in the dark.

You opened your mouth greedily, nearly starvingly so as you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders. How could you say no, when he asked you so genuinely, when your groin ached to be caressed by him?

With the confession of your open mouth and the lewd noises of your labored breaths, Cirdan moved quicker than with the normal diligent pace he tended to do everything with. In a split second your leg was wrapped around his hip, his large hand rubbing gently at the front zipper of your trousers, reaching in deep between your legs to get a good cup full o' you. 

You couldn't just ignore the cries of his loins as he lunged forward, desperate for your affection. You undid the two buttons holding the elf's own wood-colored slacks up. They drooped only slightly to show the clean grey of his happy trail, your palm digging in to reach for the stiff piece that craved a special touch.

It slid out so easily, his tip warm against your wrist. You couldn't help but watch him leak just a bit, slightly hard as a thin vein pulsed under your thumb.

"Gods please...I said t'not make me beg." He muffled in your ear, taken aback uncharacteristically as you stroked with the intent to milk him for all he had.

It was so cute and fat, the small grey-white hairs of the front of his cock leading down to his crowned jewels, making you appreciate the differences between humans and elves. His pointed ears twitched upward as he practically foamed at the mouth against your neck. A gentle palm came to push your shoulder against the tree with simplicity.

Without unzipping, cirdan shifted to pull your pants and undergarments down to your knees; in a matter of two seconds he managed to strip you half naked. Your hand was pulled away from the elf, interlocked instead with his fingers as your bare thigh was hoisted further up against his naked hip.

His chest pressed up against you as he slowed to get inside, looking at you with glazed over, hooded eyes. He didn't look away, he couldn't. There was something about the sweat at the corner of your brow, your slightly ajar lips that kept him going, entering inside of you with raw cock and raw determination, awaiting to see that expression of nearful ecstasy that would wash away all the neediness you had been experiencing.

You didn't know how he could do it, stare at you so intently without any break away while you sweated under his gaze. If he wasn't currently bottoming out inside of you right now, you would've felt like you were under interrogation. You both huffed simultaneously once your hole swallowed up the entirety of him, your right leg limp over his thigh as he pressed you up further against the tree.

"Feel okay?" Cirdan panted, and you could see he was barely keeping himself at bay. What a gentleman, controlling himself from fucking you blind-- not that you would've minded the latter, of course.

You responded in turn by grinding down on him, rolling your hips forward to have that needy, hungry and achingly thirsty spot become just a little farther quenched.

It was difficult to not throw your head back and scream, feeling so warm and full as you gripped the back strands of the elfs hair.

With the time you had spent with him you realized Cirdan wasn't much of a grunter, preferring unconsciously to huff and pant and wordlessly suck through his teeth when he was inside of you. If you were lucky, you'd get to see him furrow his brows in exasperation, frowning as if he was concentrating hard on something important and not just from rocking into you. The challenging part about being his first lover however, was that he was still learning not to finish in the first few seconds of plunging inside.

"Ill.. n'take care of yo..u" he muttered, lifting your hips as your bare ass scraped against the bark of the tree. "Take care so good..."

You would've laughed at his drunken fervor if you didn't find it so endearing, the urge to stick your tongue into his heated cavern of a mouth washing over you like a wave.

Cirdan accepted the kiss greatfully, placing a hand behind your head to grace your thump against the tree. You could hear the branches shake, a stray dead leaf falling on the top of your head as he rutted forward, your own pelvic floor pushing against his thrusts. The elf's nose smushed against the side of your own, lips practically consuming one another as his lashes brushed your cheek. Sweat formed on your back dripping to your legs, but you didn't care. It felt too good, your senses only focusing on where he was caressing or what would be next, the cold breeze reminding you that you were still outside.

That fear remained in the back of your mind, your eyes occasionally opening and scanning the forest that you could see beyond Cirdan. But there was nothing, nothing but the trees and dead fallen logs blocking pathways.

Your kisses drifted away as you saw a hunched over deer, somewhat 10 paces away with its head burrowed in a bush.

Cirdan slowed, the deep drilling inside of you now merely a thick discomfort of occasional thrusts. He could feel you were getting lost in your worry, your grip on his shoulders loosening.

"Ma’sal’shiral," he grabbed your chin, turning you away from the fear of the forest. "Going to make you feel love unlike any creature has known;" he kissed you with wet lips, giving you breath and teeth. "So please, don't turn from me."

The horrible ache in his eyes, the twitch inside of you-- for how torturous it was for yourself, it was just as bad for him. You would've apologized, turned the mood even further south into sourness if he hadn't begun rocking again, holding your back to keep your sensitive skin away from the tree. He huffed into your cheek, pressing hard up against you as he cherished everything he could touch. The deer that once took over your thoughts was now pushed to the edge, your eyes half-shut now that all you could feel was the depth of your husband, his precum mixing with the heat of your hole. The crude sound of skin on skin, the slight slap of elf balls hitting your ass-- it nearly sent your mind into overdrive.

And even with the pain of tree bark rubbing against your skin, the stench of petrichor and sweat in your nose, you wouldn't trade this moment for anything.

This might even be better than the bed... Okay, maybe not. But that didn't matter with Cirdan so far inside of you he huffed with inclination, tempting to keep his orgasm at bay.

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

Emily Prentiss x Reader Headcanons

Mostly SFW, but a few lil spicy ones throughout (below the line).

Chews on pens/pencils when she's anxious or deep in thought and it's inexplicably hot.

Has a glass of very nice, very expensive red wine every night.

Fluent in Arabic, French, Spanish, and Italian. Passable in Russian.

Seems quiet and mysterious at first but is actually just a huge dork.

Breaks down crying every time before starting her period and will say, "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm so emotional today," and you're like... "Babe, don't you start tomorrow?"

Usually a no-strings-attached-sex kind of person, mostly because relationships are hard with her job. You're the exception.

Will fold like a wet napkin for nice chocolate.

Notorious for ghosting lol. Sometimes even used a fake name. A bad habit from her undercover days.

Not subtle at all when coming on to you. Pretty much asked you for a date out of the blue.

Loves that you can talk about the deep, dark stuff, but can also make her laugh like no one else.

If for any reason you wake up in the night–stomachache, nightmare, scary storm–she is up with you. She'll claim she can't sleep either, but really she just wants to hold you and make sure you get back to sleep okay.

Watches you breathe at night. She finds it deeply comforting.

Takes you once a year to her grandfather’s cottage in the French Alps, where she spent a lot of time growing up.

Grew up Catholic. She’s not religious anymore, but sometimes she still likes to listen to old hymns and chants, like they had at the mass she and her mom attended in Italy.

Opens every door for you always. In fact, she’ll be hurt if you don’t let her open the door.

An incredibly good listener. She loves hearing about your day, no matter how mundane it was, because her days are usually filled with the darkest, most horrific things.

Has two tattoos. (1) On her ankle. A word from the Qur’an (لِّتَسۡكُنُوۡۤ) that roughly translates to “that you may find tranquility.” She got it in Italy when she started to realize she liked girls, because girls were the only people in whom she ever found tranquility. (2) On her hip. A small asterisk a la Kurt Vonnegut.

Insanely protective. She will not let anyone touch you, say anything to you, even look at you with nefarious intentions.

Has a little note on her phone where she writes down your favorite things–takeout, flowers, ice cream flavors, the brand of tampons you use–so she'll always remember.

“Call me when you get there.” Has to know where you are at all times. You gave up arguing and just constantly have your phone location shared with her. It’d be suffocating except that, given her job, it makes sense.

Loves that you are so independent. She’s watched too many BAU relationships fall apart because their partner was frustrated with the demanding BAU work schedule. You don’t really mind. Of course, you miss her, but you also really like your alone time, so things balance out nicely.

Puzzle fiend. There’s almost always a puzzle going on the coffee table.

Queen of leaving people on read. It’s nothing personal, it’s just that texts usually fall by the wayside when she’s in the field.

Secretly loves it so much when you brag about her. She’ll act all embarrassed about it, but it means a lot that you’re proud of her.

A hipster in the sense that if something is popular, she automatically decides she doesn’t like it. You make fun of her a lot for this.

Falls in love with you every time she notices one of your little gestures–having a second go-bag packed and ready at all times, doing the laundry, packing little granola bars in her purse because you know she forgets to stop for lunch, returning books to the library for her, etc.

Incredibly stubborn. Thankfully, you are, too, so you’re well-matched. On the downside, sometimes it takes forever to make a decision because neither of you are willing to back down.

Swears like a sailor when she’s not at work.

Kind of quiet with other people, but will talk with you late into the night, until you fall asleep. You love that you get to fall asleep to her voice.

Touches you like you’re made of gold, like you were made to be cherished and held on to.

Cheek/nose/forehead kisses. all. the. time.

Kisses you good morning and good night, every time, no matter when she gets home or when she leaves.

You would never guess it, but she lives for gossip. She doesn’t want to be part of the drama, but she sure as hell wants to know about it.

Drives her wild (in bed and out) that you are 100% hers. It is not in your nature to cheat, you are wholly devoted to your person, and she is over the moon that she’s that person.

Acts like a top, is a top.

Can drink coffee at midnight and be conked out twenty minutes later.

After a particularly hard case, she’ll come home and want to just hold you really tight against her chest, sometimes for an hour or more. You always let her.

Big spoon, always. She likes to feel like she’s keeping you safe.

Favorite food is the sweet potato burrito from Muchas Gracias, but they only have them at lunch and she is never in DC at lunchtime, so sometimes you go buy her one and pack it for her for lunch the next day. It makes her day every time.

Honestly it’s a struggle when you have to get up before her because she has you in a ninja death grip that is almost impossible to get out of.

Her feet are always cold, so she has a huge collection of fuzzy socks.

Movie buff. Has a giant checklist of all the Oscar noms during awards season, and you watch one almost every night she’s home.

Loves to shower with you. You will get clean, but you’ll get fucked first.

A wizard with a wand (iykwim).

She still gets butterflies when you hold hands.

[da-rulah]

Hope you’re doing well!! Your work is amazing recently as always!! Thanks you for always providing us with such great writing😭

How do you think the papas would react if reader said “i love you” for the first time during sex?

Hello lovely, I'm so sorry this has taken literally weeks to get around to but I'm here and I'm motivated so let's get INTO IT.

Thank you so much too, I'm so glad you like my writing! 🥹 Hopefully, you'll love this too...

NSFW, MDNI!

TW/ female reader, breeding kink (kind of), dom/sub dynamic, choking, cunnilingus, crying during sex

Primo

Primo is a master at this, and it's one of his favourite things to do.

His tongue works absolute magic between your folds, and the chorus of whines and moans he draws out of you are his favourite of the dark hymns he's heard in his time.

He's been at this for over 30 minutes, made you cum twice already and shows no signs of tiring, despite his age.

Frankly your head was hazy and you could barely string thoughts together, curses and praises flowing freely from loose lips...

So that's why you didn't register when it slipped out. The only thing you noticed, was Primo's tongue disappearing.

When it dawned on you, panic rose in your chest.

"What did you say, fiorellina?" He hasn't moved, but his eyes are on yours while you look down at him between the valley of your breasts. There was no hiding it now.

"I-I... I'm sorry... but I love you, Primo."

He rests his cheek against your inner thigh, his eyes softening and a smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

"Why do you apologise, fiorellina?"

You begin to tear up, overwhelmed with fear and regret but Papa turns his head and beings to press kisses to your inner thigh.

"Never apologise, amore mio... non puoi immaginare quanto ti amo (you cannot imagine how much i love you)" he say as he mouths at your thigh, leaving open mouthed kisses as he spills his adoration right back to you.

He showers you with the most beautiful of prose, speaking nothing but pure poetry about how much he loves you, how he has since the day he met you, that you were a blessing from the Dark One... all while still between your legs, his lips and tongue working their dark magic on you...

Secondo

'Sessions' with Secondo often included hours of teasing, of orgasm denial, of working you up until you couldn't take it anymore...

And then, finally, he'd take you as his.

Much like tonight, where he had you spread out on your back for him, and he was relentlessly hammering his hips into yours after over an hour of nothing but toys and teasing.

You hadn't meant to say it, but when he'd told you tell him exactly what you were thinking, landing a harsh spank to the underside of your thigh that he pressed against your torso, it just... escaped.

Secondo stilled immediately, his eyes wide and crazed as they bore down into yours.

Suddenly his hand was around your throat, pinning you to the mattress beneath you.

"Say that again," he growled, daring you.

You knew better than to argue or disobey a command, and even with his hand wrapped around your throat, you stuttered out a weak confession one more time.

Now, Secondo had a rule about your sessions - he never kissed you. You were here to play, to be subservient. That was the agreement.

So when he lurched himself forwards and all but swallowed your lips with his own, you couldn't help the squeak of surprise that got lost between the hand around your throat and his lips moulding with yours.

"You do not lie, vero? (right?)" he asked, his forehead pressed to yours as his still-angry looking eyes searched yours. But it wasn't anger, it was desperation.

You shook your head as much as his grip allowed, and he dove in for another kiss - one that you could better anticipate, yet was no less aggressive than the last.

He released his grip on your throat and redistributed it to your hip, starting to pound back into you over and over as he kissed you.

He let you wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him closer, suddenly more intimate than you had ever been together.

It didn't even bother you that he hadn't said it back immediately. You knew. Just from his behaviour, you knew.

It wasn't until you had both climaxed and found yourself being pulled into an embrace between his sheets that he finally said what you'd longed to hear for too long.

"Ti amo, dolcezza... By Satan, I swear, ti amo..."

Terzo

Your relationship with Terzo was exclusive by this point. He only had eyes for you, still in the beginning phase of a relationship that was exciting and fresh.

You knew you loved him, there was no doubt in your mind, but telling him was another story.

Did he love you back? You were sure of it. He doted on you like no other. But you knew it would be hard for him to say the words, given his inability to handle emotion and have a half-serious conversation about feelings.

Not to mention the fact he found it difficult to believe he was worthy of a love like yours...

You figured you'd have to be the one to say it first. Terzo was too insecure. You had to give him the confirmation he needed.

You just didn't expect it to rocket out of you as he was buried inside you from below you...

You saw the concentrated expression on his face vanish, and he looked up at you so fast you half expected him to bolt from beneath you and hide.

"You do, eh?" he asked, his eyebrow quirking up and his smirk lifting the corner of his lips. "You love your Papa?"

You stopped rolling your hips and swatted his arm playfully.

"I'm serious, Terzo... I love you..."

Terzo's smirk softened into in blissful grin, and he sat up to come face to face with you, wrapping his arms around your back to keep you connected.

"I love you too, tesorino," he told you plainly, honestly. All he'd needed was the affirmation.

You sealed your confessions with a kiss that would make the circles of Hell envious, his hands roaming your skin as if he couldn't leave a single square centimetre of it untouched by the love you deserved.

Suddenly, he flipped you onto your back, not once disconnecting himself from you.

"You're mine now, no take-backsies..." he grinned, bowing his head to suckle and nibble at your neck while his hips began to piston his cock in and out of you once again.

Copia

You don't know what's got into him tonight, but nothing seems to be enough for Copia.

Never enough kisses, never enough flesh to grab or suckle at, never enough of you... He needs more, he seems so desperate.

There's this urgency you can't explain, like there's something missing.

You think you know what it is, the feelings between you lingering in the air but evading capture like smoke.

He's becoming agitated, like it's frustrating him that he can't find what he needs from you tonight. He's growling into the swell of your breast as he fills you.

"C-Copia stop... stop..." you pause him, pushing on his chest until he's hovering above you, his Baphomet pendant swinging from his neck between you. He's coated in sweat, his paints melting under the duress.

"What's wrong?" he asks, panicked.

"I was going to ask you that..."

His head droops as he lets out a deep breath. He swipes his hand over his face, smearing what's left of the melting paint.

"Mi dispiace... I just... something is missing..."

You take his face in your hands, and he looks distraught... It's all you want to do, to comfort him. To reassure him, give him what he's missing...

"It's because I need to tell you something, Copia. And I need you to hear me, no matter the consequence..."

He waits for you to go on, his heart thundering in his chest from his exertion and the fear of whatever you were about to say to him.

"I'm in love with you."

The change in him is almost instantaneous. His eyes turn glassy, and his shoulders relaxed as if the tension dissolved in them.

"Anch'io sono innamorato di te... (I'm in love with you too...)" he cries, tears spilling and dripping to your own cheeks, painting them with grey streaks while your own drip down your temples.

Any fear you had that your feeling weren't reciprocated, that he would panic and leave; well, they made you feel ridiculous now. Of course he loved you too.

"Make me yours, Copia..." you told him, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips and threading your fingers into his hair. "Give me everything you have."

With a new fire in him, the embers stoked by your confession and flames roaring to life again, he slammed his hips into yours over and over.

"You have all of me, amore. I'll give you every last fucking drop of me..." he lifted his hand from beside you where he held himself up, and flattened it against your abdomen, "until everyone can fucking see that we belong to each other."

The urgency in him returned, except this was different to before. Now he had that missing piece, and his need to have you both coming undone together, consummating your confessions had taken over....

[upennmanuscripts]

From the video loop to be featured in The Movement of Books, here is Ms. Coll. 390 Item 2820, a manuscript made of palm leaves bound with string. The text is a section of Sāyaṇa's commentary that is an exegesis of the Taittirīyāraṇyaka, a work of Vedic hymns related to the performance of Vedic rituals.

[yourlocaltreesimp]

could you do yan legend and/or hyrule? i love your writing so much! ❤️

Both? Both.

TW: Yandere and all it’s accompanies (obsession, violence, etc)

Yan!Chain Headcannons

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Hyrule

Really sweet once you first met, definitely one that became your friend before shit began to spiral. The familiarity of his old guide made becoming close friends really easy.

Once he fully realised who exactly you were, however, platonic standards are thrown out the window. Chances are he’s latched to your side, constantly making sure you’re happy and healthy. Lord forbid he found out that you aren’t, he’d spend all his magic fixing your ailments to whatever degree of success before striking down whatever dared try and harm you.

He’ll hold your hand or give you a kiss when you need healing, savouring being the one to hold you

Love languages are probably Physical touch and Acts of service. Making sure to be close to you, to shield you from the horrid world he’s seen. He likes to know you’re close, that you’re there.

Not to say he’s adverse to singing your praises. He’d write hymns and gospels if you asked. Afterall, who was Hylia to think she was divine when you stood right there.

Keeping up my love of Fae!Hyrule he definitely thinks you’re married to some extent

To him, he’s utterly devoted to you, at your beck and call. He’d bring the greatest of warriors, including the very deity that traveled with the chain to their knees if you said the word. The world would burn to ash and yet he’d shield you from the fire if it ment you could be close. He’d fight drove after drove of monsters if it ment he could collapse into your arms at the end. And in turn you give your time and compassion, you grace him with your presence. You let him heal you not that there’s any other option and you let him fawn and you keep his gifts. That’s as good as married to him.

Definitely uses his magic to… pull some strings. Make his words more persuasive, make the colours shine a little brighter, make his words more alluring, make the blood on his clothes less noticeable. Your clothes are enchanted, your jewellery as well. Your food magicked to calm your nerves and ease your heart.

You’ve met his faerie sisters. They love you. They’d riot if you were hurt. They’d tell him if you ran off.

Not to mention that it’s good practice to gift the fae with silver jewellery for safe passage or protection (yeah i mentioned this in a post before, idc). If you so happened to do this, he’s sold. Done for. Any question of his feelings for you? Gone. He’d pierce his ears to don your trinkets, flaunt the necklaces, adore the bracelets. But goddesses above, if you got him a ring? Well my friend, you’ve sealed your fate. He’d flaunt it, proud of his successful courtship, if his divinity being pleased by him. No one can touch it, no damage will come to it, it will be just as pristine as when it was in your hands.

Probably not one to kidnap you per say, but would be confused if you didn’t want to come with him. You gave him your ring, that’s binding to humans isn’t it? Your his and he’s yours. Why would you want to leave? He has everything you want. And anything more you could possibly want, all you’d have to do is utter the words and it’s yours.

For nicknames, Love, Honey, Sweetheart, Flower, a variety of faerie nicknames

Legend

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Off the bat remembered your guidance. While this led to some shakiness in his trusting you. The second he realised you’re real and not some cruel imposter, that too is thrown right out.

Doesn’t spare you from the sarcasm, in fact, he’s right on your nerves. He itches for your own snarky comments and blows. Itches for your voice and your attention.

Again with the enchanted jewellery. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets, rings, whatever it is that you want, it’s yours. No questions asked.

Sleeps on you… and odd headcannon, but sprawls out completely over you like a starfish whenever he needs to sleep.

Love language is Quality time and Gift giving. Quietly letting you braid his hair or run errands side by side, getting you rings and clothes. Picking flowers to bring back to you while he’s on patrol. The quiet things. Lest someone find out his moth eaten heart still beats.

Protective to a T. Literally feral. Will bite a man.

Snide comments? Only from him, watch your back. Dirty look? Pulling you close and glaring right back. Directly rude? Hope you have enough rupees to foot a medical bill (do they have those? do now.) But if you’re the unlucky soul that lay a hand on his heart? I hope you have good locks.

Definitely keeping up with the long lived headcannon that animal traits stick to their respective people. Will make a home for you if you happen to land in his Hyrule. Idealises the quiet life with you, getting the life he never got. Loving parents, kids *cough* breeding kink *cough* , happy life, free of Hylia’s trials and falling through his own reality.

Would probably kidnap you, he isn’t loosing again. His poor heart, battered and beaten as it is won’t just let you walk out. Nope. Not on his watch. He knows every forest, every cave, every home in every village. You’re not going to up and leave him again.

Nicknames: Babe, Love, Beloved on special occasions

Not really one for using pet names infront of others, not until there’s a competition for your favour.

[sky-kiss]

Say You're Mine for the Ages

A/N: This is…essentially spoilers for my longfic lol. But it could change by the time I get there. Also, all those kinks I said were gonna be in this? They ain’t. Naw. I’m in corpo hell this week. There is no sexiness in corpo hell. 18+, named D!urge. All that.

You can also read it here if you prefer.

R/T: Say You're Mine for the Ages (18+ ish)

Silence. 

Silence. 

At the end of all things, in the wash of blood and madness, all was still and silent. Raphael wondered if it wasn’t some trick—perhaps he’d gone deaf. The rustle of fabric as Baalphegor crossed the caldera promised he had not. She cut a striking image against Cania’s monochrome terrain—cinnamon and ash—as she crossed to Mephistopheles’ corpse. 

The poets liked to speak of the emptiness of such victories—vengeance would leave one hollow, they said. Raphael felt anything but—the Fiend howled in his head, some great beast adding its song to the Archduke’s more flowery exultations. Won, he’d won. Mephistopheles dead, the Lord of Murder dead. Bhaal’s essence…

…Bhaal’s essence. It tasted like blood; it felt like raw power. It was standing at the eyes of the storm, feeling the winds tear at you, and laughing. The power of true divinity—his.

Theirs, he corrected, a shiver chasing along his spine. Where was the irritation the thought should have elicited? Where was the fury? The emptiness, the loneliness, the rage, as he clawed ever upwards? 

Silence, Raphael thought, closing his eyes. All was silent.

The Archduke felt his Duchess as she crossed to him—like strings of power or flesh, sowing parts of her to him, shared tissue, shared power. There was a resonance—divinity her sire imbued to her by virtue of birth and the mated essence he’d stolen. 

“Look,” she breathed. Joi lifted her hand to his temple, tracking downwards along his cheek and the trickle of blood. His Duchess stared, searching his face as if seeing him for the first time. Her free hand curled behind his neck. “Look at you.” 

Raphael traced her lower lip. “Name me—you have earned the honor. Be the first.” 

“Raphael,” she murmured, stroking his face. Her eyes burned—green like envy, flecked with gold—his queen, the joining point of so many sins. Her voice was low, her words a hymn. “Archduke of Avernus, Lord of Ambition—a god.” He shivered, kissing her—this thing, this goddess, this other half of his divine essence—drowned in the taste of her and the rush, completed…whole. Her fingers threaded through his hair, inhaling the air he breathed into her lungs. His Joi spoke against his lips. “My god.” 

~~~~~~~~~~

The silence broke. 

There was only noise in the aftermath—Mephistar's citadel and its halls, all full of music and laughter. Lords and Ladies from each of the Infernal Courts rotated around him, offering their praise. False praise, yes—every smile was the edge of a blade pressed to his back—but why should that matter? The devils no longer looked upon him with disdain. They stared with jealousy. 

And Asmodeus offered a new title—the son of Hellfire's birthright.

"Hail, Raphael," the Dark Prince said, voice dark. He held his goblet high, dark hair hanging loose over his shoulders, handsome like roaring thunder. "Archduke of Cania, Prince of the Eighth, Lord of Ambition." Raphael sat up straight, jaw squared. A feast hall of Dukes and Duchesses, all eyes fixated upon him. Asmodeus sat at the head of the table, Lady Baalphegor on his left. And the place of honor? His. The Lord of the Nine's eyes glittered like rubies. "Hail Raphael—Right Hand of Asmodeus."

They cheered for him—hated him, this half-blooded bastard who had moved so far beyond every devil assembled. Raphael bowed his head and held up his goblet. 

His Sire's throne, realm, title—everything belonged to Raphael. Mephistopheles' name would fade to nothing, and there would be only Raphael.

Blood thundered in his ears. The words rose to his tongue, heady and well-practiced. The devil might even have meant them, as magnanimous as he felt. Raphael stood, bowing his head. "Hail Asmodeus, Lord of the Ninth—the Shield of Law, a wall against the Abyss and her chaos. Without him," he flicked his gaze from the Lord to the Lady Baalphegor, beautiful, seeing too much. She tipped her head to him, hiding a smirk in her wine. "The tide would wash over us, one and all."

The corner of Asmodeus' lips ticked up. Ah, clever boy, it said. 

The Lady of Murder shifted beside him, eyes dark, smiling as he took his seat. Joi slipped her hand into his, touch settling on his upper thigh. Heat radiated from her skin, through the robes, licking outwards—she squeezed. 

The conversation turned towards more neutral ground: the Blood War, Raphael's plans for Cania, if he would continue his Sire's experiments—banal. 

Joi's touch strayed upward.

Why should they be denied? 

~~~~~~~~~~

How many centuries had he spent wandering Mephistar’s halls? 

It was a tale for the poets: the cambion child, alone, his Sire’s eyes upon his every move, and pureblooded devils waiting for the slightest misstep. 

He had outlasted and surpassed them, one and all. Cania and Mephistar were his, and he intended to stake his claim well and truly. He would contact the Ice Devils, and he would…

…would…

It’s difficult to think. 

There’s a savagery to his divinity, worse when she’s near. The threads binding them together drew taut, as if she’d yanked them, pinned the strands beneath her heel to keep him close. Raphael tipped his head back to make room for the press of her lips and chuckled. Joi’s teeth scraped across his pulse, sucking a vibrant purple bruise on his throat, more stark against his red skin.

“They want you dead,” she murmured—but with the Lady of Murder, this was far from a warning. She radiated pride and adoration, and her touch spoke to reverence. 

"It is the way of the Hells." He fisted a hand in her braid, tugging hard enough to create space between them and force her to look at him. Joi smiled, and the relative sweetness of her expression belied the underlying hunger coiled between them. He traced her cheek. "Greedy little beast—you want them to try." He nipped at the tip of her nose, avoiding the press of her lips. "Try to kill me." 

"Try being the operative word, my love—I'd never let them get far." 

Raphael clutched her throat, dragging his lips up and across her forehead. "Tell us why."

He knew the answer: to kill for him—to defend what belonged to her. Greedy, he thought again, but not unkindly. Joi's right hand found Raphael's—she brought it to her lips, kissing the back of his knuckles. Such a tangle of limbs, so tightly entwined but still…lacking. 

Age had a way of putting carnal appetites into perspective. The satisfaction of owning or conquering flesh paled in comparison to a kingdom. It could not compare to power. The needs of another would never compare to his own. 

But his Duchess was power, not a foreign entity but an extension of himself, twinned, mated. 

He could want her—it was no different from pleasuring himself. 

Raphael squeezed. "Answer."

 "Because," she breathed. "You are mine—I protect what is mine." 

~~~~~~~~~~

Mine—growled into the flesh of her inner thigh. The devil dragged his teeth across the sensitive flesh, biting hard enough to draw blood. Raphael sat back, admiring the ruin of his Duchess—sweat-slick, skin painted with an amalgamation of blood and her arousal. He dragged his thumb through the worst of it, painting ragged lines of crimson up to the apex of her thigh. She sighed, spreading her legs—beautiful. The Lady of Murder remained so lovely, fangs flecked with blood. 

His blood, hers—did it matter? He thought not. 

“Ah, but look at you,” he purred, voice pitched low, like every bad idea, every promise made in the darkest stretches of the night. Some sick thrill chased along his spine as he watched the muscles in her stomach flesh, her pulse leaping as he sunk his fingers back into her spent body. If he closed his eyes, the world would take some dizzying turn. His Duchess cried out, hooking her right leg around him to draw him close. 

Soon, so soon, but he wanted to revel in this final indignity against his Sire. Mephistopheles’ private chambers were alive with sound—the new Duchess of Cania, voice pitched in praise to Raphael, reaching for him, worshiping him. She came apart around his touch, shuddering, arching, tail thrashing until he twined his with hers. 

How delightful, how delicious to have such a creature so securely bound to his will. 

Joi pushed up on her elbows, shaking, crooking a finger at him. “Come,” she ordered. 

And he smirked, leaning over her, shifting his weight to rest more comfortably in the cradle of her thighs. She sighed, reaching between them to find his length, leading him—he seats himself so easily. As if she’s made for him, molded, and that gratifies his pride more than he’d care to admit. “And who are you to order me?”

They knew the answer too well, their shared divinity twisting and tugging—rapture every moment he sank into her, screaming fury every time he pulled away. Together, one, for the first time since their victory in Gehenna. 

“Your Duchess, your goddess…” she sank her teeth into the flesh of his shoulder, panting, whining, canting her hips to take him deeper. He should cut out her tongue for her impudence. Tear out her eyes for staring at him so sweetly. So many things, all so far off. “Beautiful Raphael—my love.” 

 Hers, greedy beast, the truth of her claim written in the lines scored down his back. Hers, the sentiment underpinning every heresy she breathed in his ear—their churches would grow great. They would push into the Abyss. They would remake it in their image. 

They would shape eternity. 

So let it be done. So decreed Raphael, Lord of the Eighth, God of Ambition, Right Hand of Asmodeus. 

[bernardellinewsagency]

Have any other Galladay shippers gone diving into HSR lore cause you're a little too obsessed with the game and ended up thinking about how you could create parallels between not only Sunday and Dominicus, but also Gallagher and Aelenev (and that you could make it gay)? Or is it just me who's spending too much time wishing we had more lore about the Harmonic Strings?

Putting my ramblings under the cut cause it's long and there's some spoilers in case anyone still hasn't finished the Penacony quests

Sunday and Dominicus, that's pretty obvious. It's the Wisher of the Harmonious Choir that he attempts to bring forth at the Charmony Festival, using his power as well as the Order to spread Ena's influence among all those slumbering within Penacony. When talking about Dominicus, "A Hymn of Charmonic Strings" says "Prayers you suckle from the millions gathered here, and the masses' heartstrings you play," which could very well allude to Sunday's plan of placing everyone into the most perfect dreams they could wish for, dreams they would never wish to wake from. And like, apparently the name Sunday is even derived from Dominicus or something, according to the etymology notes on the HSR wiki page.

But that same readable mentions Aelenev, the Commander of the Eternal Centurion, and first of all that's just a cool fucking name in general. Second of all, there's several points that can stand out when looking upon the full section of the hymn,

"O, Great One of Paradise, Caress this scripture that is stained by blood on the battlefield, and kiss my longsword of bone and soul, Life is howling, and the sharp blade of streaming colors hangs high. Aelenev, do you hear? The soldiers' bones are buried at the end of the world. Comrades' whisper united, and the gospel can be heard for miles long, Blissful rain pours out thus, and one person equals to thousands. Thought they be the invincible steeds and death, they too long for their home deep in their soul."

The main part that I choose to look at is "one person equals to thousands," as there's lots of ways that could be interpreted. There is, of course, the fact that the Family is basically a hivemind, and also how Aelenev was summoned on one occasion and his sword was "unsheathed from the scabbard of 4,630,000 Hounds" which I take to mean as sort of manifested from their collective minds and wills, so to speak. Similar to how Gallagher is a lie manifested from the traits of 52 loyal Family members, no? And longing for a home deep in their soul, soldiers' bones that have been buried, a scripture stained by blood, I personally think that those could easily be taken as references to Mikhail, the revolution that led to Penacony being formed in the first place, and how Gallagher misses those he used to know. Or maybe not references, but they certainly could hold a similar meaning. I don't know, I'm not a fucking literature major or anything, I study animals and nature. This is just me being a massive nerd on the internet.

Anyways, this is mostly just to wonder if anyone else has/is thinking of using these parallels to make really gay stuff. Sunday should get more weird and fucked up with his affection in fics, because I think it would be really fun to see. Have him call Gallagher "my Aelenev" or something, make him want to craft Gallagher into a wonderful embodiment of the Harmony the same way as he attempted to usurp Dominicus' power. Get weird with it!

Or hey go a step further and make yaoi about the Harmonic Strings themselves. I'd do it. I'd fucking do it. I'm insane about this game's lore sometimes.

Also: Robin could be a parallel for Constantina, the singer of the Panacoustic Theater. That just leaves Beatriz, the merrymaker of the Blissful Ball, who I suppose could be parallel to Sparkle? Not to say that all four of them need to be represented by members of the Penacony cast, I'm just coming up with random thoughts about it.

[jo-harrington]

Gratia. (An As Above, So Below Story)

Gratia. Charitas. Solamen. Grace. Charity. Peace. The oath of the Knights of the Holy Order.

Summary: You and Eddie-- separated by time and endless suffering--don't realize how many strings keep you connected on the web of fate. What players are there trying to cut those strings? And when will you both find out that they are unbreakable?

Word Count: 2.1k

Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!OC (The Knight - Written in 2nd Person POV - You/Your - No Use of Names of Physical Descriptors)

Warnings/Themes: Soulmates, Kas!Eddie, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Grief, Minor Character Deaths, Manipulation, Transformation, Corruption, Supernatural Encounters, Religious Elements, Criticism of Religion, Biblical and Other Literary and Pop Culture References

Note: So...originally this was going to be one long thing. A tale about the Knight and Eddie and their unbreakable bond. And I wavered about how relevant it would be to the larger story. How relevant are any of these blurbs to the larger story? But if there's anything I've learned writing AASB, it's that I'm really writing the whole thing for myself. And after finding myself in an odd state of grief that kind of just keeps getting worse over the weekend, I know that this little fic...and the two that follow...really are only going to just be for me to help me get through it, so I need to be true to myself and write them anyway. **So if you do read this, please know it can be read in tandem with As Above, So Below. And you should have at least read the Prequels, with maybe some bonus points for Genesis. Iif you've read the Hymns, this is set before Nachzehrer.**

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

“God is a comedian playing to an audience that is too afraid to laugh.” ― Voltaire

November 10, 1986

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you."

"She's not suffering anymore. Tranquilla."

"Thank you, I know. She's been sick for a long time. She's at rest now."

"Mom brought mostaccioli. And chicken cutlets. She's setting it up in the other room then she'll be over. You should get some, you need to eat."

"I'll be alright, thank you for coming."

Today was the final day that you would spend with your Nonna.

Well, a more accurate description was that they let you have it.

Let you.

Let you have one day to sit on that stiff funeral home sofa. To stare at her, unrecognizably still in her casket, as friends and neighbors swarmed to offer their condolences. To mourn with you.

But somehow also separately from you.

And tomorrow, after she was behind a cold slab of marble, you'd be off again. Creeping closer to your own death until one day you might be placed in a plot adjacent to her.

Together.

But not really.

If there was anything left of you.

It wouldn't do to think of that today though.

Today, you would sit here. Enjoy your break and bask in the remnants of her soul that still lingered in and around her body.

It brought you some comfort to feel it move the way she did.

It danced like she danced around the kitchen, the boundaries of it crinkling like the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. A phantasmic remnant of her lovingly worried gaze was on you every now and again, creating the urge to say "I'm ok Nonnie." To lie to her, like you always did. And whenever one of her friends knelt their own aging bodies to pray at her side, you could practically see the softness of her cushion their jagged edges, comforting them.

You didn’t dare go up yourself though.

Not yet.

Not unless you wanted the Funeral Director to haul you out of the casket because somewhere deep down you just wanted to crawl into it with her and scream,

“Take me with you. Don’t leave me like I left you.”

Because you were not ok.

You closed your eyes as a phantom hand touched your shoulder, as it attempted to soothe the pain deep inside you but only managed to stir up another kind of pain. Another kind of mourning.

If only he was really there, you could ask him to take you with him too. Take you away from here to wherever he and Nonna would wait for you.

An impossible request.

The weight of the sofa shifted beside you and you opened your eyes. You expected to find Fortunata or Antoinette—two of Nonna’s closest friends who could claim a spot beside you if they truly wanted—but instead you found Gabriel’s stiff inhuman posture and expressionless face staring ahead of him at the casket.

“You could have helped her,” you said instead of a greeting. What good would a greeting do? “Healed her.”

You briefly wondered if you'd imagined the corner of his mouth quirking before he spoke.

“And if I told you I had? If I spared her a worse fate? Lessened her pain? Lessened yours?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Then I won’t tell you.”

You turned back to watch the casket with an unsatisfied hum.

Time passed and you sat silently together as you fought to keep your emotions in check with Gabriel's presence. You weren't nervous, per se; more annoyed. Angry, even. Questioning why he was here on this day out of all days.

All your life, you explained away his presence as a guardian. Unseen and unknown to everyone but you. He used to protect you or so you could recall, but as you got older that seemed to stop.

And he was more of a harbinger of doom than a deterrent of it.

Well, not doom.

Fate.

Or God's will or some shit like that. You didn't know anymore. Didn't care. You only cared about getting to the finish line. Freeing your soul of this curse. Getting your prize.

Heaven. Home. Peace with the ones you loved.

With Nonna.

With Eddie.

So if Gabriel was here, it meant something was about to happen. Something unsavory. Something...

You blinked and he disappeared from your peripheral vision suddenly, and just beyond the space he had previously occupied, stood a man in a black cassock.

Jinette approached you but you didn't give him the satisfaction of your attention until he said your name and offered his condolences.

"May I sit?" he gestured beside you.

"Seat's taken," you responded coldly.

"Ah, your mother, yes," he nodded in realization, and you watched him pull a chair up from one of the rows behind you.

You wouldn't be the one to tell him that your mother hadn't shown her face since you arrived back in Chicago late last night. She had done her duty, arranged the funeral and called you home. Beyond that her obligation was almost over; she could be free.

There had been a brief moment between the two of you when you let yourself into Nonna's flat and found her at the table surrounded by paperwork and old pictures, and you thought for the briefest second that this might be a turning point. That she might exhume whatever love she used to have for you, buried so deep in her heart, so you wouldn't have to mourn alone.

Instead she said she was sorry, then kissed your cheek and left.

And really you only had yourself to blame at the disappointment that punctuated the interaction. How could you have expected anything more than that when the bar was already set so low?

"California is a long way to come just for funeral rites," you said once Jinette was settled.

"I'm afraid that's not what I'm here for."

"Then to attend a funeral of a very devout woman," you amended.

"I'm not here for that either." You would give it to him, the remorse plastered on his features almost looked sincere. "Unfortunately, there is a very dire situation and the Order is in need of your experti--"

"No," you cut him off swiftly. "Tomorrow. You can ask me to go tomorrow. Not today."

The usual coldness of his gaze returned and he addressed you stiffly.

"You cannot refuse. Must not. This is your duty."

You turned to him, hand shooting from your lap of its own volition to grab his robe and pull him close enough that your noses practically touched.

The funeral goers around you began to murmur--your Nonna's friends whispering in fear and shame, saying a prayer to spare them of whatever wrath would befall you for defying and possibly harming his eminence--but you ignored them.

You knew you might pay for it later, but for now your rage was warranted.

"Don't lecture me about duty," you hissed at Jinette. "My entire life has been about duty. Her life too. If you want me to go? You'll beg me. Not guilt me. But I promise that the answer will still be no."

Something wicked flickered inside of you, and you wondered if you could smite Jinette. Just a little bit. If you could channel the deep-rooted grudge against your plight and let him feel the consequences that waited to befall someone who had nurtured it.

Then you felt a slight disturbance in the room.

The calm of Nonna's soul was shaken from its bliss, and you could practically hear the sharp, punishing clicks of her tongue as you fisted Jinette's robe tighter and tighter. The flame of the candles beside her casket flickered, the leaves on the flower arrangements that filled the room began to wilt, and the whispers around you got louder until they roared in your ears.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears as the feeling of Nonna's disappointment surrounded you--filled you--and you fought it for as long as you could.

But if anyone here was going to reprimand you in this room, in this world, it would be her.

You let Jinette go and fell back into the couch with your arms crossed tightly over your chest. He heaved several heavy breaths and patted his chest pathetically.

"Tomorrow," you told him as Nonna's soul and the murmurs of the people around you settled back down into a serene silence.

The tears finally fell after he left, and you closed your eyes as Eddie's ghostly touch softly wiped them away.

"Tomorrow..."

November 6, 1983

Twang.

He enjoyed it.

Twang.

Enjoyed plucking the guitar strings and letting the reverberation travel along his fingertips and into the very core of him.

Twang.

Deep down in that dark pit where you seemed to hide, every note was like a starburst of brightness and good feelings. Things so foreign and forgotten to him now, yet still so integral to Eddie Munson.

He wasn't Eddie anymore though.

So he resented the fact that he enjoyed it so much.

"Play something," you would whisper in those hidden depths, like a devil on his shoulder, and he constantly fought the temptation to follow that urge. "Play me a song, I know you know how."

He never gave in though.

Could never give in.

It was bad enough that he hid you from Henry, that he even listened to you at all. But feeling something--doing something--was better than feeling nothing in the boring, timeless eternal void of the Upside Down. So he would allow himself these brief visits to the trailer, he would tolerate your soft words and the ever-present softness of the ghost that seemed to haunt him here, so he could pluck a few twangs of the guitar strings and bask in the sparks of euphoria they would bring.

And it was enough. It had to be enough.

Then, when he got bored or hungry or irritated by you, away he would go again.

"I would argue that me being annoying is the reason you still keep me around."

He hissed at you and pulled his hands away from the guitar spitefully.

Twang.

He watched as one of the strings seemed to pluck itself and debated whether he could reach out and take a swipe at you, but there was a sudden pain beneath his sternum. Odd, seeing as he barely felt pain in this body now. He clicked his claws together contemplatively, then hesitantly rubbed at it to soothe the ache, and as he did, he felt the echoes of your soft sigh somewhere deep inside him.

He faltered for a moment, unsure if he should feel some sort of satisfaction that he had comforted you, or resentment that he had fallen for it.

He hated you. Hated your presence there. Hated that you were somehow here when you left him to this fate. Hated that you made him weak again when Henry had remade him to be strong. Infallible.

You might very well be his downfall one day.

And still he couldn't fathom being without you again.

He growled deeply and, unexpectedly, the trailer shook around him, walls clattering, remnants of knick knacks falling.

For a moment, he watched it in awe. Believed that he was the cause of it. That the power Henry had helped him unlock had been activated with his spite.

Until everything started to shake.

The Upside Down became unsettled, the very ground beneath him shifting with some seismic agitation. Roiling and churning, changing.

There was a cacophony of restlessness through the collective consciousness as all of the creatures of the Upside Down felt the disturbance. As Henry felt the disturbance and questioned its origin, because it had not been of his design.

Almost immediately, he was singled out amongst the masses, ordered to his Master's side.

Who else could find the cause of this turmoil than Henry's right hand? His loyal servant? The Beast he created to strike on his behalf, to herald in the end?

Eddie didn't hesitate.

He left the trailer and took flight swiftly and dutifully, beating his wings powerfully to get to Henry as quickly as he could.

To get away from you as quickly as he could.

You and your comfortable constant presence in the respite of the trailer.

“Do not be afraid. Our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.” ― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

[cult-of-the-placeholder]

I have so many bishop thoughts and headcanons in my mind I can't focus on anything else so I'm just gonna regurgitate them here:

- Leshy has whatever the godly equivalent of ADHD. He is chaos incarnate, literally. He is always moving, always fidgeting with things under his cloak, is always pacing around and talks to himself a lot

- Also my man's invented flowers. Plants existed before his birth, of course, but modern day flowers were his creation, plants shaped and crafted to be bowls for the insects to dine from. He looks out for the smallest amongst them, even the most insignificant

- Among the siblings he was the most artistically inclined. He loved to paint, and sculpt, and in fact glass making was a great passion of his alongside gardening. On his 1,000th year anniversary of godhood, he surprised each of his siblings with a stained glass portrait in their temples, depicting each of them in the most significant memory he had of them: for Heket, it was her grandest harvest ritual. For Narinder, the very first sacrifice in his name. For Kallamar, the day he parted the seas to pluck the deepest ocean crystals for a ritual. And for Shamura, their weaving of a Time Tapestry that depicted the future

- Leshy hasn't made a single artistic piece since loding his vision. His crown can show him his surroundings, but it's not the same. Narinder's betrayal drained away his creative spark, and he has no desire to make anymore

- As a frog, Heket is very musically inclined. Before losing her voice, she'd often lead her congregations in the most vibrant hymns and choruses of praise, and in fact composed almost every musical piece that is used to sing glory to their names. She wrote hundreds, thousands, countless songs for her siblings, and her favorite way to funnel devotion was to have her followers sing to her. Wind and string instruments were her favorite, but she could play just about anything

- Even before Narinder's banishment, Heket was a very serious, rather surly individual. It wasn't easy to make her laugh, and in fact only her siblings could, and even then it was an uphill battle. But if they could, she had the deepest, biggest belly laughs, the kind that would leave a person bent over with their arms around their middle, tears of mirth streaming down her face. She hasn't had a good laugh since Narinder was imprisoned, and of course hasn't sung or danced either. Music now just makes her sad, and the sadness makes her angry: she forbids any sort of music in her temple

- Heket mothered/fathered most if not all of the mini-bosses of Anura. Frogs can swap their sex with ease, and she's a goddess: I think she should be able to lay her own eggs or fertilize another's on a whim 😌 each was the strongest child of each clutch, only one selected among hundreds as worthy to serve their mother's temple in lofty positions. Trained and cultivated from the moment of hatching, she is both incredibly proud of and incredibly hard on them, demanding perfection and depthless devotion at all times. Her children give it gladly, for they are so lucky to be in the presence of their mother who is holy

- Before banishment, Narinder was very close to Shamura. They all were, really, but him especially: he shared the eldest's passion for the written word. As a godling he'd so often sneak into Shamura's forbidden library to partake in ancient knowledge and prophecies, though he was of course too young to understand it. He'd often beg Shamura to read to him, and even after outgrowing that need, he'd often seek out his sibling so they could read in amicable silence together, shoulder to shoulder with each holding one side of the book

- As the god of death and the shepherd of souls, he was expected to pass judgements on the deceased, be they blessed or damned. It was a special joy of his, getting his chance to play with the heretics his siblings tortured and sacrificed. They would know no peace, even in death, for daring to go against the Old Faith

- The first time Narinder reversed death and let a mortal walk again was actually his niece: Heket's half-mortal daughter, Zepar. She had been slain tragically by a traitorous dissenter, and the way his sister wailed with grief rattled him to his very core. He didn't even realize death could be undone, he just... grabbed the little one's soul, fixed her body with his power, and breathed life back into her. It was a shock to everyone but especially to him

- Kallamar wasn't always so timid and faint of heart. After Shamura he's the oldest, and his sibling was already an adult when he was born. In comparison, the other 4 were born in relatively short periods of time, close together. Kallamar was kind of their ringleader when they were growing up, and Shamura once remarked it seemed he was, "Born without fear." He was cocky, knowing he was a god and therefore immortal and invulnerable. He wasn't afraid of anything: the entire world was his playground. He led his three youngers siblings on adventures all the time, always dragging them into some mischief or other. He was perhaps the most gullible of the siblings, believing them all to be truly indestructible. Was it any surprise, though? For several hundred thousand years, they were

- When Narinder attacked them all, it basly affected all of them but Kallamar the worst: it was the first time he'd ever truly felt pain, had ever bled, had ever been afraid for his life. Had ever been truly afraid in general. And it deeply scarred him; PTSD left him a husk of his former self. He developed crippling paranoia and anxiety as his mind introduced a slew of previously unconsidered possibilities: if the Red Crown could hurt them, then could anything else? How would he know it was coming? Would he know? Could he? Would... would his other siblings turn on him the same way? He felt horrible for thinking that way, because he trusted and loved them so much, but anxiety cannot be reasoned with. He started to doubt his safety with them, and withdrew into his shell. He stopped speaking to them as much, and whenever they were together he couldn't keep his eyes from starting around nervously. Looking for a trap, looking for a way out, hands subtly shaking and shoulders trembling beneath his robes. It makes him miserable, torments him, because how can he be suspicious of the family he so dearly adores? But Narinder has shattered his ability to trust--once the safest place, their family is no longer an undefeatable bastion and he's riddled with fear because of it

- Kallamar is very hard of hearing even with his crown: it amplifies any and every sound around him so he can always be aware of what's going on. He prefers to be underwater, deep in the Seas of Sorrow, where underwater volcanoes power his forges and he can make his many weapon for defense in peace

- He desperately needs therapy and regularly has night terrors and flashbacks

- Shamura is a prophet, clairvoyance a gift they've always possessed. There are many ways they record the future: in books as written riddles, sometimes as images woven into countless silk threads that make up their webs, and sometimes at their loom. Tapestry weaving takes a long, long time, and is only reserved for the holiest of visions: the birth of their siblings was each recorded in one wuch tapestry millenia before any came to be, and they waited anxiously for the stars to reach the appropriate alignment recorded in the threads

- On the day of Narinder's birth, they recieved a terrible vision, fortelling of the way their baby brother would one day betray them. They tried so hard to stop the prophecy, thinking perhaps it could be foiled with endless love and devotion, but despite their affections Narinder still raised his blades against them. It's a regret that weighs heavy on their mind for all eternity, even though they know there's nothing they could have done

- As the god of war and wisdom they know best to pick their battles, and are sought out for their brilliant mind as often as they are for blessings in battle. Silk Cradle was the origin of ritualistic pit fights, though usually reserved for heretics as a punishment, forced to bludgeon each other to death for the amusement of the faithful before their souls could be passed to Narinder for judgement

- Shamura raised all 4 of the bishops, naturally, and loves their siblings with all their heart. Watching them all grow into fine adults is something they will always take immense pride in. Their greatest wish is that the five of them can be together, for eternity, living in happiness while the mortals worship them and feed them their endless devotion

- Shamura is actually rather vain: they made and designed all of the bishops' robes by hand, spun of their finest silk and embroidered with golden threads. They preen frequently, and thoroughly enjoy bathing in the hot springs. A god must always look their best to inspire and strike awe into the mortals that worship them, no?

- Shamura doesn't need to eat, none of them do, but thoroughly enjoys nothing more than delicately sipping warm blood directly from a sacrifice's veins. In true spider fashion they'll occasionally leave particularly tasty mortals strung up in trapped webs, delightful little bloodbags for them to drink from again later. Sometimes they'll even feed the really yummy ones, just so they'll stay alive longer and keep naturally producing blood

I think that's it for now. Maybe now I can sleep lmao. I love the bishops

[inkeyjay]

A generation soaked in grief

We're drying out and hanging on by the skin of our teeth

[suguwu]

lover be good to me: part two

You meet Kita Shinsuke on a rainy summer day, with a sea of hydrangeas swirling at your feet. You know him instantly, as only a soulmate can. He seems like a good man. Like a good soulmate.

But it’s your wedding day.

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

<- part one - part three ->

pairings: kita shinsuke x f!reader, oc x f!reader

notes: and part two is here! i am once again so excited to be able to share this fic with y'all. thank you again to everyone who has sat thru me yelling at them about this fic—it means the world! and a special thank you to my beta for getting through this beast and getting it into tip-top shape <3

title and part title are from hozier’s “be” and “nfwmb”

tags for this part (contains spoilers for fic): soulmate au (first words), this is a very reader-centric story, slow burn, pining, hurt/comfort, reader and kita are implied to be around their 30s, non-graphic partner death (not kita), anxiety, borderline panic attack, food consumption, love as a choice.

wc: 16k

Shinsuke almost catches you.

You’re still whirling around to run, a jewelry box ballerina wobbling in place desperate to stay on her feet, when his fingers graze your wrist. They’re warm. Callused. They trace along the delicate skin there, sending sparks skittering beneath your skin.

His fingers flex, start to close around your wrist.

But they don’t.

They fall away, until there’s only the ghost of him lingering on your skin. He speaks too, his steady voice almost pleading, but your thrumming heartbeat is filling your ears and echoing inside you, a wild hymn of instinct.

His touch falls away and you’re through the shoji before you realize where you’ve gone. You whip past your friends, their shocked expressions blurring at the edges like watercolors, and into the hallway. 

It hurts to breathe.

You dart into one of the shrine’s empty tea rooms, chest heaving. You slam the shoji shut behind you and sink to the floor, your shiromuku pooling around you, gleaming like moonlight in the dim. You knot your fingers in the fabric. Your fingertips brush over the heavy embroidery, over the graceful sweep of a crane’s wing, and your grip tightens. 

Your chest aches, a bruise of a thing; the red string of fate wound fast around you, your ribs its spindle, cinching tighter with each passing moment. The world wavers. 

You come back to yourself on the other side of the room. You’ve shed your shiromuku; it’s in the middle of the room, an empty husk; a cocoon broken open too early. Your next breath is shaky.

Faintly, you can hear people rushing through the hallway. Their voices wash over you like waves on a distant shore. You bury your face in your hands.

You don’t look up when the door opens. Abe and Yoshikawa have always been able to find you, no matter where you hide.

The door shuts, and then—

“Hi,” Takao says.

You go stiff.

“Hi,” you say, refusing to look up. 

You feel Takao settle next to you; the fabric of his kimono is soft against you. He sets his hand on your knee. He’s warm, as always. It’s the soft heat of freshly washed sheets, of the spring sun’s tender touch. You curl into him. 

It feels like home.

Quiet falls. It settles between the two of you like the night, a shroud of your own making. Takao leans back. He sighs; it sounds like it comes from between the gaps in his ribs, from the very depths of him. 

It sounds like saying goodbye.

“Please don’t leave me,” you say, and you sound small even to yourself.

“I think that’s my line.”

You wonder if the words taste as bitter as they sound. If they linger sour on his tongue. Takao seems to realize it at the same moment, but he doesn’t apologize, and you don’t ask him to.

“I’m not going to leave you,” you say. 

He hums skeptically, low and resonant, and it chips away at your bones, scrapes you down to your very marrow.

“I’m not,” you insist, low and desperate. You barely recognize yourself. But you want to keep Takao, to keep this man you’ve spent years learning, spent years loving. Leaving him would carve you open and Kita may be your soulmate, but even the most careful stitches can’t always keep a wound shut. “We said it didn’t matter.” 

“We did,” he says. “But I think it might.”

“He’s a stranger, Aoshi,” you say. “I don’t know him, not the way I know you. Not the way I love you.”

“It’s different, though, isn’t it?” he asks. “With soulmates.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” 

“But it is.”

You swallow down the sob.

He shifts next to you, giving you more space to curl into him. You take it, burrowing into his side and pressing your face against the soft fabric of his haori. He sighs.

“Do you feel—” he starts. You can feel the way the words rumble in his chest. He stops and runs a hand through his hair; he blows out a big breath. “Do you feel connected to him?”

You bite at your bottom lip. You remember Shinsuke in the sea of silken hydrangeas, the deep blue of them eddying around his legs like the tide as he moved through them. You think of how your eyes had caught on him then. How his companion had faded into the background. 

How well you’d known the taste of his name on your tongue.

“I don’t know,” you say. 

“Yes, then.”

“I don’t know, Aoshi,” you snap. “I don’t know anything except that we were supposed to get married today and now it’s all—”

“Fucked,” he says when you trail off. “It’s all fucked.”

You nod, sniffling miserably. 

“I think we need some space,” he says.

“From?”

“Each other.” 

You pull away from him.

“What?”

“I think we need some space from each other,” he repeats. He’s not looking at you, his dark eyes focused straight ahead, as if he can see through the shoji and find all the answers right there. 

You want to shake him.

“I don’t need space from you,” you bite out. “I need you.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he says. “I need space from you.”

“Aoshi, what? Please, I don’t understand.”

He blinks. His eyelashes are wet; they’re clumping together. There’s a stray one caught on his cheek like a dandelion seed. You catch yourself before you reach for it.

“You have a choice to make,” he says. “And I don’t think I can watch you do it.”

“My choice is you!”

He looks at you, then. He looks at you, his eyes night-sky dark, and there is something terribly tender to him when he says, “I don’t think you know that yet.” 

You sob. 

It’s pulled from somewhere deep inside you, an animal sound that you didn’t know you were capable of making, something that lives behind your bones. It guts you, that sob, flays you open from neck to navel. 

Takao sucks in a sharp breath. His hand flexes by his side. You sob again, softer this time, but no less wounded for it. 

“You’re not being fair,” you tell him. 

“Neither are you.”

You grit your teeth, wondering if there’s such a thing as fairness, in a moment like this. You think it’s unlikely. 

“You don’t get to make my choice for me,” you snap.

“There are no choices being made today,” says a new voice, and you close your eyes as your mother’s perfume wafts around you. She smells of summer irises and the honeyed earth of saffron, and you breathe her in as she gathers you into her arms.

You curl up into her, a child once more, and start to cry in earnest.

“Go,” she says to Takao. If she says anything else, you can’t hear it over your own sobs, over the great, gasping breaths wracking your body. 

You feel Takao leave, the warmth of him fading away, and it takes everything you have to not reach out to him. You sob again, choking on his name.

“Oh, tadpole,” your mother says. She presses a kiss to your temple. “Let him go for now.”

“I’m supposed to be getting married,” you tell her.

“I know, tadpole.”

“Why is this happening?”

She cradles you close. “I wish I knew.”

“You said—”

“I know.”

“Mama,” you murmur. “Mama, what do I do?”

“I don’t know, tadpole,” she says, and you feel one of her hands shift to press against her stomach, to cradle her own soulmark’s blackened kanji. “I don’t know.”

You turn your face into the crook of her neck and cry all over again.

She hums to you, soft and soothing, but lets you cry your fill. She pets at your back, her strong hand firm, keeping you grounded in your own skin. 

Your sobs have just started to abate when the phone rings.

It cuts through the heavy air of the tearoom like a knife. Both of you jolt with it, and you furrow your brow. It’s a classic ringtone, the one all phones come with, and you immediately know whose phone it is.

You push yourself up and out of your mother’s arms glancing to where your shiromuku still lays, a collapsed chrysalis. You chew on your lower lip but go to it, kneeling in front of the beautiful fabric and picking it up carefully until you can see Shinsuke’s utilitarian flip phone. It jingles, the ringtone continuing, and you reach for it with trembling fingers.

Miya Osamu, the lit screen reads. 

You sit with the phone cupped softly in your hands, your pulse thrumming. You trace a finger over the edge of it. 

You flip it open before you can convince yourself otherwise.

“Hello?” you ask.

“You picked up,” Shinsuke says.

You suck in a sharp breath. You had known, but it’s so different hearing his voice. The steadiness of it, even though the edges of it sound worn down. 

“I did.”

“I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Me neither,” you confess. 

“Are you alright?”

 You close your eyes. This would all be so much easier if he wasn’t good. But you know he is—you can hear it in his voice, in how earnestly he asks.

“Not really,” you say. The least you can do is give him the truth. “I assume you need your phone back?”

He goes quiet. You listen to him breathe and something in you aches, like a healing bruise being pressed. You wish you were better, that you were kinder, that you could handle this with grace instead of inelegantly side-stepping it. 

“Yes,” he says. “And I’d like to talk.”

You bite your lip. “Yeah,” you say. “We probably should.”

The two of you agree to meet in the tearoom in thirty minutes which is good, because even with your shiromuku shed, the kimono you wear is clearly wedding garb. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, stark white and painstakingly stitched, and you desperately need to be out of it.

It’s your mother who helps you disrobe, her fingers careful as she unwraps the pristine obi, the gossamer fabric as delicate as a spider’s web gleaming in the low light of the room. You stare out the window as the attendant takes it and folds it up for storage. She’s glancing at you occasionally, her dark eyes wide, and you wonder what she’ll tell the people she knows. How she’ll spin the story of your misfortune. If she will tell it as a blessing instead.

The obi is followed by the kimono itself slipping from your shoulders like water, and your mother brushes a hand against your cheek before she hands you your street clothing. She and the attendant leave you to remove the rest yourself. You leave the nagajuban pooled on the floor as you dress. 

Once you’re dressed you wander over to your kimono, carefully hung next to your shiromuku. The attendant has smoothed most of the wrinkles from the silk, and you trace a finger over the long lines of it. 

You wonder if you’ll ever get to wear it again.

By the time the attendant returns to retrieve the garments you’re sitting by the window, staring out into the pouring rain. The lush plants of the courtyard—heavy, ruffled ferns with massive fronds and vining shrubs with blossoms like little stars dotted between verdant leaves—sway under its touch, dancing to a tune that only nature knows. 

Behind you, the shoji clicks open and shut.

You turn around.

Shinsuke gives you a soft smile. It’s wan, but there’s still a sweetness to it somehow. His hat is gone; his gray hair gleams silver in the light, the black tips all the darker for it, and you think again of thunderclouds. 

“You’ve been crying,” he says, his brow furrowed, and that almost sends you into a fresh wave of tears. 

You let out a watery laugh. “A bit,” you admit. “It’s fine, though.”

He watches you, those vulpine eyes shining. He clearly doesn’t agree. 

“Here,” you say, reaching out. “Your phone.”

He moves closer and takes it from you with quiet thanks. He lingers there and you bite your bottom lip, trying to figure out what to even say to him. 

“I’m sorry for running,” you say.

He smiles, soft and sad. “I understand.”

“I just—I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s alright,” he says calmly. “We have time.”

We. He says it so easily. Your stomach roils.

“I can’t,” you say. “I can’t do this.”

Shinsuke’s expression doesn’t change, but he’s different suddenly, like a guttering flame finally blowing out. You swallow down a sob. 

“I understand if you need space,” he says. It’s barely there, a wisp of a thing, but there’s pain in his voice. “I know this isn’t easy.”

Your laugh is wild at the edges, an unraveling stitch. “If we’d met an hour later, I would have been married.” 

His fingers flex. 

“I just—” you catch yourself as your voice cracks. Your lips are tingling; you bite down on the bottom one to make it stop. “I can’t do this right now. Please. Shinsuke, please.”

The tilt of his lips is edged with sorrow. “It’s fine,” he tells you. “We’ll trade phone numbers for now.” 

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

He nods. You trade phones, his fingers sweeping over your palm. They’re callused, rough against your skin, and you feel the ghost of them long after he’s drawn back. When you take your phone back, you’re careful to keep from touching him. 

Kita Shinsuke, his contact reads, and you can’t help saying it aloud, letting your tongue roll over each inch of his full name now that you know it. 

Shinsuke—no, you think, he’s Kita, stranger that he is to you—smiles. He says your name too, his voice soft like the spring sun. Your stomach churns. 

“Thanks,” you say, drawing back into yourself, curling up like a fern frond. “We’ll—we’ll talk soon.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, but he must see something in your face because he simply nods. There’s something you can’t quite understand tucked up secret in the corner of his mouth. 

“Alright,” he says. “Soon.” 

He glances back at you once, just before he disappears into the hallway. 

The shoji has barely clicked shut behind him when it’s opened again and Abe and Yoshikawa tumble into the room. They sweep you into their arms without a word and your knees give out. They cradle you as they lower you to the floor, and Yoshikawa hums quietly as you knot your fingers in their kimonos. 

“C’mon,” Abe says, the gentlest you’ve ever heard her. “Let’s get you home.” 

“Aoshi’s not there,” you sob. 

Yoshikawa’s grip tightens. 

“That’s fine,” she says, as steady as the sun’s rise, “because we will be.” 

***

You wake to sunlight streaming in through your window. It cradles you like a lover, plays gently over your face, and you wrinkle your nose. 

“Aoshi,” you grumble, “you forgot to close the curtains last night.”

There’s no response.

You crack an eye open, peering to the other side of the bed only to find it empty. When you press your hand against the worn cotton sheet, it’s cold. 

It all comes pouring back in, a riptide of memories washing over you like a stormy sea. 

“Oh,” you say quietly, curling up so that your knees are pressed against your chest. You blink back the tears. “Right.” 

The sunlight thickens, pools like molten gold around you, and you turn your face up to it, a winter flower searching for warmth. You don’t know how long you stay like that; you’re only roused by the faint sound of clattering in the kitchen followed by the purr of your coffee maker. The scent of it fills the house, and you put on your house slippers.

When you enter the kitchen your father is snipping away at your neglected bonsai, trimming the needles back with careful, sure hands. He glances up at you. 

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he says. “You’re terrible at taking care of this.” 

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, putting down the pruning shears. “Did you sleep?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Good.” 

“Yeah,” you say, and quiet falls. 

His lips have a faint downward tilt as he watches you, like a waning moon. He sighs, thumbing at the soil of the bonsai. There’s a flash of his soulmark, blackened into a charcoal smear, a gravestone all its own. Your eyes catch on it.

“Did you love your soulmate more?” you ask. “Was it better with her?”

“Oh, tadpole,” your father says. He comes over and takes your hand, squeezing it lightly. “It was different. Not better, not worse. Just different.” 

“But did you love her more?”

“I loved her differently.”

“You keep saying that, but what does it mean?” you ask, pulling away from him. “Either you loved her more or you didn’t!” 

He sighs. “It isn’t that easy,” he tells you.

“It is!” 

“It isn’t, tadpole.”

“It has to be.”

“It’s not black and white when it comes to soulmates,” he says gently. “You know that.”

“I want it to be,” you whisper. “It’d be easier.” 

“It would be,” he agrees. “It would be.” 

“I don’t know what to do.”

He sighs. “You don’t have to know, not right this minute.”

“What if I never know?”

He hums, picking up the pruning shears again. He brushes a soft hand over the bonsai tree, tracing over a winding branch, his fingers reverent against the old bark. A few blue-green needles come loose, pattering down to the counter. He sets the pruning shears against a branch and the blades flash, catching the light as they come together. He catches the little branch as it falls. 

When he looks up, he looks right past you. You think of early morning mist, how it swallows a person down.

“You will,” he says.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His gaze flickers to you and when he smiles, it feels like something you aren’t meant to see.

The coffee pot gurgles. It breaks the spell and your father’s smile warms at the edges, smoothing out the tender gash of his mouth. 

“I made it the way you like it,” he says. “I thought you might need it.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I do.”

You’re halfway through your first cup when your mother emerges, already fully dressed for the day. She looks you over from head to toe and her face softens, goes sweet at the edges. 

“Did you sleep?” she asks.

You nod.

“Good.” 

“Where are you going?” you ask.

“The shrine,” she says.

You wince.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Take care of what?”

“There’s a soulmate clause in the contract,” she says carefully. “They’re required to refund you. Mei is meeting me though, and she thinks the clause is loosely worded enough that she can get them to hold a different day for you instead, if you’d like. It’ll likely be a less auspicious rokuyo day, but—”

“But if I marry Aoshi, it might be the best I can get.”

She nods. “At least you’ll have options.”

“I guess. Mei’s going?”

Mei is an old friend of your mother’s and one of her prime sources for her study, a veritable treasure trove of data. She’s made for the courtroom, tiny and calm and whip-smart, and her grasp of soulmate law—tricky at the best of times, highly scrutinized as it is—is unparalleled. 

“Yes,” she says. “We’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you.”

She comes over to you and cups your cheek. You lean into the touch, into the saffron scent lingering on her skin. “You aren’t alone, tadpole,” she murmurs. 

You close your eyes. “I know.”

She pats your cheek lightly. “Good,” she says. 

You miss her warmth when she pulls away. 

She takes her purse from your father; they murmur to each other. Your father leans forward to press his forehead against hers and you look away. 

The door clicks shut behind her, and your father starts to hum, low and off-key. The quiet, off-beat snick of the shears accompanies him. It’s like being a child all over again, and you settle into the hazy familiarity of it. 

The morning stretches on. Yoshikawa and Abe appear during your second cup of coffee, and they drag you out to the new cafe you’ve been meaning to try. It’s a creperie filled with hazy pinks and soft greens, the warm air scented sweet. The three of you squish into a small booth as you have so many times before.

They keep you busy, plying you with sugary crepes dipped in rich, thick chocolate and decorated with fresh, perfectly red strawberries. They’re cut into little fans, pressed softly into the chocolate, almost like small flowers in the dough. The three of you peel them out of their paper cones, licking at your fingertips like little kids. You swap flavors, trading bite for bite.

You close your eyes as you reclaim your own crepe from Abe, sinking into the taste of it, letting the sugar wash everything away. Abe laughs, loud and bright, accompanied by the low purr of Yoshikawa’s voice. You let the sound of them encompass you and wonder how you ever got so lucky.

You check your phone as you leave the creperie. You bite at your cheek as your phone screen comes to life, Takao’s little smile carving out a piece of your heart. It’s an old photo from when you first got together, and it’s still a favorite even after all these years. 

Abe takes your free hand and squeezes it softly. She doesn’t say anything, but then again she doesn’t need to. 

There’s still no message when you go home. Dusk is falling, the last fingers of sunlight playing across the horizon, and you hesitate on your own doorstep. Yoshikawa coaxes you inside with a firm hand on your back. When you glance back at her, her dark eyes are sharp but kind. 

Once you’re inside, you can’t decide what is worse: Takao not being home, or the fact that he was. His favorite jacket is missing from the closet; his to-go mug isn’t by the coffee machine. One of the dresser drawers is still cracked open. 

Yoshikawa and Abe talk to you, but you can’t quite hear them. They bundle you onto the couch and stay until late, when you finally shake the cobwebs from your thoughts. Abe bites her lip when you shoo them out the door, but she goes without a fight. 

The house is quiet as you get ready for bed. The bed feels vast, too big for just you. You reach for your phone perched carefully on the nightstand, untangling the charger from the trailing vines of the pothos it’s by so you can pull it closer. You squint against the brightness, texting Takao a simple good night.

He doesn’t reply.

You hadn’t known the living could haunt, but you go to sleep curled up around a ghost. 

***

You go back to work. 

There’s still days left of your soulmate leave, but you need the distraction. You ignore the quiet whispers and bury yourself beneath a new project. Caught up in your work you float through the day, only coming up for air when your phone vibrates. You snatch it up each time, but it’s only stray notifications—a news alert; a pop-up saying that the recipe blog Yoshikawa likes updated; your IC card balance. 

It’s never what you want it to be.

It carries on for two days; each day you wait for the ping of Takao’s text, but you receive nothing.  On the second day you wrap up your day late, staying behind to finish off a few notes on the new project. It’s not as if you have anything better to do.

The sun has set by the time you’re on your way home. The city has bloomed into a neon wonderland, little shocks of color blazing through the night. You watch a black cat scuttle across the sidewalk, its fur glinting fuschia from the nearby izakaya’s sign.

Your neighborhood is quieter but it still has the hum of the city to it, a familiar song. There’s a sweet scent on the breeze, courtesy of the night-blooming flowers that coat the building next to yours. You trace your fingertips over a delicate petal. It’s silken against your skin, and you sigh, turning to your home before coming to a quick halt. 

Golden light is slanting out your kitchen window. It pools warmly on the ground, and you suck in a harsh breath, almost running to your door. It opens with a click. You step inside and for a moment, the genkan looks undisturbed. But then you see Takao’s shoes tucked carefully into the getabako; his house slippers are missing. There’s a quiet rustle from the kitchen’s direction.

You slip off your shoes and drop your bag into its place.

“Hello?” you call out, wincing at how timid you sound. 

The rustling stops. It starts again, and Takao rounds the corner just a few seconds later. 

“Hi,” he says shyly. “You’re home late.” 

“Worked late,” you say. “You’re back.”

“I am.”

You’re across the room in seconds, and he wraps you up in his arms as you barrel into him. 

“Please stay,” you say, knotting the soft cotton of his shirt up in your fingers. You can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest. Something in you warms. “Please.”  

He cups the nape of your neck, the warm span of his palm soft against the tender flesh there. You breathe him in, still nestled in tightly against him. 

“You didn’t respond to me,” you murmur. 

“I said I needed space.” 

“It was just a good night text.”

“Let’s not do this,” he says. 

Something in you wants to drag it out. To make him hurt the way you hurt. But you bite back on that part of you, swallow the poison down. 

“Are you staying?”

He sighs and you go very, very still. 

“I am.”

You slump into him with a sigh of relief. He cradles you close.

“You scared me,” you tell him. 

“I know.”

“Don’t do it again.”

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Good.”

“You know, this is what I was afraid of, all those years ago,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against your hairline. “That I wouldn’t be able to let you go if your soulmate came. And that I’d have to worry about you leaving me.”

“How many times are you going to make me say it?” you ask, gritting your teeth. “I’ve told you, I’m not leaving you.”

“You might.”

“We’ve been together for years,” you say, pulling back so you can meet his dark eyes. “He’s a stranger. He wants an idea, not me. Not really. So no, I’m not.”  

He sweeps his thumb over the apple of your cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to.

You kiss him then, a featherlight brush of your lips that lasts for just a breath before you pull back. He cups your jaw and chases you. He kisses you again. Deeper, more solid. When he pulls back, you open your eyes and look at him.

“I’m not, Aoshi,” you say. “I know. Trust me.”

He watches you. His eyes remind you of a summer’s night, encompassing and pitch-black, but warm. Always warm. He searches your face, his gaze so intent that it feels physical.

He nods.

You let out a low, soft breath.

Now you have to talk to Kita.

***

It takes time.

Your work’s soulmate leave is generous, but Kita is at the whim of his farm. The rice paddies don’t care about soulmates nor do they pay attention to weekends. And devoted as he is, he heeds their call, nature his kindest mistress.

It makes you think of Toyooka. You know the song of the fields, the rustle of the rice in the countryside breeze, an age-old tune that’s sunk into the soil. This close to harvest the verdant fields go Midas-touched, gilded with the sweetest hint of gold.

You wonder what Kita’s farm looks like. If it looks like the summers of your youth. If he sits on the engawa in the hot months, eating crisp watermelon down to the white bone of the rind, juice dripping sticky down his fingers. If the taste curls thick on his tongue, sweet with the countryside’s unique freedom.

He’d offered his farm as a meeting point early on, but without a car it’s too far. It’s too personal as well. He’s sown into the soil there, living in each grain he’s tended to. You think his hands were kind against the rice shoots, his long, thick fingers careful as he planted them. 

It’s too much, the idea of being surrounded by him. 

Your home is out of the question because it’s not just yours. 

You couldn’t do that to Takao, not when he’s stitched into every seam of your home. He’s in every atom of it—the slight imprint of his form in the memory foam mattress; his toothbrush, half-flattened by how hard he brushes, tucked neatly into a cup by the sink; the photos that line the walls, a tapestry of silken years woven together. 

It’s also the one thing Takao’s asked of you.

(“Don’t bring him here,” he says one night, his voice flat. 

You pause in the middle of drying a dish. He holds out the next, still soaked to the point that it’s dripping on the floor, and you hurry to finish. It almost slips through your fingers when he lets it go.

“I wouldn’t,” you say fiercely, even though you’d thought about it for one brief second. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think I would do that to you?” you ask him, setting the dish onto the rack. He hands you another, and you take it without thought. 

Takao blinks. He turns to look at you, and his expression is beautiful and terrible, a tender underbelly flayed open.

“No,” he says. “I don’t, not really. I just want this home to have always been ours. Just ours. I just—wanted to be sure, I guess.” 

You reach out and cup his face, cradling it between your palms. “It is,” you tell him. “It’s just ours. It’ll always be ours.”

He considers you. “Good,” he says, and he catches your hand in his. He turns his head; he presses a kiss against your palm. It’s devout, that brush of softness from his lips against the ley lines of your skin, as if he’s an acolyte at your altar, laying offerings at your feet.

The two of you press together for a moment, the warmth of his lips searing through your skin to settle in your bones. You take up his hand and press your own kiss to the center of his palm. His eyes go half-mast, and you can feel his smile against your skin. 

He pulls back. Squeezes your hand softly, and then he’s turning back to the sink, already reaching for another dish. 

You stand there for a moment. Your hand has gone cold without the heat of his skin. You flex your fingers, trying to make sense of the dread creeping over you. 

Takao glances at you. He smiles, sweet and fleeting, a dandelion tuft caught in the breeze. For a breath, you’re in high school again, gazing at a boy you’ve never spoken to but spent hours with, the two of you balanced on a precipice. And then the past fades, until you are left with who Takao is now. With who he has become to you.

You smile back, and then take the next plate he hands you.

It’s easy, after that. He washes, and you dry, a rhythm you’d know anywhere. Takao is swaying, humming along with the radio, and he laughs when you start to sway with him, your hips bumping each time. 

He doesn’t bring Kita up again.)

With both your homes off-limits, you’re back to square one.

Finally, Kita decides to drive to you. 

You choose a little coffee shop on the outskirts of the city, both to shorten the drive for Kita and for its familiarity, a cradle of comfort for a conversation you’ll never truly be ready to have.  

It’s a charming place, more rustic than modern with little wooden tables and shelves draped with plants, their lush vines hanging down behind the counter. It’s always warm, the sunlight streaking through the windows to paint the counters golden. The shop is studded with flowers too, bright buds spilling over the lip of water pitchers in a froth of color. Coffee is heavy on the air but a note of sweetness threads through it, a sugary bite of fruit. The pastries are made in-house and you know they’re sinfully good, little melt-in-your mouth slices of heaven. 

You’ve eaten three since getting here. You’re on your second drink too having gulped down the first one—scalding your tongue in the process—so quickly that even the barista had seemed surprised. 

It’s your own fault, really—you were almost a full half hour early. With nothing to do but wait, you’re all tangled up in yourself. 

The woman tapping away on her laptop in the corner pauses to eye you warily as you shred another napkin. You’d folded this one into a lopsided origami bird before beheading it. You send her a polite smile; she turns back to her laptop without a word.

You try to make another origami animal but you can’t remember any other patterns. You could make an army of birds you suppose, but after the fifth one you run out of napkins. When you consider getting more, the look on the barista’s face keeps you in your seat. You slouch down into it, your cheeks warm.

You look up just as Kita enters, the little bell at the top of the door chiming quietly. He finds you instantly, his amber eyes settling on you as soon as he’s through the door. He smiles, warm like the spring sun, his eyes crinkling with it. 

He’s as handsome as you remember, leanly muscled with broad shoulders and casually graceful as he walks to your table. In the cafe lighting his gray hair goes silvery, bright against the black tips of it, and you think of a moon being eclipsed.

“Hello,” Kita says, holding out a hand when you start to get up. “S’fine, you don’t need to get up.”

“Oh,” you say, caught awkwardly between sitting and standing. A smile drifts across Kita’s face like a summer breeze, a quick, soothing thing. You cough and sit back down. “Hi.”

The two of you are quiet for a moment. He’s watching you, drinking you in, and his eyes remind you of a sunlit forest, of the way the sun’s rays drip down between the trees like honey. It aches, the way he looks at you. It’s soft and sure. Steady and open and earnest.

Kita looks at you like you help make the world make a little bit more sense.

His gaze flickers down to the tabletop, and that same small smile blooms on his lips. 

You suddenly remember your mini-army of origami birds, including their headless leader. You fight the urge to close your eyes in mortification.

“You should order something,” you say, fidgeting with your cup. “Their coffee’s nice.” 

“Alright. D’ya want another?” he asks. “I’ll get it for you.”

You shake your head. “No,” you say. “Thank you, though.” 

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say, and he nods.

When he goes to the counter to order you hurriedly sweep the remains of your shredded napkins away, wincing as they flutter into your purse. Some of them stick to your sweaty palms, and you rub them vigorously against your thighs until they curl up into little paper pearls. They patter to the ground quietly. You send out a quiet mental apology to the cafe workers.

“You alright?” Kita asks. He settles down across from you and you envy his assuredness, how serene he looks.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

He eyes you for a moment, those golden eyes all too knowing. But he doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to wind his hands—lightly tanned and slender, with a constellation of small scars scattered over his skin—around his cup.

It’s tea, you think, the faintest hint of it reaching your nose, and it fits him in a way you can’t quite put into words. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips as he takes a small sip and you look away. 

“I’m glad we could meet,” he says.

“Yeah,” you say, already wishing you had another napkin to shred. “I think it’s important to talk.”

“It is, but I just wanted to see you.” 

He says it so simply. Kita speaks with the surety of the sun’s rise; he means every word he says. There’s a sweetness to him that could only come from earnesty. He leaves no room for doubt.

You break in the face of it.

“I can’t be with you,” you blurt out.

He goes still. The smile on his lips fades. “What?”

“I can’t be with you,” you repeat. 

“We’re soulmates,” he says, and it’s the most rattled you’ve ever heard him. His fingers flex. He looks lost, those amber eyes hazy, and you think of the morning mist, how it swallows down the sun. There’s a tiny quiver to his lips.

“I know.”

“We’re supposed to be together,” he says.

You ache for him.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. “But that’s not enough. I can’t leave him. I don’t want to leave him.”

Kita’s quiet. The silence stretches on. And then—

“You love ‘im,” he says softly. 

You nod. 

“You’re happy?”

You nod again.

Kita leans forward and cups your cheek. He skims his thumb over your cheekbone, a careful glide. It comes away wet, his skin salt-kissed, and you lean into his calloused palm.

He wipes away another tear. His touch has the same aching tenderness of a fresh, swollen bruise. 

“Okay,” he says. “I can live with that.”

That quiet, easy capitulation makes it worse. You can see he means it; it’s reflected in his eyes. If you’re happy, that’s enough for him. 

Your stomach hurts.

You sniffle, pulling away from his warm touch and wiping at your eyes. Your cheeks are hot, and they get hotter as you see a few people glancing your way. Kita lets out a slow, deep breath. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, staring down at your coffee cup. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know.” 

It’s not an “it’s okay,” but you suppose that would have been asking for a lot from him. You look at him from underneath your eyelashes and find that his amber eyes are distant, like the sun at the very edge of the horizon. 

You wonder where he’s gone, and then think that perhaps it’s best that you don’t know. You fidget with your cup. The porcelain of it scrapes against the table, and Kita’s eyes clear. Still, they’re not as keen as they usually are, and you shift in your seat. He takes in a soft breath, a whisper of a thing, and then his eyes flicker to you. 

“I’d like to stay in contact with you,” he says. 

You jolt, almost knocking your cup off the table. “What?”

“I would rather have you in my life.” 

“Shin—Kita, that’s not fair to you.”

“Please call me Shinsuke.”

You ache for him, something bone deep that no salve will help subside. “That’s exactly why this isn’t fair,” you say gently. “You’re going to want more than I can give you, and we both know it.”

“I know,” he says. His eyes are keen as they flicker over you; the tilt of his mouth makes you look away. “And I’m sorry. But I won’t ask anything of you, except for this.” 

“Kita—”

His fingers flex, but he doesn’t correct you. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” you ask. Your hands are trembling; the words are sour on your tongue, the lemon tang of a promise that’s going to hurt. 

“Yes,” he says, steady as stone.

You sigh. “Okay,”  you say. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

You nod, toying with a sugar packet as he sips at his tea. You fold and unfold the edge of the package, until the paper starts to wear thin, a few tiny crystals of sugar spilling loose to plink against the table. 

The silence that falls is heavy, weighing you down like an anchor. There’s the quiet background noise of the cafe: the chatter of the barista and other customers, the soft tinkle of the bell as someone else enters, the hiss and purr of the espresso machine, but it seems distant. 

“I’m gonna go,” you say abruptly. “I think that’s for the best.”

You’re already starting to gather up your things when Kita stands. “It’s okay,” he says. “You should stay. I need to be gettin’ back to the farm anyway.”

“You just got here,” you say helplessly. “You drove all this way.”

He glances at you. His expression is complicated; you can’t quite parse it.

“I drove here for you,” he says gently. 

You open your mouth and close it again, a koi-like gape. You sit down slowly, settling into the booth again. He picks up his cup of tea—still piping hot, little wisps of steam rising from it like smoke—and gives you a little smile that doesn’t quite reach his striking eyes.

“Get home safe,” he says. 

“You too,” you say faintly.

You watch him leave, the way each of his steps is steady and sure. You don’t think you’ve ever known someone so at home in their own skin. But there’s a curve to his shoulders now, the broad width of them collapsed inward. It’s minute but it’s there, and your stomach roils again, a sour brew of emotion welling up in you. 

He pauses to ask the barista something; she gives him a to-go cup and watches as he carefully pours his tea into it. He hands back the other cup with a little nod of his head. 

The cafe door clicks shut behind him, bell chiming, a clear, porcelain sound that cuts through the chatter of the cafe. You resist the urge to bury your face in your hands, choosing instead to look down into your nearly-empty cup. The dregs of it are dark, and you wonder if your future is written out in them. 

You blow out a soft breath and scrub at your face with your hands. When you glance up, the barista is carefully not looking your way. To avoid seeing the way her lips have twisted, you glance out the window into the haze of the mid-morning sun, still spilling golden over the tiny parking lot. You immediately balk. 

Kita’s still there. 

He’s in his truck, half-hidden by the glare of sun against the windows, but you know it’s him. You can’t see his eyes, but you can tell he’s staring straight ahead. His mouth is a thin, tight line. You chew on your lower lip.

One hand comes up to scour beneath his eyes. It comes away with a wet sheen catching the sunlight and shining bright. You wince, glancing away.

You stare down into your coffee cup again. When you down the last of it, the dregs of it, it’s sharp and bitter on your tongue.

It almost erases the heavy, metallic tang of guilt.

Almost.

***

Your phone pings.

You grab it without looking away from your monitor, typing in your passcode one-handed as you mutter the last line of the email to yourself. You flick the notification to pull up the text without checking the name and pause.

It’s a picture of the rice fields, rippling in the breeze like a current, the stalks going gilded as harvest draws closer. Beyond the sea of them there are rolling hills of green with only a few power structures—standing tall on their metal legs as they reach into the sky—to mark a human presence. It’s all framed by the bluest sky you’ve ever seen, filled with puffy white clouds that you think are likely being whisked along by the breeze. 

It’s so vivid you can almost smell the fresh air. 

There’s also only one person that could have sent it to you. 

Trying to keep in contact with Kita has been an exercise in awkwardness. You feel bad but you’re trying to figure out how to temper it, since you’re caught between what you know he wants and what you’re capable of giving him. 

To his credit, Kita never pushes. You suspect that he prefers calling—he seems the type—but he mainly texts, following your lead. 

(“I feel like I owe him this much,” you tell Takao one night, when Kita has texted you while the two of you are curled up on the couch watching a movie. 

“I don’t think you owe anyone anything,” he says, but he never asks you to stop.)

There’s still a hint of stilted awkwardness to it, but it has gotten better than it was. 

It’s stunning, you text back. It reminds me of summers in Toyooka. 

He doesn’t reply until dusk is settling, but that’s not unusual considering how diligent he is with his farm. You reply quickly, bored with the TV show you’ve been watching as you wait for Takao to pick up dinner, and the two of you fall into conversation. 

He asks about Toyooka and you tell him. You tell him about catching summer fireflies and playing in the fields with Abe. You’re about to tell him about Abe’s duckling that followed her everywhere one summer when you realize exactly how long of a paragraph you’re sending. 

Before you can second guess yourself, you delete the paragraph and send a different message: I think this might be easier as a call.

I’d like that, Kita replies.

You hit call, knowing you’ll balk if you give yourself time to think. 

He picks up instantly.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hi,” you say, a little awkwardly. “How are you?”

He chuckles, but it’s kind. “I’m good,” he says. “How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“That’s good,” he says. Silence falls for a moment. It’s not a comfortable one, and Kita shatters it by saying: “You were talking about your summers in Toyooka?”

“Yes,” you say, and you launch into the tale of Duck (“She named the duckling Duck?” “We were six.”) and how he’d followed Abe through the sea of paddies, all the way up to the genkan of the rented house each and every day.

Kita is a good listener. He seems happy to let you chatter away. He asks questions here and there and tells a few stories of his own, but mostly he’s quiet, just the soft whisper of his breath echoing on the line. 

The two of you talk until you hear the door to the house open. Takao calls out a greeting, a familiar song, and you call one out in return. Rustling accompanies him and the faint scent of spices starts to waft into the living room. 

“I should go,” you say into the phone. “Dinner’s here.” 

“Alright,” Kita says softly. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

Takao comes into the living room as you hang up; he presses a quick kiss to your lips. He tastes suspiciously like your favorite appetizer. 

“Hey,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “Did you eat some on the way home?”

“Yup,” he says cheerfully. “A toll for my labor.” 

“You haven’t finished your labor yet. I set the table, so go unpack the food.”

“Yes ma’am!”

You bat at him; he dodges with a little laugh. He leans down and gives you another quick kiss, this time at the corner of your lips, sweet and fleeting. When he pulls away he heads towards the kitchen, lightly swinging the bag of takeout as he goes.

You’re getting to your feet to follow him when your phone vibrates in your hand, buzzing along your skin. You glance at the notification and see that it’s Kita. You flick it open. 

It was good to talk to you, he’s texted.

You pause for a moment, chewing on your lower lip. You can hear Takao humming to himself in the kitchen.

Yeah, you reply. It was good to talk to you too.

It’s easier after that. You stop agonizing over each word. It doesn’t completely fade; you will always be more careful with Kita than you are with anyone else. It’s the kindest thing you can do for him. 

The two of you start to text more, each message a string drawing you closer to each other. He texts you photos of his ducks. You repay him with photos of the conbini’s cat, a spoiled little thing often found lounging in the front windows, little face turned up to the sun. 

You start to call too. It’s sparse at first, often a continuation of a text chat that simply would be better on the phone, but it grows more frequent as the weeks pass. Some nights it’s short; other nights, you feel lost in time, as if only seconds have gone by when you’ve talked for much longer. 

You grow used to seeing Kita’s name pop up on your screen. It’s nice, if you’re honest. You like talking to him. 

“What’re you makin’?”

You glance towards where your phone is propped up. At some point, today’s call became FaceTime, mainly so you both have your hands free to make dinner. It gives you a glimpse into his kitchen; a glimpse into him. 

His kitchen is meticulously clean and inherently practical. Everything seems to have its space, whether it’s a row of well-maintained pots and pans or a knife block with an assortment of handles jutting out from it, a sharpener carefully tucked in beside it. 

But there are other little touches of Kita scattered about: the apron hanging from the rack is embroidered with tiny rice paddies, each stitch painstakingly made by his grandmother’s steady hand; the strawberry plant in the window is heavy with small, glistening berries despite the season; there are neatly folded handkerchiefs tucked loosely into a drawer by the cleaning supplies.

Even through a phone screen it feels warm. Homey in a quiet way. 

Kita moves back into frame with a bowl in his hand. He’s got a brow raised, and you remember he asked you a question. 

“Nikuman,” you tell him, gliding the cabbage over the mandolin’s shining blade. You work it carefully, watching the ribbons of white-green flutter down onto the cutting board.  “Oyakodon too. You?”

“Tofu hamburger.”

“That’s your favorite, right?”

A small smile blooms on his lips. “You remembered.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“I’m not,” he says. “It’s just nice.”

You hum, finishing up with the cabbage and dumping it into a bowl. Kita keeps chopping as you pour rice into a pot and start to wash it. “Ugh,” you murmur to yourself. “Almost out of rice.”

“What rice do you use?” Kita asks.

You point at him with a wet hand. “No,” you say. “You’re gonna judge me.”

“Over rice?”

“You’re a rice farmer!” 

He chuckles. “And?”

“That means you know rice secrets. Like better brands.”

“I could always give you some.”

“Some rice secrets?”

“Some rice.”

You hum. “Thanks, but I don’t want you to have to go out of your way,” you say. “Shipping it seems inconvenient. 

“I was thinkin’ I could bring you some. I have a delivery in the city soon.”

You pause. Kita’s stopped preparing his dinner, instead turning his gaze on you. Even through the phone, his amber eyes almost glow. You think of the last vestiges of a sunset, of the deepest sheen of gold threading across the horizon. 

“Kita…” 

“You can say no,” he says quietly. Quietly, but no less steady for it. 

You sink your hand into the rice that’s settled at the bottom of the pot, still covered by water. When you flex your fingers, the grains slip through them like darting little fish. You do it again. The water ripples around your wrist.

“I can’t, Kita,” you say. 

He nods, his gray hair a lightning strike gleam. “Alright,” he says. His shoulders dip low, an exhausted Atlas, and you sigh.

“Not yet,” you say. “But one day.”

He nods again. For a moment you think he’ll say something else, but he simply gives you a crooked little smile. When you change the subject, he doesn’t fight it. The two of you settle back into conversation as you cook. 

You hang up as Takao returns home. Dinner has just finished cooking, the oyakodon perfectly golden, the scent of it lingering savory in the air. You settle in at the table, talking about your day as you eat, until you finally put your chopsticks down.

“Kita asked me to meet up.”

He puts his chopsticks down as well. 

“I said no,” you say, meeting his gaze. “Well, I said not yet.”

“Not yet? You want to see him?”

“I think I’d like to,” you tell him, because you will always be honest with him about this. “But I won’t if you don’t want me to.” 

“I don’t want to stop you from doing something you want to do.”

“I will, though.”

He runs a hand through his hair; it flows through his fingers like water, little rivulets of dark hair catching between his fingers. “I know,” he says.

“I’ll choose you, Aoshi,” you tell him. “As many times as it takes.” 

He reaches over and cups your cheek with a warm hand. “I know,” he says. “It’s not my favorite thing, but if you want to see him you should.” 

You cover his hand with your own and turn into his touch. You press your lips against his palm, against the leylines that are carved there, a future you don’t know how to read. 

You press another kiss to his palm, a quiet gratitude for his trust.

He leans over to brush a whisper of a kiss to the corner of your lips. 

As you turn back to your meal you think of the waver to Kita’s smile, like the sun hidden behind passing clouds.

One day, you promise him. One day.

***

One day comes quicker than you’d thought.

It’s early, the sun still hovering over the horizon as the blue of dawn fades away into something brighter. The sunlight catches on the city buildings, the windows shimmering like a mirage, a promise of what’s hidden behind them. The streets aren’t empty—they never are—but the frantic pace of them has slowed to something leisurely, as if the city is still waking up too. 

You weave your way through the streets. The route is familiar and you pay little attention to where you’re going, choosing instead to watch the vendors begin to open their stores. The florist is already putting out buckets of flowers, a riot of color from the dawn hues of a ruffled ranunculus to the deep purple of the elegant, leggy irises rising over the rest. He’s half-lost in the blossoms, pushing his way through petals to lay out more of his wares. Some of them catch in his hair. 

Next door, the conbini is still aglow. It’s always a beacon in the night, but it’s softer in the day. You head in and grab a quick snack for later, giving the half-asleep cashier a little smile. 

The bustle of the street has grown when you leave the conbini, the stream of people burgeoning into a river. But you still hear it when someone calls your name.

You glance around and find Kita just a door down from you, coming out of a small grocer’s. He smiles at you softly and you almost duck back into the conbini. 

He waits there, leaving the choice of approaching up to you, but you’ve run from him enough. You slip through the crowd and join him by a flat of dusky peaches, the air around them faintly sweetened. 

“Hi,” you say. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

He nods towards the inside of the grocer’s shop. It’s small, clearly family owned, but it’s well-stocked. There’s a kid—no more than ten, you think—carefully putting shining apples into a basket, their face scrunched up in concentration. 

“Tsukada stocks my rice,” Kita says, and now that he’s said it, you vaguely remember him mentioning this neighborhood when you’d talked about his delivery route a few weeks ago. “I’m very grateful for it.”

A scoff comes from behind the register. An older woman peers out, her brow raised. Her eyes are wrinkled at the edges, her crow’s feet papery, but the thickest line is clearly a laugh line. 

“It’s good rice,” she tells you. “Simple as that.” She eyes you curiously, tilting her head to the side. Her thick black braid thuds against her shoulder; it’s streaked with gray, like pebbles just visible through a river’s darkened waters. 

Kita inclines his head to her, a small smile on his lips. “You’re kind,” he says. 

“Just tellin’ the truth.” Tsukada settles back, disappearing behind the register again. “Take some fruit with you when you go. I know your granny likes peaches this time of year.”

“I will,” he says. “Thank you.”

She waves him off with a gnarled hand, barely visible from your vantage point. 

Kita returns his attention to you. “It’s good to see you,” he says, all summer warmth. “I don’t suppose you have a little time? My next delivery isn’t until later.” 

You purse your lips. He tracks the movement, his eyes dimming, and you sigh. 

“I have a little time,” you say. “Coffee?”

He lights ups. “Perfect,” he says. “D’ya know a place near here?”

You nod. “I think it has tea, too.” 

He smiles at you. Then he’s calling a respectful goodbye to Tsukada, gathering a few of the peaches to put in the bag slung over his shoulder. You watch him pick them, his long fingers tender against the soft flesh. He brushes his fingertips along a stubborn leaf still attached to the stem. You half expect him to tear it loose, but he leaves it in place.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

The two of you wind through the streets. He stays by your side but gives you space, only pressing close when the stream of people on the sidewalk thickens to a river. 

The coffee shop isn’t far. When you duck inside the scent of coffee billows over you, sharp and thick and a little bit bitter. You both order—Kita offers to pay, but he doesn’t look surprised when you decline—and then find a little booth tucked away by a small window. The sun has warmed the seats. It streams through the glass in whirling colors, catching in the stained glass decal pressed close to the window. It dapples Kita with pink like he’s been flecked with sakura petals, and you hide your smile in your coffee cup. 

He seems to notice, an answering smile tugging at his lips, but he doesn’t mention it. 

“How’s the farm?” you ask.

“S’good,” he says, taking a sip of his tea. You can smell it faintly, even through the coffee, an earthy kiss. “The ducklings are fully grown now, since I know that’s what you really want to know.”

“You caught me,” you say with a laugh. “Can you blame me? They’re so cute!”

“Yeah,” Kita says, his gaze steady on you. “They are.”

“And you’ve been skimping on the pictures.”

“I sent you one just yesterday.”

“Yes, exactly! Just one!”

He chuckles softly. “I’ll do better,” he promises. 

“Good.”

“And how’re you?”

“Working a lot,” you say. “It’s starting to feel like it’s all I do, but my project should be done soon so I can have a bit more time. I want to meet Abe’s new girlfriend, but I haven’t had a chance yet.”

“I’m sure you’ll meet her soon.”

“Hope so. How are your Olympians? This is what, their second one coming up? I’m looking forward to it.”

He grins. It’s broad and bright, brimming with pride and joy. “They’re not mine,” he protests, but his grin doesn’t falter. “But yes, their second, and they’re good. Workin’ hard. It’s off season, though, so hopefully they’ll come ‘round to visit.” 

“I’m sure Aran will.”

“He doesn’t have a choice,” he says. “Granny’ll go get him herself if she’s got to. He’ll get an earful about it, too.”

You smile into your cup. “I’d like to see that.”

“It’s sure something.” 

“I can only imagine.” 

Kita takes a sip of his tea. Not for the first time you’re struck by the way he moves, the careful surety of it, steadiness edged in grace. You wonder if it’s from his time playing volleyball or if he was always like this.

“Do you ever miss it?” you ask.

“Sometimes,” he says. “It made sense, y’know? Learning something, repeatin’ it, then using that repetition to move forward.”

“It doesn’t sound that different from farmwork.”

He chuckles. It’s low and warm, like the first true rays of light pouring over the horizon. “I suppose they have similarities.” 

“Seems like it to me.”

The two of you keep chatting. It’s easy to pick up the thread of the last time you spoke, and you weave it into today’s conversation. 

You bask in the glow of the morning sun as it streams over the booth. Under the sun’s warmth the world goes honeyed, a slow, sweet drip of time. You shift sleepily. Kita breathes out what could be a little laugh at the sight, but when you look at him he’s got his face tilted up into the light. It gilds him, his half-closed eyes going from amber to pure gold, as if he’s Midas-touched.

You sigh. 

He blinks, the fan of his long eyelashes casting a soft shadow on his tanned cheeks. 

“I have to go,” you tell him. “But this—this has been nice.”

“Very nice,” he agrees.

“Let’s do it again sometime.”

His breath catches briefly. You pretend to not hear it.

“Yes,” he says, a quiet hope lining his voice. You hate yourself a little. “Let’s.” 

You give him a little smile as you rise to your feet. He gets up too despite his unfinished tea, and the two of you head out the door together. 

The humid air rolls over you; you can already feel the heavy stickiness on your skin. You huff, rolling up your sleeves, and a tiny smile appears in the corner of Kita’s mouth. He doesn’t say anything though, and you bid him a quiet goodbye. 

He returns it, his eyes soft, and you head down the street.

When you turn the corner, you can’t help it. You glance back at where you left him. 

He’s already gone.

***

Autumn makes itself known.

It encroaches on the hazy, honeyed nights of late summer slowly, a creeping first frost. The cold is soft edged, more a kiss than a bite. Still, the hydrangeas that line the path to the municipal office have faded under its touch, the blossoms leeched of color and gone brittle at the edges. They rasp out a dry, harsh song as the breeze picks up.

You shiver and lean into Takao’s warmth as the two of you walk to the office, your kon-in todoke clasped tight in your hand. The ink of your seals is still fresh, done hurriedly at the kitchen table when you realized that you were going to be late for your appointment. Abe’s seal is almost too far out of the witness’s section to count; she’d still been bleary-eyed, her first cup of coffee only partially drunk. Yoshikawa’s seal is perfectly in the box for it. She was still teasing Abe when you and Takao left.

“Nervous?” Takao asks, twining his fingers with yours. His palm is slightly sweaty; you hide your smile in your scarf.

“A little. You?”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“Yoshikawa,” you say promptly. “I don’t think marriage would rattle her at all.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I can see that.” 

You slip inside the office; the chatter of it settles over you. You shrug off your scarf as you orient yourself, reading the signs plastered all over to figure out where the two of you need to go. 

The clerk who processes your kon-in todoke is young. She has a kind smile, and she flashes it as she takes the form from you, along with your koseki tohon. She holds out a hand for your IDs and her nails are baby blue, dotted with tiny white clouds, a perfect summer sky. You can’t help your smile.  

You lean into Takao as she scans your forms. He gives your hand a little squeeze; when you glance up at him, the tips of his ears have gone dusty pink. You almost laugh. He seems to realize it, delivering a nudge to your side that makes you pinch at him. 

“Everything looks in order,” the clerk says. “You have your soulmate form as well?”

“Yes,” Takao says. He hands it to her; you stare at the bulletin board behind the clerk’s head so that her face is blurry. Her keyboard clicks away, but she doesn’t say anything, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

She examines your forms again, her eyes sharp as she reviews them, and then she’s shuffling them together and forming a neat stack. She flashes that same sweet smile. 

“Congratulations,” she says. “You’re officially married.”

Takao squeezes your hand before letting go. He turns to face you and he’s glassy-eyed, his lower lip trembling. He cups your cheek and pulls you close to brush a barely-there kiss against your lips. You chase him when he starts to pull away, deepening the kiss for a brief moment. 

“Hi,” you say when the two of you break apart. “Husband.” 

“Wife,” he replies. There are roses blooming in his cheeks, the blush spreading from his cheekbones up to his ears. He nuzzles his nose against yours. 

The clerk coughs, but when you glance at her, your cheeks heating, she’s still smiling. 

“Thank you,” you tell her. 

She nods, gathering the rest of your paperwork and handing the small stack to you. You collect them carefully before handing them to Takao so he can put them in the small folder he’d brought.

The entire trip home feels unreal, the cityscape swirling together in a watercolor blur, neon melting into the harsh sheen of metal, softened by a hint of greenery. Takao’s touch is grounding though, and you squeeze his hand from time to time, as if making sure he’s still there. 

He always is.

The two of you exchange rings in your sunwarm kitchen. You have no vows, but you think you don’t need them. It’s enough to see the look on Takao’s face as he slips the ring into place; it speaks a language from long ago that you still know by heart. Abe and Yoshikawa cheer when you’re done, and then the rest of the day rushes by, filled to the brim with mini-celebrations. Your friends have gone out of their way to provide what the shrines will not, and you once again wonder how you’ve gotten so lucky. 

Dusk is falling when the last of your guests leave, the sunset spilling over the horizon like fire. The last dregs of light fade as you curl up next to Takao on the couch. He presses a soft kiss to your hairline; you chase him for a real kiss.  You lace your fingers together when you break apart. You thumb at his wedding ring idly, the metal warmed by his skin. 

“We’re married, huh?” you say.

“Seems that way.”

You laugh. “Don’t sound too excited, now.” 

He pinches at you. “I’m not excited,” he says, deftly avoiding your return pinch. “I’m happy. There’s a difference, you know.” 

You lean into him. “I think you’re right.”

“It happens sometimes.”

“It does?”

He pinches at you again. You shove him away, but he pulls you back in and cradles you close. You play-struggle for a moment and then finally relax into him when he tightens his grip. 

“Are you?” he asks softly.

“Am I what?”

“Happy.”

You turn in his arms, reaching out to cup his jaw. You stroke your thumb against his cheekbone.

“Yes,” you say. “I am.”

He kisses you then, his mouth soft and sure. You would know his touch anywhere, you think. It settled beneath your skin long ago. 

“Good,” he says. “Good.”

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, tasting the salt of his skin on your parted lips. His breath wavers. You press a kiss to his pulse.

“I have a phone call to make,” you murmur into his skin. “And I need to do it soon. It’s important.”

He tugs you back up so that you’re looking at him. His eyes—as deep and dark as the night sky—flicker over you. You wait. His brow furrows for a moment and then understanding blooms on his face. He leans forward to press a ghost of a kiss to the corner of your lips. 

“Okay,” he says, letting you go and getting to his feet. He pauses, as if he wants to say more, but he heads to the kitchen without a word. You watch him go before grabbing your phone and dialing. 

You take in a deep, slow breath as the line rings.

Kita picks up quickly. The two of you exchange pleasantries for a few minutes, catching up with each other briefly. There’s an easy flow to it, but he pauses after a moment.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

You bite at a hangnail. 

“I got married today,” you say softly. “I—I thought you should know.”

He’s quiet. It reminds you of the deepest parts of winter, when even the air is still. You ache with it. He’s a bruise that will never quite fade, you think, and you can only imagine what it’s like for him. 

“Thank you,” he says eventually, his voice soft but steady. “For telling me.” 

“It didn’t feel right to not,” you confess. “I’m sorry, Kita.”

“I know.” 

The call doesn’t last much longer. There’s not much left to say after that, and your husband is patiently waiting for you. 

Once you’ve hung up you head into the kitchen and find Takao slicing up a small cake. It’s a froth of delicate frosting topped with crystalline spun-sugar flowers. Abe had insisted that you have a wedding cake and you hadn’t bothered to argue.

He glances up when you wander in. His smile is incandescent, a starlight thing, and you go to him with a matching smile tugging at your lips. You kiss him once, then again, and then a third time still. He laughs. 

You wind your arms around his waist as he finishes cutting the cake, pressing your forehead between his shoulder blades. He smells of home; there’s the faintest hint of his cologne under the scent of your laundry detergent. You press closer.

“Hard call?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, muffled by his shirt.

“It’s over now.”

“So it is.” 

He puts down the knife and turns around in your arms. He draws you close. “I love you,” he says. “Enough that I’ll even share this cake with you.”

“Oh, wow.”

“I know.” 

You laugh. “You’re ridiculous,” you tell him, knowing you sound terribly, disgustingly fond. You start to pull away but he tightens his arms around you. “Aoshi!”

“You gotta say it back.”

“I love you,” you tell him softly. “I really do.”

His smile is tender and fleeting, a dandelion seed caught on the wind. You kiss it from his lips. His hands come up to cup your jaw; you feel the metal of his wedding ring against your skin. 

It feels incredibly ordinary.

You hope it always will. 

*** 

You shiver as you pull the door to the onigiri shop open, burying your face in your scarf even as you step into warm air. A gust of wind whips in behind you, carrying a few rare snowflakes—fat and fluffy, a perfect pure white—inside. You pull the door shut behind you quickly.

It’s blessedly warm in the shop and the air is spiced with enticing, savory aromas. For a moment, you think of your father’s kitchen: the clutter of ingredients spread across a chopping board, an organized mess; the weight of a worn soft apron; the warmth of a heating stove. You open your eyes, not realizing you’d closed them as you breathed in.

It’s a cozy shop. There are plush looking booths and a few small tables, plus a handful of stools at the counter the chef is working behind. He’s a broad man, his forearms flexing as he shapes an onigiri. He snaps something at one of the men sitting on the stools, reaching out to smack the blond’s hand as he tries to grab something behind the counter. The blond squawks, pulling back and looking deeply offended. 

You cough out a laugh.

Both of them snap their gazes to you. They’re twins, you realize, encountering two identical faces. The chef’s furrowed brow smooths out into something placid. He pushes the blond back into his seat with a big hand. 

“What can I get ya?”

“Oh,” you say, caught off guard with how easily he’s switched up. “I’m not sure yet, I’m sorry.”

“Menu’s over there if you need one,” he says, pointing to a stack you hadn’t noticed. “Sit wherever you like.” 

“Thanks,” you say, and suddenly, the man next to the blond looks up. He’s handsome, tall even while he’s sitting down, his shoulders just as broad as the chef’s. He’s also oddly familiar; he says your name and you blink.

“Aran?” you ask.

He beams. “It is you! It’s been a while. Are you staying to eat?” 

You glance between the three of them. The twins are staring at you now; the chef has a brow raised but is otherwise placid, while the blond gapes. You put two and two together and realize that they must be the Miyas. No wonder the name of the shop sounded familiar. 

“You’re Kita’s soulmate,” the chef—Osamu, you remember—says. He sounds bland, but there’s a bit of a sneer tucked into the corner of his mouth. 

“That’s her?” the blond—Atsumu, then—says. He looks you over from head to toe, his honey-brown eyes shining in the low light. His mouth twists into something lemon-edged, a faint hint of sourness lining his whole form.

Osamu ignores him, looking at you instead. “Kita’s here,” he tells you. “He’s droppin’ off some rice in the storeroom.”

You glance at the door of the shop. 

“Dontcha want to see your soulmate?” Atsumu asks, a little bit mean.

You wince. You twist your scarf around your fingers, spooling it around your knuckles.

Aran sighs, looking very, very pained. “Don’t be rude,” he chastises. 

“M’not being rude! I’m just asking! She’s not—”

“Atsumu.” 

Kita emerges from the back, coming up behind the counter. His sleeves are rolled high on his forearms; there’s a light sheen of sweat on his brow. It turns his hair to the dark gray of a summer storm cloud. His mouth is drawn taut, a gash of a thing. 

Atsumu goes pale.

“I’ll have the other part of the delivery for you later this month,” Kita says to Osamu. The dark-haired twin nods. There’s a little smirk on his lips, the bitten down delight of watching a sibling get in trouble. 

Atsumu’s fidgeting, tugging at the hem of one of his sleeves with long, strong fingers. 

“Hey,” Kita says, turning to you. “S’good to see you.” 

“Yeah,” you say, still looking at Atsumu, who looks like he’s waiting for a death sentence.

“I didn’t realize you came here, I would have told Osamu to look out for you.”

“It’s my first time. A coworker suggested it.” 

Atsumu’s shoulders are slowly lowering. There’s the slightest twitch to Kita’s lips, a little half-smile that you recognize. There’s a layer of mischief to it that you’re still getting used to. 

“By the way, Atsumu,” he says, and the blond chokes.  “Didya have something you wanted to say?”

Osamu snorts as his brother wildly shakes his head. It’s quiet but obvious and Atsumu scowls at him. Kita clears his throat and both brothers snap to attention. 

Next to Atsumu, Aran looks like he’s holding back laughter. It’s a good look for him—he glows with it, his barely contained smile bright and true. 

“Ya sure?” Kita asks, that same little mischievous tilt to his lips. Atsumu nods. “Alright then.” 

He rolls down his sleeves as he steps out from behind the counter; he comes over to you and gives you a crescent moon smile, soft and sweet. The two of you step away from the group slightly. 

“Hi,” you say, quieter this time, something just for you and him. 

“You stayin’?” he asks. “You should join us.”

You shake your head. “I have to get back,” you tell him. “Another time?”

“Of course.” 

Kita stays by your side as you order; he radiates a gentle heat, like the bricks of a hearth long after the fire has died down. You watch Osamu make the onigiri, placing each filling carefully. His big hands are gentle as they mold the rice. There’s care and pride in each movement and it lives in his face, too, in the swell of his smile as he completes each one. 

They’re a lively group—Atsumu is growing louder and louder as he argues with his brother, something like a pout on his expressive face before it’s wiped away by indignance. 

“Oi!” he says, pointing at Osamu, halfway out of his seat. “Take that back!”

“Nope,” Osamu says.

“You—”

Aran grimaces as he pulls Atsumu back into his seat. “You’re so loud.”

“Am not!” 

“Ya are,” Osamu says. “Now shut up, you’re bothering the customers.”

Atsumu makes a noise that reminds you of a cat that’s fallen into water as Osamu hands you your order. The box is rather simple, with Onigiri Miya stamped onto it in a deep, rich ink, but it somehow reminds you of the bentos of your childhood. You think it might be how carefully the onigiri are tucked into it, each one nestled close to the next, a little mountain range of rice. 

Kita walks you to the door after you say your goodbyes to the rest of the group. He holds your onigiri box as you put your scarf back on, looping it around your neck.

“Sorry you couldn’t stay,” he says. His fingertips linger when he hands the box back. “I promise my friends don’t bite.”

“Maybe not Aran.” 

He laughs softly. “The twins are all bark and no bite,” he says. “Besides, I can keep ‘em in line.” 

“I noticed.”

He smiles. “See you soon?”

“Yeah,” you say. “See you soon.” 

He holds open the door for you; a gust of wind sweeps over you, tugging playfully at the end of your scarf. You carry his warm smile into the cold winter afternoon.

You’re almost halfway down the street when you hear a familiar voice. 

“Hey!”

You glance back over your shoulder. Atsumu is powering after you; he catches up to you in an instant, tugging you back until you’re both out of the way of other pedestrians. You’re halfway into an izakaya’s doorstep, the winter peonies surrounding it swaying around your ankles. A few early customers peer out the door at you, but Atsumu pays them no mind. 

“What’re you doin’?” he asks, a little too loud.

“Miya—”

“Kita’s traditional,” he says roughly. “It’s only ever gonna be you for him. You know that, right?” 

Your stomach roils.

(I’ve been waiting.

He still is.)

“I’m married.” 

He throws his hands up into the air. “He’s still your soulmate!” 

“I don’t love him!”

“It’s Kita,” he shouts, startling a few passersby. “Everybody loves him!”

“I’m not in love with him,” you say, the words bitter on your tongue. You are so, so tired. “I’m married. I’m happy. Kita’s accepted it, so why can’t you?”

He snorts, honey-brown eyes narrowing. “You really think he’s accepted it? Or is that what you tell yerself so you can sleep at night?”

“Fuck you.” 

The words snap out of you, brutally frigid, like river ice cracking beneath its own weight. To your utter horror, there are tears pooling hot in your eyes, threatening to spill over. Atsumu looks almost as horrified as you feel, but it’s of little consolation. You can feel a sob welling up inside you, rippling through you like oceantide. 

You manage to bite down on it when it leaves you, muffling it just enough. Then the tears finally fall, carving their way across your cheeks like snowmelt, already bitterly cold from the winter air. You rub them away with the back of your hand. 

“I didn’t mean ta—”

“But you did,” you say, knife-sharp and drawing him up short. “You did. Goodbye, Miya.”

He doesn’t follow you when you walk away.

***

The neighbors’ little girl loves the summer rains. She spends them running around outside, the murky puddle water splashing under the soles of her banana-yellow boots. She has a matching umbrella and sometimes you and Takao can see it from your bedroom window, whirling like a top. 

“We should do that,” Takao says, his chin hooked over your shoulder. It’s pouring out. The rain hums against the roof, nature’s oldest song, and the neighbors’ girl—Aiko, you think—is dancing to it. You can just make out her long braid bouncing as she hops from puddle to puddle.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, getting to his feet and tugging you with him. “Let’s go.”

“Aoshi, it’s pouring.” 

“Yes, that’s the point.” 

You laugh and let him drag you through the house. He shoves your raincoat at you, shrugging on his own before the two of you race to the genkan, giggling as you go. You slip your boots on and run outside.

The rain sluices down on you, the humid summer heat already sneaking its way beneath your raincoat, the beginnings of sweat starting to gather. You pay it little mind, sucking in a deep breath instead, taking in the scent of the wet concrete as Takao grabs your hand. He tugs you towards Aiko.

Before you know it, the two of you are swinging her back and forth between you, her little wrists clutched tight in your hands. She shrieks with delight each time she comes up off the ground; each landing creates a tidal wave in the puddle she crashes down into. 

Takao is laughing, low and sweet, and when you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. His dark hair is plastered against his forehead. Water droplets are beading on his long eyelashes before he blinks them away. 

Your breath catches for an instant. And then Aiko is tugging on your hand, wanting to go again, and you glance away from your husband with a little smile. 

You stay outside with Aiko until her father calls her in. Then the two of you tumble back into your house, stripping off your wet clothing with groans. 

Takao cooks dinner as you lay everything out to dry. You’ve just clipped the last clothespin into place when he calls to you; you take the extra clothespins and clip them along the little storage space you’d added to the balcony for them, a short length of bright blue twine. 

He’s made curry, the type that warms even your bones. The two of you curl up together on the couch to eat. You lean into him, ignoring his groan as you accidentally elbow him in the stomach.

“We should go on our honeymoon,” he says after a moment. “It’s almost been a year and we still haven’t gone.” 

“We should,” you say, scraping your bowl clean and licking the last of the sauce off of your chopsticks. “Where do you want to go?”

“Haven’t thought that far.”

You snort. “You’re the one who brought it up!”

“It’s a step by step process, you know. First we have to decide to actually go, then we pick the place.”

He easily evades your little pinch. 

“It’s gonna be hard to pick,” you tell him.

“Maybe.” 

“We’ll figure it out, I guess.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple. 

“We always do.” 

He’s right, you think. You always do figure it out.

Together.

***

The farm is dusted with snow.

It reminds you of powdered sugar, light and fluffy and easily blown away in the slightest breeze. It’s the first snow according to Kita. The true frost set in over the last week; the paddies have iced over, a cobweb of winter. You listen to the crackle of it settling and shiver, pushing deeper into your scarf.

“Ya warm enough?” Kita asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s just a little more mild in the city.”

He hums his agreement. The two of you keep walking along the worn dirt path, weaving through the slumbering fields. The snow crunches softly underfoot. In the distance, you can hear the rumble of a truck; it purrs and groans as it putters down one of the other roads. 

“I’m glad you came,” Kita says softly.

He’s invited you several times, never pushing, but you’ve always said no. You don’t know why this time had felt right, but it had. You watch a crow circle overhead before it lands in a bare tree, a spot of darkness against the pale blue sky. 

“Me too,” you say. “I’ve never been out here in the winter.”

“Pretty, ain’t it?”

“It is.” 

The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence as you wander further. You pass another farmhouse where two small children are playing outside, both of them bundled up to the point that they’re waddling more than walking. One of them has a crimson scarf, the deep color of poppies at night, the ends of it fluttering in the gentle breeze.

They’re sliding a puck back and forth on ice that’s creaking ominously. They wave to you with the branches they’re using for hockey sticks. 

“Should we stop them?” you ask, waving back.

Kita shakes his head. “There’s only an inch or so of water, this time of year. They’ll be fine.” 

“Okay.” 

“Did you ever do that?”

He laughs. “Course.”

“Play or fall through?”

“Both, actually,” he says. He takes hold of your arm as you slip on a patch of ice, keeping you upright with ease. “Careful now.”

He waits until you’re steady before he lets go. He presses a bit closer after that and you let him. The wind is too constant to really feel the heat of him, but you think you feel it anyway. 

You fall back into comfortable silence. The wind is whistling softly through the bare trees, stirring the last clinging remnants of the leaves. You watch one of them tear free and blow away. It carries across the fields, which stretch as far as the eye can see. 

You turn back when you get to the edge of the paddy you’re walking next to. By the time you’re back to the farm, you’re chatting about what to make for dinner. Kita had taken you to the local market earlier in the day letting you browse through the piles of daikon and leeks, each of them fresher than anything you would see in the grocery store.

“Oden?” Kita suggests as you enter the genkan and you nod.

“Sounds perfect,” you say, using the wall to balance as you start to take off your boots. Kita stops in the middle of taking off his jacket and kneels down in front of you to get the buckle you’re struggling with. “Kita, you don’t need to do that.”

“Already down here,” he says with a smirk. “So I might as well.” 

You sigh. “Thank you,” you say, slipping off your jacket and hanging it carefully. 

He nods, tucking his outerwear away neatly before getting to his feet. After he’s sure you’re all set, he heads down the hall, turning on the small kotatsu that sits in his living room. It’s an older one, the blanket slightly worn, patterned with white cranes. It was his grandmother’s, you think. 

“Get warm,” he says. “I’ll start cooking.”

“I should help—”

“You can after you’ve warmed up a little bit.”

“Fine,” you say, ignoring the little smile on his face as you pout. You sit at the kotatsu and melt into the warmth as he heads into the kitchen. 

You join him not long after. He gives you leeks to chop as he peels daikon; you spend a few minutes at his pristine kitchen sink, washing the grit out from between the leaves. The two of you chatter as you cook. The kitchen is slowly heating, until it’s like a banked fire. 

His kitchen is small but set up well and the two of you move around it easily together. You rarely bump into each other and hand off ingredients as the other needs them. It’s seamless and it doesn’t take long before the oden is done.

The two of you settle at the kotatsu to eat. Kita hands you a pair of well-worn chopsticks.

“You should come for longer next time, if you can,” he says.

“I’ll try to,” you say, knowing that you’ve only touched the surface of the farm. Of the life he’s built here, in the wide expanse of the countryside. 

He smiles warmly. “Good.”

Time flies by until Kita has to get up to turn on another lamp as night encroaches. When you peer out the window, the night sky sprawls endless above you, softly lit by the tender touch of the waning moon.

“I should go,” you say. “It’s late.”

He hums an agreement. The two of you bundle up in the genkan; Kita lends you a too-long scarf that’s messily knitted. You wrap it around your neck several times before you are willing to brave the cold. 

The snow glistens under the moonlight as you trudge to Kita’s truck. There’s a stillness to the night, as if you’re on the cusp of something unreal, something otherworldly. You tilt your head back and gaze at the stars, scattered throughout the plush darkness, glinting like ice. 

Kita cranks the truck’s heater to high as it rumbles on. It blows out a gush of cold air that makes you shudder, but it’s already warming by the time you’re pulling out of the driveway. 

“Where does your farm end?” you ask.

“Just here,” he says, flicking on his blinker as he makes a turn down the road towards town. “Then it’s Suzuki’s place.” 

“Do they—”

“Have ducks?”

“...Yes.”

His eyes flicker to you, the amber of them aglow in the silvery moonlight. “He does.” 

You must look pleased because he laughs, the sound low and warm, filling the cab of the truck like billowing smoke. The smile on his lips is wide and you think of the horizon, how it never ends, and hope that his joy never ends, too. 

“Kita,” you say, unable to help yourself.

“Mhm?”

“I’m glad we’re friends,” you say softly.

Kita’s smile dims, the summer sun hidden behind thin, wispy clouds. 

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. He sounds a little sad. “Me too.”

The rest of the ride is silent.

***

Winter melts away in the face of spring’s burgeoning warmth. The crocuses come early this year, pushing up through the dregs of frost, unfurling quietly, steadily. Yoshikawa paints them; they’re bruises against the soft white of her canvas, the yellow stamen cradled between petals like golden treasure. 

She gives you and Abe the paintings one day at the park. They’re carefully wrapped, no bigger than your hand, tied up with a piece of twine that you think she sniped from your gardening supplies. 

“What’s this?” Abe asks.

“Find out for yourself,” Yoshikawa says, as if Abe isn’t already tearing into the paper. She hands you yours as you sit up from the pile of blankets you’d laid out on the grassy knoll of the park. You pull it open carefully.

“Pretty,” you breathe, tracing a finger over the long, elegant curve of the stems. “Are these the ones behind the house?”

She nods.

“These aren’t your usual style,” Abe says.

Yoshikawa shrugs, laying down on the blankets and shielding her eyes against the sun. “I’m trying something new.”

“It’s nice,” Abe says. “You should do more like it.”

“Maybe.” 

“When are you going to paint me?”

“I already painted you,” Yoshikawa points out. 

“That was in high school!”

“It’s still painting you.”

You tune them out and lie back down. You curl up so that you can pillow your head on Yoshikawa’s stomach. She shifts to give you more room. She smells like sweet, wet earth. You think of a garden after rain, when it’s gone lush and green. You sink into the oasis of her. 

Abe wakes you up as the sun is starting to set. You groan but let her coax you up. The three of you gather your items plus a few things you hadn’t had at the start of the day: a heart shaped rock Abe tripped over; a box of okonomiyaki that’s perfuming the air with a savory, spicy scent; a few golden wildflowers, tied carefully together with a hair elastic.

You know the walk home by heart, so you spend your time looking at the city as it comes to life, a night-blooming flower. Next to you, Abe is chatting merrily at Yoshikawa, who is looking at her with a smile you know well. She glances at you and drops you a sly little wink. 

“What was that?” Abe asks immediately.

“Nothing,” Yoshikawa says, taking your keys from you and opening the front door.

“It was something!”

“It really wasn’t.”

“Yes it was!”

You listen to them bicker all the way to the kitchen, trying not to laugh. Abe whirls on you. “Tell me,” she whines.

“It really was nothing,” you say. “She’s just winding you up.”

Abe huffs. “I hate you both.”

“You love us,” Yoshikawa says, opening up the box of okonomiyaki and grabbing three of her favorite plates. 

“Sadly, I do.” 

Your phone rings; when you glance at it, it’s an unknown number. You silence it and grab a plate from Yoshikawa. The three of you eat and chat, swapping bites here and there since you all got different fillings. The sun sets; the golden light pours in through your kitchen window and haloes your friends. 

Your phone vibrates and you pull it out of your pocket, expecting it to be Takao. Instead, the same unknown number is calling you again. You frown and pick up.

A woman says your name. There’s something to the way she says it. You let out a soft, shaky breath as you listen.

You hang up. Your phone sits heavy in your hand.

“That was the hospital,” you say, sounding too calm even to your own ears. “Aoshi was in an accident.”

Abe and Yoshikawa’s heads come up. 

“Is he okay?” Yoshikawa says, blade-sharp.

Your vision is going black at the edges, a slow, steady swallowing. You sit down carefully, the wooden floor cold even through your clothing.

Abe says your name.

She sounds scared.

“No,” you say evenly. “He didn’t make it.”

[queenofcats17]

The Ink Demonth 11

Today's theme is Melody.

I bounced around a lot about what to do before finally settling on this.

Enjoy a shepherd tending to his sheep!

================================================

Every Lost One knew that hearing singing was a bad sign.

Singing usually meant the Angel, and you didn't want to run into her under any circumstances.

So, when the Lost Ones of the Harbor woke up to singing outside their doors, they were immediately afraid. Had the Angel found them? Were they all to be dragged off for her sick experiments? They cowered in their homes, praying that whoever it was would move on if they didn't show they were there.

However, the longer they waited, the less scared they became, as they realized it was not the voice of a woman who was singing, but that of a man. The voice sounded familiar as well. So, they peered out their windows to see who was singing.

And there, sitting in the middle of the harbor, was the Prophet, tuning his banjo and singing wordlessly along with the plucked strings.

"My prophet, what are you doing?" A Lost One asked, exiting their home.

Sammy looked up from his banjo for a moment before quickly returning his attention to the instrument. "I thought I would play something for you all," he said. "Things have been rather difficult as of late. You all deserve a little cheering up."

Slowly, more and more Lost Ones exited their homes, having heard their Prophet's explanation. They sat down around him, watching him like expectant children. They were used to gathering around him like this. Whether for some sort of impromptu sermon or performance. It didn't really matter what the Prophet was doing, the Lost Ones just liked being spoken to as though they were still people.

Eventually, Sammy seemed to decide the banjo was tuned to his satisfaction and began to play some actual songs. The first song he played was "Willow Weep For Me", which surprised none of them. Mostly the Lost Ones were surprised he still remembered all the words.

"Leave it to him to remember his favorite song," one Lost One whispered to another as Sammy played.

"Oh shut up!" The second hissed, trying to stifle a giggle as they playfully shoved their friend.

The next few were unfamiliar to most of the Lost Ones, just some church hymns, half-remembered and awkwardly stumbled through. The Lost Ones clapped politely at them nonetheless because they were better than nothing.

Then Sammy played Sheep Songs, which brightened the mood of everyone present. All of the Lost Ones knew Sheep Songs and they all clapped enthusiastically as Sammy played.

"You won't be able to hear the song if you clap too loudly," Sammy chided them, although there was no venom in his voice. He let them clap and cheer as he played the song.

Soon after, he shifted to playing some more upbeat and fast-tempo songs, which got the Lost Ones to get up and dance a bit. The dancing was clumsy and awkward, but the Lost Ones were having fun, so no one was going to stop them. These moments of joy were few and far between in the studio. They all wanted to enjoy them while they could.

Not all the Lost Ones believed in what Sammy preached. That was never why they followed him. No, they followed him because he gave them something they couldn't give to themselves. He played for them a sweet melody of hope and identity. He gave them a chance to feel like people once more. And they would cling to that for as long as they possibly could.

[gastricpierrot]

Title: Until forever ends

Series: Honkai Star Rail

Relationship: JingHeng (or mostly JingFeng i guess??)

Rating: T

Warnings: spoilers for the 1.2 story update and also some 1.3 leaks

Summary:

This time for sure, Jing Yuan was determined to properly say his goodbyes.

Also on AO3 

-----------------------------------------------------------

Jing Yuan always has, by nature, been an opportunist.

Give him a ten-minute break from his paperwork and he would go missing for the rest of the day. Grant him an opening, be it in a game of starchess or in actual battle, and he will conquer.

Give him a chance to save one person he loves, and he would try to save all of them.

And he would fail, miserably. Inadvertently. Brilliant as he may be, lauded as the best tactical genius in the Xianzhou for the past millennia—he was still all but a singular man. Limited in his capabilities, powerless to bend the world completely to his will.

He was powerless, as he watched the Judges of the Ten Lords Commission subjugate the rampaging Imbibitor Lunae as they would a rabid beast. As the ground shook and the air weighted with sea salt, as Dan Feng roared his haunting cloudhymns towards the heavens with despairing ferocity and summoned the ancient sea to tear the Luofu itself asunder.

Dan Feng, in all his godly regality and his stupid, stubborn pride, was the most beautiful man Jing Yuan had ever seen.

The next time Jing Yuan finally had the chance to meet him, it was within the stifling walls of the Shackling Prison.

Heavy chains bound Dan Feng’s limbs, reinforced by countless talismans to suppress the High Elder’s immense power. His cage was far too small, barely leaving him enough space to stretch his arms and legs if he wanted to. He had lost weight, his cheeks gaunt and his complexion dull. His hair had lost its once healthy sheen, now matted with grime and dirt from many days of skipped washing—and perhaps out of annoyance, he had weaved it into a tight braid over one shoulder.

Despite everything, Dan Feng seemed to remain particular about the most strangely insignificant things.

“I see you’ve finally managed to find your way in here,” he said by way of greeting, in a tone that suggested a lack of concern for his current wellbeing as a prisoner of the Ten Lords Commission. Perhaps he had simply been here long enough to no longer care.

After all, despite his sins, his recklessness and his seething fury, Dan Feng was still a Vidyadhara High Elder, as well as one of the High Cloud Quintet, revered as a legend and a hero for his feats on behalf of the Luofu. His crimes did not erase his legacy, nor did his noble achievements justify the sheer carnage he had left in his wake. The Vidyadhara Preceptors wanted justice on their own terms, claiming rights to adjudicate one of their own. The public were split between wanting to understand and wanting to condemn his actions. The law was set in stone and uncompromising.

The stalemate had gone on for several decades by the time of Jing Yuan’s first visit. That was plenty of time for Dan Feng to steel himself for the inevitable.

“You’ve been thinking too highly of me, Dan Feng,” Jing Yuan laughed sheepishly, though it was taking all he had to hide the tension stringing his shoulders taunt. He'd thought he’d be sufficiently prepared, after all these years—yet seeing Dan Feng in this state was still extremely difficult to bear.

Yinyue-jun, who had always carried himself with the grace of a moving stream, was now weighed down by hideous thick chains, his body confined to an awkward, hunched posture. Large scales covered parts of his skin in patches, results of the exuviation charm forced upon him by the Preceptors before his arrest. Dark, inky inscriptions circled around his neck like a collar, a powerful spell to prevent him from singing his hymns.

His eyes, once ever-burning with defiance and underlying mischief, now looked so, so tired.

“If there’s anyone who could do it, it’s you,” Dan Feng stated as though it was truly merely a fact. Jing Yuan had turned out to be one of the youngest people ever to have shouldered the mantle of an Arbiter-General.

And it was not something he thought was particularly worth bragging about. He was desperate, in truth. That was all there was to it. If it hadn’t come to this, Dan Feng trapped in prison and awaiting retribution for his crimes and Yingxing still unconscious, his body constantly tearing itself apart to adapt to its new constitution even after all these years—he would never have chosen to take this seat.

If he could, Jing Yuan had only wanted to continue going on expeditions to strange, foreign lands with his friends, fighting the Plague Author’s abominations as though they were simply protagonists of a comic book. He had always secretly pretended, deep inside, that they were a squad of Galaxy Rangers on a life mission to defeat cosmic evils. He was the Red Ranger, Dan Feng was Green, Yingxing was Black, Jingliu was Blue, and Baiheng was Purple. Five of them against the world.

It was a delusion he clung to like a lifeline, even after he has long since grown past the appropriate age to have such wistful imagination. Even when he’s witnessing first-hand, how it’s all falling apart.

“What’s wrong? You don’t look so good suddenly.”

There was a shimmering barrier between them, as if a dragon robbed of his claws and fangs and devoid of the will to fight warranted such extra measures. How Jing Yuan wished he could simply shatter it with his fists, just so Dan Feng could be closer within reach and he could ease himself into his arms and believe that at least, despite all the odds stacked against them, he was still there. Dan Feng was imprisoned deep underground beyond the reach of any semblance of sunlight, in a cell that was far too small for his insatiable longing for freedom—but if nothing else, at least he was still there. Still alive. Still can be rescued, as long as Jing Yuan played all his cards right.

“I’m just—” Jing Yuan tries, taking a quick breath to pull himself together— “a little worn out, I suppose. There’s been a lot going on lately.”

He hadn’t meant to imply that the “going on’s” had much to do with Dan Feng—at least not consciously. There were plenty of other matters piled endlessly onto his plate as the General, all that required far too much of his time and consideration. Too many difficult decisions, too many sacrifices he’s never ready to make.

Jing Yuan was exhausted beyond comprehension. He simply did not have the privilege to admit it out loud.

“A-Yuan,” Dan Feng called, his voice soft and gentle and safe. He had always been Jing Yuan’s safe place. Despite all the spells casted upon him to seal the High Elder’s power, Jing Yuan felt a familiar brush of a phantom tail against his cheek. “You need to remember to take care of yourself, too.”

Jing Yuan allowed himself a single heavy sigh, his body deflating with the breath. “I’m trying.”

“The hardest you’ve ever had,” Dan Feng agreed, exchanging a wry smile with him. Jing Yuan saw how quickly it faded, how he then averted his gaze and furrowed his brow—and he just knew, what he was about to say next.

“Listen, A-Yuan, I—”

“Feng-ge.”

Jing Yuan held his gaze when their eyes met once more, willing Dan Feng not to continue. He refused to let him continue. They had both made their choices, and they were to bear the consequences for them in whatever way they can. Jing Yuan felt that any apologies now would only undermine his efforts thus far, all these blood, sweat and tears for someone who lacked the resolve to face the people he knew he’d hurt with his actions. No, Dan Feng was not allowed to say sorry.

But Jing Yuan was also knew, more than anyone, how selfish Yinyue-jun could be. And how much his friends meant to him, and how he never could bear to see Jing Yuan especially, in any sort of pain or anguish. Though it was precisely this kindness of his that had eaten away at him and left his heart a raw, bleeding mess for as long as he could remember.

Jing Yuan had never been ashamed of his love for Dan Feng. He never stopped wearing his heart on his sleeve, never stopped longing for Dan Feng’s affection, Dan Feng’s attention, despite being well aware that none of it was going to be reciprocated in the way he yearned for it to be.

Dan Feng had chosen Yingxing, that was a fact. But it was also a fact that Dan Feng still adored Jing Yuan with the same capacity he’d always had, and he’d never tried to push Jing Yuan away even after he’d made his feelings known to him. He’d still indulge him with his gentle smiles and warm touches, still let him into his space and into his heart. Still patiently listen to his recounts of his favourite scenes in the latest novel he'd procured whenever they were out on expeditions together, still had a fondness for combing his fingers through his hair and calling him A-Yuan as though his name alone carried all the tenderness in the world.

Jing Yuan loved Dan Feng. He loved him with a force that knocked the air out of his lungs, a serenity that rivaled the waters of Scalegorge on a clear day. He loved him, and how he wished that that was all it took to fix things.

“...How is Yingxing?”

But it was not. He refused to stop trying, nonetheless.

“Still asleep.” Jing Yuan smiled somberly and, unable to bear the stifling silence that followed, added, “but at least his body seems to have stabilized. He might just wake up one of these days.”

And then what? The question hangs in the air, unvoiced, unanswered. There was no guarantee that Yingxing would rise the same person as he died, even after all they had sacrificed to bring him back. Such was the cruel reality surrounding their circumstances. Dan Feng was slowly molting in a prison cell. Baiheng had fallen in battle and Jingliu had succumbed to the mara and disappeared.

And all that’s left is Jing Yuan, alone against the world.

Yet he still refused to stop trying to fix things, because that was the only thing left that he could do.

xXx

After countless debates and appeals that spanned for nearly a century, it was decided that the Imbibitor Lunae would be spared from death, and instead be granted a molting rebirth.

The Vidyadhara firmly believed that reincarnation begins with a clean slate, that everything from one lifetime will be washed away by the primordial sea upon hatching once more. Dan Feng will no longer be Dan Feng but a whole other person altogether, one who will not share his name, his memories, his legacies nor his crimes.

In a some sense of the word, it was the “death” of the High Elder that the Ten Lords Commission demanded.

The next time Dan Feng reemerges from his egg, he will set out into the world and collect his own experiences to form who he will be. He will meet new people and find new friends and family. He will no longer remember any traces of his past life; not his friends, his family, his joys, nor his sorrows and sins.

But before all that, he will have to bear the punishment of his selfish, prideful predecessor. He will be shackled within the confines of darkness for a long, long time, harshly scrutinized for simply existing, for simply having been who he was. He will know no warmth, have no companionship, and will not receive any form of mercy. He will not understand, but he will have no choice.

And Jing Yuan’s heart broke for him. It shattered to pieces and crumbled to dust, and he had not even the time to bend down and haphazardly put it back together. There were simply too many battles to fight, too many futures he had to foresee and avoid and he was spread far too thin. Sometimes it felt as if he could hardly even breathe.

Yet Dan Feng always remained at the back of his mind, the mental image of him chained up within that isolated prison cell a driving force that kept propelling Jing Yuan forward. One, just one. If he could save just one of them. All he had before was reputation, praises for his excellence and achievements. Now, as the Divine Foresight, he had authority—and he was not above using it to his personal advantage.

By his mandate, the reincarnated Yinyue-jun's imprisonment shall last no more than a hundred years, after which he shall face banishment from the Xianzhou for eternity.

It was the only way Jing Yuan knew, to safely set him free from the clutches of his past. Even if it meant never seeing him again, never being able to meet the next person he was going to become.

Jing Yuan had not been able to send Dan Feng off the first time. His molting had accelerated at an abnormal rate during his final days, and by the time Jing Yuan was made aware of it and hurried to see him, it had been too late. In the too-small cell deep within the Shackling Prison, a giant, pearly white egg lay in the place of the Imbibitor Lunae Dan Feng.

Far from the embrace of the primordial sea where it should’ve been, and unresponsive to his touch.

(Jing Yuan could not move the sea as the ancient High Elders once did, but he could at least keep him company with his warmth for as long as he was allowed, no matter how scarce his subsequent visits remained.)

A heart heavy with grief had hardly made his second chance much better. Dan Feng...no, this person was no longer Dan Feng, no matter the uncanny degree of resemblance. Perhaps he had even yet to choose a new name for himself, with all those years spent alone in a cell with nothing but the companionship of the books Jing Yuan was allowed to send him. The youth’s legs trembled slightly from disuse as he shuffled into the world for the first time in nearly three hundred years, and even the carefully controlled brightness of the Luofu sky seemed to hurt his eyes.

Jing Yuan wished he could’ve at least said a proper goodbye this time, even if he was all but a stranger to him now. He wished he could’ve held him in one last embrace, sent him off with well wishes and a perhaps a token to remember him by.

He did not. His farewell was merely a single squeeze on the man’s shoulder, and then he was urging him forward, away from him. Forever.

xXx

With the sheer number of years Jing Yuan has lived, he supposes he should be used to the whimsicalities of fate by now. In fact, perhaps the Aeon Aha themselves has made it a personal mission to make his life as unfunny as cosmically possible, constantly cursing him with a million twists and turns that leave him scrambling for stable ground. It’s impressive that he has lived up to his age without being mara-stricken, and sometimes it feels as if the universe is trying its damn best to change that.

Like now, as he stands at the shores of Scalegorge Waterscape, gaze locked with that belonging to the one man who shares his beloved’s visage.

Jing Yuan almost forgets how to breathe.

He'd known he was back in the Luofu—of course he would, his intelligence network would never have failed to alert him this much. He was there to chase after his friends from the Express, hellbent on making sure they are safe from…well, there are many things they need to be safe from on the Luofu at the moment. The revived Ambrosial Arbor, the Stellaron, Phantylia.

Yingxing, who had stopped being Yingxing centuries ago.  

And even though they were all of Jing Yuan’s concern, too, he does not want them to matter. For just a moment, he does not want to be in the shoes of the General.

“It’s been a long time,” he greets, searching his face for even the smallest hints of recognition, baseless hope swelling in his chest despite himself. “Old friend.”

The exuviation charm should’ve left him fragments of memories from his past life, that had been the whole point of its flaws. That had been part of the Preceptors’ plot, Jing Yuan had later discovered, to artificially trigger Dan Feng’s molting and fake his death, hoping that it would preserve his identity as the High Elder even after rebirth.

But Jing Yuan had been there on the day of his banishment. He’d seen how genuinely confused and terrified he was while being loaded onto the Starskiff that would take him to some unknown point within the incomprehensively vast universe. And he was sure then; whatever flaw the spell was meant to have, it did not preserve Dan Feng’s memories as well as they had wanted.

“I’m not him.”

Thus comes the inadvertent reply, factual and cold and leaving no room for debate.

Waves crash against the shore in a hypnotic, unceasing rhythm; back and forth, back and forth. It fills Jing Yuan’s ears in a cacophony, clashing with the static in his head and his drumming heartbeat. Far in the distance, a sea-faring bird lets out a pitiful wail.

Dan Feng was gone. He had been gone since long ago, carried home by the currents of the ancient sea.

Jing Yuan closes his eyes, takes a breath. He must not falter. A general must never falter. He offers Dan Heng a sheepish smile.

“Mm. I’m sorry.”

Dan Heng scowls, as though he doubted the sincerity of his apology. And he’s right, Jing Yuan can’t seem to bring himself to be fully sorry. His heart aches almost to the point of suffocation and his years upon years of practice when it comes to reigning in his emotions are lost to the void the moment he came face to face with Dan Heng. It isn’t really all that fair, is it? That he looks identical to his predecessor, from the elegant curve of his horns to his glower of displeasure. He had even chosen a name that sounds so similar, almost as if it was a taunt personally aimed at Jing Yuan. As if his Feng-ge had returned to him against all odds, except that he hasn't.

Dan Heng makes it a point to make his boundaries crystal clear, snapping at him whenever he even makes the insinuation that there’s still a connection between himself and his past life. Maybe Jing Yuan is just a mess and an asshole, but he does end up teasing him a little longer just to get a reaction out of him. He’s lucky that unlike Dan Feng, Dan Heng does not seem to have an awful temper, and instead settles for the fiercest frown Jing Yuan has ever had the pleasure to see on those features.

He could love him in this life too, he thinks. Helplessly, wistfully. Foolishly. If given the chance, he could. He would. Without a shred of hesitation.

But one must wonder if such opportunity would ever arise. A familiar feeling bubbles up in his chest as he watches Dan Heng reunite with his friends from the Express from a little distance away. They gravitate towards each other the moment they are within range, all excited exclamations and loud sighs of relief. Jing Yuan notes the way the other Trailblazers surround Dan Heng as though subconsciously forming a protective wall around him, as though they knew of the scars the Xianzhou had left on him from birth and are doing all they can to keep him safe. He notes the tenderness in his gaze as he brings them up to date about his side of the latest events.

Without a doubt, Dan Heng has found people who care very much about him. He's found his own family on the Astral Express, and the train never stops in one place longer than it has to.

It’s almost twistedly entertaining, how this aspect of Jing Yuan’s life never seems to change.

He turns towards the imposing draconic figure looming in the distance, and settles back into the shoes of the General once more.

Truth to be told, Jing Yuan does not end up remembering much about the battle with Phantylia. It's a habit he’s since made a point to practice, mentally filing away only the important details of a fight for future reference and letting everything else flow through and past him. He can say with confidence that it has worked wonders to preserve his literal sanity.

The pain, though, is usually another story. Jing Yuan’s told that he had been unconscious for two whole weeks with the best medical experts tending to his wounds and still, he wakes up feeling like he’s been skewered and slow-cooked over a barbeque pit. Aeons help this poor old man and his disintegrating body and maybe, he can’t help but ponder in earnest, this is finally a sign for him to retire soon. The exhaustion is deep, settling into his bones like cement. Sharp pain shoots through his body like bolts of electricity each time he tries to move.

But he forces himself up from bed as soon as he’s able to anyway, even if it’s only for a few hours at a time each day—because he worries he’d never be able to get up again if he doesn’t start working on it quickly enough.

To his luck—or perhaps by the sheer power of his will and stubbornness, he manages to recover enough strength to return to going out and about just in time for him to catch the Astral Express crew before they leave. It is only right that he sends them off as the leader of the Xianzhou Luofu, after all the assistance they had offered throughout the Stellaron crisis. He presents them gifts that can hardly repay the generosity they’ve shown, swears alliance with the Nameless should they encounter any trouble in the future, and extends an offer for them to visit whenever they wish. And if they do decide to visit, just remember to get in touch, so that he can set some time aside and invite them for a meal and a long chat to hear about their latest adventures.

Some part of him deep down wishes he too could be part of those adventures, some day.

But for now, he must say his goodbyes. Finally, properly.

Jing Yuan is giving directions to the Cloud Knights escorting his guests back to the Express, delaying the inevitable, when he notices movement from the corner of his eye. He turns to find Dan Heng breaking away from his group and heading towards him, his features set in a complicated expression. Behind him, his friends observe in what seems to be a state of excited tension.

Jing Yuan stiffens when Dan Heng steps close, biting back the instinctive urge to maintain a respectable distance between them after all the boundaries Dan Heng had painstakingly set. He stays very still, confusion growing as Dan Heng lifts his hand to touch his own forehead, then reaching up and touching Jing Yuan’s with the same two fingers.

“My name is Dan Heng and I am one of the Nameless aboard the Astral Express,” he says, and it abruptly dawns on Jing Yuan that this is Dan Heng’s own version of the traditional Vidyadhara greeting. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

For a moment, Jing Yuan is genuinely stunned into stupidity. Why was Dan Heng introducing himself all of the sudden? Did he lose some of his memories again after he severed his connection with the High Elder Statue?

And then it hit him. Dan Heng… is opening a door for him. It’s roundabout and awkward and unfairly endearing—but he is. Jing Yuan’s breath catches in his throat and he struggles for a proper way to respond. After every comparison Jing Yuan had cruelly made, after every calculated remark, every admission that he was only using Dan Heng for the power of the Imbibitor Lunae—he’s still willing to give him a chance…?

Jing Yuan stares at him, really stares at him while his mind clambers to process the situation. Dan Heng is wearing his signature frown, though this time there’s a slight furrow on his brow as well, like he’s wondering if he'd somehow broken one of the highest ranking officials of the Xianzhou Luofu and the concern is slowly setting in.

Jing Yuan’s gaze flickers to the people behind him in hopes of getting some clues, some sort of affirmation—and, upon eye contact, is then flashed an enthusiastic thumbs up and a wild grin by a certain golden-eyed Trailblazer.

An amused laugh almost escapes him at the sight, all his tension miraculously disappearing with a whoosh. Surely he hasn’t made it that obvious while in front of other people?

And the fact that they were able to convince Dan Heng to do this…Jing Yuan once again finds the audacity to hope.

“Likewise. I’m Jing Yuan, Arbiter-General of the Xianzhou Luofu.” He returns Dan Heng’s gesture, prolonging his touch for just an extra second before withdrawing. An opportunist, as always. “May I have your number, Dan Heng?”

[squalloscope]

I was silly this year, thought the personal cures could be anywhere but in the making, so I stopped the output for a while to see what a prolonged phase of input would do, but along with other people's art and music and writing, a gentle avalanche of abundant amazement, snuck in other people's hurt and heavy heavies and had started to overwrite my own faster than I could say "autistic empathic attunement" while I was still learning about the existence of such a thing. Most times I wasn't helpful in my murkiness, couldn't be, I lose my outlines faster than I had always assumed I would, stop monitoring the contrast levels, let the blur get out of hand as I get washed away and out in a movement towards becoming one with everything, to belong so fully I can barely tell where I stop and the world begins. The past few years had ground me down to powder form, offering only brief moments of grounding, a loss of gravity, and what feels more like panic than floating away into all directions, I ask you. I don't ask, no question mark in my question, questions without question marks are deliberate pseudo connections, and what is more tiring than connecting but not connecting, I ask you. Anyhow, listen, I started recording music a few weeks ago, picked up loose compositional threads I had started weaving four years ago, adding a hymn to the hum, an anthem longing to attune to a coastline, a tune about tuning the strings running through a brain, an ode to the spot where clowns and nuns and witchery overlap, assembling a group of songs that, for now, just are. There is no good home for music anymore, not really, but if I finish these creatures before I leave for a few months early next year, I'll send these poems out with little backpacks and you'll be free to stop them in their tracks, unzip their front pockets, and stuff your own heavy heavies into them. That's the thing with the music. Nothing connects me to the earth like it does, and once I disconnect the songs from my home, they grow an endless supply of moorings, and you can tie your own rickety boat to them for a while, float for a bit, move the way it moves, moves me, moves you, maybe, maybe.