#hydrangea means water | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lazyjellyfish300 · 2 months

Text

The Woman He Didn't Choose part 2🥀

AU Bachelor!Miguel O'Hara x Fem contestant Reader

Synopsis: the aftermath of the show as you and Miguel move on(sort of). The first part is mostly from his POV then transitions into your experience on the spinoff show- Singles in Paradise where you have a second shot at finding love. Word count: 6k

A/N: Sorry to any Xina fans, I made her OOC and quite mean in this one. I haven't read the comics but from what I've heard of her and seen so far she's one of the canon love interests I like the most. (Even tho I shamelessly self ship with Miguel lolol bc as far as I know ATSV Miguel is separate from comic Miguel Soo until we hear otherwise I'm gonna be delulu.)

Also, I am sorry if any of the couple pairings in this part bother you, it's purely for the purpose of the plot since we're supposed to be on another dating show and I am too lazy to create a bunch of OCs. If you're unfamiliar with the show Bachelor in Paradise, here's a clip to give you an idea. Basically, it's another dating show usually in a tropical location where single people couple up, and new arrivals come in every so often and ask people on dates to shake things up, leading to drama and chaos, and couples can choose to stay together or break up in the end and there's typically an engagement. DISCLAIMER: I HAVE NO RIGHTS TO THE SHOWS THE BACHELOR OR BACHELOR IN PARADISE, ALL RIGHTS TO THE OWNERS. I CHANGED THE NAME OF THE SHOW IN THE STORY.

TW: MINORS DNI, ANGST, RACIAL MICROAGGRESSIONS ABOUT ESL AND FAMILY STRUCTURE(IF THAT'S SENSITIVE FOR YOU PLEASE SKIP ❤️) EMOTIONAL ABUSE, TOXIC RELATIONSHIP, ALCOHOL ,DOWNPLAYING MENTAL HEALTH STRUGGLES, LITTLE BIT OF EMOTIONAL CHEATING ON MIGUEL'S PART, STRUGGLES WITH RELIGION AND FAITH, MENTION BULLYING AND FAMILY STRUGGLES, BREAK-UP, FANTASIZING, JEALOUSY, INSECURITY, CLASSISM, MODERATE SMUT(P IN V BUT IT'S ONLY MENTIONED NOT FULLY DETAILED, THESE ONES ARE DETAILED: DRY HUMPING, HEAVY MAKING OUT, AND FINGERING. ALSO, VOYEURISM-ISH)

(couple pairings are Ben Reilly and Felicia Hardy, Jessica Drew and Noir, George Stacey and MJ, Xina Kwan and Miguel O'Hara, not saying anything else bc spoilers)

Part 1 , Part 3

@miguelhugger2099, @kodo1221,@mimiemie, @laysmt, @cheerrioeoz , @spicydonut25 , @thisistotesnotspam-heart , @thekidscallmebosss , @librababe99 , @ce3stvu @irishbl0ss0mz @nommingonfood , @mauvecherie-writes , @royale-skeleton-key , @famouscattale

I'm so sorry if I forgot you in the tags , just lmk

------

"Miguel!"

Miguel looks up abruptly from a spot on the floor he was zoning out on to look at Xina's slightly annoyed expression. "Hydrangeas or peonies for the guest tables, babe?" she repeats, standing next to the sample table where the wedding planner and florist awaited with anxious eyes.

Miguel blinks rapidly. "It doesn't matter to me, baby...um...." he points to the peony arrangement. "That one."

Xina huffs and turns to look at the planner and florist. "We'll do the hydrangeas."

Miguel smirks and puts his hands in his pockets. "Now, why would you ask me my opinion if you're going to just pick the one you wanted?"

Xina's annoyed look softens subtly but she shakes her head. "It's mostly the bride's day, you know. You're just supposed to show up."

Miguel smiles. "Well, I guess you don't need me to come to the wedding planning dinner tonight? Since you seem to have it all handled?"

Xina groans. "Miguel! You said you'd be there! Have you even read through Exodus like I asked you to?"

Miguel feels his cheeks burn. "Shit...um, no..."

Xina shoots a glare at the wedding planner and the florist and makes a shooing motion with her hand. They both put their heads down and quickly leave the room, giving them privacy. Miguel adjusts his tie, a little bit thrown off by her dismissive actions towards the staff.

Xina sits down at the table and pours herself a glass of ice water. She takes a long sip and sighs, looking at Miguel. "Babe...," she says in a low voice. "You know that getting married in the church is a top priority for me. You know what it means to me..."

Miguel's eyebrows knit together with worry. "I know it is..." he rapidly crosses the room to join her and kneels in front of her, hands on her thighs. She squirms away from him a little and purses her lips, looking down.

"Promise me you'll catch up on your Bible reading by next week and set up an appointment with the missionaries?"

Miguel hesitates for just a fraction of a second in his mind but he answers her, almost a little too quickly, "Of course I will."

Xina manages to give him a little smile, fiddling with the top button on his shirt. "Love you..."

"Love you too."

---

Later that evening, Xina and Miguel are sitting next to each other at a large, circular, oak table across from her parents, eating dinner in their mansion of a home.

Xina's mother makes a face when she takes a bite of the salmon.

"Something wrong with it, hun?" Xina's father asks, dishing himself some potatoes.

Xina's mother spits the bite into a napkin. "Rex!" She barks. An older, balding man with a kind face and chef's uniform enters the dining room. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Salmon's not up to par, I'm afraid." She pushes the dish towards the puzzled chef.

"M' sorry ma'am. Can I make you anything else you'd like instea-"

She cuts him off. "No, my appetite's ruined. That's all, Rex."

The chef looks down in shame at the dish he worked hard on, picking it up with shaky hands and shuffling quickly out of the dining room.

Miguel tightens his grip on his fork and shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. He had not seen this side of Xina's parents. But, it was only their third time meeting, so he did his best to concentrate on who he was really there for, Xina. He took another bite of his roast beef.

Once the old man was out of earshot, Xina's mother tuts her teeth. "Sorry, he's insufferable... I don't know what we'll do with him.... is your roast beef even edible, dear?" She asks Miguel.

Miguel inhales slowly, trying to stifle his outrage on the chef's behalf but Xina's father cuts in.

"So, Miguel," Xina's father says, breaking the silence. "Your folks are planning on driving down on the... 25th, right? For the rehearsal dinner?"

Miguel nods, blotting his lips with a cloth napkin. "Yes, sir."

"Remind me who's coming?" He asks, pouring a generous helping of gravy on his potatoes.

Miguel clears his throat. "My younger brother, Gabe, and my mother-"

"Right, your father's not in your life." Xina's father says, waving his fork.

Miguel's lips fall open and he blinks in disbelief at the abruptness of his statement. I mean, he wasn't lying, per se. Miguel took a sip of his wine, trying to chalk it up to just him not choosing his words carefully, that's all.

"Right, he's not..." Miguel says, straightening in his chair.

Xina's mother pipes up, "You know, that's really such an inspiration on your part. Most people like you with your background end up on the streets, or worse."

Miguel abruptly stops cutting his meat, first looking at Xina's mother, who sat with a smile on her face looking at him, to her husband, who was too occupied with his potatoes to even care, to Xina who was just looking at her lap, clearly a little embarrassed at her comment, but stayed silent.

It got worse. She continues, "... wouldn't even guess that English isn't your first language. You're so well spoken for someone like you."

At that point, Miguel is so uncomfortable that he stands up abruptly, removing his napkin from his lap and setting it next to his wine glass.

"...if you'll excuse me..." he briskly walks out, making sure to close the front door a little extra loudly than he normally would.

Miguel paces in the driveway, taking deep breaths. He exhales a little bit when he sees Xina, but he's met with a different reaction than he was expecting.

"What the hell are you doing?" she hisses, wrapping her cardigan tighter around her stomach.

Miguel's face contorts in confusion, "Babe..that comment your mom made-"

"It's just how she is, Miguel!" Xina says, her annoyance starting to make itself apparent as her face comes into view.

Miguel is now even more confused.

"Just come back inside, please?" Xina looks around, hoping none of the neighbors were witnessing their spat.

Miguel takes a step back, his face hurt. "Xi...what's got into you...?"

"Look, I'm sorry that she said it, okay? But that's just how she is. She doesn't have a filter. Old people are just like that. Now she's upset because you stormed out."

Miguel becomes angry now. "Babe. I understand your parents are from a different generation and your mom has a certain way of... communicating." He sighs. "But what she said was kind of racist. I felt extremely uncomfortable."

Xina looks up at the sky in utter aggravation, "Okay! Fine! You're right! It was totally racist, okay? Happy? I'll talk to her about it later, but I really don't wanna fight anymore about this. We're supposed to walk down the aisle in three and a half weeks. They're just stressed because they're not only hosting my family, they're hosting yours too. I'm stressed, you're stressed. We all are..."

Miguel takes a deep breath. Now he's second guessing himself and his feelings. Did he overreact? The last thing he wanted was for them to dislike him. They were his future in-laws after all. Even though Miguel is hurt she won't defend him and is downplaying his feelings, he decides to shove them aside for her sake. Miguel looks down at her, taking her waist in his hands. She flinches a little and tries to pull back at first, but remains where she's standing when he holds her a little tighter.

"I'm sorry...okay? I'm sorry for being an ass..." Miguel can't help but feel a little odd that he's the one apologizing, but he continues. "Let's go back inside, yeah? Maybe we can go on a date this Friday, just to get away from all this wedding planning stuff."

Xina gives him a half smile and takes his hand in hers. "Deal..."

----

Later that night as Miguel showered in his shared apartment with Xina, he kept replaying their fight over and over again. He didn't know what it was, but lately, Xina was showing a very different side of herself. One that was completely the opposite of the soft spoken sweetheart he fell in love with when the cameras were rolling

He knew that she was religious when he proposed, but had the impression she was more of an Easter and Christmas-only attendee. Her devoutness amped up shortly after their engagement. Her pressure for him accept Jesus and get baptized so they could be married in her church started making him realize he bit off a little more than he could chew.

He felt a phony when she'd ask him to pray over meals and when he'd be called on to read a passage in Sunday School, like he wasn't supposed to be there. His scientific-inclined brain clashed with the idea of a magical being in the sky who would send him to Hell if he touched himself.

Furthermore, Xina demonstrated that she could be quite insensitive to his feelings, and he couldn't unsee the way his future in-laws poorly treated their chef in front of him, and the casual microaggressions they were throwing out about him and his family.

His whole childhood, he was bullied for his accent and for being one of the kids who would get pulled out of class for extra tutoring because he was so far behind everyone else. He was used to being doubted and constantly faced taunts from his classmates and teachers. Conchata was generally the better parent compared to George, but unfortunately that wasn't saying much.

She put immense pressure on Miguel to do well and excel in everything, constantly shifting the goalposts for the near impossible standards she expected him to reach.

But, he worked his ass off and eventually started reading two grade levels above his current grade and took home placing trophies in Math and Science olympiads. It wasn't long before Ivy League schools set their sights on him, and he went on to be the successful geneticist he was today, even buying Conchata a new house despite their volatile relationship.

Throughout it all, he never felt ashamed of where he came from, or his heritage. Nevertheless, it was something he was still was VERY sensitive about and he told Xina about it many times which is why it stung when she couldn't defend him. He even told you about it.

Oh God....you. This was the first time in a while that he finally allowed his mind to dwell on you for longer than a minute. He remembered how receptive you were when he told you. For once, he didn't hear a, "well at least you have it better than most", or a "cheer up, it's not so bad," when he explained his life story. Instead, you listened carefully with a soft look in your eyes and one of your hands resting on top of his, letting him know that the way he felt was completely valid. Something he didn't realize could be so healing when he heard you say that in that moment.

On top of that, your family was so...kind. Your mom even went out of her way to whip up an extra loaf of banana bread just for him when she caught wind that it was his favorite. Your siblings treated him like he was just another member of the family and it was a little unreal how seamlessly he got along with all of them. And, he distinctly remembered how gracious every single one of them were to the restaurant staff when you all went to lunch, with no awkward, demeaning energy like Xina's parents unfortunately demonstrated at dinner tonight. The cameras must have kept them on their best behavior until their true selves could come out once they turned off.

He's about to do something he knows he shouldn't, but he can't resist. He unblocks you on Instagram. (He has only one post on his own account and it's from when he was announced as The Eligible Suitor, the show forced him to create one for publicity's sake, he actually loathes social media in all forms).

And there you were, smiling with your friends at brunch. Another one of you showing off your new dog you rescued from the shelter named Hamilton, and your gorgeous headshot of you in a swimming suit for your debut on Singles in Paradise, where you and other rejected candidates from the show were all going to go at it in a fancy beach resort in Mexico.

Man, you looked good, curves on full display. The smile that he fell in love with was spread across your lovely face. The same one he was responsible for erasing when he broke your heart with less than 10 words on a tranquil beach in Thailand months earlier.

Now, you seemed happier. Trying to carry on with life as though he was never there. Like he didn't haunt your dreams and the sound of his name didn't cause the sting of a thousand burns to scorch through your body. Like you were never the first girl he ever spilled his cum into during that sexy night in the Fairytale Suites, remnants of him imprinted somewhere deep inside you.

Xina climbs into bed next to him and he closes out of Instagram immediately, ashamed that he let his mind wander. Her hand wanders down to his cock and it's not long until he's pounding into her. His mind struggles desperately to fight off the memory of the way your lips parted in ecstasy the whole time she's underneath him.

-----

A few days later

"What the fuck, Miguel?!" Xina screams at him over the phone. Miguel holds the phone away from his ear for a moment, the sound too harsh against his eardrum. She was upset at him this time for his interview on a morning talk show, promoting their upcoming wedding which was supposed to be aired live as the show's long awaited special before Singles in Paradise made its debut.

The host smiled and leaned on her elbow.

"Now, Miguel. Eligible Suitor's number one fan blog is releasing rumors that you only chose Xina because she was the safer option compared to y/n, the season's edgier "bad girl". Is there some truth to that statement, or can you elaborate on that?

Miguel nods slowly, a little bit of panic settling in on the inside, wondering how the hell the fan pages were eerily accurate, despite him not giving away any hints about his internal struggles regarding his engagement to the press that he was aware of.

"Well, as the man chosen to be the Eligible Suitor, there are certain expectations for me and who I ultimately end up with...Xina fit in well with my family. She had all the qualities of the ideal partner. Overall, it just seemed to be a better match..."

"But you're making it sound like if say, y/n for example had all of that, would you have picked her instead?"

Miguel hesitates, turning a little red. He wasn't good at lying. "Well, I mean..."

Awkward silence that lasts a little too long.

He quickly tries to recover but he ends up making it worse, "I mean, what's done is done. There's not really a point in wondering about that, you know....? We-we're very excited for the wedding..."

It wasn't longer than a minute after the show cut to commercial that his phone was ringing off the hook.

"Tell me right now that you love me, and not her, or I swear to God, Miguel I will call off this whole thing!" She says through tears.

Miguel sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Now he really felt like a jerk.

"I do love you baby..."

Xina is still distraught and doesn't seem to want to listen. "After everything we've been through. I've supported you. I got along with your mom, I got an apartment with you. I even supported you through all that mental health bullshit of yours and you still can't even defend me on live television and say you love me more than that broke piece of trash!"

Miguel freezes. "Hold on, mental health bullshit....?" Miguel really hopes that he didn't just hear what he thought he heard. He does his best to keep his anger at bay but he can feel it rising anyway. "So, all of the internal struggles I trusted you enough to tell you about....my depression which is something that will ALWAYS be a part of me, Xina...you think it's bullshit?"

Xina sputters, "Miguel, no, I didn't mean it like that. It's just...ugh you are just so hard to deal with sometimes, you know? I totally understand and respect the fact that you're going through a lot right now, but so am I. And I can't sit here and coddle you through everything if you don't get help."

Miguel's world comes shattering down. His worst fear that started to creep into the back of his mind ever since about 2 weeks after he proposed to Xina had just been confirmed to be true: she was not at all the woman he thought she was. It was merely an act for the show, and, with the help of the producers and audience, they pushed him towards her simply because she was the woman they wanted to see him with, when his heart truly lied with you the whole time.

And now, you were on a beach in Mexico probably getting courted by all sorts of men who could give you way more than Miguel ever could, while he was left to contend with a broken heart and a cancelled wedding.

He says in a shaky voice. "I was getting help...I told you I started therapy. I trusted you with THE most sensitive parts of me, Xina. And you threw it in my face. By the way, why do you say y/n is broke trash, as you put it, huh?"

"Miguel, stop putting words in my mouth..."

"Nononono...you LITERALLY said it, Xi. Don't start with your gaslighting bullshit on me!" Miguel is raising his voice now. "You called her broke trash. Let me guess: you shoo away our wedding planners, your parents treat your chef like complete shit. She has less money and prospects than you, therefore she's just trash, right? Well, I came from hardly anything, too. Does that make me trash? Huh?"

There's only silence on the other line, then she says, "Miguel, you're different..."

"No. No, Xina. You're different. You're not who I thought you were, and I think we shouldn't be marrying each other." Hot tears spill down Miguel's face and he hangs up his phone. He presses his back against the wall, sliding down until he hides his face in his hands, sobbing on the floor.

--------

A few weeks later at a beach bungalow resort in Mexico

"Welcome back to another season of: Singles in Paradise, I'm your host, Jason Donner and boy is it good to be back!" Jason beams, flashing his pearly whites at the camera.

You hear your cue and you walk out, clad in a white bikini with a pretty purple coverup wrapped around your midriff with the knot resting on your hip, emphasizing the curve, a certain post-break up glow about you that immediately made you hard to resist, a confident twinkle in your eye. You greet Jason with a hug and he holds your hands in his.

"Great to see you. Feelin' nervous?"

You flash a lovely smile at him, playing it up for the cameras. "Just a little bit. But I'm more so excited than nervous."

Jason's lips curve into a smirk. "Anyone down there on that beach you're hoping to run into?"

Miguel.

No, you hadn't really thought about it. Noir was pretty cute. You throw his name out there. "I hope Noir is down there..."

Jason nods, giving your shoulder a good luck squeeze. "Well, go on down there and see for yourself. Good luck! And welcome to paradise once again."

"Thanks, Jas!" You play it up, giving him a little flirty wink as you walk down the stone path and disappear into some trees, making your way to the beach. Necks turn slowly and you feel your heart pound as several pairs of eyes land on you.

Felicia Hardy is standing at the beach side resort bar waiting on her piña colada with a bad case of RBF. But, her snowy eyes melt into an enthusiastic expression when she sees you.

"Noooo way!!! Oh my GOD, you're even hotter in person! Girl! What!!"

You beam, flattered as she pulls you into a hug. Her long, platinum blonde hair hangs loose from a claw clip with the ponytail flowing in waves that brush against her back, a few stray wisps framing her face. She's wearing a dark blue tube top dress which is doing her figure all types of favors, accentuating her goddess-like pear shape. And, she smells totally divine of coconut body spray, evidence of sunbathing apparent in her sunkissed cheeks and tan lines.

"Holy shit, where'd you get your outfit?" She asks, giving her piña colada a sip, shamelessly eyeing you up from head to toe.

You smile, giving her a little twirl. "Girl, $20 at Marshall's for the whole thing. I swear to God."

"No way! Oh my God, I love that place!" Felicia smiles. "I gotta say I'm a huge fan of you. Dude, that pissed me off so fucking bad when Miguel fucked you over like that."

You smile back at her, flattered. You can tell that you definitely want to have Felicia be your beach bestie throughout this whole process. She had been the Eligible Suitorette about 2 seasons ago. Her tenure was one that went down in the show's history, the way she didn't take any shit, and had so many guys falling all over her. But, unfortunately her engagement to Flash Thompson went down in flames when his dumb ass eventually got caught cheating, making fans of the show rally around her even more.

"So, I guess I should give you the low down on who's coupled up with who so far?" She asks.

You nod, familiar with this part of the game. "Yes, please. Oh my God, tell me everything."

You two go sit down on a pair of beach chairs, turning them so your knees are touching each other, leaning in close together for your woman to woman huddle, the cameras zooming in on you both.

"Okay, so first of all, I'm with Ben." She gleams, biting her lip. You follow her gaze and see Ben shirtless, playing volleyball with some of the other men, his baby blues are locked right back on Felicia with his angelic, pretty boy face. He nods and gives you a polite wave hello.

"Girrrrrrllllll...." You smile, turning back to her. "Good for you, honestly, he is SO damn fine, respectfully of course."

Felicia throws her head back and waves you off with a laugh. "Girl, thank you. No worries at all. Yeah, he's uh, he's something else alright." She bites her lip again and looks down. "He treats me so good. It's going really well..."

You give her a warm look, the unmistakable signs of falling head over heels quite recognizable all over her demeanor and the way she's talking about him.

Felicia resumes her report. "Noir is here, but he's got a thing for Jess."

You feel slightly disappointed to hear that but nod, encouraging her to continue.

"Peter B. is here, but it's been kinda awkward. MJ is here too."

"No fucking way?" You sit up, interested. "They really invited both of them here?"

Peter B. and MJ were considered royalty as far as the show goes, with Peter being one of the most beloved suitors of the show's history. However, that quickly became tainted with scandal with the volatile on-and-off nature of his and MJ's relationship. They got engaged at the end of his season, then they were "taking some time apart", then they reunited, but he was seen in the Barbados with some mysterious brunette, but she was also out and about with no engagement ring. BUT, they were spotted in Chicago holding hands and all over each other in a night club just a month ago

"Yeah girl, I have no fucking clue. They're clearly off at the moment , but you can totally tell it's bugging Peter. She's all over George right now."

"Girl noooo. George Stacy?!"

"George, fucking-Stacy, girlll."

George had troubling political opinions and was known for being quite a douche. BUT he was also well over 6 feet tall with ocean eyes, big arms, and money. Well, for you, personally, no way in hell you'd tolerate that.

"MJ hates me though." Felicia warns.

"Wait, why??"

"She thinks I "stole her man" even though Peter was literally throwing himself at me when they were on break number 394 or some shit." Felicia chuckles, shaking her head, stirring her piña colada which is now becoming a watery slush. She pauses for a moment then looks at you. "So, girl, tell me, who did you have your eyes on coming here?"

"Well..." You sigh, the options so far were not promising. "I did think Noir was cute, but he's already with Jess."

"You could still invite him on a date, technically." Felicia points out. "But, I understand. He does reallyyy seem to be into her right now. It would be hard to try and pull him at this point." She drums her fingers. "Girl! Go for Peter. Oh my God you guys would be so cute!"

You blush internally. Peter? You hadn't given him much thought. You turn around, searching for him. He's standing in the ocean a few feet away up to his ankles. He turns to the side a little, and the wind blows open his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt as he leans down to examine one of the seashells under his feet.

Oh God, he was handsome. 6'2, lean muscles peppered with dark hair that ran across his chest and belly button, and a shadow of stubble on his face gave him a rugged feel, but those chocolate puppy brown eyes made him look so innocent. One of his cheeks had a little dimple that would pop out when he made that signature little smirk of his.

"Fffuck...really, girl?" You murmur, your jaw practically still hanging open at the sight of him. "But I thought you two were a thing?"

Felicia smirks. "Hell no! I rejected him forever ago. You sooo like him! I can tell. Just do it!"

You take a shaky breath. "God...okay, fuck it. I'm gonna go talk to him."

"Good luck!" Felicia calls after you. "Come find me afterwards and tell me everything!!"

You nod and shoot her a smile as you walk away. You bite your lip, your stomach doing all sorts of flips and tricks as you approach Peter. He has sort of a hopeless look on his face as he watches George and MJ from afar cuddled up on their beach towels, George's rough hands rubbing sunscreen into her shoulders as he was practically eye-fucking her.

"Peter!" You call for him. Peter turns, confused at the sound of a woman's voice calling for him, but his pupils go wide when he locks eyes with you for the first time.

"H-Hey!" His lips part a little bit at the sight of your gorgeous hair and friendly smile. His eyes start to land on your figure but he quickly flicks them back upwards to look into yours, not wanting to look like a perv. God, he was so cute. He offers you one of his hands, his voice gentle. "I'm Peter B."

You introduce yourself and he repeats your name back to you. The way he says it is making you scream a little on the inside, his voice is soothing and low. And suddenly you want to know more, so much more about him. And with the way he's gazing down at you, he does too.

You two just stand there in the ocean, chatting as the wind rustles against you both. Soon, the sun is starting to dip further down in the sky and you feel a chill coming on. Peter notices the goosebumps on your arms and wraps his shirt around you, holding you under his arm as you both meander back to the beach.

You squeal when he swoops you into a bridal style carry, butterflies appear in his stomach when he feels your hair brush under his chin, and he's almost tempted to pull you in closer. No, he decides there's plenty of time for that later, if all of this continues to go as flawlessly as it is already. He sets you down on one of the poolside cabanas, spreading a blanket over your legs. You curl up under it, shooting him a smile of appreciation. He looks at you with adoring eyes at how cute you look curled up like that.

"Can I get you something to drink?" He asks gently, the tips of his fingers brushing against your thigh, sending a chill down your spine.

"Um, vodka cranberry, please." You say sweetly. Peter gives you his signature smirk, the little dimple in his cheek driving you wild. His fingers make full contact with your thigh this time, stealing the breath from your lungs.

"Coming right up..." he's off to get you your drink, leaving you internally screaming by the pool.

---

Jason is leaning against a palm tree, silently monitoring the scene of flirtatious couples below when a tall dark figure approaches him. The camera stays on Jason and captures the look of shock across his face.

"Well, well, WELL! Look who it is, great to see you man!"

The man's face isn't shown, and it appears his response is being muted off mic, Jason's voice is the only audible one, the camera focusing on his reactions with the mystery guest,

"Wow...I'm so sorry to hear that man...yeah, yeah she's here. And you're sure about this.....? Alright, well here's your date card, feel free to use it whenever you wish. Good luck down there man."

------

You and Peter are laughing together by the pool, the alcohol slowly starting to weave its way into your banter. The daybed you're sharing is just a smidge too small, forcing your thigh to touch his as you squish on it together, bodies laying side by side. When you ask him a question, you subtly push yours a little closer into his. Peter seems to notice your increasing touch, his train of thought stalling for just one minute, before he turns pink and apologizes. "Sorry, must be the alcohol," he mumbles cutely, looking sheepishly at you.

"Yeah, the alcohol..." you tease, your pointer finger traces his sternum. His breath hitches and he's looking at you with wet lips, his eyes come to rest on your breasts that are squished so deliciously together.

You're looking back at him too, letting your eyes rake over his body up and down, admiring how good he looks and how the faded blue lights from the pool are casting a sensual shadow over his form, wondering how it would look if it were in the darkness of your bedroom instead.

Peter clears his throat. The nervousness catching up to him, and he turns his head, gazing at the shimmering water. "Sorry..." he lets out a breathy chuckle, then turns back to you. "I haven't connected this quickly with someone ever since...well I mean, since my last relationship which ended badly..... As I'm sure you're well aware of thanks to the press."

You hum, your finger now tracing little circles on his shoulder, making him tremble slightly. "Yeah....I heard. I'm kind of in the same boat."

You take a deep sigh. God, just when you thought you were getting over him, Miguel pulls you right back in. Being with Peter right now feels foreign, strange. You can't put a finger on it. You notice that those decadent brown eyes are already fixed on you, and you stare back, your voice oozing a hint of desire as you softly tell him,

"But, I wouldn't mind if I...spent some more time getting to know you."

Peter exhales softly, you detect the sweetness of the liquor on his breath, the wetness that the rim of his glass left behind is shiny on his bottom lip, and all you want to do is taste.

Peter slowly smirks back, his fingers coming to pull under your chin, bringing your face closer to his.

"I wouldn't mind either..." lust codes his voice now. But, before he goes in to kiss you, his eyes soften a little bit as he drinks in your features. "You're very beautiful..."

You feel the heat rising in your body, you drape one of your legs around him, resting your knee on his hip. "Thank you..."

Peter lets out a soft groan, his hand immediately comes to grip your thigh, encouraging you to press your body against his, and he traps your lips in his with a fiery kiss.

The stubble from his face is a little scratchy, but you don't mind. His tongue is sweet from the wine he was drinking, and you can't get enough. His hands travel a little higher on your thighs and you gasp into his mouth as he pulls you on top of him so you're straddling him with one knee on either side of his waist.

"C'mere..." he purrs.

You lean in closer to him, pressing your forehead against his to try and make your moans more quiet as he grinds your pussy against the bulge in his swim trunks, the soft fabric of your bikini bottoms separating you. The friction is delicious and you reward him with a neverending chorus of his name.

"Peter...."

Peter gives a loud groan, his grip on your hips tightens, this time bucking his hips under your spread pussy, letting you ride the outline of his cock.

"Ffuck....Peter, baby...." you whine.

"Mmm yeah, baby?" Peter lands a sharp spank on your ass in response, making you curse under your breath again. "You like what I'm doing to you?"

"Yes baby, I love it." You bite your lip, closing your eyes. "What if someone sees us, baby?"

"Let em watch.." Peter moans.

"Oh God...don't stop, please." Your moans rise in pitch.

"Fffuck....." Peter breaths out, his hands coming up to grip your breasts while you ride him. "I won't baby...fuck..." The sensation causes him to close his eyes as well. "You feel too good to stop."

You lean over, your lips crashing greedily against his, both of your tongues dancing in each other's mouths, while you grind together. His hands can't get enough and he finally starts to curl two fingers inside your pussy which elicits a sharp cry of passion, Peter playfully shushing you as he kisses your nose.

-----

The rose Miguel is holding falls onto the sand below as he watches you and Peter heavily making out, now engaged in mild foreplay and you might as well start fucking at any moment now due to how hot and heavy the scene is.

It's almost a race with how quickly the jealousy, nausea, and rage rises in Miguel's body, filling him to the brim. He stands there, jaw and shoulders tense. His cock twitches a little at your whines but seethes at the sight of another man's hands all over you. He finally rips himself away, not able to withstand it any longer.

Noir and Jess look at him with raised eyebrows as he sits at the beachside bar after downing 3 shots of tequila back to back. He just sits there, eyes glazed over at the empty shot glasses in front of him for several moments until he leans forward, laying his head in his arms with his eyes closed.

----

To be continued...

#miguel o'hara #miguel atsv #miguel ohara #miguel x reader #spotify #miguel o'hara x reader #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara smut #miguel o'hara angst #miguel ohara angst #miguel x fem!reader #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #miguel ohara x fem!reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel ohara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara imagine #Spotify

498 notes · View notes

ryuttaeng · 2 months

Note

please make another popular!yeji hcs but as you're girlfriend!! it's so interesting 🤩 thank you!!

your wish is my command ��🏻

you hang out with popular!yeji more often than before? then expect lots of more attention to your persona from everyone else! oh, if you only saw yeji’s sulky face whenever she saw you talking to some girl and it isn’t her :(

and when you end a convo with that girl, yeji would be like, “yeji! wait, why you look so upset?” “no, i’m fine, y/n :(“ BUT SHES SO VISIBLY SAD IT MAKES YOUR HEART BREAK 😭 and when her friends point out that it’s because some girls are talking to you and she’s jealous you would be so confused at first… but you make it up to her by spending even more time together, don’t you (yeji actually) worry!

she’s just so happy to spend time with you 😭😭 sometimes you wonder if she’s even real she’s so sweet and caring person? you know that you’re in love with her since day one, just not realized it yet. you both love watching movies together and talk about anything, if you’re not really interested in a movie you watching right now. “y/nnie, do you want watch a movie? if you’re free today, of course.” “i’m always free for you, yeddeong.” and BOOM. you just took away yeji’s ability to think and function! she gets so shy whenever you say something like that but you’re oblivious about that 😭

but hear me out… shy!yeji has a chokehold on me but… you were in a middle of conversation with yeji, you’re talking about your day and… is yeji even listening to you? girl is shamelessly staring at your lips but you’re too invested in sharing about your day so you don’t even notice that! yeji think a little before she grabs your face and kisses you 😭😭 you’re so confused for a few seconds but you reciprocate the kiss, feeling yeji smiling while kissing you.

she would be so shy to talk about it for a day but right after you’ve discussed your relationship between you two yeji was so delighted, because after that yeji officially became your girlfriend 🤞🏻🤞🏻 i mean, i bet everyone thought that you’ve already dating each other since you wouldn’t shut the fuck up about yeji. all your words were about yeji and you were so lovey dovey around her is just- girl you’re so in love with her damn 😭 you also got some weird looks from girls that you knew that was yeji’s fangirls. if before you started dating yeji they would approach you with a smile on their face, now they just send you jealous gazes??? it doesn’t go unnoticed by yeji and she just kisses you, saying you not to worry about that and that she will take care of them.

popular!yeji as your girlfriend is so caring, sweet and generally perfect. if she wakes up first, she would make sure that nothing bothers your sleep and she will just stare at your features and smile to her thoughts. she will also make sure that no one looks at you in a unpleasant way. she can kiss you all day long in university, just to make some guy that was looking at you jealous 😭 he would look away immediately, making yeji smirk.

LOTS of dates and spontaneous presents from your girlfriend! you’re so loved in this relationship and makes you feel so special. of course, you gift yeji presents too, dw!!

yeji steps in your shared apartment, “baby, i’m home!”, getting no response from you, she goes further, checking every room, searching you. she opens the door to your shared bedroom and her jaw drops. yeji sees you in beautiful dress, standing there with… goodness gracious, is that hydrangeas and roses bouquet? “baby, aren’t those so expensive?? you shouldn’t have- oh, y/n…” yeji says, and you see droplets of water that formed at the bottom of her eyes. you immediately went to hug your girlfriend, handing her a bouquet, “shh, babe, you know that the price doesn’t matter to me, right? all i know that you and your love is priceless and it does matter for me.” you reassured yeji, as she sobbed into the crook of your neck, your hand caressing her light orange hair. “we should get going, yeddeong. the hostess in restaurant waits for us.” you say, and yeji looks at you with the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen, you smile back at her before leaning forward, kissing yeji’s lips. “i love you, y/nnie.” “i love you too, yeddeong.”

#well that’s a lot!#itzy imagines #kpop imagines #yeji x reader #yeji x female!reader #yeji x fem reader #yeji imagines #yeji fluff #itzy fluff #kpop fluff #kpop headcanons #itzy headcanons #yeji headcanons

131 notes · View notes

goosefruit · 5 months

Text

5 times vanessa brought you flowers (drabble collection)

vanessa shelly x fem!reader

tw: none

a/n: i need her to show up at my door with a bouquet of flowers ples

Hydrangeas

The first time Vanessa showed up at your door with a bouquet of flowers was on the night of your first date.

She nervously shuffled her feet, wondering how you might react to her last-minute grocery store purchase. In her defense, she had just finished working a night shift mere hours before she had to start getting ready for tonight.

An arrangement of baby blue hydrangeas laid in her arms, with little white flowers filling the gaps.

Vanessa had stood in the flower section of the store for a good half hour as she tried to decide on the perfect offering for you. The obvious choice would be roses, but she was afraid of coming off too strong.

After all, she had only known you for a week, after dancing with you at a bar. Even then, there was a spark between the two of you that she had never felt before, and she knew that she would do anything to have this work out.

So she decided on something perhaps even more thoughtful than roses.

The hydrangeas had caught her eyes the moment she saw them. They were the same shade of blue as the sparkly aquamarine earrings you always wore (she knew because you were wearing them the night you met, as well as in most of your Instagram pictures). Something about the delicate hue reminded her of your soft smile and gentle eyes.

Those same blossoms of blue were seen in your favourite vase for months after, its petals dried and preserved.

‎‎ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ°•. ✿ .•°

Wildflowers

For your one year anniversary, Vanessa had planned a picnic in a nearby meadow.

You sat under the warm May sun with your eyes closed, leaning against your girlfriend's shoulder. The occasional cool breeze tickled your skin as you basked in the sunlight, sighs of delight falling from your lips.

In every direction, fields of colour stretched on for miles. Flowers of all shapes and sizes were beginning to wake from their winter slumber, with many already in full bloom.

Groggily, you opened one eye to admire how wonderfully Vanessa’s blonde locks gleamed in the afternoon light.

“Hey honey,” she smiled when she noticed you staring. Giving you a peck on the forehead, she began to stand up. “I’ll be right back.”

You thought about following her, but were in way too comfortable of a position for your muscles to want to move. Instead, you laid back on the picnic mat and listened to the birdsong overhead.

Vanessa returned soon after, prancing towards you in her pretty pink sundress. She held out a brilliant bundle of wildflowers: reds, blues, oranges, and yellows amongst various shades of green. The stems were tied together with a blade of grass, assembled into a perfect little bouquet.

“For you, my beautiful girl.”

‎‎ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ°•. ✿ .•°

Lilies of the Valley

This time, Vanessa had to ask the Internet for help.

You and her had been in rocky waters for the past week, arguing over trivial things such as who was going to do the dishes.

She knew that you were only matching her attitude, as she had been quite unfair in how she spoke to you lately. Really, she didn’t mean it—the long, stressful shifts at work had gotten the better of her, but instead of talking it out, she pent up those emotions until they overflowed.

Vanessa knew she had to do something to clean up the mess that she had created.

A Google search for apology gifts gave her a list of ideas, and she set out for the store while you were at work one day. It took her several tries before she found a florist that supplied what she was looking for.

The vase held a bunch of delicate little white flowers, each hanging off of thin green stems in rows. There must have been at least a hundred of them, every one perfectly bell-shaped.

She recalled that you had once stopped to admire a patch of these on a walk, which is why she recognized them almost immediately when they came up on her search. Apparently, they symbolized apology, amongst other things.

Knowing that she would already be at work by the time your shift ended, she left the flowers alongside a note on the dining table:

My dearest Y/N,

You are my world, but I haven’t been treating you like it lately. I’m sorry that I’ve been a terrible communicator, and for taking out all my stress on you. You didn’t deserve that.

I got you a little something here: Lilies of the valley. It has a pretty name, just like you.

I know it doesn’t make up for how I acted, but take it as a token of my love. Really sorry I can’t be home tonight; you know how my shifts are.

Maybe we can do something fun when I get back?

I’m going to do better from now on, my love <3

-Nessa

‎‎ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ°•. ✿ .•°

Roses

On Valentine’s Day, you received the sweetest, reddest roses.

Vanessa had taken a day off just to prepare for the occasion, taking it upon herself to decorate the entire apartment with candles and petals.

At her insistence, she picked you up from work, wearing a suit so nice it made you feel underdressed in your plain blouse and jeans. The look was completed by a rose between her teeth, one corner of her mouth lifted in a gentle smirk. You giggled at how ridiculous but sexy she looked.

She presented you with a bouquet she had hidden behind her back, a dozen more roses bound by lace and gold wrapping paper.

Each flower had been carefully handpicked by her, the process having taken her nearly half a day at the florist’s. She made sure to select only the most vibrant ones, with every petal intact, for her babygirl.

They smelled so good, it made your heart flutter. Of course, you knew that roses were known for their fragrance, but something about getting them from the love of your life made the sweet scent all the more mesmerizing.

To top it all off, the lace holding everything together had the same colour and pattern as that chic white lingerie set you knew she loved seeing you in.

You took a mental note to change into it before the evening’s fun.

‎‎ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ°•. ✿ .•°

Paper flowers

You were puzzled when Vanessa took an unusual interest in the crafts section of the dollar store.

Your girlfriend had never expressed herself as an artistic person, always leaving all the home decor DIY stuff to you. But now, she was buying stacks of coloured paper and disappearing to her office with them for hours at a time.

You had been reading on the couch one Sunday afternoon when you felt her hands cover your eyes from behind.

“Don’t peek! I have a surprise for you,” she whispered excitedly.

You nodded, keeping your eyes shut as she set something down on the table in front of you.

“Okay, now open your eyes!”

The product of her mystery project blew your mind beyond words.

In a tall glass vase, she had placed paper flowers of all different colours, each resembling different species with shocking accuracy. They were folded with such neatness that you immediately understood why it had taken Vanessa so long.

“I saw a video online, so I knew I had to make some for you,” she grinned cheekily. “The papercuts were all worth it.”

You grabbed her face and kissed her, all while a singular thought circulated through your mind: How many other hidden talents did this woman have?

#fnaf x reader #vanessa afton #vanessa fnaf #vanessa shelly #vanessa shelly x reader #vanessa monroe #fnaf vanessa #wlw fluff #flowers #vanessa shelly drabbles #vanessa shelly imagines #vanessa shelly fluff

197 notes · View notes

plantanarchy · 1 month

Text

Many of my blue hydrangeas turned out purple but I've overheard many people say "I love the purple" so. It's fine.

Changing the color of hydrangea blooms has to happen before they've started forming buds so you can't know if you've done it right until the sepals start to color.

Blue happens when pH is low and aluminum ions are available to be taken up by the plant to bind with pigments, creating blue. If pH is too high or other phosphorous too high, aluminum ends up as aluminum hydroxide or aluminum phosphate which isn't available to the plant, and flowers end up pink.

Purple means some of the aluminum was available to my supposed to be blue hydrangeas and some wasn't. I watered them by hand with a watering can since January with only with a low phosphorous fertilizer specifically meant for blueing hydrangea and every other watering with a plain water sulfuric acid solution through our injection.

Our water's default pH from the well is around 8, sometimes higher, so it's difficult to drop below 6 and every pH meter we have is broken so... No cabiliration has been done on the injector for several years and there was no pH testing of the Hydrangea's soil or the acid solution through the hose done this year.

But my big hunch about our trouble with blurple hydrangeas that happens yearly is just that transplanting forced hydrangeas in January into large pots without bottom heat to encourage root growth means their root systems are never the greatest and they can't take up much aluminum without the healthy roots to do so. The solution to that would be growing them on a heated bench in a warmer house or transplanting into 6.5"-7" pots rather than 8".

God, sorry for the horticulture chemistry word vomit. I haven't studied chemistry since my sophomore year of high school and I actually nearly flunked that class because that was the year I got brain damage falling off a horse.

#anyway!!!!#greenhouse content

96 notes · View notes

anxious-witch · 3 months

Text

Okay part two on Bojan's photoshoot analysis. Part one is here, so without further ado, let's get started.

As always these are entirety subjective and my own opinion, you are free to disagree and add on your thoughts as long as you aren't being a dick about it

Starting off strong, we have Bojan, only in his underwear, smoking a cigaratte and looking into the camera.

His face is tortured, and he is smoking, implying once again, that he needs something to keep his feeling, his anxiety at bay. But you can still see his inner turmoil on his face.

His pose is more relaxed than I'd expect, though. He isn't flexing and despite being in only his underwear, his pose isn't drawing attention to his body. In that moment, he is vulnerable enough to expose it, and letting it be soft and real. Although his face makes me feel like this is due to exhaustion rather than true show of trust.

The flowers in the corner are very interesting too. Thank you to @theraggedygirl11 and @wild-joker-out-pleasures for helping me identify them as hydrangeas. I think this particular bit is very symbolic for Bojan here:

"The etymological meaning of hydrangea stems from the Greek words for water, hydros and jar, angos. It was given to the plant because of its shape resembling an ancient water pitcher. How fitting, since hydrangeas require constant moisture to stay happy, healthy and blooming.

While everyone seems to agree that hydrangea care includes a lot of watering, the symbolism of the flowers varies drastically between cultures. In Japan, the flower is associated with heartfelt emotion, understanding and apology. The Japanese emperor apparently made a lasting impression not only on his girlfriend’s family but also the rest of his empire. The hydrangea can further symbolize unity and togetherness.

Contrastingly, hydrangeas have a negative sentiment in Europe where they were used to declare arrogance and boastfulness. This association is based on the ability of the plant to produce many flowers but very few seeds. English men in the 1800s used to send hydrangeas to women who rejected them, accusing them of frigidity. Thanks to the Victorian men’s poor attitude and lack of empathy, it is believed that young women who grow hydrangeas in their front yard will never get married. In other words: if you’ve been unlucky in finding a partner, maybe you should check your grounds for hydrangeas."

And man, what a message to send! Once again, Damon plays with the duality of Bojan. Is he someone boastful, a playboy who cares about nobody, like so many people perceive him? Or is he heartfeal, and full of emotion?

Also to have a flower that needs constant water to bloom next to a man whose element in this photoshoot is fire? God, Damon, I am in your walls.

In all seriousness tho, Damon is very much not subtly implying that Bojan need to keep himself nourished on things that make him bloom, or he will burn out.

This fuether repeats here. I already analyzed these photos in a previous part, but with this quote it confirms my above statement. Don't let your anxiety and expectations of others break your heart. You are allowed to be fragile and vulnerable. You have to be, or you'll get burned.

God, these three. To start from the top one, once again we have a more rugged look from Bojan. I am not sure if he is wearing makeup, or if it's the light, but it looks like there is thick, black eyeliner framing his eyes. We also have spikes and a leather shirt. His arms are in a very boxy position, his hands behind his head and he is looking directly into the camera.

This pose actually reminds me of the pose one has to do before being arrested in the movies. Literally holding his hands behind his head. The defiant look on his face. Like he is surrendering, but it's against his will, he is still protesting this show of vulnerability. His defiant gaze seems almost taunting, almost asking if we are entertained by what we are seeing.

Also I know a lot of people said the addition of Slovenian flag feels random and goofy, but I'd say this shows how in a way, Bojan is carrying that weight of now forever representing Slovenia. They went to ESC, but Bojan never fully went back. He can't-now they are forever tied as a band that represents the country.

And that isn't a bad thing, but it's a pressure on his shoulders, a need to keep up the facade of a tough playboy everyone seems to want him to be.

Immediately followed by the picture on the bottom left. A literal scream, resembling the picture The Scream by Edvard Munch, which @reverse-strawberry-milk already pointed out. The weight of his emotions caught up to him, you can practically hear his torture scream here, the facade crumbling completely.

And then, a completely switch in the picture three. He is soft, trusting. Open. One of his eyes is even closed. He doesn't have to be fully focused on the camera. He doesn't have to play it up for the invisible crowd, he can just relax.

And at last, these last three. First two play up with the elements we previously saw, first one show duality of Bojan's soft expression with such a rugged outfit, calling back to the broken hearted belt and fragility he feels he is destined to hide behind countless layers.

Second one features a cigarette again. Fire is dangerous, but so enticing, just as cigarettes are. How far are you willing to destroy and poison yourself to be entertaining? How much are you willing to burn out, to keep reaching out fir cigarettes to calm you, before you have to take a break and find a healthier way to deal with your anxiety?

Last one, an even fuller, better version of the soft picture from part one. He is wearing soft jumper Damon borrowed him, the one he feels safe in. This is not a face of someone who had a mental breakdown just moments before like in the black and white picture, no. This is full circle. Acceptance and healing. It's in color because Damon didn't want any harsh lines here, which happen in black and white even when the face is smoothed out.

No-this one is fully for Bojan to see himself in the best way he can be. Soft and trusting. "Promise me something? I'll keep creating for you and I. But you have to also. Go create. No boundaries. Let it all out."

What a way to show all that! Let it all out. All the anger, despair, anxiety, expectations. Because there is always softness underneath all that. When you strip all of it, what is left, but you?

Anyway, I got a bit carried away there at the end, my bad, but I genuinely adore the subtle storytelling Damon does via his photos. I love that Kris has a lot more separate headshots, while Bojan has several pictures all at once. Once again, a hint towards someone showing openness vs someone being torn between two possible versions of themselves.

As always, if you have ajy additional thoughts, feel free to add them, I love hearing other peoole's opiniom on this!

#rio rambles #joker out #bojan cvjetićanin #damon baker #rio's analysis

81 notes · View notes

skelnexswriting · 1 year

Text

Flowers

➪ | Pairing: | Ghost x reader

➪ | Warnings: | Fluff, 3rd person POV, “Y/n” used, shorter story, fluff ghost :]

➪ | Summary: | Words weren’t Simon riley’s thing. But maybe sending flowers was.

➪ | A/n: | I got sick and wasn’t feeling well so i wasn’t able to post :[ But now im better so hope you enjoy this short little story! (There might be a pt. 2 idk)

Part two

—

Flowers..They were many types, many with different meanings,

Everyone has dreamt of getting flowers from that certain someone. Even soldiers like Y/n.

She may have not wished it constantly but she always hoped that one day, the person she loved would get her a beautiful bouquet. One with a deep meaning behind it.

When Y/n enlisted, she had little hope that she’d find someone since she’d be across the world most of the time..

But that changed when she was recruited as task force 141’s medic.

She didn’t mean to fall for the mysterious solider who wore the skull mask. It just happened. Although, Simon riley wasn’t a man of many words.

He was known for many things, but word? no. The few words he said came off as monotone or harsh. Many times he meant it that way, but not all the time.

When y/n first joined she thought ghost just simply disliked her, but later she learned the solider wasn’t good with his words.

Ghost actually liked the medic..he just didn’t know how to express it.

He remembered her once talking about how she loved flowers. Not just because of their beauty but their meanings.

Ghost found himself looking up what the different type of flowers meant, trying to find the perfect ones. Making sure to note which ones he liked.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to woo the medic with words but he could try flowers.

First he got hydrangeas for gratitude. He put them on y/n’s desk to find with a simple note saying “thank you”

He didn’t sign or anything so that she wouldn’t know it was him. He watched as you smiled at the flowers and placed them in some water.

…

Next he got Y/n violet, representing his loyalty to her. Again he placed them on her desk, leaving a simple note with bouquet.

Y/n took care of the flowers, the hydrangea lasted quite a while. Y/n’s heart fluttered at the thought of someone leaving them. She’d just have to hope it was the person she longed for.

…

Sunflowers were next. Representing adoration. This time Ghost decided to leave them at Y/n’s door. Like the last two times, a simple unsigned note accompanied the flowers.

Y/n kept the notes, simply tucking them away in her drawer. She tried to piece them together seeing if it sounded like anyone she knew.

But she still had yet to figure out the mystery “florist”.

…

Then it was Zinnia. He’d read it meant respect, honor. Ghost had a lot of respect for y/n. She’d patch up the task force in the middle of a battle field without hesitation.

The flowers were again placed at her door, with a note.

…

This little “game” had been going on for quite a while. Ghost was surprised to see y/n hadn’t caught on to it being him.

He thought the lack of words would give it away. He wanted to confess with this next flower. But he didn’t want a simple rose..no that was too simple.

He needed one that was unique but still represented the deep feelings he had for y/n.

Asters.

They were perfect. Aster represented undying love. That exactly what Ghost felt after a year of having y/n by his side.

One thing would be different though. He’d sign the note he left, then y/n would finally know.

…

Ghost placed the flowers on Y/n’s night stand. The notes read, “These flowers can only express a portion of the love I have for you. - Simon Riley.

It was only a matter of time before you saw the note. Ghost couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous. He’d never done something like this.

He decided to hide in his room, as if that would stop the outcome.

…

Y/n had finally finished writing her reports, so she went back to her room for some rest. She couldn’t help but feel a but sad when she didn’t see the usual flowers waiting at her door.

But to her surprise, they were waiting on her nightstand, with another note.

Her eyes moved along with words but stopped at the signed name.

“- Simon Riley.”

998 notes · View notes

bakersimmer · 1 year

Photo

Sims 4 Flower Garden Legacy

This legacy is inspired by flowers and the meanings attributed to them. I used the interpretations from two books I found on my mother's bookshelf.

These are more like guidelines and thoughts on how to make your different generations more interesting, especially if you are like me, and you need goals and challenges to stay engaged. I didn't have time to playtest all the generations, but I know it's possible to push your sims to the limit without cheating.

First things first

TS4 is easy enough to play without cheating

Different generations are linked to different expansions

Objectives are not in chronological order

To add more excitement, try out different mods

There are no assigned traits, but some traits would make your sims life easier. Follow your gut on this

There are no assigned colors. Again, follow your gut

English is not my first language, so please ignore any grammar mistakes 🙃 unless I wrote complete gibberish and you don't understand a single word in a sentence, then let me know

G1 Azalea

Azalea symbolizes friendship, family, joy, and tradition. With the right amount of sunlight and water, this low-maintenance plant will bring an abundance of color and beauty to your life.

You have a gentle and nurturing personality, with a talent for caring for others and creating a warm, welcoming environment. You prioritize spending time with loved ones and creating meaningful connections with others in your community. You find joy in the beauty of nature and have a passion for gardening and spending time in the kitchen.

Aspiration: Big Happy Family

Have at least three kids

Develop the highest possible skill level in cooking, baking, gardening, flower arranging, and parenting

Have some kind of social event with family and friends every Saturday (dinner, bbq, etc.)

Grow at least 10 different types of flowers in your garden (As of May 2023, there are 24 flowers in the game)

Use only low to mid-range furniture and appliances. Never replace anything, fix it yourself

To make money, you can only sell what you have grown or made yourself (vegetables, flower arrangements, preserves, cakes)

G2 Hollyhock

Hollyhock symbolizes ambition, abundance, resilience, and determination. With little care, this tall and sturdy flower will bring vibrance to your garden.

You always felt like you had to compete for the attention. You are highly ambitious, striving to achieve your goals and exceed expectations. While putting a lot of emphasis on your education and career, you neglect your close relationships. You struggle to express your feelings and connect with others on an emotional level. Despite all this, you are a loyal and supportive partner who does everything to show your feelings in a more practical way.

Aspiration: Academic -> Fabulously Wealthy

Complete the first aspiration and move to the next one

Get the best possible grades in elementary school, high school, and university

Have a career in business. You aim for the top

Marry the first sim you have a romantic relationship with

You are the breadwinner. The spouse quits their job after marriage and never works again

Don't spend much time with your child/children

Your home has medium and high price items. When something breaks, you always replace it with a new one

Pass the family money to the next heir

G3 Hydrangea

Hydrangea symbolizes vanity, arrogance, and desire. With little care, hydrangea brings elegance to your garden with its large and showy blooms.

You are highly creative and have a refined sense of style. Being in front of the cameras feels natural to you. You are self-centred and tend to prioritize your needs and desires above those of others. Thanks to your skills and fame, you accumulate a large amount of wealth.

Aspiration: World-Famous Celebrity

Develop the highest possible skill level in charisma, comedy, and acting

Go to a club/restaurant at least twice a week

Have one Meet and Greet in every season

Use mean interactions often

Change your hair color at least 3 times in your life

Hire a butler

In old age, an unexpected wave of generosity hits you, and you donate all your wealth

G4 Yarrow

Yarrow symbolizes strength, courage, overcoming and recovery. This flower will grow even on the poorest soil and doesn't require any care to thrive.

You grew up in luxury and wealth, but now you have nothing. Despite the obstacles, you are determined to provide for yourself because you want a stable and secure life. It is very important for you that your children are equipped with the necessary skills to be independent and successful by the time they move out.

Aspiration: Renaissance Sim -> Super Parent

Complete the first aspiration and move to the next one

Start with 0 money and a tent

In addition to work, dumpster dive to find valuables that you can sell (Don't sell collectibles or paintings/music/books for extra cash)

Attend different skill classes

Choose medicine as the last career and work in that field until retirement

Fall in love with a patient and end up marrying them

All your kids must gain a Top-Notch-Toddler trait

Always help your children with homework/school projects

All your kids must gain at least one positive character value trait

G5 Gardenia

Gardenia symbolizes sensuality, passion, and secret love. This sweet and intoxicating flower requires a little bit more attention from its grower.

You have a magnetic personality and natural charm. You are a hopeless romantic who tends to get caught in the passion and excitement of new relationships. You avoid long-term commitment because you fear that the daily routine will kill the excitement and passion. For that one special person, you are willing to take a chance on love despite your fears.

Aspiration: Serial Romantic -> Soulmate

Complete the first aspiration and move to the next one

Have a childhood friend who later becomes your soulmate

Work in Public Relations (Social Media career)

Get married at least 3 times

Woohoo in 10 different locations (As of May 2023, there are 23 locations/ways on the list)

No kids until adulthood

Reconnect with your childhood friend and settle down with them

G6 Protea

Protea symbolizes dreams, exploration, courage, and resilience. This plant needs a lot of space and sun to grow. It should not be planted deeper than the surface level of the soil.

You have a strong sense of wanderlust and a need for adventures. You love new experiences and cherish old memories. For you, a job is just a means to an end.

Complete two adventure/location-based aspirations

Develop the highest possible skill level in fitness, photography, programming, and logic

Work as a freelance programmer

Complete the postcard collection

Move repeatedly and live in at least 3 different worlds

Settle down in one of the desert/warm climate worlds (Oasis Springs, StrangerVille, Sulani, Del Sol Valley, or Tartosa)

Go on a family vacation in every season

G7 Snapdragon

Snapdragons symbolize passion, deception, denial, duality, and strength. This eye-catching, mostly warm-colored flower spices up your garden.

You are a master of deception, leading a double life. At first glance, you appear ordinary or even mundane, but looks are deceiving. Beneath your boring surface lurks something more sinister. Your purpose in life is to make others' lives a living hell because seeing them suffer is your favorite pastime. You are very passionate about your hobbies...maybe even a little fanatical.

Aspiration: Chief of Mischief

Develop the highest possible skill level in mischief, singing, piano

Fight with 5 different Sims

Become a Triple Agent (Secret Agent Career)

All your kids have to play one musical instrument at the highest possible skill level before they become young adults

All your kids have to have one negative character value trait

G8 Daffodil

Daffodil symbolizes new beginnings, rebirth, truth, and creativity. Daffodils love sunlight and well-drained soil. Therefore, the best growing place for this flower is an open and raised flowerbed.

You are a detail-oriented individual driven by a deep desire to uncover the truth. While searching for the truth, you stumble on a secret that will profoundly challenge your worldviews. You are loved and supported by your community, who admires your dedication.

Aspiration: StrangerVille Mystery & Friend of the World

Work as a journalist

Be a member of at least two clubs and host club meetings every week

Solve StrangerVille Mystery

Get married to a sim who helped you defeat the Mother Plant

Host at least 8 different types of social events in your lifetime (As of May 2023, game has 25 different social events)

All your kids have to complete the Social Butterfly aspiration

G9 Rudbeckia

Rudbeckia symbolizes justice, fairness, motivation, and optimism. Rudbeckia is a hardy flower that loves evenly moist soil but can also survive drought and scorching sun.

You are a highly principled individual deeply committed to upholding justice and protecting others. You are willing to make great sacrifices to ensure that justice is served. After work, you enjoy creative pursuits which allow you to unwind from the stresses of your work. You desire balance and harmony in your home life.

Aspiration: Painter Extraordinaire

Develop the highest possible skill level in wellness, painting, knitting, and cross-stitching

Work as a detective

Have a romantic relationship with one of the suspects but break it off eventually

Own a house with a large and luscious backyard where you spend most of your free time

Be strict with your kids, and never miss an opportunity to discipline them

All your kids have to earn the Emotional Control trait

G10 Lavender

Lavender symbolizes spirituality, intuition, devotion, and growth. Lavender needs a lot of light and warmth. Although this flower looks hardy, it's highly receptive to changes in the soil.

You are fascinated by the concept of magical and mystical, so you spend a lot of your time exploring spiritual practices and rituals to connect with this hidden world. You are determined to connect with and become part of the supernatural world. You have a soothing energy that puts others at ease.

Aspiration: Choose a vampire, spellcaster, or a werewolf aspiration

Develop the highest level of Medium skill

Work as a paranormal investigator

Become a friend with a vampire, spellcaster, or a werewolf

Become a vampire, spellcaster, or a werewolf

#ts4 #sims 4 #ts4 legacy #sims 4 legacy #sims 4 flower garden legacy #ts4 flower garden legacy #flower garden legacy

372 notes · View notes

evading-taxes · 9 months

Text

ED ANALYSIS

Two fishes to represent Satoru and Suguru obviously, both of them are chilling in circles harmoniously in the water.

Suguru's fish goes dark after a ripple, a disturbance and then they go their separate ways. I searched it up and they are both Betta splendens and betta splendens turn black due to poor water conditions and stress, and Suguru was in a bad mental state after the Hidden Inventory Arc. I know this may seem overreaching this but I believe the ripple represents the Hidden Inventory Arc disturbing them, and causing Suguru leaving.

In the background Riko's classmate is erasing the wall behind her, that seems to mean to erasing Riko’s identity.

We can see here that Riko is about to leave but she looks back.

This is an orange osmanthus, in most posts I have seen they usually say the flower represents true love, however most osmanthus flowers bloom in white. These flowers symbolize true love, faithfulness, fertility, nobility, and peace. They are talking about white osmanthus flowers not the orange ones. Orange osmanthus flowers may also symbolize joy, serenity, and optimism.

Our favorite orange flowers are immediately followed by red spider lilies, and everybody knows what they mean by now. So in the order of which the 2 flowers are shown, that is also how the season started SatoSugu being idiots (orange flowers) and then all hell breaking loose (spider lilies).

Satoru is looking at Sugu's fish, he can't take his eyes away from him.

These are hydrangeas, in Japanese culture, they are associated with heartfelt emotion, gratitude and apology. These are pink hydrangeas. Pink hydrangeas are the most romantic of them all as they symbolize love and sincere emotions. So love is in the air.

Suguru closes his eyes as Satoru the fish is passing through, he can't bear to look at Satoru the fish.

Satoru here is shown looking down but his background is the top of buildings

In contrast to Sugu here who is at the bottom. I find that very interesting but I can't figure out the meaning behind this.

Shoko and Satoru is on one side and the rest is on the other side (Nanamin, Haibara, and most importantly Sugu) as a manga reader this hurt me when I saw it. Sugu and co. died, Shoko and Satoru lived.

just hold hands already hgfvhyhu66trfghy

gotta love Sugu's finger lmao

Two shadows, one is Sugu's, the other is Satoru's. One shadow is lower than the other. Guess which.

Sugu's going the dark path, Satoru's going into the light, and Shoko's way has some darkness but she still is in the light. So I will take it as referencing her sad adulthood. (She didn't even have eyebags yet.)

This is Satoru, he now has finally met up with Sugu. Now from Sugu's perspective, he is smiling stupidly, in our pov he is smiling wholesomely. Perspective matters.

Satoru the fish is on Sugu's side and Sugu's fish is on Satoru's side. very similar to this:

And that is all

#holy shit this is so long #jjk s2 #jjk meta #stsg #satosugu #satoru gojo #suguru geto #jujutsu kaisen #this is longer than their d-#oh my god #analysis #you may not see Satoru the Fish in the 2nd last pic #but he is there all right

199 notes · View notes

lavenderhhaze · 3 months

Note

An I.N. oneshot with a lot of angst (I just want to cry pls)

got you babe

[05:03] RADIAL — Y. JEONGIN (0.5k words)

It's well past midnight when Jeongin feels concious again, the burn of his last three tequila shots still stinging at the back of his throat. The armrest of the couch presses into his spine uncomfortably, his legs compressed under something — someone heavy. The eerie red glow of his deskclock stares back at him from few feet away : 05:03.

He grumbles under his breath, a faint ‘fuck’ leaving his mouth as he attempts to straighten himself. He can't believe he actually enjoyed drinking at some point of his life.

Jeongin's living room is a mess — remnants of every college frat party he remembers going to. There's Changbin passed out at the foot of his couch, his head angled uncomfortably on one of the throw pillows. There's a couple he can't quite remember exiting his bathroom, her lipstick smudged beyond comprehension. The guy flashes him a knowing smirk, ‘Thanks for inviting us, Innie.’

God, he fucking hated New Years Parties.

And yet, he'd sent out invitations blindly. To his friends, to the friends of his friends and their girlfriends and his entire fucking college. In hopes of meeting you again.

He pushes his way to the bathroom, scowling at the condom wrappers littered by the sink. How the fuck was he going to clean this up. He's biting back a smile remembering what you'd said: ‘just call it the horizon, then you'll never reach it.’

The lazy thrum of the bass still pulsates in the back of his head, so he's rummaging through his medicine cabinet and dry swallowing two advil. The porcelain of the sink is cold against his palm and he sees his distorted reflection staring back at him as the water drains down the filter. He wonders who he's looking for because you don't go to parties anymore.

There's still a few people wandering around the porch, he hears them giggle and whisper and then there is that little bit of hope — an ugly thing with teeth and claws that scratches at his heart some more.

And hope makes him walk out again, picking up empty solo-cups and beer cans with his exasperated sighs, his hoodie smelling of the same cheap supermarket beer. Jeongin peers outside, the liminal space of his lawn mostly empty, save for the one couple sitting cross-legged, laughing at something the girl said.

There's Hyunjin, walking the driveway with his phone to his ear. He seems to be talking animatedly, his hands moving wildly as he describes a hydrangea bush he saw on the way to the party. No,no, it wasn't powder blue. It was, like, almost purple, y'know? To his girlfriend, Jeongin supposed.

“I like your lawn."

Jeongin shivers, he hasn't heard that voice in a while. There was you, same hair, only longer and the same stare in your eyes, lined by lashes that cast a shadow under his neon lights. They remind him of spider silk, he notes.

“Happy New Year," you say, smiling into your beer can. It's not strained, it's not malicious. And that makes him feel slightly more miserable.

"You're still drinking?"

"Can't be hungover if you're still drinking, huh."

He chuckles, despite himself. He wonders of he owes you an explanation or an apology. There is a mass of white noise lingering between you and him.

"Happy New Year."

He finally responds to your greeting, mostly apprehensive. What he really means is that he's missed you, despite seeing you everyday for the last six months. The last time you spoke is far ahead on the road, so much so that it's already behind him. He'd be lying if he says he hasn't hoped to stumble across you in a supermarket, reaching for the same box of pasta. Then he'd smile awkwardly, apologize and let you take that box home, along with a piece of him that never seems to subside.

"I missed the fireworks this time," you sigh, sitting on the ledge and folding your legs underneath. Your hoodie hangs off of your shoulders like a shadow. And he feels a funny feeling in his chest when he takes a seat next to you. It's a funny thing, how his heart feels at rest when you're shoulders touch — it's an innate need to be felt, he thinks.

He closes his fingers around yours, too tight to hold a strangers. And you hold back and squeeze tight. The sting from the tequila is long gone. Jeongin finds it in himself to grin, dimples popping in his cheeks and his eyes almost closed, when he looks at you. He'd almost mistake it for regret if you didn't grin right back.

If he relaxes his body, he'd fall apart, crumble into pieces he doubts he can hold together anymore. He'd scream your name into the city and wait for it to echo back too him; but it's too soon to force intimacy like that, not when you've not spoken for months. So he swallows the guilt the size of a cherry pit that doesn't quite budge from his throat. He didn't miss the fireworks. He missed you — radiant as ever.

"I didn't."

84 notes · View notes

skeleton-mischief · 1 month

Text

Nightmare Sans

Oh sinful child, wash off your bones but never forget that blood is thicker than water. Nightmare, was it all really worth it?

Headcanons below. Warning though, I changed some stuff up for the og story to fit how I like it teehee

- Official height changes, but he can be from 5'7 to 6'6(Jesus 💀)

- He/They

- Nihilist, he despises Fate and the Creators

- The embodiment and King of Negativity/A God if you will

- His castle was created when he was corrupted, and later on decided to make it himself

- Naturally cold to the touch, he's not easily affected by temperature

- Has synesthesia, he can see and smell others emotions/aura

- He likes sea animals, they're odd and yet so pretty and mysterious

- Has khopesh blades for weapons because they're twin blades

- He dreams of other versions of him, but he can never find them and often he is haunted by them

- An angry crier, hyperventilates and gets frustrated. Tries to be quiet, but sometimes ends up being loud anyways

- Pessimistic, cynical, observant, responsible, sarcastic, serious, assertive, untrusting, cunning, ruthless, manipulative, reserved, blunt, bitter, intelligent, patient, authoritative, cocky, and stubborn

- He is outright nasty to others, the type to jab at others when possible

- He grows more exhausted overtime once his resentment and bitter anger starts to fade over time

- he is more emotionally driven when his brother is involved in fights that he gets involved in, while more logical otherwise since Dream is the only one to get him like that

- He knows he's fucked up and deep down wants to repent for the wrongs that he has done towards the multiverse. And yet, he has his duties to fulfill

- He fears being vulnerable and doesn't get close to others as a result

- He makes deals and can "play" with his victims when he chooses to. Alliances are all well and good as well, but he is only loyal for as long as the contracts are fulfilled and as long as the other is loyal

- Time thaws his heart, in truth he can feel just as much as a child as Dream at times

- They have a giant library that they read

- Has wonderful manners and speaks very formally. Due to their origins, they also happen to have an accent of some sorts

- His goo tends to always return to him so one ability of his is flicking goo before it can harden and sharpen like spikes at a location

- He can be hit with anything and not get affected unless it's a weapon from his brother

- Strong positivity makes him nauseous, lightheaded, and weak

- Can sense other people's emotions but has the most influence on negativity

- Can analyze others extremely well, reading their body language and analyzing their words

- Hobbies of theirs include reading and writing, or even playing piano since he has a fondness for it

- His magic smells of something akin to earthy scents and moisture, like oak with wet dirt that carries a faint sweetness of decay. His magic tastes something akin to apple

- He's intolerant to children being injured, bullied, or abused. It reminds him of his childhood and thus he is protective of them

- Despite scaring most children, he refuses to harm them and is quite patient and kind to them

- He misses his brother, he does. He tells Dream things he doesn't mean in moments of anger or to get at him, but he doesn't mean pretty much most of it. He doesn't actually blame Dream, at least since he's matured over time

- He never got closure when Dream turned to stone, so those wounds opened up easily when he found out that he was alive. He tried to bury his past but his brother, whose bone is of a porcelain memory to his origins, haunt him

- He can't stand the color yellow, it reminds him of Dream. But, he has secret items that are of a yellow color

- He is fond of flower language and his favorite flower is the purple hyacinth. Fun fact: hyacinth blossoms under full sunlight, and they have wonderful symbolism. Dahlias, orchids, and hydrangea are those he is fond of as well

- He treasures the few things he's gifted, but rarely does he receive anything

- He gets slightly uncomfortable around stone, even if he knows that no one is inside. It just makes him secretly nervous

- Loves animals, but he won't touch them due to his goop and negativity

- His teeth can form into sharp fangs and he has clawed hands, his bone sharpened over time

- He avoids water because if he's fully submerged you can see the inner body that negativity possesses. Aka his original one

- He usually is covered in goop but rarely does it remove around him as a sort of venom situation. In fact, the two are separate entities in some ways, working as one

- Funnily enough he's a perfectionist who likes his things organized, especially when it comes to plans

- Does not use or understand slang

- He is a wonderful strategist, he even plays chess and can use the pieces as a visual understanding of it

- Hates sleep and avoids it until it's impossible to do so

- Can go into other people's dreams and cause intense nightmares, but he cannot do the same for his own and he is forgotten the moment the individual awakes

- He actually cares deeply for a lot of things, but he refuses to acknowledge this under most circumstances. If he vocalizes it, he threatens others to not do anything towards it

- He doesn't hate Error or even Ink, but he finds both to be a pain in the ass. Ink is one of the few he can't wrap his head around and he is one of the few who suspects Ink, especially because his emotions and aura seem....odd

- A more quiet and reserved being, he doesn't talk much unless he has to address someone or when he chooses to respond

- He's hard to read due to his air of apathy, he has learned how to avoid others detecting how he feels

- Even after eons, he won't let anyone else harm Dream

- The stronger the negativity, the larger he grows

- His original name is Night, him and Nightmare are separate but very much intertwined

- His original job was to protect those from negativity and also balance emotions in hard times to guide others, allowing sadness to occur

- Used to Call Dream Sunny as his nickname, and he refuses to let anyone call him Nighty since only Dream called him that

- People like to think of Night being manipulated by negativity but also it's important to note that what if that negative entity actually did feel that pain Nighty went through and was a source of comfort for him when Mother Tree wasn't? Yes, it eventually hurt him by convincing him to eat the apples to be corrupt, but if it's a parasite in my interpretation? I'd want to be maybe like- a situation where the corruption was also genuinely caring of Nighty while simultaneously being the reason Nighty indulged in his anger and hurt

- Multilingual, he knows every language fluently

- He had time to learn how to read and write, he forgot that Dream didn't the first time he saw a tree inside an AU carved by Dream with horrible writing underneath. That realization sort of made his "soul" crumble at the thought

- He has severe thanantophobia, he actually is deeply afraid of dying despite his circumstances. It's something he stresses out about and when Dream became more dangerous, he grew more nervous

- He's actually insecure about his aura at times, especially near those he doesn't wish to harm. He worries if they don't want to be around him because of it, which just worsens his aura

- He thought Dream died long ago, as he was disoriented and was too busy grieving. He didn't actually want Dream to die, and I actually hc that he threw the cloak over Dream to protect him as an apple happened to fall underneath with Dream. He was ashamed when Dream saw him again, and saw who he became. Still, he didn't want to change his ways because of the resentment he still held at the time

- He used to visit Dream and would cry next to his statue before he went off to feed off negative timelines. Even then, he would visit on their birthday

- He destroys mirrors and refuses to look at himself. He doesn't want to remember what he used to look like or who he's now become

- He has a secret painting that he was able to create deep inside his castle, one of Dream. He has destroyed previous ones due to finding them imperfect, a disgusting reminder, etc. this one though, this one he keeps

- His favorite fruit is pomegranate, he can perfectly deseed it and it's his favorite snack other than apple pie

- He used to be great with animals, barely do any of them approach him however

- He likes forests, the scent and even the sensation. He just wishes that he could feel Mother Tree again

- He enjoys herbal tea, actually much more than coffee and his favorite is lavender tea

- He avoids anything related to apples or fire, it reminds him of his past and in fact he grows nervous about it

- Doesn't realize that his tentacles react to his emotions, going so far as to flick with irritation at times

- His tentacles often just appear at will or with extreme emotion, but when they do appear to be actually quite painful since they tore through his back bones. Nowadays, he's numb to it and the bones have attempted to grow back due to magic healing he's attempted to find

- His tentacles actually can act like tree branches or at least resemble them. Firm, shaped similar, etc

- Genderless but prefers masc pronouns

- He actually never lies, but twisting the truth so hard involves enough intellect and leaves him to be a dangerous figure

- on the aroace spectrum

- Gets really goopy when sleeping, to the point he looks boneless

- Out of respect and guilt after coming back to his senses after the incident, he used parts of Mother Tree as custom furniture inside his castle so that she doesn't go to waste at all.

- He actually could hear her screaming when he was corrupted, and that sound haunts him

- He forgot what a hug feels like, the only time he was ever hugged in his life was with Dream. Time caused him to forget

- I feel that his form, present, isn't his true form but he keeps it up because it not only was the turning point in his life, but what protected him. It's why I think it works as something else when it detached itself. The goop at this point is a different part of who he is, and only when he is alone does it detach to speak

- Even if he causes nightmares and enters inside other monsters minds, he actually just has dreams. He dreams of what would've happened if they were happy, being raised by the mother tree, if he and his brother grew up without being guardians. It haunts him, makes him question if he was actually just justified in what he did. Was his actions worth it?

- He hates losing control of situations, absolutely throws a fit

- Struggles getting drunk, so he only drinks wine and magical drinks. Smoking doesn't please him, goop covers it anyways

- He doesn't discriminate, fools. Useless hatred feeds him, sure, but that doesn't mean he agrees and even will react violently towards blatant hate crimes

Closing Notes: no one talk to me, no one look at me. I don't exist, these two are the reasons I need therapy

#headcanon #undertale au #alternate universe #nightmare sans #nighty #utmv sans #utmv au #utmv #dreamtale #he deserves better #i want to cry #i want to hold him #tell him that hes going to be okay #he was just a kid #hes so traumatized #ourgh

25 notes · View notes

yomogi-mogi-mochi · 1 year

Text

Ineffable Bloom

Pairings: Azul/Siren MC

Summary: Despite your status as siren, there are not many words that reach those around you anymore, voice now muted and marred from the surgeries you have endured to remove the carnations that once suffocated your throat. But you don't mind it, serving quietly as the gardener of Night Raven College, making do with a notepad and pen when necessary. You are pleased to find your childhood friend, Azul, now attends the school, who spontaneously hires you for the flower arrangements he decides to decorate in his lounge with. There's little hope you bear with the silent poetry you weave with each meticulously placed flower, only an ache which tumbles over you like the ceaseless seas. However, Azul is not deaf to this song you have sealed in your bouquets, having cherished the morsels of sweetness in your childhoods where you shared the silent language of each flower.

Notes: Sorry this took ages lmao. Been in a “creating anything is obsolete” phase my/spring allergies are starting so I am. Dying. Part of the twst myth series, here is the post with some basics. I just reached 1000 likes on tumblr which might not be much to some but wowwww thank you guys for your support!!

GN terms for MC

CW: Emotional abuse and toxic parenting when we get into MC’s backstory

AO3 Link Here.

Masterlist

——————————————————

“Would you like to add a ribbon to this? I’ll add it for free since I have some extra?” You placed the last slender stalk of green hydrangea into the bouquet and move your hands in practiced shapes and swerves, forming each phrase with careful deliberation.

Jack struggles a bit in forming as keen language with his hands, but you appreciate that he has taken the time to respond in your vernacular. Writing does get a little tiring after a bit. “If you wouldn’t mind. I think Trey would appreciate that.” He pauses, looking to Ruggie, who sways around the room with his hands behind his head in boredom, dipping his gaze to the lilies standing tall in a bucket on the ground. “Right, Ruggie?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever is fine.”

The wolf huffs a bit before crossing his arms. “You know, you should be grateful (Name) is doing this so last minute since you forgot to place the order a week ago like we all agreed on.”

“Ugh get of my back‒ Leona had me running around more than usual last week…” His eyebrows raise a bit when he brings his attention to the dandelions drying above him, a slight movement you take notice to when wrapping the bouquet in its final layer. “Besides, who cares about all the details of each flower, it’s not like whoever is receiving them is looking into all the deep meanings of each blade of grass.”

You finish tightening the bow around the bouquet, assuring with your trained hands that it is secured tightly onto the broom, before handing it off to Jack. “Just like you mentioned in the interview‒ green color scheme, with symbols of loyalty, prosperity, and patience. Here is a card that has all of the flower languages on them.” You sign, which the man responds with a smile, and a clumsy thank you with his hands.

Ruggie has drifted over to the dandelion heads soaking in a bowl of water, being prepared for the dandelion honey you sell at Sam’s shop while his junior admires the bouquet in reverence. “You like dandelions?” You write on a notepad, poking Ruggie with it. He looks over lazily, shrugs.

“I guess.”

“They symbolize ‘an oracle of love’, resilience, and even sorrowful goodbyes. The name Dandelion comes from the word dent-de-lion, meaning the ‘jaws of a lion’- fierce, is it not?” Ruggie hums in curiosity in response, glancing at the flowers again to imagine it with a growing smile on his face. “Flowers and plants all have their silent poetry. It’s good to tip your ears to them once in a while, they may have something to say to you.”

“You hear that Jack‒ ‘jaws of a lion’..." The hyena says with his hand on his hips, a bashful finger grazing his nose.

"Yeah, yeah. Let's get going, we have a lot of prep to do for Trey's celebration." Jack turns to you before he leaves "Oh, you should stop by if you have time‒ everyone was curious during my birthday who had arranged my broomquet. I'm sure the other students would be thrilled to see the face of our new‒ well, I guess not so new anymore‒ gardener."

You furiously shook your head, scurrying your hands across the air in a flurry. "I wouldn't want to intrude…my work is nothing worth fussing over…"

"Anyone with a pair of working eyes can see otherwise‒ your talent is unmatched, you nearly performed a miracle reviving my half dead cacti." Jack smiles, remembering fondly of the times he had come in, asking you for advice on his growing horticulture collection. "Besides, it's nice for the students and staff to get familiarized."

"And free cake." Ruggie adds.

You raised your eyebrows at that, quelling the swirling anxiety in your stomach. "…okay, I'll try to make it. Just have to finish a few things here and I should be good to head out."

"We'll see you then, (Name)."

——————————————————

You brush your apron, relieving the weariness of a day's work in the breath that swelled from the bottom of your stomach and escaped as an audible huff that loosened the tension of your shoulders. However when you glance at your phone, anxiety shot through you as you realize time had passed a lot quicker, and it was about half an hour past the time Jack had told you to come. In racing footsteps, you gathered your items, throwing your apron on the hook near the front door before slamming it.

By the time you arrive, everyone is singing happy birthday, gathering in a circle around who you assumed was Trey, who bore a bashful smile on his face with the broomquet in his hands. You catch the eye of Jack across the room, who lights up when you wave nervously at him. The room erupts in applause and bright laughter as Trey blows out the candles of his cake‒ a volume you take a mental note of to judge just how many people were at this celebration. Quite a lot, especially now as the students disperse, preparing plates and cutlery to cut the delicious looking strawberry shortcake.

"Hey~ what are you doing here?"

There’s a surge of anxiety when those words are pointed at you, which you respond with a pressed smile as you swerve your head to the voice. To your surprise, you recognize the face which greets you, though it is a bit unnatural seeing them without a bluish tint to their skin, or scales. You suppose it’s a surprise for them as well, seeing you out of the water for the first time in about eight years.

“I thought I recognized that face. Hello, (Name), it has been a while.”

You hands move automatically to the pen and paper stuffed inside your pocket. “Jade? Floyd? It’s been a while. What are you doing here?”

“Eh? What's with the notepad little siren?”

The anxiety returned with Floyd's words. Even with the Leech family’s connections and the chattiness of your hometown, it was hard for rumors to form with the eight years you had spent apart from your home‒ your friends. You were thankful a bit for the amnesty it brought you on rare occasions like this, but explaining the whole situation was difficult for you‒ making up a believable excuse even more so considering the one memorable thing your species was known for. Sirens‒ their voice famed to plunge sea farers into maddening passion, the talents of which even the great Sea Witch openly admired in historical record. Perhaps you had been an example of this once, training your throat to squeeze and burn itself to strike impossible notes, whirling an unmatched vibrancy when you perfected each lyric, each score, each tendon to stand straight, expand your lungs, smile, and sing. Even if you had such talents in the past, it was negated with every pinch and pull of your mother’s craft‒ that memory now clandestine, numbed from the surgery.

Or that’s what you told yourself, as your calloused fingers graze the satin ribbon around your neck, the scars marring it aching slightly as you adjusted the fabric in a slight nervous tick. They’re been healed from quite some time‒ or you believe they are from the years you had observed every winding crack slowly dull against time‒ but the mountainous fossils carved onto your flesh would grow tender like this, pushed then retraced piercingly like the jagged shores far from your homelands, leaving snowy, bursting seafoam prickling against your skin. You suppose all you could do is tighten a smile against your mute lips, maneuvering past it as best you could.

“I’ll explain later. What are you guys doing at NRC?”

“We’re students, see~?” Floyd flashes a crooked smile, turning to the side to show off his dorm uniform. “Jade here is even the vice dorm leader. Boring if you ask me.”

“What are you doing here, (Name)? I don’t think I’ve seen you in my classes.”

“My aunt just retired as the gardener here, she's back at her shop in the Shaftlands. So I've come to officially take her place."

"We'll have our quartet back in no time now‒ you should visit the Monstero Lounge sometime so we can catch up~" Floyd wraps an arm around your shoulder, hanging lazily off it while his twin smiles.

"I agree with Floyd. Azul would be more than happy to see you too." At Jade's words, you brighten, and quickly scribble onto your notepad.

"Azul here too? Is he here today?"

Jade nods. "He's our dorm leader, actually. And yes, I think he just went outside to get some fresh air" his smile widens "you know how he is."

You do. Surely he was tired of the noise and pleasantries of birthday celebration. "Azul the dorm leader huh."

"You won't believe how much he’s changed unless you see for yourself." Floyd switches his weight to his other foot, landing on his brother's shoulder while gesturing to the veranda doors. You swerve your head towards it, trying to make out a figure against the bright blue skies and roses reaching towards the mild sun. There's a slight silhouette, but you can barely make out its features with the glare of the glass.

"You should go to him. He talks about you sometimes, you know." Before you could turn around and question the twins, their backs are turned from you, melting back into the bustling crowd. Despite your initial excitement, your feet move in idle footsteps, weighed by the heaviness which emerges from your wrapped throat, plummeting to the soles of your feet sticking densely onto the ground. The notepad in your hand is gripped through your sweaty palm‒ there was only so much space in each sliver of parchment you could fill with your words, the rest of your language lost to the silence which cages your throat. Even if you could rasp through your disfigurement with a language people would lend an ear to, you were sure that your thoughts, refined through your mother's distant voice, would drive you back into forlorn silence‒ your hands clawing and reopening your wounds wide and fresh enough to assure not even a breath could be heard from it. Flowers always came to you with such ease in comparison, eyes turned away from your secret adoration for something far more beautiful in perfectly placed petals, inventing no hope that you could cling to that would turn your throat raw with desire.

Even if these givings were seen, spoken of , or heard‒ you armor yourself by repenting‒ these gifts were never a virtue, but a disguise for the womb of shame you kept awake in your heart. Forgive me, for there is fear that one day that life will ripen within it‒ something as grotesque as myself, a venerable mirror to my slumbering desires to be swaddled and held. You arrive at the handle of the door too fast for your liking, hovering your hand over it with a heavy heart and tongue before grasping it quietly, hoping a little that your soundless footsteps would turn you into a phantom.

But when you are faced with a familiar image‒ his weaving dusty mauve hair, and the arctic clarity of his blue eyes, you can't help but to pause your prayers for a moment, met with the blinding joy his face brings you. Dear, dear friend.

You're so used to his name springing from your throat that you nearly tear the fragile nerves of your lesions with a rasp threatening to boil over by the warmth in your stomach. But you clench that tension in your hand as you scribble his name in hurried, crude strokes across the entire page.

"Azul?" You turned the paper pad over with clumsy, shaking hands. He looks just as surprised as you, but he nods slowly.

"(Name)?"

You nod your head vigorously to your name, decorated sweetly with his voice. His entire body is facing you now, taking you in with the gulp of his gaze. You do the same, noticing that, actually, not quite a lot has changed. Sure, the soft little octopus had grown tall and slender during the eight years you didn’t see him‒ but still, there is that mole dotted prettily on his face you remember quite well, and the softness of his eyes when they meet yours is one of your fondest, most tender memories, unraveled whenever you saw the sea blue glow of freshly fallen snow, or the velvety reflection of the skies in gentle spring creeks. But now they were here, gazing back at you, there were no words that appeared in your mind, or which you could communicate with the likeness of flowers. It's so sweet again when you hear his voice.

"What's happening? Why are you writ‒ never mind that." He shakes the thought away. "How…How have you been? Last I heard from mother you had moved with your aunt somewhere on land."

Azul does not question how, or why you stood in front of him after eight years, but rather simply‒ how are you? The smile that blooms at that realization hurts your cheeks. Azul mirrors your sentiments silently, relieved that there were no comments on his appearance of how he's "changed so much". Dear, dear friend. He missed this. Missed you too.

"I'm well. Been working as a gardener here, I enjoy it. How have you been? I’m guessing busy, I heard you're a dorm leader from the twins."

"Ah, you've already met them I see. I just hope they haven’t said anything…unnecessary." His smile widens, you trace the movement of his mole which stretches against the curve of his lips. "I've been…alright. Land life has been a lot to adjust to, but I think I have the hang of it now."

"Haha. It was a lot for me when I first came on shore too. Pillows are so weird, aren't they?"

The dormhead chuckles as you approach him near the railing, situating yourself beside him to face the white roses dotting the garden. One meant mercy, purity, the breath of love; two‒ "I deserve you"; three‒ adoration; 99 white roses, and this would be an Eden of eternal love. But you're too enraptured by his laughter to count, caught in the waves of his lightness.

"They are. But I think it's nice now, might even be a hit at the reef if we sell them during spring break. You mentioned you're a gardener?"

"Yes. I just maintain the horticulture on campus, and I do bouquets from time to time like Trey's broomquet today." You write fast, wanting to answer Azul quickly, fill the time with as much of him as you could. He leans over, watching you as you scribble, relishing silently in the smell of fresh cut lilies and seaside rosemary tangled in a salty sweet ocean breeze.

"An impressive feat, considering the size of our campus. If you're willing‒ I may actually need your help with the twin's birthdays coming soon."

“I'd be happy to help! We would need to set an interview up like I do with most of my clients‒ just so I know their preferences more. But it'll be easier since I already know Jade and Floyd." Truthfully, you were already putting together the perfect bouquet for the twins, violet roses here, silver ragwort there, and a sprinkle of beauty berry should bring the composition together in a delicate balance. The meeting was just an excuse to assure another conversation with Azul again, a thought which churned a feeling of shame within you, rolling you smooth with its ragged tongue that sanded down the rough joy jutting out from you like an unfinished pearl. When Azul nods on confirmation, this sensation becomes slightly eased, but your muscles churn inside you like the dark, deep seas.

"I agree. Nonetheless, us four should meet at the mostero lounge soon to catch up. I could use a talent like yours to freshen up the look of the lounge a bit‒ perhaps we could work a contract of some sort out."

"I'm not that good, I'm not so sure I can hold up to your expectations, dormleader."

"Please‒ Jade's tastes aren't so bad but Floyd's sense of interior design is abysmal. His idea of interior design is a bunch of half finished snacks decorating the shelf beside his bed. Any help would be wonderful."

A silent laugh shakes your shoulders. "I'll think about it."

The patio door opens again‒ revealing Jack, who waves a hand towards you, and speaks with clumsy hands. "They're cutting the cake (Name)- Azul, you too‒ it's gonna be gone if you stay out here for too long."

"Be right there." You sign, lifting your body from the deck railing.

"Is that sign language? I've never seen it in person." Azul holds the door open for you, allowing you to scurry in with a bow of your head.

You nod. "Writing gets tiring at times. But I'm happy either way people speak to me." There’s a twitch in Azul’s eyes that you catch at your statement, regret tingling at your fingertips making your skin feel raw against your flesh. You squeeze the meat of your palm to ignore it.

"We saved you two some cake~" Floyd summons the two of you with a wave, gesturing to two neighboring seats across from them.

Jade smiles, scooping a part of his cake with a fork. "It's nice that we're back together like this. It seems forever ago that you left the reef (Name)."

"But eight years fly by, don't they? You're going to have to catch me up on all the embarrassing stories of each other."

"Only if you let us in on some blackmail about you (Name)." Floyd reveals his sharp teeth with a wide grin, licking the icing off his fork.

"I will." You write, hoping you can fill their heads enough with the happier moments at your aunt's flower shop and time so far as the NRC gardener, rather than deliberate the disease which flowered in your lungs, the sickness that came with it‒ the surgery, the scarring, the healing‒ your departure from your mother, from your home, from them. The ribbon feels tight on your throat, your smile grows tense on your lips. You try your best to quell the swelling waves of anxiety, eased a bit with the laughter of your friends that rang in your presence once more.

——————————————————

You meet them again at the VIP section of their lounge just a few days later, having planned a date to meet before you went home after the birthday celebration. Though conversation was a bit stiff at first, energy begins to swell in the room as you reminisce the events of your childhood, and the years of adolescence you missed in the 8 years of absence from your hometown. The conversation slowly progresses towards how the three would be able to see you more, shifting back to Azul's proposal to have you come to set up flower arrangements in the lounge.

"How about roses?" Floyd suggests. "Classic. Everyone likes them."

A shrug. "Hm. They're a nice touch‒ but a bit basic. I can add them in, but I wouldn't make them the focal point since there's just better flowers out there."

"What do you suggest?" Azul asks.

You think, flipping through the catalog of flowers in your mind. "Especially for the color scheme of your dorm, I think hydrangeas would be nice. Blue poppies, perhaps some rosemary in there as well. Maybe purple carnation‒” you scribble that last thought away as quickly and vigorously as it came, your throat tightening in remembrance at that thought.

“Those sound great‒ but I want something more elegant looking, the carnations you mentioned would be fitting‒ ah‒ remember those flowers from that story you always talked about? The one about the poetry being written on the petals?”

You were glad he moved from carnations. Besides, purple carnations signified grief and death in some cultures, far removed from the emblem of prayer they were in your culture. “Hyacinths?”

“Precisely. What do the white ones mean?” What about this one? What does this say? How about this, this, and this? You remember the way he pointed to each flower in your encyclopedia lent by your aunt, his small fingers fluttering across the page like a busy little cuttlefish at your riveting explanations. This is this, this and this. There was always a hurry to your words when you spoke to others‒ particularly your mother‒ rushing to seize the brief opportunity allowed for you to speak, but no matter how much you had stumbled over your words in clumsy delight, Azul listened with a smile on his face, making notes on paper for his experiments, words rushing to his hands like a school of fish.

“White ones mean a ‘quiet love’, or ‘love that is quelled’. If you want something with a happier meaning though, I would go with white wisteria, it means sweet nostalgic memories or drunken love; cornflowers‒ delicacy and elegance; or salvia‒ veneration and wisdom. Purple chrysanthemum would be splendid too‒ meaning your wish will come true."

You remember when your mother was kinder, tucking your small, innocent body into her soft arms‒ hushing your cries with a tender whisper. It was without that rattle in your throat she pointed towards you like a knife when you grew from that chaste form, sullied and filled with her disappointment. Your body was tall and flushed with it, but not quite tall enough, not quite curved and plump the way she liked‒ needed you to be to carve her desired image into you. A mirror within a mirror within a mirror‒ mother and child, mother and child. Her words lashing as the waves cracking against the jagged rocks, shaping you into a memorial of her pains, her aching hunger.

But you returned to that far-flung memory of her maternal care, remembering the legend she told you about purple chrysanthemums‒ placing one dearly to your hair, chirping her bright song with a story that was passed from the throat of her mother, to the her ears as a child, blood through blood. This was one of the only memories you remember of her singing not to an audience or a stage‒ but to you, flesh of her womb, skin and bones lovingly mirrored in babbling purity. You trace her unusually soft words with your hand, gliding across the page with the exact pitch of her voice swimming in your mind.

"There's a legend among our kind, of the purple chrysanthemum. We decorate our most treasured people with it, and wear it as a sign of someone watching over you to make a dream come true‒ whether it is a benevolent god, or another person." You pause your writing, the three looking over you to watch you write. "It symbolizes the victory of love‒ its power which pulls the best from you to achieve something as distant as a dream."

Your pen stills. "But‒ I should retract my suggestion. People of other cultures use it to commemorate death, I wouldn't want to offend someone."

Azul is brightened by the way you talk about flowers again, the fragrant morsels on his mind blooming, coloring him vividly in your dazzling artistry. This is this, this, and this. The way you forge lustrous, silent poetry with each careful placement of a blossom amazes him each time, finding your words lingering and echoing in the cove of his mind. "No." His mouth races somewhat brash, he tries again, clearing his throat. "No‒ I trust your initial judgment." He smiles. You trace that mole on his face. "I like it."

"Then it's decided."

Floyd yawns, draping his arms dramatically against the couch, and lulling his head upwards with a sigh. “Ugh. Enough with the flower talk‒ let’s talk about something more interesting.” He flashes a toothy smirk. “(Name), you wanna hear about the time Azul cried so hard he threw up?”

His twin clasps his hands with a similar expression. “Oh, that’s definitely a good one.”

Azul’s eyes blow wide open. “That is absolutely a violation of our contract‒”

“I don’t believe that includes (Name) actually.” Jade muses with a sly grin.

"Why was he crying so hard he threw up??"

The dormleader groans, dropping his hands into hands.

The twins exchange a look before Jade answers. "You, of course."

"Me?" You point to yourself in disbelief.

Floyd chuckles. "He sipped a little wine at the restaurant on accident. Then he starts blubbering about how 'oh I miss them', 'oh remember when they did this', and 'oh‒"

"I think they get the point, brother."

While Floyd ignores his twin in favor of continuing the story, Azul continues to hide his slowly darkening face behind his hands, while you sit, pen hovering over the paper.

“Why?”

The twins blink with a confused expression on their face, while Floyd speaks with a baffled tone. “Ha? Why? What do you mean why?” From the corner of your eye, you see Azul lift his head from his hands to look you, with what expression, you can’t tell‒ training your eyes on the paper with hardened brows, blood tinging on you tongue from the flesh drawn between your teeth.

The pen in your hand hovers above the paper with a soft tremble. Why? Why me? When you left that reef years ago, you left any notion that your presence would be something that would be worth lingering over‒ much more grieving about‒ a thought that was confirmed by the way your mother hurriedly dumped you at your aunt’s flower shop near the somber shores, her frosty gaze and distanced followed by years of inveterated silence as incurable and everlong as the one wrapped around your throat. Like the winter storms on the beach where your aunt's shop sat upon, that silence from your mother, and everyone else for that matter, was as thrashing and unforgiving to your empty ears and throat. There was nothing left for you down there, just memories that would make that scraped dryly against your throat and make you long for something your body was not mended properly for. So the proposition that Azul had felt something towards you‒ so much so that he had shed actual tears for you‒ threatened to bring the nausea deep in your darkened stomach frothing at the surface. You pushed through it, hand gliding clumsily across the paper.

“Never mind, sorry. I should get going soon‒ I’m behind on some duties in at the Botanical Gardens.”

Azul sighs in slight relief, and stands as you gather your things. "I'll see you off." You bid goodbye to the twins, who flash a pointed smile at you while Azul holds open the lounge doors to leave.

“Come back again so we can embarrass Azul more with our stories.” You smile at Jade's words.

Before you pass through the portal, Azul taps your shoulder. He lays his hand flat against his lips, sweeping it towards you. You're taken a bit by surprise, but soon your cheeks ache from the warmth squeezed into them by your curved lips, turning the nausea reaching from your stomach to your chest into something, you think, extraordinary.

You held that feeling in your chest as much as the rupturing threaded into yourself would‒ drinking in the ease of passing clouds and the clemency of rippling seawater tickling the bottom of you feet‒ much too quick, too light, too wonderful to be bound by the chthonic gods. Your heart races with the swiftness of sprightly, sun drunken waves. There was a rising ache‒ knowing your fractured body would splinter before you could swallow this feeling in its entirety, filling you body brilliantly like a blooming chrysanthemum‒ unfurling its divine petals towards all cardinal directions in a form which flared itself every which way. Victory of love. You knew it would not triumph against your fragmentation‒ but despite it all, you smiled stupidly, weaving your florid fingers against his to show him the correct placement of the word.

"Like this." You instruct‒ on his chin, near that dotted mark, then towards you in one motion. The word is practiced twice so you can linger your hands on his own. "Thank you, thank you." You mouth.

The heat of your fingers burns this motion into him, even as you let go. He practices it again, hoping to retrieve your sensation onto his skin with the repeated motion. “Thank you.”

You take your pointed and middle finger to your eye, then glide it towards the tip of your chin with a circle made with your pointer and thumb.

“See you soon.”

——————————————————

Carnations are always a favorite among your customers. The flower of love, of adoration‒ of the gods. They have been woven into hair to commemorate new beginnings, have been rumored to sprout from a devoted mother’s tears faced with her child’s death. Their name comes from carnis, or flesh, from the myth of innocent bloodshed, a shepherd who had his eyes gouged out from a goddess of the hunt, who was displeased by his flute playing which caused the animals of her hunting grounds to be spooked. From his empty flesh, carnations grew, white petals emerging, stained with blood. White carnations typically signify the mourning of lost lives, pure love, unrequited love, loyalty, faithfulness, a mother’s love.

But most of all, it whispers, my love for you is alive. It felt that way when they flourished in your lungs, choking the song in your throat in just a few months after they sowed into your meat. Alive and red and beating so vibrantly against your flesh‒ filthy with the darkened red of your aching insides. They came as impossible heaps from your mouth, emptying quietly as you could in the corner of your room so as not to bother your sleeping mother in the room over. You remember furling your body inward, praying it to become smaller, smaller, smaller‒ quieting your agony, erasing your swaying footsteps to the medicine cabinet, slicing your body up and down into manageable pieces. It was a dance in your eyes you carried everywhere with you that classified every variation of footsteps, the slightest inflection in tone, a twitch of the lungs before it even came‒ so you could shape yourself flat against the sharpened teeth of any who bothered to bite down on your brittle, bitter form, flaying and cleaving your meat carefully to its shape. Your eyes remembered these wounds, reopened and festering against your clumsy stitches to take into account next test‒ next time, next interaction, next opportunity to prove‒ I’ll be better, I’ll prove I am worthy enough to live.

‘You’re so sensitive‒ you would be good with flowers’, your aunt says. Thank you, you gulp in the ache of your disfigurement with pride‒ a medallion passed from your mother, passed from her mother, passed from her own‒ blood through blood it was gifted, and split from your strangled throat. It felt like your body rejected it, but oh, that was the best part of it all‒ more pain, more, more, more‒ something to wear on your skin as a testament to how you’ve been such a good child, to mutilate yourself against anyone’s maws. Something to show, mother, love me for all of these marks prove it, prove that I can cut open myself deep enough to mirror the perfected version of yourself.

Carnations are a symbol of that. People give them as a trophy of love that is agony, love that is alive, love which slaughters. It is a mother's love. They're popular in those early months during the spring, where the flowers devour the corpses mulled over by autumn and winter, chewing and spitting it out with a drunken splendor. As such you had many on hand during these colder months, surrounded by consecrations of this love, thrashing, bursting inside you like sea-brine churned into frothing bubbles, the waves breaking against it swelling them over the edge of the shore. You could feel the eyes of the flowers leering towards you, tightening the ribbon around your neck.

The hand in your pocket reaches towards the heads, your fingers brush against their cold petals. They are worn, withered from the days they have slept stagnant and untouched in their watery casket. You are quick to take them from their bucket, shoving in a bag to be thrown away in the compost, back into the earth to nourish the next generation.

“(Name)?”

Was it already that time already? You had promised him you would meet with him to plan the twins' broomquet after you closed, but the day had waded through you so quickly.

His name, as always, almost makes it out of your throat. But you held the silence in your mouth like your muffled heartbeat, quietly turning to him with weary eyes. He immediately drinks their lorn gaze, before he takes out a small leather bound pocketbook from his inner pocket, flipping through a few pages, returning it to his coat when he finishes reading the contents of the page. With clumsy hands, he signs. “Do you need help?”

You look him up and down, pausing your hands shoved deep inside the bag of wilted carnations. “You know sign language?”

“I learned.” He says sheepishly. “Apologies‒ clearly I haven't gotten too far with it. I don't know some words yet.”

Your eyes widen. “Why?”

He points to his head, then towards you. For. You. I learned for you.

A smile curves on his lips, but you avert your eyes from it. You’re afraid to measure that tinted color on his cheeks, the shape of his softened eyes, the length of his smile the wrong way‒ to take something without anything worthy from yourself to give in compensation, so you take his words instead, knowing you could at least repay them with something much more beautiful, whole. Flowers. You don't look at him. “I could use some help.”

He rolls his sleeves up, takes the carnations in his hands and brings them inside the bag. “What is the meaning of carnations?”

“Love, adoration, ‘my love for you is alive’.”

“Easy to capitalize on. I see why it is so popular.” He takes one between his fingers, twirls it with a sly smile. "I like it."

You return it best you could. “They’re a bit grotesque, don’t you think? The petals are quite unfinished, like they’ve been cut jagged.”

“You don’t like them?”

You remember the day after the surgery, your lungs emptied not only from the lack of carnations taking seed inside of it, but sapped from anything you had felt for your mother. You realized, that day, oh.

It was her all along.

You had searched far and wide for what the cause of your sickness was‒ you had given too much yourself to too many people to pinpoint who you had such feelings for. Your nerves felt exposed to all, to everything all the time, pricked and pinched at any abstruse movement, washing over you like a bloody crusade everytime.

There was nothing written about in the dozens of books, articles, and lyrics you dug up that had said anything about familial love specifically, so it never struck you that it was even a possibility‒ besides‒ your mother loved you, didn't she?

But of course, the carnations‒ of course. Your love for her may have been alive, but so were these flowers, once. Before they were picked from your tendons and emptied from you as rubbish.

The absence of your piteous devotion to her plummeted your heart deep into the ocean abyss, your flesh weighted as a museum of that dance, the butchering of your body, marked up and down with lines which traced the shapes of jaws with surgical precision. If you could not be loved by the flesh which founded your own, surely, it would be a ludicrous dream to wish for any other being to love you at all, to take the weeping, patchwork meat of your body and consume it.

You want to get rid of all these carnations, give them all away at once. Take them, take them all. Yes, your mother would love these‒ yes or course they're a sign of eternal love, pure love‒ anything and everything that is alive, they would be a wonderful gift. You offer them as extras to people, suggest them instead of those beautiful roses or lilacs or lilies. These gifts were never a virtue, but a disguise for the womb of shame you kept awake in your heart. Take them, take it all. Take everything from me.

You smile, squeeze your eyes to mimic candor.

"No, I hate them."

His expression is like sand, shifting in a thousand ways. You try to inspect each grain of lustrous sand to feel how they shape around your words, but always, the waves. Wait here, you tell him, to go toss the flowers back into the decomposing earth to become the blood and body their children will sprout from.

You set some lavender tea and dandelion honey cakes on the table‒ the bareness of the table is odious to you, sways you with abhorrence. Even with it filled, you sign. "I'm sorry, I wish I had more to offer you."

"This is plenty." He signs. You avert your eyes from that soft smile, but the warmth that bubbles in your chest knows the angle of its curve, the way his mole stretches across his chin, the world in his eyes.

"So, what exactly are you looking for in the twins’ bouquet?”

He thinks, you know he folds his arms to do this. “I trust your tastes. You were always better at reading people than I was.”

“I…” You pause. Yes, the dance‒ breathing in the world raw. But part of it is remaining silent to that ripening wound. “I guess.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“I think blue star would be great. Perhaps some ragwort, and I believe I have some dried sea lavender left from my aunt’s shop. Salvia would be great too, and some Zion, beauty berry as well.”

“What do they all mean?”

“Blue star and salvia mean trust‒ something they are bound by. Zion flowers signify that someone is thinking of you, even if they are far. And sea lavender lets someone know they are thinking of you. Beautyberry means a deep understanding. I can of course fill up the space with roses, some chrysanthemums, of course.”

Azul writes in his small pocketbook, scribbling your words across a page, then another, then another. He was always like this when you talked‒ recording the medicinal properties of plants, committing your sensitives to flowers with a fervor. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d say he was excited by your words, but you didn’t.

“Is it alright if I came and watched?”

“Watched?”

“Yes, if I came and watched you work on the twins’ bouquet.”

“It’s boring work, you would fall‒“

You feel your hands in his, your words quickly swallowed by the warmth of his palms. He speaks with softness which reaches deep within your ears, tingles the back of your neck.

“I think it’s quite brilliant, the way you work.”

You want to clasp your ears shut, squeeze your eyes until you see stars‒ knees tucked into your body, forming an embryo to protect yourself from those words. Your tongue shakes in your mouth. You want to scream at him. However to realize this rejection through your trembling fingers would be to deny him something, even if it was the mangled scraps which make your bundle of flesh. You'd keep this revolution plunged deep inside the heart of your whirling sea, a war raging at your marrow to keep the shores lush with anything he'd wish to take. Take it, take it all.

You're still for a moment. "Have it your way, then."

He smiles, but this time, you can't look away.

——————————————————

When he comes a few days later, he brings tupperwares full of food.

"What's all this? A feast?" You see various dishes from the nights your mother brought you to perform at the Ashengrotto’s restaurant‒ fragrant steamed fish that falls off the bone, crunchy seaweed salad, steaming bowls of fish-broth soup, bursting with flavor.

“My mother’s recipes. Your favorite, at least from back then.” He remembers fondly of the times you would finish performing, joining him at the seat right beside him. You’d point to the aquatic plants, bring him to the magic and wonders of their chemistry, their mythos, your sensitivities to them, the world. He's shaped his shores against the curve of your gentle waves, your words always returning to his sandy beaches to leave a million gifts from the sea. This is this, this, and this. He'd hold each sparkling grain of sand, each seashell nymph like an exquisite pearl, cupping his ears to every single one to catch the whispers of eternity bundled in each of them. No matter how you would run yourself raw against jagged beaches and the maws of dark coves‒ he would remain a mirror to your sun faced sanctuaries, hoping that in this lifetime, you would realize that it was you‒ you all along‒ that he'd chased, parodying your brilliance to finally become himself.

His words almost bring you to tears. You gulp it down with the nausea that rises on your tongue, cindering the muscle with its heat.

"Why are you‒" your hands spit out these words in a fervor. "Why are you so fucking nice to me? What is all this?"

You hate the way his expression softens, the infinite arctic blue which melts against your image, the elation in your chest upon devouring such delectable things. It’s revolting.

"Because…" He begins out loud. There’s breath that swells his shoulders, before he gathers his fingers to a shaking fist, locking it under his chin.

Precious.

You swing your head left and right mutely, wrapping a hand around your neck as if to choke any sound that could be ripped from it. Still, it comes out like dried leaves, a strangled rasp, a whimper which rattles in your tightened throat. You hate how he pulls your trembling fingers from your skin, you hate it. But you let him.

His warmth comes as a cosmic storm stirring the oceans into inescapable waves. You were a fool to even try to shelter yourself from it‒ his tenderness beat against your form so loudly it hurt. You can’t pull away, your body does not let you.

Azul sees the fear that bruises your eyes, the way your chest lurches, in heaving, shuddering, controlled breaths to mathematically contain that terror inside of you. There’s a moment where he suspects himself to be the culprit, the distaste of his form, the vile nature of his weaknesses. But you had always consumed all of him, everything‒ his unsightly body, his awful shortcomings, all of the best and worst parts of himself with what surely was heavenly grace. Everything but his adoration for you, a mirror to your givings to the world, and most of all‒ him. This was something within.

He brings you to a seat, a cup of water to your hands. He lets you take time, sipping the moment in small gulps like the drink he sets in your hands. Silence, even with the lack of words exchanged between you two, was never something which was present when you were beside him. His mind always rushed with thoughts about you‒ all the more louder in the eight years you had been absent from his side. Even then, your likeness was always carved in the back of his mind, coming and going like a haunting oceanfront.

“Do you remember the first day we met?”

You remember. “Tell me.” You sign.

“You saved me from those awful kids, remember? I still got so scared of them I got ink everywhere. You were in such wonderful garments I didn’t want you to get dirty, so I told you to back off.”

His smile makes your own. He continues. “I was such a brat back then‒ even after you fended those kids off I told you to get away from me‒ ‘don’t come crying if I spoil your garments!’” A stiff chuckle escapes your nose as you remember the expression on his face. It was much like your own‒ frightened. “But you told me‒“

“Stain them, I don’t care.” Of course you remember. The surprise on his face, the stutter of his hands as you held them.

“Yes. We spent the whole day together. You took me to the shores for the first time, facing the field of‒ what was it?”

“Memorial roses.”

“Memorial roses. You told me they meant love for the honest form." He drags his gaze from his hands, and into your eyes. "I didn't even see the sun set when you talked about flowers the way you do. All my current knowledge of horticulture comes from you, you know.”

"Surely not all of it."

He shakes his head. "No, all of it. I've inscribed every word you've said to me in my mind and I've carried you with me all those years I spent toiling away in my octopot." The hand he rests on your own warms your fingers. "I have you written all over me."

You grip the heat of your throat, hands heavy as you raise them to retaliate, again. "No. Why would you want‒ ."

"I'm not. Why do you think so?" That softness, again, his eyes. Revolting.

You threw the words from your hands in frustration. Didn't he understand? "Why would you want someone like me to‒ to poison you?"

"I could say the same for myself. Why did you defend me that day?"

You remember the look in his eyes, the way he crouched low to the ocean floor in shame. "I saw myself in you. I couldn't‒"

"You couldn't bare it." He finishes.

"Yes, but you're different. With me, I'm not‒ I wasn't‒ "

"But you aren't different." There's a growing lump in his throat, frustration, heat‒ it rises with the volume of his voice, erupting raw at the back of his tongue. "Why won't you let me show you that you're worthy of the same treatment you give to the world?"

“How could I let you?" Your legs ascend from beneath you, your hands feel hot in the air as you flare them out from yourself, hurling them for Azul to see. "Look."

"Look at me." He would see, finally.

The nail of your thumb digs on your chin as your splayed hand sharply juts from your skin. It says, "My own mother".

You slip the ribbon from your throat, unraveling yourself in front of him. Azul sucks a tense breath in‒ you revel in it, your venerable mirror‒ it breaks against your old stitches, bringing you an ineffable bloom inside your chest. You don’t know if it's pleasure or pain which tightens it, but you feel as living, as chemical, as whole as a flourishing chrysanthemum‒ blazing your florid petals every which way, splitting the bud in a thousand directions. Here is proof. You lay yourself out, to him, flay your fragmentation against his eyes. The wounds burn fresh the air. This was your wish, wasn’t it? Still, the seafoam bursting against your skin, the ache, in waves. You hold the emptiness in your hand triumphantly, or, you try to.

He looks when you tell him to, of course, but the softness in his eyes tightens your chest. He's silent for a moment, thinking. "Aright." Finally, he speaks.

"Will you make a contract with me?"

"...what?"

"A contract. Will you make one with me?"

Your knees fall from you when you lean towards the table in support, seating you in the chair across from him. You open your arms, facing your palms towards him, empty, silent.

"I don't have anything I could trade you."

He reaches towards your emptiness, filling it with his warmth. "Then give me this. If you have nothing, grant me you."

You bring his heat near your face, hoping to harbor‒ at least‒ next to it. You won't take it, you couldn't. The fear laps upon you like stormy waves, it's force tearing your fingers from his. "I don't have enough of myself to give you."

"This." He replenishes the absence in your hands again. "This is more than enough‒ it will always be enough." It's a firm grip, it quells the tremble in your body slightly.

"So, will you make a contract with me?"

Hesitantly, you nod.

He guides you towards the shop window where the flowers swill in the moonlight, violet chrysanthemums shining pearly, plump with their honeyed sap. He slips one between his fingers, holds it between the two of you. "I lied when I said I only liked these. When you tell me of promises of success, of love‒ I feel like I can crack open this world with my bare hands. I don’t just like it‒ everything that comes from from you soars my soul."

He continues, bashfully. You feel filled with his words. "You're my ocean, the waters that shape my shores. You've always been where I belong, and what comes back to me to mold me to what I am even after your physical absence." The heat of his hands feel like fire on your skin as he pulls it towards his own. "This is a contract, a promise. Will you let love victor over you?"

You trace that spot on his face as he smiles, you find the small way that it curves mirrored on your own lips. You drink in his smile, returning it with your own; you breathe his scent in, exhale with the breath in your lungs that stirs his and yours‒ you mold yourself against him like you've done so many times against gnashing teeth and jagged seaside cliffs, but this time, your rolling waves kiss warmly against his sun faced sanctuaries, melding together to refract the light in your joint tenderness. The feeling begins as a seed he implants in your chest, pressed firmly against your heart, and you feel it slowly burst open when it is showered in his gaze, his touch, all of him against all that you can muster‒ an ineffable thing, a bloom which you could never put into words, even with the language of whispering flowers and the spectacular earth. It comes in heaping waves like the tears that draw flushed lines on your face. He takes all which falls from you in his hands, staining his hands with the salty fragrance.

"Stop that. I'll get your hands all dirty."

"Stain them, I don't care."

You sob, you smile harder. The tears make it impossible to neurotically measure the twinge of his muscles, the shape of his expression. But you don't think of this, filled with the knowledge of his tenderness, the precise shape of his smile, the softness of his seaborne eyes that fossilize deep within you. "You know I'll be difficult. I always am."

"And you know this about me to, don't you? But this feeling for you comes as easy as water to me."

It's true what he says, you feel like you're floating‒ weightless in the mild seas, drinking in the sunlight which trickles from the skies. Waves upon waves of this brilliance that tilts the light a thousand ways for you to admire. The chrysanthamum petals seem to widen with his warmth, the same unraveling comes bursting, flowering forward in your chest. Victory of love. It comes not as a whisper this time, but loudly as the beat of your blood. You feel it within you, that victory. At last you hold it in your hands, and it shines and lusters like a brilliant peal seeped into each of its petals, blooming forward with all of its love. You allow yourself place the flower in his hair, decorating his face with your love, your victory.

——————————————————

Notes:

All sign language is based off of American Sign Language

Part of the reason why I wanted to use hanakotoba (Japanese flower language) rather than western meanings for flowers was not only because I was more familiar with it, but because the twins I believe are Asian coded. The Octavinelle dorm is seen as the "yakuza" one (Japanese controlled crime syndicate), since they demand those Azul signs contracts with to pay the price, whether through general intimidation, or just straight up physical violence. Tweels also unfortunately sort of fit into the 'Asian twins' stereotype seen in Disney media (Siamese cats in Artisocats), but their overall design (ie eye shape and bristle-y, straight hair) fit into a pseudo Asian look. You know, as much as the fictional land of twisted wonderland will allow. But either way, I think it would be cool to see different species of seafolk have different cultures, and I think sirens in particular would have their own beliefs, systems, and traditions connected to verbal storytelling.

Not entirely sure if this is the case in the western world, but the east is very sensitive about numerology‒ so “bad” numbers are usually avoided when picking out the number of flowers to give to someone.

Chthonic gods are gods connected to the underworld

Carnations were used in coronation garlands for the Romans

Christians believed that it was the flower that sprouted from Mary's tears after the crucifixion of Jesus

Also associated with Artemis, who gouged a shepherd's eyes out because she blamed his flute playing for the lack of game that day. Therefore, they are a symbol of innocent bloodshed

Carnis, the word which is speculated the word carnation comes from, also means flesh. The genus name Dianthus comes from Zeus, connecting it to his daughter Artemis' story

Memorial Rose (ノイバラ) : In the western world, it is often a symbol of wisdom or talent, used often on literary and musical symbolism by writers such as Goethe. But in Japan, it symbolizes "love for the raw/honest form", as it is usually a wild flower that grows in the plains. Modest, but lovely. In Japan it is also called the ノイバラ or "thorn of the plains", so this modest but definitely still packs a punch. Just like Azul lol

Also often grows in the coasts

Omg I just noticed all of the fics I have written has had a toxic maternal parental figure don’t worry I’ll even it out soon lol

204 notes · View notes

pkmnprideflags · 2 months

Text

Pokémon Character Etymology Comparison

Most of the time, the translators of the Pokémon games will a choose a name with a similar meaning to the Japanese one; for example, Takeshi comes from ishi, "stone," so he got the English name Brock. But sometimes they give characters random names that have nothing to do with their originals.

Because I'm a nerd, I compiled a collection of examples of this across the main series games, with the meanings for both the Japanese and English names listed. This is gonna be a long post; buckle up, folks.

Kanto

Guriin / Blue

Japanese Meaning: green

English meaning: blue. We’ve all heard of this one, but I couldn’t not include it.

Ayumi / Elaine

Japanese meaning: step or progress

English meaning: a lane. Possibly also chosen because it starts with E, as in Eevee? Sigh.

Shin / Trace

Japanese meaning: advance. Fits with the protags, Ayumi and Kakeru (to dash).

English meaning: uh…the protagonist is tracing his movements? He’s just a trace of what Blue was in the original games? It rhymes with Chase??? Who knows.

Dr. Yukinari Ohkido / Professor Samuel Oak

Japanese meaning: “ohkido” is a transliteration of orchid. Yukinari is similar to the given name of Unshou Ishizuka, the voice actor for Prof. Oak in the Japanese version of the anime; it’s unknown if that is related.

English meaning: So many questions. Why was he downgraded to a professor instead of a doctor? Why Oak instead of orchid, just ‘cause Oak sounds like more of an old man name? Samuel is similar to Salem Oak, a historic tree in New Jersey. Which is still a super random connection.

Nanami / Daisy

Japanese meaning: reference to a type of holly tree. Ironically is part of the Ilex genus, even though that forest is in a different region.

English meaning: the flower, duh. In Western cultures usually represents friendship and innocence.

Masaki Sonezaki / Bill

Japanese meaning: First of all, yes, Bill kind of has a last name in Japanese. It has never appeared in the games, but was included in the Pocket Monsters Zukan, a supplementary material to Red & Green that is considered somewhat canon. Masaki comes from a type of shrub native to Asian countries, and Sonezaki is named after a region in Osaka, the city that that Bill’s hometown Goldenrod is based on.

English meaning: believed to be a reference to Bill Gates. Because computer man

Matisu / Lt. Surge

Japanese meaning: Seemingly a reference to Clematis, a genus of flower. I can’t find anything symbolically important about this flower that would apply to him.

English meaning: y’know, an electric surge. Could also come from “Sarge.” And they may have given him the specific rank of lieutenant because when abbreviated it kinda looks like lightning?

Kyou & Anzu / Koga & Janine

Japanese meaning: Doing these two together because their names correlate in Japanese. Both words are different ways of saying apricot.

English meaning: Koga-ryuu is a school of ninjutsu, and Janine is ninja with the syllables reversed.

Natsume / Sabrina

Japanese meaning: named after the Chinese jujube tree; big religious symbol in Islam, where it is rumored to be the Tree of Knowledge, and Buddhism through association with Vishnu.

English meaning: Psychic, brain, and possibly a reference to Sabrina the Teenage Witch.

Kanna / Lorelei

Japanese meaning: contains the word for “cold”; full name comes from the Canna lily, which ironically must be moved to a warm location during winter.

English meaning: supposedly after a famous maritime disaster site in Germany, which means “murmuring rock.” We went from flowers to death and destruction so fast

Wataru / Lance

Japanese meaning: cotton; and also a reference to a Japanese dragon-water-god.

English meaning: ok bulbapedia’s stretch here is that lances were used in medieval legends to fight dragons. But that’s stupid. They just chose a cool name

Johto

Dr. Utsugi / Professor Elm

Japanese meaning: from a Japanese shrub in the hydrangea family.

English meaning: the elm tree, continuing the trend of the Japanese doctors being named after shrubs & getting localized into tree professors.

Akane / Whitney

Japanese meaning: the madder plants, which are associated with the color red because of the dye they produce.

English meaning: white (or possibly whiny). Dunno how she became associated with an entirely different color.

Shijima / Chuck

Japanese meaning: several options here. There’s a cultivar of the haworthia genus, the word silence, or a term meaning four islands.

English meaning: to throw. Possibly a Chuck Norris reference as well.

Mikan / Jasmine

Japanese meaning: citrus fruit, specifically oranges.

English meaning: name of a plant; likely chosen as a pun on “mine” or “mineral.”

Yanagi / Pryce

Japanese meaning: willow. Often seem as a solemn tree; notably only grows in colder or temperate locations.

English meaning: it’s an ice pun haha

Ibuki / Clair

Japanese meaning: Chinese juniper plant, popular in Japan for its use in bonsai art. Also “breath,” a pun on Dragon Breath.

English meaning: Lair. As in a place that dragons live. Wooooo

Itsuki / Will

Japanese meaning: Zelkova tree, popular once again in bonsai and also for furniture and drum making.

English meaning: willpower.

Hoenn

Mitsuru / Wally

Japanese meaning: to be frail; also influence from “vine” and “crane,” possibly referencing the practice of giving origami cranes to those who are ill.

English meaning: supposedly from “wallflower.” I think it’s weird to focus on the social effects of his condition when the Japanese name is so focused on the physical aspects of it but whatevs.

Old Man Hagi / Mr. Briney

Japanese meaning: the Japanese clover plant.

English meaning: brine, salt water.

Mari & Dai / Gabby & Ty

Japanese meaning: mari is “ball;” Bulbapedia posits this might refer to the end of a microphone, but I’m not convinced. And dai is a topic of an interview.

English meaning: from the verb “to gab,” and…possibly a reference to TV?

Mayumi / Lanette

Japanese meaning: from a type of spindle plant. It’s in the same genus as the plants Bill and Celio are named after.

English meaning: from LAN (local area network) and net, as in internet.

Azusa / Brigette

Japanese meaning: another spindle plant.

English meaning: bridge, a device to connect several networks, like how Pokémon Box connects to RSE. And then the same suffix as Lanette.

Director Kusunoki / Captain Stern

Japanese meaning: camphor tree

English meaning: the stern of a boat. No idea why his title was changed.

Higana & Shigana / Zinnia & Aster

Japanese meaning: Higana refers to the red spider lily, a plant commonly associated with death and the afterlife. Shigana, literally translated as “this shore,” refers to the mortal world, with higana (“other shore”) referring to the afterlife.

English meaning: Both flowers. Zinnia is usually associated with remembering an absent or distant, but not necessarily dead, friend. Kind of a watered-down version of the Japanese name. Aster is named after a Latin word for star, and is usually associated with faith and wisdom.

Tsutsuji / Roxanne

Japanese meaning: the rhododendron species of flowers.

English meaning: you guessed it, rocks.

Tessen / Wattson

Japanese meaning: passion flower clematis, the same genus referenced in Lt. Surge’s name.

English meaning: you guessed it, watts

Asuna / Flannery

Japanese meaning: from asunaro, a type of cypress tree. Ironically would not be a good tree for Lavaridge Town, as it is not drought-resistant.

English meaning: flames or something? I’m not convinced this is a real name

Senri / Norman

Japanese meaning: senryou, an herb often used for Japanese New Year decorations; also 1000 li (Chinese unit of measurement), a distance equivalent to over 300 miles. Yeesh

English meaning: you guessed it, normal

Nagi / Winona

Japanese meaning: the Asian bayberry plant; also a word for calm/lull.

English meaning: wind, wing, or winnow, a verb that means to remove chaff from grain via a strong gust of wind. Her Japanese name is calm, her English name is a forceful gale.

Kagari / Courtney

Japanese meaning: from kagaribi, bonfire.

English meaning: from “country,” likely to go along with Team Magma’s land theme.

Ushio / Matt

Japanese meaning: tide

English meaning: likely from the “mast” of a ship.

Izumi / Shelly

Japanese meaning: spring, as in a water location

English meaning: you guessed it, shell

Purimu / Glacia

Japanese meaning: primrose, a flower with some species that have adapted to cold climates; or possibly the adjective prim, meaning formal to a standoffish - or cold - extent.

English meaning: omg glaciers

Daigo Tsuwabuki / Steven Stone

Japanese meaning: last name comes from a plant that contains a kanji meaning “stone.” Daigo comes from the Indian coral tree, the blooming of which is associated with impending typhoons and drought. Makes me think of how Steven starts investigating Groudon & Kyogre way before anyone else, as if he can sense what’s coming.

English meaning: steel and stone. Why are the english names so not complex in gen 3

Datsura / Noland

Japanese meaning: from datura, a group of poisonous flowering plants.

English meaning: presumably from the word “knowledge” cuz he’s a buff nerd

Rira / Anabel

Japanese meaning: from lilac, which might just be the color of her hair.

English meaning: bulbapedia claims it comes from “ability” but I don’t buy it

Ukon / Spenser

Japanese meaning: from turmeric, the spice and plant.

English meaning: supposedly from “spirit”

Jindai / Brandon

Japanese meaning: both a reference to a plant and to ancient times (lit. “age of the gods”)

English meaning: supposedly from “brave”

Hiisu / Tucker

Japanese meaning: from heath, the plant type. Unrelated to Hisui.

English meaning: supposedly from “tactics”

Kogomi / Greta

Japanese meaning: ostrich fern

English meaning: “guts” or “great”

Sinnoh

Jun / Barry

Japanese meaning: probably from Junichi Masuda, longtime composer and contributor to the Pokémon games.

English meaning: No one really knows! It was his first default name in Diamond and Platinum. It’s what the anime dubbers chose for him when he first appeared, and it’s been his name ever since.

Ayako / Johanna

Japanese meaning: no one knows for either of these names! Ayako has a lot of meanings, many of which have to do with kimono designs for whatever reason.

English meaning: ultimately comes from Hebrew, meaning “God is gracious.”

Mizuki / Bebe

Japanese meaning: from the dogwood genus of trees & shrubs. Notably not related to the group of plants the previous storage developers were named after. Fun fact, Selene also has this name in Japanese.

English meaning: BBCode, a programming language used to format forum messages.

Hyouta & Tougan / Roark & Byron

Japanese meaning: doing these two together since their Japanese names correspond. They’re both named after different types of gourds.

English meaning: Roark is rock & ore; Byron is iron.

Makishimamu Kamen / Crasher Wake

Japanese meaning: literally, “Maximum Mask.” Thought to come from the orchid genus Maxillaria.

English meaning: Crashing waves & wake.

Merissa / Fantina

Japanese meaning: an herb genus; also a Western name, indicating that she’s a foreigner.

English meaning: phantom, and also fantasia, a type of tango.

Akagi / Cyrus

Japanese meaning: bishop wood tree, known for its red bark.

English meaning: a Persian name associated with the sun. Likely chosen to fit with the Commanders’ planet names.

Puruuto / Charon

Japanese meaning: Pluto, fitting with the other Commanders’ planet names.

English meaning: Jupiter’s biggest moon. Not a planet. Good job, guys

Ryou / Aaron

Japanese meaning: Japanese clethra tree

English meaning: likely from arachnid and arthropod

Kikuno / Bertha

Japanese meaning: both the English & Japanese names share the theme of being similar to Kikuko/Agatha. Like Kikuko, this name references chrysanthemum.

English meaning: has the same sound as “Earth.”

Goyou / Lucian

Japanese meaning: five-needle pine; also enlightenment.

English meaning: light, possibly also illusion or hallucination

Shirona / Cynthia

Japanese meaning: white-fruited nandina, a flower associated with growing love and good homes.

English meaning: epithet for Artemis, the Greek goddess of the moon; possibly chosen to contrast with Cyrus.

Kokuran / Darach

Japanese meaning: the pantropic widelip orchid.

English meaning: Gaelic word for oak. Probably a reference to Prof Oak tbh

Neziki / Thorton

Japanese meaning: staggerbush, a kind of plant.

English meaning: from “thorn.” Staggerbushes do not have thorns.

Unova

Banjirou / Benga

Japanese meaning: the guava fruit.

English meaning: the Malabar kino tree.

Tetsu / Curtis

Japanese meaning: iron

English meaning: comes from a French word that means polite or courteous

Ruri / Yancy

Japanese meaning: from lapis lazuli

English meaning: similar to “fancy” I guess.

Nobori & Kudari / Ingo & Emmet

Japanese meaning: up-train & down-train, respectively. Refers to global train track directions.

English meaning: Ingo is believed to be a pun on “ingoing” train, so you’d think Emmet would be some pun on outgoing, right? Nope. He’s a variation on “emit.” Why? Who knows

Dento, Poddo, & Kohn / Cilan, Chili, & Cress

Japanese meaning: the brothers are all named after corn: dent corn, pod corn, and…just corn.

English meaning: in English the brothers are named after herbs and plants: cilantro, chili peppers, and watercress.

Hachiku / Brycen

Japanese meaning: black bamboo.

English meaning: it’s an ice pun

Shaga / Drayden

Japanese meaning: from the fringed iris, therefore tying him further to Iris.

English meaning: shortening of “dragon’s den.”

Vaabena / Anthea

Japanese meaning: from a flower genus that symbolizes “tender love.”

English meaning: epithet of Hera, the goddess of women and family. Also has some added musical symbolism - her name is similar to anthem, and Concordia is similar to concord, another word for harmony.

Giima / Grimsley

Japanese meaning: comes from a shrub; but also may reference words for the devil, deception, and the transliteration of “boogeyman.”

English meaning: grim or grimace + sly

Katorea / Caitlin

Japanese meaning: from Cattleya, a genus of orchids.

English meaning: roughly similar to Japanese name, with possible influence from “castle.”

Kakitsubata / Drayton

Japanese meaning: the Japanese iris, connecting to Drayden & Iris’s Japanese names. Also contains an anagram of tatsu, a word for dragon.

English meaning: similar to Drayden. And kind of similar to dragon if you squint

Kalos

Karumu / Calem

Japanese meaning: from calme, calm in French.

English meaning: looks similar enough to the word calm, but it technically comes from a Scottish name meaning “dove.”

Sana / Shauna

Japanese meaning: either Latin for “healthy” or Arabic for “brilliance.”

English meaning: probably just chosen because it’s similar; technically comes from the name John, meaning “God is gracious.”

Dr. Platane / Professor Augustine Sycamore

Japanese meaning: French for plane tree.

English meaning: sycamores are not plane trees; however, to be fair, Augustine Henry is a cultivar of plane trees. Officially headcanoning Henry as his middle name now

Koruni / Korrina

Japanese meaning: from cornichon, french for gherkin.

English meaning: vaguely similar to Japanese; also, the words KO and arena.

Gojika / Olympia

Japanese meaning: the midday flower; also time.

English meaning: an unrelated genus of flower; also Olympian (godlike, superior).

Akebi / Aliana

Japanese meaning: from the chocolate vine.

English meaning: from the genus Aliana, and possibly a liana, a type of woody branch that grows from the ground.

Bara / Bryony

Japanese meaning: their word for rose.

English meaning: the bryony plant.

Korea / Celosia

Japanese meaning: Correa genus.

English meaning: Celosia, a genus in the amaranth family.

Alola

Nariya Ohkido / Samson Oak

Japanese meaning: nariya-ran is a name for the bamboo orchid, making his full name an orchid genus. Nariya is also similar to Yukinari.

English meaning: keeps the similarity to Samuel, but otherwise has no special meaning.

Kaki / Kiawe

Japanese meaning: kaki means fire; also, the Asian persimmon,

English meaning: kiawe, a species of tree often used for charcoal and long-lasting firewood.

Raichi / Olivia

Japanese meaning: transliteration of lychee, a tropical tree.

English meaning: from a flowering plant called maile, and possibly also the rock olivine.

Galar

Rurina / Nessa

Japanese meaning: from the Cupid’s Dart flower.

English meaning: lots of options here. There’s nesses, a type of shoreline; the infamous Loch Ness; the Greek name Nerissa, meaning “from the sea;” or a Cornish word meaning second.

Hisui

Omatsu, Otake, & Oume / Charm, Clover, & Coin

Japanese meaning: respectively, pine, bamboo, and plum; these three combine to form the symbols called the Friends of Winter in Chinese art, which symbolize perseverance and resilience.

English meaning: all three are named after objects that are believed to be lucky.

Tsuiri / Tuli

Japanese meaning: the beginning of the rainy season.

English meaning: supposedly from “Tulip.”

Sharon / Anthe

Japanese meaning: possibly from Rose of Sharon, a Biblical term referring to an unknown flower; likely also from the word for “gauze.”

English: the Greek word for flower; possibly also chrysanthemum.

Yura / Vessa

Japanese meaning: from “Yuraa!!”, Spiritomb’s cry before it battles the player.

English meaning: from vessel.

Paldea & Kitakami

Kaede / Katy

Japanese meaning: from the word for maple.

English meaning: possibly referencing katydid (bush crickets).

25 notes · View notes

suguwu · 10 months

Text

lover be good to me: part three

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.

masterlist

minors and ageless blogs do not interact

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

notes: so this was originally supposed to be three parts, but i hit the limit for a tumblr post, so it's now four. but we're so close to the end and i'm excited to share this part with you! the final part will be up next week.

as always, massive thanks to my beta for both the edits and the endless support throughout the process, especially when i thought writing this fic would never end.

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, food consumption, non-graphic partner death (not kita), grief/mourning, healing, love as a choice.

wc: 10k

You’ve been staying up too late.

Or maybe you’ve been getting up too early. You’re not sure you know anymore. The world spills foggy over your senses these days. The sun sets bloody over the horizon as you close your eyes, sinking your teeth into the tender flesh of a dusty pink peach, the juices running sweet down your chin. You open your eyes and there’s a mug shattered on the floor, coffee pooling around your feet, the scent of it heavy enough to taste. You close them again, and you wake up curled around a ghost.

Hours roll into each other, jagged fragments rounded smooth, seaglass blips of time. They slip through your fingers like grains of sand.

You miss the finer details of things. The wake is ephemeral, a cobweb snapping in the breeze long gone before you even know it. Only the ghost of incense on your skin tells you it occurred. Abe and Yoshikawa spend the night; they’re warm around you in the guest room’s bed, their arms thrown over your waist to keep you from shaking apart in the tender wound of darkness.

You curl up in the cradle of them. You can smell Yoshikawa’s mango shampoo as you press close to her, her long hair catching against you. She hums quietly and shifts to accommodate you. Abe scooches closer against your back, her forehead pressing between your shoulder blades.

You fall asleep like that, twined together like a litter of kittens, shifting into each other’s warmth.

You blink awake in your dimly lit kitchen. It’s late; the sickle curve of the moon is low in the sky. Your phone is heavy in your hand.

Kita picks up within a single ring. He says your name quietly, like it’s a secret for just you and him. It startles you out of your daze. You suck in a sharp breath as you realize you actually called him.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to call so late.”

“S’alright,” he says. His voice is rough with sleep; there’s a soft rumble to it, like far-off thunder. “You can always call.”

“Did I wake you?”

“S’alright,” he says again. “Do you want to talk?”

You bite at a hangnail. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to talk?”

“Please,” you say, your voice fraying at the edges.

He does. You lean against the refrigerator as he talks, your head tilted back against the cool metal of it. Kita tells you about the seedlings, how he could use a machine to sow them but that this year he’s chosen to do one or two of the paddies by hand. You imagine him crouching in the fields, his big hands tender against the delicate shoots, sinking them into the thin layer of murky water.

His voice is soft, steady, and warm. You sink into it, floating in it as you watch the moon set, a fishhook of light descending towards the embrace of the horizon. He spins out story after story. You think it’s the most you’ve ever heard him talk and something in you twinges.

“Will you come to the funeral?” you ask, the question spilling from you before you can stop it.

Kita goes quiet. You listen to him breathe. It’s steady like the tide, in and out, ebbing and flowing in a way that soothes something in you, a balm against an unknown scrape.

“No.”

You flinch.

“If I come,” he continues, his voice gentle but firm, “it won’t be about your husband anymore. It’ll be about us.”

Kita’s particular brand of logic has always had a cold edge to it. You know he doesn’t mean it unkindly, but it stings to hear the truth spoken so steadily, with such assurance.

You curl in on yourself like a fiddlehead, bringing your knees up to your chest. You sob once, an earthen sound, deep and heavy.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Silence falls. You tilt your head back further and stare at the ceiling, half-blocked by the fan of leaves from the plants perched precariously on top of the fridge. You can almost see him in the lines the paintbrush left behind, his lips thinned and his amber eyes somber.

“I know,” you whisper.

Kita breathes out a sigh. It’s a wisp of a thing. You think it must be bitter on his tongue, laced as deeply with regret as it is.

“Do you want to keep talkin’?”

You glance at the stove’s clock and wince. “You should go back to bed,” you tell him. “It’s late.”

“That isn’t what I asked,” he says, not unkindly.

You watch the clock blink over to the next number. It seems to take an eternity, a lifetime tied up in neon red.

“I don’t know,” you say and the tears are welling up, burning hot behind your eyes. “Shinsuke, I don’t know.”

“S’okay.”

The tears spill over, running down your cheeks in thick rivulets. They catch on your lips, fill your mouth, until all you know is sorrow salty on your tongue. “Shinsuke,” you say, desperate.

“I’m here.”

You curl forward, burying your face in your knees. You fist your free hand in your nightshirt, twining the soft cotton around your fingers until it hurts. You sob once and then catch the next one behind your teeth to swallow back down.

“You can cry, y’know,” he says. “You don’t hafta stop on my account.”

It sets you off. You sob like a child with your forehead resting against your knees, the tears dripping down to dampen your pj pants.

Kita murmurs something, too soft for you to hear over your own sobs. But his voice is sweetened with kindness. It settles into your bones, the warmth of it spreading under your skin, a soothing balm against the sharp, gruesome wound deep inside you. The first tentative stitch of many.

Your sobs peter out into quiet, shaky breaths.

“Good,” Kita says. “Keep breathin’, just like that. Slow and steady.”

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to cry.”

“Don’t be. Yer hurting. Be more surprised if you didn’t cry.”

You give a watery laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I’m sorry anyway, though, especially for keeping you up. I know you get up early.”

“S’alright,” he says. “Like I said, you can call any time.”

“Thank you, Kita.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Of course,” he says.

“Go back to bed,” you tell him. “I’m okay.”

He hums. It’s a rich, sleepy sound, dripping down the line like thick honey. You press your phone against your ear a little harder and let the sound of him curl around you.

“I don’t mind staying up.”

“I’m okay,” you say again. “Just tired.”

“Alright.”

“Goodnight, Kita.”

“G’night.”

You hang up. A car goes by; its headlights pour in through the window, illuminating your kitchen. The light catches on the little vase of your favorite flowers tucked away on the counter top. They’re wilting, the edges of the petals shrinking back, like shy children covering their faces.

You can’t bring yourself to throw them out.

You tilt your head back against the fridge and close your eyes.

“Wanna come back to bed?” Abe asks.

You crack an eye open.

She’s haunting the threshold of the kitchen, softened by the dim. Her mouth is a tender gash. She waits.

“Not yet,” you say.

She pads into the kitchen. When you don’t protest, she slides down next to you, pressing warm against your side. It feels like childhood again, when you would crowd in close together to read the same manga under the covers with a flashlight.

“Okay,” she says softly. She leans her head against your shoulder as you close your eyes again. “Not yet.”

Another car goes by; the kitchen fills with light. It glitters against Abe’s dark hair for a breath and then it’s gone. In the aftermath, the kitchen seems darker still, Abe just a faint outline next to you, and perhaps that’s why you say, “I called Kita.”

She stays quiet, only shifting against you. Her silk pajamas are soft as they slide across your skin.

“I don’t know why,” you continue. “I just…wanted to hear him.”

“At 2am?”

You bite your lower lip. “I think,” you whisper. “I think that maybe I just wanted to make sure he’s still here.”

“He is,” she says softly. “He’s still here.”

You hum, the sound like river rocks rolling over each other, wearing away at each other. “Yeah,” you say. You scrub away the remnants of your tears with the back of your hand. “He is.”

Abe catches your hand as you lower it. She winds her fingers—bird-boned, all delicate architecture that makes you think of the arcing ceiling of a cathedral nave—through yours. She squeezes.

“Come back to bed,” she says, her words punctuated with a little tug. “You need sleep.”

You let her pull you to your feet. The two of you make your way down the hallway quietly; when you open the door to the guest bedroom Yoshikawa is already awake, her dark eyes gleaming through the dim. You sink into bed beside her. She curls up around you as Abe climbs in from the other side.

“You okay?” Yoshikawa asks.

You go still, a briar patch of cruel words growing sharp as they twine up your throat. “No,” you bite out. Abe goes stiff at your back. “Why would I be?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” Yoshikawa’s voice is cool but it does nothing to hide the softness there, nor does it hide the hurt that lurks beneath.

You take a deep breath. “I’m tired,” you say, even though you know you should apologize. “Can we sleep?”

She cups your cheek and gives you a sad little smile. “Of course.”

Abe drapes an arm over your middle and gives you a little squeeze.

“Go to sleep,” she murmurs. “We’ll be here in the morning.”

You fall asleep knowing it’s a promise they’ll keep.

***

The funeral passes quickly.

It’s all flickers of things: a laugh quickly hushed behind hands, a tight-lipped smile on painted lips, the salt of tears lingering on the air like ocean spray, the sickly floral scent of the hanawas thick on your tongue, a wrinkled hand cold against your wrist.

You can barely look at Takao’s parents. He’ll live on in their faces, you think, in the curve of his mother’s lips and the shape of his father’s cheekbones, but you can hardly tell now. Their features are gnarled with sorrow, knotted like the old crabapple tree that you and Takao used to climb in their yard. Each hiccuping sob from his mother echoes in your ears.

You touch one of the flowers of a thick, bountiful hanawa just before it’s collected. The petal is silken between your fingers. It bruises quickly beneath your touch, the thin delicacy of it tearing. You let go.

It’s obvious amid the pristine lilies. You grab another creamy white petal and then another. By the fifth petal, there’s a path of mangled petals behind you, stepping stones of destruction.

“Hey,” Abe says, laying her hand over the top of yours as you reach out for another petal, “let them take it, okay?”

You blink. “Oh,” you say, seeing the funeral director lingering nearby, ready to take the hanawa to go with Takao’s body. “Of course.”

Before you step away, you tug off a single perfect petal, white as snow and faintly dusted with golden pollen. You roll it between your fingers. The satin of it crushes beneath your fingertips.

Abe squeezes your hand. Her touch is a song you’ll always know but it feels distant now, like music muffled behind an apartment’s walls. She lets go when you step away from the wreath.

You follow her to the entrance of the funeral hall. The koden ledger is there, surrounded by white envelopes stacked high. You nudge at one until the flap opens to show crisp yen notes. You stare at the notes until they blur at the edges.

Before Abe can say anything, you reach out and close the envelope up. The stiff mizuhiki knots are rough against your fingers. You trace along them for a moment.

“I didn’t think I’d see these any time soon.”

“I know,” she says softly.

“Someone will collect the ledger?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Thanks.”

She leads you back to your parents and squeezes your hand again before she disappears. You’re not sure where she goes, but you wish you could go with her. Instead, you accept condolences for what feels like hours, each word grating on you, eroding you like a pebble caught in an ocean wave.

When it’s all over your parents bundle you into the car. The city blurs by like a watercolor, gray with splashes of neon streaking through it. People stream along the sidewalk too. You watch and you watch, a statue of old, bearing witness but unmoving yourself.

“Inside,” your mother says, startling you free of your reverie. You hadn’t noticed you’d stopped. She swings the car door open wider. “C’mon,” she says, gentler this time. “Let’s go inside.”

You follow her without a word.

“Tadpole,” your father says as you cross the genkan. “Your shoes.”

You look down to where you were about to step into the house proper; you’re still wearing your heels. “Oh,” you say quietly. “Thanks.”

Before you can reach down, your mother kneels before you. You try to protest, grasping at her elbows to raise her to her feet, but she swats you away and hunkers down to unbuckle them. Her fingers are careful and quick. She traces one of them over the strap of your shoe before she pushes to her feet again.

She cradles your face in her hands, her fingers warm against your cheeks. She rubs her thumb over the curve of your cheekbone to wipe away the tear stains. “Oh, tadpole,” she says softly. “My little girl.”

You bring your hands up and cup hers to you. You breathe her in, the honeyed earth of saffron mixed with the clear, soft scent of the summer irises as they rise proud amid the gardens.

“He’s gone,” you tell her.

She nods. “He is.”

“I’m alone.”

“You’re not alone. Just without him.”

“It feels like being alone.”

She brushes her thumb over the curve of your cheekbone again. “I know.”

When she lets go the heat of her lingers on your face, like how a fire lives on in the warmed hearthstones. You press a hand to your cheek absently as you slip off your shoes.

Your father bends down to take them. Just like your mother, he ignores your protest. He tucks them carefully beside a haphazard pair of Takao’s slippers. The soles are worn thin, especially compared to the thick, shiny soles of your heels.

You suppose you can take new slippers off of your shopping list.

“Go inside,” your father says. “You need rest.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You will be,” he says. He touches his mark gently, as if its charred kanji will crumble into ash beneath his fingertips. “You will be.”

You let them usher you inside. Your father tucks you in under the couch’s throw blanket—patterned with plump lemons, each with a tuft of bright green leaves attached to their stems—when you curl up into an armchair. It’s soft, warm, and it smells of Takao.

Your parents retreat to the kitchen. You can hear them puttering around, likely putting together some food for the next few days.

Your phone is heavy in your hand. For a moment, you look at the contact you’d pulled up without thinking. The little rice emoji next to Kita’s name almost seems like it’s swaying in the wind, the golden panicles draping elegantly next to the kanji. You touch his contact and open your messages and stare at the last few you’d both sent. Even over text, Kita’s steadiness comes through.

You start to type. Stop. Start again and then stop once more.

“Shit,” you mutter, closing out of the message thread and tossing your phone onto the couch next to you. You close your eyes and tilt your head back, sinking into the couch even further.

When you wake up, it’s dark out. You blink. The streetlights have come to life; their fluorescent light slants into the living room, cutting through the dim. There’s a glass of water on the side table next to the couch. There’s a note under it, your father’s spidery kanji unmistakable.

You read it as you scrub a hand over your face, trying to get rid of the last vestiges of your nap. It’s a simple note. Just enough to tell you there’s food in the fridge and that they’re just a phone call away.

You push to your feet, folding up the blanket and putting it back in its place. Your footsteps echo as you head into the kitchen. Each one feels unnaturally loud. Like the tolling of a bell, deep and low, impossible to ignore. You bite at your lower lip.

Halfway through reheating your food, you give in. You grab your phone and dial.

“Hey,” Yoshikawa says as soon as she picks up. “Are you okay?”

“The house is so quiet.”

“I’ll be over as soon as I can, okay?”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

“Seriously, over the phone is enough—”

“My shoes are already on.”

You blow out a big breath. “Thank you, Asako.”

She hums. “Want me to stay on the line?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

She says a quiet goodbye before she hangs up.

You clear away your food, your appetite gone, and decide to water the plants while you wait. The kitchen plants are thriving; they’re bathed golden every morning and it shows. You murmur softly to them as you water them, filling the kitchen with the slow rush of running water and your own voice. The plants tremble as the water hits them, their thick, lush fronds dancing under the shower.

You also refill the vase on the kitchen counter.

You know it’s stupid. Cut flowers are just ghosts, unaware that they’re already dead. These ones are curling in on themselves, their edges going crisp, but you can’t bear to get rid of them.

The door to the house clicks open. You can hear Yoshikawa rustling around in the genkan before she appears.

“Hi,” she says.

You burst into tears.

She’s across the kitchen in a heartbeat, gently tugging the watering can out of your hands. She doesn’t say a word as she wraps her arms around you. You press your face into the crook of her neck and she cradles you closer.

Her skin is cool to the touch. It’s a balm against your heated face, like a breeze on a hot summer’s day. You lean into her even more.

She hums, adjusting easily. She pets at the back of your head. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs, low and promising, and you cry harder.

She lets you cry your fill, holding you for as long as you need. You finally pull away when your head starts to pound. You sniffle as she sweeps her thumb under your eye to wipe away some of the remaining tears.

“Want me to call Natsumi?” she asks.

You shake your head. “She’s got that work thing tonight.”

“She’d leave it.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t call her.”

Yoshikawa hums. “Okay. Want to watch a movie?”

“Yes please,” you say and the two of you promptly get into an argument about what you want to watch.

You give in to her when it becomes clear that she has no intention of letting you win. You’d be annoyed but it warms you instead. Movie chosen, the two of you settle in on the couch again. You curl up against her and she weaves your hands together, giving you a light squeeze before turning her attention to the screen.

You stay tucked up against her as you watch. She doesn’t move, letting you cling to her like a limpet, and maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s how steady she is. Maybe it’s simply because she’s there. The credits are rolling, the music of them a gentle, swaying tune that makes you think of rippling rice fields. Yoshikawa shifts under you, and without thinking, you say:

“Do you think it’s my fault?”

She goes still.

“Is what your fault?”

You do not look at her. “Aoshi,” you say, his name heavy on your tongue. “Do you think it’s my fault?”

She shifts to look at you; when you stay staring at the screen, she cups your cheeks gently and turns you to face her. She studies you for a moment. Her eyes are night-sky dark and they gleam in the low lighting.

You don’t know what she sees in your face, but her mouth thins into a gash of a thing, sorrow tucked up into the open wound of it.

“How could it be your fault?” she asks.

“Soulmates,” you whisper. “We weren’t soulmates.”

“That’s true.”

“What if it was fixing that? What if he died so I could be with Kita?”

She sucks in a sharp breath but breathes it out softly. Her lower lip trembles. “It was an accident,” she says. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“But what if it does?”

She knocks her forehead against yours. “Four years of marriage seems like a long time for the universe to wait to course correct you.”

You stay quiet.

She searches your face again. “Listen to me,” she says. “It is not your fault. Do you blame Kita?”

“What?”

“Do you blame Kita?”

“No.”

“Then why are you blaming yourself?”

You twist your wedding ring around your finger. “I just—”

She waits.

A car goes by; the headlights play over Yoshikawa’s face. She gleams golden for a brief moment and you think of a shooting star. The words are heavy on your tongue, sickly sweet, like half-rotted fruit. You catch them there, behind the cemetery gate of your teeth, and swallow them down.

“You asked if I thought it was your fault,” she says softly. “I don’t. It’s not your fault, okay?”

You bite at your lower lip. Yoshikawa meets your gaze head on, her vulpine eyes sharp.

“It is not your fault,” she repeats.

You collapse in on yourself without a sound. Yoshikawa catches you and pulls you close. You rest your head against her breastbone and listen to the sound of her heartbeat.

“You’re sure?” you murmur into her sweater.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” you say softly. “Okay.”

For now, it’s enough.

***

The next day comes too soon.

Yoshikawa leaves early. She examines you before she goes, her gaze careful, but she knows as well as you do that you have to face today without her.

The sky is a perfect blue as you head to the crematorium, the same shade as a robin’s egg, a true spring day. You greet Takao’s parents quietly and with great respect. His mother reaches for your hands and squeezes them. It takes everything you have to not flinch away.

The three of you enter together. You hesitate on the doorstep, your breath catching, but Takao’s father says your name. He’s gentle with it but it’s enough to make you walk into the building.

Takao’s father picks up the first bone. You lose yourself during the rest of the ceremony; all you know is the soft bell of your chopsticks against porcelain, a delicate death knell. You come back to yourself as the lid to the urn closes. Your fingers are so tight around the chopsticks that it hurts.

After, Takao’s mother finds you hunched over by the entrance. She trails a soft hand over your shoulders. You take a deep breath. She gazes at you with tears glimmering in the corners of her eyes. You can’t bring yourself to say anything, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Stay in touch,” she tells you.

You nod.

Her pained little smile says she doesn’t believe you.

You watch as both of Takao’s parents get into their car to go to the graveyard. His mother is clutching tightly at the urn, grasping at the last vestiges of her boy before they can slip away. You turn away.

The ride home is like being caught in resin; the world moves around you while you stay still. Once home, you bundle yourself up on the couch in the lemon-patterned throw. You curl up into yourself and swallow down the sobs.

It’s the next day by the time you pick yourself up off the couch. Your head hurts, a slow, steady pulse of pain that’s settled in your left temple. It’s joined by the steady ache of your body, a complaint from your joints that you aren’t as young as you used to be. You groan.

When you check your phone, you’re surprised to see how late you’ve slept. Your messages are a mess, but you ignore most of them, skipping to your group chat with Abe and Yoshikawa. Then you pull up your messages with Kita. You stare at the last few for a moment.

You start to type. Delete what you’ve written. Start typing again, only to stop and stare at your screen.

Finally, you hit call instead.

He picks up before the first ring has even finished.

“Hi,” he says.

You breathe out a soft sigh, his voice melting through you.

“Hi,” you say, your voice watery. “It turns out the bone-picking ceremony is the worst part.”

“Was that today?”

“Yesterday.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice tender.

“I know.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay.”

You’re both quiet for a moment. You listen to him breathe; it soothes something in you, a scrape you try not to think about.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Kita asks.

You blink. “I’m not sure,” you tell him.

“Okay,” he says. “We’re gonna cook.”

“Kita, it’s the middle of your day!”

“And we’re gonna cook.”

“It’s fine, I can just grab something, you don’t need to—”

“I’m not sayin’ it a third time.”

“You’re so stubborn!”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Fine,” you say. “I’m switching to FaceTime, though.”

“That’s fine.”

As the camera comes online, all you can see is the little rice charm he still has dangling from his phone, something he’d kept even after the rain had ruined his flip phone. You hear him hum and the charm moves so he can fill your screen.

In the afternoon light he’s tanner than ever, his skin burnished bronze. His gray hair rustles in the breeze, even under his hat. He’s rosy-cheeked with exertion and something in you pangs. He gives you a small, fond smile, and you can’t help but smile back.

“Hi,” you say.

He looks like he wants to laugh. “Hi,” he says. “What do you have to cook with?”

You list everything off and he nods, looking thoughtful.

“That’ll work with a recipe I know,” he says. “I can lead ya through it.”

“Okay.”

You talk as you cook, but it’s subdued. None of the normal excited chatter is present, but Kita makes a valiant effort to keep the conversation afloat. He gives you time when you have to take a minute to recollect yourself. He’s patient but keeps you on task. He doesn’t give you time to wallow.

Soon, the savory scent is billowing through the kitchen. Your stomach growls. By the time you’re finished cooking, you’re starving.

“Go ahead and eat,” Kita says. “I can stay if you want.”

You glance at him. “Will you?”

He gives you a small smile. “‘Course.”

“Just for a bit longer,” you say.

He meets your gaze. Under the brim of his hat, his amber eyes have darkened to a deep brown, the color of the earth.

“As long as you need,” he says quietly, and you hear the promise in it.

You know it’s one that he’ll keep.

***

Spring, you find, is unconcerned with sympathy.

It keeps blooming into being, all golden sunlight and birds trilling. The trees are budding, little stitches of green sewn onto branches. Flowers unfold under the sun’s tender touch, turning their faces up towards the light like acolytes at an altar.

The world keeps turning and you can’t keep up.

“Shit.”

“What’s up?” Abe asks.

She’s lounging at your kitchen table, carefully trimming the ends of a lush bouquet that’s bigger than her head. It’s a riot of color, thick dahlias spilling over the paper it’s wrapped in, a sunset of a thing, with deep oranges flaring like fire and the bruised purple of the oncoming night. You think they’re for her girlfriend, but she rarely talks about her with you now.

Silently, you hold out the carton you’d picked up out of the fridge.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, okay, I can take it when I leave. Do you want me to do that?”

“Please,” you say, swallowing down the tears.

You hadn’t even realized you bought it. It’s Takao’s favorite juice, something you never drink, and it’s a brand new carton from yesterday’s delivery groceries.

It’s stupid, you think, to be so affected by something so small, but you can’t stand the idea of it sitting there, never to be drunk. You shove it back into the fridge and sink down to the floor.

Abe’s by your side instantly, crouching down next to you with a gentle hand on your back.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “You’re okay.”

“Am I?”

It’s scathing, meaner than you’d meant it to be, but you’re so tired.

She winces. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“I just meant it’s okay to grieve—”

Something ugly swells up inside of you and spills out from behind your ribs, an oozing miasma that you can’t swallow down.

“What do you know about grief,” you snarl, your voice a winter crackle of breaking ice. “What do you know about what I lost?”

She sucks in a sharp breath. She pulls her hand off of you; it leaves some of her warmth behind, a ghost of her kindness.

“That’s not fair,” she says quietly. “You know that’s not fair.”

“Oh, please.”

“Wow.”

“You know it’s true.”

“You don’t get a monopoly on grief,” she snaps and you surge to your feet.

“Get out!”

She pushes to her feet as well. She doesn’t look at you as she collects her bouquet and her bag. It’s only in the kitchen’s entrance that she turns to face you.

“I lost Aoshi too,” Abe says, tears brimming in her eyes. “I lost him too.”

She leaves before you can say anything else.

You stand there, breathing heavily, your hands clenched into trembling fists. The first of the tears start to slip hot down your cheeks.

“Goddammit.”

The couch is your familiar haven; you curl up on it as you scour away the tears with the heel of your hand. You watch the afternoon light shift, how it plays across the living room as the sun sinks in the sky. It swathes the room with gold that melts into the softest shade of blue. When true night sets in rendering the living room into darkness, you finally shake yourself into a semblance of reality.

Your stomach growls and you get to your feet. When you open the fridge, the first thing you see is the carton of juice.

The sound it makes as it falls into the garbage can is heavy.

You grab your phone from the counter. There are no messages from Abe; the group chat is solely Yoshikawa talking.

For a moment, you miss the regretful moments of your childhood, where you never had to worry about what to say. How you could flash a light in the window, a firefly apology, and simply move forward.

Instead, you don’t talk to Abe for three days.

“I just—I don’t know how to say sorry,” you tell Kita over the phone, worrying at the sleeve of your shirt. It’s starting to fray.

“‘Sorry’ is a good place to start,” he says.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Could be.”

You sigh. “Kita—”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“I hate it when you’re right.”

He laughs softly. “You’ll feel better,” he tells you. “But you already know that.”

“I do.”

He hums. It’s a low, sweet sound and you bask in it for a moment.

“I should go,” you say as the sound fades away. “The delivery should be here any minute.”

“Groceries again?”

You pick at your fraying sleeve. There’s no judgment in his words but they weigh down on you anyway, an anchor with a heavy chain. You’re still tilted off your axis; you cried in the vegetable aisle of the grocery store last time you went. You haven’t gone back since.

Most days, it’s easier to not leave the house.

“Yeah,” you say softly.

“Do you wanna cook together later?”

“I don’t want to take—”

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t have the time.”

You twist the fraying thread around your finger. It cuts into you, making your finger swell as the blood is cut off.

“Not tonight,” you say after a moment. You just don’t have it in you. “But thanks.”

Kita hums again. This time there’s a sharper edge to it. You’re not sure he even realizes it.

But he doesn’t push today.

“Alright,” he says. “If ya change your mind later, just let me know.”

“I will. Bye Kita.”

He says goodbye, but there’s something melancholy woven through it, a thread so thin you barely catch it. It weaves its way through you. You sigh.

You don’t bother to put down your phone. Instead, you call Abe.

“You gonna yell at me again?” she asks as soon as she picks up.

You wince. “No,” you say quietly. “I’m gonna apologize for that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Natsumi. You were just trying to help.”

“I was,” she says softly.

“You deserve to mourn Aoshi, too. I’m sorry if I took that from you. It’s…hard to see past my own grief, sometimes.”

“I know.”

“It won’t happen again.”

She snorts. “We’ll see.”

“Hey!”

“You’re grieving,” she says simply. “Sometimes that means doing stupid shit. It’s not an excuse, but I can understand it.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“I know.”

“You’re not supposed to agree!”

“You’re the one that said it!”

The two of you quickly devolve into bickering but it’s sweet at the edges, lined by fondness. Not for the first time, you think of how lucky you are to have the friends you have.

“I couldn’t do this without you,” you say, halfway through catching up on the past few days. “I couldn’t make it without you.”

She goes quiet for a minute.

“You could,” she says. “You could. But you don’t have to.”

The world goes blurry at the edges. You blink back the tears and clear your throat. Abe sniffs, the sound barely audible on the line.

“Are you crying?” you ask.

“No!”

The laughter wells up inside of you before spilling out like a waterfall, flowing fast and free. It fills your living room. You keep laughing until the room is brimming with it, the corners echoing with joy.

It peters out slowly. Even the air feels lighter, you think. Then your stomach sinks, a skipping stone gone too far and falling into the depths.

“Hey,” Abe says softly. “You’re allowed to laugh.”

She’s always known you best.

“It just feels wrong,” you whisper.

“I know. But he would want you to laugh. To be happy. Try to remember that.”

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” she says firmly. “Now let me tell you about—”

The two of you chat for a while longer. Abe regales you with stories that you’ve missed. There’s a shocking amount of them (“I’m a busy girl, you know.”) for the time frame you haven’t been talking. You hadn’t realized how much you missed her until now.

When you hang up, the emptiness of the house comes rushing back in. It’s a tide of a thing, rolling in against the shore of you like a storm, the waves of it lapping higher and higher. You take a deep breath.

You keep the TV on until bedtime, where you replace it with a book. You read and read and read until you can barely keep your eyes open, the kanji blurring at the edges. You put the book down on the nightstand and curl up with Takao’s pillow. You bury your face in it. It still smells like him, just a bit.

It almost lets you pretend that he’s still here.

***

The summer rolls in with a storm.

It’s the first of many, but you think the first is always the saddest. The ground churns beneath the fat droplets as they pelt against the dirt; there are petals scattered around, torn from their stems. You watch one of them float down to the storm drain, a pretty pink sailboat destined to capsize.

The clouds are blue-gray and heavy, bruising the sky. They’re the color of the winter sea and have teeth like it too. There’s no lightning but you can hear the promise of it in far-off thunder, just loud enough to make itself known over the hum of your dryer.

You watch the rain run down the window in rivulets. It’s a bleak picture; even the flowers have been dimmed by the thick gray of the storm, their bright pinks tamped down to a blush of light rose.

“You still there?” Kita asks.

“Sorry,” you say, glancing back at your phone to see him already looking at you. “Got distracted by the rain.”

“S’pouring here.”

“Mhmm, here too. It’s kinda nice for laundry day, though. Even if I can’t hang anything outside. And you get a day off.”

“I suppose.”

You laugh. “You don’t have to sound so put out about it.”

He sighs. “It’s fine. Good day for housework.”

“You keep busy, don’t you?”

“There’s always something ta do.”

You laugh. “True,” you say. “Oh, there goes the dryer, hold on.”

You bundle the warm laundry into the basket, taking a moment to sink your fingers into the mess of clothing, letting it heat your hands.

Kita’s in the middle of mending something when you come back to your phone. For a moment, you just watch him. He’s bent over it, his hair glinting silver in the light of his kitchen, the black tips of it all the darker for it. He moves with steady assurance, the needle flashing in and out of the fabric like lightning. His big hands dwarf the needle but it doesn’t seem to hinder him.

He glances up, his amber eyes finding you immediately. He smiles, soft and fond and a little bit teasing. “Something I can help ya with?”

“Just watching. You’re good at that.”

“Granny taught me,” he says as he finishes, running his finger over the mended tear to make sure it’ll hold. Satisfied, he bites off the thread, his teeth gleaming as he does. “And I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Guess so,” you say, moving your phone and propping it up so you can see him as you fold. You fold up a few of your pants, putting them beside you on the couch. You move without thinking, just talking to Kita as you work, when you come to a stop.

It’s Takao’s shirt. You hadn’t realized it was in the wash—you’ve been putting off washing all of his clothing, afraid that one day you’ll wake up and even the scent of him will no longer linger.

Kita says your name.

You ignore him, running your hands over the shirt instead. You lean down and sniff it and find only the scent of your detergent. You take in a deep, slow breath.

There are more in the basket. You lean down to touch them, grabbing the nearest one. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Kita watching you. He stays quiet.

You fold up another one of Takao’s shirts. It’s soft beneath your fingertips, the cotton worn thin with use. You trace your finger along the pattern. Loop around it, over and over again, until you’re half dizzy with it.

Something in you breaks.

“I don’t think I can do this,” you say, the words spilling from you like an oil slick, catching on your teeth and tongue and coating them with something sour. You fist your hands in the shirt. “Shinsuke, I can’t do this.”

He says your name, quiet and tender.

“It’s just so much,” you sob. “I don’t know what to do without him, I don’t know how to live without him, not anymore. And work—going to the office and smiling like I’m not empty inside, like there’s not this gaping wound inside of me. I can’t do it. I can’t.”

You suck in air in great, gasping breaths, your chest cinching tight, like a marionette caught up in her own strings.

“Breathe with me,” he says, his voice stern. You take in a deep, slow breath, matching his, and then another. “That’s it. There you go.”

Your chest starts to loosen as you breathe; you keep matching with Kita, following his careful lead. When you’re finally steady, you can’t help the way more tears brim on your lash line.

“How am I supposed to do this?” you ask quietly. “How am I supposed to survive this?”

“You’re already survivin’ this,” he says. “It might not feel like it, but you are.”

You lean back and stare out the window. Outside, the cicadas are calling even in the rain, a familiar song; you close your eyes.

“It doesn’t feel like it,” you say softly. “I can’t keep doing this. This big, empty house is killing me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Come to the country,” he says.

“What?”

“Come to the country,” he repeats.

“Visiting isn’t—”

“To stay.”

You suck in a sharp breath and bite your lip.

“Just for a while,” he says softly. “And not with me. There’s a granny outside of town who’s got a room that she rents out.”

“Kita…”

“It’s just an option,” he says. “But I think gettin’ out of the city might do you some good.”

You fidget with your wedding ring, twirling the thin band of metal in place. It’s warmed by your skin.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Okay.”

The two of you lapse into silence as you scrub the remainder of tears away. Your cheeks are still hot and you grimace as a headache starts to make itself known.

“I’ve got a headache,” you say. “I’m gonna go lie down.”

Kita hums, his amber eyes tracing over you. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah,” you say.

“Okay. I’m just a call away.”

You soften. “I know.”

You bid each other a quiet goodbye. You move the laundry out of the way and curl up on the couch, one hand fisted in one of Takao’s shirts. You bring it to your nose and only smell detergent again. You tighten your grip and close your eyes.

You wake to Abe shaking you.

“C’mon,” she says, giving you another little shake. “We brought dinner.”

“Natsu?” you say blearily, rubbing at your eyes. You swat at her when it looks like she’s going to shake you for a third time. She dodges with a grin.

“Yocchan too,” Abe says as Yoshikawa flashes you a peace sign. “How long have you been asleep?”

“Dunno,” you say. “I was on the phone with Kita and he—”

“He what?” Yoshikawa asks, her sly eyes going sharp.

“I was having a…hard time,” you say. “I had a bit of a breakdown. He thinks I should go to the country for a while. Get out of the city.”

Yoshikawa hums, settling down next to you on the couch. She leans over and rubs her thumb over your cheekbone; you realize that there are still salt stains there. She tilts her head, sending her long hair rippling. It gleams in the light and you think of a lake at night, the surface gone dark beneath the moon’s tender touch.

“That might not be a bad idea,” she murmurs.

“No way,” Abe says, plopping down on your other side. “Unless you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” you say miserably, pressing your face into Yoshikawa’s shoulder. “I don’t feel like I know anything anymore.”

Yoshikawa presses her lips against your hairline. “You don’t need to know,” she reminds you. “It’s just an option. You can decide later. Have you eaten?”

You shake your head.

“We brought udon,” Abe informs you. “Because we’re the best.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “You are.”

They trade a glance you can’t quite make sense of. Then they’re chivvying you into the kitchen with gentle hands, pushing you into a seat at the table.

The kake udon is still hot. Steam wisps up from it in tiny curls before dissipating, each one undulating like kelp in a current. You stir it and watch the broth swirl.

“You’re supposed to eat it,” Abe says.

You glare at her. She grins.

You take a bite and flavor comes to life on your tongue, deep and rich. You close your eyes to savor the simplicity of it. When you open them again, Abe and Yoshikawa are watching you with fond little smiles.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” they chorus.

You narrow your eyes but don’t say anything. The three of you settle into a conversation, moving from story to story like a skipping stone, pausing only to take bites of your food. The chatter flows like a river, certain in its path, and you bathe in the easy familiarity of it.

You’ve just finished your udon when Abe puts her chopsticks down and says: “So. The countryside.”

“Natsumi,” Yoshikawa groans. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?!”

“You’re always jumping in feet first,” Yoshikawa grumbles.

“I’m just curious!”

“It’s okay,” you say quietly. “It might be good to talk about it.”

Abe sends Yoshikawa a victorious grin. Then she turns to you with a softer look on her face. “You don’t have to,” she says.

“I think I might want to.”

“Talk about it? Or go?”

“Both.”

Yoshikawa hums. “Do you think you might be running away?” she asks.

Abe winces along with you.

“It had to be said,” Yoshikawa says, not unkindly. “I can’t understand what you’re going through and I know that, but is going somewhere else really going to change anything? Or are you just running away from something inescapable?”

“Earlier you said her going might be a good thing,” Abe points out.

“It might be,” Yoshikawa says. “But it might not be either.”

“I don’t think I’m running,” you say. “I just think that maybe I need a break. A place that’s not so filled with Aoshi.”

“Okay.”

“What about Kita?” Abe asks.

You scrunch up your brow. “What about him?”

“Will he take it the wrong way?”

“No,” you say. “He knows I’m not looking for anything from him. That I can’t give anything to him.”

“You sure he knows that?”

“Yeah.”

They trade a glance but don’t say anything. You bite at your lower lip.

“Don’t decide tonight,” Yoshikawa says, getting to her feet and collecting the bowls from the table. She sets them down in the sink and pulls on a pair of dish gloves. “Or even tomorrow. You have time.”

“I know that,” you grouse.

She rolls her eyes. “Consider it a reminder, then.”

“Consider me reminded.”

“Don’t be a brat.”

“Oh, don’t ask for the impossible,” Abe says, throwing you an obnoxious grin when you scowl at her.

The conversation flows on into a different topic. The two of them keep drawing you into it, but you’re stuck in your own head, rolling the idea of the country around it like a pebble caught in a wave. You think of the sunshine bathing the fields in gold and the way the air smells different there. The countryside is a world all its own. A world not built around your life with Takao.

You think you might need that.

***

Kita picks you up from the train station a few months later.

“I could have arranged something,” you tell him as he takes your suitcase from you. “You didn’t need to come and get me.”

“I wanted to,” he says calmly. “This all you brought?”

You nod, already shedding your light sweater as the two of you emerge from the station, out of the aircon and into the countryside heat, a lingering remnant of summer. You follow Kita to his truck—old, but well-maintained, with a carefully stenciled rice plant over the passenger side door—and watch him heft your suitcase into the bed of it. He tucks it carefully into place, giving it a tug to make sure it won’t go anywhere.

As he does, you watch the ripple of his back muscles under his shirt. It rides up when he tugs on your suitcase, a crescent moon sliver of paler skin peeking out from under it. He turns around after thumping the truck bed closed, and you tear your gaze away.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Uh-huh.”

You climb into the truck, shutting the door with a solid thump. Across the cab, Kita does the same. The truck rumbles to life. He puts his hand behind your headrest to reverse out of the parking lot, his amber eyes brushing over you before he concentrates on driving. You breathe in through your nose, far too aware of the heat of his hand.

Once he pulls out of the parking lot, the two of you drive in silence. You gaze out the window, watching as the railroad tracks fade away into the town. The tracks are shiny and new, a testament to how recently the station was put in.

“It’s not a long drive,” Kita says, his voice soft. It rolls over you, steady and sure, an anchor of a sound. “Yoshida’s house is just outside town.”

“Okay,” you say. “Thank you for setting this up.”

He glances at you. He’s as stoic as always, but when he looks at you, something in him softens.

“Yer welcome,” he says. His smile is small but it settles over you like a quilt, warm and well-worn. You ache with it.

“Tell me about the farm,” you say, feeling your stomach twist. “How are the ducks?”

He shakes his head. “The same,” he says, that small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Happily gobblin’ up the little pests in the paddies.”

You lean back in the passenger seat, letting his voice wash over you. You’ve always liked the way Kita talks; he’s to the point and brief, but not impatient. Never impatient. Always steady.

The town gives way to the farmland. The truck trundles along the road, kicking up a little cloud of dust behind it. You can see it in the rear view mirror, lingering like smog. The road is lined by a sea of rice paddies that wave gently in the wind, an eddying tide of plants. They’re Midas-touched, gone gold with the season, and they glint like treasure in the sunlight.

You watch the world pass by and marvel at how big it is. In the distance, you can see the hills, rising green into the horizon’s gentle embrace, cutting through the skyline. There are power towers running along the edge of them; you trace along the lines with your index finger.

A cyclist goes by: it’s a young girl, her hair flowing freely in the wind. Her dress—periwinkle blue, almost the same shade as the sky—flaps around her, too, but her no-nonsense boots are steady on the pedals.There’s dirt smeared on her cheek. She waves cheerfully at the truck. Kita raises his hand in acknowledgement but doesn’t stop.

“You know her?”

“It’s a small town,” he says. “That’s Suzuki’s girl. His youngest. You’ll probably meet her. Her granny is friends with Yoshida.”

You lower your window and let the breeze play over you. It tugs playfully at your collar; it keeps the worst of the humidity at bay. Still, the heat rolls over you in a wet lick.

“S’hot,” you drawl, rolling your head around to look at Kita.

He glances at you and gives you a little smile. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Ugh.”

He smiles again and turns into a drive. “This is Yoshida’s,” he says.

The farmhouse is older, but it’s clearly been cared for through the years. The engawa has several types of windchimes hanging from it; they sing out a crystalline symphony as the breeze picks up. There’s laundry on the line in the front yard and a few small vegetable patches surrounding it. You see squash starting to fatten on the vines and the remnants of strawberry season, the very last of the berries gone a deep red.

“Okay,” you say, wiping your suddenly sweaty palms against your thighs as a woman appears on the engawa. “Right.”

“It’ll be fine,” Kita says, laying a hand over yours. His palm is work-rough, his fingertips callused, and you can feel the strength in each flex of his fingers. He gives you a little squeeze. “You’ll be fine.”

You nod and slide out of the truck at the same time as him. You fidget as he rounds the back of the truck, the bed popping open as he grabs your suitcase. The woman on the engawa comes to the edge of it; she reaches up with a gnarled hand and drags her finger along a chime carved from wood. Its sound is more of a hollow echo than a chime, but she smiles anyway.

Kita comes up beside you, your suitcase in hand. “Let’s go.”

“Right.”

You follow him up the drive and to the engawa. Yoshida’s a small woman, her black hair shot through with gray, like a river stone in dark water. She’s hunched in on herself slightly, and the skin on the back of her hands is papery with age, but her eyes are sharp.

“Shin-chan,” she says warmly as the two of you approach. “It’s good to see you.”

He gives her a little bow. “It’s good to see you too, Yoshida.”

“I’ve told you to call me Granny, boy.”

He smiles. “Yes, Granny.”

“Is this your friend?”

“Yes, this is her.”

You sketch out a respectful bow and tell her your name. She repeats it, testing the sound of it on her tongue. She gives a decisive nod.

“It’s a good name,” she says. “Come, let me show you to your room.”

“Oh, okay,” you say, reaching out to grab your bag from Kita. He sidesteps you easily, hefting it up and gesturing you forward. “Shinsuke—”

“Don’t make Granny wait,” he chides.

You scowl at him but head up on the engawa, ducking beneath a set of clear chimes that are scattering rainbows around on the ground and the side of the house alike. You toe off your shoes at the genkan and slip on the house slippers that Yoshida gestures to.

The farmhouse is cozy as you wander through it, the decor minimal but still homey. It smells warm, like fresh dashi simmering on the stovetop.

The room Yoshida leads you to is small but perfect. There’s a twin bed tucked into the corner and a desk with a little vase of flowers on it, their periwinkle blossoms waving in the breeze coming in from the open window. The quilt on the bed is handmade, each square featuring a different crop in the height of their season, beautifully stitched and filled with care.

You step inside and trace a finger over an embroidered daikon as Yoshida starts to go over the expectations for sharing the house. You listen as best you can but most of your attention is now on the window. It looks over the paddies. You watch them ripple with the wind, a golden sea of slow, sweet waves.

Kita nudges you lightly; you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He smiles at you knowingly, his eyes crinkled at the edges, and you refocus on Yoshida. She’s smiling, too, a little twinkle in her eye, but she doesn’t say anything aside from continuing to talk about shared cleaning duties.

“Any questions?” she asks, hands on her hips.

You shake your head. “No,” you say. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

She waves a gnarled hand. “You remember any questions, come find me,” she says. “I’ll let you settle in.”

She’s out the door before you can respond, closing it firmly behind her. You blink.

Kita nudges you again. “Where do you want this?” he asks. You glance at your suitcase, nestled carefully between his feet.

“Over there is fine,” you say.

He puts your bag where you gesture and then turns to you. He watches you for a moment, a small, fond smile tilting his lips up. “How’re you feeling?”

“Dunno yet,” you say. “It’s all so new.”

“S’fair.”

“I think it’ll be good, though,” you say slowly, glancing out the window again. The countryside stretches far before you, the rice stalks glistening in the sun, and something in you shifts. You toy with your necklace, rubbing your wedding ring between your fingers, ignoring how it tugs on the chain. “I think it’ll be good.”

“Good. I’ll let you settle in some more,” he says. “I’ll be downstairs.”

“Shinsuke?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“Fer?”

“All of this,” you say, a little bit helplessly. “All of it.”

“Of course,” he says. His amber eyes are almost glowing in the afternoon light, the color of sunlit whiskey, a deep golden brown. He opens his mouth and then pauses.

You tilt your head, but he shakes his head and just gives you a small smile.

He leaves the room with the same confident grace he always has, his lean muscles coiling under his skin as he moves. For a moment, you just watch him. He moves with careful intent. Not a single motion wasted. It’s impressive, the control he has over himself, and he does it so easily.

You sit down on the bed as he makes his way down the hallway. You glance around the room again. You reach up to your necklace again, wrapping your hand around the wedding rings dangling from it. Tears burn in the corners of your eyes.

You lay back on the bed, into the patch of sunlight that’s pooling on the pillow. It’s hot. Outside, the countryside sings, from the quiet melody of the rice rustling to the calling of the storks. The breeze tugs at your clothes and hair as it spills in through the window. It feels nice. Real.

You close your eyes.

When you wake up, it’s gone twilight, night encroaching upon the last light of the horizon. The sky is a bruise of a thing, deep purple and glittering with stars. You rub the bleariness from your eyes and curse to yourself.

Your phone screen is bright in the dark; you wince as it sears your eyes.

Kita has sent you a message about how he didn’t want to wake you and promises he’ll see you soon. You text him back and scrub at your face again to wake yourself up. When that fails, you wander down the hall to the bathroom. The cool water wakes you up quickly. It’s crisp and clean and you wonder if it’s the country or if it’s just in your head.

“Yer up,” Yoshida says crisply when you step into the kitchen. Her words are almost sharp, but her eyes are kind. “I sent Shin-chan home—the boy looked like he was about to wait ‘round.”

“Oh,” you say. “I’m sorry if I kept either of you waiting. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

She waves you off with one hand. “Travelin’ is tiring,” she says. “I’m about to make dinner if ya’d like some.”

“Can I help?”

“You can chop.”

You sit where she gestures and take the squash she hands you. It’s as orange as a sunset, with thick ribs and a wide, sturdy stem. You get to work cutting it into little cubes per her instructions.

The two of you work quietly. The breeze flutters in from the open shoji; it’s still hot but it’s cooling off quickly with night settling in.

“It’s beautiful here,” you say absentmindedly, staring out the open door into the fields again. They’re moonlit, bleached to a soft white-gold, shimmering as they dance in the wind.

“It is. Been here my whole life and it’s never lost that prettiness.”

“I can’t imagine it ever does.”

Yoshida glances at you.

“It’s a good place to take time away,” she says, matter-of-fact. “It’s just different here.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m hoping so.”

She hums.

The two of you chat as you keep making dinner. Yoshida’s son—broad-shouldered and kind-faced—comes home from the fields just as you finish, earning a scolding from his mother for being so late. You politely look away but can’t stop the small smile from blooming on your lips. You cover it with a little cough.

He introduces himself sheepishly then joins the conversation easily and happily. The talk carries through the meal, warm and flowing. The night passes quickly with them.

As you get ready for bed, you can’t help but think that maybe this will work after all.

#kita shinsuke x reader #kita x reader #hq!! x reader #haikyuu x reader #bee writes hq!!#.lbgtm

97 notes · View notes