Written for the Pokemon Kink Meme, for the prompt "Black/random male NPC, with N looking on and being extremely jealous. N tries to work out this weird new feeling, with little success."


It's 3 PM on a summer Saturday—the air syrupy and close with moisture—when N comes across Blair kneeling in the grass with some rich boy's dick in his mouth.

N is not and has never been attuned to fragile things like emotions, the realms of sociology and other such soft-science fluff, but he doesn't need to know these things to know what he is feeling.

Jealousy, he thinks. I am feeling jealous.

Jealousy was, before now, a mere abstract concept, something to consider in the more noble contexts of biology and mathematics, but there is no neat theorem to explain away and compartmentalize this clenching in his gut. Jealousy is, he realizes, unscientific.

It is illogical.

Blair and this boy are coupled together in a sparse copse of spindly trees; from what N has been told (only what you need to know, my lord, Zinzolin had said, and nothing more) this is unusual, perhaps even inappropriate—what pushes the bounds of decorum, exactly? He is unsure what Blair hopes to accomplish, moaning around this starched-and-pressed upstart's cock—Zinzolin never told him about this, possibly because he never needed to know—but he knows it is unchaste, and not a thing to do in the scrub that borders Route 16.

Passion—if it can be called that, for passion is also something he is unfamiliar with, at least as far as sweat and bodies are concerned—is illogical too, he supposes.

Still, he cannot look away. He feels something else, now—shame, maybe. He thinks of this in an academic context, mostly because it distracts him; shame comes from an older word, meaning "to cover". This is easier to think about: language is cerebral, as in, of the brain, unlike those cloying and maudlin matters of the heart. Silly, since emotions are from the brain, too, but it seems easier to divide them. To compartmentalize: hard science and soft science.

Appropriately, he wants to cover his eyes.

He doesn't, though, and watches as Blair unzips his own jeans and strokes himself; the noises he is making are obscene, and N reddens to hear them. He thinks of other things, now: there is a juniper bush, he thinks, ripe with cones, a deep green—Juniper is the name of that lady professor, he thinks. Green, he thinks, can mean envious. Green-eyed jealousy is what it was called. Metaphorically speaking.

The boy in his white pristine suit, with its knife-sharp pleats and crisp lapels, cries out; his suit bespeaks purity, the word virginal. Virginal came from vireo, N knows—green, flourishing.

Green with envy.

N turns away, finally. Botany, history, etymology: they are not so distracting as they once were. Logic, academia, all those cerebral pursuits—they are not a comfort anymore.