What a fool you were. Acting as though you were entitled to never be insulted by your lover, to never be criticised in public. You were so uppity then. So conceited and selfish. Beyond reproach. This horrible, vain time in your life was what you looked back on with the most embarrassment and regret.
You knew better now, knew how cruel and hateful you were being and how loving and kind of Midorima it was to point out your flaws in front of everyone. Only the most sensitive, thoughtful lover would do such a thing and allow your defiant, uppity attitude to go unpunished.
No, Midorima spoiled you rotten once you stopped your misguided ways.
You were preparing dinner with Midorima. Enjoying yourselves a little too much as it seemed as every interaction between the two of you felt taboo and forbidden. He was chopping some carrots. Proving to be very talented with knives as he had forbidden you from touching them and now that you two were on great terms, you weren't going to break his rules and you were peeling a cabbage.
"Aren't you committing cannibalism by eating those carrots?" You asked teasingly.
Midorima adjusted his glasses and pulled you very close, "You're lucky you're no longer allowed to be in the ugly influence of other people, otherwise I would have to tell all those pesky relatives and acquaintances what a bad girl you've been."
You cupped his blushed cheeks (they still blushed out of habit, which you found adorable) and kissed him deeply, kissing him over and over again as you pulled away before going back for more sweet poison.
He then lofted you up from your inner thighs and carried you to the couch, deeply kissing you and telling you to stay there as he cut the onions so you wouldn't cry. He raced back as soon as could, as he reasoned, "It is extremely unlucky to be away from my lucky item today or any day. And you are my lucky item every day for all eternity."
Over the years you two had been together, Midorima had not failed once to deliver you the day's lucky item. A Thai painting, a handbell, a computer monitor, a signed copy of Misery by Stephan King, you name it. If Oho Asa said it was in the best interest of (your star sign) to have a country, Midorima would have found a way to make it possible before you had even risen from bed.
But he also had a demented obsession with finding something romantic to do with anything. For a few things, this could be considered normal and sweet. Such as roses, rings and chocolates. But then there were handcuffs and after enjoying having you dependent on him so much that day, he decided to make it a tradition thrice a week. Every day with a "T" in it, you had to have your hands bound behind your back.
You loved these lazy Sunday nights with Midorima, your wrists healing from the tight coils of ropes that they had been put through on the day before, not having to wait as Midorima got off his shift as being a doctor. He made an amazing doctor and seemed to sometimes bring it home. If you so much as coughed, he'd worry about you like a mother hen, cooling you in your bed, force feed you chicken soup and orange juice. Even arrange an X-ray scan of your chest to make sure nothing was wrong.
You wondered if the definition of hypochondriac could be spread to being paranoid about someone else' sheath, because in that case, Midorima was defintely in requirement of a diagnosis. You hadn't ever been allowed to house after you scraped your knee chasing after a rogue basketball on a street court's concrete floor. This was fair and you never complained as Midorima was much too loving to deal with your disrespectful natter. But in your ashamed heart of hearts, you thought it was quite ridiculous.
After you two ate dinner together, he brought you to the bedroom as he did every night, to give you his affection. His affection was stifling, but you thought it was true love and that if you weren't suffocating, then you were not being loved properly.
First, was his gift giving ritual. He pulled out a stack of three nicely wrapped boxes with ribbons tied in bows on each of them, as well as the occasional rosette to the side of the gift. He did this every night. Giving you so many presents that you could be considered a hoarder.
Smiling graciously, you untied the first one and carefully unwrapped it, even the wrapping paper was so precious and special that you wanted to preserve it. Out came a beautiful mandala with elaborate curvatures that you traced your fingers over, muttering your thanks and kissing Midorima before opening the other packages. The first contained a plastic rose and the other, a jade toad figurine.
Whilst you loved these presents, you couldn't help but feel spoiled and a bit stuffy in the room from all his affections. But you knew you were to tolerate all of his love because he was so kind to give it to you and you remembered the time you had made the mistake of asking for some space and alone time.
He classed this as the sickest you ever were.
His remedies were quite different from the ones he would administer for a common cold. They were cleverly formulated to strike guilt into your heart about not staying silent in your suffering. He twisted his words into making him seem like a loving boyfriend, instead of an oppressive captor. He wouldn't let you eat dinner if you didn't kiss him as a way of making you get closer with him.
For example, he'd let you be exposed to (carefully monitored of course) situations in which you'd see people who were suffering way worse than you to make you feel guilt about your better off life. He showed you romantic documentaries and left out key bits about respect and boundaries so you got the feeling that this was scientifically love. He thought of everything and examined every possible element that could be used to indoctrinate you thoroughly.
After only two days of this treatment, you came to believe that the fire of love he had engulfed you in, now smothering you. Was Utopia, rather than Dante's Inferno (he loved reading to you classics as part of bonding with you), you begged for his forgiveness for your ingratitude to his care.
Every night since then, the second stage of affection was not affectionate at all but rather to make you stand before him for as long as he wished as he pointed out every single flaw of you, past and present:
"You are slovenly, ill dressed, have a poor complexion, are messy, rude, obnoxious and incompetent. You are selfish, lazy and have no consideration for other people who may be around you. You are stupid, unreliable, haven't worked a day in your life and yet act so uppity and so....independent. The worst trait you could possibly have."
Until you were in tears, begging him to let you leave. Afterwards, weak and vulnerable, you'd be carried in his arms to the bedroom, where he' drake the broken down you and build you up again.
"Shh," he hushed you, stroking your damp, tear stained cheeks. With his other hand, he traced up and down your trembling leg, wobbling from standing up for so long. "You are so precious and so lucky. With you around, I don't need to listen to Oho Asa ever again in my life."
"Then why do you?" You sniffled, "And why do you say such cruel things to me?"
He narrowed his eyes at you at the use of the word, 'cruel', but he decided he would scold you for speaking so horribly about him later, for now, he was moulding you, an integral process that took priority over anything else. He kissed your forehead, "To both, I have the same answer. Because I am an overly cautious man that cares deeply about you. No one ever perished because of too much luck, so we shall have our lucky items every day for the rest of our lives, the reason I criticise you is so you do not grow independent, you understand why this is toxic, yes?"
"Yes." You said, "I know independence is bad. I know that you are looking out for me and I know that love is pain. But sometimes I just want to love and submit to you without having you see the disgrace of my tears."
"You'd never be a disgrace to me," Midorima said, "And so not one single part of you is one." With that, he hugged you close.
There is nothing more in need of a cure than your independence.
