chickenraw

[chickenraw]

the holy grail types of fanfic

[chickenraw]

Earl’s Whispered Frailty

⤷synopsisノEven devils are marked by longing. ps. inspired by Kuroshitsuji

The manor is always coldest in the west wing, where the sun never touches and the drapes are stitched from old velvet and the wallpaper curls like forgotten parchment.

You find him there, as always, seated not in the study where his correspondence lies, not in the parlor where guests might have once adored him, but on the windowsill — barefoot, coat shrugged halfway off one shoulder like a prince who'd never been taught decorum.

“Late,” he says, not looking at you.

You set the silver tray down on the sill, precisely two inches from his knee. “Your tea is five minutes early, my lord.”

Aurelian tilts his head, slow and sharp, and meets your eyes with that too-still gaze. Pale lashes. Mouth like a wilted thing. The kind of face carved by grief and stitched back together by spite.

“I wasn't speaking about the tea.”

You offer him the faintest curve of a smile. “And what else am I expected to deliver, milord? My heart? My soul? My life?”

His lips part; then close again. You’ve won. For now.

But when he takes the teacup from your gloved hand, his fingers brush too long against your wrist.

It’s intentional.

He was twelve when the fire swallowed his bloodline. Sixteen when he sold his soul– not for power, but for precision. He wanted revenge exacted like surgery. Neat. Cold. Perfect.

Now he is eighteen and beautiful and utterly monstrous.

“You think I'm childish,” he says one night, after making you kneel and lace up his boots though he could very well do it himself.

You tighten the leather too hard, and he flinches. You do not apologize.

“I think you are bored, my lord.”

He leans forward. Close enough to breathe your name like blasphemy. “So entertain me.”

You look up. “And how shall I do that? Would you prefer music, or murder?”

His pupils dilate.

There’s a very quiet beat where you think he might kiss you. He doesn't. He only stares, too long, too hungrily, then pushes your face away like a cat bored with its toy.

You don’t flinch. You only smile again, and that seems to enrage him more than anything.

“You serve me,” he says.

“Impeccably.”

“You exist for me.”

“Entirely.”

“Then–” and here, his voice lowers– “why does it still feel like I’m the one kneeling?”

Ah. So he noticed.

He watches you too much.

You know this. You allow it.

Sometimes you walk a little slower past the library, where he lounges in his chaise with unread books stacked beside him. Sometimes you adjust your cufflinks too languidly, smooth your gloved hands over the silver tea-service like ritual.

Sometimes you say his name just to taste the tension.

“Aurelian.”

He jerks, like a creature caught in torchlight. “You– never say it like that again.”

You raise a brow. “How did I say it, milord?”

“Like it’s yours.”

You pause, as if in contemplation, then say, “But it is, isn’t it?”

And that is when he snaps.

He doesn’t touch you often.

But when he does, it’s not with affection. It’s with hunger. With trembling restraint. Like a boy who's found his god and is very afraid of what worship will cost him.

“You don’t kneel for me like you mean it,” he mutters one evening, half-drunk on sherry and something more dangerous.

“I kneel when commanded,” you reply, amused. “As you desire.”

He slams the glass down. Stands.

Walks toward you; slowly, softly, as though afraid of startling you away.

“You smile when I hurt,” he says. “You smile when I rage. You look at me like I’m still just a boy—”

You cut him off, gently: “You are not a boy.”

And he grabs your wrist. Hard. A crackle of emotion in his voice, taut as a violin string:

“Then treat me like a man, damn you.”

Your smile fades.

For the first time in years, you touch him back; hand to jaw, elegant and cruel. You tilt his face up.

“You want to be treated like a man?” you murmur. “Then stop playing at being a god.”

He blinks. His breath catches.

And yet; he leans into your palm like a starving thing.

He starts leaving his door open at night.

It’s a trap, of course. You step across the threshold and find him not asleep but waiting— book discarded, candle flickering low, eyes glazed and shirt half-unbuttoned like an invitation he doesn’t yet understand.

“I had a nightmare,” he says.

“A pity,” you reply.

“Stay.”

You do. You stand against the wall like a shadow, silent and eternal.

His voice drifts through the dark: “If I asked you to die for me, would you?”

You wait.

Then: “Without hesitation.”

A beat.

“And if I asked you to live for me?”

That—makes you pause.

You hear the shiver in his breath. “Well?” he says. “Which is harder?”

You don’t answer.

Because he’s right.

And because you don’t know anymore who serves whom.

In the quiet hours of morning, the manor becomes his kingdom.

Not the ballroom, not the terrace, not even the throne-like chair he insists be placed too near the fireplace.

But here — the dressing room.

He likes when you dress him.

You suspect it has nothing to do with the clothes.

This morning, he’s chosen something extravagant. Midnight blue waistcoat. Silver brocade. A cravat made of ivory silk, imported from somewhere humid and expensive.

You lift the ribbon from the velvet-lined box, hold it between your fingers. It catches the light like water.

Aurelian watches you in the mirror, eyes half-lidded.

“Would you say I’m vain?” he asks, deceptively offhand.

“Utterly,” you reply, stepping behind him.

You tilt his chin up with one gloved hand, begin folding the silk with the other. He sits perfectly still, only his breath betraying him— shallow, alert, waiting.

“I deserve to be,” he says. “You’ve seen the filth they call nobility these days. I’m all that’s left.”

You say nothing.

You slip the ribbon beneath his collar, and the silk glides over his throat like a promise.

He exhales, shaky. “Tighter.”

You pause.

His voice drops. “I said tighter.”

You oblige.

Not enough to bruise; not yet. But enough that his mouth parts, a soft little gasp falling out before he catches himself.

Your hand brushes his neck as you tie the final knot.

When you lean down to whisper in his ear, it is not out of duty.

“You look exquisite when you’re obedient.”

He stares at you in the mirror. And for once, he doesn’t speak.

Not out of rage. But something else. Something reverent.

And when he rises; too fast, too suddenly; he stumbles.

You catch him, of course.

Always.

It begins with a storm.

Not a loud one; no crashing lightning or theatrical thunder. Just quiet, patient rain, the kind that eats away at old stone and seeps into locked things.

The kind of rain that finds cracks you forgot to seal.

You’re in the cellar when you hear him above you, boots on wet marble. He shouldn’t be here— the servants are asleep, and Aurelian has never deigned to come this deep into the house.

And yet.

When you rise, he’s waiting at the stairwell, candle in hand, hair half-loosed from its ribbon like he came in haste. His face is unreadable.

But he does not speak.

He only holds something out— brittle parchment, red wax flaking. And in the middle, unmistakable: your seal. The infernal curve of your name, signed not in ink but something darker.

Ah.

So he found it.

“I assume,” you say mildly, “you’ve let the rats know of your discovery.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t blink.

“You never told me,” Aurelian says. His voice is tight, low. Controlled only by a thread. “That there was another.”

You step up onto the last stone stair. Now you're at eye level. Candlelight throws half his face into gold, the other half into shadow.

“It didn’t matter,” you say.

His eyes flash. “Then why keep it?”

You look at him — really look at him — and for once, don’t smile.

“Because I keep everything, Aurelian. That is what I do. I remember. I endure. I obey. Even when the masters die and their names are lost and their blood dries up on the silk sheets they once made me wash.”

He flinches.

“But,” you continue softly, “if it soothes your pride — he meant less to me than you do.”

That should help. It doesn’t.

He takes a shaky breath. “Less than me…”

You nod once.

“...But more than I’d like.”

He throws the parchment.

Not at you. Just… away. Useless, like trash.

“I should have you whipped for this.”

“You won’t.”

“You serve me now.”

“I always have.”

Aurelian steps forward. He is trembling. You think he might slap you, or kiss you, or collapse.

But all he says is: “What was his name?”

You tilt your head. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I want to curse it,” he hisses. “I want to claw it out of your memory. I want you to forget how his voice sounded when he first bound you. I want your first to mean nothing—”

“You are already the last,” you say, calm. “Isn’t that more important?”

A pause. His lip trembles.

And then, without asking, he presses his face into your chest. Not like a lover.

Like a boy who has spent years building walls and found they do not keep you in.

You do not hold him.

You let him tremble.

When he finally speaks, it’s quiet. Almost broken:

“I don’t want to be remembered with the others. I want to be the only one you think of when you close your eyes. I want you to forget every name that came before mine.”

You close your eyes.

And lie:

“You already are.”

He doesn’t mention the contract again.

Not directly.

But something shifts.

He becomes more exacting. More territorial. He calls you by your full name in front of guests; voice silk-sweet, but heavy with implication.

He dismisses your errands. Cuts off your interactions mid-sentence. Rearranges your duties so you are always within his reach, or at least his line of sight.

It’s not punishment.

It’s possession.

And you let it happen.

Until one evening, after a particularly dull supper, he says, “You belong in a collar.”

You raise a brow. “Do I, now.”

He does not blink. “Yes.”

You should laugh. Should smile. Should tease.

But you only regard him, slow and careful.

“You forget, my lord,” you murmur. “You wear the seal. Not I.”

Aurelian’s mouth tightens. “Then give me something else.”

You step closer. “Something else?”

His voice drops. “Anything. Something no one else has. A vow. A promise. A bruise. A scar. I don’t care what it costs me—just make me yours.”

That gives you pause.

Because he means it.

And for once, he’s not acting like a brat, or a prince, or a master who thinks he owns the world. He’s just a boy asking to be chosen.

So, softly, you ask:

“Would you bleed for it?”

He nods once.

So you do it yourself.

Not a deep cut; just a scratch, a ribbon of crimson at his collarbone, drawn by the flick of your nail. He flinches, but doesn’t stop you.

Then you press your mouth to it.

He gasps.

Not from pain. From something older.

Older than this house, older than you, older than names or titles or games.

Then you whisper.

“There. Now no one can wear you but me.”

He’s grown quieter.

Not gentler ; never that; but.. more focused.

Gone are the petty orders barked at dawn, the dramatic sighs at dinner, the threats of dismissal that never meant anything.

Now, Aurelian studies you like a craftsman inspecting his favorite instrument.

Not to break.

But to perfect.

It begins with small things.

He stops calling for you aloud. Simply walks into a room and waits— to see if you know he’s arrived.

You do.

He sets a wine glass slightly off-center on the desk — tilted just so. Minutes later, without being asked, you pass by and correct it.

He doesn't speak.

He just watches your fingers, watches the world fall into place the moment you touch it.

Then, one night, after supper, he says:

“Sit.”

You blink. “Pardon?”

Aurelian gestures to the floor beside his chair. “You heard me.”

There’s no edge to his voice. No cruelty. No feigned boredom.

Just command, smooth as silk.

You hesitate. Not because you resist— but because it’s new.

“You’ve never asked that of me,” you murmur.

“No,” he replies. “But I’ve imagined it.”

A pause.

Then, silently, you lower yourself to the floor.

He exhales.

He sits back; hands folded, breathing slow; as if your kneeling presence soothes something tangled in him.

Then, softly:

“Would you kneel for anyone else?”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you tilt your head upward, eyes meeting his.

“Does anyone else matter?”

He smiles; but it’s not sweet. It’s not even proud.

It’s hungry.

And then he leans down.

Not to kiss you. Not to mark.

But to rest his hand lightly on your head, fingers threading through your hair like ribbon through a noose.

A coronation gesture.

A private crown.

“My name is the only one you wear,” he says.

You close your eyes. “It always has been.”

Liar.

The house has slipped into silence for the night. You find Aurelian alone in the library, the soft glow of candlelight casting long shadows across his pale face.

He sits near the window, the night breeze tousling dark strands across his forehead. His fingers trace absent patterns on the empty wineglass in front of him.

Without looking up, he murmurs, “I wonder if silence is the only language I’ve ever truly known.”

You step closer, your presence filling the space without sound. He makes no move to stop you.

Slowly, deliberately, you reach out, sliding your fingers beneath the collar of his shirt, brushing the cool fabric away from his skin.

He flinches; just slightly; before surrendering to the touch.

“There was a time,” he continues, voice low and raw, “when absence was punishment. When being forgotten felt worse than any wound.”

Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, steady and calm.

He closes his eyes, his breath catching as you undo the top button of his shirt.

“I fear that still,” he confesses, “not that you’ll leave me... but that I might fail to notice when you do.”

You pull the fabric gently away from his neck, skin pale beneath your touch.

He leans into your hand, fragile beneath the weight of his own confession.

For a long moment, you both simply exist in the quiet; fingers entwined with fabric and flesh, breaths mingling in the dim light.

The candlelight wanes, shadows stretching long across the worn leather and polished wood of the study. You sit close to him, the space between you neither too wide nor too close, but balanced—like a taut thread waiting to be tugged.

Aurelian doesn’t speak. His breath is steady but quiet, the kind that speaks more than words ever could.

Slowly, his hand moves to yours; not with a demand or a request, but with the tentative hesitation of a man unaccustomed to trust.

You don’t pull away.

His eyes find yours, searching— dark, restless, and weighted with a fragile hope. It’s not loyalty he seeks, not command fulfilled, but something far more elusive. A recognition that you choose to stay. That in this quiet, he is not alone.

Your fingers curl gently around his, a whisper of warmth in the still air.

He leans back, and the tension that once seemed so sharp in his posture softens into something almost like relief.

The past confessions, the fears he can barely voice—they linger between you, held tenderly in the quiet space of your touch.

You neither speak nor move, allowing the silence to deepen into a communion.

He is not your master here.

You are not merely his servant.

You are two fragile souls, tethered not by contract or command, but by the silent promise to remain.

And in that stillness; the quiet choosing; you both find something that words could never contain.

The night folds around the manor like a velvet shroud, thick with secrets neither of you dare speak aloud.

Aurelian sits close, his restless eyes fixed somewhere beyond the shadows, but you—calm, composed— observe him with the measured patience of a predator waiting for the perfect moment.

His fingers twitch near yours, hesitant, searching. You let the smallest fraction of a smile curl at the corner of your mouth as you close the distance, your hand settling over his with deliberate grace.

“No mercy,” he murmurs, voice raw and fragile beneath the veneer of control.

“Never,” you reply softly, voice a low promise edged with something colder; an unyielding vow.

He flinches at your certainty, a rare break in his facade.

“I’m not made to last,” he admits, the words falling like a confession into the dim light.

You lean forward, your gaze locking with his; steady, unblinking.

“And yet here you are,” you say, voice silk over steel. “Breathing, surviving... tethered to a loyalty you cannot name.”

His breath catches.

“I don’t want your pity.”

“You won’t find it here.” Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, precise and cool. “But you will find this.”

You press your palm lightly to his chest, just above his heart; a deliberate weight, the unspoken claim of power balanced with possession.

He exhales sharply, eyes darkening with something like awe; or perhaps surrender.

And in the quiet, you are no mere servant.

You are the shadow he cannot escape.

The silence he cannot command.

His inevitable reckoning.

END.

chickenraw notes .ᐟ

physically cringed

stay hydrated!

[chickenraw]

me as a writer

[chickenraw]

Does anyone else do this specific hand pose when they're bored and alone by themselves or is it just me

[chickenraw]

[chickenraw]

this fanart has me clawing at my sheets do NOT let me near this man

[chickenraw]

I love how expressive he is

[chickenraw]

Drifting Lilies

⤷synopsisノHe shouldn’t have come back. But he did; beautiful, dripping, and smiling only at you.

You were a strange child. That’s what the adults whispered behind your back, behind their paper doors and their plum wine. Strange, pretty, too quiet. Too clever with knot.

Your mother used to grip your wrist too hard when you smiled the wrong way. She said your eyes didn’t match your mouth.

And Ren; Ren followed you like a stray you didn’t want. He adored you. Worshipped you. Always watching.

He tried to kiss you once when you were twelve. You gave him a bruise shaped like your heel. He still came back the next day with something dead in his hands, trying to impress you.

He was soft in the way some boys are before they rot. Always watching. Always waiting. He gave you things: beetles, feathers, folded scraps of poetry he could barely write. He cried when you ignored him.

And you hated him. Not for being strange. But for loving you so absolutely.

That kind of devotion is revolting. Sticky. Like honey poured over meat. Sweet, then rotten.

You couldn’t stand it.

So you took him to the river.

You remember the moment clear as glass; his hopeful eyes, the way his wet hair clung to his forehead, how close he leaned. You spat words sharp as stone.

“Go away.”

But he didn’t move.

You pushed.

His body stumbled back, slipping on moss, tumbling into the dark water with a splash that stole the breath from your lungs.

You expected silence. The river to take him and never give him back.

But the lilies drifted back to shore.

It starts the same way all hauntings do; quietly.

A shadow passing behind the shutters. A knock, too slow. The sound of wet breath behind your shoulder when no one stands there. The scent of lilies on your pillow.

Then you see him.

Not in the flesh. Not yet. First, his voice.

“Can I help you with that?”

You look up. You’ve been carrying a basket; laundry half-dried, the hem of your sleeves still damp with river water.

A boy stands. Damp shirt clinging to his frame, hair dripping. His hands are pale. Fingers stained with river silt.

But it’s the voice that catches you. Crooked and damp. Like something spoken underwater.

You say thank you. You smile. He smiles back, and it’s wrong.

You don’t ask his name.

You are everything the village loves.

You smile like sunlight after rain. You volunteer at the shrine, gather herbs for the sick, bow to elders with perfect grace. You feed stray cats. You hum while you sweep your porch.

When the potter’s son goes missing, you bring his mother rice balls wrapped in salted plum leaf. When the butcher’s girl is found shivering by the riverbank, clothes torn and fingernails muddy, you sit with her in silence and offer your shawl.

To them, you’re kind, all light and grace; but Ren has seen your real face.

In the nights that follow, you don’t lock your door.

You never did. The villagers trust you. Why wouldn’t they?

You sleep with others. Sometimes one, sometimes more. Their hands explore the skin you offer like a gift—warm, soft, empty. You laugh easily. You smile like sunshine spilled over the village square. The neighbors believe in you. They trust the kindness you wear like a second skin.

But Ren sees everything.

He follows the men who leave your house. Watches their backs vanish down moonlit paths. Counts the steps they take. Watches the stains they leave behind.

He knows the shape of your mouth when you lie. He knows how you sound when you pretend to love.

He knows because he loved you before you knew how to be cruel. And he loved you after.

When you return home; voice soft, perfume faded, breath still warm from someone else's mouth; he is already waiting.

Standing by the door. Barefoot, dripping. Smiling too still.

You feel him before you see him. The air tightens. Your skin prickles.

His hands; slick with river silt; find your wrists. He kisses your ankles like apology. Your wrists like possession. Your throat like a prayer. Again and again. Like he’s trying to replace every trace of the others with himself.

You try to step past him. He doesn’t let you.

He kisses your hips with reverence. Your ribs like they’re cage bars he might live in. He carves his name into your thighs; not with blade, but tongue.

His fingers press into your jaw. Not cruel. Not soft.

“I’ll never leave you again,” he breathes, words catching on water in his throat. “There were no others, before me. There won’t be any after.”

He says it like a vow. Like a warning. Like a promise stitched in bone.

And still; you never push him away. You never do.

You keep pretending to live. To laugh with the sun, to dance with the wind, to wear kindness like a mask. But every night, the river sings your name. And Ren waits in its depths, waiting for you to come home.

One evening, when the sky bruises purple and the world softens into shadow, you find him there; still as the water, silent as the dark. Lilies drifting around his ankles, hair slicked back like silk stained with night.

His eyes find yours, deep and endless, pulling you closer without a word.

“You came.” he says softly, his breath cold on your skin.

His hands slip around your waist, steady and sure. You lean into him, the weight of your tired heart finally breaking loose.

Together you step into the river’s embrace. The water rises, a cool caress that steals your breath, that sings promises of release.

His lips press against yours; gentle, desperate; like a prayer for forgiveness.

And as the world slips away; the sound of the village, the warmth of the sun, the lies you told; you melt into him, into the river, into the cold dark that never forgets.

He holds you beneath the surface, a lover holding the only truth he’s ever known. And you let go.

Because in drowning, you finally become his. Forever lost. Forever loved.

The lilies drift above, silent witnesses to a love that cannot live above water.

Lilies float as silent sentinels on the river’s glass, pale petals blooming like whispered secrets; soft and unreadable.

They drift where light fades, where shadows gather, where the river forgets to move.

Your reflection shimmers beneath them; fractured, distant, undone.

The water holds its breath, cradling echoes no one else can hear.

Names slip between petals, lost and found in currents no eye can follow.

Maybe you missed him.

Maybe the silence after his absence wasn’t peace, but hunger.

Maybe you let others touch you only to feel something where his devotion used to be.

Maybe you wanted to be worshipped again. Even if it was never the same. Even if it never reached where he did.

Did you ever leave the bank, or have you always been part of the drift; already blooming into something the river could keep?

After all, strange children never really leave. They just bloom into drifting lilies.

chickenraw notes .ᐟ

not my proudest nut..

the font tweaks out sometimes, sorry abt that

stay hydrated! but dont drown like these fools

[chickenraw]

one thing about me is that I'm looking stuff up. you mentioned something and I don't know it? I am pulling out my phone and googling that shit. an actor? theoretical physics? a world leader? a vocabulary word? I am on the wikipedia page as we speak

[chickenraw]

Shattered Reflection

⤷ synopsisノBehind the glass’s shining stream, a quiet heart holds to its dream.

They trained him to be perfect.

Not in the way scholars are perfect, nor poets. Not in the manner of generals or sons. No; perfection for him meant vanishing inside another man’s skin. A reflection. A ghost in royal silk.

He was not born a prince. He was not born to be seen.

But you saw him.

Not at first. Not clearly. Only in the way a mirror trembles when candlelight shifts, a shadow at the edge of something known, almost real.

The first time, you mistook him for the Emperor.

Of course you did. He moved the same. Wore the same cologne, spoke in the same weighted pauses. Even the lines of his wrist, the shape of his throat; every detail carved to mimic.

He entered your chambers late, unannounced, and you received him with dutiful grace. The Emperor had grown bored of you lately, but perhaps boredom bends like a reed in the wind. You poured wine, knelt with elegance, let your silk fall just enough.

Then he looked at you.

And the illusion cracked.

The gaze was wrong; not cold, not appraising, not impatient. It lingered. Too long. Too gently. As if trying to remember something that had never belonged to him.

You tilted your head.

“Did you forget the way?” you asked, voice soft.

He said nothing.

Only reached for your hand and held it; not with desire, but with trembling.

It was then you understood. The mirror had shifted. The reflection had slipped.

And the man standing before you was not the one you belonged to.

His name, when you learned it, was Liuxiang.

He told you on the fourth night he came, voice hushed and almost reverent, as though afraid to claim it aloud.

“A name means very little,” he said. “When your face belongs to someone else.”

But it did mean something. Because when he touched you; slowly, like memorizing warmth; he never spoke like the Emperor did. He never ordered. Never assumed. His fingers asked before his mouth ever did.

You let him touch your cheek.

“You’re not him,” you whispered.

He swallowed.

“I know.”

Liuxiang had once been the son of a scribe. Ordinary. Until the court found him. Until his face was measured, weighed, matched. Until he was taught to disappear.

“Mirrors do not speak,” he told you once. “Only reflect.”

That night, you lit no candles. You let the room remain wrapped in gauze and moonlight. When he arrived, he did not speak. He simply stood at the edge of your bed, hesitant.

You extended your hand.

He took it slowly, almost reverently, as though you might vanish with touch.

His fingers were colder than you expected. A man not used to being warm.

You guided him down beside you, and for a moment, neither of you moved. His breath was shallow. Yours softer still.

"May I…?" he asked.

You silenced him with a look.

No titles. No lies.

He leaned close, and when he kissed you, it was not with hunger. It was with grief.

As though he knew this would not last. As though every moment was a betrayal of the silence he was built from.

His mouth lingered at your neck, then your collarbone. Your hands slid beneath his robes, not to claim, but to remind yourself that he was real — flesh and breath and wanting.

In the hush of that night, there was no Emperor; no mirror, no reflection. Only Liuxiang. And you.

They say mirrors crack not when they are dropped; but when they are asked to show too much.

The court began to whisper. Servants noticed patterns. Wine left untasted. Petals disturbed in the gardens. A concubine, once neglected, now blushing without cause.

And Liuxiang?

He began to look too long. Walk too slowly. Speak in his own voice, soft though it was.

One night, you found him at your window before the guards changed.

“I should go,” he said.

“Then why are you here?”

His reply was a breath, barely formed.

“Because only here… am I not a reflection.”

You let him inside. The candle stayed unlit.

His kiss that night was not reverent. It was breaking.

You planned to run. Not far, not forever — only far enough to breathe where no one’s face belonged to someone else. To find a world where mirrors were just glass, and not prisons for men like him.

But the Emperor saw first. Mirrors, after all, reflect everything; even betrayal.

Liuxiang was dragged into court, not in silk, but in chains. His hair was shorn like a splintered frame. His lip split, the mirror cracked. And still, he stood; wearing ruin like a final robe.

You were forced to attend the tribunal; not as a concubine, not as a witness, but as a warning. The Emperor stood tall, his expression unreadable and eyes cold as polished silver.

His voice rang out.

"This one mistook reflection for substance. He forgot the face does not own the frame."

Liuxiang looked at you across the courtyard. Blood at the corner of his mouth. Knees bent. Back straight.

He did not speak your name. But you saw it reflected in him, as you always had.

And for the first time, the mirror was not empty. Only breaking.

Three days passed. No mourning rites. No name spoken.

No one asked where the mirror had gone.

But the emptiness in your chamber was louder than any decree. The candle by your bed, once trimmed carefully, burned down to the base and curled into black.

The screen he used to step behind swayed at night, though no wind stirred it. The silence he had once filled lingered like breath on cold glass; fading, but not yet gone.

You did not weep. Not before others. You were still a concubine. You still belonged to another man. Your tears were not yours to spend.

But on the third night, you found something waiting.

Beneath your pillow — where the lacquer was worn thin from years of unseen weight — a slip of silk had been tucked so delicately it could only have been left by hands that memorized the shape of your sleep.

You unfolded it slowly.

If I were born anew, let it be with a face of my own. No crown, no name, no borrowed throne; only to be yours alone.

Your hands trembled, not because of the words; but because the ink had smudged at the corner.

As if someone had hesitated before folding it. As if someone had wanted to keep it.

You pressed the cloth to your chest and closed your eyes.

In your mind, his reflection was still there; standing just beyond the silk screen, waiting quietly, hoping to be seen again.

END.

chickenraw notes .ᐟ

beware, there ARE some errors

comments and criticisms are highly appreciated

stay hydrated!

[chickenraw]

eats him

[chickenraw]

My doomed yaoi :(

[chickenraw]

Through Silk and Sin

⤷ synopsisノthe emperor owns your name, yet the crown prince whispers it in the dark.

There are rules etched into the bones of the palace. Stitched into silken robes. Whispered between lattice shadows. Rules not spoken aloud, yet every woman in the harem learns them by breath, by bruise, by birth.

The Crown Prince must never look upon his father’s concubines. Not with interest. Not with intent. Not with eyes that wish and desire.

But you feel his gaze long before you meet it.

At the Chrysanthemum Banquet, beneath lantern light and strings of flute music, you sit three steps behind the Empress. Your spine does not bend despite the weight of gold on your crown. Your face remains serene beneath painted rouge, though your fingers ache from stillness.

Across the hall stands the heir to the throne.

Xu Wen.

Untouched by court or vintage. Yet his eyes stray where even older men would not risk glancing.

His gaze brushes against yours in a silence that cuts deeper than sound. And though he is surrounded by ministers and generals, it is you he sees. As if the rest of the court were dust, and only you had form.

You lower your gaze. You smile at nothing. You do not meet his eyes again.

That night, the Emperor calls for Lady Yun. Not for you.

You sleep alone beneath gold-dyed muslin, the braziers burning too hot, the loneliness pressing too close. The silence of your chambers stretches out like silk on a loom. Endless and fine, but threaded through with something tight.

You dream of being watched.

You wake to a peony, fresh and dewed, laid upon your pillow.

No one saw who placed it there.

It begins slowly.

A brush left slightly out of place. A new comb in your jewelry box. Your favorite tea brewed perfectly, though you never asked.

The older concubines whisper of palace spirits. Playful ghosts of eunuchs who died without name. You pretend to believe them. You pretend not to see when someone brushes too close behind the screens. You pretend not to feel when your name is breathed on a voice you know.

One night, the scent of ink wakes you. Faint. Delicate. Lingering.

A slip of rice paper rests beneath your pillow.

A poem. Flawed, but reverent. Written in a hand untrained, but burning.

You read the lines:

The moon was dull until I saw your face. Even the spring pauses at your passing grace.

There is no signature. But you recognize the ink. The rhythm. The heat beneath the syllables.

And when you walk through the southern gardens days later, you feel his presence behind the lattice screen. You do not turn to look. But your fingers brush the hem of your sleeve where the paper rests, folded tight.

He begins to appear in places where he should not.

A quiet path in the eastern gardens. The corridor behind the silk-weavers’ chamber. A glance in passing; never held too long, never caught. But always felt.

One day, your sleeves brush near the koi bridge.

His hand does not touch yours. But it could have. It almost does.

He says nothing.

Neither do you.

Later that night, a servant arrives. He does not look you in the eye.

"A message from the Crown Prince," he whispers, placing a wrapped scroll upon your table.

Inside, no words. Only a sketch. A single line drawing of a figure in repose. The angle of the face is unmistakable. Your own.

He is subtle. Careful. But not enough.

One of the concubines begins to notice. Lady Shu. Her tongue is sharp, her mouth quick to court favor.

She mentions you at court. Softly. Offhanded.

She says, "She carries herself with elegance, that one. No wonder the Crown Prince stares."

You laugh when the Empress brings it up to you. You pretend to be flattered, then dismissive.

You do not sleep well that night.

Lady Shu is found days later with her tongue split and her wrists bound in red ribbon.

“Suicide,” the ministers declare.

But no court lady dares utter your name again.

At the Mid-Autumn Festival, the moon is full and the night glows with the hush of lantern light. You leave the banquet early. You do not mean to go to the Jade Pavilion. And yet somehow, you are there.

So is he.

Xu Wen stands on the upper terrace, alone. No guards. No attendants. Just him in silver robes, moonlight washing his features pale and holy.

You should leave.

You do not.

He does not look at you when he speaks.

“They all say I am young,” he murmurs. “That I know nothing. That I should wait.”

He turns, gaze slow and deliberate.

“But I have waited. I have waited in silence. I have waited beneath your shadow.”

You do not speak. Your pulse speaks for you.

“They want me to want power. To hunger for conquest.” His mouth curves slightly. “But I want to understand how it feels when your hair is unpinned. When your voice is not measured. When your name is said with nothing but breath.”

You say softly, “You should not speak this way.”

“And yet I do.”

He steps closer.

“My father does not see you. Not truly. He calls you beauty. I call you scripture. He sleeps beside you. I would worship at your feet.”

The wind catches your sleeve. The silence trembles between you both.

His hand lifts, not to touch, but to hover just above the edge of your wrist.

“I will not take what is not given. But know this — I would give up the crown to hear you say my name without fear.”

You close your eyes.

“This is sin,” you whisper.

His voice is quieter than the breeze.

“Then let me dwell in it, if only for a breath.”

That night, the guards posted outside your room are gone.

The door does not creak. The braziers burn low. The air smells faintly of rain and ink.

He enters without a word.

You do not rise. You do not speak. You do not stop him.

Xu Wen does not touch you. He lies beside you like someone who has dreamed too long. He rests his forehead against the side of your stomach, barely breathing.

“I would set fire to my lineage,” he murmurs, “if it meant you would look at me once without restraint.”

He does not ask. He does not claim. He only lies there, trembling with what he dares not do.

chickenraw notes .ᐟ

this lowk corny asf

there may be some errors as im still getting used to tumblr so i apologize in advance

criticisms are always welcomed!

yes the header is jing yuan

[chickenraw]

Take it, Trailblazer. May this blood be like gold and never tarnish.

[chickenraw]

When tumblr refreshes itself and the fic I was reading fucking disappears forever 💔

I’ve been searching for a smau I was reading for three days 😔

[chickenraw]

MAN WHATEVER i needed to draw my two favorite men together (ok alexis is just a girl dont hmu)

[chickenraw]

who else feel baka rn 😭💔