every-reverie

[every-reverie]

This is a side blog so I can't do replies but thank you very much to everyone who answered my question <3

Question for AO3 authors: Is it courtesy to mark your fanfic as explicit even if it's going to be very SFW for a long time but eventually NSFW, as in many chapters later? (EG. When writing a long slowburn) Or is it better to swap the tag when you get there? I'm p new to writing fanfiction. I just don't want people to see the explicit tag and expect porn for a loooong time.

[every-reverie]

Question for AO3 authors: Is it courtesy to mark your fanfic as explicit even if it's going to be very SFW for a long time but eventually NSFW, as in many chapters later? (EG. When writing a long slowburn) Or is it better to swap the tag when you get there? I'm p new to writing fanfiction. I just don't want people to see the explicit tag and expect porn for a loooong time.

[every-reverie]

🔥IGNITION🔥

A late-night text leads to a quiet rendezvous.

Part 1 of Lighter/Wise slow burn

Link 📖

Follow me on Bluesky 🦋

[every-reverie]

The Owl

A Ratiorine fic full of fluff, an epilogue to The Peacock and the Dove, and a prologue to a new story.

Characters: Aventurine, Dr. Ratio

Rating: Mature/Explicit only due to mentions of events from the previous Explicit fic

[every-reverie]

Chapter Three: Umbra

The final chapter of my Sunturine fic, The Peacock and the Dove.

Characters: Sunday, Aventurine

Rating: Explicit

[every-reverie]

Chapter Two: Spit and Bourbon.

Sunturine fic, part 2. The girls are fighting

Characters: Sunday, Aventurine Rating: Explicit Tags: Violence, angst, choking, guns, fight scene, fooling around in the dark and such. Oh and people are fucking but it's not them.

[every-reverie]

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ The Peacock and the Dove ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The prologue to my multi-chapter Sunturine fic is now published on AO3. Tune in if you like violence with homoerotic tension.

Characters: Sunday, Aventurine Rating: Mature Tags: Eventual smut, hurt/no comfort, angst

[every-reverie]

Hallowed Be Thy Pain

Sunday experiences a much-anticipated reunion with his sister, Robin. Set shortly after the events of Penacony.

Characters: Sunday, Robin, March 7th. Rating: Everyone Tags: Angst, lots of angst.

Upon the stool of his family piano, perched Sunday; birdlike and with an uncharacteristic aura of deep trepidation.

The feeling had begun upon his receiving of a letter delivered to the Astral Express. An invitation from dear sister Robin for a brief sojourn to his family home, and unsettling feeling had grown weedlike, ever since. His banishment from The Family was absolute, and yet, by some measure was his sister able to coax them into allowing him a short stay.

Her soft hip squashed snug against his own; the piano stool that they shared as children was far less accommodating now for two adult bodies. Nevertheless she seemed resolute in evoking old memories.

"It isn't fair." She said, smiling at the ivory keys, before lifting her gaze to the side of his head, which remained forward to study the old, yellowing music sheet propped before them. "That you got to say goodbye to me, and I didn't get to say my farewell to you."

Sunday's head dips sheepishly. It was naïve, he realised now, to assume that Robin had not seen through that flimsy disguise.

"I'm sorry, little sister." A shake of the head followed. "-- Robin." He corrected himself, for this woman was no longer little. That brotherly protective instinct still remained, but he allowed her to be a caged lark no longer.

Her juvenile feathers had been long shed in his many absences, her wings had bloomed and outstretched his own for some time, which had gone beyond his notice. Sunday lifts a hand to gesture at the faded parchment atop the piano, as he turns to address her face-to-face.

"Where did you find this?" A perplexed smile cracked across his features, brows knitting, as said tune was more a child-made fantasia than any structured composition. "I thought my old lullaby was committed only to memory. I don't recall writing it down."

A giggle escaped her lips, dainty elbow nudging his waist. "Did you think I didn't remember it myself?" She gazes fondly for a lingering moment, and brings her fingers in position to press the first note of the old melody. It evoked immediately, a tingling, nostalgic sensation. His shoulders relax now, the familiarity and reassurance of his sister had dissipated any further strange suspicions. A memory of the old times, an early song to carry a far farewell.

His hands--to the left of hers--for he was performing at the lower octaves, poised ready to play his part.

"I didn't think about it, really." He admits, the warm, mellow chord resonates, supporting his, no, *their*, gentle lullaby which she played perhaps with even more mastery than him now.

"You've been practicing." Sunday comments as Robin's fingertips flit about the keys like the wings of a sparrow bobbing up and down in a breeze. Perfectly on beat, though quicker than he recalled. He rushed to play the accompanying chord to keep up, for he was distracted by her talent and musical dexterity. Her head shakes to the rhythm of the song.

"No, brother, you've been neglecting." She teased. "I can tell." Harsh words from his sister, but she was correct. He was long out of practice after abandoning the grand piano for the conductor's stick.

As they approach the end of the song, her neck twists in an unsettling manner to face him, a sweet smile slowly morphing to a disappointed, pitiful stare. "Because... You're playing out of order."

A deafening chord in tuneless fortissimo rings throughout the space as Sunday's fingers slam against the keys in furious denial. He jolts, frightful as something cold hits his cheek.

Sunday's lids split open, both mournful and relieved to see instead of his sister's face, naught but the lustre of far-flung galaxies and the infinite blackness of space. He sighs at his reflection in the window and peels his cheek from the glass to confront the empty party carriage of the Astral Express, where he'd fallen into brief slumber in a quiet corner. The phantasmagoric lullaby still echoed in his head. The irony of such a dream, especially now, was not lost on Sunday.

The lingering tingle of terror must be purged, but not here.

—

In the bathroom, he sighs, back against the door and utters under his shaky breath.

"I still see him when I look at my reflection. I was never an actor, yet I play his part in all of my dreams." Sunday confesses uneasily to no one in particular.

"Who do you see?" Answers the man in the mirror above the sink.

"A man who wants to create a world without pain." He swallowed. "A paradise."

The man in the mirror smiles at himself, knowing the reflection is unsatisfied with that answer too. "Have you examined your soul and confessed all your sins?"

"Cease your mockery." He scolds, one hand turns the faucet counter-clockwise to fill the sink with cold water.

A flurry of knocks on the door rouse him from his delusional stupor. A bright, bubbly voice calls from the other side of the door. "Dang Heng? Did you fall asleep in the bathroom again?"

Sunday clears his throat. "My apologies Robin, I'm just freshening up."

"Oh..." March answers, a sudden pity in her voice. "I'm sorry Mr. Sunday... Take your time." Light footsteps shuffle down the corridor and enter another cabin.

Sunday turns off the faucet and baptises his face with cold water, but he couldn't wash away the shame even if he bathed in flames. Only after replaying the short interaction in his head two times did he realise the slip he had made. A powerlessness, a grief, all at once overwhelms him. It causes his shoulders to heave, to choke, for tears to spill over his cheeks. For Sunday to get to his penitent knees and cover his mouth tight, *air-tight* so that no one aboard could possibly hear anything but heavy fragmented breathing if they pressed their ear to the door.

"You look weak." His adoptive father scolded in his head. "There are no tears in paradise."

O triple-faced soul, please sear his eyes and heart with a hot iron so that he may not weep.

A lurid veil of harmonic hues both sickly yellow and penetrative blue crowds his vision. No. He must bear his troubles alone. THEY did not deserve the dissatisfaction of hearing his pleas of forgiveness. Nor did he deserve to cry to THEM for mercy from the torment of grief. THEY should not need provide him comfort in these times, after his transgressions THEY ought to exorcise this discordant note of a man from the great Harmony. His prayers surely fell importunate upon THEIR ears.

He shakes his head, sickened by himself. He would love nothing more than to wail like a baby in its mothers's arms, grasping for comfort and relief. To press his forehead against his sister's and bawl as did at mom’s funeral. He would not get that satisfaction. Perhaps, if necessary, he could indulge in tears once in a while. Repent to the mirror above the sink, or on the floor, prostrating himself to his damned reflection.

He reigns in the silent whimpers with great effort, knuckles white as trimmed nails dug crescent moons into his palms. He lifts himself to his feet stiffly as his own, sole, pallbearer and once again splashes his face with cold water to shock some sense back into his trembling body. Agitated and filled with a permeating restlessness, he runs fingers through his hair, making sure there was not a strand out of place after this... Ordeal.

—

Sunday returns to the party carriage, all in one piece, composed. He could pass off the redness in his eyes as tiredness. His solemn gaze catches a porcelain plate atop the bar, a note tucked partially underneath. He advances to take a peek, only to recognise in some confusion that the note bore a single word scrawled in untidy, rushed letters. 'Sunday.'

He raised a hand to his breast, lips parting as he regarded the prize atop the plate: Warm custard brûlée encased in pastry. A singular pudding tart.

Sunday darts his head around to find the one who had left this personal, private, favourite dessert of his during his impromptu bathroom break. Who could know of this, besides Robin? Embarrassed, almost angry, downright exposed. He is alerted to a presence inside the door frame to the other carriage, naught perceptible save for a grey head of hair vanishing behind the door.

Sunday firmly gripped the bar, hands astride the plate, curling to fists as he bore down at the tart in some new, no... Old, rising, unidentifiable emotion that caused tears to prick at his eyes once more.

Thank you for reading, this is the first fanfic I've ever written, encouraged to do so by a friend. Feedback is appreciated. Follow me on AO3 here for more in the future, kudos is much appreciated if you enjoyed!