hiraeth-sonder - Tumblr blog

[hiraeth-sonder]

I just want to say I love yuanhua he's little cuckoo in the head but he got the spirit? To say the least

There's definitely something wrong with him but its fine, he loves his mother and that's all that matters </3

No but seriously I loved writing him and him in general too. He was soooo

[hiraeth-sonder]

High Tides - Zimeng House

Yan! OC x Reader

Overindulging your child is very often the downfall of most parents, but it can be excused when you have reunited with your long lost son, no?

TW: Incest, some guy gets knocked out/killed, nursing, implied dubcon, general toxic behaviour, not really proof-read and maybe (definitely) bad writing

//I had the urge to write this no idea why. Dedicated to a friend of mine who fulfilled my inspiration fix and indirectly aided with the creation of this horrific thing

━─━────༺༻────━─━

The rapid yet skillful plucking of strings echoed throughout the hall, a sudden start that brought attention to the stage in the very middle. Surrounded by dozens of other guests, sitting atop a wooden chair with a pipa in your lap, draped in fine silks and tinkling jewellery, you strum the strings slowly as the melody rises layer by layer. Interspersed were tremolos, hot friction rubbing against the pads of your finger, the bright moon rising from the sea. 

Your eyes scan across the gathering of people tonight, fingers still playing as you pluck and strum. It is the same as every other night, men seeking to spend the night in the embrace of another, courtesans pouring sweet wine into the awaiting mouths, there was little to note on such a mundane night. 

The second section begins, you bring your other hand to the neck of the instrument as it joins your dominant hand in chanting and pulling. Still just as leisurely as the first, the added motions continued to entice your eager audience, wide eyes filled with wonder as they drift to visages beyond your face and skill. You could feel wandering eyes trail along your neck, travelling a line to your fingers, your waist, even to the arch of your feet. You pay them no mind, it is after all, your life’s work to entice and should your music not be up to par, then let it be your frame that does so. 

As young women garbed in silks as vibrant as the fenghuang’s feathers emerge, their feet light and their actions entrancing, you continue your reverie upon silk strings. There is little incentive for you to focus on your art, not when you have all but perfected the very act of performing. In the distance, standing by a pillar and hidden among the crowd was a young man in dark robes. He had a still sheathed sword by his side, garbed in midnight dark robes that cut a severe silhouette. For a moment, your eyes meet, milky jade that seemed not of this mortal realm bearing an intensity. It is by instinct that you avert your gaze, and you find that despite having been the focus of unsavoury attention for far longer than most, you feel uneased by his. 

You continue to strum, dancers whirling in winds of colourful fabric as the melody continues with its rhythmic flicks. Your vision is obscured by thin veils, arcing through the air as they fall with graceful descent. You still feel that man’s gaze on you, and you can only wonder whether you have met before in some clandestine time. There was little other reasoning, the only other could be a desire of service, a desire for temporary companionship.

When the performance eventually comes to its natural end, your sisters, the dancers, aid you with your ascent, one taking the pipa from your hands and another offering you a hand to take. Her hand is much softer when in comparison to yours, though care was essential for the lives you lead, your very niche borne callouses upon the pads of your fingers. A soft smile pulls across your lips as your eyes crinkle, and as the once hungry gazes of guests slide right off your form, focused on younger more nubile women, one slinks away.

You part the beaded curtains that separate the house’s main hall from the inner rooms, and just the clack of beads clicking against each other sound in your ears, you hear a man’s voice from behind you, low and rumbling.

“Ms. Shen.”

The sound is familiar in an odd manner, the way he calls your surname all too intimately despite the cold tone of his voice. You are not sure whether you like it, and when you turn to face him, high and all-mighty cultivator of milky jade eyes, you find that uncertainty still brewing. Your nerves seem to harden and chill, bringing a hand to your exposed collarbones.

Speaking slow and steady, you maintain the contact that he has put upon you, “I must apologise, young sir. I am afraid I shall not be taking on personal entertainment for tonight.”

“I wish not for company, but I must ask for a private room for I have questions not meant for prying ears,” He responds, his face not alluding to any emotion that you may take advantage of. 

The brothel madam has been watching you from the second floor, her pipe in hand with a grimace on her lips. She waits for you to cover your mouth, to reach for the hanging decor of your hairpins. When none of it happens, the older woman closes her eyes and takes a puff from her pipe. Your eyes once shifting between her and the young man in front of you, his gaze ever steady, settles. You can only resign to whatever he wishes, acquiescing and bringing him to the upper floors of the building. 

Tucked away within the labyrinth of rooms that lay within Zimeng House, a pot of warm tea and two cups sit between the two of you. The sounds of pleasure and revelry just barely at the edges of your mind, gentle woody incense wafting through the air as the night wind breezes in. Sitting opposite of you is the young man, grey hair long and bound at the ends, his complexion blemishless and those eyes, placid as a frozen lake, bore into you, as though trying to figure out something within you. His sword, impossibly long and not possibly able to be used by mortal hand, remains unsheathed by his side. This young man was quite obviously a cultivator, a fact that was only all the more by the odd oppressive aura he seemed to emit. 

It takes a moment for him to speak, for any of you to speak yet when he does, there is now a susceptibility to his voice, one that sounded younger, one that belonged more to a child than an adult, “Did you have a son twenty years ago?”

The question, no matter the tinge of pregnability in his words, was sudden. Certainly not the kind of question one asks a high-ranking courtesan, and certainly not the kind of question asked in good faith, not in your field of work, not from a cultivator.

“If I did, that should be no business of yours.”

“And should that son still be alive? Would it then become my business?” He responds just as fast, still holding eye contact. 

It is then that you notice the birthmark upon his hand, a little wing like discoloration below his knuckle. The bow of his lips so familiar to you, the curve of his eyes and the manner in which he holds himself. An image of you, an image of you distorted by the features of another and the dew of immortality. 

You avert your gaze, taking in a breath before looking at him, the breath in your chest still and tight in your lungs. Rising from your seat, he lets you approach him with tentative steps, feet padding against wooden floors before you sit by his side. Pathetically, you could only rasp out, “How is he? If he is alive?”

The young man leans closer, eyes of wonder and recognition. As though just as affected by emotions deemed frivolous by his people, he manages to whisper, “He is doing well.” Then, he backtracks, a notion he appears not quite used to, correcting himself quietly, “And he has missed you quite so.”

For mother and child, it is very often that words are not needed to understand one another. Your arms that once cradled his infant form in a time long ago, wrap around him as he tucks his nose into the crook of your neck, his much broader form encapsulating yours as tears slowly soak through your silks. You cannot blame him, for even tears dew at your lower lashes. 

“Mother, your son has found you.”

━─━────༺༻────━─━

When your son had disappeared, you had not the chance to even name him. How could you? For someone like you, someone who could barely even read let alone write, you had always intended to give him some name that would bless him most, perhaps wish for him to become a great scholar or businessman. Yet he has returned to you as Yuanhua, ‘first magnificence’, and what truth he has grown up as.

Your darling son, pride of Fengyi Mountain, saviour of the innocent and bane of the demonic, how magnificent he has become. You could be no less prouder of him, proud that he would rise above the status of a courtesan’s son. He is so much more than you could hope he could have become, and it fills your heart with an emotion you can not fully deem delight. 

You must admit however, you did not think he would become such a clingy child in his adulthood. You suppose that he is only trying to make up for the years lost on the both of you, for his loss of childhood vulnerability and yours to overindulge. It has only been a few months since he has reunited with you, yet many of your sisters have already started looking forward to his visits. They would wait at the windows that face the busy streets and look for the white head of hair towering above the crowd. It has come to the point that they would ask you about him, albeit your relation not known to them, asking whether he treats you well, whether he was looking to retire from the jianghu and get a wife of his own. All those times, you could only laugh and urge them to ask themselves, after all, that son of yours was by no means a person you could control. 

Today, he has come once more, now resting his head upon your lap as his form curls in towards you. Yuanhua is quite definitely one of the larger men you have had the experience of being with, and he is careful to not put his full weight, though he is still that sticky child, holding one of your hands within his much larger, colder ones. 

A small laugh escapes you, he all but rushed to your side the moment you entered the room, and with his recent absence, you can only surmise that he was sent away on a mission that took up far more energy than he would have liked. 

“Hua’er, have they been working you too hard?” You hum, rubbing his knuckles with the pad of your thumb. Reaching for the osmanthus cakes plated on a table, cakes you had been gifted and intended for him to try, you bring up a cut piece for him, “Come, eat some pastries.”

He obliges, obediently opening his mouth to accept your offering. Watching him so happily eat, with an overfond smile on your lips, your other hand reaches to pet his head, an act that has him leaving into your touch, far more than you thought already possible. 

“I only wanted to be with you sooner,” He murmurs.

You sigh, a reigned smile pulled across your painted lips, still allowing him to hold onto you. “Your old mother can be on her own, don’t rush even if you can.”

The thought of him being injured, no matter the fact that he is far more powerful than most, tugs at your heart strings, yanking on them with a ferocity. Though you have lived 20 years grieving your child, knowing that he is alive and that is a tangible, actual person that you now so unfailingly adore, the idea that he may possibly be harmed is torturous. 

“What if you get hurt, hm?”

Yuanhua does not respond, merely tightening his grip on you as another sigh escapes. The melody for tonight’s performance comes to the surface of your mind, and as you hum and pat his back in rhythm, he lets you. Your son lets you move as you please, all too happy to follow along as he fully relaxes on you and flutters his eyes shut. 

It is then that you hear the sliver of conversation from the outside, spoken in hushed voices yet deafeningly audible through paper and wood. For your ears that have grown keen to hear news of your son, it is only natural, yet it is now that you wish you could not.

“Why does that cultivator keep visiting her?” A man’s voice sounds from outside, he sounds familiar, perhaps one of the more frequent guests.

Another responds, another man and another guest. He sounds younger, his voice louder than the first’s, “You know, I heard that those people up in Fengyi Mountain are meant to be celibate.”

You look down to your son, his eyes shut and his posture relaxed. He appears to have not a worry in the world, long lashes kissing the apples of his cheek. High nose, sword straight brows and thin lips, sometimes you think you see the face of another upon his. Your child, who appears so much like you and another, it pains you. 

“Do you think…?”

“That he’s a philanderer? Why not? They all think they’re above us and yet look at them,” One of them scoffs, a supercilious tone to his lilt.  

The other laughs at that, odd mirth tinging his voice as their footsteps sound further and further down the hallways, “And he goes and picks the most expensive one of them all.”

“Hah! At least he has taste.”

Your heart seems to drop all throughout such vulgar conversation. You have been no stranger to slander, have been the victim of it many times in your life, but your son? Your son who had lived 20 years as an ascetic, finally allowed comfort within his mother, who is unfortunately a courtesan. How cruel this world is, to reunite mother and son only to make it so the interactions you may have, be tainted by the very career that has kept you alive long enough to be with him until now. 

You look down to him once more, he is looking at you, milky jade eyes warm with adoration as his fingers interlock yours, tightly. He does not deserve such talk, he does not deserve to be the butt of such a cruel joke. There is nothing you would not give for him, and it is now that you yearn to give him freedom from such mockery. One last night, you shall have him one last night and he will return to Fengyi Mountain as their pride once more

Your son squeezes your hand and turns towards your womb. Yuanhua asks a question so casually it was as if he were a child asking his mother for another story, his voice soft as though any louder and you would crumble to dust, “Would mother still dote on this me if you knew what I have done?”

“You are still my son,” You whisper, bringing your hands up to kiss the back of his hand. Your eyes close, and it takes you a moment to continue, your throat tight and your breath stilled, “There is nothing that you can do that will make me hate you.”

“I will always love you.”

━─━────༺༻────━─━

The night is young, the smell of spicy oud burns through the air as the music of revelment reverb through the building. People of all backgrounds gather to find entertainment, bliss and temporary companionship. When the sun rises, the remnants of the night’s debauchery shall remain a stain upon the soul, no less visible to the judge of hell than the shameful walk one must make in pursuit of escape. 

Not tonight, for rather than performing musicality or sensuality, you are granted the rare visit of an old friend. 

Dipping your head, hairpins of tinkling gold graze the curves of your cheek as you greet the man before you, “My lord, it is an honour to serve you tonight.”

“Ms. Shen, no need for the formalities,” He waves you off, urging you to come closer, an offer you take. His voice is low and humming, reassuring and assuaging, he smiles at you as crows feet appear at the ends of his eyes, “How long has it been since we’ve known each other?”

When you respond to such with a familiar smile of your own, he takes your hand in his as he rubs his thumb over your knuckles. Truly, Lin Zheng is still your most loyal, and kindest guest. 23 years and he has yet to request another, it has come to the point that practically everyone in Zimeng House knows to see him situated in the better rooms and call for you to attend to him. It was hard to believe that this wizened 4th ranking court official before you was the county magistrate who blushed redder than a jujube when he first saw you.  

His eyes ponder upon your visage, and it is a long seeded regard that seeps from them. You follow along his example, allowing your eyes to trail along his high nose and sword straight brows, features that lent him regal apertures that rivalled the imperial bloodline. 

With a solemnity that could have rivalled even the underworld judges, he calls upon you, “Have you always been this beautiful? Even now you rival the ladies of Chunning House.”

“You flatter me, I am but an old maid compared to the young flowers of today,” Laughing, a kind of shyness overtakes you as you avert your gaze. 

Lin Zheng only reaffirms his praise, bringing a hand to your cheek as he gently redirects your gaze to his, “No less lovely, what man would not feel shame for having not experienced your touch?”

Times must have truly changed, for when it was he who sputtered in diffidence, it seems to have become your turn to grow shy at his action. Still, you do not turn away from his affection. The older man reaches for the jug of wine on the low table and pours out a conservative amount into the two cups, offering the first to you. 

As he hands the cup of wine to your waiting hand, the window shutters open with a violent swing. The sound of wood banging against wood and the tip of a sheath tapping against the floorboards further drag the two of you out of the intimate atmosphere contained within the room. Clad in dark robes and with his long silvery hair flowing in the night wind, the man calls for you. 

“Mother.”

Controlled and yet, the breach of something more, something raw and broken lies beneath his low voice. He remains at the balcony, and it is as though the world has gone quiet for solely his presence. The oppressive energy that had once made you wary of him when you first met trickles out, those eyes of his that which had once been warm, seethes and rages

His voice cracks, just the slightest as he directs the heavy burden of his gaze onto you,“You sent me away, so you could entangle with another?”

“Hua’er,” You managed to breathe out, a slip of vulnerability that you had so painstakingly tried to keep within. 

Li Zheng, who though had no clue who was before him, moved to put himself in front of you, pushing you behind him as he places himself as a physical barrier between the two of you. This man who grew up a scholar and took no interest in the world of martial might, still saw fit to protect you over himself. Yet this one action, this one innocent action only enraged your child. 

“You said you loved me, but you would let others touch you so familiarly?”

This sudden accusation confuses you, and you rightfully respond to such an inquiry with confusion, “What are you talking about? This is my job.”

“I see,” He mutters, and it is then that you see how dilated his pupils have become, thin jade encircling a pitch dark void. Yuanhua approaches the two of you, footfalls slow and practised and cutting through the room like a knife, and that breach of violent emotion finally rips through. That though his very movements were the epitome of discipline, the manner in which he seethes reveals far more than his actions. A laugh of unconstraint leaves his lips, one that echoes in your ears before he finally sneers,“I see.”

“Yuanhua!” You can only pathetically yell out, hoping that he would come to his senses and cease whatever he seemed so hellbent on unleashing. 

In a move far too swift for either of you to anticipate, he brings the pommel of his sword down upon Lin Zheng’s head, a harsh crack reverberating through the room. You could only watch as your dear friend’s form fell limp onto the ground with a thud, your son kicking him away without care, as though he was merely a pebble in his path.

With the moonlight as his halo, he looms above you, broad shouldered and stalwart. You do not recognise the man before you, do not recognise the fervency in his eyes nor the concupiscence within them. His sword is abandoned in favour of covet, and your son, your dear son pushes you to the cold ground. Though gentle with a hand to the back of your head, the rushed action still sends a dull ache through your form. 

“Mother,” He breathes, rosy flush to his jade white complexion as his breath fans against your skin. Nosing along an imaginary line down your neck, lips ghosting over pulse points as he murmurs, “Don’t leave me, not again.”

He tugs down the front of your ruqun in one swift motion, exposing tender skin and bare chest to the night chill. He takes a moment to admire you. Then, without hesitation, he latches onto the soft bud and starts to suck, his tongue swirling around as it rips a weak whine from your lips. Though you push against him in some meagre attempt to put some distance between your two forms, he merely strengthens his efforts as a hand moves to squeeze your hips, the other cupping and kneading the neglected breast. 

Enervated by his fervid actions, it was as though even your voice wished to give up, whether from use or carnality, you were not sure. “Stop it–!” 

He ignores you, and that hand that once gripped the very hips that birthed him, sinks deeper into its origin. Pushing through cavernous desire, Yuanhua rips a particularly loud keen from your throat. It is a sound more beautiful than your skillful playing, more mellifluous to his ears than any other sound, and he smiles. 

Fengyi Mountain may have taken him away from you for a reason illogical, but that is in the past, burned in the embers of the future. When he finally takes you away from this establishment, away from those greedy eyes, then he will truly be reunited with you, mother and son.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

[hiraeth-sonder]

Indulgent Solicitude - Paraíso

Boothill x Reader

Maybe love really can happen in a bar, albeit something has to go wrong somewhere, right?

//The things that damned cowboy is doing to me needs to be studied. Lyric excerpts are from Virgen by Adolescent's Orquesta

¿Cómo evitarlo? Tú corres por mis venas

Eres la rosa más bella, mi alma es toda tuya

‿︵‿︵‿୨ ୧‿︵‿︵‿

“Why, hello there.”

A man’s voice fills your ears above the sound of idle chatter and soft music playing from the old record player. Playfully liliting, a smile comes across your painted lips as you bring your glass to drink from. You pretend to not notice, ensuring you savour each and every drop of liquid that passes through your lips. The last remnants of your drink remain upon your tongue when you finally deign to face him, meeting steel grey eyes and dark brows quirked up in mettle. 

“Hello there yourself,” You hum, eyes trailing his as he approaches you by the bar.

He grins as he positions himself by you, your legs crossed on the bar chair with his form by your side. Under the moody lighting, it brought a warm glow to his complexion, mellowing the usually harsh glint of cold metal. There was a roguish aura to him, something that told you that you wouldn’t quite like to get on his bad side yet you couldn’t help yourself, never could when it came to situations like this. 

A low rasp tinges his voice, one that makes your breath quicken, just the slightest, “Mind if I buy you a drink?”

Less of a question but more of a rhetorical offer, a few credits are clasped between two lithe fingers even before you could respond. Your eyes shift to the shelf behind the bartender, not quite finding anything that piques your fancy. You decide you’d let him pick, just to see whether he knows you as much as he thinks he does.

“Knock yourself out.”

He calls for the bartender and orders some drink you can’t quite make out, but based on his confident poise, you can only assume it's something that’ll fit at least one of your tastes. There’s a tired glint in his eyes, but he doesn’t complain and gets to making whatever it is that is meant to please you. Your companion only leans against the bar as he cocks his head, sharp teeth peeking from behind that smirk of his. 

“So what’s a pretty thing like yourself doing all on ya own?”

“Just looking to burn some time,” Smiling, you bring your drink to your lips as though to hide your amusement, “What about you?”

“Well, I thought I might be leaving with you tonight,” Your companion murmurs with an equally amused smile, a kind of mirth in his eyes. 

A genuine laugh seems just to tumble out, you only lean closer towards him with a teasing mutter, “Buy me a few more drinks and I’ll consider it.”

The two of you share a knowing look, and he wraps an arm around the back of your chair, the smell of the bar clinging to him, warm and boozy. Though it seemed that to others, what was clearly comfortable banter and intimacy had come across as unwanted soliciting, for footsteps tapping against wooden floorboards sound ever closer from behind you. 

There is a tap against your shoulder, then a somewhat nasally voice reaches your ears, “Excuse me ms, is this man bothering you?”

You barely glance past the man’s way, not bothering to give him more than the curtest moment of your attention, “Not at all.”

“Are you sure?” The man affirms, face scrunched in mock concern as he steps closer and closer, far too much for you liking and certainly quite visible on your face. He gestures towards your companion, “I’m certain a fine lady such as yourself would prefer the company of someone less… brash.”

At this, the ranger actually quirks his brow in vexation, pulling you closer towards him as you match his pique. His voice lowers, “Got a problem with me flirting with my partner?”

The conversation doesn’t even die down, merely continuing as this random stranger suddenly notices not only your bosom body language, but the (empty) holster on his thigh. When combined with your obvious scowl, there’s little room to argue.

“O-of course not, you two have a good evening,” He raises his hands in surrender, backing away before scurrying off with his tail between his legs. 

The moment he leaves, you turn to Boothill as you try your best to not burst out in laughter. With the way that guy was looking, he almost looked like he was going to absolutely shit his pants. 

“That’s twenty-one to five.”

He rolls his eyes, albeit with the overfond quirk of his lips, it's a bit hard to take his disappointment seriously. “Maybe if you weren’t so amazingly gorgeous, I wouldn’t keep losing.”

“Your censor,” You very helpfully point out. 

“Y’know what I mean.”

From behind the bar, the bartender only rolls his eyes. This isn’t the first time some unlucky idiot tried making their own advances, and it sure won’t be the last. Just what kind of couple pretends to not know each other at a bar and makes bets based on whether one of them will be ‘saved’? If it weren’t for the fact that two of you bring in good business and were actually decent customers, he’d have you kicked out by the third time you pulled this stunt.

‿︵‿︵‿୨ ୧‿︵‿︵‿

Olvida eso, de verdad te lo pido

Es que yo soy tuyo, cuerpo y alma, cuerpo y mente

[hiraeth-sonder]

one day I’ll finally write that ridiculously elaborate fanfiction that I’ve been carefully constructing in my daydreams for months and then you’ll be sorry. you’ll all be sorry.

[hiraeth-sonder]

Wistful Moon - Changting Pavilion

Jingyuan x Reader

We all have to leave one day, he just hopes it won't be too soon

//This wasn't meant to make me cry, why did I cry writing this. This is probably all over the place. Poem is 离思 by 元稹.

曾 经 沧 海 难 为 水, 除 却 巫 山 不 是 云

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

For you to so freely partake in drink should have tipped Jingyuan off to your emotional state much earlier than it did. Albeit, when you were under such lovely lighting and garbed in attire he could only, pathetically, describe as undoubtedly becoming, he found it hard to think of little else, caught up in the sight of your very being.

Your fingers wrapped around your cup of wine, curling into cold ceramic and bringing it to your painted lips, soft and inviting. His eyes keenly follow along the movement, watches your throat bob as you swallow, how when you lower your cup, a bright smile pulls across your face in response to something someone said. He does not think there is anything more beautiful than that smile, and though you have always told him you hated how wide it is, how you keep smiling with too much teeth and how it always happens when you least like it to, Jingyuan adores that smile of yours. It is yours, so wonderfully yours and so wonderfully a symbol of your unadulterated joy. And whenever he sees even the slightest hint of it, that flush that always threatens to expose him starts to tinge his cheeks. 

You turn briefly to take a glance at him, that smile of yours still on your lips and he feels it once more. If only for a moment, you turn away and he does not know whether to thank or curse the aeons for having that sight so fleetingly. 

Another refill of your cup, you drink once more, then another refill. You have come to your fourth cup since the wine has been served, and he worries that at this rate, you will be passed out drunk before the event ends. Jingyuan moves to take your cup away from you, something you respond with a non-committal glare before you slump by his side. Resting your head against his shoulder, he watches your eyes scan the room absentmindedly, as though looking for something, someone. 

It is when his lieutenant returns to your side that he properly comes to the revelation of your drinking. He had just received his military commission, and for someone such as you who has spent the past few years practically raising him as your own, this was a far earlier call than most parental figures experience. The sudden realisation that one day, you may no longer see him at the breakfast table with his horrid bed hair, no longer have him begging for food and pocket change, they surely were not thoughts anyone would like to have so soon (he is not sure whether it is just you feeling as so). 

Your eyes seem to focus on the child’s presence, waving him over as a milder smile now decorated your lips. Yanqing comes to your side, and in a move he clearly did not expect, you wrap an arm around him to pull him close to you, his standing form pressed against your seated one. 

“Qing’er, you’re so big…” You sigh, speech just the slightest melancholic. Reminiscing of days long gone, he thinks he can catch the hint of tears welling at your eyes. “I remember when you were still so small, you always loved it when I would carry you around.”

Yanqing’s cheeks flush at this comment, especially in public, and he splutters to retort back, to say something to brush past the sappy notion. Still, you do not let that stop you, turning your gaze to face him entirely as you hum, “I��m so proud of you, y’know that?”

He only nods, and though it is clear he does not quite know how to respond to your sentiments, he lets you hold him just a little longer, his hand on yours. 

Jingyuan watches on, the quiet moment enhanced by the fact that with so many eyes looking away, the two of you had only looked all the more poignant. He wonders how long this has been weighing on your mind, how much it ached you to keep it inside in fear of the child’s reaction. And though he would love for nothing more than to comfort you, what you needed was not him but to reaffirm Yanqing’s presence. 

It is not long until the festivities die down and the two of you are left with only each other as company. Now certainly allowed more freedom than before, you lay in his embrace, his arms wrapped around you as the Luofu’s simulated moon hangs high in the sky. 

“He’s so big now,” Your voice is hushed, barely a whisper and seemingly meant for only your ears. 

“That he is,” He hums, feeling your fingers play with his hand as though distracting yourself from speaking more. A soft, practically inaudible breath escapes him, his eyes remain on you as he murmurs, “My love, what has gotten you so sentimental?”

There is no response out of you for a moment, merely the sound of your breathing, just the slightest laboured and all too preoccupied with keeping your emotions under lock and key. Yet when he meets your eyes, the dewlets clinging to your lashes and the strained quality of your voice only tortures that heart of his that so ardently belongs to you. 

“I hate thinking about the day you’re no longer with us, or I’m no longer with you two.”

How can he bear to think of such a future as well? Though the two of you are more than aware that it may one day come (after all, neither of you are green in your years), it has been a thought he pushes away every time it surfaces. He has plans for if he is to become mara-struck, plans for if he goes peacefully, but for you, it is different. He would have to strike you down should the former occur, but he does not know whether he would be able to live with it. 

So he pretends it will not happen. He pretends that the two of you have all the time in this world, all the time to watch the moon and lay together side by side. 

All the time in the world for him to memorise your face so that if one day it should really happen, he may be reminded of the joy you brought him, and not the grief your passing will cause. 

“All the better for us to spend what time we have together,” Jingyuan mutters, pulling you closer to him as he nuzzles against you.

You sniff, that smile of yours, bittersweet but still, always, so beautiful presents itself to this world. Your eyes flutter open and close, and eventually he is left with nothing but the slow rise and descent of your chest, soft breathing his lullaby for the night. He traces along the curve of your jaw, the wrinkles of your lips, the marks upon your face, everything that made you. 

You are still clinging to him, so tightly it was almost as though you were afraid that he would leave when your eyes opened in the morning. He does not blame you. 

Looking to the moon, he prays, the first time he has done so sincerely, so desperately, that the three of you will not be ripped apart so soon, that at the very least, make it so that he will be the last to go once more.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

取次 花 丛 懒 回 顾, 半 缘 修 道 半 缘 君

[hiraeth-sonder]

[hiraeth-sonder]

Delusive Masks - Nasu

Yan! Tamamo no Mae x Reader

Old foxes aren't the best servants, they're wily and complex, and most of all, possessive

TW: Mentions of violence in the form of burning, general toxic manipulative behaviour, not really proof read

//The brainrot hit so bad that I wrote a bad fever dream. A whole bunch of liberties taken with the way being an onmyoji works and with characters as per usual. Poem is from 陽成院歌合, topic of 夏虫の恋 and is number 06 of the whole collection

あふことを, いつともしらぬ

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

To be a good person is not difficult, to be a good onmyoji perhaps less so. For many people, merely getting the skill and natural ability to qualify as one is already a kind of privilege, it taints the way they view themselves, creating grandiose splendours that they can transcend beyond the mortal principles. Yet when one becomes powerful enough to summon shikigami beyond weak spirits imbued into paper dolls, it gets to their head. They suddenly, foolishly believe themselves capable of nothing short of miracles. How fast they fall, turning themselves into cruel masters, bidding their servants to acts no better than the very yokai they seek to exorcise, kicking upon their shikigami to which they had entered that sacred contract. 

You are grateful for many things in life, the first that you had good parents that supported your wishes, the second that you could become a practising onmyoji, and the third being your master’s consistent and persistent hammering of humility and altruism. No lesser or greater than any being that walks upon this world, whether human or spirit, your duty was to protect the innocent and excise the guilty. Of course, he had worded it much more eloquently than such, but the motive was still present in his orotund words. 

Your shikigami are as equally deserving of respect as you are, unconditional kindness could very often make the difference between an evil spirit and a good one. You have stuck by such truths for as long as you have started, even when the only spirits under your command were Ubume and Zashiki Warashi. It became a promise of kinds, that you would always do right by them so long as they showed the same sentiment in return. Eventually, you ended up with quite a few of them, a good entourage of them you knew you could trust. Yet, it was rather difficult for people to take you seriously without certifiably powerful spirits, or perhaps it was more accurate to say that there was a certain gap between the perceived disciple of the great Abe no Seimei, and the reality that you were. 

There was some part of you that did resent that expectation, partly that others should have no right to comment on your ability solely on your patronage, and partly because it felt too close to home. Of course you knew it was shameful to be so powerless when you study under one of the best practitioners, it is only natural you did. 

The smell of incense fills your nose as your eyes adjust to the dim room, a talisman before you laying on the wooden floor. With a brush in hand, dipped in ink and poised for use, you calm your pounding heart. You have already summoned a few shikigami before, yet at this very moment, you could feel nothing but inexplicable foreboding. It made no sense, with your current living quarters more than protected by both your and your shikigamis’ efforts, yet you could not merely shake off the tenseness in your joints and the roiling in your stomach. 

It hurts, everything still hurts. Your hands from all the preparation, your knees from kneeling on such hard floors, your head from everything that has been and shall be. It is as though your body only knows to bear suffering, pain from which is borne from being mortal, pain borne of the pure action of breathing. 

Still, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. Picking up your brush in a ramrod perfect posture, the incantation so familiar to your lips spill out as ink stains the talisman. Your voice starts soft, barely a whisper in the wind and as your hand scrawls and scrawls with a fervour not quite known to human consciousness, it rises until the only sound in your ear is your very own words. 

The moment your brush lifts off the paper and the ink settles within, placed within the circle, it resonates and glows, bursting with light and into flame as it burns into a brilliant blaze. It threatens to engulf the summoning room, grazing at the ceiling as even the fire from your candles are absorbed into such a violent inferno. You can feel the heat, practically licking your skin and singeing the ends of your coat, sweat beading at your brow as you shield your eyes from the bright display. 

Even when the flames dim, what is before your eyes is merely the shaping of the firestorm into nine distinct tails, a vulpine silhouette that eventually reveals a tall figure, draped in silks and brocades. With an elaborate fox-like mask hiding the top half of his face, this spirit which presented himself as both court official and decadent noble snapped open his fan to further hide his jade white visage. Among the cool night, all you could feel was the radiating heat from his form, even if he retracted his flames, it was as if there was nothing beyond him and his fire. 

The high wooden geta clacks against the wooden floorboards, elegant footfalls approaching you ever closer as he steps out of the circle. He makes no effort to lower himself to your level, fervid eyes burning behind the mask as he tips his fan beneath your chin and lifts it. The spirit takes a gander at your appearance, scrutinising your every feature with an intensity far beyond mild interest. 

“This place has experienced great change since I’ve last been here,” The old fox’s lips curl into a smile, the peek of sharp canines peeking from behind. His voice is sultry, a minacious bite to his words,  “Onmyoji, we finally finally meet.”

No matter this first introduction, dealing with this great spirit will be much more complicated than any you have ever met. A venerable kitsune in which vagary destruction lay right at the snap of his fingers, no matter what kind of fate he deems worthy for your mortal self, it is exactly because you are mortal that you should meet this trial. 

Bowing, you raise your clasped hands in front of you and dip until you feel your back screech for mercy, “Tamamo no mae-sama, it is an honour to meet you.”

“Do take care of me, little lady,” He croons and a shiver runs through your bones, no matter how gentle his words were.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

なつむしの, おもひはかぎり

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

“Master, I did not think you would arrive so quickly.”

Your hands are steady as you tip the lacquered teapot, fragrant tea pouring in a steady stream from its slender spout. The dark liquid a blend you rarely take out other than to entertain your master, there is a certain trepidation that comes with such an act, one you are not sure when will finally leave you. The joints of your fingers ache, throbbing even as you lay at rest. 

“It is so wrong for me to worry for you?” He raises a brow, azure eyes regarding you with some placid gleam.

Despite your admittedly out of place nerves, your master has done nothing to warrant such, that in spite of his graceful and aloof poise, Seimei may likely be one of the kindest people you have ever met. You understand that a person can in no way be entirely benevolent nor evil, for that is what makes a sentient being sentient, but there is merely something about him that brings forward ease within a person. 

You only shake your head, an abashed quirk tugging at your lips. Watching him take a sip from his cup, your mind drifts back to the message you had sent. A letter that was hastily scrawled and messy beyond reason, the paper carried the distinct stench of smoke and ash, it was a moment of panic now that you could look upon the incident with a much clearer head. The minute you had situated the old yokai in conditions appeasable to his own tastes, you remember sprinting back to your room, sweat clinging to your skin and staining the paper as you wrote, informing your master what had just occurred and asking for his guidance. 

“Of course not, I just thought you would have taken more time to get here,” You hum, your voice lowered and sheepish. “Were you not at the capital when my letter arrived?”

Your master only nods, “Your words were so fearful, I thought you had come across a great trouble.”

He takes a moment to partake from his drink once more, a silence falling upon the sun-lit room as birds chirp in the nearby trees and the sound of your shikigami going about their lives ring from the distance. You rest your eyes upon his form, noting the seeming flawlessness of his presence. Sharper features that hinted at some otherworldly grace, just the most minute sign found in the form of the slight furrow of his brow revealed the distress that plagued him. Then, his long lashes flutter open, and your master merely seems to smile, relief all but seeping from his eyes. 

“I am glad you are well.”

Averting your gaze, you thank him under your breath as heat flushes at the tips of your ears, not quite certain whether such bashfulness stems from troubling him or emotions else explained. 

You can only move the conversation of topic away from that moment, putting on a facade of ease, “I thought you would have more insight about him.”

The expression on his face shifts ever so slightly, a sudden hardness in his eyes as he grips the teacup just the little tighter. 

“He…has experienced a great number of losses due to both divine and human action,” He manages to breathe out, the sound almost all but serene if not for the lengthy pause between his words. Your master inhales, as though to continue his words, yet he only sighs, “I am afraid that is as much as I can disclose for now, it is not my place to tell what he does not wish to be revealed.”

Just as you think to pry just a little further, Hana’s voice echoes from beyond the closed doors, asking for your presence. There is a concern tinging her words, and judging by the pattering of rushed footsteps, this was a matter that required your immediate and utmost earnest attention. 

“Master, I must apologise but…” Your eyes glance between him and the door, chest tightening ever so slightly as blood rushes through your veins. 

Seimei merely shakes his head, an assuaging expression on his face as he waves you off, “Do not worry about me, go ahead.”

Nodding, you rise as quickly as possible, rushing off as you are swiftly carted off to the issue. The white haired man remains in his seated position, taking in the scent of his tea as he closes his eyes. He hears the silence of the wind, with neither bird song nor liveliness of existence. Seimei finishes the rest of his tea, herbal and heady fragrance greeting his senses for the last time before he places it down alongside your abandoned cup. 

He takes a breath, not bothering to open his eyes as he speaks, “Uncle, I know you are there.”

From beyond the door and announcing his entrance through soft clicks, a masked man deigns to show his face as he lowers his fan. With his lips almost permanently lifted in mirth, the scarlet markings that painted his mask aided with the unease that your master suddenly feels creeping onto his spine. He is unfamiliar with this sensation, especially from the man before him. 

“Seimei, its been a long time,” The old fox croons, insouciant tinge to his voice. 

Without missing a beat, your master finds a new urgency within him, “What are your intentions with my disciple?”

“We have yet to see each other after so long and this is your first question for me?” Tamamo hums, an unexplainable expression on his jade white face. His fan taps against his jaw in a rhythmic manner, voice much more playful and recondite than Seimei would have liked, “She called out and I responded, nothing more, nothing less.”

“If you have any malintention upon her, I fear I may have to take action.”

Not quite a threat, for even he is unable to deny their relationship, but more so a warning. This tension between the two of them has an unspoken depth, one that had existed long before this clandestine reunion, and with Seimei’s admittedly almost obvious concern for your wellbeing, it only seems to sour so. 

The old fox smiles, and the younger finds that he does not enjoy the way those golden eyes seem to shine with burning regard from beyond the mask. Tamamo only muses, yet despite the airy nature of his voice, behind his lilt was a zealous avariciousness, “I promise you, no harm shall befall her so long as I am by her side.”

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

なくやあるらん

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

For all that the froglets incident was worth, a situation that had been more so confusing and hysterical for the regional townspeople than any life-threatening catastrophe as you had been led to believe, it was only a mild inconvenience. A few dozen little frogs dressed to appear as great yokais were merely wandering around and acting as if they were the spirits themselves, of course they had also been imbued with some kind of ability that allowed them to recreate such acts, but it was still not some matter that would raze the whole of Heian-Kyo. 

Still, that had not meant you expected to return to your abode with said froglets nipping at your heels ready to make themselves useful. 

“Master…” At a loss for words, Momo could only cock her head at the image before her. 

Rather than being seated at your desk pouring over documents, you were instead making yourself quite busy with some leisurely reading while the froglets dedicate themselves to stacking your books in an order only they seemed to know. 

“It’s okay, they are not causing any issue,” You smile, an amused huff escaping your nose when your eyes drift to Susabi Frog balancing on top of Ichimokuren Frog as it just barely pushes a star chart into place, “I am just keeping them busy.”

Turning your attention back to Momo, you place down your book as you roll your shoulders back, the vertebrae in your spine not quite as sore. “Did you have something for me to look at?”

“Ubume asked whether you wanted to join us for lunch or have us eat with you.” Her voice is slightly hesitant, just one step away from wavering. 

It feels like instinct at this point, you rest your head upon your palm and squeeze your eyes in delight. If you had to be honest, you did quite miss being able to have meals with your shikigamis, always some lively affair and certainly occuring far too sparsely for your liking.

“It has been some time since we all sat down together and ate, has it not?”

She nods her head, a hopeful expression on her face as her eyes widen in mock innocence, “Mhm! So will you?”

You laugh, shaking your head as you get up and dust your clothes. An excitement fills her as the little blooms in her hair burst open, grabbing your arm and all but dragging you out. Turning a glance to the froglets, you wave them over and they come scampering to your side at the first notice, almost all too excited to follow along. They clamour in the occasional croak or ribbit, asking about this and that. More akin to children, you wonder when that sentiment started. 

By the time you arrive in your courtyard, it is all but a wonderfully teeming gathering, noise filling your ears in a manner that only served to coax your heart from its tight cage. Seeing them like this, you are happy that you get to have such a sight, living free from suffering and safe, that was the most important point, that they were safe. 

“I see you all are in good spirits,” You hum, an announcement that is swiftly followed by a symphony of ‘Master’s’. 

Some of the younger shikigami immediately leap from their seats to your side, to which you only greet them with on overfond smile and a pat on the head. Those busy with serving food or handing out cutlery likewise greet you, not quite able to pull themselves away from their tasks but still sending a smile or a wave. Momo is quick to join everyone else, flitting between chatting and aiding. Ootengu had busied himself with scooping soup while Hana had been floating around ensuring everyone had some kind of meal, leaving one person notably uninvolved. 

“Little lady,” The old yokai calls for you, resting his head on his palm as a smile plays on his lips. Sitting beneath the plum blossom tree, he almost looks like the subject of a great painting under falling petals and soft sunlight. Just the view of such makes you almost afraid to approach him, yet still you do so. You are unable to tell exactly whether his levity is real, but you can only assume so by his leisurely tone, “Have the froglets been helping you?”

Glancing at the frogs now being babied by the rest of your shikigami, a notion you did not think they would take up so fast, you only laugh, “They are very earnest, thank you.”

Silence falls upon the two of you and for a moment, it truly does feel that all is right in the world. There is little discomfort in your body, joints no longer cracking at every minute action nor head pounding at every little stimulus that dared to exist. The smell of sweet flowers and delightful aroma of proper food fills the air, and you yearn for nothing more than these days to continue on. 

Those froglets, troublesome at first though they may, had ended up being a kind of blessing. For ever since their attempted marauding, you have had little, if any issues that required your action. You spend your days reading and writing, responding to correspondence and finally able to focus on your studies. 

It is while reminiscing that Tamamo’s silvery words reach your ears, pleasant and coaxing. 

“These few weeks have been rather peaceful, don’t you think?” He tilts his head to the side, meeting your gaze in a single move. 

You squeeze your eyes again, a soft sigh escaping you as a smile tugs at your lips, “It has, I can finally get to some marriage proposals I had apparently recieved.”

For a moment, just the slightest second late, you thought the old fox’s expression darkened. Yet just as quickly as it came, it left, and he simply continues on. His eagerness almost resembles that of those older ladies, that crooning voice asking for more and more, ready to give advice you never thought you would need, older yokais surely were no different than mortals. 

“Oh? And who is the lucky fellow?” His nails, scarlet and far longer than you remember, clasp around his fan. 

“Just another onmyoji, he isn’t from the big name clans that sent their pathetic excuse they call letters,” You sigh, then hold your hands up in clarification, as though to correct yourself from your perceived distate, “Which is good, less likely to be some bigoted oaf.”

Tamamo merely hums, snapping open his fan to hide the bottom of his face, yet there was an odd wry tinge to his words, “How intriguing, our little lady seems to be quite popular to attract even onmyojis from the big clans.”

“Don’t flatter me, they just want to find someone they can continue their bloodlines with.”

Rolling your eyes, an acerbic grin appears on your face as you take a drink from the teacup one of the froglets brought over. Just like those old ladies, he places a hand on your shoulder and with an assuaging tone, a sense of warm reassurance is poured into your being. 

“Well, you won’t have to worry. I’m certain you will have no trouble.”

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

またまたも, みをぞすてつる

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

Kiyohara Genjirou, a practicing onmyoji that had sought you out not only for his pursuit of the craft but admiration as well. So he cited in his first correspondence, and so you would like to believe. 

As he wrote to you, you found him an eloquent and diligent man. Genjirou, though not hailing from a noble family nor considered talented enough to join a major clan, wandered through the country aiding when he could. All he had were paper dolls and simple talisman, yet that was all he needed. He had heard tales from those whose qualms you have solved, and had grown curious of your being. It was natural, yet this natural curiosity had grown to longing when he caught a glimpse of you in the city. 

The image he described of you had seem otherworldly when you first read it, donned in simple robes and merely another face among the crowd, his eyes had no choice but to follow along your form, entirely unable to pull away from you. As if sent down from the high heavens, even the slightest whisper of your voice had made him understand why men should turn to religion. 

You thought of him less fondly, perhaps not an infatuation such as his but an interest nonetheless. He had only sent two letters, the first that had been introductory and more similar to polite courtesy, the second much more personal and akin to courting. Still, you had been touched by his words, further still when you read the last portion. He would make the journey to your estate, to meet you and to perhaps, if you would allow him the chance to, to court you. 

It was by no means a demand, but rather a suggestion. Genjirou had gone so far as to write that should you not find him appealing in any manner, that should you deem him overstepping, you were in every right to have him kicked out and his hair cut short. 

You remember showing Tamamo the letter, surrounded by the froglets as he read from behind your shoulder. You told him that you would like to meet such a staunch person, and perhaps at the time, you had laughed alongside him when he said that should Genjirou truly act as he feared, then it would not be humiliation that he would bear. There was nothing to worry for, all you had to do was await his arrival. 

Yet, despite his staid words and his solemn promises, he never came. 

Under the moonlight and through the cold night wind, you can only let out a soft sigh. Your shoulders slump beneath your robes as all of a sudden, your body feels too heavy for your feet. Leaning against the wooden pillars of the front gate, that familiar tightness in your chest returns once more. Yet rather than what feels like your ribs enclosing onto your rapidly beating heart, what occurs to you now is more akin to that sentimental organ squeezing against its cage, yearning to pry straight through to leap out and wither away. Your lungs long for air, forcing in and out and yet it is not enough, never enough. 

It is cold, so, so cold. Why were you cold?

Closing your eyes, you feel a presence approach from behind you, then a hand pulls you away from your resting spot. You lay against a warm body, that even through layers and layers of silk and brocade, you do not even have to open your eyes to know who it is. 

“Tamamo,” Your murmur disappears into the night, yet it is a call that he hears and responds to. 

With your limp limbs that which hang uselessly, the old fox gathers you into his embrace, allowing you to bury your face into his chest. “I thought he was different…”

Methodical and rhythmic, his chest rises and lowers, coaxing your breath to follow suite. Within his hold, there is a warmth that penetrates the skin, enveloping your tendons in loving flame. Tightly held and tightly received, Tamamo lets you dig your nails into him, until your fingertips ache and your wrists cramp up. He merely returns the sentiment, as though it was entirely natural to do so. 

“Will you be honest with me?” 

As though ashamed to even consider such a thought an option, you can barely muster your voice to above a whisper, “Do you think I’m a disappointment to my master?”

“Of course not, my little lady is very accomplished,” He croons, his voice soft and soothing. “Do you think I would have answered your call otherwise?”

Still enveloped in his presence, you inhale the familiar smell that clings to him. When he speaks to you as such, it truly does feel like all will be right in this world. Desiring nothing more than to keep you safe, this old fox you had once shrinked from has now become your only succour. How fast you had let him in your heart, that he should treat you with the same regard and care you do the rest of your shikigami, and you would become so easily reliant on what he may give you. Ironic, yet undeniably a notion you had grown aware of since his arrival. 

“Besides, he is rather foolish to give up on you,” He sighs, an undertone distantly related to triumph hidden beneath assuage and fondness. 

That graceful hand cups your face, reverent as though bearing a great treasure. Your eyes flutter open, and it is then you notice that he is no longer wearing his mask, presenting that exquisite face once hidden to you. Narrow eyes of beguiling gold with long lashes, lips that more appeared as delicate petals. No matter the scarlet markings painted upon his skin, it is no wonder that men should turn to fanaticism in the face of such sublimity. You can only stare in awe, how warm your ears flush and how heat roils in your stomach upon the sonorous hum of his voice. 

“You deserve much, much better than a human who only knows to lie to you.”

Lying on the beaten dirt path, Kiyohara Genjirou will be buried in an unmarked grave, neither name nor profession known to those who will find him. For all that remains of this unwitting suitor is the stench of smoke and shrivelled corpse, caught too soon in a fox’s tempestuous favour and left to burn in the same blazing rancour that once threatened to engulf the tranquil capital. 

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

なつむしの, なほあきたらぬ

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

Being a good onmyoji is not difficult, it is not some arduous task to respect and love your shikigami, to treat them as one would dear friends and family. Yet, a shikigami that has only lost and lost, when given a second chance to make it all right, what then happens to that good onmyoji is very often known only to those hidden away.

Your master, when he had learned of the events that transpired had taken it with nothing more than a furrowed brow and a sharp exhale. Before he left, he had gifted you a talisman and instructed you to hang it in your room, to which you did. Yet, that very day, it had gone missing from your door. You had no unease at it, after all, he had given you hundreds of protection talismans, what difference was one going missing?

You on the other hand, had come to realise many things about your emotions with the arrival of both dismay and prolonged peace. That old fox who has done nothing but inexplicably care for you, with no explanation nor clarification. It had come out of nowhere, that quiet wistfulness and longing glances, you nearly thought yourself mad yet it was true. Torturing yourself with what could only possibly be, one could only imagine the joy that filled you when you had to do nothing but wait just a little longer, and even that foolish wish should come to be. 

Cicadas sing in the distant night, your lover has long retired for the night and lays atop the bed, what you may see now is but his most true form, masks and disguises left at the door. Vulpine ears atop his head along with nine full tails, he once again scoops you into his embrace as even his tails move to cover you. 

“Cold…” You only whine, squirming closer as though you could crawl into his skin. 

Tamamo only huffs in amusement, no sign of actual vexation, and pulls you in closer. The increased contact brings burning touch falling upon your skin, the old fox noses along some invisible line at your neck, his lips pressing a kiss upon your pulse. He coaxes a sigh from your throat, soft and airy and almost all too practiced. Wholeheartedly embracing the fervid greed within him, you think you feel the prick of sharp canines against tender skin, yet you could care less. 

In nothing more than your sleeping robes, luxurious clothes stripped off, legs entangled and limbs intertwined. To an unwitting observer, it would be difficult to discern whose form was whose, so thoroughly ensnared fox and human may as well be one body.

With neither onmyoji nor spirit to separate the two of you, and in this little delusion, not even the heavens will seize you from his side. He has ensured it, he shall see to it that the one he loves will never bear such suffering ever again. 

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

こひをたのみて

[hiraeth-sonder]

Maladroit Admirer - Rongguo

Danheng x Reader - University AU

Becoming entranced with the most plain looking guy in your tutorial classes leads to a series of very bad, not good fumbles

//So so so so enamoured with the idea of just NPC looking Danheng, short little thingy that I had to get out. Poem is  寄人 by 张泌.

别梦依依到谢家， 小廊回合曲阑斜。

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You don’t think there’s a difference between a crush and love at this point because being in university and adamantly staring at what might be the most boring looking man in this entire sea of people certainly can’t just be a momentary attraction. Short dark hair, dark eyes, decent fashion style and in a business unit, he wasn’t anything special, and yet you just couldn’t, for the life of you couldn’t, take your damned eyes off him. 

It was ridiculous, you’ve never even spoken to him, looked at him in the eyes even, but here your heart was, pounding against your ribs begging for more. Every time you walk into that horrifically cold room, freezing your shoulders off because if you brought a jacket you’d be sweating from the journey, you see him already there at some table you won’t sit at because you’re afraid of him. Because you’re a nervous wreck and you know that if you had to talk to him during discussion, all you’d do is hum and agree and have no opinion on your own. Which, you’d like to keep some part of your dignity still, so no thank you. 

There has been no man, woman even, that has rendered you so stupid. It must be some kind of witchcraft, there was no other explanation for the grip this man had on you. 

You try your best, your absolute best, to focus on the question ahead of you, not like it was actually hard. However, seeing as you were in a small table of three, had an ethics question and you were hyper-aware of every action you made because of that damned man, you certainly weren’t at your peak performance today. 

With your table’s assigned question out of the way, the two of them went on to discuss the rest, or rather you and the person next to you since you two were the only ones who attempted the exercise. The discussion didn’t go bad, merely boring and strained seeing as you’ve never actually talked to anyone in this class, so when the exact same person asked to see your graphs. You, of course, took that as a very bad chance to make a joke. 

“Just to warn you, I bullshitted my graphs, so if they’re wrong don’t blame me,” You joked, raising your hands in mock-guile.

Somehow, some-god-forsaken-how, despite being in a room speaking at a normal conversational level surrounded by other people talking, everyone heard you. And everyone is staring at you. Great, absolutely great. Ducking your head, you pretend to type something else on your computer. You can only pray that you never see anyone in this class ever again, or have to talk to them (which wasn’t going to happen but you could pretend).

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice his eyes glancing between you and the rest of his table, a kind of vacant stare if you will. Your ears grow hot at this revelation, he must think you’re a total idiot, or a buffoon, whichever one because you might as well be all the ways you could refer to someone as stupid. How you longed to return to the cold dark earth, maybe you wouldn’t say things that made you sound like some brainless highschooler. 

By the time the tutorial ends, you’ve already debated ending it all at least three times. With your computer and singular pencil packed up, you absentmindedly head towards the exit, weaving through strewn chairs and the awkwardly placed tables. It is then you notice a familiar someone’s form standing at the door. 

Your eyes slowly shift up and who else could it be but the very man who rendered your brain mush, holding the door open and gesturing for you to go. 

You barely meet his eyes, bowing your head and quickly scurrying off, at least not before blurting out a quick “Thank you.”

With the speed of a falcon, your footsteps scamper off, hefting your heavy tote bag you now wonder why you brought. Tucking your earphones in, you try your best at nonchalance and it works, for about six steps until the tip of your shoe catches against some crack in the path and you have to walk off the even more public embarrassment. 

In the distance, he watches you trip on your own feet and your shoe almost gets stuck on the carpeted pathway. An amused breath escapes him and he wonders what exactly about you is so endearing to him. Danheng swears he has never met someone as oddly appealing even with your little fumbles, and by now he’s given up trying to figure it out. 

He’ll find some way to approach you later, when his palms aren’t trying to sweat the skin off of them and his head isn’t going at a thousand thoughts per second. He only hopes you didn’t notice his continuous staring, or the fact that his hand slipped and missed the first time he tried to grab the door handle.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

多情只有春庭月，犹为离人照落花。

[hiraeth-sonder]

eid mubarak to everyone who celebrates!! may it fill your hearts with joy and peace 🤍🤍🤍

[hiraeth-sonder]

Routine Trail - Inicio

Boothill x Reader

The way home is a long one, but what is waiting for you is most often worth it

//Short little thing before I start working on a fic no one will want (very indulgent onmyoji fanfic). Massive liberties taken for Boothill's entire existence here. Poem from Akif Kichloo on Twitter.

People keep asking 

me for my address and 

‿︵‿︵‿୨ ୧‿︵‿︵‿

The candle flickers in the night, its little flame trying its best to remain alight among the harshities of this world. Seated by the window with a book in your lap, you look beyond the horizon as your tea grows cold on the table. It is quiet for the most part, nothing but the occasional chirping of birds and your thoughts to accompany you on such a lonely night. 

Though, perhaps ‘lonely’ would not be the best descriptor. 

Your dearest lover was due to arrive any time now. Albeit, the connection on his end had made it horrifically choppy and all you could catch was ‘coming’ and ‘soon’, so whatever that means. And seeing as his message had lasted for about a minute, you could only assume he would be coming back soon. So you wait. You have been waiting for the past three days, tidying up the house and thinking of his smug grin, doing the laundry and thinking of that silly little hat plopped on your head when you least expect it, knitting and thinking of the way his fingers grasp your hand, no matter that he is unable to feel it. 

Still, you wonder how long he will remain in your humble abode this time. If you get lucky, perhaps he will stay around for a few days, and if not, he will be gone by the time the sun rises. 

You are not angry that your reunions are very often brief and if not, cut short. Rather, you find it hard to remain angry. Of course, that is not to say that every time you awaken to nothing but your empty bed, perhaps breakfast prepared on the table and no doubt a little audio message waiting for you, you do not feel just the slightest miffed and perhaps aggrieved. 

You know that he has pledged himself to the Galaxy Rangers, and that his own principles will not let him remain idle in one place for too long knowing that many injustices in the world remain. You know that, it is a notion you have not once forgotten, one that has made you so unabashedly enamoured with him. You would even argue that you would have never gotten so addled by his very being if not for that very part of him. Yet there are times you just wish you could have him for a day longer, an hour longer, a minute longer even. 

There are times you miss him with such a fervour you wonder why you do not just pack up and join him, times you yearn to do nothing but to run your fingers through his hair, run your finger along his nose and place a hand at his cheek. These moments always trip you up at the most arbitrary times, and it leaves you thinking of nothing but him in the aftermath. 

As your eyes flutter open and close, a pathetic attempt at remaining conscious, you can just scarcely hear the sound of footsteps outside, boots against dry ground in a rhythmic click of spurs. The person beyond steps onto your porch and does not bother with knocking, opening the door as what may be considered moonlight leaks in. 

There is that well-pleased grin on his face, steel grey eyes glinting with a fondness still. The ends of his pants are dirty, and his hair is just the slightest messy. Arguably, he has come back to you neat and tidy as can be, but that instinct within you simply looks for reasons for him to stay, not reason.

“Darlin’,” He calls for you yet Boothill gets not two words in before you are already up and out, your hands reaching for him as metallic arms clasp themselves behind your back. In a sudden move, he lifts you up in one swift action, forcing a shocked gasp to leave your throat as he laughs.

It is a sweet sound and no matter the surprise, you yourself laugh along when he spins you around. He would never drop you, you trust him with your life. And when he finally puts you down, soft and gentle, a hand rests on his chest, the feeling of leather and cool medallions under your touch a kind of relief, yet nothing compared to that of your other hand, thumb upon his face rubbing in methodical strokes, warm and alive.

With a far softer tone that you are used to, you furrow your brows as you direct your attention to him fully, “You’re all scuffed up.”

“‘was trying to get back to you quicker,” He mumbles in your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo like a man starved.

“You idiot,” You sigh, a resigned smile pulled across your face. Still, that does not stop you from continuing your petting, your other hand brushing away his bangs to fully reveal his handsome visage, “You didn’t even stop by the mechanics, I can wait for you, y’know?”

“And let you waste away all on yer own?”

You can only let a fond laugh escape at that, not actually too worried about his clearly healthy and fighting fit condition. Come hell or high water, that damned cowboy of yours would find some way to crawl back into your life. 

“I’m back,” His voice mellow yet distinct, finally free of whatever glitchy communication device he manages to get his hands on.

Smiling, far wider than last time, cold fingers brush back your hair as you lean into his touch. You whisper into the night, heard by only you and him, “Welcome home.”

He came home, and no matter how long he will be around, what matters is that he is home, safe and sound and back in your arms. 

‿︵‿︵‿୨ ୧‿︵‿︵‿

I keep handing them

your name

[hiraeth-sonder]

Entangled Branches - Queqiao

Jingyuan x Reader

Courting is a matter that requires the utmost tact, though exceptions can be made when you're just that old

//I think this just turned into me dumping about ancient Chinese courting gifts. Poem is 秋夕 by 杜牧.

Holding a needle between your deft fingers, you embroider brilliant thread through the plain fabric, eyes focused on the prick of metal weaving in and out as the image of mandarin ducks slowly forms. One much more colourful than the other, thread of ochre and cerulean decorating the foremost bird’s feathers, the second adorned with milder shades of greys and sepias. Cyan lotus pads scattered around the two birds provide some sense of atmosphere, accompanied by scant petals, all that is left for you to do is to tidy up your ducks and add additional ripples of water.

A hand reaches to grab your scissors, snipping away the last remaining bits of orange thread that now finished the last duck. You mindlessly thread grey string through your needle, piercing through the white fabric to sew wavelets around your ducks. Your fingers ghost over each hill and ridge, feeling for imperfections that might snag. You are well aware that what you make does not have to be perfect, but your pride would not let you give someone anything less than your utmost. 

It is perfect, more than perfect. You cannot help the tightness in your chest and the soft smile that creeps up your lips, thoughts not quite racing but on the verge of. Still, you must calm your thudding heart as your hands meticulously free your fabric from its wooden confines, spreading it smooth against the wooden table. Sunlight peaks through the window by your side, verdant leaves just visible behind the elaborate frame, illuminating your work properly, you take a moment to merely let your thoughts wander. 

Spice sachets are by no means some modern gift to give your lover, perhaps more common in the days of your youth but surely not now. Back then, they were used as insect-repellent or air fresheners, some people also believed that they protected the wearer against evil spirits. Truthfully, he would have no need for it, but call you an old sentimental coot, you just could not help yourself from wanting to protect him, even in your own silly antiquated way. 

Before the thought of actually sewing the pouch comes to mind, your head immediately jumps to the basket weave of herbs long sun-dried for use. It had taken a bit of time to get them, seeing as the alchemy commission was being quite nosey about their use and you had not the heart to tell them. So you did the next best thing and lied, citing that you needed them for cooking. Of course, it was only then that they lightened up, but that did not mean that you could not feel their stares as you scurried away. 

The herbs, shrivelled and colours dulled, provide an ever so slightly scent that floated lightly through the air. A pleasant smell, one that relaxed without being excessively heady or strong. Though you had worried that such a gift would only worsen your lover’s sleeping habits, your concern for him won out in the end. 

Still, you turn away from them to work on sewing the satchel together, far easier work compared to the actual momentous task of embroidery. It goes by much faster than you expect it to, with your mind drifting to familiar faces and that even more familiar emotion. Before you know it, the satchel has taken on the shape of a lotus pouch, drawstrings and all. You attach the beads onto the strings and all that is left to do is to place your herbs in. With a delicate hand, you slowly stuff them in, layering them as if anyone would even open the pouch. 

Tugging on the drawstrings, you hold it to your chest for a moment, your eyes fluttering close and imbuing your prayers for him. To be safe and prosperous, able to do as he wishes without fear or shame, and most importantly for him, for his workload to decrease. A soft sigh escapes you, though it is not one of resignation or annoyance but rather fondness, horrid fondness.

You will find some way to slip this into his office, granted that would not be some hard act with how often he is not in. Still, there had to be some subtlety to your actions, you would ruin all the fun if you refrained from such. Of course, finishing one just means you will have to start the other. You could not possibly think of not making one for that disciple of his, especially when he just keeps getting himself in some kind of trouble. 

You shake your head as a soft smile tugs at your lips. Truly, you must have been some saviour to be granted such people. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

银烛秋光冷画屏，轻罗小扇扑流萤。

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He holds up the wooden comb up to the light, keen eyes pouring over every aspect of the humble item. Dark wood carved into elegant depictions of verdant bamboo and a crane, the tines were slender yet sturdy, spaced perfectly to glide through hair. Before him were many more options of such, each comb’s design more elaborate than the last. 

The thought of seeing any of them in your hand, fingers wrapped around the wood as you detangle your hair, works oils with that sweet scent that seems to always coax him closer, it sends a soft warmth to his limbs. He does not quite know how to explain it, a rather pitiful situation for someone known for his flattery and skillful words, but he finds that even when you are doing the most mundane things, he loves you just a little bit more. Perhaps others may call him love-addled in the head, but under soft moonlight, in nothing but your sleeping garments with your hair let down, he imagines that fond glint in your eyes and just cannot help himself but yearn to bear witness to such a sight for the rest of time. 

The idea of gifting you a comb has been borne out of spontaneity, something he is not the most familiar with but still welcome. It had been custom for combs to be gifted between lovers, a desire to grow ‘old’ with said person, and he supposes that such a sentiment is rather difficult to continue on when long-lives and mara are two very common phenomena. It is rather silly, but a comb is a practical gift and he has always believed that if given the chance, if the two of you were merely two mortals, you would be happy to watch the wrinkles appear on each other’s face and for your hair to turn grey. You would still be beautiful, aged with the years spent together and the joy evident upon your visage, crow’s feet, smile lines and all. 

When he returns to his senses, his hand has rested upon another comb. A lighter shade than the first, though the quality is still just as immaculate, the spaces between the tines are much larger, not as tightly packed as the last. Though arguably a lot less intricate than many of its predecessors, there seemed to be a certain charm to it, humble jasmine flowers carved onto the main body with a care that went far beyond ornate. The very engraving of each petal laden with care, ridge and valley of complete smoothness, the simple design far conveyed to him the vision of you than the rest.

He thumbs over the engraving, smiling to himself as he imagines you once more. Again that old image of you at your night-time routine, this time with this very comb in your hand as you call for him, your voice gentle along the night wind with the smell of sandalwood in the air. It really is foolish of him to keep musing, and yet no matter how many times he says it, he truly has been reduced to a languishing simpleton of a man when it comes to you. 

“I shall take this one,” He hums, cradling the comb in one hand as he hands it to the seller. 

The seller takes one look at it, a contemplative look appearing on their face before their brows furrow. Taking it into their own hands, they send him a complex look, not quite judgemental but surely urging, “Ah, this plain old thing? I’m certain that we have other combs you will certainly be much more interested in.”

A soft breath escapes him, mostly out of amusement than any negative sentiment. He only nods his head, reaffirming his desire for this specific comb out of the litany he was presented. 

“Apologies, but I’m quite certain.”

When the seller notes his conviction, they just accept it. They must surely still be confused at his choice but he does not see why he must explain himself, after all, when it comes to someone such as you, even he cannot explain the manner in which even the simplest things remind him of you. 

“I see, of course.”

The comb is promptly wrapped up in delicate paper and fastened with string, tied in a knot you will no doubt struggle with but will admire for all of five seconds. When it is brought back to his hands, he thanks the merchant and his chest grows warm. 

A comb for his beloved, jasmines adorning your head, surely he must have been some great saviour in his past life to be able to have such a sight. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

天街夜色凉如水，坐看牵牛织女星。

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“General, would you perchance have the time to accept this lowly one’s gift?” 

Your arrival to the seat of Divine Foresight has long been announced, a notion that Qingzu and the routine cloud knights were made aware of even before you could fathom planning your next visit. After all, when the general has come to expect your presence sliding in when everyone least expects it, you gain some perks. 

“You and your formalities,” He laughs, his voice dear to your ears. Jingyuan’s eyes, framed by those long lashes, focus upon you. Seated at his desk with mounds of scrolls to look upon, though he would usually be more than happy to be dozing off right this very moment, the energy at which he responds only boosts your excitement, “Of course I do, I’ll always have time if it's you.”

“Old sap.” Shaking your head, you can only let that fond smile appear across your face as you make your way to his desk. 

It is by no means an arduous journey, and it is not long before you are granted a full view of a certain someone’s rather smug face, almost feline-like if you will. Furthermore, you suppose you also should have expected that he would pull you closer towards him, his head all but resting on yours if not for the fact that you still needed to give him something. Still, you ignore the way your breath hitches for just a moment, the familiar scent of sandalwood and tea that clings to his form drifting to your nose and coaxing you to relax, instead you reach for the spice sachet and place it in his waiting hands. 

He accepts it readily, and it is by the slight widening of his eyes that you know he recognises exactly what you have made for him. After all, it is not like spice sachets are commonplace in this day and age. 

“See, I’ve made it so you can attach it to your belt,” Your voice is low, your head leaning against his shoulder as you fiddle with the strings. You can feel his breath fanning against you, his much larger frame a steady pillar“And it's not too long so it won’t get in your way.”

He is quiet for a moment, admiring the pouch as he turns it over and finds new details to marvel upon. Then, he speaks, voice low and teasing,“My dear, are you saying your beloved stinks?”

“No, I'm saying the air around you stinks.” Huffing, you nudge him with your elbow, a notion that he also clearly finds amusing, as he makes an over-exaggerated ‘oof’ to your light tap. 

Jingyuan only laughs at that comment, wrapping an arm around you so that you may be closer to one another. Still, he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, a doting smile on his lips. He whispers, “Thank you for the gift, I’m certain your blessings will keep me safe.”

“You better, if I have to find out from Qingzu that you got some grievous injury again I think I’ll be the one going mara-struck instead.”

“Oh then whatever shall I do? I suppose I can only trouble my dear wife to take care of me so that I won’t end up in the healers again.”

At that, you barely resist the urge to butt him with your head, another overfond sound escaping his lips, sounding more like sweet birdsong to your ears that you may hear his amusement and joy so clearly. Though, it is not long until you notice the weight in your lap, some object wrapped in paper and bound in string. When you meet his gaze, he only gestures for you to open it, golden eyes glinting with some indulgent sentiment. You do so, fussing with the knot but eventually unwrapping the paper to reveal a simple wooden comb, jasmines carved onto its body. 

The breath in your lungs seems to escape you, for your words get carded in your throat and all you can muster is a pathetic, “You…” 

“You old coot, getting me a comb,” You chuckle, an attempt to hide how choked up you were. “We’ve already spent so many years together and you….”

Jingyuan looks to you, and you are certain that if a mirror were to be brought to both of your faces right this very moment, what would be found would be merely two senior citizens playing at youth. Though, with the many hardships that the centuries have put you through, you cannot quite say that  you quite mind this kind of childish tomfoolery. Why else would you call upon childhood sentiments? Why else would he choose such a gift? 

Holding up a hand to cradle his face, he leans into your touch, those soulful eyes once again meeting yours. There is such a profound affection within them that for a while, it scared you. Yet now, being the one most privy to such a sight, those eyes who hold the sun and make you yearn to protect him, it comes to you as natural as breathing. 

“What do you say, my dear?” He offers, cocking his head to the side as those mellow words sink in. 

You can only shake your head, an overly indulgent quirk of your lips pulls your lover closer. It is not the first kiss you shared, and it is certainly not the last, for there will be a long, long time before one of you meets your ends.

[hiraeth-sonder]

a dream of nothing.

// Yandere Sunday

sum: Sunday is a good man.

wc: 1343

a/n: likes & reblogs appreciated! asks are welcome ❤️

Penacony, the land of dreams; Penacony, the planet you’ve come to call home.

You’re not a native of this dreamland, and no matter how much you attempt to assimilate into the culture, you always feel like you’re standing on a completely different stage, miles away from Penacony. You haven’t been back to your home in a long time, but you haven’t been counting the days.

Everyone has been kind. They offer you help the second you look like you need it, unsolicited tips and advice when it comes to their mind. Everyone has tried their best to help you in the ways they know how, and you couldn’t be more grateful… So why is it that there’s a gaping hole in your chest, exactly where your heart is supposed to be?

Sunday married you out of love, a grand wedding held in your names in Blue Hour, a gorgeous ceremony taking place on the lovely Eventide boat, reception on the marvelous airship, the Radiant Felspar; it was certainly the event of the era. As fondly as you’d like to look back on those memories, you find yourself looking at them with an emotion you can’t quite describe.

It’s not happiness, nor is it anger. It’s neither sadness nor disgust, but something in between all of it? It’s not indifference either, because whatever you feel is strong, but not so strong that you’ve felt an urge to act upon it. No, whatever it is that you’re feeling, is worse than all of those emotions combined - precisely because you don’t know what you’re feeling.

These feelings taint your every thought, and as much as you would like to do anything else, you don’t quite know your way around the mansion. It’s up to Sunday or one of the Bloodhounds to take you to the library or the dining hall, and it’s up to them to bring you back to the room. You’re only afforded the outside when it is Sunday who graciously brings you to it, but never when you request for it.

How long has it been since you’ve been in Penacony? No one tells you anything, not even the flowers. They stay the same, frozen in time, forever in the state of blooming but never rotting, forever beautiful but never loved. No one cares for things until they are gone, and if something never leaves, then no one really has to care.

Sunday is a good man. You think so, at least. He has some peculiar traits, but everyone has something about them that makes them unique. He has never made you doubt his love for you, and he has done nothing but love you faithfully. He’s happy to tell you vague details about his work, of course much of it confidential due to their political nature, and he always enjoys listening to you speak about yours, no matter how mundane and uninteresting it is to you.

Sunday likes hearing your voice, you think. You hope so. He never lets you sleep without saying an “I love you”, and he never leaves without an “I love you” from you. Surely that means something, right?

“Darling, what’s got you worked up? Your face is scrunching up the same way it always does when you start to think.” Sunday snaps you out of your train of thoughts, a gloved hand tilting your chin up for your eyes to look at him. He has a gentle smile on his face as he always does, his wings fluttering and his golden halo gleaming.

“A-ah, Sunday, it wasn’t anything really!” You reply in a bit of a daze, still reeling from his sudden appearance.

“I hope so. You have nothing to worry about here, so there’s no need to think so hard. If you have any troubles, you know I’m always here.” His right hand slides down from your chin to your left hand, and before you know it he has forced you to stand and twirl, leading you right into his arms. With fondness in his eyes, he closed the distance between your lips, a kiss so enchanting you’re not quite sure what it was you were thinking about before.

You feel the heat on your cheeks as you part, suddenly too shy to look into his eyes. Sunday chuckles and it’s a pleasing sound, like a bell tinkling, and you think you could listen to it forever, held in his arms in this position, a moment after a kiss, a moment before another.

Instinctively, you lean in for another, eyes already half-lidded and arms around his neck, but your lips never meet their destination, a crash stopped by a buffer of wings. He smiles easily, a hand on your cheek as he leans down to whisper in your ear in an almost sinful manner - but never is it a sin, you think, not when it is Sunday.

He leads you to the dining hall, your hands intertwined, but you no longer feel at peace. There are voices that speak to you, forcing you to be their sole audience in their never-ending play of torment and despair. Sometimes… sometimes there are things staring at you, something with bright pink - purple? - eyes, and you start to think that those voices are real.

Something lurks in the corners of this mansion, and you think it’s out for you.

Sunday says otherwise, though. He looks concerned, but you don’t feel like the concern is directed to your worries specifically - no, it’s directed to you. Like there’s something wrong with you. And… and maybe he’s right. No normal person would hear these voices or feel eyes on them, no normal person would feel uneasy about the people around them, and no normal person would dislike the thought of a flower never dying. You, you other the other hand -

Sunday is always right, you’ve come to realize. And he’s right about you - you’ve known that for a long time now. You’re a silly girl who once thought the universe was your oyster when you could barely leave your own planet without hesitation and reluctance. You’re a silly girl who took the first opportunity you were given, ignorant of any repercussions that would shape your future - yet still jumped into the unknown with fear, when the first rule of survival is never let them smell your fear.

Now, now? You’re stuck in the predator’s maw… and it’s become the only place you feel safe in, in between layers of sharp and venomous teeth, living in between the unsaid threat of a dreamless sleep, living in between the safety of the threat of death.

You don’t like what lies outside your room. You don’t like the puzzles and tricks, and you don’t like the people. There’s… there’s something wrong… but there’s no one who will listen to you, and there’s no one you can trust. Can you even trust yourself?

Everything is a blur, and you can’t - don’t? - remember anything. Is this a self-defense mechanism, or the artful plan of someone? Walls are nothing but a splash of color, patterns sunk into nothingness, faces are all but the same, mashed into one. Individuality, singularity? Who even are you?

“Goodnight, my beloved.” Sunday says, and you feel something being draped over you. Your eyes blink rapidly, trying to make sense of your surroundings, but the fabric of silk gloves close them without hesitation.

“I love you.” The words that come out of your mouth don’t feel like your own.

“I love you too. Now, sleep.” The door opens and closes, and you’re left alone as you always are, in the safety of this room, awaiting sleep within a dream. What was it that you were thinking about, again?

Ah, that feeling. Yes, that feeling of not happiness but not sadness, not anger but not disgust, something in between but not indifference… Perhaps numbness or nothing is the closest you’ll get. What’s the point in trying to figure it out? It’s not important.

Is there even a “night” in the land of dreams?

[hiraeth-sonder]

win it all.

// Yandere Aventurine

sum: Aventurine thinks he knows what love is.

wc: 753

warnings: 2.1 main story quest spoilers, perhaps OOC aven

a/n: likes & reblogs appreciated! asks are more than welcome ❤️

Aventurine knows his worth. Sixty Tanba, no more, no less.

He has sat in cages for days, months, years, on end, left to the throes of his mind, starvation and thirst his only partners.

He has stood in front of slave masters and the IPC, gambling opponents and planet heads fearlessly betting his life each and every time. After all, what good is a life worth only sixty Tanba?

Aventurine never hesitates. Bets wait for no one, and even a millisecond of hesitation could spell the end for a gambler like him. All or nothing, both feet in the door or none at all. He’s not one to make half-assed decisions.

When he sees you on a planet he can’t seem to remember the name of, he already knows he wants you whole.

Aventurine is more than happy to wager his life to wrestle back the planet for the IPC. He sees the cocky smile on your leader's lips, and he already knows he has won. Overconfidence is the best monster, he had come to realize many, many years ago.

It’s no surprise when he comes out victorious once more, a calm smile on his face as he watches your leader drown in their anger and disbelief. As a personal reward, he takes you for himself; the IPC and Diamond could care less about a single person. To them, you’re worthless. To him?

He dresses you up in the finest gold the universe has to offer, wraps the fluffiest coats around your body. He clips on the prettiest aventurines he can find, decorating you head to toe in gifts. He watches as hair stylists comb and style your hair, watching in satisfaction as you look up to him, manufactured adoration in your eyes.

To him, you are his love, his darling, his dearest. From what little of love he can remember, he swears he feels it again when he looks at you.

Aventurine holds you close, like he’s afraid someone Katicans would steal kill you; like he’s afraid you’ll disappear just like everyone else has from the slightest blow of the wind. You wouldn’t, would you? No, of course not. Aventurine would never allow it.

Sometimes, he wonders if he’s becoming like those who tormented (torments?) him. He wonders if he is no better than the slave master who bought him for only sixty Tanba, but when he sees you sleeping peacefully in his arms, the finest silk pajamas hugging your body, he knows he is better. No master would pamper their slave with priceless jewels and clothings like he has.

You are his lovely sparrow, his most precious prize, and he has merely… given your wings accessories. Yes, that’s right. He’s not caging you, he’s not hiding you away, he’s protecting you. Who knows what would’ve happened to you after the IPC took over? Subjected to grunt work with no hope of ranking up? Aventurine can’t stand to entertain the thought. What matters is that you’re in his arms, safe and loved.

Penacony is perhaps the first time in a long time that he’ll leave you behind. He’s reluctant, but he also knows that bringing you would only spell disaster for all parties involved, and he doesn’t like the idea of seeing even a single hair of yours out of place - keeping you out of this was out of the question.

He tells you this with a heavy heart, a somber expression, he lays himself bare but all you do is stare into him with the same artificially soft smile, just wide enough to satisfy the crowd (and satisfy him). There’s a silence, and no one says anything, not until -

“I wish you safe travels, and another successful gamble.” Your eyes do not change from the start to the end, even though your smile turns sad, even though you lean into him and take his hands in yours, even though you act like you care.

A bout of silence passes, and another, and another, and another -

“Would you bleed for me?” The words leave his lips before he can truly think them through, but he finds that there’s an aching curiosity in his heart for your answer. He thinks he already knows.

“Of course.” There’s no hesitation, no doubt in your voice. He hears your confidence, assuredness, feels your hands on his cheeks, yet he dares not look into your eyes. There’s an uncomfortable feeling in his chest.

A beat of silence passes. The clock ticks.

“I love you.”

Nothing speaks anymore.

[hiraeth-sonder]

in the wake of death.

// Yandere Blade

sum: Blade doesn’t need to do anything.

wc: 835

warnings: mentions of blood

a/n: this fic kicked my ass ngl so likes & reblogs are even more appreciated! asks are more than welcome ❤️

You’ve always been on the easy-going end of the spectrum, hardly worrying about most things without a good reason. Logic and rationality play important roles in keeping the peace in your life, but now you’re not so sure anymore.

It started a little while ago, when it was formally announced that Blade, a member of the notorious Stellaron Hunters, had escaped from the hands of the Cloud Knights, and was now on the run in the Luofu. Although you were scared of the prospect of running into him, you concluded that if you blended in with the crowds during the day and stayed at home during the night, he was unlikely to attack you… probably.

The plan worked, for the most part - you continued about your days with little thought about him, having pushed him into the back of your mind because, well, what were the chances of running into a criminal like him in a crowd of thousands, and what were the chances he would really give you the time of day when he had the constantly patrolling Cloud Knights to be conscious of?

Your life was just fine and dandy, until one day - a day you can only remember in bits and pieces, a day you’re not even sure happened. But regardless of what truly happened that day, you know something changed in your once peaceful life.

There’s been an ominous sense of doom following your every breath, the uncomfortable feeling of being watched, and the suffocating sensation of a hand atop the place your heart is. Sometimes, sometimes, it slowly creeps up to your collarbone, then neck, its final destination on your cheek, a thumb on your lips. It stays there, and although you know a phantom has no control over you, you feel as though you’ve been muted.

In your dreams, your eyes are always closed, never to be opened. In your dreams, you stand alone, alone until there’s an embrace from a warm body that lacks any sense of humanity and life behind it, like a puppet given life yet not free from its strings.

They hold you tightly, and even as you wheeze for air, they do not relent. You can feel their every breath as it makes its way from the top of your head down to the crook of your neck, and it gets shallower and shallower the longer it stays there, until eventually it stops, yet their grip on you horrifyingly real.

They speak in a deep and raspy voice, words unintelligible, but you never fail to make out two:

“…Not yet.”

And you are jolted awake, gasping for air, arms hugged tightly around your stomach, the skin tender and bruised as if it was real. But it can’t be, right? Dreams and reality are two different dimensions… aren’t they?

You’ve realized that there is no place in the world that could ever make you offer you safety from a phantom only you know of. No one would listen to the ramblings of a mad person, much less take their words seriously. Worse yet, they may even think you are afflicted with the Mara.

Like a cruel joke the Elation has decided to play on you, a peek outside your window grants you the sight of the very man whose wanted posters are plastered all over the ship. His long hair blows in the wind as he stands with his back turned to your house, the hilt of a sword and the tip of a blade the only things not covered by his body.

Trembling from fear, you retreat from the window as quietly as you can. Becoming a victim of a Stellaron Hunter was and certainly is not in your places, both now and future.

You don’t know how much time passed before the light shines once more, indicating the arrival of day. Even so, you cannot find it within yourself to get up, for fear of what could be (is?) outside. While there is no place truly safe anymore, your home is perhaps the closest you can get (but for how long will it stay?).

You stay in bed for as long as your body and mind allows, until eventually you are reminded that you are a species that requires sustenance, and saliva does not count. Ignorance only goes so far until there is genuine pain, a protest against starvation.

Tremors still rack your body and mind, fear still holds your hand, and despite it all, you are still awake, still breathing, still alive.

You regret your decision when the first thing you see is a singular, familiar red flower decorating your table, a splatter of crimson liquid serving as its platter, still dripping with the quietest sound.

Bile creeps up your throat and lands onto the floor in front of you, your knees buckling as if they’ve been holding the weight of the world.

The nightmare is real, and it stares at you with blood red eyes.

(All in the name of “love”.)

[hiraeth-sonder]

mad man.

// Yandere Sunday

sum: Did you know? The thoughts of a mad man are hard to spy on.

wc: 1610

warnings: maybe OOC sunday

a/n: i took some liberties with the whole halovians and telepathy through their halos thing so yea lol

likes & reblogs are appreciated! asks are more than welcome ❤️

You’ve always prided yourself on being an attentive person.

As a Halovian, your job is to expand the influence of the Harmony. Some do so by joining the Oak Family and dealing in politics, while others join the Iris Family and become celebrities. You are no different, initially joining the Oak Family to become a diplomat, only to be then promoted to be one of Sunday’s trusted assistants.

The nature of the work is similar to that of a diplomat, but on a smaller scale as you only deal with Penacony. Although your dream of traveling the cosmos is left to gather dust, you have to admit that you are quite satisfied with your work. Sunday is a benevolent leader and boss who has done nothing but made you feel comfortable.

He compliments the detail of your reports and notes, even going so far as to say that it “is far more organized and detailed than his”, even though you don’t believe him at all. As much as you admire his work ethic and how he’s managed to lead Penacony to new heights, he’s not someone that you’d wish to be… friends with.

You’ve always prided yourself on being able to read people, an invaluable skill especially for a Halovian, but you find that no matter how hard you try, you’ve never been able to get anything out of Sunday. The only thing you’ve been able to gather from him is… nothing. Every action, expression, word, is all calculated and planned, like a mixed yet carefully measured dose of nectar and poison.

His sister, Robin, has a much friendlier appearance, although you do recognize that the nature of her work probably demands that of her; she’s rarely around, so you don’t think too much about her. She’s not the one who writes your paycheck.

Sunday, on the other hand…

Logic tells you that considering his position as the head of the Oak Family, he is no stranger to cruelty. Politics is never sweet, and if it was, then it was a poison coated in a thick layer of honey. This applies to all aspects of it, including dealings with other planets, and especially to anything related to the IPC. This also applies to internal affairs, from the heads of each family down to every family member, no matter how insignificant their role may seem to be.

Sunday is biding his time for something, and you want to know what.

You’ve seen hints of his oddities, the slightest cracks of his facade. You’ve seen a lot more than others, but you don’t think you’ll ever see enough that could satisfy your curiosity - not unless it’s all of him.

And so, you watch. You watch as he sits in meetings on end, facade never once cracking. You watch as he scans over your reports, the same, default smile on his face. He compliments your work again, but it is all white noise to you. You can’t say you’re surprised at the lackluster results of your observations, for a predator such as he is always on guard, yet also always ready to strike. His true self is buried in dreams he will never have.

It is in your house that you come to a realization of sorts - you’re a Halovian. You can use telepathy, and in your special case, if you try hard enough, you can even take the smallest peek into his head. That is, if you’re willing to risk it.

You’ve never had good experiences with the mind reading thing you can do. It always results in immediate nausea and pounding headaches as if you’ve had one too many SoulGlads, and it often leaves you so exhausted you nearly always collapse on the spot. There’s never been anyone worth using it on, not until Sunday.

Is this curiosity worth feeding? You don’t quite know.

It’s at a bar that you reflect upon these thoughts, swirling your glass of… well, you didn’t exactly ask for anything specific, just sweet. The bartender, you think his name is Gallagher, is wonderful at what he does. You don’t see him often, but something about him feels familiar, like he’s someone you know but you can never quite put your finger on who. But the familiarity and liquid courage encourages a conversation, and if you’re falling, you only hope that the landing kills you instantly.

“Gallagher, is it?” You ask, eyes still trained on your drink, cheek resting on your hand.

“Yes. And you are (Y/n), I presume?” He replies, neither sparing you a glance.

“How’d you know?” You can’t even be bothered to sound surprised.

“Everyone knows Sunday’s favorite assistant.”

“Mr Sunday isn’t one to play favorites.”

“Is that so?”

Silence follows afterwards, soft jazz and the chatter of visitors the only sounds.

“I am curious about something, but I don’t know if I should really pursue it.” The words spill out of your mouth for you, the alcohol their water.

“Should you really be taking advice from a stranger?” For the first time he glances at you, hands still working on whatever concoction was asked of him, but his eyes on you.

“It’s either a stranger or me, so both choices aren’t great.”

“Hm. Well,” he shrugs, eyes back to the mixture of liquids, “I’d say, go for it.”

“…Thanks.” With a last swig of your drink, you fish out your credits and set them on the counter, walking out of the bar, the squawk of a crow your announcement of exit. Have you gained clarity, or are you stepping straight into the jaws of the monster? Only time will tell.

Gallagher watches your back when you leave, and he smiles.

A ball is happening on Penacony, and Sunday has enlisted you to accompany him.

You’re less than happy, but dress yourself appropriately. Sunday’s reputation is directly related to yours, and you’d rather not deal with the repercussions of both the public and Sunday himself.

Although this ball was out of your plans, you think that you have an opportunity. Sunday will be busy speaking to other representatives and guests, and you’ll be left to the corner to keep an eye on potentially rowdy guests. The halo floating behind you tells everyone all they’d ever need to know about you.

Sunday is speaking on the stage when you decide to risk it all. You look around you to see all the guests paying close attention to the stage, and none of them could care less about you, for the ball is coming to its end. With quiet steps, you retreat into the nearest bathroom, eyes still trained on Sunday’s distant figure.

Your halo vibrates behind you, trying desperately to connect itself to his, but as the speech draws to an end, you’ve come up with nothing but a very real nothing. Despite all your efforts, you could not peek into his mind, and it makes you wonder just how guarded is he?

You can vaguely hear his closing words, but what really shakes you is an announcement of one last dance. This wasn’t in the schedule - and Sunday loves order over anything else.

In quick steps, you are back to where you stood the whole night, a stiff and strained smile on your face. You don’t attempt to search for Sunday in the crowd, for you are not even sure you could dare to face him after what you tried to do.

Instead, it is he who finds you; Sunday of the Oak Family, dressed elegantly in a white suit, his halo seemingly glowing behind his head, his wings fluttering to the sound of the music. You wonder if he does it consciously.

“Shall we dance, my dear assistant?” He holds his gloved hand out for you, and you feel one too many pairs of eyes watching for you to be able to reject. And so, you take his hand.

He leads your steps gently, twirling you, dipping you, his face mere inches from yours. He doesn’t complain when you step on his shoes, nor when you stumble clumsily; he takes it all in stride, never once letting you go. Even when others change their partners, he chooses to stay with you.

It’s almost so easy to forget that Sunday is the head of the Oak Family.

“Did you have fun?” He whispers into your ear, a placid smile on his face.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“There’s no reason to be afraid, I won’t punish you.” He dips you perfectly, golden eyes boring holes into yours, but his grip tightens and ow, it’s starting to hurt-

“Sir, you grip-”

“If you want to know me so badly,” he turns you to face away from him, hand on your chin forcing you to stare at a violet crow, “then you should stop playing these games.”

The uneasiness settles in slowly, marinating in your belly. Then, like a house on fire, it spreads uncontrollably into every part of your body, before finally settling in your head, like a parasite feeding.

The dance is still gentle and elegant, much like the music being played, but to you, it is a violent, inhumane battle between escape and capture, freedom and imprisonment, life and death. Every twirl is a stab, every dip a shot, and every word is the nightmare transforming into reality.

The music comes to a close, and the guests all make their leave. Only you are left with the beast.

“Come, my dear. You have much to learn.” He smiles so genuinely, and it’s like he’s glowing. You think he looks like an angel. “Just as you wished for.”

Your halos touch.

[hiraeth-sonder]

Kept Dove - Purgatoire

Yan!Sunday x Reader

Even if a bird with clipped wings can only fly so far, it is a freedom nonetheless

TW: pseudo-incest, suicidal behaviour, stalking, general manipulative and toxic behaviour

//Characters may be OOC, please go easy on my glass heart. Spoilers for the 2.0 story quest but also I may not remember things correctly so- Excerpts from the Song of Songs.

Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Through veiled curtains and under warm lights, you tug your socks up with a careful hand, your eyes tracking the movement through the large mirror across you. The soft sheer fabric ascends your leg, trailing up and up until it reaches exactly above your knee. Just the slightest askew, you check once more, turning your leg and watching how the edge on your inner leg dips down, sneaking your finger under the garter to readjust its height. When deemed satisfactory, you reach for your sock garters, clipping the metal fasteners onto the ends as the upper ends hang limply by the side of your leg. You do the same meticulous routine for your right leg, putting your legs together to ensure that they are perfectly even. 

Hung on a hanger was a blouse, with no evidence of wrinkles or lint. Gingerly, you slip it off and let the cool fabric caress your bare skin, once again peering into the mirror to straighten the ends only to carefully push every little fabric-covered button through equally miniscule openings. It hugs your form perfectly when finished, tailor made to adhere to your body like a second skin, with bishop sleeves to be held together with custom cufflinks. You do so, deft fingers piercing the fabric with the golden optics before clipping the ends of the shirt with the once hanging garters. 

Your skirt comes next, prudent and pure. You step into it and bend ever so slightly, bringing it up to your waist to fasten the button that would keep it closed. It is only now that you pad across soft carpet towards your lineup of shoes, from sensible flats to respectable high heels, of shined leather to patent, fit for any occasion. You hook the backs of a pair of heels with your fingers, making your way back to your vanity to slip them on. It is now that you turn your attention to the perfumes decorating the front of the gilded mirror, each of them gifts handpicked by your siblings, bottles easily distinguished by your sister’s fondness for winsome designs and your brother’s partiality for elegance. You uncap a lacquered white glass bottle, the airy and floral aroma that comes from the nozzle is one of their favourites.

There is a light knock at your door, a gentle rap of knuckles against hardwood. It is merely a courtesy, he has no real need to announce his presence when you have long known he would come. Your eyes do not even have to glance at the ticking clock, the knowledge of the minute hand’s exact position of twenty minutes to eight a matter you have grown familiar with over the years. 

“Come in.”

Familiar, practised steps barely sound through your room, a few strides until a silhouette appears behind you. Letting out a soft breath, your eyelids flutter close as you turn your head away from the mirror. “I’m afraid you have little to help with today.”

“I merely wanted to check on you,” Your brother’s voice is delicate, even in your mind there is a kindness to his lilting rise. 

A sigh escapes your lips. ‘Check on you’ can mean all matters of things, whether it truly does entail merely checking on you is a test only known to him. Your eyes open upon the slightest hint of movement, watching through the mirror as gloved hands pull your hair back, reaching for a tie to bundle it up into a half-bun. The action in itself is practised and skilled, moreso a reminder of how many times he has performed such on the women of his life, it sends an inexplicable grief aching in your heart. 

He lowers himself to your level, and as the warm lights cast an intimate gleam upon his features, you get the day’s first look of your brother. Golden eyes softened in gentle fondness, or perhaps some amalgamation of it, cool steel locks lay in perfect formation as his soft wings unfurl to reveal his stately countenance. There is a soft smile pulled across his lips, yet for some reason you must wonder why that tightness in your chest exists so. 

“Happy?” You manage to croak out, still fraught with his full attention on you. 

Sunday tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, clearly admiring his work as he hums, “Very much so, you look quite comely like this.”

You glance at yourself in the very mirror that has aided your preparation, the small wings at the back of your ears hang downward in some odd shame, the sharp tips of your halo glinting with a keen shine. The dark wings flutter lightly, and that recurring shame seems to bubble back to the top of your mind everytime you are reminded of their existence. A corvid among songbird and dove, a stain in their otherwise blemishless perfection. A pathetic excuse for a halovian, you had little sway, little influence, little image. Your very existence was a means to uphold their depiction. 

You were just the child taken pity upon, the mutt picked up from the side of the road to house and feed. Thus, you are an extension of them, whatever you do, however you look, it all went back to them. You sometimes wonder whether they know how much you pale in comparison to their light. 

All too quick to shove such a treacherous thought to the back of your head, it would be a cold day in hell before someone pries that thought from your brain. He casts you an inquisitive gaze, one you wave off with your ascent from the chair. Your steps, three steps slower, accompany his longer strides, padding out from soft carpet to thudding wood. 

Leaving the mansion is always some arduous task, and you suppose that there is no one to blame but your brother for all the fuss that needs to be sorted out. Twisting hallways, confounding rooms, even the little sandpit of the Golden Hour, it made it so that leaving required his notice, lest you end up arbitrarily lost. Of course, this also meant that you were severely limited in the times you got to leave the mansion, since he always had so much to attend to in the day. And it is not like you refuse to learn, but rather that you cannot learn its ways that you remain unaware. Furthermore, it is exactly because that he does so much that you find it hard to even bring up your grievances about such a matter, how could you? So even if you yearn to see the world far beyond what he has allowed you to see, you very often keep your mouth shut and play at content. 

As you emerge from those familiar depths, a wing raises itself to shield your eyes from the sudden influx of bright lights. Penacony, the city of dreams they call it, but to you, it has been nothing more than an incandescent lie. Why else would your sister leave?  

It is then you see her, with her flowing light blue hair and her familiar visage. Her attire remains the same as all the advertisements you see with her face plastered on them, her halo tilted to the right and the gems under her left eye in flawless position. Yet, in your heart, your most sincerest of affections borne from years of companionship, you know that it is not her. There is nothing that would infer this thought, the locum in front of you a perfect copy in all matters, but you cannot help but deny the image in front of you.

Turning to Sunday, a slip of your true thoughts revealed through the furrow of your brow, “Who is this?”

“A fool, nothing more,” He spares you a glance, but says nothing else. 

“Will she listen?”

It is only then you manage to meet his gaze, not a second more and not a second less, his voice is placid, revealing nothing even now, “You trust me, no?”

“Of course, but I just worry…” Your plea seems to go unheard, and you wonder whether you were even meant to come along if it meant you would only receive this kind of treatment. 

“Shall we depart?” He offers to the ‘Robin’ in front of you, dignified courtesy and trained care. You remain behind, watching on. His voice rings in your head, the only part of him you get, “Fret not, dear sister, all will be well.”

In your heart, something twinges with an acrid twist. Though this ‘Robin’ is clearly some cheat, he still treats her the same, still has that leak of affection. You have always known that he never took to you the same way she did, he could try to play at siblingly affection, could try to interact with you the same way he did her, but you knew that he never meant it. The daily check-ups, the gifts, the occasional contact, it all means nothing to him, and in the end, is that not what he does best? Lying with a sweet smile on his face, tempting you with a delusion all the while he wishes for nothing but your descent. The only one he could never perform such deeds to was his own sister.

Yet even in front of a fool, with the face of your sister, you could feel no hatred towards her. Because she has never done anything to warrant such, not when this dream of theirs is one you have done everything to uphold, not when she might have been the only light in your life. So even if what stands before you is a fake, even if you do not know what your brother has planned, you will keep your mouth and play at content. 

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

In the end, he had never even told you where the day’s itinerary would take you, so when you had found yourself in reality’s Reverie Hotel and met with an interesting situation, you had much to restrain from expressing. A group of four people you have never truly seen before and a man from the IPC, seemingly engaged in a difficult matter. They do not seem to notice your approaching footfalls, neither does Alley.

“Alley, just a moment,” Sunday speaks up, gentle yet assertive

“The Family cannot allow guests to enter a dream while bearing burdens.”

The crowd, now aware of your presence, shifts their attention. The grey-haired youth catches your attention, so clearly out of place yet seemingly intertwined, you can only ponder why. Still, it is not as if their gazes remain on you, rather it would be more accurate to say that they were never on you in the first place, positively enraptured by the natural radiance 

“Speak of the devil, look who's here! It's Sunday, the most handsome man in Penacony! Along with the singer renowned across the universe: Robin!” The blond, who you vaguely recognise as hailing from the IPC introduces the two of them with a flair, clearly playing up the flattery. 

‘Robin’ turns to face him, an amused smile playing at her lips as her eyes crinkle in mirth, “He said you were the most dashing person in Penacony, how interesting.”

An older man and a red-haired woman stand before you, their expressions shifting to alert, yet they are paid no mind. 

“I’ve kept you waiting, Mr. Aventurine. This way please, let us speak in private,” Your brother offers, a request that is taken with a courteous quirk of the blond’s lips. 

Your ‘sister’ instead takes charge of caring for the rest of the guests, “Astral Express guests, please come this way and rest your feet.”

It is by now that you have completely mentally checked out of the situation, your presence clearly not noticed nor ignored. Though you yearned to return and perhaps sleep the rest of the day away, your feet automatically flanked the guests of the Astral Express so as to guide them, your eyes following after the grey-haired youth who seemed to yearn to run after Aventurine. Oddly, they do not do so, obediently following after the pink-haired woman. 

You keep your posture perfect and your expression pleasant, not quite hearing but watching, eyes tracking lips so as to turn your perceived attention to whomever was speaking at present. Your ‘sister’ still enraptures, no matter the truth of her nature. Your ears pick up the vague mention of an apology, her hand held to her chest in polite regret. It is only when the redhead’s lips, a woman you believe is called Himeko, move in a manner that seems to be directed to you that you tune back in, a pleasant smile still painted as you meet her gaze.

“And who’s this? I don’t suppose we’ve met before, have we? Ms..?” She offers, playing at cordiality though it is clear she may be a little on guard.

Your lips move to answer far faster than your mind, practically instinctual. The response you get is kindly, one you are not sure is genuine but it makes your head rush. 

The older man, Welt, calls your name, a sound that feels like it should belong on his tongue. There is a familiarity to it, the kind you would hear from an older relative. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

The rest of them start with their pleasantries, and for some odd reason, your chest tightens with a yearning. You had watched them band together earlier, seen the way they interacted with one another and even through your haze, could all but feel the amity between them. These were people who were bound together by chance, people who have simply decided to become this family and not only played the roles, but might as well be actual family. 

“Thank you, it's a pleasure to meet all of you as well.”

‘Robin’ seems to fade into the background, a sight you are not used to, but this fool’s interest in you is not a matter you are too worried about. Rather, the new-found attention you found yourself under was now almost overwhelming, too much yet not entirely unwelcome. 

“If we’re not overstepping, may I ask how you’re affiliated with Mr. Sunday and Ms. Robin?” Himeko’s voice is sweet in your ears, a soothing sound.

“They’re my siblings, my older brother and younger sister to be exact.”

The pink-haired youth you believe is called March 13th, is almost all too excited at that answer, yet it dies to wonder, “That’s cool! But why haven’t we heard about you before?”

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m merely not as noteworthy as them….” Your play at humility is almost entirely accepted, a notion you are at least glad for. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice your brother’s approach, a signal to return back into the background. With a hand to your chest, you bid your exit, “If you’ll excuse me.”

It is another haze that clouds over you when your brother arrives to slot himself into the conversation, one that once again seems to block out the words spoken. 

“I apologise for taking up everyone's precious time, and we shan't keep you any longer. If you need anything else while in Penacony, The Family stands ready to serve,” He hums, genteel and ever flawless.

‘Robin’ follows suit, her hand to her chest as she continues the courtesy, “May your dreams be beautiful and pleasant.”

Your eyes fall upon the Astral Express, and though your heart knows what can only be imagined can never be brought to reality, you could not help but wish that you had never been brought in to your siblings. Perhaps in another life, perhaps in a dream far more beautiful and pleasant than this one. 

“May your dreams be beautiful and pleasant.”

You were tired, so very tired. If Penacony truly was the world of dreams, yours must be some sick joke for your life to turn out this way. Given this glimpse of what could have been, how could you even bear to keep living in this illusion?

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

 His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

The marble railing is cold against your bare feet, one wrong step and you’ll be sent careening off the side of the building, falling into a never-ending abyss. In the distance, playing on the record player, was the vague lilt of your sister’s voice. You could barely hear it through the wind, yet the very fact that she was there, truly or not, was more than enough. You have all but memorised her every song, humming along as though she was with you.

In a thin nightgown, you have long been free from the confines of your strict dress, hair let loose and face bare. Any matter that once adorned your form has been stripped, left exactly where they belonged in your room as your legs danced along to the melody. Chasse, a whisk and a natural turn, your arms wrapped around some imaginary partner, it all came to you without little thought, merely letting the music guide your form. You have never danced before, never thought yourself fit to, only read about the basics in a book a time forgotten, but you think you enjoy it. Perhaps in your next life you will be a dancer, no matter the fame, it would be something you could do without fear of tarnishing another’s image. 

Caught in your reverie, you are scarce to hear the knock on your door, the heave of heavy wood and the quick steps to the open balcony. Through the flowing curtains and under the starry night, your brother still looked nothing more than empyrean, regardless of the unnerved furrow of his brow and the dilation of his pupils. You do not stop from your actions, continuing to let your body move along the wind.

“What are you doing?” He manages to utter, not as gentle yet cautious. 

Humming, you return his question with another, “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Your dearest brother, the man who allows himself only the most minute interaction with you, the man who would not even meet your eyes beyond the confines of your home, though his words sounded as though they came from a more composed man, the slight tremble to his voice told you more than enough. 

“Dear sister, you won’t die even if you take such drastic actions.”

“You’re right, but at the very least I’d be soporose, no?”

There is a pained edge to his voice, visage finally broken out of that placid facade, “I don’t enjoy these words you’re saying.”

“When have you ever?” You laugh, eyes crinkled in levity as a smile pulled across your lips. Bare feet halt from their untethered sway, leaning to meet your brother’s gaze. Your words crawl out from your throat, hoarse from use yet elated nonetheless, “I’m sure that if I were to even look into that head of yours, those few thoughts you dedicate to me would be nothing but pure odium.”

Perhaps you would have been less inclined to disparage your brother once upon a time, more desirous of his attention for once, yet it is now you could care less. His focus means nothing to you now, not when he could not even bother to do so when it mattered most. Even if he threw himself at your feet and begged you to come down, you find it hard to believe you would listen in this state. 

Sunday’s voice is soft, yet simultaneously it is the loudest you have ever heard it, “You seem so convinced that I do not care for you, have you ever read beyond what your eyes tell?”

“Would you let me?” The air in your lungs feels faint, turning your voice breathy as tears strangely dew at your lower lashes. 

Would he even let you witness such? Let himself become vulnerable and open his tempestuous mind for you to pick and pry? You do not even believe he has allowed any other to come so close. Yet perhaps this is what you need to quell that storm in your chest, the last nail in your coffin, your last reason confirmed. 

He nods. 

Through dark veils and cloudy bubbles, you see it. The truth of his neglect, the reality behind his constant avoidance, his performed favouritism, all of it some cruel and horrific attempt to distance himself from emotions deemed iniquitous. All those times the clock would read seven forty, all those times you believed him to arrive on some schedule, that damned bird had been in your room all the while. Tucked away in some corner too high for you to notice, it stood watch at all hours of the day, keenly broadcasting your most natural state to him as if it were nothing more than the daily news. 

What a monster love can be, its dark shadow following you everywhere, in your most private and public moments, you have never been alone. Longing to embrace, alabaster hands ghosting over skin and breath fanning across bare chest, desiring to possess, to keep that object of yearning within a gilded cage and to tuck the key away. Twisting yet ever rigid, covetous and desirous, it is no wonder that your very existence should always be tied to him. There is no you without Sunday, no crow without dove, for what is a pious man without his conflict of sin?

“I love you,” He pleads, finally raw and true, finally directed to you. His face twisted in pure desperation as he approaches you, with his arms outstretched as though to compel you from your perch, your brother practically begs, “So please, stay with me.”

Beneath your gaze, beneath you, he is but a wretched thing. You never thought him stupid, yet for him to think that this was enough to wipe the slate anew, you must have overestimated him. 

You bark out a harsh bite of laughter, void of mirth and filled with scorn, “Do you expect me to just forgive you just like that? A measly ‘I love you’ and years of indifference can just be forgotten?”

“Sunday, you’re nothing but the last etching on my grave.”

Your feet leave the cold marble, tipping off into the unknown abyss below as a breeze flies through your wings. 

Your sister’s face flashes before you as your eyes flutter shut, her soft smile the one thing keeping your head clear and your limbs limp. You hear her sing, even past the rushing wind. Your dear sister, the one person who had been keeping you looking forward to another day, her crooning voice that played from the record player in your room, it is now you hear her clearer than ever. 

A bird that has never flown can only fall when thrown down, wings unable to catch the wind and soar from its cage, yet it is because it has never flown that this feeling is still a kind of freedom. And as your skin pebbles from the chill and your hair flows along your descent, you have never felt any freer, even if it is only for a brief moment. 

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Through lace curtains and under warm light, a hand caresses your leg as it tugs white socks ever higher. Soft fabric clinging to your skin as he raises it to your thigh, far too intimate, far too familiar. He does the same for the other leg, knelt at your feet with his head bowed, the socks are nothing but perfectly aligned as per his preference. The garters hung around your waist, silken material his own hands placed upon you, he grasps the clips as he attaches it to the socks, ensuring he does not blemish your skin beneath. 

Your arm raises when he brings the blouse, silky and smooth. Sunday lets the cool fabric kiss your arms as he buttons each clasp, meticulously pushing them through each miniscule opening. Another piece he had ensured would fit you without fault, it followed the natural lines of your form without fail. He smooths the shoulders down and presses a kiss to the top of your head, moving to pin the sleeves with optic shaped cufflinks. Coaxing you from your seat, he has you step into your skirt, brought up to your waist and clasped neatly. Your shoes, perfectly shined heels tailor made for only you, are slipped on and buckled. Even the sweet florals of your perfume, another white lacquered glass bottle he gifted all those years ago, is applied by his hand. 

His dear sister, someone he has tried so hard to keep at an arm’s length, someone he has done nothing but debase in that torturous head of his, now stands before him, obedient and adoring. Far too tempting to keep away, his arms move to embrace you, resting at your waist.

Instinctively, your arms raise to wrap around his neck, weight leaning against his hands as he bows his head to press a kiss against your lips. You accept him languidly, your eyes fluttering close as he brings your bodies to but a fingertip’s distance. It almost seems meant to be, how they move against each other in a rhythm known only to the two of you. 

“I love you,” He murmurs against your lips, the words leaving him so naturally that if one were to tell him that he could finally utter these heavy words to you, that him of the past would have merely waved it off. “More than you could ever know.”

“.....love…”

“..you….”

Your wings flutter shyly around your two faces, as though to hide away from the rest of the world, even your halo trembles ever so slightly, an endearing act as you try your best to convey your affection to him. Still, that does not discourage you from attempting to cling onto him.

He smiles, pressing another, more chaste, kiss to your lips to tide you over. Recovery has been hard for you but he finds he quite enjoys having you so feeble for him. Barely able to even form full sentences through telepathy, it meant that he would be able to hear your sweet voice much more often. You were no songstress, but it is your humming that truly provides him with succour. Furthermore, having you so dependent, so keen for his help, it only serves to soften his heart. 

To reintroduce you to the rest of Penacony not as his sister, but as his dearest lover has been easy, and he can only thank his foresight for keeping your very existence so negligible. You would finally get what you have always yearned for, no matter what lies you told yourself, his full and utter adoration, demonstrable and undisguised. Lest you try to leave him once more. So he will keep you in this cage with him, care for you and love you so that beyond reasonable doubt, you shall have no desire to spread your wings once more.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.