General Jing Yuan is someone you dedicate a lot of your time and trust to, and in return, he makes sure you lack nothing. But when your life begins to feel unsettled and circumstances force you to live together under his protection, you find yourself discovering different sides of him—some you might not be ready for yet, some you still fail to comprehend. WORD COUNT: 30.7k. [READ ON AO3]
• CONTENT: plot and smut, ostensible yandere jing yuan x unaware reader, mentions of corporal punishment, inappropriate personal dynamic (general and personal assistant), power imbalance, stalking, angst, drugging, manipulative behavior, reader idolizes and idealizes jing yuan, vomiting, induced dependency, ankle injury, blowjob, edging, fingering, dub-con sex.
• A/N: Tbh, this was originally supposed to be me expanding on an older idea, but I decided to simply include that old fic entirely for context and write the rest around it. About the first 4k words are coming from that older fic (edited), but the rest of this work is freshly written. I also hope Jing Yuan here is cunning enough🤞I wanted to elaborate on his strategic mind, but unfortunately, I can’t outsmart him — a downside to writing a character much smarter than you are. Also, some paragraphs are longer to avoid hitting the 1000 block limit, so apologies for that!
“Your mind has drifted away from me yet again.”
The general’s low, humming voice cuts through your thoughts, snapping you back to reality. Only then do you notice the sound you have been tuning out — a rhythmic drip onto the floor in rivulets.
Your mouth parts in terror as you realize it’s the tea you were supposed to pour into his cup — not over his important files. A hot stream spills over the desk’s edge, pooling at your shoes, and encapsulates what you’ve been becoming: an incompetent assistant.
You set the pot down with a thunk.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry—” Your eyes dart at him with the most earnest of apologies before they frantically scan the office for something to rectify your mistake.
Though you are genuinely sorry, as always, you instinctively anticipate his comforting words rather than those of ridicule. Do not fret. It’s a mistake anyone could have made — you already hear it in your head. Because, following the pattern you’ve become familiar with, that’s what should be his priority: I hope you are not hurt.
You really do hope for that to be uttered by him, for you to be able to tell yourself that it is not so bad yet. The core of your late clumsiness, manifesting itself in many mistakes, is rather simple: you are worried about a certain situation occurring in your life. Yet, thus far, while your case is still unbeknownst to him, your general has shown you an unheard of patience.
“Hm. You’ve been quite all over the place lately. I might have lost count of how many times I’ve seen you create a disarray in my office.”
Okay. Perhaps it is not this time that you will be indulged.
“I…”
His words, though still sounding as light and teasing as they often are made to, make your body burn with blooming shame, as he for once is taking the matter more seriously. You abandon the search for some towel, frozen by his infiltrating gaze demanding explanations especially; your ignominy now falls from his desk freely.
You cannot truly blame him for finally choosing to be less lenient with you. Considering how prone you’ve been to blunders lately, you wouldn’t be surprised if any other superior had gotten rid of you long ago already.
At the very least, Qingzu is not here today.
You take a leap to be in front of his desk again, stationing your duty, away from the sizable plant you had half a mind to hide yourself under.
Then you speak, trying your hardest not to make it sound like a balderdash. “I won’t make any excuses for myself, General. I should have been more aware of my surroundings…” Though it’s still barely more than a murmur, coming from a dog whining in guilt. “I’ve been falling short in my work and not meeting your expectations.”
His golden gaze lets the silence stretch with its solemnity, filling the room with even more tangible tension — he’s analyzing your nervous mouth as it writhes in need to make more excuses. His own expression however gives nothing away, only adding to your pile of nerves. There is nothing to soothe you here as there usually would be.
Steepling his fingers over the desk, he speaks evenly, if not almost listlessly, “I see. Please, come here for a moment.” He nods towards the space behind his seat.
Your heart hammers at even more frantic pace, so fast you swear your entire body pulses. A myriad of scared thoughts flash through your mind, with one louder than the rest — are you finally going to face punishment for your carelessness?
“Well?”
Driven upon his insistence, you have no choice but to walk over to his side, each step heavy with trepidation. Your mind lingers on those ruined scrolls, trying desperately to remember how crucial their contents were and yet not being able to recall. His eyes never leave yours, weighing your fear as if it could further diminish your value as his assistant.
You stop right in front of him, and he turns in his seat to face you properly.
“Please give me your hand.”
You tried to reassure yourself that, whatever he has in mind, he is still a fair man — one who would never truly hurt you, preferring brains over brawn, preventing over correction. But now, your imagination goes straight to the worst-case scenario. It must be a corporal punishment — why else would he require your hand?
While you did assume that someone like your general would never resort to violence unless absolutely necessary, perhaps he is still traditional, or maybe this is simply a military habit, regardless of how strategic of a man he is.
If he truly intends to strike you, then his hits will be the most unbearable, unparalleled in strength compared to most. You surely won’t be able to lift your hands without sharp pain shooting down to your elbows for days.
“General… I… I’m so sorry, again, I—” You try to plead with him, as pathetic as it further paints you.
“I know that you are. Please extend your hand for me. We have to deal with the situation meticulously,” he says with a heavy sigh, as though even he has had enough of your meekness.
Deal with the situation, meticulously at that. His words ring through your head, and so you believe you are screwed indeed.
Knowing that any hesitation will only exacerbate your punishment, you offer him your shaky and clammy hand.
Your stomach drops when he opens the drawer of his desk and reaches for something. You close your eyes, unwilling to behold the length or texture of the object of discipline. A click echoes as some container pops open, and you nearly jump at the sound.
Then there’s a sudden burst of warmth on your hand. But it is no sting of pain, only a gentle touch of another person.
Opening your eyes, you see him smiling, almost as if he enjoys your dismay — also silently asking if you seriously believed he would harm you. Yet that malice really cannot be so, for he massages your hand with an ointment so diligently, so softly, as if it were a delicate bird in his grasp.
“Huh?” You cannot hide your surprise, stupefied by the revelation.
You’re well aware he’s always been a fan of teasing you here and there. This one maneuver might be a bit too cruel, however.
“What kind of leader do you believe me to be, to expect I would disregard my dear assistant’s burn?” He laughs softly at your oversight, continuing to apply the salve. “While it is relatively small, I wouldn’t want you hissing in pain all day,” he adds with a tinge of mirth to his voice.
The burn. You were so caught up envisioning the effects of his disappointment with you, then its punishment conducted by your general’s hands, you didn’t even notice that your hurt had formed as a small blister already.
Tracing a few splotches of darkened flesh between your knuckles with your eyes, you tune with the aches only now.
Seriously, that benign approach of his toward you; you think he’s too being kind to you, putting the treatment of a tiny wound above his important papers.
“General… I could have managed it on my own…” You sound and definitely feel flustered, evading his gaze. “And where did you even get this burn treatment from?” You clear your throat.
“I foresaw a moment like this,” he explains placidly. He notably takes a bit longer that it is necessary to massage the wound, as if at this point, it’s more about treatment of your spirit, rather than of your skin. “You spilling hot tea was destined to happen, and it did just happen.”
This preemptive measure only taunts your sense of shame to be all the more bloodthirsty. How predictable your carelessness has become, how bad must it be, for him to start anticipating your mistakes….
“Thank you. It already hurts much less…” you say quietly, a little bit tired at yourself.
He pats your hand in response — for a moment, you itch to hold his hand, if only to ground yourself — and pushes the vial into your grasp.
“Now, you are all set to take care of this mess. After that, you and I will have a conversation.”
Once the tea puddles and stains are gone, along with some of the shakiness in your hands, you sit down across from your general, wondering if you’re possibly discussing your own termination. He may have helped you with your burn, but that doesn’t imply you’re off the hook just yet or even at all — call that care simply his generosity.
“Are you mad at me?” The words slip out before you can think them through, fully vulnerable.
You’re this accustomed to his small gestures of comfort. It’s in his nature to never make a mountain out of a molehill, yet he’s not flippant either. That stoic stability is something you’ve come to rely on — and so, without it expressed as sanguinely as always, you can’t shake off the feeling that even he is irrevocably fed up with your clumsiness. And try telling that to someone who often puts him on a pedestal.
“I’m not mad at you. Why do you think so?” he inquires, offering you no more than flat expression. Too bland for your ongoing anxiety.
Your breath hitches. You cannot exactly tell him that you operate based on his reassurance; that would be unprofessional, and you already work on borrowed benevolence.
“I cannot imagine how frustrating it must be to…” you begin hesitantly, rubbing your hands against your thighs, “… constantly have to watch your personal assistant make embarrassingly simple mistakes… jeopardizing important matters that the fate of Xianzhou Luofu depends on.” With how erratic you are, you speak in nearly one breath.
“It is.” He doesn’t hold back at being frank. “In this instance, your carelessness certainly sets my work back, as I must wait for a copy of the ruined document to be approved before I can work over it again. And time is precious in many cases.”
While he didn’t end up punishing you, it for sure feels like being whipped by him. You cannot remember the last time you’ve received a direct criticism from him, having been busy spreading yourself thin to impress him; also realizing that a simple sorry won’t cut it for him.
The truth is, you fail to fully grasp your attrition, you being ungainly and fumbling over the simplest of things — even with the other issue you’ve been struggling with encroaching your mind. You weren’t always this clumsy, regardless of any personal problems happening in your life.
Your general, in the past, had made it evident he thinks a lot of you, and you are ruining that good reputation nowadays. Accidents happen to the best, but ones of this extent…
Is it him? The pressure to do your best for someone of his stature you’ve felt from the beginning of your labor for him, dreading the idea of being dispensable? He’s not replaceable; as for you, there’s many awaiting in line to take over your vacant spot should there be a chance to. You’re an ant to his greatness, even if he’d scold you for downplaying your worth. And yet you still wish to make him shine right until his swan song comes.
But then, wouldn’t you be pressuring yourself to stay hyper-aware of your surroundings like you always did, rather than withdrawing focus into the recesses of your mind? Just how when you want to impress someone so immensely, you only end up moving like a nervous wreck, acutely conscious of their presence breathing down your neck.
“I understand,” you say solemnly, lowering your gaze to your lap like the coward you’ve become. You don’t know what else is there to say. Promising him your mistakes won’t happen again is counterproductive — they will happen again. Instead, you add, “I will ensure to be more circumspect.”
He neither acknowledges nor accepts your words, choosing instead to get to the root of your problem. “Why is my dear assistant so distracted these days? I don’t remember you ever having such aspen hands,” he notes with a small sigh.
Fingers drum against the desk in thought, the sound droning in your ears as your anxiety spikes again. You clutch onto your knees, sitting on tenterhooks.
“You can tell me,” he adds more softly, seeing you.
So there’s finally a bit of ray shining through the clouds. Nonetheless, it sounds more like you should tell me — it’s your last call to redeem yourself.
You lift your gaze with something hopeful arising in the storm of angst, to which he smiles lightly — encouragingly so to you. Perhaps, once he hears you out, he will change his mind about firing you.
You begin to realize the truth behind your nightmares is probably closer than you believed it to be, or rather, than you allowed it to be — rejecting the notion the real cause is starting to affect your professional life you were supposed to separate from the private section. You have not yet confessed to the general, unwilling to burden him with something your mind potentially made up.
You lack efficient evidence to prop your suspicion, so it might as well be work-related stress paranoia created by you a bit on edge about the important role. It could even be a simple case of minor memory loss, correlated, and you’re overreacting.
“I can’t help but…” you start to explain with a slight spluttering to your voice, “feel like someone is following me. Or rather, entering my place. For weeks at this point. Yet, I have never caught anyone.”
Raising his eyebrow, he assesses your claim. He remains steady, not panicking over the prospect, not debunking it either, like a proper leader would. “Were there any signs of forced entry?” your general asks seriously, pausing his fingers’ movements to not discourage you from talking.
“N-no, but… it’s as if some of my items have been used. I thought it I simply keep forgetting the last time I used them — I tend to be be in hurry in the mornings — but with how often it happens, I don’t think it’s a coincidence anymore…”
“What items?” Appearing curious, he leans back on the bench, crossing his arms.
“Well… I always make my bed in the morning, but sometimes it looks as if someone slept in it after I come home from work… some of my favorite snacks go missing… my clothes appear rummaged through… and…” Your embarrassment swells at the last mention you’re about to make.
“Yes?”
“Some of my… underwear is gone, not simply lost in laundry.”
It’s clear that this person, a perverse one at that, wants you to notice their presence, to have themselves occupy your thoughts constantly. You only refuse to imagine what they’re doing with your undergarments.
Your general takes your words in for a few seconds, noting how you suddenly can’t look him in the eye again, and rubs his chin thoughtfully.
“Have you thought of installing cameras?” he asks calmly again. He chooses not to comment on your observations, as you know there’s no point in dwelling over them when he’s gathering information.
“Yes…” You nod your head, tracing the galaxy above of Luofu outside the open ceiling. Tiny stars flick there, illuminating the sky gracefully, but instead of handing out the beauty of the stellar, they connect into a constellation of some monstrosity you imagine awaits you back at your home. You snap your gaze back at him, a bit shaken. “However, when I contacted one of the companies, they warned me that if this person can bypass the door’s high-tech security without a problem, breaking in without a trace left, they could likely hijack the cameras and intrude my privacy too.”
Unless they entered your house some other way — but that would be in an incredible feat or agility. The only other entry to your apartment is by reaching the tall height of its building, specifically the balcony hung a few floors above your neighbors.
“I see.” He hums with acknowledgment. “Have you noticed anyone following you?”
“No, General.”
Your eyes brim with tears at the thought of everything. His own soften, though they linger on your trembling lip a moment too long to consider it a simple perceptive behavior.
“Looking back at things, all of these concerns seem valid,” he concludes mildly, keeping his tone calm like you like it. “It would be imprudent to immediately dismiss them as mere forgetfulness. I also trust your intuition that tends to be correct quite often.” He nods to himself. “You’re very brave for telling me that.”
Your chest is noticeably lighter when he offers you the benefit of the doubt, not denying the possibility that you truly might have a stalker.
“But I also would hate for your personal problems to interfere with your obligations towards me… I’m sure you understand.”
Oh. Of course — he’s still not letting go of your ineptitude. You’ve taken him for granted far too many occasions. Just how long can you keep hoping for him to pardon you?
“My apologies. I can’t stress this enough, so— please, don’t fire me. I’ll do anything!”
You plant your hands on his desk and bend over to reach him and plead with your entire being accumulated in your desperate gaze.
His brow raises. “…Anything?” he repeats, amusement weaving itself into his voice.
You don’t know what’s so particularly entertaining about this, but you don’t bother to question it at the moment. “Yes. Anything!” you insist with all of your being..
Your general laughs, diffusing a bit of the tense atmosphere. “Well, anything is excessive. But perhaps, you can start with something else.”
“What is it?” You slump back into your seat, now embarrassed by your show of desperation.
“It would be a good idea to look into the matter. And since you live on your own…” He stretches his arms above his head until he groans tiredly, apparently confident in his decision. “It might be wise for you to stay near me meanwhile.”
You like to believe you have made peace with the fact that he sometimes makes bold moves; while most of them are well thought through, boldness and strategy are still not always exclusive to each other. But as for this one, whatever he’s trying to imply, it already takes you by surprise. You blink twice, struggling to grasp the meaning of his words, even if they’re rather obvious.
“Um… forgive me if I sound ungrateful, but wouldn’t a hotel room be enough as a temporary accommodation...” you say nervously.
“Do you have a guarantee that this possible stalker won’t follow you here as well?” he questions rather bluntly.
Of course you don’t. It’s doubtful a simple receptionist or a layman of a security guard would be a big obstacle to bypass for your stalker, who already seems skilled enough.
“Err… How near are we talking about?” you ask therefore.
“Maybe you should move in with me — temporarily, that is.” He pauses his talk to laugh soundlessly, seeing you all goggle-eyed in response. “My courtyard is roomy enough to assign you a spot with plenty of privacy. Meanwhile, we can look into any possible suspects or traces they left,” he explains with his hands.
You cover your mouth in surprise. “That’s… inappropriate!” you end up blurting out, out of instinct.
“It’s not.” He snickers, waving dismissively. “Not if it’s a matter of preserving your wellbeing. You can stay here, safe, for the duration of the investigation.”
If he says that, then you imagine it must be true. Still… “Wouldn’t that get you in trouble, if anyone were to hear about this?”
Your general’s reputation already teeters these days. Some of the decisions he makes, while yielding the most optimal outcomes, are risky at their core. You can already imagine the headlines — Arbitral General of Luofu having an affair with his assistant, shameless enough to have her living at his house—
He can see all that worry written across your face and laughs quietly again, making your cheeks burn — it’s as though he knows something you don’t. “Whatever you must be thinking, you have quite the imagination. As for your concerns, I’m sure others will understand your situation — you are not the first person I’ve hosted at my estate for protection reasons. Meantime, I could help you train yourself how to handle stressful situations without those affecting your work.”
If you weren’t so desperate to make amends with him, as well turning wretched from the fear of being watched, there is a chance you would turn down the proposal, assuming a cloud knight to guard your house is all you need. But if there’s anyone that can protect you against that intruder, you believe it’s your general.
“Alright. But I really don’t want to put you out…” you acquiesce, fidgeting with your hands. The idea of living with him has you nervous — to put it mildly. It almost feels like a nuclear option, simply because it’s living in close and intimate proximity with someone you who admire a lot.
“You won’t. I assure you,” he says, exuding enough confidence for you to believe him.
He leans forward slightly, resting one hand lightly on the edge of the desk as his gaze locks onto yours with unwavering certainty. “If there is really anyone stalking you, we will look into that adequately. Perhaps, as soon as they see just who you have protecting you, they will realize there is no point in continuing their pursuit,” he speaks warmly.
For a moment, he lets his finger hover before he lets the tip tap against the desk once, setting his decision in motion. A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth appears, then vanishes immediately, leaving his amber eyes to anchor you with their usual, relaxed expression.
“Thank you, General… there is no way I can express my gratitude properly, I—” you talk sweetly, wiping those few tears you’ve shed. Your other hand, you press onto your chest in relief, and you smile with hope. You feel much safer, knowing no harm can befall you when you have him to guard you, that the crisis already feels like it’s behind you. You might be no soldier, yet even as his personal assistant, you get to see why it’s worth following him. “I will make sure to repay you greatly.”
He reciprocates your smile easily. “I’m being nothing but noble. I wouldn’t have you feel indebted,” he says, resting his head on his palm, a contended yawn passing through. “Although, the least my dear assistant can do for me is to keep smiling — so wide, just like that,” he adds teasingly, that now, your shy chuckle stems from something else than dread.
You have been proven you have nothing to fear with him around, so long you count on him.
“I will try for you, General.”
“Excellent.” He stands up from his seat, ready to start first preparations. “Oh, and…” He looks at you in that “I know you well so you better listen for the sake of your wellbeing” type of look.
You sigh inwardly, knowing he can be and is about to be stubborn. “Yes?”
“Perhaps you ought to take a day or two off. At least, until I get the estate prepared for your arrival, and establish a baseline of the situation.”
“It’s not necessary—” you try to say. You’ve already slacked off more than it’s necessary, and the constantly growing pile of documents on his desk is trying to eat you alive.
“It is. More than you think. It’ll allow you to cool down, as well rest after prolonged stress.” The slight sternness to his voice makes it clear to you it’s an order, not a suggestion. “Meanwhile, I’ll have someone guard your house, so you don’t have to worry about staying here for a little longer.”
You frown. He smiles wider. You know you have lost.
“Alright. If you say so, General,” you mumble reluctantly. “Thank you again.”
“And finally, here is your room. You will have a plenty of space to unwind at the end of the day.”
With this guest room in the sleeping wing as a final destination, your general finishes giving you a little tour of his spacious, refined house of a siheyuan style.
It matches the style of other houses on Luofu, yet it is undoubtedly far heftier in comparison. You can already see yourself sinking into a slumber as luxurious.
As for the owner himself, he stands in front of you in the lit corridor, being that flicker of hope for your mind — finally able to declutter from the noise the person responsible for stalking you has been inflicting.
“Thank you so much, General!” You beam with genuine gratitude, stopping yourself last moment from giving him a hug. You can finally focus on your duties with more flexibility.
He smiles gently, looking down at you with warmest of his gazes, his hands behind his back. “Don’t mention it. I will always do everything in my power to ensure my assistant’s safety. No harm shall befall upon you.”
With every handing of a beau geste, he manages to knock breath from your lungs with such burnished words. You do know he must mean those in a rather friendly way, always so eager with his altruism for those in need; however, they still tug at your heart and have you flustered from the sheer intensity of them.
You truly have little to worry about, with an exception for your ability to remain cool around him.
“Ha ha… that’s very reassuring.” You scratch your cheek in a small show of abash.
He pats your shoulder as he often does, the gesture spreading all the more of that gooey feeling of giddiness in you.
“And if you happen to hear scratching at your door at night, do not fret. It’s just my cat who thinks she owns every space,” he remarks humorously. “Albeit, she mostly chooses to sleep by my side.”
“Oh, I see.” You nod your head in acknowledgment, storing the given information for the sake of your mental wellbeing. “Good to know before I assume it’s some monster trying to get to me…” You frown, as if you genuinely considered such possibility.
He laughs quietly, dispersing that momentary fright of yours. “I doubt there’s any around. But should you find any, please come to me immediately.”
You look at him carefully, wondering if you caught the implication correctly. “Do you mean it seriously, or are you teasing me, General…?”
He huffs through his nose softly, his hand still on your shoulder. “You should come to me said in all seriousness. Whether your fear is a product of your imagination or an actual threat.”
The more he offers you something, the more you start to think about how he’s so kind to you. It’s unlikely you could ever find such an employee again, and so you have to count your blessings and make sure you are worthy of him. If anything, seeing how much he has done for you lately, the patience he shown you, you feel all the more motivated to get better and spruce up your work ethics. Your job is to assist and take some burden off his shoulders, meaning it’s you who has to be reliable first and foremost.
“I see. Thank you,” you say with renewed enthusiasm. “And your room is…?”
“Oh, right. My room is right over there.” He points at three doors away, the opposite side of the corridor, finally letting go of you that still circulates his warmth.
His room is rather close to yours. A good thing, knowing he’s within your reach.
“I see.” And feeling inclined to ask: “Is there anyone else staying here with you at the moment?”
“Not currently. I just had a delegation leave last week,” he informs, leaning back against your door with his tall presence. “You seem lucky enough. Although, Yanqing might storm into here from time to time. Please try not to mind him.”
“No, I would never mind his presence here.” You shake your head resolutely. “I also understand that he’s your retainer.”
“Hm. That seems right.” And when you furrow your eyebrows, wondering what he’s getting at, he teases, “You know, you look just like someone who’d buy him a new sword despite him being on a spending ban.”
Your mouth opens in offense. “I would never!”
You protest, affronted, only makes him chuckle. “Truly?” He tilts his head, his gray bangs falling to the side.
Alright. Maybe you would, if the boy pleaded with you enough. Not that you’d hand your general the victory so easily.
“Of course not. You’re his master, not me. I shall not interfere with your methods,” you say awfully wisely, crossing your arms.
“Unfortunately, you underestimate his skills in persuasion.”
Perhaps.
Working for the general, you naturally get to see Yanqing often. You and him are on good terms, especially when you’re a person capable of coercing the general to stop being lazy when the boy especially needs him. And seeing him work so hard and put pressure on himself, it’s easy to respect him despite his (for the immortal race, at least) younger age.
“You know what they say, General…”
“Oh? And what do they say?”
He comes awfully close, teasing you in that oppressive way he can exhibit by simply entering your space, as if he can never get enough of it.
Your heart skips a beat, kicking into double-time. “Er… that… go big or go home,” the saying leaves your mouth awkwardly, and you take a tentative step back.
“Do they now?” He smiles a bit smugly, in a manner that makes you wish you could wipe it off.
“Yes. At least the younger generations do.” You scoff.
“So you’re calling me old now?” He sighs pitifully, placing a dramatic hand against his forehead.
You find yourself suddenly wanting to clear the misunderstanding, even if the man in question is clearly taunting you. “N-no, not at all—”
“I was jesting, of course.” The audacity comes with how unabashedly he admits it. “Though, now I’m curious if you have heard that from Yanqing himself. I find it hard to follow up with what younger generations say these days.”
“General!” you scold, quickly and finally deciding to disappear inside your room. “Please don’t even try to bother to ask him that!” And so, you slide the door shut, effectively removing yourself from his frolicking sphere.
“I’ll consider, though no promises. I hope you’ll feel at home!” he shouts behind the door before his steps retract.
You already do feel home, in a way; he’s for sure being himself regardless of where you are.
You still indulge him every time.
Someone once told you that you make the general all boyish, more like a younger version of himself again. Their speech had a negative sound to it, this person infamously describing General Jing Yuan as someone who used to wreak havoc, but you took pride hearing that. Because if you can make him smile in that brisky and radiant way instead of letting him erode and turn gloomy, it is all worth it. You’ll keep that star shining among others.
The night has fallen, veiling Luofu like a diaphanous blanket with neon lights shining through. Yet sleep doesn’t come to you at all.
You wanted to believe that the process of acclimating in a new place will be easy on you, stemming from the fact that you have a big protector staying a few feet away from you, him wielding centuries of experience in martial arts to further cement his capabilities.
But with only one night in, your mind decides it needs more time to catch up with the sense of security your potential stalker has stripped you of — even with the dim lights on.
The shadows cast from the furniture around the room appear suspicious, forming into abominations, and you anticipate for one of them to throw itself at you the moment you close your eyes. Your ears pick up any tiniest noise, even if it could be wood contracting from the humidity drop.
You end up shedding off the soft duvet and leaving the room with a spring in your step, deciding to hold your general to his kind offer. In a way, it has you feel guilty, considering you should feel safe with someone like him on board. And yet, the mind has its own opinion.
Even just walking down the corridor sets you with a sense of unease, that you wield your phone with flashlight on because you were too nervous to actually succeed in locating the light switch. You pad across the corridor quietly, your heart jolting at every cracking sound in the floor below your feet.
Well aware he favors sleep immensely, the idea of waking him up in the middle of the night causes you even more anxiety — regardless of his invitation standing still. The knock you give on his door is therefore subtle; you wish not to wake him up abruptly.
You hear nothing at first. For a good minute, you are forced to stand here and let fear slowly get ahold of you. But right as you’d decide to give up and walk away, your ears catch footsteps, and soon, the door slides open.
Struck with both relief and nervousness, you clutch your phone to your chest.
“Did something happen?” the general asks drowsily, in a middle of a yawn as he stands in the doorway. Wearing airily-woven dark pants and white shirt for sleep, additionally, his hair is an abundant mess, loose strands sticking in every direction as if they’re his whiskers.
You’d laugh at such sight befitting of his person if it weren’t for your mood; though with how sleep-ridden he tends to be, you’re still surprised he’s not a somnambulist on top of everything.
“I… I’m sorry for waking you up, General. I couldn’t sleep…” you mumble. “I’m just so alert… I can’t turn off my brain.”
“Hm.” He asses you shortly, head to toe, noticing your obvious tense posture. “Please come inside,” he swiftly decides. He steps aside for you.
“Thank you,” you say and hurry inside, what feels like the safest zone in the entire house and even Luofu as a whole.
Your general sits down on the edge of his spacious canopy bed now disheveled with beige covers. He pats the spot next to himself. “Tell me what troubles my dear assistant.”
From the sound of his voice, you can tell he is still half awake. You move to sit down next to him, keeping respectable distance, while your eyes quickly take in his room.
It’s a rather simple, yet elegant master bedroom, pretty similar to yours. There’s no much jumble a bunch of trinkets would give. It’s mostly laid out with well-crafted, heavy, traditional furniture made of likely varnished mahogany arranged in harmony. Along, there’s a dark screen in front of the lattice windows on the right side of the bed, shanshui landscape on the light walls above it, and a few decorative pieces around.
On his bed rests the white cat, that you start to stroke for the sake of getting hold of yourself. Even asleep, the sweet creature purrs, as if recognizing you — you’ve got the chance to take care of her in the past, when the general had no choice but to leave for a business trip.
“Um… it’s probably stupid, but… my room keeps making noise. And my mind plays tricks on me.” You smile, in a wry way directed at yourself. “I don’t think anything in actuality is happening.”
For a moment, he observes your hand gliding through the fur, white almost like the one resting on top of his head — seemingly lost in thought, even appearing a bit wistful.
“I see,” he says eventually, still glancing at the tiny creature. “That’s understandable. You must still be in a defensive mode.” His voice is raspier at this hour, nearly giving you chills.
He looks rather defenseless too, like he often does when conducting an unwarranted nap in the middle of his work. Despite all that, it’s as though he can command with his presence alone — his body never fully slackens, muscles on standby for a possible enemy.
A natural-born general. Luofu is alive for centuries during his leadership now, exceeding others, whether he had to cause some controversy along the way or not.
Or whether he even wanted to be a general in the first place. The highest throne faces the strongest winds, he has told you before. You often wonder what his real dreams consist of. But if he is where he is, you’ll continue to support him, in its right and in its wrong.
You nod, finally letting go of the cat. With that, his gaze moves to you. “It’s like… I feel sleepy, I can tell I’m exhausted, but every time I close my eyes, suddenly, I am forced to focus on every sound, and even feel a presence looming over me…”
He smiles encouragingly. “I assure you, there is nothing or no one else in your room. But,” he pauses, some bigger idea formulating behind his eyes, “I also understand that rationalization of the issue may still not be enough to soothe your mind. Therefore…”
“Yes?"
“Would you care for a cup of relaxing tea?”
“Tea?” you echo curiously.
“Mhm.” He nods, still drowsily, and ruffles his hair with his hand. “I have a special herbal mix that can help one sleep. Would you like to try it?” he asks gently.
“I thought these were… pretty overrated, no offense,” you say dryly. “As in, they can certainly help, but are not capable of making you sleep on their own. I don’t think it’s enough for how restless I am...”
His smile becomes a bit smug. “I can change your conviction about those.” He taps your forehead, having you reflexively close your eyes, much to his entertainment. “It’s true that what they typically sell is usually no more than leftovers wrapped in teabags. But I have my own special blend,” he informs confidently. “So?”
If he thinks so, you assume this must indeed be something of value.
“Yes. It doesn’t hurt to try, I suppose,” you acquiesce.
“That’s the spirit,” he praises and pats your head. “You can stay here, if you so wish. Or you can come with me. It’s your choice.”
You immediately decide to do the latter.
“I will come with you, General.”
Inside the kitchen full of cabinets matching the style of the rest of the house and celadon pottery, he nods at the table for you to sit down.
As you do, you gain the chance to observe the general’s routine as he moves around. Setting the kettle on the stove, he reaches to one of the cupboards, acutely remembering where he put that tea.
It makes you wonder if he struggles with sleep himself. Perhaps it’s easier to rest during the day and not so easy at night when the world falls quiet and cannot mute anything jarring. You suppose a man like him would have a lot to ponder about.
The thoughts in his head clinking against each other like a set of porcelain stacked tightly together in that cupboard, unsteady and threatening to fall out once he opens the door, therefore he stays silent.
A small can is opened before he offers you to peek inside. The strong aroma hits you immediately; more potent than the typical herbal scent, already promising.
“Hm. You’re right, General. I don’t think I’ve tried this mix before.”
“I worked carefully to obtain the best blend.” Smiling proudly, he explains this as he sets down the table with a tray and a tea set.
When water reaches the right temperature and you can hear loud whistling, he removes the kettle and pours into the pot.
“Here, try it,” he says encouragingly as he pours you some into your cup you hold up with your tired fingers. “I even added some dried fruits so it’s more easy to drink. Personally, I despise bitter medicine.” He frowns at the thought.
“I can imagine that.” You snicker, earning a dramatic look.
“So ungrateful.”
You shrug and take a sip after blowing at the liquid.
He inspects you as you do, eyes moving along the raises of the cup; this gauging for your reaction with keen attention nearly gives you chills in result.
“How is it?”
“Tolerable.”
“You wound me.”
“Well, it’s no crispy soda.” You smirk.
He shakes his head, heaving a sigh. “My dear assistant has gotten so spoiled.” He finally sits down, his gaze not straying from his focal point. “In any case… That tea is no panacea, therefore I will not make any promises, but it’s certainly a good starting point. I wouldn’t want you getting addicted to sleep pills.”
“I didn’t know you were so traditional, General.”
“A new broom sweeps clean, but an old broom knows the corners,” he chuckles. “Sometimes, it’s the old remedies that work the best. Hopefully, this one will serve us well.”
“Us?” you repeat with confusion.
He blinks in small surprise, then quickly clarifies, calm, “Well, if you sleep well, so do I — there will be no need to wake me up.”
“Ah, you’re right, General…”
Over the time, as the conversation flows betwixt you two, you can feel heaviness biting at your eyelids.
“Wow, General…” You’re unable to stifle a yawn. “Those herbs might be doing wonders already… I feel like I could sleep even on this kitchen counter…”
He smiles, all satisfied. “I’m happy to hear that, though I would prefer if you allowed me to escort you back to your room first.”
You can only nod your head, recognizing that you may be too drowsy to go on your own.
With his arm around your shoulders, he leads you through the corridors. You find yourself leaning a bit into him, your head on his shoulders. He doesn’t comment on it, thankfully.
You don’t even register the moment you’re finally in bed with his help. You know he says something to you as he tucks you in, though it’s mostly distorted balderdash to you and you cherrypick individual words. “…is alright… you should be… see soon… Sleep well—”
The tea you drink ends up working as intended. You don’t remember the last time you slept so immersed. In the morning, you barely manage to gather yourself from the cozy bed and get ready. If it were up to you, you’d gladly sleep in for at least one more hour. You trample the floor in search for work-appropriate clothes, half coherent yet definitely grateful.
Your general probably struggles too, though he doesn’t really need any herb for that. His indolence has a tendency for making you think he’ll be late, even if he always appears punctually one last minute exact before his shift starts — smirking and poking at you for being such a worrywart.
You meet him at the gate of the estate, thankful that he is actually present. “Good morning, General,” you greet, adjusting the bag on your shoulder, only for him to grab it for you anyway.
“Good morning,” he greets back enthusiastically, ignoring your small pout. “How did you sleep?”
“Very well. I have to give it to you — you were right about those herbs doing wonders for insomnia.” You smile brightly at him — and he smiles as wide at that.
“I’m really glad. Let’s catch this day together.” With his hand on your upper back, he starts to guide you outside.
You fly a starskiff… together. Originally assuming you should take your own route to avoid any conspicuous behavior for people at the office, he instead seems casual enough about the matter. Perhaps his words about it being no more than helping you in rough situation were correct; however, you naturally anticipate uncomfortable rumors that might gather.
With one reason especially; he sinks into another wave of sleepiness, with his head lolling onto your shoulder. While you sit all uptight, both flustered and unwilling to wake him up, he appears awfully comfortable, tickling the skin of your neck with his thick hair and languish breathing. You get the chance to observe him in his most peaceful; you often do when he falls asleep standing at the desk, but you have a hunch he’s especially snug with you, his palm gently resting on your arm.
Life truly can be unfair; your general is not just a cunning man. The mole under his left eye is enough to make you think he’s well-favored by gods, bringing attention to the rest of the beautiful composition of his face. If those sharp features are of a sculpture to gawk in awe at, then you are his humble patron.
Before you’d hit the Seat of Divine Foresight, your general takes you to the breakfast establishment he’s a regular at — and where he has his own section.
“Eat to your heart’s content. My treat,” he says with another sip of warm puffergoat milk.
The setup on the table is marvelous, making your mouth water at the sight. All kinds of meals greet you: shrimp and soup dumplings, pork buns resting on the steamers, rice noodle rolls, lotus leaf-wrapped sticky rice, steamed fish, congee, and stir-fried vegetables. He does eat a lot, standing tall and wide as a man, who also regularly trains.
“Thank you. I don’t remember the last time I saw so many goods or even ate pro—” You halt your speech, realizing what you just reveled. You not eating enough is something you know he would take seriously.
“Oh? Finish your thought,” he challenges with a small smirk.
“It’s nothing,” you try to say casually.
“It clearly is not, if your first instinct was to state exactly those words,” he argues rather bluntly.
“It’s just that…” you start nervously, “I was so stressed, and… I might have been unable to digest food,” you say apologetically. “But I will eat now, I promise!”
He sets down chopsticks for a moment and leans back, looking at you thoughtfully. “Have I been making you work too much?”
“No, not at all!” you quickly reject, waving your hands and chopsticks in front of your face. “I was stressed about that…” you lower your voice as if they could hear, “stalker.”
He nods at that, acknowledging your explanation. “I should have guessed so. Still, if they bring you such burden, perhaps you should ease on your workload.”
With that said, he places even more food onto your plate — making it indisputable that you eat. You sigh pitifully.
“No, I… I should be able to manage, now that I can take that stalker concern off my shoulders for a bit.” You try to reassure him so he doesn’t dare to think of being willful and cutting your hours. Then you feel like being more petty for all these times that he teased you. “Besides, I doubt you’d be happy with a mountain of paperwork waiting at your desk.”
It works, in a way, as your General’s expression suddenly turns grumpy; just for a moment though, for he flashes you a blinding smile. “And I should be grateful for all that pesky paperwork you have been helping me with. My life has never been easier since.”
You feel your cheeks flush, overwhelmed by the intensity behind the praise. “No, it’s simply my duty…”
He is the sun, and you are the shadow that follows him, basking in his glory. You have made yourself comfortable here, needing nothing else. Or maybe you’re one of the thousands of other minute rays, each one insignificant alone, yet together they complete him. Sometimes, it’s easy to doubt yourself and think that you get to keep your spot by his side simply because the general either likes you or is too bothered to look for a new subordinate. And yet, you think you’d fight tooth and nail to keep yourself close to him, letting no one else be here — whether it makes you selfish or not.
“Duty or not, you do exceptionally well.”
Ah, your heart.
“Well, if you were to exclude my latest series of failures…” you mumble under your breath, incapable of looking him in the eye.
He softens his tone. “They’re… excused,” he reassures as he grabs his chopsticks again, seemingly trying to stop himself from gorging in front of you with his eyes greedily wandering over the table. “I won’t hold it against you, not knowing your current predicament. I would only be concerned if you were to purposely start neglecting your duties.”
“Thank you for your understanding, General.”
The rest of the meal proceeds smoothly, save for the moments where he insists that you eat a little bit more. Or when… you notice his appraising gaze. “What is it?” You can feel him staring intensely at your face, that you stop eating.
“You have some rice on your face,” he informs politely. “May I?”
“Oh.” You nod your head, despite small shyness the prospect of being touched by him there inspires.
And you find his hand to be very warm, the moment his fingers brush your skin. Carefully so. For a moment, you even think that his past lovers must have been very lucky, being offered such tenderness—
You quickly reject the thought, reminding yourself of that he’s your superior, therefore the reverie is not appropriate at all. But he is still almost beguiling, and you are easily distracted by his proximity; all the more when he chooses to concentrate his sharp gaze on yours for a modicum of second, your breath hitching, only to then look down at the rice grain.
“There you go. All clean,” he says, all amiable that it doesn’t help you to clear your mind at all.
You are chock-full of his warmth and it still is never enough; as if you await for it to reach your bone marrow one day.
“Thank you.” You clear your throat.
His lip curves knowingly, though he doesn’t make any quips. “Ready to go?”
“Naturally.”
At the office, you try your hardest not to mess up your work again. Try to is crucial wording here. Lines blurry together to make no sense, you fall out of concentration with the tiniest of snaps in the air, and things just evade your hands while you feel as though time is of essence.
Ironically, little of this happens due to the stalker lingering in the background like a ghost; you simply feel the pressure to make it up to your general and prove that you’re still competent, the same way providing contradictory results. Has he asked you to? No. But you losing his approval somehow feels imminent.
He stops you when you move to grab another file pile from the desk. This way frustrating you, as you were about to finish organizing them by their importance. “There’s no need to hurry,” he chides lightly. “This isn’t a race, and we don’t have any pressing deadlines at the current moment.”
“I know, but…”
His hand stops yours, covering it entirely. Your throat goes dry. “Sit down.”
“But—”
“Please, sit down for me.”
That for me always works on you. You have no choice but to listen, sinking into your seat. “I don’t want you being lenient with me, General,” you vocalize your dissatisfaction in a peeved manner.
His brows narrow down. He does not appear angry; if anything, he’s curious. “I’m not being lenient, if only understanding,” he corrects you.
“How much more understanding can you be?” These words leave your mouth bitterly, as you scowl. “I refuse to leave things to chance—” The moment you realize your waspishness, you quickly apologize.
You’ve become much more irritable ever since that stalker started bothering you; you don’t want to be taking it out on someone innocent, who, if anything, is helping you deal with them.
The general stands in front of you, looking down at the product of your stress with nearly amusement — instilling irritation in you again, as you personally fail to see what’s so funny.
“Am I a joke to you?” you grumble petulantly as you cross your arms, earning a shake of head.
“No. My apologies if I gave the impression,” he laughs it off softly. And instead of further arguing with you, he reaches for a solution. “Would it help you if you worked on your own today?”
Your mind reads it wrong — as pretty much him kicking you out because you were too chafed in your attitude.
“Not because I suddenly resent your presence. I only want for you to be comfortable,” he clarifies before you could overthink it, knowing to anticipate this much.
“I…” Part of you still wants to insist on you staying. Another part knows better. Stop being so ungrateful and just accept his offer. He does so much for you, and you do what? Be snappy with him? Any other superior would have had your stuff out of this office already.
“You’re right,” you ultimately agree, albeit begrudgingly. “I think some space might help me work better. I apologize for attacking you, General.”
As you leave his office, in the corner of the eye, you see him scribbling down something in his pocket notebook — hoping it’s not some type of written warning for you.
Your general ends up staying behind at work, forecasting to be here for a while longer than you as he needs to take care of few things, urging you to go home first therefore — whether that’s regarding your stalker or his own business. Despite enjoying napping during office hours tremendously, he can be and especially has to no choice but to be industrious.
Perhaps the naps are the key to stalling the mara growth. Hopefully.
He still has someone transport you home. The knight responsible for your safe passage doesn’t inquire much, especially not about you and the general living together. You’re grateful, not needing small talk after the first day at the office since the revelation. His silence is also a relief. Your ears already have caught some rumors regarding your situation, but most could be narrowed down to either a scornful comment about the general babysitting someone scared to be on their own or word of concerns offered to you. Nothing unusual for the Seat of Divine Foresight.
You enter the house with a duplicate access card you were granted.
With you on your own, you sensed your anxiety about to strike miles ago. Therefore, you try to distract yourself by making dinner. Even if he keeps on insisting that you owe him nothing, you still wish to reward him somehow. Only for you to fail miserably.
You find yourself hoping he’d come back already, unable to gate your mind from imagining there is something waiting for you around the kitchen’s corner, every noise suspicious.
And then hours stretch. He’s taking even more time than usual, and you have to stop yourself from calling him multiple times. You burn something once so you try again. It doesn’t work out either so you grab another ingredient, only to cause even more food waste. You try one last time, sitting down by the table as you wait for the broth to gain flavor; intermittent with you looking out onto the corridor.
You freeze up hearing the door open; but with the familiar sound of him removing his equipment, your shoulders sag in relief. The moment you see him enter, you run to him and throw yourself at him. Your arms squeeze him viciously, palpating his tangible form for your comfort.
“Whoa there!” Your general laughs in surprise. “What happened to you? Did my dear assistant miss me this much?” While you’re all nerve-wracked, he sounds awfully amused by your actions. And still, his hand rubs at your shoulder. “I would certainly hope so.”
Feeling your cheeks heat up, you speak into his chest, “I’m sorry… I was scared to be alone… but I also wanted to make us dinner, General…”
“If burning my house down is the next step, then you are certainly succeeding.” As much as he’s nice to you, letting you ruin his kitchen is unacceptable.
“Oh no!” you exclaim with panic, tearing yourself apart from him. You haven’t noticed that the soup is burning at the bottom of the pot.
Before you could turn off the stove, his hand stops you. “I’ll take care of it,” he decides confidently.
“But—”
“No but. I need my kitchen in one piece,” he says with small disapproval.
“Right. I’m sorry.” Sitting down again, you look like a kicked puppy; although, you’re joyed he is finally back.
You watch him remove the pot from the stove, roll his sleeves and wash his hands, and then grab new ingredients from the fridge. It’s a relaxing sight to watch, slow life of it grounding you with his certain way around the kitchen, and the evening light makes him nearly incandescent, stealing your breath away.
“What were you doing out there for so long, General?” you ask curiously, playing with sprinkles of salt on the table. “If I may ask, of course.”
“You may,” he says over his shoulder as he chops tofu. “I was looking into your situation.”
You feel your guts churn, anticipating something bad to be revealed. “Yes? And did you find something?” Your voice trembles.
His head swivels, and he peeks at you with quite solemnity. “We had a look at your house.”
“And did you find anything?”
“Yes.”
Your heart stills; nonetheless, you push for answers. “What exactly?”It begins to frustrate you, the rate at which he reveals the information step by step.
“Wiretap. Whoever is harassing you, they ensured to further intrude your privacy. Other than that, there is no other evidence left. They do quite a clean job.”
Your mouth opens in silent shock. You weren’t simply paranoid. You weren’t dramatic. The situation, in fact, is far worse than you have been imagining. All of your conversations. Things you’ve said to yourself. Tears and other noises. You imagine that whoever is behind this, they enjoyed hearing you immensely.
“You had good instincts to tell me about your suspicions.” Your general stops the chopping and turns around to face you, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.
“But…” Your voice is barely above a creak. What makes less sense to you is what is there supposed to be about you that got them so hooked on you, therefore, you consider another possibility. “Could it be… this person is less personal and more about reaching you through me?”
His brow raises, ever so subtly, and still, appearing somewhat condescending, as if you are saying a joke. “I rather find myself doubting that. There is not much about me to be found here, and as you have said before, they went through your personal belongings.”
“Yes, but… why would they even be that interested in me?” You frown. “I mostly just work…”
“You tend to underestimate yourself, a precious bird like you.” He huffs, full of humor. “I’d know something about this.”
The way he weaves his words like they’re made of silk is not good for your health. You’re far away from being conceited already, so hearing his words, they pierce through your heart with double strength. Flushed all over your body, words of protest die in your mouth.
“Not to say I justify their actions,” he adds more seriously. “If anything, people like them need little reason sometimes. Only they know the definition of what is special to them.” His gaze infiltrates through you, as though he expects you to agree.
And you do, considering him sensible. “Perhaps you are right, General…” You sigh, rubbing the side of your neck in thought. “You seem well experienced in those topics. Is that a common behavior you notice?”
He smiles at you, in a wry, knowing way. “An old horse knows the way. Over the centuries, I have had an unfortunate chance to see less favorable behavior in others. It also… gives you the opportunity to reflect on your own tendencies.” Then he adds, as if remembering the most crucial part, all stern, “Their behavior is certainly outrageous, and I’ll ensure that they face proper punishment.”
“That makes sense…” This burden of having knowledge — no wonder immortal kind loses their minds after reaching a certain age, having witnessed world in all colors possible.
He nods. “In any case… it is prudent for you to stay here until we can find the person responsible.”
“Yes…” you agree quietly. There is no protest from you, no concern about making yourself humble for once — you cannot imagine going back to your house where someone potentially willing to hurt you may be awaiting.
“Besides. I rather enjoy having you here,” he adds to lift up your spirits.
Smiling shyly, you mumble, “Thank you, General.”
“Don’t mention it,” he says softly. He then clasps his hands together. “Now. The dinner should be ready soon.”
But you don’t feel like you can stomach anything, not after what you found out about. “I’m… I’m really sorry, but I really don’t feel like eating?” you say apologetically, hopeful for his understanding.
“I see.” He looks genuinely disappointed at the idea of eating on his own, pulling strings of your heart. They always seem to rest in his fingers. “You’ll take your tea, then? Perhaps you should head to bed early today.”
You consider. “Can I have that tea on an empty stomach?”
“It’s probably not the wisest idea,” he mutters, lighting up as if just found a cheat code to have you here for a tad bit longer. “I’ll prepare you something lighter, at least. Would that be alright with you?”
And you know you can’t deny him. “…Yes, General.”
A few days pass, spent in you clinging to your general’s promise about looking into that stalker, their likely whereabouts and connections included. Apparently, they make circumstances more complicated, having exercised enough self-control after your sudden disappearance. No activity was registered near your house, painting a suspicion that they know well who you work for, and so the consequences for targeting you behind that fact.
You have managed to settle in rather nicely at the general’s house. For one, his presence is comforting and calming. For two, there’s all kinds of slow life luxuries to take from your surroundings. With the evening nearing, you decide to indulge yourself with a round of your favorite movie, well-earned after work. You’re lucky enough to have it playing on one of the channels today.
Heading inside the sitting room, you find it to be already occupied by your general. Taking a nap, he lies in a position of a man ready for departure into afterlife — on his back, his hands crossed at his chest. With his tall body, he takes up the entire space of the couch. It would be an adorable sight, seeing him all peaceful, if it weren’t also a good reminder of the often tedious work to keep him awake, only to fail at withholding sleep breaks. Nothing will make this man budge once he sets his mind on something, the rule so golden that he often presents you with another (particularly terrifying) idea.
But since he’s at home, his own home, waking up him up just so you can watch a movie would be plainly rude. Therefore, all you decide to do is get a blanket for him. With him all bundled up, you turn around to leave.
A sudden grip latched onto your wrist stops you. “What’s the hurry for?” he asks groggily before yawning.
“General—”
“You should stay,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t sleeping… just meditating with my eyes close. Don’t mind me.” The same old excuse. If anyone, he was sleeping rather contentedly, and instead is still aware enough to know when someone’s approaching.
Your general slowly sits up and pushes you onto the seat next to him with remarkably little effort. “Indulge me, will you?” he says teasingly. “If we have more time to see each other outside of the office, I don’t see why we shouldn’t take advantage.”
That makes you nervous, if anything. You sometimes get to see him outside your work — business banquets, training fields, or you (not so) occasionally running into each other — but it’s different being on your own with him at his house. You’re certainly not supposed to be some type of best friends. And yet, he doesn’t seem to mind the whole stalker situation as much as you originally wished him to; perhaps there’s no point in panicking, so he at least tries to find silver lining in it. However, there is some part of you that has always wished to see him up close; in his natural habitat, you may say.
“That’s… I… actually have always wanted for us to be able to pass time like this,” you admit shyly. “But—”
There’s a genuine surprise painting itself on his face; it’s a momentary ripple in the water, as his expression turns rather content. He tilts his head, looking at you with curiosity. “Is that so?”
You nod your head, even if the proximity leaves little space for being confident. “I don’t mean anything inappropriate by this… I simply… “ you can feel your heart race, clutching your knees, “wish to understand you better. I feel like I don’t know you that well even years later.”
You have always admired him, your general who ensure that so much a single hair does not fall from your head, people’s general who leads others to greatness. The world shines brighter around him, but you still have no idea what exactly illuminates him. Maybe it’s some type of darkness reflecting the light and he wishes not to burden, or even scare. You want to believe you are ready to face the truth regardless.
“Do you want to know something, then?” he asks more quietly, leaning in closer to your face.
“Yes.” You nod your head rapidly, and as your eyes spark up with excitement, his only turn more joyous.
“Are you absolutely certain? It might overwhelm you at first.”
You look at him with question. Perhaps you were right about the truth dissonance. That makes you all more eager to hear him — not to be nosy, but to be of comfort.
“I am certain, General.”
“Good,” he says seriously. He even grabs your hand. You assume that he must be doing this to ground himself — so you let him.
“You have always been my favorite.” He must realize the impropriety of his words, considering previously given warning, yet his hand keeps stroking yours as if it’s the nature of thing. And when he sees your astounded look, he asks, “Is it really so wrong to say?”
Your breath hitches. What he said could easily leave anyone simultaneously stunned and flattered. You can only imagine how many people have dreamed of being referred as such by him, to earn his favor and trust. Yet you also completely comprehend that this isn’t in any shape or form appropriate. Not even because of the ranks between you, if only for the fact that leaders, at least the responsible ones, shouldn’t make their favorites.
“That’s… probably not professional,” you nearly squeak out these words, struggling to grapple him with any more potent argument against. You have absolutely no clue where did this come from. You don’t remember him ever saying anything like this, nor do you believe he has ever implied that beyond simple liking for you before.
“Unfortunately, treating things as strictly professional has never been enough to keep Luofu safe.” He laughs softly, as if undeterred by your reaction.
“But this isn’t about Luofu’s safety though?” This is purely personal. You’re not sure why he came up with this example.
The look he gives you in response nearly startles you. A bit on a sharper side, as if evaluating your counterargument as some form of insolence. Unheard to you, for he usually encourages you to debate your case when you find him questionable. You immediately wish to apologize, even if you’re not fully convinced you are in the wrong.
“No. It is not,” he says solemnly. “What I’m trying to convey is… not all matters can be treated as black and white.”
“But what about this one?” you dig for answers nervously, your sweaty hand trembling in his.
“I know the way you look at me sometimes,” he delivers remarkably bluntly, stealing your breath entirely.
“W-what?” you ask, incredulous, not sure if you caught his almost accusatory words right. Perhaps you find yourself gawking at him in awe quite often, daydreaming during your job when you shouldn’t, however… potentially suggestive or enamored with is not how you remember yourself acting. You admire him the way a soldier would admire their leader. Emanating something else has to be purely accidental.
“It’s alright. There’s no wrong answers. Not with me here.” Reassuring you, he even sounds affirmative.
“But General, I really didn’t—”
“Shh,” he shushes, placing a finger on your lips. “As I’ve said, it’s quite alright. It can stay a secret between us.”
Is he right? Seeing something you didn’t see yourself because you were too afraid to acknowledge it? You trust your general. You believe him to be wise, as well awfully keen on details. His conclusion wouldn’t come unprompted, no? All of this causes a disarray of thoughts going haywire, your brain unable to fully process the sheer possibility of you ever seeing him in a romantic light. You have worked hard to ensure that you adhere strictly to the protocol, the occasional exception being healthy dose of scolding.
He seems actually serious about it, gripping your hand like a steady current; he’s not pressuring you to answer, yet he’s not letting you debunk him either. Between you, his assistant of many years, and him, a general for centuries, you suppose he’d know better, even if you’re supposed to know yourself — he has a terrifying flair for reading people, occasionally scaring you with how well he has foreseen something about you.
And if he’s not mad at you for the prospect… this should be your chance to come clean about your supposed desire. Even if him being fine with it should be a cause of concern. You don’t believe he’d ever throw such words lightly. “I… I have always admired you, General. I’m sorry if my behavior seemed inappropriate.” You take the responsibility onto yourself.
He smiles at your confession, seemingly understanding. “Not at all. I’m glad you could finally say this aloud.”
You feel some weight off your shoulders, though there is still something that concerns you. “However… shouldn’t you be… discouraging this?” Yes, he’s said you are his favorite. But you assume the implication is no different than simple workplace favoritism. You’re an adorable assistant that works hard, listens to him, and is so easy to be teased at times. Perhaps you are closer to a pet he wants to spoil and fondle—
“What if I were to say that the feeling might be reciprocated? I do quite treasure you myself.”
You are dumbfounded for the second time in a row, now even worse; he’s involving feelings. Seeing how grave the situation is becoming, you stand up as if burned. You should be happy — it’s as good as it gets being his personal assistant It’s hard to be. Nothing makes sense to you. “Admiration?” you repeat incredulously.
He nods his head.
“In… what way, exactly? What is there to admire about me?” You begin to hate this. Those half-spoken answers of his. Vague enough to not let you on, not subtle enough to be disregarded.
“Why don’t I show you?”
“Show me?” You have a bad feeling about his motivated look.
“Yes.” He stands up too.
You gulp down nervously. “I don’t think—”
But his hands are already on you — one on your waist, the other on back of your head — locking you in place — and then he presses his chest flush to yours. You curse him for his agility, staring at him with a huge, red no plastered all over your body.
It’s a short-lived display. His lips end up on yours.
He moves all languid, in no hurry, not even worried about the possibility of you rejecting him —moving even as you stand in your stupor, his eyes slightly open to watch your contortions. Every move your general makes seems to be well-thought and likely to bear intended results at least half of the time; it’s the case this time as well. None of the divine foresight has anticipated this. This isn’t written in the stars, as though he’s making his own path, taking you as his victim along. Your fingers twitch, itching to push him away.
And yet, some part of you finds it hard to deny him. For you think you owe him, and for you’ve come to expect his presence. The feeling of his lips on yours, if you were to remove the part screaming about forbidden, is nice and fuzzy. He’s spreading poison all over your mouth, it still sugary enough to melt on your tongue.
Against your good conscience, you find yourself kissing him back, hesitant or not.
Seeing at least some enthusiasm returned, his fingers weave themselves through the lower portion of your hair, dragging your lips closer to his now devouring mouth. He acts in a way you’ve never seen in him before; repeatedly growing hungry in his movements, groaning into your mouth, digging further to see you breathless. It’s as if he can’t get enough of you, further solidifying his words about you being his favorite.
You whimper at the small pain at your scalp, so the one in your lungs, yet you dive for that goodness hidden below the taboo, focusing on the softness on his lips instead.
When he’s finally done, he yanks you close, letting your head land on his chest. You’re not allowed to regret much, with you still hazed and him immediately moving onto another topic. “Have I ever hurt you?” he asks, half-roughly from how breathless he is on his own.
“No…” You shake your head slowly, the dizziness worsening. “Why?”
“Then where are such concerns coming from?”
“I…” You’re not sure what he’s exactly referring to. Your surprise about his supposed affection? You finding this dynamic inappropriate? You’re not even wrong; at least, if anyone were to hear about a verbatim situation, they would disapprove. Your heart pounds as if this behavior of his is shameful, giving you the first taste of real disappointment for him.
“Has been someone giving you wrong ideas about me?” he asks with a rueful intonation.
“No! I’d not even listen to their travesty… I know the truth,” you quickly clarify, eyes wide. “I know you’re a good man.”
“Then why don’t you let the truth guide you this time as well?”
You cannot even define the truth, is the problem, throwing you off terribly.
It’s not that you’re totally oblivious to hidden, perhaps darker parts to your general. You’ve been there for him many times when he earned an earful from different generals, or you yourself heard rumors about less favorable actions of his only the tightest circles know about. You sometimes turn a blind eye to the documents that pass through the office. However, you believe most of them to be necessary evil. You know he is therefore a capable man, in a variety of that word’s meaning. You’ve learned how to ignore those, but also rationalized this as an inevitable part of leading, as well politics overall.
Eat or be eaten.
And yet, this sort of confession seems the most selfish, lacking the pragmatism behind the intention.
“You trust me, no?” he asks after noticing how silent you’ve become.
He allows for your head to surface, only to receive a worried look. “I do. I really do, General…” You try to convince both him and yourself. You do trust him: there’s simply an error in your system, a mismatch of information.
“Then what exactly are you fearing?” He strokes your cheek, speaking all softly again.
You lean into what now feels like a bear trap. “I really don’t think this is appropriate…” Your breathing grows shakier as you speak. “If anyone were to know…” There’s a lump in your throat at the thought. “I also… don’t want to ruin our relationship…” He’s ruining what you build about him in your mind, the structure falling apart.
“No one has to know for now.” He’s really doing this, willing to take such risks.
And you’ll follow him, because following him is what you have always done and know, starting freshly an adult. “I’m sorry for doubting you. It’s just that… I don’t know what to make of it. I mean, you kissed me, and…” You laugh nervously.
He smiles, running his finger across your trembling lips. “We don’t have to… make any decisions in haste. We can take it slowly and see where it leads us.”
Where he leads you, you think as somewhere in the back of your head, a heavy door shuts locked. You’re unable to wrap your mind around what it entails exactly. But confused and not wanting to disappoint him, you find yourself nodding like a good assistant that you are.
You dedicate another day to work, this time choosing to spend it in a separate office yourself — every time you look at your general, you feel his lips on yours. He doesn’t rush you or summon you to his side, as though believing you only need time to make peace with certain parts of yourself.
To sweeten the pill, you try to tell yourself that perhaps he is simply lonely, soon to remember himself and recognize his mistakes.
After the workday is over, you choose to relax in his garden, sunbathing one of of the wooden lounge chairs here. The sight brings smile to his lips the moment he spots you. “Ah, so that’s where you sneaked into. I will be starting dinner soon.”
Your eyes pry open in small terror, as you have not heard him coming at all. If anything, you’ve been more sensitive to unexpected noise these days. He stands there casually, holding a small tray full of fruits he then sets down next to you as though it’s some form of truce.
“Oh? I’m excited. Or I would be, if you didn’t decide to scare me like this!” you scold with a grumpy expression.
He shrugs at that like some rascal; as if you aren’t feeling small with him above you, chest puffed. “It’s nothing special. Just some stew,” he replies nonchalantly. “Regardless. How have you been liking the courtyard area?”
You want to be mad at him. You really do. But when you clearly see that childish excitement at the idea of sharing his pride with you, it’s hard for you to shoot it down. “Your garden is beautiful, General,” you praise with all earnestness.
You taste it more and more, the sense of zen the beautifully trimmed and lush garden inspires. It’s a quiet blend of disciplined beauty and cultivated calm — stone paths, refined evergreens, and soft blossoms arranged like brushstrokes. A red moon-gate frames the bamboo beyond, while a still pond reflects rock formations and drifting koi. Even the wind here feels measured. Nature here has been gently brought into harmony with order, inviting all kinds of life to enter.
“Thank you,” he gives you a small bow. “I put a lot of effort into managing it. Birds from every corner seems to enjoy the results.” As if to paint him just, some finch flies down and perches itself on his shoulder.
If animals like him, especially the ones so vulnerable, you suppose that your general truly must be worthy of your trust. He’s always been here for you, at least. And now, when you think about it, who is there for him these days? You try your best, but is it enough?
“Is something wrong?” He immediately notices your energy changing, letting that small bird fly away just like your mood does. “You look sad all of the sudden.”
“I wonder if it doesn’t… ” you choose your words carefully, not wanting to accidentally intrude, “get a bit too quiet, to live all alone, in a space as big as this one.”
His brows raise at such a question, though he doesn’t scold you. He assesses you and your empathy for him with something hard to describe for you. Wary, though not entirely displeased.
And the answer you receive is surprising; for one, it is honest, for two, there is no hesitation to make it your business. “I do get lonely sometimes.”
He gets lonely; him arranging the sentence to focus on his perspective perhaps surprises you the most. There is no passive “it does get lonely.” Usually, you don’t get to see this side of him. He keeps his deepest thoughts to himself, not going beyond mentions of pleasant memories that don’t require too much concealment for the sake of their privacy or even the risk of reanimating controversy. Therefore, it’s easy to prick up your ears and tune yourself to catch more. You definitely don’t want him to feel ever forlorn.
Sometimes, you even wonder what is it exactly that stopped him from settling down with someone — he’s married to his work at most. You can imagine his title plays a significant role here, but throughout history, that hasn’t stopped every each of his predecessors. Grudges being at play wouldn’t surprise you.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” you say a bit awkwardly in response as you fumble with your hands, not sure what else to add to make him happy enough. “You can always… count on me, General.”
After what you say, his look turns wistful. He gazes at the horizon for a moment with his hands behind his back. The layered garden stretches with no stopping point, as if it could endlessly conceal his loneliness by veiling him with its tree crowns. He sails away afar with his mind, waiting for the waters to take him again, glaive raised, in hopes for something else than boredom. And as he says something, for once, there is no crowd to scream in glory, and no friend to pour him wine.
“You needn’t trouble yourself. I’m merely an old man, with an old luggage,” he chuckles lightly, turning his head to face you again. “But. Seeing that my assistant is there for at least some time soothes my soul. Hopefully, she is enjoying her stay, in spite of everything.”
“I am!” you say immediately. You can even imagine that finally leaving will be bittersweet. The idea of you helping him makes you incredibly happy; you take it as him saying that he does consider you his companion. It shouldn’t be that surprising, considering that he kissed you and implied a start of something still undefined to you, yet you like hearing it from his lips. Unlike the kiss, it’s gentle and innocent.
“Then that makes me a very happy man.” He leans down close to you, stirring your heart, and picks up the tray.
“Would you care for a refreshment?” he offers cheerfully.
“Y-yes, General.”
From those a few fruits he brought you, he picks up your favorite, along with a knife. Instead of simply handing you the rejuvenating treat, he snicks a piece of it before putting it near your mouth. Covering the sunlight as he crouches down at your feet, you still feel very hot.
“General… I can eat on my own. I’m no child,” you say with embarrassment, eyes darting away from his satisfaction.
“No, you are not. But you do make an impressively grumpy face when I try to feed you.” That cursed lilt is at it again. He’s not even hiding it, that inclination to tease you all to his heart’s content.
You think that one day, you should try to pay him back tenfold. Even if you believe you’d have to possess a herculean strength of mind to be able to tackle a man like him. How does one even tease a man such as him, and actually succeed in making him budge? Maybe by… Licking his fingers as he feeds you that fruit, for starters, as a warmup for the future. Maybe you’ll learn more about him, exactly what makes him tick, and hit him with it.
You see his eyes widen for one, capturable moment, and his hand twitches in surprise, as a shiver goes through him like tiny thunders. Worse, that confused looks linger, as if he considers it to be a loss of control — you taking the initiative.
Then he laughs it off as if nothing, already scheming. “I see that you are adapting.”
“You’re forcing me to,” you reply with a proud huff. “Give me the fruit or I just might bite you next time.”
Reluctantly, he hands you the remaining fruit. But even then, you don’t feel freed of his grasp. He watches you eat, eating himself, but awfully slowly, more focused on you with something transfixed. He licks his lips, consuming you still.
He’s been odd since that kiss. No, he must have been off from the beginning of you ending up here, for the kiss to actually happen. You don’t know if it’s nerves or him deciding to be more open about something; you know that being inspected by him is as intense as always.
After you feel refreshed (and your heart troubled anew), you eventually find yourself yawning.
“You could take a little nap,” he proposes softly. “I’ll watch over you until you wake up.”
“What about the dinner?” It would be more optimal if he cooked meanwhile, though you don’t want to pressure him.
“It can wait. I myself…” he yawns, “feel a bit sleepy around this hour.” He sits down on the grass behind your chair, just to let his head fall onto your lap.
You tense up, flustered. “General… shouldn’t you just sit.”
“I find this much more comfortable.”
“How so. Your neck will hurt.”
“Then maybe you can massage it for me after—”
“No way!” You scoff. You’d probably massage him anyway.
“Fine. Then I guess I will have to simply deal with it…” The volume of his voice slowly dissipates.
“I feel like you’re just trying to take a nap yourself. So much for watching me.” You sigh.
“I’m sure I’ll sense when you wake up this way.” And so with that said, he dozes off. The rascal has enough indecency to fall asleep before you do, contradictory to his offer.
Your hand elevates itself and twitches right above his head. You stroke his hair so it doesn’t prickle his eyes, feeling weird about all that happened recently. A few weeks ago, you’d be worrying about a mountain of paperwork. Today, you are wondering just when will he kiss you again, and if the feeling will be so intrusive this time as well.
You let the sleep dissolve it like smoke.
Rinse and repeat, you and your general go to work together, work together, come back home together, and spend time and shop together. You almost forget that you even have a stalker, with the general taking care of it in the background and then you in person. Days blurs into one another, and you stay close to him especially as you traverse outside, unwilling for there to be blood in the water.
Currently busying yourself in the kitchen, you almost yelp, feeling a hand on you out of nowhere. “Your shoulders are finally not as tense. That makes me happy.”
“General!” you scold, turning around.
“Well, that is if not counting this moment,” he remarks humorously.
“Please don’t scare me like that,” you whine.
“Hm. I’ll consider that, but no promises.”
You give him an unimpressed look. However, you cling to his words with hope. “Am I really… appearing more relaxed now?”
“Yes. I suppose staying here with me has been treating you well.”
“I suppose that too.” You smile gently.
Maybe he’s been right. You had it relatively easy since coming here. If anything, it’s staring to make you feel greedy, since that one fateful kiss. You wonder what it’d be like to have more of him, clinging to the feeling of security he’s been harboring in you — overriding sense of rationality. Work finally progresses as it should as well.
“Good. You’ve been a loyal assistant for me for many years. It’s high time someone takes care of you as well.”
“Oh, um… you’ve been doing plenty for me over the years. And it’s my job to take care of you, not the other way around…” You turn back around, hiding your face.
“I suppose this is your main duty. However, you are still my responsibility,” he says assuredly.
“But—”
“No. Just no, sweet thing.”
Your eyes widening at the new nickname, your heart stammers before a surge of warmth goes through you, effectively distracting you from making further complaints.
Choosing better over teasing you over that for once, only smirking, he leans over you to close the cupboard above you so you don’t hit your head by accident instead.
“Careful here.”
You freeze for a moment, feeling small in his shadow, his body brushing against yours. And right as you think he’s going to withdraw, his arms wrap themselves around you.
“So what are you making?”
“What?” you ask in stupor, your cheek against his chest.
“The food,” he says nonchalantly, perfectly comfortable — looking down at you intently.
He’s hugging you as if you two are some… lovers. You should push him away. You don’t want to. But you should remember how unprofessional it is—
“I thought I could get us dinner,” you finally answer, a bit stiff. Which probably sounds romantic without you meaning to because all you’ve wanted is some way to repay him, at least somewhat. “I don’t know what yet.”
“Us, huh? I ought to be grateful. I’m sure it will be lovely to try your cooking for the first time.” He’s full of energy again. “Well, second time, but that first attempt doesn’t count.”
As you glare up at him a little, only then does he let you go; the ghost of his warmth does not.
Yanqing visits the house same day, taking advantage of the fact the general has some extra time off today. Or rather, he made sure he does.
He flies into the kitchen like a lost bee in flurry through the garden door, stopping in tracks as he spots you are here as well.. “Oh, I’m sorry, General. I didn’t know you had a guest.” The boy nods at you. “Hello, miss,” he says respectfully. “It’s good to see you again.” Then he turns to the general. “Can I ask, what is miss doing here?” He doesn’t want to be nosy but curiosity ultimately wins.
You suddenly feel nervous, taking a subtle step away from the general. You definitely don’t want the boy to start suspecting something; he’s already been taking in his image, wielding the instinct for noticing many details, just not as much patience.
“My assistant will be living with me for a while,” his mentor informs calmly.
Yanqing’s expression bears struggle with understanding, though there is no suspicious frown to suggest he finds the idea unusual. Perhaps to others, being hosted by the general truly is nothing inappropriate — thankfully to you.
“Did something happen?” he asks with worry.
“Well, that depends on whether you’re capable of keeping your mouth sealed, young man?” the general inquiries playfully.
“I can! I will! I promise!” Yanqing exclaims with a hand on his chest.
Both of them look at you expectantly.
“You can speak. Unless you find it uncomfortable to,” your general assures you.
You could simply lie to avoid making Yanqing worry:, however, you suspect he’d try to investigate on his own if you did, or that he would even conjure up a wrong idea. Besides, you know how important it is for him to become a maven of a soldier, and learning about uncomfortable topics is one of the avenues.
“No, its okay…” You take a sharp inhale. “Yanqing… me and General Jing Yuan were made to believe that… someone has been following me and entering my apartment. Stalking, in other words.”
Yanqing clenches his fists, his face turning sour immediately. Your general watches the sight with mild interest.
“For the time being of the investigation, we’ve decided that it’ll be safer for me to stay with General,” you add.
“That scoundrel…!” The boy fumes. “You’ve made a good decision, miss! I’m sure that General will keep you safe! But I also wouldn’t mind helping myself—”
His general’s hand stops him, landing on his shoulder. “Now, now, Yanqing. Don’t get ahead of yourself. But you are right about one thing,” he says softly as he ruffles the blond hair, making his apprentice scowl. “I will watch over my assistant.”
“You better do, General! This isn’t a joke.”
“Don’t I know that.” He sighs. Then measures him with something more serious. “But why are you here?”
With the talk about you, Yanqing got sidetracked. “Oh, right! I wanted to train with you, General,” he says, full of energy. “Everyone at the headquarters is busy lately… I don't even have many people to spar with, hmph.”
Your general looks at you, as if he’s asking you if it’s okay for him to step away. You nod. “Fine. But we’ll play a round of starchess first.”
“Huh?” the blond whines. “That’s not fighting.”
“A battle of mind and body are not so different, young man.”
“You’re just making excuses to beat me again,” he grumbles, but ultimately runs outside to where the board waits.
As you and the general stay alone for a brief moment, you ask, “Can I… at least prepare you two something to drink?”
“Oh?” He seems rather joyful at the offer. If anything, you don’t remember the last time you have seen truly lively like he is these days. “How domestic of you.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Thank you. We will have it,” he interrupts, then kisses your cheek and runs off himself before you could scold him.
There’s something wrong with you lately; a change happening, seeping into your pores and threatening to kill you from the inside if you don’t let it take a root.
You’ve always been eager to cater to the general’s needs, but now, more than ever. It’s undeniable that you feel indebted to him, despite his assurance that keeping one of the citizens safe is simply his duty. It’s also… having the chance and even pleasure to stay near him, as confusing as it sometimes is, allowed you to become even more intimate with each other — and inspire you to need to get to know your general even better, now that you got a taste of him.
Anytime you close your eyes, all you see is that smile of his, hear his voice, feeling disappointed he’s not here that your feet make a beeline for him on their own. “You can always count on me,” he repeats over and over in your mind until some amorphous figure having your voice skitters towards him.
Tonight, before you could ask him for your tea remedy as always, you set on to take a walk first. You’re not sure if you’re ready to see him again, even if he was with you just a few hours ago. With a robe thrown over your nightly attire, you take a stroll through his garden. It’s dark by now, the Luofu ship’s artificial light deciding to end the day a bit earlier today, simulating seasons of the year. Every step is illuminated with the garden’s lights awakening sensors, keeping your vision in tact.
You suddenly stop, hearing a noise in the distance. A few more careful steps, and you can see it’s your general… currently in the middle of his weekly training. Sporadically lazy or not, he still has to maintain his shape, as well the skill. You’d simply let him be, if it weren’t for the sight that is what truly stops you; half-naked, chest glistening with sweat, and that steel focus, that your eyes gain their own autonomy.
Only after brief stupor, you decide to withdraw; making a mistake, as your footwear scratches across the stone path with too much noise. The speed in which he turns his head around is commendable, though your heart rate already escalates. “Oh. Good evening.” He greets you from the distance, wiping his forehead as he beams you a smile.
“G-good evening, General. I’m sorry for the interruption…” You quickly avert your gaze in respect for him — even if he isn’t particularly bothering to hide himself.
Unfortunately for you, you can hear his quick steps approaching you right as you show that weakness. He crosses the space between you two in no time. “Is there something wrong?” he asks when in front of you, placing his hand on your shoulder.
You flinch, feeling the hotness, the sudden proximity rendering you with barrage of emotion. “No… I just…”
“You’ve seen such sights before, I’m sure.” So he noticed what troubles you.
Only then do you look at him, with a question in your trembling eyes. Does he mean him, in a state of training like this, or does he mean… seeing nude men? “Umm… what sights?” Whether you have some experience or not much of it, it is him who’s the man you spend most time with. When your gaze inadvertently falls onto his broad chest, you look again away.
“Me training, that is. You’ve been here before, to… urge me to wake up, to put it mildly.”
You nod your head, gladly going along this version of things. “Yes, of course…” You did run into him like this in the past. But mostly, your thoughts were overridden with pressure to have him moving, you too passionate to ponder over nudity.
“Why? Were you think of some other man?” he sounds playful, yet his eyes sharpen for a moment as though he envisions you like that.
The question takes you by surprise. It feels unusual, coming from his lips; your personal affairs are usually yours. Although, the line between personal and professional gradually gets tarnished, until you will become inextricable like a raindrop merging into another. You shake your head, finding yourself increasingly flustered, and perhaps frustrated. You can face more and less pleasant guests that the Seat of Divine Foresight takes. You can negotiate and deny someone of entrance. You can comprehend military jargon. But when it comes to your General, he has a relatively high skill in leaving you unsettled.
“Are you sure?” he drags on, leaning in closer.
“Why does that matter anyway?” you ask boldly, gulping when you feel his breath fan your face. That golden gaze, usually droopy, now vivacious for you, is nerve-wracking.
“Would it be wrong of me to say I cannot ignore the thought as much as I should?” he drawls.
“Huh?”
“I’m rather accustomed to having your eyes on me. The idea of them wandering elsewhere stirs me restless.” His hand ends up on your cheek, as he meets you with a mischievous though honed stare.
This admission throws you for a loop. You never assumed your General could be jealous; especially about you. But with a what a tease he tends to be… Maybe you’ve been getting it all wrong, all along. It’s easy to doubt yourself when he almost never says things as they are. Maybe, perhaps, what if I, almost — hearing all that repeatedly only muddies the water and baffles you.
“What are you even doing, General?” you ask, taking on a sudden bitter tone.
Though appearing to be slightly surprised by your reluctance, his hand doesn’t leave your face, stroking it to soothe. “Oh, my apologies. I didn’t mean to overstep. Will you forgive me?” He seems regretful enough as if it’s a simple matter of modesty, further amplifying your perplexity.
“I’m so confused. I don’t know what you want from me. It’s as if…” you trail off.
“As if?” he probes.
“As if you’re playing with me. You do as you please and then you barely explain anything to me. While you act like this is normal!”
Maybe that’s it, a hoax. Maybe your General is toying with you; like a cat would by pawing at their smaller prey that is too scared to move away. He can have anyone, there’s many willing to jump and dance as he pleases, so why wouldn’t you be a passing fancy at most? Why is he suddenly all over you, just because there is no one to bother or see you? You doubt he’s ready to start a controversy just because of one, pretty to him, assistant.
“Do you really believe your words to be true?” The explosive sternness in his voice nearly scares you, so does the scornful look directed at your accusation.
He corners you, stalking towards you as you step back, your heart pounding. It’s a futile attempt to run, as he pins you to the stone wall of his house, holding your wrists at your sides with your arms spread like wings. So crude, you would say he’s angry with you.
“General…?” you ask with panic.
“We can joke about many things, but as for me taking you seriously, it should never be questioned. Never.” He accentuates each word with hot iron.
The grip turning bruising and there being no angle to run toward scares you. You get the gist of what his enemies who faced him must have felt like; the man who tends to be lackadaisical is easy to underestimate, so the moment this lion rises with fierceness, only then do you comprehend what trouble you actually are in. You even feel guilty again — for doubting him. “I’m sorry…” you say with a quiver.
You’re a mess at this point. You’re well-aware that you shouldn’t be getting this close to him, or rather, allowing him to; but it’s so difficult to deny him, and above everything… You feel on top of the world with him. Appreciated, taken care of. Who else would look after you so much? Who else would ensure that you lack nothing, and that you are safe, and that you are even loved?
Yet is still intimidates you, the suddenness of his impropriety and the aggression, as if all he needed was to have you alone to finally act on his desires. You’re not sure why didn’t do so before, if he apparently is not as scared of repercussions as much as you are. Or maybe he needed that final push himself. To have you in his enclosure and see what it’s like to have you at his fingertips. You probably don’t know anything, you can only assume. After so many years spent together, you don’t know him well at all — you know what’s on the surface, and sometimes you do manage to read what’s below, you anticipate his needs, you see what others would miss… and yet, he’s the vast ocean you have merely explored, currently drowning in it.
Tears well up in your eyes, and you look at him with pain. “I feel so ungrateful sometimes. I know you did a lot for me. But I also… don’t know what to expect from you.”
This time, there is no verbal reassurance. His eyes don’t soften. There is no seductive craft about how everything is alright and that he understands. He kisses you. Madly, still locking you in place, swallowing your mouth with his. It quickly becomes heated, as if he’s pouring his thoughts about you — and as you wonder about their depravity, you quickly become breathless and cry into his lips. Just how much did he hide? Speaking must be difficult for him, or just inconvenient, so for once, he lets the actions speak.
You find yourself being lifted and pressed against the wall, any ability to think brutally ripped away from you. A gasp leaves your mouth, and you suddenly feel overwhelmed. Your legs wrap around him preemptively. You can feel his still flush chest crushing you against the surface, and the unexpected hardness building up and pressing between your thighs, driving you insane.
He’s extra greedy for you both, fondling your bottom as he licks the stream of your tears from your lips and pushes his tongue in, letting you taste your own sorrow. Your stomach tickles as you try to keep up with him, not having it in you to push him away. He appreciates that, rewarding you with some quick praise thrown between the kisses.
The moment he lets you breathe again, or rather, lets you breathe a bit more, he immediately attacks your neck. “You asked me that question, and I don’t know if you truly want to know,” he says between hard suckles that have you gasping and gripping onto his shoulders, “You might think of me as a brute…”
You think you could never believe him to be that: and yet, he seems to be proving you otherwise. This paralogism to your deification of him brings a question of how much longer can you survive him.
“That’s… for me to decide…” you argue back with a moan. “I’m tired of you speaking for me…”
He glares at you, panting. “You meddle with my sense rationality. Is that what you want to hear?”
Probably the closest thing to him being forward about how he feels about you. In a way, you like the idea of him being affected by you so much, nearly fragile; but above all, it still should scare you. “Yes,” you say boldly. “You finally are not a coward.”
At those scalding words, he suddenly lifts you up and starts carrying you inside, still catching a few kisses on your mouth along the way. As if you only encouraged him.
“General…?” you ask nervously between the blur of lips, your heart pounding at the what he’s trying to initiate.
“I know what you need,” he says so confidently it’s as if it’s not about his desires but yours.
Do you really need this? You can feel first waves of arousal, wrung out of him even when he’s all messy, as if he’s still being deliberate with you. He has corrupted you, perhaps.
Eyes darting around, you fight between pushing him away and drawing him closer.
You never get enough time to, for he brings you into his house as if returning from a successful hunt. Inside his room, he swiftly removes your robe he throws somewhere, one-handed, and places you at the edge of the bed. Before you could catch up with reality, he drags you by your legs to lie down flat. He sinks to the floor be between your thighs.
“What are you…”
“Let me make you feel better.” And so he parts your thighs, staring at you with some sort of malaise.
Your ears are ringing, your body pulsing all over at his words. About what? You wish to ask. But instead of that, you worry if you’re being too greedy again. After all that he’s done for you, it’s him taking care of you first — again?
“Wait, please, I want to…” You push at his shoulder, trying to stop him from removing your shorts.
“You don’t need to,” he growls, salivating like a borisin over your legs.
“But I really want to, General,” you nearly beg. If you don’t have him in your mouth within next five minutes, you might cry. “Wait, please, I want to…” you try to interrupt him again as he lays a bite to your thigh, trying to shut you up.
He reluctantly obliges, looking up at you with heavy breaths. “What is it?”
“Let me take care of you instead.”
You slowly stand up, him moving back in response, taken aback by your offer. And as he fully stands up, you sink down to your knees on the floor, validating your decision.
You look up at him with desperation. “Please, will you let me?” You squirm over your feet you sit on, itching with the need.
“You…”
“I want to make you feel good. And no, it’s not because I feel like I owe you.” At least, not entirely; there’s a storm of desire brewing in you, one you didn’t think was possible with him in the center of it. But he is finally there, sitting like a king inside your head, waving his hand for you to obey.
“It’s hard to deny you,” he ultimately acquiesces, a shudder of satisfaction passing through his voice.
All grateful, you tug at the button of his linen pants; he aids you, slightly lowering them down.
The size of what graces your eyes should have deterred you — slapping his abdomen once freed, nearly reaching his bellybutton, and decorated with white curls going up his stomach. Should have, as you are too far in your need to stop now.
You grab his cock carefully, reverent, sighing at the thick, warm, and throbbing weight in your palm. You stroke your general a few times, gauging how good it makes him feel. Then you rub translucent pearls that gathered at the tip.
You hear him take a hissy inhale at the touch, all wound up with you. Glancing up at him, it’s his mouth parted and eyes staring at you with heat.
It satisfies you. So you lean forward to wrap your lips around his tip needily, softly groaning at his taste. You withdraw to kiss and lick at it a few times before taking him in again.
His palm rests on top of your head, with sequence of gasps every time your lip or hot tongue comes in contact. You rendered him rather speechless. The way you look up at him surely could be considered one of the most remarkable sights, worship contemporary with need.
You slowly push your head lower, feeling as he stretches the corners of your lips with his wide girth.
“Mhm… take it slow… no need to rush…” he assures, stroking your head.
You swallow a bit more of him, reaching just a half of his length when you gag, tears prickling at the corners.
“Careful… it won’t go anywhere…” he jokes, and laughs even more when you give him a tiny scolding look. Then moans as you suck harder, biting his lip.
He’s a gentleman, not pushing your head down. He doesn’t need to, as you please him willingly — nodding your head up and down, spreading your saliva and warmth. What you cannot reach yet, you handle with your hand, even if you barely manage to close it around.
“You… truly… are wonderful.” You feel his hand stroke your hair as you take him down till his tip brushes the back of your throat, a praise on its own.
You moan around him, sending vibrations down. His stomach clenches in front of your vision, and he groans gutturally.
He makes a bold inquiry, regardless of how awry his voice is becoming, “Does it feel good, pleasing me?”
You moan again, as if confirming, closing your eyes for a moment to focus on the weight in your mouth, as well as the scent. You shuffle on your calves, feeling aches building up between your thighs. You think you’re right where you should be, for once in many weeks.
Focusing on where he needs you the most — withdrawing to suck on his sensitive tip — your hand works to stroke him. And finally, you push your head downward to meet at least some of him through your tight throat, in one fell swoop.
Your general lets out a low moan, stuttering his hips at the sudden tightness around his cockhead, barely stopping himself from gripping your hair.
There’s wet noises as you bop your head down, with you catching breath through your nose those moments where he’s not nestled inside your throat.
He must be able to tell you’re struggling a bit, huffing hard and trying to relax your throat, but seeing your hard effort in order to pleasure him, he allows himself this selfishness. He only wipes the excess slobber that begins to drip out of your mouth for you.
Your jaw aches, impossible not to with the size stretching your mouth wide, yet you push through and force your muscles to slacken, staring up at him with longing. You’re doing so good for him. You’re giving him something. He allows you to touch him, to watch him unravel. It’s you and him here and no one else— You get dizzy, inhaling his scent, feeling his warmth in your mouth, that your teary eyes turn hazy and heavy. You could live here, in this memoria, offering him requisite bliss so he can rest those old and tired bones and think of you as his own saving.
As if to help you, he pushes his hips forward, burying himself a bit deeper in your throat.
You gag, yet you don’t swat him away, holding him onto his thighs until your nose brushes against his abdomen. Then you pull back, inhaling raggedly, and push your soaked mouth onto his length again.
“You’re doing good.” He pats your head, speaking like he’s proud of you. “Worry not, I’ll take care of you afterward as well.”
You feel your stomach elate at the thought.
Eventually, it doesn’t take you that much to draw him close to the edge, not too many more gags and shallow thrusts, and you can feel him twitching, threatening to spill into your tight cavern.
“I’m about to…” he warns, throwing his head back slightly and closing his eyes.
But you don’t stop, only look more desperate. You take him even deeper, forcing him to choke even more than you are choking.
You cough up as his slightly salty load sticks up to your throat, clamming it and removing your ability to breathe. He gets lost for a moment, pressing his hips close to your nose. It’s only when he comes down a little that he suddenly starts to pull you off of him, realizing that your sounds are a bit too muffled.
“Are you—”
You swallow it all before he could unplug your mouth, even if it comes with difficulty from how thick his spurt is. Maybe it’s been a while for him, or maybe he’s naturally so potent. With how his load clings up your throat before your saliva could water it down properly, you cough few times.
A string of saliva connects between your lips and his tip as he pulls out fully with a soft sigh, appearing content at your act of altruism.
You open your mouth, showing him how free it is of any leftovers. His gaze darkens at the sight, and his throat apple shifts as he gulps.
He chuckles softly, pulling his lower clothes up. “Unbelievable. I must have underestimated your willfulness.”
You nod quietly and rest your forehead against his thigh for a moment, catching your breath.
“You did well. You always do,” Jing Yuan murmurs, rubbing your swollen lower lip with his finger.
The praise goes straight to your stomach.
“Now, come here.” Offering you his hand, he helps you stand up.
Tons of thoughts mantle your head at this time, but you find yourself susceptible, heeding until you get back on his bed.
Instead of moving to be somewhere above you, your general sits on the edge of the bed, next to you — being closer to someone in charge of you rather than bedding with you. He’s not where he was at first, kneeling between your legs, so you wonder if he changed his mind about the course of action.
His fingers trail over your thigh, watching the neverending squirms as they start.
“General…” you whimper breathlessly, your chest still rising irregularly. You have a bad feeling, wondering if he took to your subservience so much he’s now dragging this scene out, like he often does with many things.
“Jing Yuan,” he corrects you, finally permitting himself true selfishness.
“Huh?”
“When we are together, you should be able to drop the formalities.” He sounds resolute. “Can you repeat it after me?”
You’ve said his name many times before. When introducing him, when reprimanding him, when talking affairs. Yet it always happen with a prefix of his title. There’s alarms ringing, telling you that this is the end — once you comply to this, you can never truly retreat to your old relationship; or rather, what remains of it.
You concede anyway. He had you wishing you could say it many times lately, handing you the forbidden fruit and telling you to take the bite if you wish to be his completely — subtly so, yet as effectively.
“Jing… Yuan.” Flicker by flicker, your heart feels nearly as loud as your trembling voice.
“Very good.”
Serving you a smile not so pretty, Jing Yuan leans down for one more kiss with his hand on the other side of your body, not caring about the taste of himself still lingering on your tongue. His fingers keep brushing your thigh, way too gently for you all tense at this point. Even the way his hair falls over your face has you sensitive, demanding more.
It’s driving you crazy, how slow he’s taking this, building up your heat and not relieving it. When he withdraws, you look at him with a plea in yours.
“Will you…” Your lips quivers. “You mumble you’ll take care of me after…” you say with tears in your eyes.
“You’re right, I did. I almost forgot,” he says apologetically. He definitely didn’t forget. “Then allow me.”
Your sleep shorts are gently slid down, with him grazing his fingers on your skin along the way.
There’s an embarrassing wet patch on your underwear that gets revealed. Jing Yuan sighs, something sharper brewing in his golden gaze.
You feel naked before you actually are.
“It seems I was right.”
Your stomach twists at his words. “About…?”
“Our desires going both ways.”
You suddenly remember that one conversation. But before you could ponder on it for too long, spiral even, his fingers touch your clothed cunt and your hips rise on their own.
“Look at you,” he mocks gently.
You squirm under his gaze, trying to shut your thighs. He keeps them open with his palms on the insides of your thighs.
“Such eagerness from a simple act of service,” he teases.
Hot with shame, there is still something about his jab that gets you needy. Perhaps you’ve grown so accustomed to being relentlessly poked at, that now, you begin to desire more.
“I assume you want even more. Need, perhaps.”
You nod your head despite your dignity.
“Say it, or I won’t be able to do it properly…” he taunts, bordering on condescending.
And you still indulge him. “Please… I need you to touch me more,” you beg, all whiny. “Make me feel good.”
“Hm. I do owe you something.”
One finger, at last, slips underneath the band of your panties. Jing Yuan straight up groans at the feeling of your wetness meeting him immediately.
“So wet…”
“I-I’m sorry…”
“What for?” He cocks a brow. “This is a good thing. It means even your body recognizes me.” He just keeps saying things that only embarrass you further; and yet, your body wants more.“Just like…” His finger lifts to flick at your clit, knuckle stretching the fabric above as he does that. “This, for example.”
Finally, a real moan escapes you. You’re even more sensitive than you remember yourself to be.
He rubs on your bud slowly, spreading pleasure across your groin.
“Jing Yuan…” You look up at him hovering over you, feeling small underneath his ministrations. The way he gazes at you, as though he’s restraining himself from pouncing on you and still so patient, makes you realize he could do everything to you if he only so wished to.
Hearing you use his name unprompted, he rewards you with even more pressure, smiling benevolently. Every tiny reaction of pleasure as he massages your clit, he observes carefully, pushing your chin back at him every time you dare to look away. “Eyes on me.”
He eventually removes your panties, keeping you only in your shirt.
“Pretty…” he mutters, staring at your naked cunt fluttering around nothing.
“Don’t stare like that…” you mutter. The room gets even hotter for you, twisting and spinning.
His finger glides through your slit, spreading your wetness all around; even inspecting every bit of you as he slightly parts your sensitive entrance too. You moan, shuffling your head around the pillow below you.
“How can I not, when you’re being all precious for me?” He chuckles.
You wiggle your hips around as his finger finally slips inside, not sure what he means. You grab his hand, not sure whether to push him away or any closer; in any case, he doesn’t stop. Thrusting in properly, he directs his fingertip at the back wall of your pussy.
A gasp leaves your mouth. He is even here, inside of you, asserting your belonging to hin. You hear the wetness stir as he moves his finger around, in and out.
“Did you think about this before?” he inquires like some deviant.
“What?”
“Me doing this to you.” He clarifies rather eagerly.
“I have never—”
“Yet your body is taking me so willingly. Are you perhaps lying to me?”
Him assuming you repressed something in yourself, you wonder if he’s right, even if part of you starts getting tired of him speaking for you, targeting your ambition about how much you know yourself. It is that you were made for him rather than yourself, from the look of it.
Just one finger spreading you feels a lot; all the more after you didn’t let anyone touch you in a while — and he most likely knows that as well, treating you with care yet slowly pushing past your limits.
So when he adds a second into play, you cannot control the small spasms in your legs. His digits are thick on their own, knocking breath out of your lungs.
“You’re so sensitive…” he marvels, especially seeing your tears.
You bunch up sheets into your hands, feeling your shirt start to cling to your back. And yet, you start to move your hips along his fingers, feeling something nice building up—
And so he stops.
“Huh?”
“I said I’ll take care of you. Let me handle the process,” he scolds, startling you.
He’s so mean, you begin to believe. Just a devil underneath that soft smile. Another layer. Put them all together and you’ll be hit with something completely different every day.
“O-okay,” you mumble, feeling few tears slip down your hot cheeks.
He resumes; it’s even worse, his long and thick fingers leaving you little mercy, now moving in and out fast. You’re so full already, width and length-wise. Worse, his thumb meanwhile plays with your clit as if it’s a tiny button to manipulate.
But every time you feel closer to something good, he slows down, having you shed all the more tears. “Please, stop teasing…” you whine after he does it again.
You know him well for this one to be understood. How can he not bide his time, seeing your expression unravel, you clinging to him for all your worth?
“General…” you plead out of force of habit.
“That’s not the name,” he says sternly, and pinches your clit, having you shriek.
“J-Jing Yuan…” you rectify your mistake.
“Yes?” he asks more kindly, playing with your addled mind.
“Please… let me finish…”
“I will.” He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, filling you with relief that he must have changed his mind at your pitifulness. Relief being momentary, as he suddenly pulls out his fingers.
“But you said—”
“And I meant it. However, I haven’t said it’ll happen using my fingers.”
Oh no. Feeling small terror, you immediately picture yourself unable to handle the real thing. You assumed all you will do is get each other off; at least, today.
“I can’t… I—”
“I’ll make it work, don’t worry. You don’t think of leaving me hanging, do you?”
You want to say that you already made him feel good. But he’s hard again, as if it’s your fault for being so enticing. And you can’t disappoint him.
“I only wish to make this an even better experience for you,” he adds softly, further pulling you into his plans. “Will you let me?”
“…Okay.”
“Good.”
He stands up, grabbing the band of his pants to remove them, while not looking away from you — teasing you with the slowness and openness of his action.
Despite what you said, you nearly topple off the bed, feeling instinctual need to get away once you see what’s hanging between his legs again. With your ankle in his hold, he drags you back to the center.
Jing Yuan climbs to be above you; forces your legs ajar using his knee and slides in between them. You gulp.
“Lift your arms for me,” he instructs rather roughly, desire chewing through his tone.
As you comply, hesitantly so, he removes your shirt over your head. He observes your body with great hunger, not so subtly licking his lips, as his hands trail all over your torso, ending with a squeeze at your breasts until you whimper.
“Such beautiful sight and you act all shy with me…” He huffs with amusement, watching you tear up even more.
“Now…” Grabbing his hard length with a hiss, he places it over your mound, checking for something.
“Jing Yuan?” You wriggle your hips, feeling a few drops trail down.
“I just don’t know if you can handle it easily,” he says with pity. “What if you break like a poor thing under me?” Those words do nothing to comfort you.
And when he lies down on you more comfortably, he lets his length fall down to rest at your entrance, then drags it across your clit and folds by steering his hips, he has to grab you tight by your hips. Because just the tip has you trying to scramble away in small panic.
“No, no, no — it’s all right, I’ve got this. I’ll take care of everything,” he says as if he didn’t purposely provoke you.
You still brace your hands against his stomach, no matter how pent up your body is to get to finish, but he pushes forward, managing to get the tip hook at your entrance.
“Jing Yuan—”
“You’ll see soon,” is all he offers you before he thrusts in, getting at least one third of himself coated in your slick.
There is some discomfort, no matter how well he stretched you out on his fingers. You let out a small sob, writhing your head back, muffling his content gasp.
“You’re alright, you’re alright,” he coos, lifting one hand off your hips to stroke your face. “What is a moment of discomfort to something much greater? You’ll feel really good soon, I promise.”
You soon get a sense he enjoys you struggling like this — probably the clinging part, your hands on his biceps, with the way his eyes zero in on your trembling lips every time they open to whine about him — but it’s hard to tell if you aren’t simply sweating your brain instead.
“Just a little bit more, sweet thing.” His thumb wipes at your clit in slow circles, helping your body to accept him with less tension squeezing his cock.
With that, he soon thrusts in more deeply, grabbing your hand that flies at his chest to push him away again. “We’re almost there. You don’t want to take this process for granted, do you?” Instead, he presses a side kiss into your palm.
Then he licks it, and with you squirming in jolt, he takes advantage of your distraction to snap his hips forwards and sink into you fully, groaning as you envelop him entirely.
Suddenly, your legs flail around him, and a yelp follows, your eyes tearing open. “Jing Yuan!”
“You’re fine,” he says a bit dismissively. “So tight…”
He pulls out tentatively before thrusting in again, having you cry out and scratch at him. Seeing not that much hesitation from your body — at least, not enough to worry about injuring you — he begins to move, the pace slowly increasing. His hands slide to rest under your back. He glides them through as it keeps arching, unable to handle the fullness ruling the bottom regions of your body, or even the way his muscular body crushes you.
He’s nearly tormenting you, having you heave from how difficult it is to take him, the pressure unbearable. Despite the difficulty, you feel as though you might finish soon, for what was taken from you halfway through rapidly builds up again.
He croons at you, seeing you take him anyway — he can tell your body is slowly accepting the intrusion — and offers you a brief warm gaze at your tears. The stretch he’s knocking into you has you crying still, but the friction feels so good, you have little strength to be mad at him.
“It’s too much…” you whine this. “I’m so full of you…”
“I know, I know. Part of me wonders…” he says before he moans, while adjusting his grip on you as your poor legs flail around his hips and try to push away with their feet, “… if you can even move after I’m done with you.”
Hopefully not, he must think as he fucks you deeper. He’d probably like to tend to you while your limbs refuse to cooperate for an unforeseeable future — at this point, you begin to suspect he takes simple pleasure from tending to you, looking back at the past weeks. Never a burden, if something to make his lonely life meaningful. Yet he’s so selfish too.
You mewl at his words.
“D-don't worry,” he utters through his teeth, eyelids heavy from the pleasure you’re bringing him. “I’ll take great care of you.” He kisses you to reiterate his point, rolling his tongue around yours, biting your whining lips too.
His forehead then rests on your shoulder as he suckles below, oscillating between biting here too, as if to purposely drive you mad.
You have never thought you could be so sensitive. You roll your head to the side and back, in some protest against something so vivid. In his hands, your body is merely an instrument, attacked from both ends. So dizzy too, as if your mind is being severed, the physical rest sinking into the mattress below you.
It just goes like this; your walls trying to push him out, clamping on him, then forced and stretched open again. It’s maddening. It’s way too intense — his skin on yours so loud in the room, scent of sweat, his hair grazing your skin, his teeth stinging you. You feel pressure on your abdomen and you wonder if you’d feel him moving underneath if you placed your hand over there. You decide not to check, too scared of the truth.
He still overwhelms you even more; his hands grab onto your waist before he starts pushing you down onto his dick properly, still attached to now your neck like a vampire, as though he needs soothing himself. You get to hear his own moans and grunts falling into your ear.
“I know what you need. I always do.” This conviction scares you more and more every time he somehow seems to prove you right.
Suddenly, he maneuvers you around — hands on your hips, hoisting and flipping you. You find yourself on top of him.
“Jing Yuan?”
“That’s a much better view.” He chuckles, even if you tremble so terribly, unable to sit down fully on what you’re still sheathed on. With strain in your legs, you do your hardest to keep yourself upright.
“Come on. Show me yourself properly.” He encourages, stretching his arm to squeeze at your breast lazily.
You don’t know if you can do this. You don’t think you can. Being fucked and fucking yourself on it are completely different things. This position is even worse. With gravity at play, you are meant to take him inside your cunt even deeper, feeling his tip easily rest at your cervix as though it’s capable of opening even impossible. And yet, when it comes to helping you, he does nothing — knowing you have no choice if you even want to cum. When you do gather enough courage to start to move up and down, it is with difficulty, you not stopping just because you really need to finish. You’ve been wound up for too long.
“What’s wrong? I thought you wanted to please me.” He teases, fondling your nipples in away that still makes you think how good he’s to you. He is nonetheless taking care of you, making you feel good, isn’t he?
“I am, but… it’s just so much—”
“I’d say that’s a good thing… feeling this intense.” He helps you grind your hips around by motioning his from below, hissing as you tighten around him. “I-it means that you are focused on me.”
“You’re so mean, General…” you whimper.
He is, not because you called him mean, especially if rightfully, but just because you used the title again, suddenly snapping your body down onto his cock. “You were saying?”
“What—” You cry out, digging your heels into the mattress to force yourself away.
“You need to remember to use my name,” he says suddenly roughly, pushing your body down by your hips till your hole takes him to the hilt and his balls slap you that your skin stings.
“I’m sorry, Jing Yuan…!”
But even if you are — he can see it clearly, you always worry so much about his feelings —feeling your tight heat around him suddenly reminds him of what he’s been stalling, so he simply goes for it.
“Mhm. You better be. I’m not just a stranger,” it slips out of his mouth without realizing. “I’m the one who takes care of you and make sure you don’t do anything stupid, who sees it to it you don’t know want—”
You’re too fucked out to question why does it matter to him this much anyway, or why does he sound so condescending. His hips move with all the greater vigor, only forcing you onto his length, to be frictioned to no end. His pubes grind against your throbbing clit, making your blood rush all over your thighs.
“Jing Yuan, Jing Yuan, Jing Yuan—” you keep crying, feeling too much for a brain to safely process. It almost hurts and yet it feels so good. He’s breaking you. He’s breaking you apart, fixing fragments of you to be with his influence, arranging his own composition. You’re just a rag doll in his big arms, hoisted and fucked like you weight nothing. He leaves no space inside your pussy untouched, nearly unbearable, that you can barely feel your legs that are uselessly kicking the bed every time he half-lifts you.
Among the cloud on your mind, you still remember one thing. “At least… please, pull out…”
“I will. I promise,” he says hastily.
“Okay… please, I wanna cum now…”
And he obliges, maintaining this pace for you. You scratch at his chest again, feeling this bundle of warmth in your belly kindle, about to burst completely. You allow him to keep fucking you like this, so fast now, holding onto his chest, his arms, his hair even, not knowing what to do with yourself and this destruction. It doesn’t take you much longer to finish with a scream of his name, your hole pulsing before clamping down and locking on him. Coming untouched, in a way you didn’t anticipate.
“You vicious…!” he curses through clenched teeth, especially that he’s already not far behind you.
Now gripping your forearms instead, nearly instilling fear in you that he’ll break them, no matter that he still maintains some control, he keeps fucking you through your climax with little mercy.
Your tears roll down freely, stinging your face the same the brutal overstimulation does. “No, it’s too much—” Your body tries to slope down from how lightweight it suddenly feels, but he keeps using you.
“Hush, just a bit longer…!” Unwilling to let go of his bliss, feeling his own orgasm biting at his loins terribly, he pushes you down for the last time with a loud but muffled grunt, clinging to those last bits of control.
You don’t even realize he does what he was not supposed to do anyway, fucked out; not until you feel a shoot of warmth within you. “Jing Yuan…?” you ask with alarm.
“I apologize,” he says with strain as he thrusts in the cum into you regardless, “I… failed to time it right.” A heavy pant follows. “Will you forgive me?”
In your state, it feels hard to see why it’s a bad thing he didn’t listen. And you don’t want to be mad at him either. So you nod your head, even if that seed of doubt lingers deep in your stomach.
“That makes me happy.” He draws you down for a kiss, laughing prettily at how you barely can follow him. And if he is happy, so are you. It’s always like this. “Will you give me one more?” he asks into your lips.
Before you could even say anything, he flips you around onto your belly.
“No, I can’t…!” Gripping the pillow, you squirm underneath his heavy body suddenly crushing you again, his legs at your sides. “I’m still sensitive…”
“Shh,” he coos as he rubs his tip between your swollen folds, having you shiver from the overt sensitivity. He fucks some of his cum inside, while his hand holds your nape. “It’ll feel good, I promise. I know what you need.”
With that said, he thrusts inside your sore hole again, wasting no time with building up the pace this time. The mess around your thighs is made to be even worse as he pushes it in and out in slight splatters. When your arm tries to push at him from behind, overwhelmed from the overstimulation, he simply laces his fingers with yours, holding your hand down to the mattress.
You are therefore forced to take him as he pleases; a brutal drop of his body that brackets your hips, his balls constantly slapping at your clit, him slipping inside fully and pulling at your walls that you think he’ll break you. He’s not even moving that fast, but all that Jing Yuan needs is to keep using his strength. The buildup of your pleasure is no longer incremental, if akin to being thrown into deep waters. You drool into the pillow, far away with your static head and succumbing to mostly sensations as your eyes roll back. And yet, you still wait for him to make you feel ecstatic all over.
Both the bed and your body shake, moving forward with every powerful thrust of his. Your legs flail, as you feel yourself hastily being thrown back onto his length.
With one more time that you try to push him away, even if it’s done weaker and in some mock attempt of control, he rests his body harder on yours. His arms slip under you, hands going to grab your breasts and give your nipples attention again. He buries his face in your nape, kissing and biting here, veiling you with his thick hair, until your toes curl.
You’re worn down by him; Jing Yuan has you seeing stars again very quickly, but now it’s working with nerves already frayed. Judging by the stutter in his hips, there’s no much latency between you two. You imagine someone like him would have an extraordinary stamina, so for him to lose his mind as quickly as you do, you believe he must have been hiding his desire for you for so long. It’s terrifying, how long you went as oblivious.
“You better remember this night…” He huffs between the thrusts.“You certainly can’t take it back.” You writhe underneath him at the words, clawing at the bed sheets. You whine, warbling sound in your throat as he hits another good spot with his blunt tip. “It’s alright—” he says as he delivers another merciless thrust, your pussy squelching with your own wetness and his previous load, “It’s for the better.”
You don’t know what he means by that; he’s probably slipping a few real thoughts because he cannot help himself, inhibitions lost from the feeling of your wet heat around him. And yet, you yourself are too rendered stupid to even have the ability to analyze his words.
Especially when your next orgasm takes you with all its savagery, warmth exploding up your stomach and forcing you to suddenly go limp. Your ears ring as he keeps chasing his own, and the room spins terribly. It’s only when he bites down a particularly harsh mark, painful, that you are animated again. You also realize he broke his promise for the second time.
You feel him spill in you. “Y-you—”
“If it happened once already… there’s no need to keep it in,” he excuses, rubbing your poor breasts as he does few more shallow thrusts to ride out the last of bliss. Breathing heavily, he pulls out, his hand carefully placed on your back, before he’s sitting up on his knees.
Gaining your bearings, you become acutely aware of the soreness, sweatiness, and exhaustion sticking to you. Slowly craning your head towards him, your face covered in your tears, it’s him transfixed — observing the mess drip out of your quivering hole, down the valley of your trembling thighs, as if it’s some grounds waiting to grow flowers. He pushes two fingers in, not allowing it to leave just yet.
“No, stop…” you whine at the feeling of sensitivity remade.
“Shh.” He keeps going a few more times like this, even running his other hand along the welted bite with something content in his eyes. Only when his spent begins to dry, he leaves the bed for a moment.
You don’t even bother to move; you can’t. With eyes closed, you tune your ears to listen to his steps around, a bit anxious without him here.
He returns with a wet cloth a few moments later, as well a glass of water. It scares you he can still move easily — if you weren’t so tired, would he have you impossibly longer? To be expected of a man of his strength, and yet… it’s easy to underestimate him sometimes. Jing Yuan must paint himself as weaker deliberately, just to corner his opponent last second. He smiles when propping the glass against your lips with a brush of your hair; you drink eagerly. After wiping you clean too, he draws you close into his arms, tucking your head under his chin.
“I feel weird,” you mumble into his chest, as though expecting for him to fix it. It already is unusual, being naked and chest to chest with your general. But that’s not even the main issue.
“I understand. It was a lot to take, wasn’t it?” He laughs softly, churning your guts who don’t know if they’re happy or humiliated. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”
You nod. He’s here, you tell yourself too. He’s here, and maybe he took a piece of you, but he is here nonetheless.
“There you are,” he praises as if nothing. “See? Nothing is wrong. You’re just a little bit tired, so am I.”
Your trembling limbs, he moves to rest across his lap sideways before he starts to massage them gently with one hand. You cling to him harder, cheek pressed against translucent chest hair. In return, he rubs your back up and down with his other hand, allowing you to come down on your own terms. Although, he accidentally rubs across your tender spots as well, chuckling when you squirm.
“Jing Yuan…” you scold drowsily.
“Mhm. My apologies. I just quite enjoy the sight of my markings on you.” He certainly doesn’t sound sorry.
“What are you? You grew fangs without me knowing?” you grumble, frowning even with your eyes closed.
“You would not be entirely mistaken.” Despite him sounding as though he’s joking, you choose not to check his expression. You try to fall asleep instead, determined to let dreamland wash it all away.
“What would you do without me?” he asks eventually, warm. He smooths down your hair with his big palm, occasionally humming some notes.
The question nearly scaring you, despite how playful his tone is. Maybe it’s not. Half of the time he says something playful it only ends up being truth in the end. He appears to be particularly happy to have you in this position and you feel like you are yet to fully understand why, something going beyond simple adoration. Because that’s a good question. It seems he became an integrated part of you, as if half of your meaning and value was replaced with him.
You wouldn’t be yourself therefore, you think right as you begin to succumb to slumber. You’ve been moving within the space he has already defined, rather than against it, after all.
“They stopped bothering me quite some time ago, didn’t they?” you note that with a tiny yawn after Jing Yuan has exhausted you again; a few nights later. You’re resting on top of him, naked chest to chest until your hearts sync. A bed sheet wrapped around you is like a safety cocoon, but you’re still not sure what to make of this relationship. That stalker has stopped bothering you after you moved in with Jing Yuan. Seeing and hearing no suspicious activity for weeks now, it’s as though they have simply given up.
“Hm, seeing that you have the general on your side must have been deterring enough.” He chuckles, rubbing circles into your lower back.
What he says sounds plausible, if not infallible because it’s him who said it. Of course, anyone who knows better wouldn’t think of targeting someone aquatinted with him. But the more you think about, the more ironic it becomes how well you’re falling into his hands at the same time. You must be overwhelmed. So perhaps… a break would do you good.
“I should probably come back to my house then. I had better go before I grow roots here,” you say wryly.
“So soon?” he asks with surprise.
“Sorry?”
Clearing his throat, he restates, “I mean to say, you cannot tell whether they won’t be pestering you the moment they see you’re on your own again. That’s been the crucial point from the start, to protect you until we catch them. No sooner, no later.”
“Yes, but still…” You lift your head from his chest to look at Jing Yuan. He immediately strokes your face, unable to deny himself to touch you any moment these days. “Am I then supposed to live in fear forever? Forever on your behalf?” It’s been weeks turning into couple of months.
He looks you deep in the eye, evaluating your restlessness to go. “Just until we catch them,” he decides, serious enough to let you think he ruminated it thoroughly.
“How do you even catch them if we just let them be?” you still question.
“That’s a good question,” he sighs softly, “However, I have my own ways, so do my subordinates. You needn’t worry.”
Yet again, he’s not giving you details. In the past, they were redundant to you, for you truly didn’t want to have to think about the unpleasantries. Now, you itch to be involved, unable to rest until the case is resolved. “Hm… it’s taking quite some time, however.”
“It is, unfortunately,” he murmurs apologetically, as though he’s sad on your behalf. “Not to endorse them, but they seem to have exceptional patience,” he jokes lightly.
A patient stalker is the worst stalker. Biding their time, prowling silently, as they triturate your sense of safety meanwhile and force you cling to someone else. If they were to simply attack or try to abduct you, that’d make things easier. Jing Yuan is remarkably patient on his own, so you get a front row seat to see the patience’s immutable ability to slowly drive one insane. Still, knowing you might be a target again once you leave his nest, it’s easy to let him be that dominant side.
You try to dispel your tension. “You know, Jing Yuan, maybe we should pull off some movie trick… If they see me again, we can set a trap on them.”
“How cunning my darling has become. Should I be worried?” he teases, rolling a strand of your hair between his fingers before he presses a tiny kiss here.
Your heart flutters at the sight, though you make sure to answer wittily. “Yes. Watch me expose every of your secrets.”
His eyes narrows a little at that, though his smile widens in amusement. “So the worm has turned. Then I shall stay cautious. Perhaps you will become the next general, preceding me in paperwork.”
“Oh, so I am just paperwork to you?” You pout.
“Oh, no, no. Not just paperwork: it’s paperwork and phenomenal affinity for expressing disapproval towards me.” He grins lazily.
“Wow. How tragically was I reduced.” You look grumpy.
He laughs. “Don’t worry, there is much more to you,” he claims with absolute certainty. “I have never neither doubted that nor you.”
“Thought so. And there’s only a handful of people that can handle you, Jing Yuan,” you say knowingly, a bit cocky.
“Yes, it seems abundantly clear that you can handle me, dearest.”
The double entendre is not lost on you. Especially when you’re still sore. You feel that furious heat on your cheeks again. “That’s just foul.”
“Really? And what do you think I was referring to? Care to show me?” he taunts — right before you find yourself on your back again.
With another evening, your routine ends with a kitchen run where Jing Yuan hands you your tea — you still don’t trust yourself to go without it. But after the warm kiss goodnight, the route to your bed from the kitchen is interrupted the moment you feel your stomach squeezing with something edgy. A tickling sensation overtakes your throat as well, and you can tell this is a harbinger of your body rejecting what you just consumed.
You quickly run to the nearest restroom. You vomit; with that, the contents of your stomach flush out the tea you have just consumed.
Deciding you don’t want to bother Jing Yuan with it again, you settle on the idea it being a sign to try to finally sleep on your own. It’s high time you become independent again. You don’t bother to dim the lights once you eventually reach your room — you’ve been keeping on one lamp like one eye open ever since you ended up here, too anxious to sleep in total darkness.
The results are far worse than you anticipated. You roll in your bed, all antsy. You check on your phone but everything online lacks loudness enough to distract you. You conclude you must be that used to the sudden blacking out or falling asleep by his side the nights you visit his room. But right as you’re about to get up and seek his room, you suddenly freeze, hearing the door open. You’re pretty sure it’s not something you imagined, the sound being clear enough.
Your shoulders relax a bit as you realize it must be Jing Yuan checking up on you, especially when you recognize the silhouette of his messy hair. How kind of him. Not wanting to start a discussion about the perished tea and be a nuisance, you close your eyes, pretending to be sleeping as he plods to you.
He stops at your bed, you hear. Must be watching your breathing.
But when a good minute passes and he still doesn’t move, you find your pulse spiking, cold sweat of dread covering you. What is he doing, staring at you like a creep? You definitely are alright, physically speaking. Then you hear him sigh, and he speaks. “Just a little longer.” You’re not sure what he means by that. Another thing you note, he’s not sounding sleepy at all. He’s usually asleep at this hour too.
His hand moves to rest on your cheek, in a familiar to you motion. It’s nice as it often is; until his fingers squeeze it, rather roughly, as if assessing something.
You squirm at that; mentally cursing yourself. You feel his hand muscles freeze, as if unsuspecting you to sense anything tangible. That has you wonder if he’s been here before — since the tea would probably have you less receptive. Was he? Dread overcoming you, you try to steel yourself, pretending you just murmured something in your sleep rather than was awaken. You even turn to your side…
But who are you fooling. He probably recognizes your unusual stiffness, as he suddenly whispers your name. That finally forces you to drop your act. Still, you move as though you just woke up, stirring slowly before you open your eyes. “What are you doing here, General?” you ask sleepily.
The use of the title disappoints him, and you can see it in a sudden frown that passes through. As for whether he believes your act, it’s hard to tell. “I was checking your temperature,” he informs calmly, not removing his hand. “You seemed wearier than usual. Did something happen?”
That sounds plausible as always, if you were to consider him squeezing your face in a possessive grip as something merely to indulge him. And yet, the unpleasant feeling in your stomach has you thinking otherwise. For a moment, you felt like a real prey, in a way you imagine you’d feel facing your stalker at night. And you trust your instincts enough not to ignore the somatic effect.
“But… why are you in my room?” you ask warily.
He’s still unshaken. “I was checking up on you. Even if the tea helps, it doesn’t mean nightmares cannot take over as a side effect. But it seems the tea has failed you tonight?” You nod, so he sits down next to you.
“I… I felt sick and ended up throwing up your tea.”
“Oh.” He hums with understanding. “Is there the chance that you ate something unfresh today?”
“I don’t recall anything like that.” You really don’t. “Could it be… the tea? Having other side effects?”
Come to think about it, that tea has been keeping you knocked out rather well. Although some herbs are more potent, and the entire galaxy has plethora of weird plants, can a simple tea really work so well, on equal with a sedative chemical compound?
“It shouldn’t, unless you’re allergic or have sensitive stomach.” He sounds sure of himself.
“What herbs are in it, then? Maybe I’ll be able to pinpoint which one isn’t for me from memory.”
His eyebrows furrow for a moment, a bit bothered by you posing unnecessary questions. “You probably wouldn’t recognize half of the terms in it,” he chuckles, now grasping your hand to stroke over the duvet. Normally the gesture would have you lean into it, yet you find your body to be on guard. “You don’t need to worry about it. They’re harmless.”
“I want to know. Please,” you say, adamantly.
Jing Yuan looks at you intensely for a second before he sighs, as if you are inconveniencing him. “Hm. Very well.” He recites the herbs’ names, half of them being common sleep helpers, such as valerian root, chamomile, lavender, passionflower, and lemon balm. The other half, they do not ring the bell, though at the very least, you don’t recognize anything commonly known as harmful.
“I see. I’m guessing that I’m just sensitive to one of them…” You decide to let it go, for now.
“It would seem so.” He offers you a comforting smile, as well a kiss to your forehead before tucking you. “Will you be fine on your own, or do you require anything?”
Originally ready to sleep in his room; now, you feel in need of space. “No. I’m already much better,” you attempt to reassure.
But after he leaves, fortunately not pressuring you to have another cup, you find yourself using a search engine to check the ingredients you have memorized. Frustratingly, nothing online suggests toxicity, not beyond a caution warning for pregnant and breastfeeding women, and people with high blood pressure for some of these. Maybe you have imagined it, the darker possibility that Jing Yuan has been sedating you. The thought that he lied about the components omits you too — whether he is or not, it’s hard to verify it on your own.
Unless… You decide to send it for testing; in secret.
You barely sleep that night, mind plotting, but when you do, it comes with a great price in a size of a nightmare.
As it turns out, testing unknown substances is far more perfidious than you’d imagine — you realize Jing Yuan’s kitchen might contain something illegal, especially in case it’s one of those outdated ingredients.
You didn’t know who else would be eager to help you with something potentially illegal, other than this infamous Bailu of the Alchemy Commission you set up a meeting with next day. She herself is known for unconventional methods, so you have come to her for help. You see her regardless of the fact that you are worried about Jing Yuan finding out. For the past few weeks, you’ve been going home together, not going out much on your own in concern of being attacked; besides, everything you needed was at his house. Therefore, you had to stage an excuse about your friend needing to see you in emergency.
If anything, your actual friends have been complaining about not seeing you these days, and you had to tell them it’s for the sake of your safety. At this point, it feels as though you have the cheek to feed them such lies. Deeply immersed in Jing Yuan’s life, or rather, he in yours, you exempted yourself from the social scene.
Thankfully, he allowed you to leave work early, urging you to stay safe. And taking the herbs from his kitchen, you found out that he never bothered to hide them. Perhaps it’s worth staying optimistic…
Or not, because Bailu’s answer worries you. “This… how did you even get this?” The small girl frowns, scrunching her nose in displeasure. She slams the can on the small table in front of her, shaking her head.
“I… bought this concoction to help me with sleep.” You lie, not wanting to get Jing Yuan in trouble. This tiny and obscure room in which she takes patients already suffocates you enough. “But it made me sick, so I was wondering if there’s something wrong with it…” You sit tight in the chair she gave you. “…Is there?”
“And who sold it to you?” she asks fiercely, tugging on her blue braid in thought.
“I don’t really remember. It was a long time ago. I might have ordered it online. Please, can you just tell me what’s in it?”
She shakes her head again. “Ignoring regular stuff, there is also Ashen-Heart Blossom! It slows down a racing heart and lowers blood pressure to force into immediate sleep. But it is highly cardiotoxic and gastrotoxic in incorrect proportions!” She fumes, clenching her small fists. “It’s not just something to help you sleep. It works like a sedative in bigger doses. No wonder your stomach is irritated,” she grumbles. “This is why you people should never order shady stuff online!”
“Oh my…” you gasp, covering your mouth at her earful. Why would Jing Yuan have and use something like this? Why even blend this into the rest, if this is enough on its own? “Can this… poison me? I drank it for multiple times in a row.” In deep concern, your hand drops to your chest as you try to still your heart.
“Hm…” she assesses you. “You look stable enough. No pallor or incoherent nonsense or bleeding from your eyes.” She mumbles to herself. “Of course, it depends on the dose. I’d say, any is a bad idea, but lower amounts can still be expelled from your body without a bigger risk. How much did you have of it?”
You remember Jing Yuan pouring… “Two small scoops.”
“Hm. If you don’t experience more than vomiting once, you should be okay, so long as you don’t try drinking it again.” She points her finger at you, expecting you to listen.
“Of course. I won’t drink it again.” You stand up promptly, ready to get home and confront Jing Yuan about that ingredient. “Thank you for your help—”
Before you could get away, she stops you. “Wait a minute.”
You turn around, gripping a handle, a bit frustrated. “Yes?”
“Was it the General who gave it to you?”
You’re flabbergasted. “W-why do you think so?”
“I remember giving him that tea!”
If he got the tea knowingly, does it mean he deliberately drug you? “You know him?” you ask warily.
“Of course I do! He visits me regularly! He asks me how I am and brings me food,” she says as if griping about it. “But he also struggles to sleep and this tea was to help him sleep!”
Or at least, Bailu believes so. You don’t, not anymore. You didn’t know that he knows her, nor did you know that he’s been medicating himself. Just concealing everything as always.
“Um… I couldn’t sleep myself, so he offered me some of that tea…” you admit bitterly.
“Of course he did.” She sighs, before she decides, “Whatever. Just tell him to throw the rest away instead of giving it to you! Yours and his body are very different.”
The walk back to the station is awful, full of disconcert about the meaning behind the tea situation. And there’s this one particularly jarring thought making its appearance in that grotto of your growing distrust… could he be responsible for your stalker situation? It comes out of nowhere, like a hunch attached to your unpleasant feelings.
No. Jing Yuan wouldn’t hurt you. There must be some logical explanation, and it’s the credence you cling to. Perhaps even he is not aware of the effects of this plants, or that is it there, or how bad it is at least — as long as Bailu’s remedy works for him. If he wanted to hurt you, he would have done so already. He only took care of you.
You want to trust him. Especially that, you don’t know what you would do with yourself if everything turned out to be a lie. But… can you really just approach him and tell him that you didn’t trust him enough to perform a background check? You suppose voicing your concerns about vomiting is a safer option. If anything, it is truly high time that you start to sleep on your own.
Returning to his place, you find him only in the garden: playing the chess game on his own — on account of the two sides, and for a moment, you imagine yourself being one of the pieces he twirls between his fingers.
“Ah, there you are,” he greets, amiable as always, and stands up to approach you. Doing little to convince you that you are wrong about him. His happiness seems to be full of candor. Then he finally notices that dilemma etched all over your face. “Did something happen? You look troubled.” He places his hand on your shoulder after reaching you. “Is your friend alright?”
“Y-yes, she’s fine. I’m just…”
“Yes?”
He places his other hand on your forehead. “Hm. No fever.”
“I still feel a bit under the weather,” you lie, not telling him about the meeting. “I’m assuming that it’s the tea from yesterday, and so I was thinking that…”
“Yes?” His eyes narrow down a bit, as though he doesn’t fully believe you.
“Ge—” You quickly fix your mistake, seeing his expectant look, “Jing Yuan. I think… it’s time that I let go of those evening brews. I don’t want to be dependent on sleep helpers for too long.” You decide to lay it bluntly. “Or get sick again…”
You expect some aggression, at least on a micro level. Some advice against. Instead, he smiles in understanding, and nods his head. “I see. There’s no pressure to keep going. Especially if you feel sick afterwards. It seems to be my fault.”
Seeing him agree easily, you wonder if you were right about the more positive outcome — if he wanted to drug you, wouldn’t he be more ardent to keep you hooked? He would try to convince you somehow.
“I also would like to apologize,” he adds, taking full responsibility. “I should have known the herbs might be too strong for you. I seem to metabolize at a different rate. You see, these were originally meant for me. I sometimes struggle with sleep.”
That checks with what Bailu said. You’re also poignant by his admission, wondering just how troubled his sleep must be for him to have to sedate himself.
“Will you forgive me for this inconvenience?”
“Of course. You couldn’t have known.” You agree rather easily therefore. To you, it seems clear that it was all a big accident, not an egregious act of malice.
He draws you close to his side, arm around your waist, happy that there’s no bad blood between you. “How about a round of starchess?” He asks as he sits you two down onto the cushion.
“You’re going to win anyway,” you say, pouty, crawling onto his lap anyway. “I’m not racking my brain just for a predictable loss.”
“It’s not about winning or losing, but a battle of wits, and learning from the mistakes along the way,” he says theatrically, placing his head on your shoulders with ease. “Let me teach you everything you need to strive in life, will you?” he purrs, giving you shivers.
Sleep comes to you with difficulty the first night you try; well, second, if not including the first attempt. Your feet lead you back to Jing Yuan therefore; naturally. To your surprise, he’s up, sliding the door open in a matter of few seconds after you knock on it.
“I had a feeling you would be still awake. I don’t expect you to be able to sleep immediately.” He’s soft as ever, already opening his arms you fit right into before he’s guiding you to the familiar bed.
It’s both reassuring and rewarding, having someone to come to at the end of the day.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me… that stalker hasn’t bothered me in a few weeks. So why can’t I sleep?” You weave yourself into his limbs, face into the crook of his neck, like an animal burrowing itself for winter.
“They might be gone at the moment, but the feelings related to the event… they linger like a burden. It can take significant amount of time for a body to catch up with the feeling of safety. Let me be that still pond for you.”
You sigh wistfully. “It’s incredible, Jing Yuan,” you remark softly. “You seem to have a reassuring answer for everything. I’d probably keep beating myself over it if it weren’t for you…”
He just smiles into the top of your head. “Mhm. Allow me hold you until you fall asleep...” He yawns. “If anything, it’s perfectly reasonable for you to sleep here every night.”
“Huh?” Lifting your head slightly, you look at him with small fluster.
“You seem in need of someone,” he says knowingly. “And there’s certainly no reason for you to torment yourself with sleepless nights.”
Perhaps the issue lies in you growing accustomed to sleeping next at his side. Leaving this house, each day, becomes more and more impossible to play out in your head. This slice of haven keeps making you greedy. If anything, you wish to say Jing Yuan is yours. In a way, he is already. And you’ve been his for a long time.
For once, you allow yourself to rest in his arms easily, after a brief round of shooting the breeze. Easily, as you shut off any narrative, making space for his words solely. He tells you stories of the past. The wonders of other Xianzhou ships, or when he had rarer chances to see different planets. He has a knack for storytelling, drawing you into the vivid images with no trouble, as if you yourself were there with him. Every few sentences, he has himself asking you if mind his ramblings, nearly shy, asking you if you will forgive him for continuing. You tell him you don’t mind, naturally.
You only feel too cowardly to tell him about your nightmare from the the night ago. You’re very glad that mara hasn’t taken him away from you yet. You’d probably lose mind on your own — or maybe even go after him. Still, you end up voicing another concern, interrupting one of the retellings.
“Jing Yuan… I feel scared. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and...”
“What are you scared of, treasure?”
You swallow, your throat going dry. There’s always this conundrum: to say what you mean because what he does bothers you, and to not say anything because you don’t want to be ungrateful. “That I… I might have come to depend on you too much. I don’t want to be a burden, but also… I don’t want to be so needy.”
“Do you enjoy the life of struggle?” he asks straightforwardly, instead of acknowledging your worry.
“No, that’s not it…” you say with frustration. “Shouldn’t I be more resilient?”
“You are plenty of resilient already, managing to survive this thorny situation with honorable amount of mettle. You still pushed forward,” he praises, running his fingers across your arm. “You didn’t lock yourself up, but kept going and appearing at work. That counts for something, no?”
Looking to the side, at the windows veiled in night, you ponder over his grandiose words. “You must be right,” you ultimately agree, not wanting to be fastidious with him, regardless of your guts screaming at you. What would you even know? “You’re just taking care of me, right?”
“Of course,” he says with no hesitation. “As always.”
“We have to talk.”
Multiple days later, Jing Yuan interrupts one of your sunbathing sessions in the garden.
“Yes?” The seriousness in his voice has you sitting upright.
“We finally caught the culprit responsible for breaking into your house.”
Bewildered, you stare at him, not expecting for there to finally be some progress to your stalker predicament, let alone the end of it. Stalker you were starting to believe might as well be a ghost.
“Really?”
He nods.
“And who is…”
“A man, slightly older than you. One of your past neighbors.” Jing Yuan quickly fills you in, sitting himself on the stone bench next to you. His hand moves to rest on top of yours like it’s an innate thing.
You can’t believe this is finally over. And yet, there’s no immediate relief that you anticipated for weeks; instead, something still feels unwritten and unresolved. “Can I… see him? What is his name again?” There’s been many people who rotated your apartment complex over the years, each unique on their own.
Jing Yuan narrows his eyes. “Does it even matter?” he asks bluntly.
“Come again?”
“Why would you feel a need to know who he is?”
His question confuses you. Of course anyone would want to know, as well to work on organizing unwrought parts in their minds. “I just… want to ask him something.”
“Ask him what?” You feel his hand tighten on yours.
“Why… he did this,” you mutter, staring at Jing Yuan with irritation inflowing.
“Whatever reasoning he has, it cannot be anything good,” Jing Yuan still speaks calmly, as though your anger is a momentary disturbance. “You don’t have to try to comprehend malicious intentions he wanted to inflict on you. There’s no excuse. What matters is that he will be dealt with.”
“But I want to,” you say sternly. “It’s my choice—”
“A stalker doesn’t need any deeper reason.” Now it just feels as if he’s patronizing you, lecturing you as if he knows what stalkers think. “Just one thing about you, or, catching a whiff of your fear is enough to keep them going.”
“But… won’t there be some trial where I’ll meet him anyway?” You look for some clincher to finally convince him. It’s not even his choice to make. You fail to understand why Jing Yuan makes it such a big deal about something so salient, openly glaring at him.
“There will be. But I can ensure it happens quietly and swiftly, without the further need to stress you.”
You grimace. He’s been kind to you, but just how far can that kindness be given? This is one matter you wish to be the part of.
“Is there something bothering you? You can tell me.” Sliding a strand of your hair behind your ear, he awaits your answer.
You close your eyes, not even leaning into his touch for once, only heaving a tired sigh. When you open them, your lip starts trembling in prelude. “I told you, I just need to arrange everything in my head. Why are you being so difficult?” You rebuke him at this point, tears gathering or not. “We can rescind that protection mission you have made your priority so much.”
“I understand that much. And yet...” He looks at you pitifully. “I feel like you wound me.”
“Huh?” you exclaim with surprise. Despite not understanding his last words, feeling their connotation and seeing his downcast expression, sudden panic arises in you. “What am I even doing wrong?”
“I worked hard to make sure that fear for your safety is eradicated. What you want is certainly not for me to question, but I would feel disappointed for that help to be taken granted of.”
“Jing Yuan—”
“But I’ll arrange the meeting if you must. I don’t intent to impose.” Letting go of your hand, he stretches his legs as if to stand up and set his decision in motion, spiraling your panic.
“No, I—” You freeze, hand hanging in the air before you’d reach him.
You really want to talk to this person. But you really don’t want to hurt Jing Yuan either. Not to mention — what if he’s right? What if you do devolve in your peace, hearing that stalker tell you all his disturbing thoughts about you once he sees you? The grass is always greener on the other side, and perhaps he sees it better, your possible relapse at the cost of your curiosity.
“Forget it. You must be right,” you admit with reluctance, even if these words nearly suffocate you, stuck in your throat for a second. You put your head on his shoulder, soon to sniffle into it.
“Are you certain? We don’t have to make a decision in haste.”
You just nod.
“I see,” he says quietly, audibly relieved. “It’s all alright now. I am here for you. Always.” His hand strokes the back of your head, while the other one keeps you safely tucked against him by your back.
He carries you through this crying passage, safely, allowing you to leave everything that had bothered you in the last weeks behind. Your tears soil his shirt, and as always, he takes you and your woes with courage.
“You will always have a place here,” he eventually says when your hiccups become none.
“Thank you,” you mumble, regardless of your chest still feeling tight.
You start to think you should be leaving soon. The crisis is over, apparently — while there is still trial to come, you imagine Jing Yuan will ensure that stalker won’t roam the streets freely. Despite something reluctant in you refusing to budge from this place just yet, and perhaps you’ve become so used to Jing Yuan’s care so much it’s hard to imagine your life in a different way, you believe it’s about time that you fly away from this nest.
“It makes it… really difficult to depart from you,” you admit with small nostalgia, looking at him softly. “But I think I finally should, with that stalker arrested.”
“Perhaps there’s no need to.”
“Huh?”
“You seem to be doing well here. Not to mention, the house is bigger than yours, with that garden you enjoy so much, and it’s also closer to our office.”
“Do you mean…?” He makes your relationship sound official, you assume. With him, you have to read between the lines; at this point and since the day one. “But… what will people say?” you ask, torn.
You’re pretty sure that if you overstay your welcome, people will eventually catch up and start looking at your situation with suspicion. How do you even explain it? You’re no longer in need of his help.
“Close relations between people of the same office are more common than you think.” He chuckles lightly.
“What?”
“There is one way to make it official without instigating a dispute.”
You know what he means. Exalting your position through marriage. So long you make it official, no fooling around in form of an amour, the conservative rule allows such union even between the same party. You simply never anticipated something so nimble, like he has given it thought for a while now. Do you even want to marry him, no matter how much you might like or even love him? You weren’t meant to be his wife, if only a speck to make him shine. It would be easy to miss the old days where you could be of support to both him and Luofu.
“I don’t think… it’s a good idea at all. I’m sorry.”
There is no hurt of rejection, alluding you to believe he doesn’t consider your choice final.
“Of course, I am not officially proposing just yet.” He chuckles. “We don’t have to make this decision immediately, if you need more time,” he says rationally.
He’s been here for centuries. Whether it’s weeks, months, or years for you to make up your mind probably doesn’t matter that much to him.
“No. Not now, not ever.” You indulged him in this affair. You enjoyed it even. But the idea of making it something of utmost value scares you. “I don’t know what are you doing.”You stand up, taking a few steps back with wide eyes. “This isn’t funny, Jing Yuan. All I did was spent a few weeks with you alone,” you continue your lament.
You know he doesn’t make big decisions suddenly, therefore, the seed of his supposed infatuation with you must have been planted a long time ago. The fact you went aware for so long is unsettling on its own somehow.
He stands up too, approaching you with certainty in his step, eyes sharply set on you.
“Are you even listening to me?” you snarl. “I am leaving this place.”
“But I love you.”
You stop at the edge of the path separating bushes behind you. You are frozen, unbelieving what your ears just caught. “Y-you don’t, why are you even—”
“But I am. Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?”
Perhaps not. Yet to you, these words lack the warm cadence in which they should be uttered. He is warm in his speech, he gazes you at you as though there is no one else, but you just can’t taste it in the words that are always so carefully spoken, that sweetness of the dog days.
You don’t watch where you go and scrape your shoes against, your only objective to get away from him as you retreat. “No, but I really need you to retract these words, Jing Yuan!” you say with desperation amping up, stepping along the angle he corners you through. “Please.”
“I can’t,” he replies apologetically, moving forward. “The heart wants what it wants.”
Before you can even process his apology, you reel backwards. Your foot snags in a gap of the where the cobbles are missing in the path, and a sharp yelp rips from your throat. You manage to catch your balance in time, but panic sets in as your ankle throbs with white-hot pain. You scramble frantically to free your foot, but your desperate movements only wedge it tighter.
“Goodness. Are you alright?” Eyes open with alarm, he quickly grabs you, helping you to free yourself.
“It hurts so bad.” You moan from the pain continuously smiting you.
Jing Yuan kneels down, grasping your leg carefully to inspect it. “It seems just sprained, but rather seriously at that…”
Yet you barely care about your state as you look down at him, fearing the worst.
“Did you just…”
“Did I what?”
“I…” You can’t even form a coherent sentence, especially when he stares back at you in total innocence.
There seems to be genuine worry written all over his face. No sign of enjoyment to suggest he might have orchestrated your accident. You must be really tired, to have these thoughts to infer about him instead of remembering how clumsy you get when stressed.
“Nothing… it just really hurts.”
“I can imagine that.” He looks around, already envisioning what he’ll do to in order to tend to this injury. “Perhaps you should stay here for a little longer. Someone needs to help you move around.”
You’re not sure if you want to stay. You definitely don’t want to pay for it. But, Jing Yuan knows the best.
“Alright. But just for a few days, until I can move around on my own. No more.” You make a attempt to sound strict, as feeble as it is by now.
You don’t even know why you bother to make any ultimatums at this point. Fate seems to have its own conscience, favoring him for centuries too.
“Of course. I wouldn’t hold you here against your will.” He smiles with reassurance, all steady for you. Gathering himself up, he gently grabs you under your knees and shoulders, lifting you off the ground.
“As for my confession, you don’t need to answer it immediately.” The gaze he offers you is simultaneously as cherishing as it is poised, you finally notice. “We can save this conversation for once you have recovered. I’m sure that by then, you’ll make the right decision — and perhaps even see my point. You’ll have enough time to mull over all that.”
For once, you feel unable to speak.
“Perhaps… you will reach the same conclusion as I did,” he adds as he heads inside, looking ahead in search for something auspicious in his bright future.
After all, shaping circumstances to keep your paths intersecting has always been easy for him to finesse, Jing Yuan thinks.
It allows one to survive necessity without admitting enjoyment… and indulge in enjoyment without admitting necessity.
SYNOPSIS: Penacony is riddled with rumours about infighting within The Family, resulting in Penaconians and tourists to question the stability of the Dreamscape and whether the Five Great Lineages are actually ‘harmonious’. As a solution, the Dreammaster assigns you—Third to the Iris Family Head—to marry Sunday, the revered Head of the Oak Family. A symbolic pair meant to embody harmony within The Family and refute hearsay.
Beneath the spectacle, however, lies unresolved affection, quiet hesitation, and the painful question of whether your ‘perfect’ marriage is merely performance—or something real.
CONTENT WARNING: arranged marriage, halovian!reader, actress!reader, reader is referred to as miss & mrs, loosely follows canon lore, fluff, angst, SLOW BURN, one sided pining but eventually turns to mutual pining, requited unrequited love, childhood friends, forbidden lovers if you squint, petname (my love), OCs mentioned, plot with p*rn, smut (mdni), virgin!sunday, masturbation (m), body worship if you squint, guided fingering, virginity loss (m), p in v, creampie, sunday cums a lot lol, not beta read.
WORD COUNT: 22,994
NOTES: this is prob the most slowburn fic i’ve ever written >< sunday fic for my birthmonth hehe enjoy!! div: diviniyae
Moment of Morning Dew
The chandeliers of Dewlight Pavilion glimmered like suspended constellations, their fractured light spilling across polished marble in soft gold and pale violet. Even in the Dreamscape—where beauty was manufactured to perfection—this place still carried a certain weight; a stillness that pressed gently against one’s lungs. Amidst the grandeur of the Pavilion, you stood a step behind Maeven Ellis’s absence—your adoptive mother—her authority as Iris Family Head lingered in your posture in the way attendants lowered their gaze as you passed.
Third to the Head of the Iris Family, yet today, you felt oddly like a child again; waiting in a suffocating office as you were summoned by the Dreammaster himself, you weren’t aware of the reason why he had called upon your name but judging from your senses, you weren’t going to like it.
Across the room, not far off from where you stood, was Sunday, he was situated beneath a stained glass window, its colours painted him in shifting hues of amber, indigo and rose where it bounced off his gleaming halo, depicting him as some kind of reverend being. When you had entered the Dreammaster’s office, you were greeted by the Oak Family Head—a mere formality, a simple nod of his head. No words, no nothing.
It had been a while since you’ve last stood in his presence like this, most of the time you’d see him around Penacony or during grand Family banquets but that was about it, nothing more than a hollow distance between the two of you.
Minutes of deafening silence passed before the doors to the office opened once again and in came Mr. Gopher Wood, it wasn’t his original form, merely someone else’s body—presumably someone from the Oak Family—he had possessed.
“Come closer.” He had instructed before taking a seat behind the wooden desk, his tone was calm yet it held unparalleled authority—as a child, it would always send chills down your spine; countless Family gatherings where he spoke to your mother in such a tone. The Dreammaster was a kind man yet something about him unsettled you.
Without another word, you stepped forward just short of his desk, heels echoing faintly against the marble floors. Sunday mirrored your actions, standing a few centimetres away from you—it was enough to get a whiff of his scent.
Vanilla and musk, something sweet yet pierced one’s senses. You tried to ignore the way his shoulder almost brushed your own and how his figure towered you.
“I’m sure you’re both well aware of rumours that are circulating around the Dreamscape,” Mr. Gopher Wood began, hands folded neatly atop the desk.
You sucked in a small breath, you’d heard them too. Whispers that drifted through velvet corridors, murmured between the cracks of reality that there was in-fighting between The Family lineages which ultimately questioned the Dreamscape’s stability. For a space designed to eliminate unfavourable factors, it wasn’t hard for negativity such as baseless rumours to start circulating within its walls.
Dangerous words which challenged The Family.
But . . as for summoning you and Sunday, you were clueless. Why did the Dreammaster specifically choose you? You weren’t skeptic about Sunday as he held authority over the Oak Family, in other words, he was Mr. Gopher Wood’s successor but as for you . . it didn’t quite make sense.
Neither of you answered, instead, you both waited for the Dreammaster to speak once more.
“Rumours are . . fragile things, if they are left unchecked, they fracture trust. And in Penacony, trust is the foundation upon which dreams stand.”
The Dreammaster continued, “Thus, we shall give Penacony something stronger than baseless rumours—a symbol of eternal harmony.” Something inside your stomach tightened, you didn’t like the tone in his sentence, as if it was final and had no room for if’s or but’s; an idea that was already concrete before it came into existence.
“You two will be married.” Mr. Gopher Wood stated as if discussing something as simple as a change in décor.
Silence fell.
If the previous silence felt suffocating, this one was much, much worse. It felt heavier and pressed onto your skin tighter as though it was determined to live inside your bones. For a moment, all you could hear was the faint hum of the warm chandeliers—even its glimmering lights felt hot against your skin, a searing burn.
Was the Dreammaster serious? An arranged marriage between you and Sunday? In your eyes, marriage weighed more than a coin being tossed in a bucket, it symbolised unity between two individuals who loved and cherished one another, not a façade to combat baseless rumours, and especially not a lie.
A million emotions surged through you; the thought of eternal unity with Sunday was something you had always dreamed of ever since you were a child. The first time you laid eyes upon him was when you were both naïve and wide-eyed, and something inside your young heart stirred when he laughed at your jokes or tugged at your hands with his, running away from panicked attendants assigned to look after you.
Back then, your adoptive mother would bring you over to the old Oak Family manor for play dates with Sunday and his younger twin sister—a young trio built on mischief and pure wander. The three of you were inseparable until the day duties and career came into talk, where days filled with innocent laughter turned into monotonous lessons that prepared one for the burden of authority.
Yes, you weren’t going to deny it, you had feelings for Sunday that stemmed a long while back but being married to him under a contract that screamed nothing but business was not what younger you would’ve wanted, no, she had dreamed of a blossoming, genuine love.
There was also unease for the role entrusted upon you; how would being in a false marriage affect your naïve heart? You were well aware Sunday didn’t mirror your feelings at all but having him pretend and play the part of a husband was beyond dangerous. It was ironic to think that this marriage was akin to Penacony’s Dreamscape itself—a dream becoming a reality.
But . . was it your dream to be married off to Sunday in the name of falsehood?
With the Charmony Festival inching closer, it wasn’t a surprise the Dreammaster was becoming desperate for a solution.
You laughed. A humourless sound that conveyed the disbelief in your heart; you were raised to be a respectful, refined woman especially in the presence of esteemed Elders but not when said Elder proposed such a bizarre idea. This was marriage the Dreammaster was talking about, a life long commitment—a life long role that was anything but real.
“Pardon my brazenness, Mr. Gopher Wood but . . are you serious?”
The Dreammaster didn’t so much as blink, “Completely.”
At his affirmative reply, you slowly turned your head to the side towards Sunday; he remained expressionless, the glimmer in his citrine eyes hiding more than just pure emotions. His posture remained straight, one hand tucked behind his back just as he had been taught by the Oak Family Elders. Whether the idea affected him or not, Sunday didn’t let on, not even a twitch of his brow nor a rustle of his ivory wings.
“A union between the Oak and Iris Family presented as one of harmony—of perfection. A model pair for Penaconians to look up to, and once the people see The Family’s harmony upon supporting this marriage, rumours will fade.” Mr. Gopher Wood continued, which turned your attention back to him.
The Dreammaster had a point, with two significant figures in the five lineages getting married, Penaconians would witness The Family working together to ensure it happens flawlessly—the Oak Family would be tasked with organization, the Alfalfa Family with financing, the Bloodhound Family with security, the Iris Family with reception entertainment, and the Nightingale Family with decorations. All in perfect harmony.
“And what it needs to see,” You murmured quietly. “Is a lie?” You knew it was only a matter of time before the Dreammaster exhausted his patience and snapped. He had always been fond of you but knew to draw the line at disrespect.
His gaze remained fixated on you, it wasn’t unkind but it was firm, unwilling to back down from the challenge you had presented; he noticed the way your wings rustled imperceptibly, how it curled inwards as if to display silent retaliation.
“The Dreamscape needs stability.”
That wasn’t the answer you were looking for.
Slowly, you exhaled then fully turned toward Sunday, his golden halo glimmered brighter than ever, “Sun—Mr. Sunday.” He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a split second—just a flicker—you saw it. Something from years ago when he used to grin at you over ice cream and toys.
“Are you okay with this?” The question came out softer than you’d expected, laced with vulnerability. Sunday held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then, parted his lips to speak,
“As Oak Family Head, it is my duty to ensure that everything within the Dreamscape remains in order.”
“. . That’s not what I asked.”
Were you surprised, though? You’ve always known Sunday was a selfless individual, especially when it came to Robin but you wished—more than anything—that he’d be a bit more selfish; to do something that he truly wanted and not because he was bound by duty and expectations.
“This arrangement fulfills its purpose.” As expected, Sunday spoke like this matter was nothing more than another responsibility to be managed, throwing out the fact that he was to be married off to someone he didn’t love.
You nodded, “Right.” A small, hollow sound. And once more, you were hit with the harsh reality that this Sunday wouldn’t run away the same way he did during the lessons he found boring, no, instead this Sunday would build the cage himself if it meant keeping everything intact and under his control.
Hesitantly, you looked away first, directing your attention back to the Dreammaster—any second longer looking at those citrine eyes was far too dangerous for your heart, “Apologies, Mr. Gopher Wood but I need time. This isn’t . . exactly a small decision.”
But did you even have the luxury to make a choice? Nonetheless, Mr. Gopher Wood inclined his head slightly and indulged you in your request, “You will have what time is necessary but do understand, the longer uncertainty lingers, the more damage rumours may cause.”
A gentle threat wrapped in silk.
You nodded calmly, though your thoughts were nowhere nearly as composed. Marriage. To Sunday. It was as though the stars were playing a nasty elaborate prank on you but as twisted as it was, a part of you—one buried within the depths of your being—was happy.
Could you blame yourself though? You’ve pined for Sunday for eons because maybe, just maybe, he would finally look at you the same way you’ve looked at him: under the light of romance.
“Then, I shall take my leave. Mr. Gopher Wood. Mr. Sunday.” After necessary formalities, you turned to leave, light from the chandeliers above stretching your meek shadow across the marble floor.
“Maeven Ellis’s daughter.”
You paused. It was the Dreammaster’s voice once again, “You are an actress, are you not?”
Glancing over your shoulder, you spoke up, “Yes.”
“Then think of this as your most important role.”
At his words, your lips pressed into a thin line. That was easier said than done. A performance, of course, everything in Penacony was. You didn’t bother responding, instead, you kept walking, heels echoing with each careful step, out of the Dreammaster’s office and away from Sunday.
Moment of Golden Hour
Despite the name of Golden Hour, sunlight didn’t spill like liquid gold in the Moment but the Dreamscape was as beautiful as ever. After the impromptu meeting with the Dreammaster and Sunday, you found yourself sitting on an iron bench at Aideen Park—a quiet corner devoid of commotion to collect your thoughts. In the distance, laughter echoed and soft music the band performed.
On your lap rested an important document for an upcoming film, pages and pages of a bound script to read and remember but for once, you didn’t feel like reading. Not when your mind wandered off to the encounter a few system hours back, you couldn’t help but replay Mr. Gopher Woods words—that you’d be married to Sunday.
Amidst the serenity of the Moment, your ears perked up at the sound of familiar footsteps coming closer—calculated and sharp—but you didn’t bother looking up.
“I thought you might be here.”
The owner of the calm voice was no other than Sunday, you were more than certain of it because only he had the power to make your heart stutter. You didn’t let on—didn’t show an ounce of emotion just as you’ve been doing for the past years you’ve known him. Slowly, you exhaled, gaze still fixed on the inked pages atop your lap.
“The Oak Family Head seeking an audience with me? What a lucky woman I am.” You chuckled humourlessly. Sunday didn’t reply and you almost felt bad for greeting him with such a sour state, so you spoke up again, “. . Are you surprised? You know my hiding spots better than anyone.”
Growing up, Sunday learned that whenever you had something in mind, you always seemed to seek out quiet spots to unwind and one of them happened to be in Aideen Park—a tucked little area away from everyone while still able to bask in the Moment’s luxury.
“You never changed them.” Sunday whispered in a soft tone, if you hadn’t caught it, you’d think he was merely murmuring to himself. There was something in his voice you didn’t quite recognize, one that made you curl your fingers tighter around the pages.
“Is there . . something you need, Oak Family Head?”
As much as he appreciated authority, Sunday never did like it when you addressed him with formality but he’d rather sever his halo than admit it to your face. After all, it was merely a silly thought. He let your question linger in the air for a while, letting the background noise of the park fill the space between the two of you, then, he spoke,
“I came for your answer.” Straight to it. Of course he did.
A quiet, humourless laugh slipped past your lips, you finally turned to look at him. The golden lights of Aideen Park engulfed his pale blue strands, it softened the edges of his otherwise composed expression but it didn’t make him easier to read. You couldn’t lie, Sunday looked absolutely breathtaking and it pained your heart at how effortless it was for him; his citrine gaze shone the same way his halo did, bright and blinding.
“My answer? That’s what this is to you? And here I thought you came to seek me out as a—I don’t know, maybe a friend?”
It was microscopic but you saw the way Sunday’s shoulders sagged and how the wings behind his ears lowered but you weren’t about to be moved by something minute; what the Dreammaster had asked of you—and Sunday—wasn’t something simple, it asked for your soul, to play a never ending role built on lies.
“It’s a matter that requires resolution.” He replied evenly. Your chest tightened, “Do you know what you’re asking of me, Sunday?” The question came out sharper than intended but you didn’t take it back and for the first time, something flickered across his face, maybe it was surprise, maybe it was discomfort, you didn’t bother deciphering.
“I am aware of the implications—” “No.” You cut him, shaking your head as you stood, the script on your lap swiftly falling onto the ground, long forgotten. “No, you’re aware of the politics of it—the outcome.”
Frustration rose within your body, a scowl forming on your face as you stepped forward. Sunday had never seen such a look painted on your face, he had only ever seen pleasant expressions from you, especially directed towards him.
“You’re asking me to stand beside you in front of all of Penacony and smile like it means something. To let them believe—” Your voice caught slightly but pushed through it, “—to let them believe this is real.”
“That’s the role we’ve been assigned.” He said quietly. “Assigned,” You echoed, almost incredulous. “Is that all this is to you? Another duty? Another piece of the Dreamscape you have to keep polished and intact?”
“If you think I have the luxury to treat it as anything else then you are sorely mistaken.”
“Then, let me ask you one thing, Oak Family Head. Did you have a hand at choosing your . . partner?” With Sunday willing to fulfill such a role, you were certain Mr. Gopher Wood had already told him about the proposal prior to the meeting earlier, and you were sure the latter had at least given him freedom to choose.
Sunday nodded, “Yes.”
You let out a shaky breath, your scowl turning into something much softer. Sadness. “But why? Why me, Sunday? Don’t—Don’t you know how cruel that is? To ask for something that big?” You looked away, unable to see the way regret briefly shadowed his face. His chest tightened at your pitiful form, he didn’t mean to put you in a troubled spot but he wasn’t entirely innocent either.
Marriage meant the two of you were bound to each other for eternity with divorce was absolutely out of the table, especially for prominent figures like you and Sunday; it made sense for a planet that worshipped the Aeon of Harmony.
“. . Because I assumed you wouldn’t be scared doing it with me, at least—doing it by my side.”
Oh, your foolish, foolish heart shouldn’t have skipped a beat at his reply but it did and it angered you even more that it did because despite it all, you still loved him. And maybe you were willing to comply but a greater part of you was stubborn.
“Do not try to mold me with flattery, Sunday. What about us, hm? We’re not symbols—not the ‘model pair’ the Dreammaster deems us to be. We’re people with lives of our own! I cannot dictate for you but I know marriage is something I want to be organic. To fall in love with a man who cherishes and loves me back.”
Words hung heavy in the air, fragile and bare. For a split second, you were convinced he was going to take a step closer and say something that wasn’t measured or wrapped in a silken ribbon called duty. And maybe some twisted part of you wished Sunday would have told you that he’d at least try to love you—to reassure and tell you that your heart has a home in his hands but he didn’t.
Instead, he said: “We are what Penacony needs us to be.”
Silence settled once more, you didn’t answer this time as you were reminded that you and Sunday held very different dreams. You closed your eyes to steady yourself briefly, and when you opened them again, your expression had shifted, something more resigned, “. . Fine.”
Sunday’s ears perked, wings spreading ever so slightly as if to convey shock. You straightened slightly, smoothing the invisible wrinkles from your clothes—a habit you’ve picked up before you stepped in front of rolling cameras.
There was no use arguing with Sunday or pushing your ideals to him, he was stubborn and he’d do anything to ensure the stability of the Dreamscape, even if it meant carrying the weight of falsehood his whole life. Besides, arguing like this in public was sure to garner unwanted attention, it was only a matter of time before someone heard of the conversation.
“If this is the role entrusted to me then I’ll play it. I’ll accept the marriage.” The words felt foreign on your tongue—too final but you didn’t waver.
Sunday carefully studied you as if to search for something beneath your composure, “Are you certain?”
You laughed humourlessly, “Do you think I have a choice? But if you want me to be honest, no. But I’ll do it anyway.” For you, you wanted to add. You bent down to swiftly pick up your script, dusting it off lightly, and when you returned his gaze, your expression had settled into something practiced.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it believable.” The corners of your lips tugged upwards despite its heaviness.
“I . . never doubted that. You are one of Penacony’s greatest actresses.” Sunday intended to lighten the mood, to flatter your skills and forget about the tension in the air but for some reason, his words hurt more than anything else. You put too much faith in me, Sunday. You thought.
Sure, acting came easily to you but not when you had to play the eternal role of a loving wife for a man you’ve pined for. For years. It was a twisted game that tested the borders between a dream and reality, and you could only hope to build a cage around your naïve heart.
Moment of Morning Dew
Wedding preparations commenced shortly after meeting with the Dreammaster once more to confirm your stance on his idea; everything was a blur, from colleagues and close friends congratulating you on your engagement (even Robin who sent a congratulatory letter despite being aware of everything) to exclusive interview appearances—sometimes accompanied by Sunday—to talk about every detail.
Of course, since the engagement came out of the blue, it was met with a lot of speculation, and rightfully so as not a single soul had seen you and Sunday together outside Family gatherings but even in banquets, neither you nor him would really converse.
But, those speculations were easily dismissed by letting interviewers know that you hid your relationship with him for personal reasons; it wasn’t foreign for celebrities to do such things. Though, the only truth you uttered during those interviews was probably the fact that you loved Sunday.
There was no denying that, and for Penaconians, that alone was believable. Aside from planned appearances on interviews, you hadn’t seen much of your . . fiancé but maybe it was for the best, the more he remained at a distance behind closed doors, the more your naïve heart wouldn’t mistake the relationship for something real.
Silk draped from the ceiling in soft, cascading layers, mirrors framed in gold caged you in, it reflected you in every angle, each one just slightly more flattering than the last. Assistants moved like whispers—adjusting and smoothing but never loud enough to cause unnecessary chaos.
The Dewlight Pavilion served many purposes for The Family—the main being a place where Heads discussed important matters but you didn’t expect it to host a fitting room specifically curated for wedding preparations; it only made sense with how busy your schedule was, not to mention how you just finished a table-read two system hours ago which meant the script was still swimming in your mind and so was exhaustion.
“Hold still, please.”
A quiet exhale escaped through your nose, resisting the urge to fidget as a pair of hands adjusted the fall of fabric at your waist; you just wanted to go home. “I am still.” You murmured.
“Still-er.” The head assistant replied gently.
Tired, you bit back a comment, there was no point arguing with anyone. It was evening and you wanted this over and done with, the more you cooperated, the faster this whole thing would be finished.
The gown itself was unsurprisingly perfect. White—of course—but not the stark kind, it shimmered faintly like it had been spun from light filtered through clouds. Intricate golden embroidery traced along the bodice, delicate and intentional.
“There. All done! How does it feel, miss?”
The head assistant’s dainty voice faded into as you looked at the mirror, it was the first time you stared at your reflection since standing inside this fitting room yet strangely enough, an actress stared right back—the ‘you’ all of Penacony knew, the one in front of flashing lights and rolling cameras.
“You’re truly beautiful, miss!” Another one of the assistants gasped, her reddened face tucked between the hearts of her palms.
“. . Thank you. The dress feels . . fine, it’s not too heavy.” The staff dismissed the absentmindedness laced in your voice, mistaking it for pure awe. You didn’t know what to feel seeing yourself in a wedding dress because even with an exquisite ring wrapped around your finger, you still couldn’t believe you were getting married.
“Turn slightly, please.” The head assistant instructed and you did. The skirt fanned out like a blooming flower, its silken fabric faintly glimmering beneath the lights.
“Perfect.” She breathed out.
Perfect. The word followed you everywhere these days—about your relationship with Sunday, about the engagement ring, and now about the dress. You were about to give her a practised reply, the same one you’ve been giving everyone else—a ‘thank you’ and a smile that reached your eyes—until the atmosphere shifted.
The curtains behind you weren't drawn yet but you knew who was beyond them and you were certain the attendants knew as well from the way their backs straightened, immediately stepping away from the raised platform you stood upon.
“Pardon my intrusion, may I step inside?”
Sunday’s voice filled the silence. As if on cue, heat blanketed your cheeks, heart racing at the thought of him seeing you in a wedding dress. Your gaze landed on the head assistant through the reflection, giving her a slight nod to which she immediately understood and swiftly drew the curtains back.
As Sunday stepped inside, both attendants silently bowed their heads and headed out, closing the curtains behind them to give privacy. Alone in a small space with him with too many mirrors; you swallowed thickly and smoothed down the skirt of the dress, “I wasn’t aware of your visit.” You murmured, tucking a loose strand behind your ear.
“I was told preparations were underway. I wanted to ensure there were no complications.”
Of course.
“Well?” You started, head tilted slightly. “You came all this way, you should at least give your evaluation.” Your hands found its way atop your clothed hip. It was half a joke, half a challenge yet you awaited for his words.
Sunday didn’t reply immediately, instead, his gaze settled on you—steady and unreadable. You observed how his amber eyes lingered on the bodice of your dress a second or two longer before moving on to the bloomed skirt. Beneath his wandering gaze, something in your chest tightened, cheeks burning deeper, it almost felt like a thousand needles prickling your skin.
“. . It suits you.” He said at last.
You blinked, brows knitting together, “That’s it?”
“You expected more?”
“I expected something. I’m about to be married off to the Oak Family Head and become the half of Penacony’s model pair, surely that warrants something far better than ‘it suits you’.”
“You always did prefer honest reponses.” That caught you off guard. Sunday wasn’t one to reminisce about the past—at least not with you—but he has done it twice now, once back at Aideen Park and once today.
You didn’t reply nor did you acknowledge how his gaze softened slightly, “Well, if you want honesty then . . you look exquisite and the dress harmonizes with your beauty perfectly,” The end of his sentence ended awkwardly, as if he wanted to speak more but ultimately decided to hold back.
You were well aware there was no romance behind his compliment, it was merely an honest, straightforward one but you couldn’t help suck in a breath. You looked away, clearing your throat lightly, once again smoothing a none existent crease on the dress, “That’s the goal, isn’t it? To make me look presentable for the big day.”
Sunday hummed absentmindedly causing you to risk a glance at him once more, his eyes were still on you but this time he wasn’t assessing, he was admiring.
“How is it then? Convincing enough for you, Mr. Sunday?”
His gaze finally drew upwards ‘til it met your own, a strange glint flickered in his honeyed eyes, “. . Too convincing.”
Whatever that meant
Before you could respond, the head assistant spoke just beyond the drawn curtains, effectively breaking the . . moment between you and Sunday. Akin to a deer caught in headlights, you slightly stepped away from the latter; funnily enough, there was already a great distance between the two of you but somehow you just felt like distancing yourself further.
“Miss, we need to finalize the veil fitting.”
You cleared your throat, trying to burn down Sunday’s weighted stare, “Of course.”
“. . I should take my leave then.” His gaze lingered on your face but you didn’t dare meet it. With that, he let out a soft sigh, turning around to part the curtains and leave but before he could even take one step, you called out his name, tone laced with . . desperation?
“S-Sunday . . ?” You weren’t sure why you did it or what possessed you to even utter his name yet somehow, you felt it was necessary to do so; though, you didn’t know what to say because now, Sunday looked over his shoulder—citrine gaze, full of hidden curiosity, just above his ivory wing—waiting for what was to come next.
“I’ll see you later, okay?” What did that even mean? Why did you say that? You were certain Sunday was just as confused about your reply as you were but he didn’t seem to let on, in fact, without so much of a hitch, he tilted his head, gave a little smile—one that had you biting the inside of your cheek—and replied, “Of course.”
Then, without another word, he gave both attendants a nod of acknowledgement before heading for the door.
Moment of Blue Hour
After two strenuous weeks of running around the Dreamscape—whether it be for work or for wedding preparations—the big day finally came, and in all honesty, you weren’t sure what to feel. The morning felt like a huge blur, attendants rushed in and out of the bridal suite to tend to you, and several loved ones visited in between, it served as a gentle reminder that you weren’t entirely alone. At least not today.
The first to check on you was Robin, she had peeked into your suite with a warm smile on her face, though, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. You didn’t blame her, she knew of the situation and you assumed she also didn’t know how to feel for you—happiness seemed too cruel but sadness would also dampen the unsteady mood that lingered within the atmosphere.
The least she could leave you with was encouragement and a few good words about her brother: “I know you know my older brother well enough so I won’t say much but . . he will never hurt you. You and I both know he wants the best for everyone, and that includes you.”
The next two who visited were Ms. Maeven Ellis and Siobhan who stayed a little longer with you, especially the latter—out of the three, Lady Siobhan was probably the only one who understood your emotions the most as she, too, was pressured with countless expectations within the Iris Family as the second to the Head.
Being an adoptive older sister, she always looked out for you, most of them during young days where Ms. Maeven Ellis would push you to take acting classes. Though, despite the former’s efforts of letting you choose your own path, you did eventually end up in the artistic industry just like everyone else in the Iris Family.
The Eventide was as romantic as ever, docked in the Sea of Dreams where its tranquil waters lulled guests with awe. Warm lights illuminated the expansive boat, it bathed everything in a gentle gleam of gold; its cathedral-like structure effortlessly blended reverence and spectacle, a quiet yet bold message that The Family did not hold back on this grand event.
Rows upon rows of guests filled the hall, a sea of fine silk and polished smiles—though, however warm they may be, all you could feel were the weight of their stares, a sense of anticipation that settled over your shoulders, it seemed to be heavier than the gown you wore.
The cameras also didn’t help, the subtle click of the shutter every second or so, they hovered discreetly and blended within the crowd but you knew they were there, capturing every movement and emotion etched into your face.
And as you stood at the altar facing Sunday, your hands resting atop his bigger ones, you trembled slightly—a barely noticeable crack on the surface of the glass. He must have noticed because within the next second, his hands squeezed your own, a gentle action to ground you, to serve as a reminder that only you and him mattered in this moment—not the officiant, not the guests, just you and him. A soft, shaky breath escaped your crimson-stained lips, you mirrored Sunday’s action. A small thank you.
The officiant’s voice carried smoothly through the air, unwavering as he spoke of harmony and unity, of two individuals converging into one for the sake of something greater; you heard his words but they felt far away, almost muffled and dream-like. Your focus drifted over to the feeling of Sunday’s hands in yours, to the warmth of it, to the quiet reminder that despite everything, this moment was real
Well, at least parts of it were but you wanted to believe that softness in Sunday’s gaze as he watched you walk down the aisle earlier was genuine—that it wasn’t a mask he prepared and wore for this ceremony but you’d be lying to yourself. To you, Sunday was the hardest book to decipher, the more you read in between lines and paragraphs, the more you’d doubt your thoughts.
“. . And by the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you—”
Your breath caught and the room seemed to still.
“—Husband and wife.” The officiant paused for a split second, letting the words linger in the air and manifest into existence. Then, he continued,
“You may now kiss the bride.”
As his words echoed in your mind, your gaze slowly lifted to Sunday’s and for a moment, you both hesitated. He was the first to move, his head inclined towards you—eyes fluttering shut—slowly leaning in, his hands rested on either side of your waist; the quiet hum of the Dreamscape faded into the background as the space between your faces narrowed with each long second.
This was a part of the performance, you both knew that but it wasn’t something that was rehearsed, and even though you were an actress yourself—where kissing co-actors came naturally—this felt entirely different.
You closed your eyes, heart stuttering, the traitorous beast banging against the cold bars of your chest; for a second, you wondered if Sunday could hear it but upon noticing the unreadable expression on his face, you assumed he was focused on how to approach the kiss everyone anticipated—the subtle pause in his breath was enough to tell you it wasn’t easy for him either.
And just as Sunday was about to seal the kiss, he gracefully lifted a wing to obscure the view, leaving everyone unaware of the small distance between you and him; it was deliberate yet to everyone else, the veil of feathers seemed natural given the way your faces were angled slightly. The perfect illusion of an elegant kiss.
“Forgive me, I do not wish to make you uncomfortable in front of everyone. This . . should suffice, we do not have to go all the way.” Sunday whispered dangerously close, your knees almost buckled at the feel of his hot breath ghosting over your lips.
Your hands, which rested atop his clothed chest, curled slightly, nails digging into the hearts of your palms, “Right . .” You whispered back.
You told yourself it didn’t matter, that Sunday only thought of respecting your boundaries—as a matter of fact, you should even be grateful that he didn’t force you and yet something in your chest dipped in disappointment. Albeit small and quiet, it was significant enough to feel it within your ribcage, the low murmur of your heart.
Of course. Sunday would never force something like that and you respected him for it! But . . you couldn’t help think that he simply didn’t want to kiss you. As childish as it sounded, you were convinced.
You bit the insides of your cheeks, lids tightly pressed against your eyes, you didn’t dare take a small peak. Not when his face was barely centimetres away from your own and absolutely not when his intoxicating scent invaded your senses. The wings behind your ears rustled briefly, brushing against Sunday’s.
Slowly, the moment passed; each camera click and quiet gasps from the guests enveloped the enchanting scene at the altar. A few seconds later, his wing lowered—as graceful as ever—once again revealing you both to everyone else, and it was like the entire room breathed out a long sigh.
The guests responded instantly, applause swelled throughout the Eventide, everyone wore a smile on their faces, completely convinced by what they’d witnessed.
You pulled away first, immediately turning to the crowd with the most genuine smile you could muster, trying to mirror everyone else’s joyous expression.
Among the guests, you caught Robin’s gaze who sat on the front row pew—she wore a smile like everyone else but her cerulean eyes gleamed with apology; you assumed she felt partly responsible for her brother’s decision regarding the marriage but you never blamed her, if there was anyone to blame it would be the Dreammaster but you’d never dare utter it into existence. After all, you were just pawns in his Dreamscape.
Funnily enough, as the person who decided you and Sunday to be married, he didn’t attend today, you’ve heard whispers within the Dewlight Pavilion that the Dreammaster wasn’t feeling too well these days, not that you cared about the man. You may have grew up with him around but that doesn't mean you’ve warmed up to him; he still carried the same unsettling aura he had when you were a kid.
After the long awaited ceremony, everyone settled into the reception where an abundance of congratulatory greetings and hugs were given to you and Sunday; most of them came from close co-actors who you’ve worked with on previous films, they also took the time to converse with him and didn’t hold back with such questions.
“Okay, this might be a bit silly to ask but who fell in love first?” Cassian—a co-actor you’ve grown close with—asked with pure curiosity, his hazelnut gaze darted between the two of you, he nursed a half empty glass of SoulGlad, swishing the golden liquid within as he stood before the table you and Sunday sat on.
You briefly looked over to Sunday who already had his eyes on you. “I did,” You started, setting your gaze back to Cassian and pairing it with a small smile.
“This is actually the first time I’m admitting this but . . I’ve had a crush on him ever since we were kids so I’m assuming it was me who fell in love first—I mean, who wouldn’t, right? He was kind and caring, and from then on, my young heart knew who it wanted.”
With every word that rolled from your tongue, heat that blanketed your cheeks intensified. Obviously, everything you stated was the truth but saying it aloud in front of him was rather embarrassing even if he didn’t have a clue how real it was.
A confession veiled as a lie.
You could feel Sunday’s honeyed gaze boring into the side of your face but you kept your eyes on Cassian who animatedly cooed in response, “Well, aren’t you a lucky one, Mr. Sunday!” The brunette inclined his glass towards the two of you as if making a toast.
Sunday chuckled softly in response, uttering a small ‘Indeed, I am.’ You ignored the stutter in your chest.
“Do you guys have a destination for the honeymoon? There are so many worlds to choose from!”
You let out a cough, the heat from your cheeks spreading down the column of your neck and onto your chest where it bloomed, “A-Ah, well! Sunday and I decided that we’ll have to push back our honeymoon for a while. With the Charmony Festival approaching in less than a few months, he’d be busy with preparation and as for my schedule, it’s packed with shoots—you should know.”
Cassian enthusiastically nodded, “That’s right! We’ve an upcoming film together—I can’t believe I forgot! Well, I shouldn’t take up anymore of your time, the two of you should enjoy your first few moments as husband and wife. Haha! I’ll get going then. Oh and I’ll see you on set!” With that, the brunette excused himself and headed for the open bar.
“I wasn’t aware Mr. Cassian is going to play the lead role along with you.” Sunday curiously stated. You shrugged, “I wasn’t aware you were interested in my matters but yes, we will be in a romance film together. Why? Interested in seeing it in the theatres once it comes out, Mr. Sunday?”
He let out a humourless laugh, “I liked your little story earlier. The one you told Mr. Cassian.”
Little story. Well, little did he know how true it all was.
This was supposed to be a happy day but with the amount of times Sunday had unknowingly shattered your naïve heart into more and more pieces today alone, you weren’t certain how long you’d last in this foolish charade, and you couldn’t blame him at all—not that you had anyone else to blame but your feelings.
“What can I say? I’ve been told I’m amazing when it comes to improvising.” You didn’t meet his gaze, instead, your eyes scanned around the room, pretending to skim and scan, feigning interest in the uninteresting.
Well, at least the guests looked like they were having more fun than you—they laughed over clinked glasses and exquisite Penaconian dishes, a genuine expression of joy painted on their alcohol tinted faces.
Sunday left the conversation at that and tended to his own glass, briefly swirling the liquid inside before taking a calculated sip; the golden beverage blanketed his tastebuds, its familiar sweetness putting his mind at ease. He wasn’t certain of the reason but he felt somewhat odd upon hearing your reply, the feeling irked him down to the bone.
Clearly, it was an uncharted territory and Sunday despised places he couldn’t control—the unknown and the unpredictable. He hated the thought of not knowing how to unpack his emotions.
But the real question was: Why did he feel this way? and what was the root of it? Maybe it was stress getting to him, he rarely got decent sleep and his daily schedule was always packed. Yeah, definitely stress.
Old Oak Family Manor (Reality)
A few tiring system hours later, you and Sunday were finally surrounded by pure silence—no prying eyes, no endless questions, just silence. The two of you found yourselves inside the old Oak Family manor, a separate building from the Hotel that stood in Reality but remained just as grand and expansive.
“So . . you’re the only one who lives here now? What about the Dreammaster?”
The manor stood like a quiet declaration of wealth—just as you’ve always remembered it to be—it gleamed like polished marble kissed by dawn, its towering windows framed with intricate carvings and draped with silken curtains.
Everything felt all too familiar and with every turn of your head, an old, tucked memory resurfaced like a bubble floating upwards—the curved staircase you and the twins would sit on to tell ghost stories, the expansive field outside where you’d spend afternoons running around, and . . Sunday’s room where he and Robin would ‘perform’ concerts .
The very room both of you stood in.
You had spent enough time in the old Oak Family manor to know that his room barely changed—sure, his toys were replaced with endless stacks of books and documents, and his bed no longer housed soft plushes but apart from those, everything was the same.
“Ever since I was appointed Head, this manor was entrusted to me. I am not aware of Mr. Gopher Wood’s whereabouts nor do I question it.”
“You don’t have company?” “I have attendants.”
You let out a snort which earned a raised brow from him, “That’s different, Sunday. The attendants work here.” The manor used to be so lively, now it felt completely empty and a little cold; you couldn’t help but wonder if Sunday ever felt lonely, especially with a building so vast—was he haunted by the echoes of his lone footsteps? Did he ever avoid eating in the dining room because he’d be the only one sitting at the long table?
“Nevermind, disregard my last question. Though, I do have another one, are you sure you’re comfortable with me sleeping here? I mean, there are tons of other rooms in this manor.” Naturally, since you were now married to Sunday, it only made sense to reside together in the Oak Family manor, however, you didn’t expect to actually share a room with him.
“You’re my wife, are you not? If anything, it’d only rouse suspicions from attendants about us sleeping in different rooms,”
He had a point.
“And just because our marriage stands on falsehoods does not mean I won’t uphold my role as your husband. I’m sure you’re aware I’m not that kind of man.” Sunday continued. Again, he was right, he certainly wasn’t the type of person to slack off just because he was out of the spotlight and you didn’t know whether that was a blessing or a curse.
“I suggest you wash up first, it has been a long day, after all, and your clothes are in the closet.” Oh, that’s right, you almost forgot about your belongings, thanks to the help of the Bloodhound Family, all of them were transported to the manor safe and sound; you assumed the attendants must have unpacked it all for you.
You absentmindedly nodded, trying to process the fact that you were now bound not only to Sunday but the manor as well for the rest of your life—that you would come home every single night and sleep beside him.
A foreign feeling washed over your body, the feeling that would grow from the depths of your core in response to a drastic change in your life. It wasn’t unsettling nor uncomfortable per se but it was extremely hard to ignore.
Bathing beneath the warm water took a lot longer than you’d intended, the feel of it against your bare skin soothed you so much that it almost felt like someone had wrapped you in a cozy hug, one that you’ve been deprived of these days.
Now, sitting on your side of the bed—the left side—in your silken nightie, you carefully combed your freshly dried hair, a thousand thoughts coursing through your mind and none of them were coherent.
Sure, what you were wearing was designed entirely for sleeping but Xipe above! You felt absolutely exposed; the way its flimsy straps slid down your shoulders every other minute didn’t help at all.
Even the way Sunday’s honeyed eyes widened when you walked out of the bathroom clearly meant he was taken aback by the brazenness of your attire—or the lack of it. But could you really blame yourself? Prior to tonight, you lived alone and that meant you could wear whatever you wanted to bed with no one to judge.
Setting the comb on the night stand beside you, you quickly tucked yourself beneath the ivory duvet upon hearing the shower turn off; if you hid yourself inside the bed, it would make you feel less exposed to Sunday, you pulled on the duvet ‘til it covered all the way up to the base of your neck.
Yeah, this seemed about right.
He stepped out of the bathroom, clad in a pair of matching pyjamas, hair and wings damp, it took him only about three steps before he stopped in his tracks, gaze fixated on you.
“Is the temperature too cold for your liking . . ?” Sunday stood there dumbfounded at the silly sight before him—you, on the bed with just your head and neck sticking out from under the duvet.
“No, it’s perfectly fine. Why do you ask?” You shook your head, blinking up at him. He replied with a small sigh, “If this is about your . . attire then rest assured I do not mind but if you feel uncomfortable, I can offer you a top to wear over.” He immediately looked away, feigning a cough.
His reply may have been nonchalant but you caught how the tips of his ears flushed a deep pink hue; obviously he, too, was as embarrassed as you were, only he was better at hiding it.
Once again, you shook your head, “I don’t want to bother you with such trivial matters. Besides, I’ll be going to sleep soon.”
Sunday wordlessly nodded before turning off the lights and proceeding to walk towards the shared bed—towards you.
As darkness filled the entire room in an instant, you swallowed thickly, trying to calm your poor, poor heart as his footsteps echoed closer than the last; you closed your eyes as he lifted the duvet—a breeze of cool air momentarily enveloping your bare skin—he slipped inside and the mattress dipped beneath his weight, it made you realise just how small of a space there was between your bodies.
Not enough to have your bare arm brushing against his clothed one but enough to feel warmth that radiated from him.
“Pardon me but would you have trouble sleeping if I turned on a lamp?” Sunday whispered into the darkness.
“I don’t mind but are you not going to sleep? It’s well past midnight.” You opened your eyes and inclined your head, facing him.
“I’ll be writing for a bit as sleep has not yet caught up to me.” The bedside lamp turned on with a soft click which immediately illuminated his half of the bed, casting a warm gentle glow on his softened features. You replied with a wordless nod before turning your back to him and letting the faint sound of pen and paper sully you into endless clouds of dreams.
A couple of pages and half a system hour later, Sunday finally looked up from the inked pages of his book. Curious, he glanced over at your sleeping form which remained with your back towards him, he watched the rhythmic rise and fall with every shallow breath.
Compared to earlier, more of your torso peeked from beneath the duvet, he noticed how the flimsy strap of your nightie had fallen from your shoulder and took the initiative—after whispering an apology for his brazen behaviour—to lean over and fix it.
Sunday let out a sigh, he pulled the shared duvet upwards to cover your shoulder before returning to his side of the bed.
For some reason, he couldn’t help but feel that you held disdain for him—and honestly? Rightfully so because truthfully speaking, he had foolishly roped you into an eternal duty without your consent, without considering how you would feel about the entire idea. It wasn’t like him to involve others in such serious matters, and if given the opportunity to shoulder the problem alone, he would’ve done so in a heartbeat.
Sunday gazed down at his book once more, catching a glimpse of glimmering gold wrapped around a digit of his left hand—his wedding band, it shone quietly beneath the warm glow of the lamp. He brought his hand up to examine the piece of jewellery, honeyed gaze following each curve of the intricate pattern engraved on it. Despite its small size, it sat heavy on his finger and whether it was the weight of burden or something more, he had no idea.
Funnily enough, never in a million years did he think he’d be married before Robin; sure, he was the older twin but relationships and marriage rarely crossed his mind, and as embarrassing as it was, flirting definitely wasn’t for him either.
Moment of Morning Dew
“So what you’re suggesting is a date?”
“Indeed.”
“Wow, I didn’t know you were quite the romantic, Oak Family Head.”
“To be frank, it wasn’t my idea. It was merely suggested to me and I think it’d be appropriate to make occasional appearances in public as husband and wife.”
Well, there goes romance out of the window. So it was tied to duty after all, and here you were thinking Sunday acted out of his own will for once but if there was anyone to blame the feeling of slight disappointment, it would be none other than you and your naïve heart.
It had only been a little over a month after the marriage yet you’ve already been met with disappointments and you hated yourself for feeling that way because it wasn’t even Sunday’s fault—he was only upholding his role but you? You had mistaken his actions for reality.
The chaste forehead kisses whenever he visited you on set paired with a humble bouquet of flowers, the endearments he called you in front of your co-actors, holding your hand—all these were initiated by him and every single time, like a fool, you had mistaken it for something sincere.
How ironic that between the two of you, Sunday would be the better actor. You’ve paid him a visit countless times in Dewlight Pavilion when you weren’t needed on set—brought him food, offered him a shoulder massage whenever he seemed visibly stressed, and even tried convincing him to take a breather but you were rigid and hesitant.
Today just happened to be one of those days where you visited him. As usual, you were as stiff as a board and your words barely held any sincerity in them, as if you merely read off a script.
And maybe that’s why he took the initiative to lead because he had sensed your hesitancy regarding everything.
“Where are we headed?” You raised a brow, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.
Sunday gathered every document on his table and stacked them neatly in a pile before placing it to the side, “Aideen Park. I heard there was a small event happening there and I thought we could pay a visit.”
Moment of Golden Hour
Aideen Park was livelier than normal, people lined up for several reasons—food trucks, photobooths, and even a mini ferris wheel ride. Naturally, the band which usually performed at the heart of the Park gained quite a crowd as well, they played an upbeat melody to fit the joyous atmosphere. Several booths and signage within the vicinity was enough to deduce that this public event was run by SoulGlad with their iconic logo plastered everywhere.
“Hm? Did SoulGlad release a new flavour?” You fell into a step beside Sunday, eyes fixated on a stall where a staff happily gave away freebies and judging by the unfamiliar packaging of SoulGlad in his hand, it had to be a new flavour.
He nodded, jutting out his right arm which you wordlessly held on to, “Indeed, SoulGlad has released a new flavour called Charmony to honour the Charmony Festival. I figured I’d acquire several bottles for Robin.”
You hummed at his reply. It was nice knowing he still thought about his sister even in her absence, at heart, Sunday was truly just an older brother taking care of his family and it warmed your heart more than anything.
You’ve always wondered how he felt when Robin left Penacony; from what you could remember, it was a crucial turning point in their lives as well as yours—her music career was taking off, Sunday was training to be Bronze Melodia, and you had just secured your first lead role.
“Have you had the chance to try the new flavour?” You asked, shaking the thoughts away.
At your question, he shook his head, “I have heard from several people that it has its own unique twist to it. Now, I know we have personal security around but it’s best to stay close to me with this many people present.”
With his free arm, he adjusted your hand on his clothed bicep, allowing you to hold him better. “It’s not like I’m going to run away.” You murmured, ignoring the blanket of heat settling on your cheeks.
There had already been a few instances where you had held Sunday by his bicep like this or his hand but you’ve never gotten used to the feeling of his body pressed closely against your own.
Even through the fabric of his blazer, merely touching him seared your skin like a thousand flames—it felt like it was forbidden to do so yet at the same time, you couldn’t quite pull away even if you wanted to.
Sunday led the two of you to a food truck lined with customers and on the way there, you were both excitedly greeted by many event goers and passerbys, with some even coming up to you for autographs and photos.
You only managed to get through three autographs and two photos before Sunday came up behind you, a chivalrous hand hovering on the small of your back as he gently ushered you away, a wing curled around the back of your head, “We should get going before people start shoving one another to get signatures and such.”
Nodding, you smiled apologetically before bidding them good bye, “It was nice seeing you all! I hope everyone enjoys this SoulGlad event!”
“Pardon my intrusion but I noticed you were getting quite flustered so I took matters into my own hands.” Sunday apologised, not realising his hand—which rested on your lower back—had protectively snaked around your waist, it pulled you closer to him, effectively turning your legs into jello. If it wasn’t for his hold, you would’ve already kissed the grounds of Aideen Park.
Oh god, you hoped he hadn’t noticed how your torso shook with a small shudder. You feigned a cough, “T-That’s quite okay, Sunday. Thank you. What did you want to ord—”
“Mr and Mrs Sunday! How lovely to see Penacony’s harmonious couple in our humble event!” One of the SoulGlad staff at the food truck rushed over to the back of the line where you and Sunday stood, effectively gaining attention from customers in the queue. They turned around and whispered amongst themselves, not-so-subtly pointing at you both.
Sunday greeted the Pepeshi staff with a smile, “Ah, hello. Thank you for having us.”
“Are you two seeking to order? I can take it in advance so the two of you won’t have to wait!” He excitedly spoke, the fluff ball atop his head vigorously swinging back and forth.
In unison, you and Sunday both shook your heads, declining his kind offer, “We shan’t. She and I are here as humble customers, we don’t mind waiting a little while. It would be unfair for those who are before us.”
“No such thing! Mr. Sunday and Mrs are our esteemed guests! You know what? I’ll go ahead and get two servings of our best seller—Clockie Pizza!” Before the two of you could humbly decline once more, the Pepeshi had already taken off towards the food truck, excitement budding with every step he took.
Within a few minutes, he came running back with two servings of Clockie Pizza on a paper plate, steam which radiated from the slices indicated it was freshly taken from the oven.
“Here you are! Two slices for our very special customers, enjoy!” Both of you thanked the Pepeshi staff as he handed the plate over to Sunday, he gave the two of you another excited smile before skipping off towards the food truck. You and Sunday could only exchange lopsided smiles, not really knowing what to make out of the situation; as much as you felt bad, you were pretty hungry so you were absolutely more than thankful.
After eating, the two of you found yourselves in one of the photobooths (Embarrassingly, Sunday had noticed you were staring intently at them while you were eating and asked if you wanted to go). Naturally, the booth had limited space inside which meant you two had to squeeze yourselves on the bench—arms and legs flushed against one another.
You tried not to think about how your wing momentarily brushed his own, his ivory feathers tickling yours; Halovians’ wings were a sensitive area and one couldn’t just reach out and have a feel of it, many Halovians treat their wings as the most important part of their body and consider it an intimate gesture if they willingly let someone touch it.
“How does one operate this?” He drew the crimson curtain on his left side to close off the booth before turning to you with a hint of confusion on his face. At his question, you mirrored his expression, brows drawn together, “Have you not tried one before?—Nevermind. We simply press this button on the screen to get started and once it starts, the camera takes three pictures so we have to think of different poses for each frame.”
“And oh, it’s timed so efficiency is needed.”
“Seems quite pressuring, no?” Sunday humourlessly laughed. This was his first time trying out a photobooth machine and the thought of coming up with three different poses in a span of mere seconds . . He couldn’t even think of one off the top of his head.
“Oh? Is the Oak Family Head intimidated by a photobooth? Well, if you ever feel stuck, you can go ahead and copy my poses. Ready?” You glanced over at him who only nodded in response, honeyed pupils gleaming beneath the harsh lights of the booth.
Without another word, you leaned over and pressed the button in the middle before quickly getting into a pose—the classic smile with a peace sign.
On the other hand, Sunday blinked as he watched numbers on the screen count down. 3. Ah, what pose should he do? 2. Maybe just a smile? Would that be too formal? 1. He quickly looked over to you to imitate your pose but before he could even get his hand in position, the camera brightly flashed indicating that the first photo had been taken.
“Quick! Finish off the other half of this heart!”
As the screen began counting down once more, Sunday hesitantly mirrored your gesture with his left hand. Four fingers curl like so . . and how does the thumb go? Ah, straight down at an angle. Then, place it against her hand. While he mused over how to complete the hand heart, the camera flashed once again. Another photo taken, another frame where he wasn’t ready. Why are photobooths so hard?
“Why don’t we just do a smile?”
Finally, something he could get behind. The two of you instinctively squeezed closer, inclining your heads towards one another with smiles on your face, then, the camera flashed. Sunday let out a soft sigh, it’s as if weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
A small laugh escaped your lips as the two of you exited the booth, “Not bad for your first photobooth experience, huh?” You didn’t notice how heated your skin had become ‘til the air outside pressed against you like an icy envelope.
“You are teasing.” Sunday stared at you with a deadpan expression which only pulled another laugh.
The small machine whirred to life, producing two copies of the strip, you took them both and handed one over to him, “This one is yours, Mr. Oak Family Head.”
You took the time to examine each frame and couldn’t help but crack a smile at how clueless he looked in the first two photos; the first one was him blankly glancing over at you while on the second one, he wore a confused expression while glancing down at his half of the hand heart.
As for the third photo, you didn’t want to look at it for too long. Not because it was hideous or any of that sort—quite the opposite—but because both of you looked like an actual happy couple, a pair who loved one another. You swallowed thickly.
“Where shall we head next? Up for a ferris wheel ride?” Tucking the photo strip inside the pocket of your jacket, you looked up at Sunday with a calculated smile on your face. His gaze lingered on you for a second longer as if to search for something but nonetheless, he nodded.
The ferris wheel carriage was quite small, meaning either you and Sunday would have to squeeze together—again—on one side of the carriage or sit on opposite sides; obviously, both of you opted for the latter, which despite facing one another, at least gave you room to breathe.
You avoided fully facing him by slightly angling yourself sideways to gaze beyond the carriage; the ride wasn’t as grand as the one in Clock Studios Theme Park but it was able to reveal a great area of Golden Hour once at the top.
Below, Penaconians went on about their day as usual—whether it be shopping, working or simply taking a leisurely stroll in the Moment, you watched as they led their own lives, wondering what it felt like to be a normal Penaconian.
But what did normal mean for you, exactly? You wished you had the answer.
Sunday knew it was rude to stare but he simply couldn’t bring himself to stop either. Earlier, when you were examining the photo strip, he had noticed the solemn expression on your face; how the corners of your lips sunk ever so slightly and the faint gleam of sadness in your eyes.
A wave of regret hit him once more, the same way it had done for the past month—hard. And now as he watched you observe the Dreamscape below, he couldn’t help but feel responsible for your sadness. There had been many instances where he had caught you with a somber expression but he never dared address it, though now seemed like a great opportunity.
“Are you quite alright?”
Turning your head to him, you drew your brows together, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Sunday pressed his lips in a thin line, “You . . can always talk to me. As a friend.”
You chuckled, adjusting your body so you could face him fully, “Is the Oak Family Head missing his Bronze Melodia days?”
Deflecting—that’s what you were doing, a habit he never once liked from you but as concerned as he was, he didn’t press any further. Doing so would most likely only worsen whatever you housed inside your chest, and he didn’t want to be the cause of that. Maybe some day you’d finally open up to him about all your worries and feelings but for now, he’d wait even if it meant waiting for eons.
Moment of Sol
“Ah, Mr. Sunday! Lovely to see you here once again. As you can see, we’re about to start filming so it’s best to keep quiet. Other than that, feel free to watch.” The director—who he had come to know as Thaddeus—gleefully whispered before heading to his seat. The former wasn’t old, most likely in his early forties but he did don several silvery strands on his head along with a full beard.
Sunday made his way over to a quiet corner behind all the film crew with a decent view of the scene unfolding before him. The set was a large bedroom dimmed to convey a sultry atmosphere, in the middle sat a large bed draped in crimson sheets where you and Cassian were positioned. Judging by this, he could easily deduce that the scene you were filming was rather intimate—it was a romance film after all.
During the previous times he had visited you, the scenes he witnessed were more . . family friendly. Scenes where Celestine—the character you played—merely caught up with her friends in a coffee shop and all of that sort; there was one that Sunday particularly took a liking to, where you and Cassian argued back and forth—an intense quarrel between two lovers.
It reminded him how much of an amazing actress you were, he didn’t want to admit it but that scene moved him enough to make his eyes water, he could only imagine what it would look like on the big screen. But this scene was entirely different, Sunday had never seen you act intimately before and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.
“Quiet on set! Pictures up! Roll sound! Roll camera! Marker . . and action!”
Clap!
The slate’s sound echoed throughout the entire set and Sunday watched as you and Cassian instantly got into character. He sucked in a breath as the two of you slowly inched closer to one another, sealing each other’s lips in a heated kiss.
Soft, wet sounds filled the room, the kiss deepened and turned into something less innocent and for a brief moment, Sunday forgot he was in a set, and that the scene before him was scripted.
He swallowed thickly, shifting his weight from one foot to another as Cassian roamed his hands all over your body, even going as far as raking his palms along your clothed chest and the area behind your wings. A dainty whimper slipped past your kiss-bitten slips in between breaths, followed by a whisper of his name.
Something strange bubbled within Sunday’s chest, he was well aware everything was scripted but seeing another man brazenly touch you with lust and fervour, and hearing you breathe out someone else’s name did not feel right at all. Was he jealous? No. But he wasn’t entirely fine with this either.
Nonetheless, Sunday didn’t have the right to have a say on these matters so he kept quiet and continued watching how Cassian eagerly shoved his tongue past your lips like a hungry beast. He didn’t even realise his jaw had tightened and the tips of his fingers had dug into the hearts of his palms ‘til the Thaddeus yelled ‘Cut!’ ultimately breaking immersion. The two of you pulled away from one another, breathless and hair mussed.
“Cassian, remember to angle your arm slightly or else we won’t be able to see her face—”
As the director gave him instructions, you managed to spot a familiar face within the small crowd of film crew, his golden halo shone lightly beneath the artificial set lighting—Sunday.
Xipe above, you almost forgot he was going to pay you a visit today, not that you didn’t want him to come, it’s just that having him watch an erotic scene with yourself and Cassian felt odd. You were embarrassed, to say the least. As an actress, you took yourself out of comfort zones countless times for different roles and they were no easy feat but who knew you’d be struggling to act in an intimate scene before Sunday?
With a lopsided smile, you shyly waved at him to which he responded with an incline of his head. Whether he had a smile on his face or not, you weren’t sure, you couldn’t see clearly beyond the lighting.
Sunday, in fact, did not have a smile on his face
It was childish and idiotic to sulk over such a minor thing and if he could stop his chest from tightening weirdly, he would have done so already but he couldn’t, and now a subtle frown blanketed his face. He tried to look at the bright side—how talented you were at acting and how proud he was that you’ve come so far but god he was powerless to his own thoughts.
“Alright, from the top! Sound! Cameras! Marker and . . action!”
Clap!
Again, the entire room snapped into place, including you and Cassian. For the second time, Sunday watched in silence as the two of you passionately made out once more, this time the scene escalated to him pushing you down on the mattress below, lips still locked onto your own, and hands pinned against the pillows.
Even with your eyes closed and even with Cassian smothering you like there was no tomorrow, you could feel the heat of Sunday’s gaze from beyond the cameras and lights—the intensity of it. Getting into the zone was second nature to you yet you couldn’t shake off the nagging thought that he was watching you, it felt like you were cheating right in front of his face; Sunday probably didn’t mind at all but still.
This went on for a few more minutes until Thaddeus was satisfied with the outcome and wrapped up the scene, “Actors, we need you in a wardrobe change and can we please rearrange lighting on the set for the next scene?”
With that, you stood up from the bed and walked over to Sunday who greeted you with a small smile, “Hey, I’m glad you’re here.” You mirrored his smile before loosely wrapping your arms around his waist. A simple performance in front of everyone. He did the same and placed a chaste kiss on the crown of your head.
“You did well, my love.”
Your heart stuttered.
“Mm, really? I’m glad you think so.”
“Well, I shan’t take up any more of your time. Mr. Thaddeus did mention a wardrobe change for you, right?” Sunday slightly pulled back, a warm smile on his face as he gazed down at you. Ah, you wished he stayed for a little longer even though embarrassment ate you alive in his presence but alas, he was a busy man, so you simply nodded,
“I’ll see you around?” The corners of your lips curled into a smile.
He hummed, he gave you another chaste kiss, this time on your forehead before completely letting go of you. Oh, god. Was it merely your imagination or was he acting extra . . touchy? You wouldn’t even dream of putting Sunday and touchy in the same sentence—they were like two magnets with the same side that repelled one another but his actions proved otherwise. Or maybe you were highly delusional.
Before he could walk away any further, you called out to him, “Sunday?” He turned around, an expectant look painted on his face.
“I . .” Love you? Was that what you were going to say? There was no harm in that, right? Right? Come to think of it, neither of you had ever uttered those words—were you about to start now? Technically, the two of you were married and expressing love to one another was normal. God, why were you even overthinking—
Whatever.
“I love you.”
Sunday’s wings momentarily rustled, a hint of shock washed over his face, albeit subtle, you caught on. His chest tightened but it wasn’t the same feeling as earlier, it didn’t hurt, instead, it felt like a dainty butterfly fluttering inside his ribcage. He stared at you momentarily, the rush of everyone else around fading into the background, his breaths turned shallow and slightly uneven. Was he sick?
“I . . love you, too.” And without another word, he left.
Fake. Fake. Fake. Fake!
You reminded yourself this marriage was fake and so was his response but your heart believed otherwise because now it pounded against the bars of your ribs, it wanted to leap out and find comfort in the warmth of his palms. Heat spread from your cheeks, along the column of your neck, and all the way down to your chest—it bloomed like a fiery flower, its blazing petals hungry for more.
The urge to tell Sunday as soon as possible settled in your heart.
The night before the Charmony Festival, Old Oak Family Manor (Reality)
Unfortunately, with both your schedules tightly packed, you rarely saw Sunday within the past week—only some nights during ungodly hours where he carefully slipped next to you in bed but other than that, no words were exchanged, and as much as you wanted to talk to him, exhaustion weighed on your body. And as soon as you were enveloped by the softness of the bed, it immediately lulled you into a deep sweet dream.
Tonight wasn’t any different, you came home to yet another empty house—save for the attendants—without Sunday and frankly, you were worried he wasn’t getting the proper rest he needed. You did leave him a couple of messages earlier between your shoots simply asking how he was but he never replied to them, though that wasn't surprising given how close the festival was.
The shared bed felt a lot colder and bigger as you slipped beneath the covers, you turned to face Sunday’s side, stretching out an arm as if to reach for him only to be met with emptiness. A small sigh slipped past your lips, you silently prayed to Xipe that THEY would answer your wishes to see him soon.
For now, you closed your eyes and went to sleep.
11 system hours later
Ri█—ng!
█Rin█g!
Ring!
At the sound of your phone, you stirred awake in bed, sleep still weighed heavy on your body. Was that your alarm? You didn’t remember setting one last night . . Nonetheless, you slowly opened your eyes and reached for the device atop the wooden nightstand, bringing it to your face. You blinked a few times, doing your best to adjust the blur of your vision to see better.
Mr. Oti Alfalfa
Huh? Why was the Alfalfa Family Head calling you? As if your entire body was doused in icy water, you quickly shot up, fingers raked through your mussed hair as you answered, “H-Hello?”
“Ah, it seems you’ve finally woken up, Miss.”
“Mr. Oti Alfalfa! My sincere apologies, it had been a long night . . May I ask why you’re calling?” You rubbed your temples, looking at the wall clock to check the time—11 system hours?! You’ve been asleep for 11 system hours? Just how tired were you last night? Though, with the weight of sleep on you, it did feel like you slept for quite a while, almost like a never ending dream.
“The Family has cleared your schedule for today, we require your presence at the Dewlight Pavilion right this moment. There are important matters to be discussed.”
At the mention of The Family’s residence, you looked over to your right. No Sunday, an empty space. Seeing as how they required your presence, that meant they asked for him too, right? He must’ve been at the Pavilion already but why didn’t he wake you up from your sleep?
There were a thousand questions that ran through your mind regarding the whole situation but what could they possibly need to discuss with you? They even cleared your schedule which meant it had to be something very serious, not to mention how you could sense the urgency in old Oti’s tone as he spoke of important matters.
It made you somewhat uneasy.
“Alright. I will be there in a few minutes.”
With that, you quickly got dressed and headed for the Dreamscape.
Moment of Morning Dew
The Dewlight Pavilion housed more members of The Family than usual, its entrance had at least six Bloodhound Family security officers guarding the doors, and the inside wasn’t any better. What was going on? Today was the Charmony Festival, right? So why was almost everyone present in the Pavilion? You walked down its long halls, each step taken heavier than the last.
There was a slight tension in the air, you felt it and it made your stomach churn; you noticed how some attendants gazed at you as if you were some kind of criminal.
Was . . something wrong? Nonetheless, you ignored them and kept walking ‘til you reached the Council Chamber.
Inside, gathered four Family Heads, they gathered at the heart of the chamber, sitting around a vast circular table. Robin was also present but where was Sunday? Shouldn’t he be present as well?
“. . May I ask what this is all about?” Your brows furrowed, a small frown forming on your lips; you looked over at Robin who only gave you a solemn expression, even the look on your adoptive mother’s face was hard to explain.
“Are you aware of what has transpired in Penacony?” Oti Alfalfa spoke up.
Slowly, you made your way over to situate yourself next to Robin. “No . . I have been asleep and only woke up from your call. Did something terrible happen in the Dreamscape?” You felt asking that question would do more harm than good but there had to be a clear reason as to why they needed you here.
The atmosphere was unbearable. Every Head, including Robin wore an unreadable expression, it’s as if all of them were in on some kind of secret and no one dared to inform you about it. Sunday’s absence in this meeting made you all the more nervous. All of them shared strange looks with one another before Oti Alfalfa spoke up once again,
“. . The Oak Family Head and the Dreammaster had committed the highest act of treason—not only to The Family but to the entirety of Penacony. Sunday usurped the Harmony and revived Ena The Order to use THEIR power to create an eternal dream paradise.”
You didn’t know what to say. Was there even anything appropriate to say?
It didn’t feel real at all, you were hoping they were merely playing a sick, elaborate prank on you but the look on their faces proved otherwise. Old Oti’s words reached your ears the same way nightmares did—fragmented, disjointed, and absolutely impossible to process all at once.
Sunday. Treason. Eternal dream paradise.
No. That wasn’t the Sunday you knew, he couldn’t have possibly done something like that, not the man who had spent most of his life looking out for others—putting their needs before his. It felt contradictory to everything he was. But did it really? Your mind scrambled for reason and context, for some kind of missing piece that would make everything make sense but there was nothing.
Among the million of questions, your mind raised another: What exactly had your marriage been for?
You stood with him before all of Penacony yet all this time he secretly worked with the Dreammaster to dismantle the very concept you and he were assigned to uphold—Harmony. A deep, aching sorrow settled beneath your ribs.
“Rightfully, the former Oak Family Head was imprisoned but it has come to our attention that he had managed to flee from prison, he is now deemed a wanted fugitive. We asked you to join this meeting because we have a few questions regarding your husband.” Flee from prison? How? And who aided him? A part of you was relieved that Sunday managed to flee from The Family’s wrath but you were also scared of what he might face once they found him.
You knew what was coming next.
Maeven Ellis parted her crimson-stained lips, she still held onto that unreadable expression, “Oh, Triple-Faced Soul, please sear her tongue and palms with a hot iron, so that she will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.”
“Everyone in this room is aware regarding the status of your marriage with the former Oak Family Head, orchestrated to refute rumours within the Dreamscape. Were you an accomplice to him and the Dreammaster? Was your marriage merely a disguise to direct Penacony’s attention from their dark schemes?”
You shook your head, “No. I was only aware that our marriage was a solution against those rumours.”
Why were they asking you this? Each Family Head had already agreed to the Dreammaster’s proposal of having you and Sunday marry one another, why was Oti Alfalfa acting as if he wasn’t in favour of the proposal?
“Did you have a hand at helping the former Oak Family Head escape?”
Once again, you shook your head, “No. As I mentioned earlier, I just woke up. I came home from a long shoot last night and went to bed as soon as I could.”
“Did the former Oak Family Head tell you of his schemes?”
You were getting sick of this, twice you’ve already told them you weren’t aware of the Dreammaster and Sunday’s plans, why were they so insistent you had a hand at their schemes? Your mother—out of all people—knew you’d never get involved with something like that. Sure, you had the third highest ranking in the Iris Family but you were merely an actress and stayed out of The Family’s business.
“No.”
Oti Alfalfa nodded, briefly glancing at the golden band around your finger, “That is all but let me tell you this, once The Family finds out you have made contact without any notice or you are actively helping the former Oak Family Head hide, you will be met with punishment for aiding and abetting. This applies to you as well, Miss Robin.”
He didn’t have to verbally say it yet you knew between those words he spoke, he wanted to remind you that The Family was always watching.
After being dismissed by Old Oti, you headed straight to Golden Hour to clear your head—you still couldn’t wrap your head around the whole incident. Did he really manage to revive a dead Aeon? The one that Xipe assimilated? The severity of the entire thing was beyond you and there was no easy way to process all this.
Moment of Golden Hour
“You know, Sunny, won’t it be better to bid farewell to her instead of staring at her poster like a total creep?”
“That implies we won’t see each other again and I do not intend to keep it that way. Even so, I simply cannot bring myself to face her like this even with a disguise. It’s far too risky, Wonweek. I am a fugitive, after all.”
Amidst the glittering luxuries, billboards, and rush of people in the Moment, Sunday—disguised as an Intellitron—stood before an expansive poster of you at Oti Mall, his honeyed gaze traced over your features once, twice, thrice as if to engrave them in his mind.
He was aware the poster was merely an advertisement for a skin care brand yet you looked extremely happy in it and he could only wish the same for you now. With the amount of Bloodhound Family security patrolling around, he assumed news had already broken out regarding his escape, and that you were also aware of it—of everything he had done.
The Pepeshi—Wonweek—who stood next to him hummed, “Oh, really? Not even when she’s right there crying?"
Sunday immediately turned to his companion, “What?” He followed the Pepeshi’s line of sight, it took a few seconds before finally spotting your familiar figure—you sat on a bench in front of Clock Diner, arms crossed over your chest, seemingly staring into nothing. Even though you wore a hat and sunglasses, Sunday could still tell it was you.
“W-Well, maybe not crying but she certainly doesn’t look okay to me.”
“Stay here . .” Sunday absentmindedly murmured, his eyes remained fixated on you, and as if his feet had a mind of its own, he started walking towards you.
“Hey! What the heck happened to ‘I simply cannot bring myself to face her like this’!” Wonweek called out to him, mocking his voice but didn’t bother interfering, he figured the two of you needed to talk, even if it was indirectly.
This wasn’t Sunday’s plan at all, he wasn’t supposed to approach you yet here he was merely three steps away; he had to remind himself not to get carried away with things and that he had a disguise which meant he was a stranger to you.
“Pardon my intrusion, Miss but are you okay?”
At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, you immediately snapped out of your thoughts and shifted your gaze to its owner who stood to your left, just beyond your line of sight—it was an Intellitron clad in a long plum coloured dress. Despite their unmoving facial features, you could sense the hint of concern in their voice.
“O-Oh, um! Yes, of course thank you for asking . . Apologies for my rudeness! Did you want to sit down?” You feigned a cough and adjusted the sunglasses atop your nosebridge before scooting to the edge of the bench to make room. The Intellitron murmured a small thank you as she sat down, smoothing the skirt of her dress.
“My apologies if you were taken aback by my brazenness.”
“Not at all! I’m grateful to have someone look out for me, Miss . . ?”
“Wonweek.” The Intellitron replied.
“Miss Wonweek! What a lovely name . . Thank you, again. It’s just that it’s been a long day and, uh, a . . dear friend of mine has gone somewhere far, far away from me, and I am not certain when I will see him next. Or if I will ever see him again.” You tried your best to stabilize your voice but as each word slipped past your lips, they trembled harder than the last, and the only way to calm yourself down was to caress the golden band wrapped around your ring finger.
“This friend . . he seems quite important to you, no?”
Letting out a shaky sigh, you nodded, “He’s someone I hold very dear to my heart and all I wish for is to talk to him. I’ve been meaning to tell him something.” Sunday swallowed thickly, what could that something possibly be? He’d rather not get his hopes up.
“Your friend may have gone off somewhere far away but I am certain once the time is right, destiny will intertwine your paths once more.”
“Of course. And should the path he chooses not include me in the future, I can only hope it’s a path where he is genuinely happy. I am willing to sacrifice that.” After all, your ties with The Family would make the situation difficult—Oti Alfalfa had already warned you earlier that they had eyes and ears everywhere.
“I may not know your friend well but I am certain he would not want a future without you in it.”
3 months and 3 weeks later, Consternation Starzone, Planarcadia
“Ugh, come on! You already picked the last movie, Stelle! Let me pick one for movie night this time!”
As Sunday walked into the hotel room, he was immediately met with a scene of his bickering companions, however, one of them remained seated in a corner with his arms folded across his chest and eyes closed.
“Great, Sunday’s here! He can back me up on this one! Can you please convince her to watch this movie?” The pink haired woman —who he had come to know as Miss March 7th—eagerly walked over to him and shoved her phone before his face, presenting an opened browser tab for an overview of a movie.
Love and Devotion (1h 49m): Estranged childhood best friends find their way back to one another which results in a trip down memory lane and a blossoming love. Faced with obstacles from their contrasting paths, they navigate through difficulties together, ultimately challenging their relationship.
Cast: Mr. Cassian Noctis, Mrs.—
She swiftly pulled away her phone before he could read any further, an expectant look in her eyes. That was your movie, March 7th wanted to watch your movie—he made a promise to himself he’d make time to watch it once it comes out but ever since he boarded the Express, it had only been missions after missions. Though, he was updated enough to know that it received a lot of love not only in Penacony but across the cosmos as well.
“Do you even know what you’re asking of him? That’s his wife in that movie!” Stelle—the other woman March argued with earlier—scratched the back of her head, whisper-yelling the other half of her sentence. She sat on the edge of the bed, a pillow tucked beneath her arms.
The latter quickly connected the dots, her eyes wide with realisation, “O-Oh! Um! You know what, I think we can go with the movie you picked!”
It wasn’t a secret among the Crew that Sunday was married but they figured the topic was sensitive to him as he barely talked about you, even the mention of Penacony had him wearing a solemn expression.
Though it was the complete opposite for him, Sunday wanted to talk about you—about his homeworld but he was afraid doing so would only get his hopes up for nothing. For the past few months he had been hoping to at least get a glimpse of you during his journey around the cosmos, you were an actress after all, you occasionally went on film press tours.
“I don’t mind at all. I had the opportunity to watch behind the scenes while they were shooting and I was more than intrigued to see the finished piece.” Sunday shook his head, he handed March their room keycard she gave him earlier before sitting next to his dark haired companion on the couch.
“Really? That’s so cool! Ugh, I wish I could get her autograph! You know, I was quite surprised when news broke out that she was engaged! I’ve also seen some of the wedding photos and you two looked absolutely stunning! Anyway, how about you Dan Heng? Do you have any movies you wanna watch?” March turned to the man next to Sunday.
Dan Heng opened his eyes and slowly shook his head, “I’m okay with any movie you guys pick.”
After a few more minutes of going back and forth, all lights were turned off and everyone eventually settled on Love and Devotion. Sunday was the most intrigued—even more than March 7th who initially convinced all to watch the movie; he knew of your acting prowess yet he was completely speechless.
Every single time you appeared on screen, his heart seemed to skip a beat or two, he chalked it up to not having seen your face for a while which is why excitement enveloped him every now and then.
However, half way through the movie while a particular scene played—the scene he vividly remembered watching on set—a foreign feeling enveloped his entire body, a hint of heat and something more.
Subtly, Sunday looked around to see his companions’ reactions, March 7th and Stelle who were sitting on the bed were unfazed by the escalating scene of the movie whereas Dan Heng merely scrolled on his dimmed phone, a slight blanket of pink dusting his cheeks.
With the volume turned all the way up, wet kissing sounds filled all four walls of the hotel room, it made Sunday’s stomach churn in a way that had him digging the tips of his fingers on his palms.
You and Cassian were only kissing but the intensity and lewd noises you made sent an icy shudder down his spine.
This wasn’t good.
A quiet, shaky sigh left his lips as his pants tightened with each passing second. Oh god, was he . . aroused? He didn’t remember feeling this way when he was on set—quite the opposite—so why now?
Sure, the room was dark enough to hide his growing erection but it wasn’t exactly ideal to experience one around three people. Besides, it was uncouth and he needed to leave. Now.
Sunday immediately stood up, gaining curious glances from everyone else, he tried to subtly cover pants, “Uh, I-I need to get something in Dan Heng and I’s room. Feel free to keep watching.” He didn’t bother waiting for anyone else to respond and immediately headed for the door.
As he stepped out onto the hallway, he breathed out a sigh of relief, at least there wasn’t anyone else around the corridors this late at night. Carefully, he walked towards the shared room, trying his best to avoid further friction in his pants or else it would be a very embarrassing moment for him—it was humiliating enough to walk with a weird gait, anything more and he’d bury himself in the ground.
Thankfully, Sunday reached the room which he hastily opened with the keycard tucked inside his pocket, he swiftly slipped inside and sat on the edge of his bed with his eyes closed.
Silence settled in the air, it was accompanied by his heavy, uneven breaths as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. He felt extremely filthy—to think of you in such a lustful light without your knowledge, it was beyond unmannerly.
“F-Forgive me . . for my vulgar thoughts and for what I am about to do.”
In the blink of an eye, Sunday found himself inside the bathroom, door locked and back pressed against it.
Dizziness washed over him and embarrassment ate away at his feverish skin as he reached for the waistband of his pants, he hastily pulled it down with his underwear, a sharp hiss leaving his lips, cock slapping against his lower abdomen. It wore a deep blush of pink and oozed with pearlescent pre-cum, he wondered how his cock would look against your face while you licked and sucked at it.
The soft fabric shamelessly pooled around his ankles which completely exposed his lower half, the cool air against his legs left an icy shudder. Sunday brought the hem of his shirt to his face, biting down at it so it didn’t get in the way.
He wrapped a trembling hand around the base and squeezed, a loud moan immediately spilling from his lips, pre-cum that decorated his sensitive cockhead trickled down.
A pearlescent sheen covered the entirety of Sunday’s cock as he eagerly spread it from tip to base—up and down, up and down, a couple of languid strokes that had him panting heavily.
A vivid imagery of you pumping his cock plagued his mind as he shut his eyes closed, both hands wrapped around the length of his shaft while your tongue gave experimental licks, “Ngh—ah! Mhm!” Sunday whimpered, free hand gripping the cool surface of the bathroom door behind him, he hadn't been doing this for long yet his knees were ready to give up from the immense weight of pleasure.
His chest vigorously rose and fell as each inhale and exhale turned more shallow than the last, he picked up the pace, stroking himself a little faster.
Pure bliss gnawed at his feverish skin, it sank its teeth into him ‘til it reached his very bones, engulfing his entire body in an intoxicating pleasured state.
“Ah—! Haah! Oh, god!”
Despite the sound of blood rushing in his ears, Sunday replayed the sinful moans you made in the movie, how your face contorted in pleasure as Cassian kissed down your neck—lips parted and brows tightly knitted together.
You sang the most exquisite melody he has ever heard and he could only hope to pull the very same ones, maybe something even better, one that would flawlessly intertwine with his own to create an immoral tune.
He bucked his hips into his curled hand at the thought of having sex with you. Embarrassingly, Sunday had never gotten intimate with anyone—his days were packed with duty on top of duty and he wasn’t given the chance to get into a relationship as it was the last thing he had in mind as (former) Oak Family Head. All he knew was to govern the Lineage he grew up in.
But he wondered . . How would you feel around his cock? Were you warm and soft?—maybe even a hint of greediness where you readily swallowed him whole.
It almost pained him that you weren’t in front of him right this moment because now, he had to settle for his inexperienced hand and just the thought of that grew a bud of frustration within his chest. Sunday wanted you—he needed you.
Badly.
He desired to bury his shaft deep inside and have you come undone around him once, twice, as much as you wanted—‘til your legs trembled around his waist, ‘til your throat ran dry from repeatedly calling his name like a sacred prayer, and even then, he wasn’t sure if his thirst would be satiated.
This wasn’t just lust anymore. No. Sunday wasn’t merely aroused by a heated scene in your movie, he held something much deeper for you in his heart. It had always been there from the start but remained dormant and quiet enough to go unnoticed by him but now that it has bloomed into something greater, he realised that what he held for you was love.
Sunday loved you. Deeply, truly, and agonizingly.
At the sudden realisation, the coil inside him snapped instantaneously, spurts of hot cum spilled from his cock, he came with a loud wanton moan which echoed throughout the bathroom walls. His body trembled and pleasure which engulfed his entire body took him to places he’s never been before.
Sunday grunted as he milked his cock, shamelessly pumping it ‘til it emptied; he slumped against the door, filth settling over him while he tried to catch his breath.
Despite his lust-clouded mind, he only thought of one thing—to tell you how he truly felt.
As morning finally came, Sunday stepped outside the hotel to gather his thoughts after last night’s realisation, he figured getting some fresh air while walking amongst the locals and taking in the beauty of Ahatopia would quench the yearning in his heart.
Duomension City was as busy as ever with students, office workers and early risers trying to get through the morning rush, even at this hour the City remained lively—this world wasn’t entirely different from Penacony, teeming with large and colourful animated posters, it reminded Sunday of Moment of Golden Hour which also brimmed with bright billboards, music, and the surge of Penaconians out and about, it made him miss home even more.
But Planarcadia was different, it was a world that devoured silence and perhaps that’s why Sunday had grown to relax a little because silence left too much room to think. He adjusted the collar of his coat as he stepped through the crowded avenue, weaving between strangers with practised ease.
The cool air smelled faintly of freshly brewed coffee and expensive perfume, it blended seamlessly with the sounds of passing conversations and the quiet hum of cars.
A group of students rushed past him suddenly, laughing too loudly and nearly colliding with his shoulder. Sunday stepped aside instinctively, accidentally knocking into a stranger; the sound of a distinct thud reached his ears, an object falling onto the ground.
He halted his tracks to pick up the fallen object—a bottle of iced coffee—and return it to its owner. Ah, he should really watch his surroundings.
“My apologies for bumping into you, I should’ve been more aware of my—” Sunday stopped mid sentence as he faced the owner of the beverage.
The world didn’t go silent, no, if anything, Planarcadia only grew louder around him—footsteps rushing past, the distant sound of train announcements echoing, laughter from down the street but all of it blurred into meaningless noise because standing only a few inches away was you.
There was no mistaking it with your ivory wings and gleaming halo.
Was he dreaming? It had to be an elaborate prank, no? This was the world of Elation after all, maybe some Fool decided to play a sick joke on him. But the look on your face mirrored his own—shock and confusion.
For a moment, neither of you moved, the sea of people in the vicinity weaved their way around—they split and reformed like water around stone. Strangers brushed against his shoulders unaware that his world had just tilted violently off its axis.
You weren’t doing any better at all, it's as though your heart had forgotten how to beat. Sunday looked different, it wasn’t a drastic change but it was enough for you to notice.
The pristine perfection once attached to him had frayed at the edges, his attire was less . . uniform, and his eyes gleamed with more sincerity but there was undeniable exhaustion on his face, as if the last few months had carved something deeper into him.
And yet it was still him—your Sunday.
“. . You’re here . . ?” He broke the loud silence first.
“So are you.” You breathed out.
He looked down, suddenly remembering the bottle which rested on his palm. Carefully, he stepped closer and held it out, you took it with your left hand, fingers brushing against his gloved hand.
Sunday sucked in a sharp breath as he noticed the familiar band of gold around your ring finger, “You—You still wear your ring?” He asked with a hint of hope evident in his tone.
You almost laughed at the absurdity of his observation but curiosity soon followed, “We are still married, after all. People notice everything, if they don’t see a ring on me, they’d immediately assume divorce. It’s not exactly easy given your absence in Penacony. Why? Do you not wear yours anymore?”
Oh. So you only kept the ring on to avoid speculation and here he thought it meant something more to you but he didn’t have the luxury to sulk about it because every second spent in his presence faced bigger punishment for you—he knew The Family, they weren’t lenient.
He didn’t wear his ring anymore but kept it with him at all times, it was tucked safely inside the inner pocket of his coat, close to his heart. He refused to wear it for the same reason he severed his halo back in Penacony—to feel pain. Albeit not physically, he felt the emotional pain of being undeserving of loving you and being loved by you.
“I think I should go. We—We shouldn’t be talking . .” Sunday shook his head and slowly stepped backwards which earned a baffled expression from you.
That’s it?
After not seeing each other for months, he was just going to chicken out and refuse to talk? You were well aware he only cared for your safety but you believed you needed answers from him and besides, the confession in your heart sat long enough—it was finally time to set it free.
“Really, Sunday?”
The sound of your voice uttering his name had him swallowing thickly. “Because if I remember correctly, you still had the guts to talk to me back in Penacony hours after you became a fugitive.”
He stopped in his tracks, now it was his turn to be confused, “You saw through my disguise?”
“. . I had a hunch it was you. I’ve replayed that conversation a million times for the past few months—over and over ‘til it finally dawned on me. So, please, let’s talk? You told me in that very conversation you wouldn’t want a future without me in it, right?”
Sunday couldn’t refuse.
The two of you found yourselves back at your hotel room—he would’ve offered his room if he wasn’t sharing it with Dan Heng—both of you figured it wasn’t best to talk about such matters in public, especially since merely being seen together with Sunday was already a crime itself.
The hotel you stayed at was more luxurious, a suite which offered a generous view of the bustling city below and its panoramic skyline, and carefully selected artwork adorned its beige painted walls.
“Are you here for a press tour?” He asked, eyeing the expansive room.
“I’m here on vacation.”
Silence stretched and tension grew thicker with each second, you and Sunday stood a few metres apart from one another, sticking out like sore thumbs. Neither of you dared to speak with the amount of thoughts that raced in your minds—there was simply a lot to talk about that none of you knew where to start at all.
Should you address the elephant in the room? What he did back in Penacony and the fact that he was now a wanted criminal? Or should you tell him the very words in your heart that desired to be known?
Yes, Sunday committed the highest act of treason against his homeland, its people, and The Family but what exactly could you even say to him regarding that matter? Get angry and berate him further like everyone else did in his absence? Doing so still wouldn’t change what he had done. You’ve heard every word The Family higher ups spoke of him—they were rightfully angry, of course, you wouldn’t deny them that feeling but it pained you.
“I need to tell you something.” Both of you spoke up in unison, urgency in your tones equally evident.
“You go ahead first.” Sunday cleared his throat. If he was being honest, he hasn’t been able to sit still ever since he last spoke to you in Penacony—you mentioned how you wanted to tell him something, and judging by the look on your face, he could only assume what you wanted to say was regarding that matter.
Letting out a sigh, you nodded, never in a million years did you think you’d be confessing to him in a luxury hotel room, in a foreign world, stars away from Penacony,
“I know our marriage requires us to . . act in certain ways to make it believable but I have something I’ve buried inside my chest for as long as I can remember and no matter how many times I push it down or simply ignore it, it just won’t go away . . What am I even rambling about? What I’m trying to say is . . I have feelings for you, Sunday—even before this whole marriage act, ever since we were children.”
You looked away and stared at the abstract painting near the bed, you simply couldn’t handle returning Sunday’s stare, especially not when silence grew. Maybe you should have just kept your mouth closed and let him go first because now you were starting to regret it—what if he wanted to get a divorce?
Clearly there was no point in your marriage anymore, he has been absent in public for months and there was no reason to keep up the charade.
Even though your marriage was sealed with a legitimate contract, none of The Family Heads acknowledged its authenticity; your mother and Robin were a different case—it was more so out of respect while the rest did so out of disdain but still, the Dreammaster who orchestrated this unity was already dead which meant it held no significance at all.
Just an empty legal document.
“I . . feel the same way.”
. . What?
“It was foolish of me not to realize sooner. It was easy for me to show affection for you because what I have in my heart is genuine but I merely hid it behind the reason of duty because I wasn’t entirely sure of these feelings at all.”
Now, it was Sunday’s turn to look away in embarrassment, a hue of deep rose graced his pale cheeks and heat prickled his skin.
Your breath stopped and the city below seemed to disappear, his words weren’t grand but they were honest, probably the most honest it has been since for as long as you could remember, it was a simple truth laid bare beneath a foreign sky.
For a long moment, you couldn’t speak because part of you had wanted this—you dreamed of this for so long now that it felt entirely cruel.
Cruel because you couldn’t be with him, not by your side, not in Penacony, not elsewhere, and now that your hearts were on the table, you simply couldn’t stand the thought of separation.
But for now, you wanted to cherish this moment. To convince yourself that you and Sunday had a future together where he didn’t have to run from The Family and face consequences, that the two of you weren’t bound for interminable separation.
“This is so unfair.” With a shaky breath, you buried your face in the hearts of your palms. You were certain if Aha was aware of the situation you and Sunday were in right now, THEY would be laughing. What a cruel joke from the cosmos.
He closed the distance between the two of you, protectively wrapping his arms around your body as he rested his chin on the crown of your head. It’d be absolutely selfish of him to ask for something more but he couldn’t bear the thought of you being with someone else.
He pulled back and pried your hands away from your face, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheeks as he cupped them, tentative in a way that almost undid you more than certainty would have.
“. . May I?” He whispered. The warmth of his hand against your skin sent something sharp and aching through your chest.
“You may.”
Sunday slowly leaned in and for a moment, you remembered the ‘kiss’ at Eventide, only this time, it was as real as it got. The kiss wasn’t dramatic nor theatrical—it was merely his lips pressed against your own, soft with a small tremble, as if almost unsure if this was the right thing to do.
One hand found your waist carefully, drawing you closer with a reverence that made your knees feel less reliable all of a sudden. The kiss deepened but not with force but with feeling, slow and tender.
It felt like grief and relief at the same time, as though the two of you mourned the past few months but also treasuring the fact that, somehow, there was still the present and the future.
His lips were warm and softer than you’d imagined in moments you had long since stopped permitting yourself to imagine. Every slight shift was careful, as though he was memorizing the map of your lips. For the first time, this moment was entirely yours and Sunday’s—no ivory wing to shield the kiss, no cameras, and definitely not out of duty.
Your hands found their way to his collar, fingers curling more firmly into him which pulled the faintest sound, something quiet and surprised that sent a shiver down your spine. When you finally parted, it was only enough to breathe; your foreheads rested together, the city below spinning while the morning seemed to hold itself still around you.
“. . So,” You whispered, still breathless, “That was significantly better than the wedding.”
Sunday’s shoulders shifted slightly, he laughed, “I would hope so.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself, and perhaps he saw something equally dangerous in your expression because his gaze softened into something so openly affectionate it nearly stole your breath all over again. You pulled him back down on you, this time the kiss was less hesitant but just as tender than the last, and maybe also a bit rougher—full of desire and hunger.
Sunday’s hand remained at your waist, steady and warm as though he feared everything might vanish if he held on too tightly but this second kiss had already undone that illusion, there was nothing uncertain left in the way you leaned into him, nothing hesitant in the way your fingers dug into the fabric of his coat.
The kiss deepened not with urgency alone but with the quiet ache of something long denied, every touch seemed to carry the weight of love restrained far too long.
“Tell me to stop.” Sunday breathed out between kisses, a shaky whisper. His words weren’t obligation, they were reverence as he would simply not take what was not freely given.
Your answer came not in words but in the way your hands rose to cradle his face, the way you kissed him again with a certainty that made his breath hitch, and that was enough for him. His restraint broke softly akin to silk slipping loose, not reckless, never reckless but what laid beneath the silken veil was a brewing storm of desire—the feelings of yesterday suddenly coming back to him.
The hand on your waist carefully slid upward, the tips of his fingers tracing your clothed body before he gently ushers you out of your jacket, it fell onto the polished floors with a soft thud—one layer deeper, closer to what you both wanted.
But before you could go any further, Sunday completely pulled away from the kiss, cheeks bitten with pink and lips parted as he breathed heavily.
There was a hint of hesitancy in his face, “I’ve never done this before but I want you . .” He whispered, trailing off as embarrassment engulfed him.
You gave him a small smile and leaned in to kiss his lips, “That’s okay,” Then, the column of his neck, “You can simply,” And the spot beneath his wing, “Follow my lead.”
Oh, you’d be the death of him.
Soon, your hands slid down to unfasten his coat, easing him out of his outer layer ‘til it met yours on the ground.
There was something so heartbreakingly human about this moment—two individuals who had once stood at the altar of Eventide, beneath thousands of watchful eyes, now trembling more in private than both have ever had in public.
No words were spoken as each layer was shed, only the quiet rustle of fabric, shared kisses, and the growing anticipation as you bared your feelings to one another.
Sunday barely noticed you had guided him over to the bed ‘til his back kissed the soft ivory sheets, he was so caught up in the heat of the moment he almost forgot to drink you in—to bask in the sheer beauty of your naked body.
Through tinted cheeks and wet lashes, he looked up at you with pure desire and slowly raked his honeyed gaze all over your body—from your breasts, to the dip of your waist, and all the way down to the apex of your thighs. Sunday let out a shaky breath as he felt his cock hardening even further.
“You’re exquisite.” He breathed out. Paired with your glimmering halo and the wings behind your ears, you were a sight for the heavens.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Sunday.”
A small chuckle escaped your lips, it was clearly a tease to mask the fact that his naked form drove you to the brink of insanity. Beautiful was an understatement—there wasn’t a word in the thesaurus that could describe the angelic sight before you.
The shy look on his face was ironic because his cock stood prouder than ever, begging to be inside you. It flushed pink and leaked a generous amount of pre-cum, and it took all your will power not to lap it up right then and there.
“Wait,” He started. “I want to please you.”
At his request, you switched positions, only this time you sat up on the edge of the bed. Sunday slowly got on his knees before you as he placed a trail of chaste kisses down your neck, collarbones, and just above the valley of your breasts. Sensing slight hesitation from him, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist and guided his hand to your chest,
“It feels good when you massage and squeeze it—ah! Just—mhm! Just like that.” You moaned as he gave an experimental squeeze, brain short-circuiting at your immediate reaction to his touch; his palms were expansive and his fingers were long which allowed him to stimulate most of the sensitive area.
Sunday brought both hands to cup each breast, gently massaging them while his eyes darted between your chest and face, he wore an expression full of wonder and curiosity, rosy lips lightly parted as he breathed heavily.
Curious, he eagerly wrapped his lips around a mound, tongue swirling around your hardened nipple, causing your hands to fly to his hair.
“S-Sunday—!”
He responded with a hum which sent vibrations across your skin as you gently tugged at his hair. If he was being honest, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing and his actions were merely fuelled by the sounds and expressions you made.
With one hand still on your other breast, he gently fondled your sensitive nipple between his lithe fingers, you arched your back, pressing your chest further into his face. Your skin was extremely warm and soft beneath his touch it almost felt unreal; he couldn’t believe he was right in front of you, intimate and vulnerable.
Sunday then switched between your breasts, giving the other the same amount of attention and stimulation before he trailed downwards.
Gentle and hot, he placed wet open-mouthed kisses between the valley of your chest and along your stomach, taking the time to lap up the sensitive area just above your bellybutton.
Once he reached your sex, he looked up at you briefly to look for any discomfort in your face, and upon not finding any, he slowly pried your legs open, revealing your sopping entrance.
All for him?
Though, it felt rather daunting not really knowing where to start. With two fingers, Sunday gently rubbed up and down your slit a couple of times, observing your reaction—you bit the bottom of your lip and your brows slightly knitted together.
So far, so good.
“Y-You can—ngh! Wet your index and—ah—ring finger with your mouth and put them inside.” You let out a soft moan, one hand planted firmly on the mattress to support your crumbling torso while the other explored his hair. Sunday may have been inexperienced but god did he pleasure you effortlessly, he hasn’t even touched you properly yet you were already trembling.
At your words, he paused slightly. Put his fingers inside his mouth? What a bizarre thing to do. His cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red as he wrapped his lips around his digits, effectively wetting them as instructed, he could taste a hint of you.
You could only watch in awe as the sight before you unfolded, never in your lifetime did you think you’d see the revered Sunday—former Bronze Melodia and former Oak Family Head—stick his fingers inside his mouth.
“Now, with your palm facing the ceiling, slowly push them in one by one.”
A soft pop echoed in the silence as he removed his digits from his mouth and brought them down to your sopping cunt. Slowly, he pushed his index finger past your folds and immediately sought your reaction—a soft sigh.
Oh, how warm you were, it felt like he was dipping his hand in a pot of warm honey, slick and smooth, and maybe even as sweet. Sunday gave a few shallow experimental pumps before adding the second digit, eliciting a shaky whimper from you.
“Haa—ah! C-Curl your fingers upwards and—yes! Oh, god! Just like that, Sunday—mhm!” You threw your head back as he curled his fingers, face contorted in pure pleasure.
At your pornographic reaction, he swallowed thickly; he tried not to think about how much his cock ached, being untouched for so long, it’d have to wait for a little while, he wanted to please you ‘til you were satisfied.
Deep in a haze of lust, you tried your best to form a coherent sentence, “Can you—oh, that feels good. Can you feel a spongy texture? Gently apply pressure and rub it back a-and forth—hngh!”
Sunday absentmindedly nodded, he could feel the area you mentioned just above the pads of his fingers. As you instructed, he pressed on it lightly, afraid he’d hurt you if he did more. With a grind of your hips, you let out a wanton moan in the shape of his name.
“Is this okay . . ?” He breathed out.
“Y-You’re doing good. Just keep a delicate, steady pace . .” Your hand on his hair snaked down to the apex of your legs to spread open your cunt, “If you want—haah! You can also kiss at this spot here at the top and—oh, fuck! Sunday!”
Before you could finish your sentence, his lips were already flushed against your entrance, closely following every word you uttered. A slight shudder washed over your naked body as his feathered wings brushed against the insides of your thighs.
“Yes! Lightly suck on it like tha—aah! Ngh! Haah, I’m so close. Don’t—mhm! Don’t stop, please”
With the combined stimulation of his fingers inside you and his lips around your clit, a string of colourful moans left your lips as you slowly sank deeper into the depths of bliss. The sounds you made were music to his ears which only fuelled his actions further.
With a forceful grunt, you threw your head back as you came on Sunday’s fingers—toes curling and thighs shaking at the immense wave of pleasure that hit you.
He slowed down his movements and resorted to languid strokes which allowed you to grind your hips and ride out your orgasm. He let out a shaky moan at the sensation of your walls tightening around his fingers, oddly enough, it felt satisfying for him.
Coming down from your high, you slumped down on the bed, face extremely heated and lips parted to catch your breath.
Wide eyed and in slight awe, Sunday slowly pulled out his slick coated fingers which earned a low whine from you, he curiously examined his soaked digits, they were faintly trembling from the repeated motion.
Without a second thought, he wrapped his lips around them with the sweetness of your taste settling on his tongue. Oh, how dangerously addicting you were. Wet sounds slipped from his mouth as he sucked his digits clean from your saccharine slick, earning a curious glance from you as you lifted your head off the mattress.
He was trying to kill you.
The two of you found yourselves situated further up the bed with Sunday slotted between your parted legs, he hovered over you with one palm firmly planted beside your head while the other languidly pumped his hard cock just before your wet cunt.
He let out soft pants above you, flushed face contorting with pleasure, “A-Are you sure?” Even with his mind entirely clouded by lust he prioritised your comfort.
“As long as it's you, I can never be more sure.”
He smiled in response and placed a chaste kiss on your lips before slowly guiding the tip to your folds. Snaking a hand between your bodies, you helped Sunday position his cock correctly—a few centimetres down—then, you loosely circled your arms around his neck, allowing him to go at his own pace.
The morning glow surrounded him like a serene aura, it bounced off his pale skin which gave him a heavenly glow. With a shaky exhale, he pushed his cockhead inch by inch which immediately earned a sharp gasp from both of you.
The feeling of you around him was foreign yet oddly comforting, your walls were warm—extremely warm—it almost felt like he was soaking inside a hot tub of water and it made his head spin in a good way.
Sunday met your gaze with his starry ones, a light sheen of tears coating his eyes at how amazing you felt around him.
He couldn’t believe he was inside you, buried deep inside the woman he truly loved; he prayed in the back of his lust-fogged mind hoping that this wasn’t a dream.
You bit your lip as he bottomed out, watching the way Sunday’s body reacted to everything—how his wings curled inwards, how his abdomen tightened and untightened, and how his breathing grew uneven with every passing second. He genuinely looked like he was on cloud nine.
Unwrapping an arm from his neck, you slotted your hand against his jaw—just at the spot below his ear and wing—to caress his cheek, “You okay . . ?”
A small nod, then, his eyes fluttered shut, the tips of his lashes brushing against his rosy stained cheeks. Sunday leaned into your touch with a faint whimper, one that had your brain short-circuiting.
For a minute or two, he stilled inside, allowing you both to adjust to the feeling; this wasn’t your first time but the sheer length of his cock reached spots you didn’t know even existed to the point where you had to count to ten just to steer yourself away from spiraling and cumming right then and there.
“S-So tight—ngh. You feel good.” Sunday slowly pulled back about halfway before thrusting back inside, drawing wanton moans from both of you.
He resorted to languid, deep thrusts which allowed you to feel every inch of him—for your sopping cunt to remember the exact shape of his cock—and each time he bottomed out, his cockhead deliciously kissed your sweet spot.
With the slow rhythm set, the bed creaked and groaned in time with the movements of his hips, sounds of light skin slapping and lewd squelching filled all four walls of the entire room.
Everything felt sinful—from the pornographic moans you let out to the slick that covered his cock and your inner thighs but god was it completely addicting.
Sunday’s face remained a mere breath away from yours, keeping eye contact, his honeyed gaze pulled you into the depths of warm bliss, akin to a gentle hug that enveloped one’s body.
Every intentional push and pull of his hips knocked out oxygen from your lungs which had you incoherently gasping for his name.
A light sheen of sweat coated your bodies as the morning air grew impossibly thick, the ivory sheets beneath your back clung onto you like second skin, and Sunday’s hair stuck to his forehead but neither of you cared about the filthiness of it, not when your bodies pleasured one another like there was no tomorrow.
Not when he firmly pressed his cock with every thrust inside you.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, effectively pulling him closer and allowing him to reach you a little deeper than before; your hands spread across his shoulder blades, curling inwards to decorate his back with rubied streaks.
The sharp sting of your nails sent Sunday forward, his head fell onto the pillows beneath your own, shamelessly moaning dangerously close to your ear.
At the sound of your moans, he picked up his pace, his cock hitting your g-spot a little harder. He also neared his climax and with the way your greedy cunt tightened around him and he knew he wasn’t going to last any longer.
Using all the strength he had left, Sunday lifted himself with trembling arms and gave you an open-mouthed kiss, it was messier than he had intended but the mere feeling of your mouths slotting against one another with your saliva mixing only fuelled the drive of his hips further.
He pulled away slightly, a thin string of spit connecting his lips to yours, “Please cum for me! Ngh—ah! Haah! C-Cum with me!”
With a few more sloppy thrusts, Sunday sheathed the entire length of his cock, firmly pressing into your sensitive spot as he came with a loud, shameless moan, ear feathers shaking from pleasure. You followed shortly after, nails digging into his skin which left red crescent shaped marks all across his back.
Ribbons of thick, warm cum generously coated your walls, you’ve never been this full before but you weren’t complaining, the feeling of Sunday filling you to the brim had you whimpering beneath him.
His cock several times twitched inside you as it emptied itself; he came so much to the point where his cum had started spilling out of you and dripped onto the sheets below, effectively soiling them but he couldn’t just simply stop himself even if he wanted to—it kept coming out in waves ‘til there was nothing left.
Embarrassed, Sunday buried his face at the junction of your neck, prickly heat creeping up his cheeks. A breathless chuckle left your lips, hands soothing over the reddened trails you left on his back, who knew he could actually get embarrassed over something as little as cumming too much?
How adorable.
He rolled over with a grunt and plopped onto the empty spot next to you, you curled next to him, the uneven rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheeks somewhat pulling you back into reality.
One of his arms rested loosely around you, absentmindedly tracing slow, soothing patterns against your back as if he reassured himself that you weren’t just a dream, that you were real and remained right next to him.
For a while, neither of you spoke—the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, just your breaths slowly steadying itself with each second.
A saddened expression washed over your face as reality settled on your shoulders akin to cold seeping through glass—slowly yet adamant—and you were immediately reminded of the predicament you both faced. Your fingers tightened slightly where they rested against him and Sunday noticed immediately,
“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” He whispered, confusion painted on his face; his voice was much softer—achingly gentle.
You shook your head, gaze lifting towards the expansive windows and the horizon beyond it, “I just . . I was just reminded of what you and I have to face and I’m scared, Sunday. What—What if The Family finds out you’re here in Planarcadia and—I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do. I’m scared for us because . . I finally have you and I don’t know if that means we’ll be separated again . .”
Really, there was nothing you could do but you wanted to be with Sunday, you wanted to spend your days with him out in the open, not a single care in the cosmos about The Family being after him—you wanted him back home and beside you.
Beside you, he shifted closer, he carefully tilted your chin upward ‘til you had no choice but to look at him. Funnily enough, for all the uncertainty ahead, his gaze remained steady, “We won’t lose one another.”
“Sunday—” “Listen to me.” He softly interrupted, thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye before tears could fully gather.
“I do not know what the next month will look like—or the next year, and I cannot promise you our union either but I can promise you this: when the time comes, I will face it all and I will do everything in my power to rightfully earn the spot beside you.”
Your lips trembled, not only from sadness but from the fragile, terrifying hope that began to bloom beneath your chest.
“The Family won’t stop.” You whispered.
“I know.”
“They won’t forgive easily.”
“I know.”
“There’s a real chance we could be eternally separated.”
Sunday smiled, not because it was funny but because somehow—despite everything—he felt almost fond of your catastrophizing, “Then we shall simply find our way back to one another the same way we did today, no?”
Your laugh came unexpectedly—it was humourless and full of disbelief but purely light hearted, “You make that sound very simple.”
“It won’t be but difficult has never meant impossible.” He murmured, brushing a strand of stray hair from your face with unbearable tenderness.
Mirroring his smile, you shifted closer to bury yourself against his bare skin as though you were anchoring your heart to him. Sunday’s arm tightened around you immediately, protective without thought before pressing a quiet kiss to your forehead.
And as though all worries dissipated into the skies of Planarcadia, the once lonely suite had transformed into something far more lived-in—the bed remained half unmade, blankets tangled and abandoned, heated remnants of earlier faded into something more wholesome. Room service trays sat on the wooden coffee table, silver lids pushed aside in favour of half-finished lunch.
Sunday was seated on the floor—pants and top messily thrown over his body—eating a fruit. He looked up from where he sat, brows lifting slightly as you eagerly rummaged through your luggage near the entryway. You returned to him with your arms full, a couple of somewhat familiar-looking objects tucked inside.
“What is that?” He blinked
You grinned with entirely too much satisfaction, “Emergency provisions.”
His confusion turned to suspicion but nonetheless, you carefully set your haul onto the polished floor one by one like priceless contraband:
Sweet dream cloud candies in iridescent wrappers. Golden lullaby honey crisps. Starfall sugar biscuits dusted in edible shimmer. Moondew fruit chews. SoulGlad. And finally,
“Chocolate pudding tarts.” Sunday breathed out. He stared at the familiar dessert packaging as though it had appeared through divine intervention.
“I brought these snacks with me so I wouldn’t get homesick while on vacation. I often do the same during press tours—”
Before you could speak any further, the lighthearted atmosphere shifted subtly but you noticed it—the way an expression of sadness crept up his face.
Sunday was homesick.
You hadn’t thought he’d be—no, that wasn’t true, you had thought about it, you just didn’t expect something so minor to make it visible.
Slowly, you opened the packaging and offered the pudding tart. For a second, he simply stared at it but carefully took it nonetheless. He grabbed a silver spoon from one of the trays and scooped a small amount, as if indulging any further was forbidden.
Its familiar sweetness melted on his tongue and you watched as his expression changed into something more nostalgic.
You knew where he had immediately gone—to childhood, to the happier memories where he only worried about how to sneak in more pudding tarts in between music lessons, and what to write in the letter he’d regularly send to Robin (There was just too much to talk about!)
“It tastes the same as I remember . . I—thank you.”
You shook your head, “You don’t have to thank me. I just thought you’d miss some snacks from home.”
You and Sunday spent the entire morning and afternoon holed up in the suite reminiscing about the colourful past, revealing how one deciphered their feelings for the other; he also took the time to give you a proper apology for involving your name and reputation in his affairs to which you accepted.
Maybe it was fate playing a hand.
Once full of worry and fear for the uncertainty that the future held, you learned to slow down and appreciate the present—the fact that Sunday was right beside you, safe and healthy.
For now, you’d cherish this moment in a foreign world, and whatever the future may bring, you knew nothing could pry you and Sunday apart, that was something you were certain of. And this time without any hesitation, you spoke up,
video game and film fandoms will come and go for me but the Silmarillion fandom will never die. because that book came out like 50 years ago and we're all still trying to figure out what the hell is going on there.
You've known Dan Feng long before he became the High Elder of the Vidyadhara, before he donned the title of Imbibitor Lunae and became the legend he is known as now. Long ago, back when the two of you were mere children, playing in the waters of the Xianzhou Luofu.
imbibitor lunae (dan feng) x gn!reader
contains: childhood friends au, set before dan feng is a criminal, slow burn, long fic, ooc!character for the first half bc he's growing up and is an annoying teen, mentions of blade's real name, death, spoilers for 1.2
genres: mostly fluff, hurt/comfort, some angst bittersweet ending
word count: 8.6k
a/n: please do note that this is dan feng, not dan heng. and therefore i take a lot more liberties with how he is because i firmly believe that dan feng was more of a bitch than dan heng BYE ALSO THIS IS UNEDITED !! ILL EDIT IT TMRW WHEN I WAKE UP I JUST HAD TO GET THIS OUT BYE
img credits
Your best friend was an extraordinary being.
There was no doubt about it. Regarded as both the strongest and wisest of your people, he was chosen as the High Elder, Imbibitor Lunae. And he has served you well.
His feats are plenty, with his joining the esteemed High-Cloud Quintet, and you couldn't count the amount of time he'd saved the Xianzhou on one hand. He was smart, intelligent, and witty, quick to understand situations and formulate the best solutions. His enemies feared his presence on the battlefield, and his friends trusted him with their lives.
As did you.
You, a mere civilian. A single face among thousands of Vidyadhara, another footstep among the crowd. You, who have lived through his past and present. You, who knew him better than he knew himself.
You, who has been by his side since the very beginning.
━
It was a stormy day when you first met Dan Feng.
You were just a child back then, a Vidyadhara only eight years of age. Normally, at this stage in your life, you'd be guided by the current high elder, but it seems that you had undergone your cycle at the same time as the past high elder.
So as life would have it, you would instead be raised by your seniors, while the Preceptors tended to the newly reborn high elder. A skilled weaver in your past incarnation, you were taken in by your then coworkers, and raised within your craft of making lotus silk.
As such, your childhood was filled with looms, lotus flowers, and spinning threads. You spent your free time in the gardens of lotus flowers, hiding from your caretakers amongst the tall stems and diving into the waters to swim amongst them. You may not have had the draconic features of the High Elder, but you still adored the water like any other Vidyadhara.
And as it would seem, so did the High Elder.
It had been a hot and sunny day at the Luofu. The rays were smoldering on your back as you waded through the lotus fields, thankful for the cold water splashing against your legs. You squinted against the sun, adjusting your leaf hat on your head. Tucked against your arm was a woven basket filled with lotus stems, all of which would have fiber extracted from them.
The tall leaves and flowers of the lotuses dwarfed your child self in comparison, although you weren’t complaining. Although the water sloshed around your thighs, requiring you to roll up your pants more than your older coworkers, the leaves served as temporary relief from the sun’s rays.
You pushed stems aside, the field looking more akin to a jungle to you. You only needed one more before you could return home to the comfort of an air conditioner in order to extract the fibers for the threads. Thankfully, that wouldn’t have to wait long.
Once you found a suitable stem to harvest, you snapped it from its roots and began to wash it in the water. Your basket floated next to you, you keeping an eye on it to make sure it wouldn’t float away.
But then, you heard the stems rustle, and the waters splashing as something entered your field. Immediately, you stood up straight, holding the lotus stem more like a weapon than a crop.
“Who’s there?” you called out, your voice ringing through the silent and tranquil fields.
No response.
You huffed, carefully setting down your stem in the basket. Whoever it was probably thought you weren’t a threat merely because of your age. You’d prove them wrong.
You heard the stems rustle one more time, snapping your head towards the source. Picking up your basket, you marched over to a large clump of lotuses, a perfect hiding spot (you would know, you’ve used it many times before). A shadow around your size moved within them, submerging itself into the water.
You rolled your eyes. Another kid, then.
Pushing the stems aside, you saw the flicker of a draconic tail splashing the water, almost wagging as its owner lay face-first in the murky water. Without a second thought, you set aside your basket, grabbed the tail with your grubby little hands, and pulled hard.
“OW!”
The tail’s owner toppled out of the water, crashing into you in the process and knocking your foreheads together. You yelped, falling into the water with a splash as you held your aching forehead.
“What was that for?!” A child-like voice, much like your own berated you, a whine in his tone.
Glaring through your tears, you shouted back at him. “That was for bumming around on my farm!”
Your victim/intruder, a young boy with long hair, met your glare with equal fire. “I wasn’t ‘bumming around’, I was just… Cooling off! It’s hot today.”
You squinted, clearly not impressed. “I don’t care what you were doing! You’re not doing it on my farm.”
He lashed his tail angrily, splashing you in the process. “I’m the High Elder. I do what I want.”
You stared at him for a good second, taking in his appearance. He was a Vidyadhara around your age, only he had draconic-like horns protruding from his head. His long black hair flowed around him, and his fancy white robes were drenched in lotus water. It would’ve been obvious to anyone that he was a noble, someone of higher standing.
“No you’re not,” you said, deadpanning. “You’re too small.”
The self-proclaimed High Elder flushed red with embarrassment, jumping to his feet.
“I’m still growing!” he insisted, stamping his feet and splashing water everywhere.
“The High Elder’s supposed to be big and powerful!” you said, throwing your arms in the air to emphasize your point. “You’re… a kid!”
“You’re a kid too-!” The High Elder froze in the middle of his sentence, his tail stiffening at the sound voices - adult voices. Quickly, he grabbed you by the collar of your robe and pulled you into the shadows of the clump.
“Hey-!” He slapped his hand over your mouth to shut you up. In retaliation, you licked at his hand, the young boy recoiling in disgust.
“Did you just lick me?!” he hissed, looking at his hand in horror.
“You’re the one who just grabbed me-”
“Shh!!” He put a finger to his mouth, shushing you. “Be quiet! Can’t you see I’m hiding?”
“From what, the Cloud Knights?” you gasped, backing up. “Are you a criminal?!”
He gave you a look. “No! I told you, I’m the High-”
“High Elder? Are you there?”
This time, you both slapped a hand over each other’s mouths. An unfamiliar adult voice shouted over the fields, calling for the boy beside you. You both waited with bated breath as the man searched on the other side of the field, only letting go when he was far enough away.
“You weren’t lying?” you whispered excitedly, looking up at the boy with newfound respect. He crossed his arms, looking all high and mighty now.
“Why would I be lying?” he said matter-of-factly. “You were the one who didn’t believe me.”
You really wanted to make a witty comment, but then you remembered your stems, floating out in the sun. Panic seized you. You couldn’t let those stems dry. If they did, they’d be useless to you.
You jumped to your feet, hurriedly running to your stems. Thankfully, they were still where you left them, and in the shade. You sighed in relief, knowing that you would live to see another day.
You peeked your head over the lotus heads, spotting the man who was calling for the High Elder. He was wearing some pretty fancy robes himself, the robes you recognized as belonging to a Preceptor.
Cradling your basket once again, you walked back to where the High Elder was hiding. He looked up at you in surprise as you reached towards what used to be a preening lotus flower, now a pod filled with green seeds.
You snapped it off the stem and popped out one of the seeds. After peeling the green skin to reveal the white center, you handed it to the High Elder.
“Want one?”
The High Elder was wary at first, but eventually took the seed. He chewed it in his mouth for a little bit, his eyes brightening at the taste.
“It’s sweet,” he said in surprise. You nodded, taking one for yourself before giving him the pod.
“You have the rest on this one,” you said. You pointed in the direction of the Preceptor. “The big guy looking for you is over there, by the way.”
“Oh.” He took the pod in his hands, still a bit freaked out by how it looked. “Thank you.”
“Master always said I have to make it up when I do something bad,” you said, picking up your stems. With a start, the High Elder seemed to realize that you were apologizing. “Anyway, I have to go now. The fibers will dry up if I stay out here too long.”
“Wait!” The High Elder called out, reaching for you. You turned around, raising a brow. His tail waved nervously behind him as his hand faltered. “What’s your name?”
As you answered him, in the back of your head, you could’ve sworn you’d read this scene before.
You tilted your head curiously. “What’s yours?”
His expression was strange. It was a smile of relief and happiness, just from you not knowing his name. The waters responded to his joy, swirling gently around him.
“Dan Feng,” he said, his tail wagging slightly. “My name is Dan Feng.”
━
You remember seeing him dragged out of the fields a few hours later. You had been extracting fibers from the stems you’d collected when you’d heard the commotion.
Dan Feng was having his ear talked off by the Preceptor, but he was being awfully obedient. The two of you had met gazes, and he had sheepishly waved at you. Your hands were busy with your work, so all you could do was giggle at his predicament.
Of course, that wouldn’t be the last time you saw the High Elder - far from it.
Dan Feng would visit your farm often, whether it was for eating more lotus seeds, dragging you to go swim with him, or just to watch you work. Your mentors and coworkers grew accustomed to seeing the young Vidyadhara waiting for you outside the workshop.
All of his visits would end in the same way - a Preceptor would come and take him away for his studies, droning on about his duty as the High Elder while Dan Feng rolled his eyes behind their back.
It wasn’t like he hated his duty. You knew better than anyone that Dan Feng took pride in his role, he was just… stubborn.
“What are you doing?”
You flinched at the boy in question’s voice. Dan Feng was practically talking in your ears, his face right next to yours. You leaned away, batting away at him.
“None of your business,” you said, turning your back towards him as to hide your hands. Dan Feng pouted but didn’t push.
“If you say so.” He turned his gaze back to the open fields. His legs kicked as he dangled on the stone wall alongside you.
You sat in comfortable silence, feeling as the spring breeze blew gently around you. It was tranquil and quiet, as the lotus fields always were.
Dan Feng found he preferred it that way. It was nice to get away from the droning words of the Preceptors, and this little farm served as his favorite sanctuary. He could spend his days here forever, just being by your side.
His eyes shifted towards you again. You were oddly concentrated today, he noted, working on whatever was in your hands right now. It was unlike you to be so quiet. Usually, you’d be talking about the latest gossip you’d heard from your mentors, or complaining about the weather again.
He strained his neck, trying to see just what was taking your attention away from him. But alas, you saw him and snatched it away from him again. Frustrated, he blew at his hair, lashing his tail in impatience.
Oh, well. If you weren’t going to show him, you weren’t going to show it. It wasn’t like he wanted to see it anyways.
Dan Feng went back to spacing out, closing his eyes, crossing his legs, and focusing on the world around him. If he wasn’t going to do anything, he might as well meditate.
He reached his senses into the fields, losing himself in the environment. His ears were filled with the rustle of each individual leaf, the soft splashing of water, the croak of the frogs, and the buzzing of insects that inhabited the fields.
He could feel how the wind felt on every plant, the warmth of the sun not just on his skin, but on the skin of the other aquatic animals. At that moment, Dan Feng became one with the world. Nothing could break his concentration.
Nothing, except perhaps for you, who was trying to grab his hand as stealthily as possible.
Dan Feng snapped his eyes open when you took his left hand in yours. Apparently, you were too engrossed in your task to notice his eyes on you.
You slid something onto his ring finger. Dan Feng tilted his head, raising his hand to stare at whatever it was you put on him.
A band of woven grasses encircled his finger, the braid intricate and tight. Dan Feng looked at it in confusion, rotating his hand to get a better view of it.
“Do you like it?” you said proudly.
“What is it?” he asked, bringing it to his face to observe.
“It’s a ring,” you said obviously. You showed him your dominant hand, which had a matching ring on it. “I saw a couple of girls the other day with those friendship bracelets. I figured since we’ve known each other for a few years now, we should have something like that too.”
“Oh.” Dan Feng blushed at your words, a giddy feeling bubbling within his chest. Suddenly, the ring on his finger felt heavier, but also much, much warmer.
“It’s nice, right?” you hummed, holding your hand to the sky. “I mean, it’s not like one of those beads you can just buy, but I think it’s pretty special.”
“I love it.” Dan Feng beamed softly, holding his hand close to his chest. “I’ll treasure it forever.”
It melted your heart to see him so ecstatic over something as simple as a grass ring. He was quite literally glowing from happiness, his draconic parts illuminating with a soft sea green.
“I’m glad,” you said, hugging your knees to your chest.
Dan Feng looked at you, gratitude brimming in his eyes. He didn’t reach out to hug you (although he certainly wanted to), but rather, only wrapped his tail around your waist, tugging you closer to him.
━
You loved Dan Feng, you really did. But sometimes, you really wanted to tie him up and throw him in a ditch.
You sigh loudly in frustration, jabbing at Dan Feng’s wound with an alcohol-infused pad. The boy in question hissed in pain at your actions.
“Would it kill you to be gentler?” he attempted to jolt away, but your hold on his arm was firm.
It had been many years since you two had first met. The two of you were adolescents now, nearing adulthood.
Dan Feng had appeared at your doorstep after training once again to escape his mentors, only this time with a bloodied gash on his shoulder. He’d tried to hide it from you, but to little success.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone about this?” you shot back, angrily wrapping his wound with bandages. Dan Feng averted his gaze.
“It wasn’t anything they needed to know,” he said quietly. You paused in your wrapping to stare at him incredulously.
“Are you kidding me?!” You pulled on the bandages, tightening them. Dan Feng winced at your loud voice, waving his hand for you to quiet down. Granted, you did, but you still decided on berating him.
“Feng'er, this is serious,” you said through gritted teeth. “It’s not one of those scratches you can just lick away. What if it had gotten infected?”
Dan Feng sighed, opting to stay silent and instead watch you work. Despite your harsh tone, he knew that you were just worried about him. He didn’t blame you, the wound was pretty serious.
His eyes softened as he saw your hands trembling as they worked. Your face was a mask of angry calm, but he could see the shake in your eyes.
“...sorry.”
You blinked. “What was that?”
Dan Feng dropped his gaze guiltily. “I’m sorry. I made you worry.”
“When do you not make me worry?” you joke, tying the bandage into a bow. Dan Feng smiled sheepishly.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, touching your hand with his tail. “How should I make it up to you this time?”
“Hm…” You pondered the question, tapping at your chin before brightening with an idea. “I got it. How about showing me that little trick you were bragging to me about earlier, with the cloudhymm?”
Dan Feng laughed airily. “You always ask for that.”
“Well, no one around here knows cloudhymm except for you,” you said, crossing your legs on the floor. Your eyes practically glowed in anticipation - Dan Feng wanted to compare you to a puppy awaiting a treat.
The thought made his lips twitch as he held back his laugh. You rolled your eyes playfully, nudging him eagerly.
“So pushy,” he said dramatically, but you knew he was just teasing. He sat up straight, smoothed out his robes, and without further ado, he began his personal spectacle for you.
With just a flick of his finger, water materialized around him, taking the form of white lotus flowers in the air. Droplets stilled, as though someone had stopped time in the middle of a rainstorm.
You’ve seen this view many times before, but you were still amazed each and every time. A lotus flower hovered in front of you, bursting into a cloud of mist as you touched it.
You giggled, leaning back onto your hands, watching the lotuses drift off into the air. Unbeknownst to you, Dan Feng was preparing a whole nother surprise for you.
As your attention was captured by the lotuses, Dan Feng swirled his finger in the air. His signature teal water erupted in a spiral, taking the form of a roaring dragon. You jumped in surprise as it circled around you, flying toward the ceiling.
Dan Feng made the dragon dance around the lotuses, even bumping against your cheek. You squeaked as it did, light-heartedly glaring at Dan Feng. He only smirked back at you, before he enraptured your gaze with the dragon once again.
It glided towards the ceiling again, curling into a glowing orb of water. Dan Feng made a fist, and the dragon and the lotuses burst into a fine mist, making rainbows in the late evening light.
You were glimmering with awe, a permanent smile fixed onto your lips as you reached towards the ceiling to catch the mist. It was cool against your skin, like a little kiss from the rain.
“Am I forgiven now?” Dan Feng asked, amused.
You rolled your eyes. “Only if you promise to tell someone the next time you get injured.”
Dan Feng laughed. “Yes, yes, of course.”
You turned to look at him, only to find that he had been watching you this entire time, a fond smile on his lips.
━
“Are you sure about this?”
Dan Feng whispered anxiously as you skillfully maneuvered through dark alleyways and streetlights, your hand clasped tightly in his.
He kept looking back behind him, just to make sure that you weren’t being followed. He’d changed his appearance somewhat, making sure to hide his horns and tail, but he was still paranoid.
“Obviously!” you chirped back. You didn’t bother looking back at him, currently fixated on your destination - a crowd of bright lights, the smell of food, and the chatter of people. In other words, the night market.
Dan Feng let himself be dragged off by you, trusting that you knew these streets better than he did. He looked urgently back at you.
“When we get caught-”
“If we get caught,” you corrected, stopping momentarily to pull Dan Feng towards you. You let go of his hand to hold his face, pulling him to meet yours. “You trust me, right?”
Dan Feng sighed. “Yes, but-”
You squished his cheeks, effectively shutting him up. “No ‘buts’. What happened to the kid who would sneak off to swim in my farm?”
Dan Feng gave you a look, but with his face all squished up like that, you couldn’t take him seriously. Fighting down a giggle, you squeezed him one last time before letting go.
“Trust me on this,” you insisted, the lights of the market illuminating your back. “You couldn’t have lived for this long and not have been to the night market. You’ll love it, I promise.”
“And if I don’t?” Dan Feng hummed. You snorted, interlacing your fingers with his once again.
“Then I’ll do whatever you want later, alright?”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Dan Feng squinted as you pulled him into the depths of the market, the bright lights blinding him momentarily. The savory aroma of grilled meat and fried vegetables wafted into his nose, the chatter of friends, families, and lovers filling the air. The two of you were practically consumed by the crowd, the only thing keeping him from being swept away was your hand in his.
It was overwhelming, but not in a bad way. Dan Feng’s eyes widened with wonder as he took in the atmosphere around him. He wasn’t used to so many people being in one place, at the same time. In the lotus fields and in his palace, things were always quiet, still.
He could see children playing silly games with one another, jewelers selling their handcrafted trinkets, and so many street chefs, cooking right on the spot over open flames.
A tug on his hand broke him out of his stupor. You had been watching him all this time, a knowing smile on your face. You tugged him over to a stand that was selling what looked to be skewered balls of meat, dripping with a sweet glaze.
“They’re berrypheasant skewers,” you explained. You noticed Dan Feng’s disgruntled look and nudged him. “Don’t worry, it’s just the fruit that comes off their tails. They didn’t actually kill anything.”
“Oh… I see.” Dan Feng relaxed a bit after hearing that. You gave him a smile before talking to the vendor. Once you had acquired your skewers, you grabbed his hand once more, moving to a secluded corner of the market to enjoy them.
You wasted no time in biting off one of the fruit balls, closing your eyes in delight as you let it slowly melt in your mouth.
“That’s amazing,” you sighed in contentment, leaning back on a wall. You opened your eyes to see Dan Feng silently chewing on his. “How is it?”
“Sweet,” he said, swallowing it. “It’s not bad. Although, I prefer lotus seeds.”
“Really?” you asked, finishing off your skewer. “I like these better. Or maybe that’s because I’ve spent my whole life eating lotus seeds.”
“Perhaps,” Dan Feng agreed. He looked off in the direction of the market. “This place, it’s…”
“Loud?” you jested. Dan Feng chuckled.
“That too,” he admitted, “but the word I had in mind was ‘comfortable’.”
You hummed in agreement. “Well,” you said, pushing yourself off the wall. “We’ve only just scratched the surface. Are you ready?”
Dan Feng nodded. “Let’s go.”
Whatever happened next was a blur. What had started as you dragging Dan Feng around to try different food turned into Dan Feng pulling you to whichever jewelry store caught his attention. Sometimes, you’d lose him in the crowd, and run around panicked only to find him in the middle of getting scammed (to which you’d drag him off, giving death glares to whoever decided to prey on him).
You soon learned that this was a lot more tiring task than you’d originally anticipated. It was like babysitting a toddler - one minute he’d be standing at your side, watching you as you bargained with the vendor, and the next minute, he’d be across the street, trying on some new earrings.
And to make matters worse, every time you wanted to wring Dan Feng’s throat the second you caught up to him, he’d turn to you with that stupidly pretty smile of his, showing off whatever trinkets he managed to pick up this time.
And of course, like the weak soul you were, you couldn’t stay angry at a face like that for long.
But safe to say, you were relieved when you reached the end of the market and instead came to the edges of Central Starskiff Haven, right in front of the Jade Gate.
Here, the crowds had parted, allowing you to take a breather from your exhausting task. Of course, you were the only one who was tired - Dan Feng was vibrating with excitement, the brightest grin you’ve ever seen on his face.
“I take it you had fun?” you said good-naturedly, coming up beside your friend to watch the flow of starskiffs in and out of the Luofu. Dan Feng nodded, crossing his arms behind him.
“Most definitely,” he said happily. “The outworlder merchants have so many interesting things, I can’t help but be intrigued by them.”
“I could tell,” you chuckled. “I could barely catch up to you with the way you were running around. Imagine what the Preceptors would say.”
“We did agree that they would never find out, no?” Dan Feng pointed out. You shrugged.
“Fair enough,” you acknowledged. You gazed out into the glowing light of the Jade Gate before suddenly jolting in realization. “Lan above, I almost forgot!”
Dan Feng looked at you questioningly as you riffled through your pockets. His confusion only increased as you pulled out a small box, barely the size of your palm.
You opened it to reveal two jade rings, each with the image of a lotus carved into its band. Dan Feng feels his breath hitch at the sight, and something in his chest tightened.
“What…” he couldn’t even finish his sentence.
“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?” you said. “I figured that now would be a good time to replace the ones I made when we were kids.”
That’s right. You didn’t just choose today of all days randomly. Today was Dan Feng’s birthday, and the day he officially became of age. Today was the last day of his childhood before he would fully take on the title of Imbibitor Lunae and the responsibilities that came with being the High Elder.
You couldn’t help but feel proud as you watched him take the rings with shaking hands. He’s still that stubborn child who listens to no one but himself, but he’s become so much more. He’s grown taller, more mature, more dignified.
And yet, he still looked like he might cry from your gift. He mumbled something under his breath, something you couldn’t catch.
“What was that?” you asked, only to be pulled tightly into his chest. Dan Feng squeezed you into his embrace as he tried to steady his breathing.
Slowly, you wrapped your arms around his waist, melting into his hold. Such moments like these were rare, after all. The furthest Dan Feng had ever gone with you was holding hands. Hugs weren’t part of his vocabulary.
“You know…” he murmured. “In human cultures, rings symbolize marriage.”
“Well,” you laughed into his skin. “We’re not human, are we?”
“Yes, but…”
“Are you trying to propose to me, gege?” You looked up at him, raising your brow playfully. Dan Feng blushed at the nickname, averting his gaze.
“That wasn’t my intention,” he mumbled, flustered. He quickly let go of you, hiding his face behind his hand as he tried to calm his rapidly increasing heartbeat.
You snickered at him. “I know, I’m only teasing. Here, give me those; I’ll put them on for you.”
But despite your words, Dan Feng couldn’t help the burning heat that enveloped him as you took his hand delicately in yours, sliding on the ring. He couldn’t stop his heart from pounding, couldn’t stop his thoughts of newly engaged couples doing exactly what you were doing.
And most of all, he couldn’t stop thinking of how badly he wanted to kiss you in that moment.
━
Ever since that day, neither you nor Dan Feng have taken off your respective rings. Dan Feng always kept it hidden beneath his gloves, while you showed it off even while you worked. You’ve been asked many times who the other ring belonged to, but you’ve never given them an answer.
One of these questionees was Yingxing, a passionate young outworlder who had come to the Luofu hearing of the feats made by Vidyadhara craftsmen. You’d met through a common friend of Jingliu, one of Dan Feng’s friends in the renowned High Cloud Quintet.
While Yingxing was a blacksmith and you a weaver, the two of you hit it off immediately. The two of you bonded over creating for the members of the Quintet, with you being responsible for the threads that made up their clothes, and Yingxing their armor and weapons. Many times, when one of you had a day off, one could find you in the other’s workshop.
You coughed as smoke arose from the furnace, fanning yourself. Yingxing glanced over momentarily.
“Are you alright?” he asked, a bubbling laugh in his voice. You nodded.
“Yes, just not used to so much smoke,” you sighed. Yingxing wiped at his brow as he took out the pot from the furnace, pouring the molten metal into the mold beneath him.
“If it bothers you too much,” he advised, “you should step outside.”
You shook your head, jumping down from your spot by the window. “I’m fine, don’t worry. But enough about me, what’s this you’re making?”
“It’s a spear for the High Elder.” Yingxing moved aside as you came up next to him. “See the way the metal glows from a certain angle? That’s the remnants of the Reignbow Arbiter’s arrow.”
“Fascinating.” So this was the weapon Dan Feng would wield.
You waved away embers from your face, and for a moment, their light caught on the ring on your finger.
“You’re married?” said Yingxing in surprise. You stared at him inquisitively.
“No? What made you think that?”
“Your ring,” he said, nodding at your finger. You looked down before spurting a laugh.
“Oh, this?” You toyed with it, fidgeting it on your hand. “It’s nothing like that.”
“You don’t sound so sure,” Yingxing commented. You huff.
“I am,” you retorted, nudging him. Yingxing whined at the jab, complaining.
“Don’t you know not to provoke a man with a hammer?” he threatened good-naturedly. You, being the very mature person you are, stuck your tongue out at him.
“Yingxing?”
The sound of your best friend’s voice interrupted your play argument as the both of you perked your heads. Dan Feng bent down as he entered the forgery so as to not hit his horns on the door frame.
“Dan Feng!” Yingxing greeted, waving. “What brings you here?”
“Don’t let me disturb you,” the Vidyadhara said, his nose wrinkling at the smoke filling the forge. “I’m merely here to check on the progress of the spear.”
“It’s still in the process of being smelted, as you can see.” Yingxing pounded away at the spear, shaping it into his desired form.
“Ah, is that so?” Dan Feng nodded. “I’ll come back tomorrow, then. Keep up the good work.”
“You’re going to leave without saying hi?” you interjected, fake hurt lacing your voice. “I’m hurt, Feng’er.”
Dan Feng flinched, as though he hadn’t noticed you at all.
“[Name]?” He straightens, blinking rapidly in surprise. Yingxing swore he’d never seen the High Elder brighten so quickly - he almost didn't believe his eyes when he saw his tail wag with joy. “I apologize, I didn’t see you.”
“It’s alright,” you laugh, walking over to him. “I haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been?”
“You two know each other?” Yingxing asked. Dan Feng narrowed his eyes, fixing the younger man with a glare.
“I should be the one asking you that, Yingxing,” he said lowly, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. “When did you and them get so close?”
“We’ve been friends for a while,” you answered for Yingxing, lightly hitting Dan Feng’s chest. “Be nice to him.”
Dan Feng pouted, reluctantly letting you go. “But-”
“No ‘buts’,” you scolded, crossing your arms. “If you’re not going to be nice, you can step outside.”
Dan Feng looked akin to a kicked puppy, but he relented. Although, when he saw Yingxing, trying his absolute best not to laugh, Dan Feng felt murderous intent for the first time.
His tail lashed angrily behind him as he watched you converse with the blacksmith, Yingxing sweating from the pure pressure of Dan Feng’s stare. He’d never been so relieved to see you go.
“I have to go now, but I’ll come back later, alright?” you said, waving at Yingxing. You squeezed Dan Feng’s shoulder on your way to the door, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Don’t give him a hard time, okay?”
Dan Feng only nodded, briefly touching his hand to yours before you finally left, leaving the two men alone.
“So,” Yingxing coughed, looking anywhere but Dan Feng’s eyes. “Feng’er, was it?”
“You will not speak of this,” Dan Feng warned. Yingxing raised his hands in surrender.
“My lips are sealed, High Elder.” Yingxing smiled. “Although, if I were you, I wouldn’t wait.”
Dan Feng narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“How should I say this…” Yingxing pondered. “If you stall for too long, someone will sweep them away.”
Horror shot through Dan Feng like a bullet as he gaped at Yingxing. The thought of you leaving him for someone else, replacing him, hadn’t even crossed his mind.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he gritted out, taking a deep breath to calm down. “They would never replace me.”
Yingxing blinked. “Don’t tell me you haven’t realized.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Dan Feng, you’re-”
“Dan Feng, Yingxing, there you are.”
Jingliu crossed her arms in the doorway, her apprentice, Jing Yuan by her side.
“Was that [Name] I just saw run out?” she asked, raising a brow. She shook her head. “Nevermind that. I needed to talk to you two anyways. We’re heading out in a week’s time.”
“What for?” Dan Feng questioned, furrowing his brows.
“The Denizens of Abundance have invaded our ally Thalassa,” Jingliu disclosed, her voice tight at the mere mention of the Xianzhou’s sworn enemies. “We’ve been ordered to drive them out.”
“Very well,” said Dan Feng. “We’ll see you then, Jingliu.”
She nodded. “Until then.”
━
It was the first time Dan Feng had seen death.
War was never pretty for anyone, soldier or civilian. It was dirty, dark, and grimy. In war, you had two objects: one, defeat the enemy. Two, survive.
Dan Feng cursed as he ran his spear through another borison, the ocean of Thalassa responding to his anger. Dragons made from water, the same ones he showed to you all those years ago, drove back the enemy, blasting them away and incapacitating them in the process.
He kept his eyes ahead of him, deliberately avoiding the ground. There, laid corpses of allies and enemies alike.
Death was uncommon on the Xianzhou, especially for a Vidyadhara. There were no soulless eyes on the Luofu, no limp bodies littering the ground. There were no pleas for mercy, no screams of pain and fear.
But here, in the midst of a foreign battlefield, all of those horrors revealed themselves, and bared their teeth.
Dan Feng made the mistake of looking down. His eyes met with that of a deceased borison, its own lifeless eyes glazed over. Instantly, Dan Feng faltered.
The borison looked nothing but a Vidyadhara, but their eyes were the same. It might’ve been a different species, following a different Aeon, but the intelligence and sentience were the same. They were a person, just like anyone else. Just like you.
Only this one wouldn’t rebirth into a new life. No, this one was spoken for, done in by his spear. They would never live again.
The battle blurred around him as he spiraled deeper into his thoughts. He knew that realistically, it would never happen, but he couldn’t stop the thought from resurfacing in his mind.
What if one day, you ended up just like that borison?
Dan Feng shook his head, raising his spear just in time to block an attack from an enemy. No. It would never happen. He’d be there to protect you. The Cloud Knights would protect you. Xianzhou would protect you.
But what if they couldn’t?
“Dan Feng!” Jingliu’s shout snapped him out of his daze. Dan Feng clicked his tongue, irritated at his own absentmindedness. The battlefield was no place for distraction; he of all people should know this.
With a thrust of his hands, his dragons came to Jingliu’s aid, healing her wounds and fending off the borison attacking her.
He was being ridiculous, Dan Feng berated himself. The enemy was vastly overpowered. Their victory would come soon. And when it did, he would be able to come home, home to you.
And he did.
It was nighttime when he returned to the Luofu. You were just finishing up before bed, setting aside the fabrics you’d woven that day. Your former mentor had just checked in on you, making sure that you were doing alright before they went to sleep.
You heaved a heavy sigh to yourself, folding the final sheet before setting it on a shelf. Dan Feng and the others had been at war for months now.
“I wonder how they’re doing,” you muttered to yourself, closing your eyes. You knew they would be fine. Jingliu, Dan Feng, and every other member of the High Cloud Quintet were blessed with powers that you couldn’t even begin to imagine. The invading Denizens would be no match for them.
But still… You couldn’t help but worry.
What didn’t help was how obvious Dan Feng’s absence was. You often looked over your shoulder as you wove, as though expecting the young man to be standing there, watching. The night market didn’t feel the same without him being dragged around to every stall.
The lotus fields, with all their flowers and pads, seemed empty.
It was as though a hole had been ripped out of your heart, leaving only a dull ache.
The sound of your door opening startled you. You swiveled around, utterly confused. Just who would be here at this hour? Very few people had access to the key to your home.
Perhaps one of the other weavers? Or perhaps your mentor again, worried that you weren’t getting enough sleep?
The answer was neither. A strangled whisper of your name, in such a familiar voice, cut through the night air like a knife. Tears welled in your eyes as you took in the sight of your best friend, finally home after so long.
“Feng’er?” you whispered. He nodded wordlessly, taking a few hesitant steps into your home.
You met him halfway, reaching up to hold his face delicately. Dan Feng closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a little sigh. His arm came to the small of your back, pulling you in as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent.
“You’re late,” you murmured, brushing your hand through his hair. Dan Feng tightened his arms around you.
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” you laughed, sniffling. “Do you know how worried you made me?”
Dan Feng pulled away from your neck, gazing into your eyes. His tail swayed, eventually circling around your waist. He gingerly held your chin between his thumb and index finger as though you’d break if he was any rougher with you.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, brows crinkling. Quickly, he wiped away your tears. Of all else, Dan Feng hated seeing you cry, and hated it even more if it was because of him. “I’m here now.”
You nodded tearfully. “And you’re not leaving, right?”
“Not for a while,” he promised. “Even the Abundance will need time to recover from the damage we did to them.”
“Good.” You held his face in your hands. “Because right now, you’re mine.”
“Is that so?” Dan Feng said softly. His eyes lingered on your lips, his lips slightly parted. “I’m yours, is that right?”
“Mhm.” You smiled as you felt him press your bodies impossibly closer together, one arm around your waist and the other behind your head. Your lips brushed against each other, your voice a whisper as you two danced on the edge. “Mine.”
A push from Dan Feng’s hand, and he sealed his lips with yours.
Immediately, you closed your eyes, savoring the taste of his kiss. His lips were soft, yet cool, like the touch of a river on a summer afternoon. He kissed you with a hidden desperation, years of pining and longing unleashing themselves in this torrent of affection. You almost couldn’t keep up with him, letting out a whimper as he tilted your face gently, deepening the kiss.
Even when you parted for air, it wasn’t long before Dan Feng greedily pulled you back in, addicted to the feeling of your lips on his. His hands wouldn’t stop wandering in a languid motion, slowly roaming all over you, from your waist to your back to your neck, and back to your waist again, squeezing every bit he could find.
By the time Dan Feng’s relentless assault ended, the two of you were breathless. Words failed to form on your tongue as you simply stared into Dan Feng’s eyes, trying to catch your breath.
Dan Feng pressed his forehead against yours, his horns bumping against you.
"You don't know how long I waited for that,” he whispered huskily. You let out a breathless chuckle, wrapping your arms around his neck and nuzzling his nose with yours.
“I think I did.”
The corners of Dan Feng’s eyes crinkled. You’ve never seen them so up close before. The colors reminded you of a stone in a river, with cool grey giving way to gorgeous teal.
And the way he looked at you made your heart melt - it’s so tender, so soft, so filled with love that you can practically feel how much he cares about you.
And you can only hope that he saw the same in your eyes.
“I love you,” he confessed, like it was a secret. But even still, him being able to say those three words made it worth more than anything in the world. “I’ve always loved you, ever since we were children.”
Joy bubbled up in your chest, and you couldn’t stop yourself from giggling. Your hand came to his scalp, bunching up his hair in your fingers.
“I love you too, you dork.” You pecked him on his nose, and then his forehead, laughing as he wrinkled his nose in response.
Reluctantly, you released him from your grasp, instead tugging his hand into your abode.
“It’s late already,” you explained. “The Preceptors won’t mind if you come home late, right?”
“They no longer control me,” Dan Feng affirmed. You grinned.
“That’s good.” You lead him into your bedroom, glancing over to make sure he was fine with it. “I don’t have a guest room, so are you alright with sharing a bed?”
Dan Feng flustered, but he nodded. “Th- That’s fine with me.”
You would learn that Dan Feng was incredibly clingy in bed. He practically enveloped you in his arms, tangling your legs together as he hugged your shoulders. His tail was conflicted - either thumping happily against the bed or wrapping around you like a possessive snake.
But it was worth all of it. You felt safe in Dan Feng’s embrace, loved. In his arms, you slept the most soundly you’ve ever slept. It was as though you had found your other half.
You truly felt blessed when you woke up to Dan Feng’s sleeping face, so serene and tranquil. And fortunately for the both of you, that wouldn’t be the last time you woke up next to the other.
━
But those happy days were not made to last.
There would be many more feats Dan Feng would accomplish as the High Elder. He would become one of the most prolific Vidyadhara ever, forever documenting his name in history books.
You two would eventually marry, sealing your love not just with those rings. It was a marriage in the palaces of Scalegorge Waterscape, only the best for the High Elder. All of your friends attended, Yingxing and Baiheng especially praising Dan Feng (and lamenting about how he of all people got married before they did).
Jing Yuan had grown into a fine young man, his intellect and skill with the Lightning Lord being parallel to none. Yingxing was beginning to age, being a short-lived species. Jingliu had retired, aiming to end her days peacefully.
But as said before, that wasn’t what fate had planned for the quintet.
Jingliu would be driven mad with mara, her only solace being the blade of her former mentor. Baiheng would be missing in action. Yingxing would be killed long before his time, leaving Dan Feng in despair over losing three beloved friends so soon.
Perhaps that is what drove him to do what he did.
“How could you?”
Dan Feng winced at the crack in your voice as you screamed at him. You were crying, angry tears streaming down your face.
“My love, please-”
“Do not call me that!” you snapped, making him flinch. “You don’t get to call me ‘my love’ after that. What were you thinking?!”
“It was the only way!” Dan Feng insisted.
“It was cruel,” you hissed. “You know that more than anyone here.”
“They stole them from me,” Dan Feng growled, his eyes flashing. “It wasn’t their time.”
“I know,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from crying and screaming. “I know it wasn’t. But you know what immortality will do to them, Feng’er. You know what the curse of Abundance does.”
Dan Feng averted his eyes guiltily. You wipe at your eyes hurriedly, taking big, gulping breaths to calm down.
“What did the Preceptors say?” you finally asked. Dan Feng’s gaze lowered, a shadow cast over his face. A pit dropped in your stomach.
“They’re waiting outside,” he revealed. “I’m to be taken to the Shackling Prison, and forced into rebirth. They only let me be here to say goodbye.”
It was as though an anvil had been dropped on you, crushing you.
“No.”
It was the only thing you could muster out. You shook your head in disbelief.
“No. No, no, no!” you croaked out. “They can’t do that. Not to you.”
Ironic, how only a few minutes prior you were berating Dan Feng as though your life depended on it. Now, you were pleading for him to be forgiven, for a lighter sentence to be dealt out. Because for a Vidyadhara, a forced rebirth was practically the same as a death sentence.
“Isn’t there another way?”
Dan Feng shook his head, taking your arms in his hands.
“I’m afraid not. This is the only way the public will forgive my sins.”
He took a deep breath.
“Please, my love,” he begged quietly. “Look at me.”
You did.
“You have to be strong,” said Dan Feng, cradling your face one last time. “Promise me that you’ll be alright, even after I am reborn.”
You shook your head. “Feng’er, please.”
“Promise me,” he urged.
“I…” You faltered. “I promise.”
Dan Feng smiled sadly - the last smile you’d ever see from your husband.
“Thank you.” He pressed a sweet kiss to your lips, a kiss to last you the lifetimes he wouldn’t be at your side. “I love you, [Name]. And I’m sorry for being such a selfish husband.”
You closed your eyes, savoring him for the last time. Silently, you told him your forgiveness.
“I love you too, Dan Feng.”
That was the day the love of your life died.
━
Centuries have passed since then.
You’re still weaving, now taking care of your rebirthed mentors as they had cared for you. There are children under your wing now, hoping to learn your craft and one day start a business of their own.
You still keep in touch with Jing Yuan, the general visiting your farm every so often. Each time, you offer him a taste of the lotus seeds Dan Feng loved, but each time, he refuses.
Yingxing has become the Stellaron Hunter Blade, cursed with immortality and the mara that comes with it. If he remembered you, he never showed it.
The Ambrosial Arbor, reawakened by the Denizens of Abundance, runs rampant, threatening the existence of the Luofu itself. You hear from friends that Jing Yuan had enlisted a group of outworlders - the Astral Express - to help him with the crisis.
And now, those very outworlders were standing outside your door.
“Par-” Jing Yuan coughed, cutting himself off. “Pardon the intrusion, [Name].”
He was currently being held by a young Vidyadhara, one that… Your breath hitched.
One that looked almost identical to Dan Feng.
Your lover’s lookalike noticed your gaze at him. The second you met eyes, he seemed to know exactly what was going through your mind.
“...I’m not him.” He repeated this sentence for the nth time today.
You smiled sadly.
“I know.”
You turned to Jing Yuan, taking in the general’s sorry state. The outworlders, a young girl with pink hair, an older brunette man, and a grey-haired teenager all seemed to be in similar shape, although definitely better than the general.
You stepped aside. “Why don’t you all come in? It’s been a while since I’ve had company.”
“Thank you.” The brunette, who you would later come to know as Welt, thanked.
As you turned away, Dan Feng’s reincarnation noticed a jade ring on your finger, recognizing it as the one he had woken up in.
“That’s…”
You hummed, raising your hand. You’ve never taken it off, not even when Dan Feng was reborn.
“You recognize it,” you mused. “I suppose that means he still has it?”
The reincarnation hesitated, but nodded. You smiled.
“That’s good. Say, what’s your name, little one?”
“Dan Heng,” he answered.
“It’s a good name.” You stepped away for a moment to the kitchen. “I apologize; the tea may take a while. I wasn’t expecting guests.”
“It’s no matter,” Jing Yuan assured.
And as you served tea to the Astral Express, you couldn’t help but notice: five people, seated around a table, enjoying tea. Just like a scene hundreds of years ago.
You chuckle to yourself, a carved lotus glimmering in the light on your ring.
"your fate has been decided, and nothing can stop destiny. except your destiny is not what was promised to you, for better or worse."
word count: 5.2k tw: overall dark themes, harmful homelife (it's yours, but like fictionally), suicidal / depressive language (also in relation to you, fictionally, and hopefully not actually)
"He will be pleased with you, my dear."
The woman who slips on your shoes won't stop telling you this. No one has stopped telling you this. Since you awoke this morning, it's all you've heard. While you bathed your last bath, while your hair was combed one final time, while you're dressed in your last set of white robes, while your body gets weighed down by all the gold clasped to your wrists and shoulders for the first and final time.
You hear it until you can't anymore. Until their murmurs are lost to the autumn winds of the mountain, as the procession stays and watches you proceed further up the path. Before the maw of a gaping cavern.
Then you're the only one left to remind yourself as you take one steady step after another into the darkness. Towards him, the being you belong to. Your promised destiny.
He, who is bigger than you could've ever imagined, is waiting for you there. A dragon covered in violet and black scales, with the greenest serpentine eyes. A noble being from legends with steps that shake the earth and fire on his tongue.
You hope he is pleased, you think as you close your eyes against the smell of ash.
Beneath the darkness behind your eyes, you hear his massive body scrape the sides of the cave. You picture yourself crushed beneath boulders and dust. You keep your eyes firmly shut.
Air brushes past you like a whip. Displaced from his tail, thrashing. You picture yourself pierced upon it. Your eyes stay closed.
His lumbering walk echoes across the rock. A pounding, steady tempo that rattles your brain. You picture your body torn to shreds by his talons. Your eyes remain shut.
The noise is receding. The echoes quiet down to silence. The only noise left to ricochet in your skull is your own pounding heart.
You open your eyes.
He is gone. Returned to the dark from which he emerged.
You don't know how long it takes to finally come to terms with the fact that he has left you. The sun is still at your back, a reminder of the unblocked escape.
You follow after him instead, wishing the light a parting goodbye.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You walk blind. Steady, sweeping steps are your only guide as you slowly chase after your promised resting place.
But then your eyes start adjusting and adjusting further still. You realize that must mean that there is light where you are headed.
You don't know whether to be disappointed or embarrassed that you said your final goodbye a bit too soon.
Your path starts to expand, widening until you are standing before the bowels of a massive open cave. A hollow impression that travels all the way up to the top, where a single opening lets the sun touch the bottom.
You've never seen so much gold in your life. You didn't even know so much gold could exist at once in the same place. It is scattered and stacked everywhere. It reflects the light coming in from the top across the entire expanse of the cavern.
It even reflects off the bright green of his eyes.
He lies in the center of his riches, nestled in a spot in the ground that dips lower than the rest. Like it's been eroded to his shape from repeated use.
His head is raised while the rest of him remains prone. His body encircles itself into a pose reminiscent of the cat behind your care home, napping in the fields.
You're not sure where to go, what to do. You didn't plan to still be alive to be able to think these sorts of thoughts.
You move to hug the wall, pressing your back against the nearest surface. Taking care not to touch even the slightest bit of treasure. You let your legs give out and slide yourself to the ground with a heavy slump.
You're asleep before you even realize it.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You awaken, and you know you haven't been unconscious long. The light still sits the same amongst the gold.
But he has moved closer. Perched as still as a statue. With eyes only for you.
You've seen something like this before. The cat that slept behind your care home would hunt the mourning doves in a similar fashion. By staying very still until the opportunity to strike arises.
The scent of brimstone tickles your nose. Your robes are the same color as those mourning doves. But unlike them, your wings have been clipped a long time ago.
There is a grave tension in the air that stops you from closing your eyes. You always pictured your final memory being the darkness, but the sight of the light gleaming off his scales isn't so bad either.
For a stretch of time, nothing happens, no one is moving. Does he wish to give chase? Is your form so boring that he requires further entertainment?
But then you start to really take notice of his positioning. The way his body is turned to the side, as if he wishes to shield the sight of his riches from you. Much more defensive than you initially thought. Then you remember that you are technically in his home. You are a guest in his territory. And the mistress always told you that a proper guest brings gifts upon arrival.
Slowly, you raise your hands. He is so still that if it weren't for the way his eyes track your movement, you'd think he was rooted to the ground. Behind your neck, you unclasp a chain of gold. Holding it high for him to see before lobbing it towards the nearest pile.
For the first time, you are privy to the sight of him blinking.
Your body takes that moment to remind you that you should be sleeping. Now that the air no longer smells like it will spark, you close your eyes and retreat back to unconsciousness.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
When you next open your eyes, it's because he is moving. A combination of both stalking and slithering through his collection of artifacts toward the exit at your side. He barely regards you as he passes. You listen to his steps get further and further away.
You wonder if you should follow.
Your body decides for you. It begs you to sleep, and thus you do.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
Something is thrown at your feet, yanking you from your dreams.
It's a branch of mulberries. Well, an entire bush of them. There is dirt still clinging to its roots.
You look up and spot the beast returning to its preferred spot. Taking practiced loops around the depression in the ground before slumping down with a deep huff.
The weight of his large body hitting the ground displaces some of the gold off his piles. You watch as coins and cups and jewels alike fall from their pillars, landing in spots where others just like them lie.
Maybe those treasures would've been at the top, once upon a time. Maybe they, too, had once been knocked from the tops of piles by the force of his settling.
How long has he been here for his habits to have been recorded in the very rock he sleeps on?
His eyes are closed now, and you think about closing yours too. Instead, you reach out to pluck the nearest berries from off the branches.
Idly, as you chew and contemplate his intentions, you wonder if this means he is displeased with you. Does he wish there was more to you? The mistress made sure you were more than amply fed before the parade.
You eat until your fingers are stained, until your body commands you to return to unconsciousness and leave these worries behind.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
It is the middle of the night, and you're only awake because your bladder demands it. You shuffle blindly through the dark just to do your business.
Eventually, you return, stopping to watch the way the moon's faint glow is reflected in the gold scattered across the space. You can't make out the beast, though. He must be too well hidden in the shadows.
Hoping you have not awoken him, you return to your spot and shut your eyes.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
Opening your eyes, you are greeted with his stare, already trained on you. It only takes you as long as it does to realize what he wants because of the lingering fog of sleep behind your eyes. But then you're unclasping another golden adornment and chucking it towards his collection.
You think, as you close your eyes, you hear him make a noise like a huff. Almost like a content sigh.
It feels comical to even consider. So much so that you can feel your painfully cracked lips lift in an amused smile before slipping back into unconsciousness.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You are not hungry, you conclude as your body forces you awake. But god, is your throat sore. And painfully dry. You lick your lips and wince at the responding sting.
It is night now. Thus, it takes your eyes longer to adjust to the subtle light of the moon and stars.
You have never been thirstier in your life. It's just about all you can think about. You didn't think you'd have to think about it, honestly. You didn't think you'd still be alive to be able to think.
You're not sure what your continued survival means, whether he's displeased or waiting for the right moment or not. At this point, it doesn't matter because you're just so damn thirsty.
You don't bother with being quiet, too busy staving off your raging headache as you stand on wobbly legs. Nor do you check to make sure the beast is even there.
All you concern yourself with is making it out of his cavern. Trying not to trip on your billowing cloak. Trying not to fall face-first because you're walking blindly through the darkness with a swimming head and a hollow stomach. You're not sure where your own swirling vision ends and the caves' pitch blackness begins.
Eventually, you can make out the end of the cave. Where the opening breaks off into a dirt-laden path that leads into the surrounding forest.
You try to remember where you could potentially find water. Except your feet get tripped up underneath you, tangled in your dragging train. What little breath you have gets knocked clean out of your lungs as you meet the ground.
And don't get back up.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
In your dreams, there is a breeze. Then a surge. A whirlwind that penetrates beneath your robes and makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.
In your dreams, there is a man. The most beautiful man you've ever seen. His hair is as dark as the night, second only in color to his horns. And his eyes are the most striking green. But unlike other men, this one even has wings. Spinal, webbed wings like those of your beasts.
He reaches for you with elegant hands, nails as long as talons. Mistress would not be pleased to know you have let a stranger touch you, dirty you.
But you cannot find it within yourself to care. Not when this stranger's touch is so light, like he's scared to break you. The last time you were treated this gently, it was the day you were to be sent as an offering.
Maybe this man could be your end. The beast obviously does not want you. But this man is collecting you in his arms like you are something precious.
The scenery blurs and ebbs. You're not sure where he is taking you, but his skin gives off the most comforting warmth. You hadn't even realized how cold your bones were. How numb your fingers feel.
But then something cold touches your lips. His finger, damp with liquid, traces and smooths over your cracked skin.
Water.
The next time he brings his hand up, you are ready. You drink from his palm, cupped full of cool water. So frantically, you end up vomiting it all back up. But he is patient and instead feeds you water in small increments until your head no longer pounds.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You are warm. The mistress must've started a fire. You probably fell asleep in front of the hearth again. She will surely scold you for possibly letting ash dirty up your hair.
It takes a mountainous amount of effort to peel back your lids, crusted as they are with sleep.
You are in the middle of a very familiar cavern. Surrounded by hefty piles of gold and jewels. The sun is high in the sky, perfectly lined up to shine its rays straight down into the belly of the cave from the opening above.
The sights are familiar enough, but it's the angle at which you are looking at them that seems wrong. If you didn't know any better, you'd think you were lying where the dragon would normally be—
A beastly huff sounds from directly next to you. You can feel it kick up your hair from the force.
Slowly, you turn your head to the side.
Black scales, climbing horns, a snout as long as your body, lying resting against the ground. He slumbers not even an arm's reach from you.
You are not sure how you got here, but you think it's important that you leave.
Sitting up takes longer than expected, purely because whatever ache has taken itself up in your muscles refuses to make your life any easier. The mistress once told you that creatures such as him have such superior hearing that a pin drop could sound like a thunderclap. Keeping a steady eye on him, you push up on shaky arms, moving extraordinarily slowly. There is a sizable gap in the semicircle of treasure through which you can make your way out. You'll just have to be careful not to trip over any spare coins or jewelry.
Eyeing your escape path, you shift to your knees and attempt to stand.
A growl, deep and rumbling, sounds from behind you. Strong enough to rattle your very bones.
Freezing in place makes the noise stop. You dare to turn your head toward the being at your back.
A singular eye is open and watching.
A shudder runs up your frame, sucking all the warmth you may have had from your veins.
"... I was just—" Your voice croaked like the worst frog imaginable. It takes more than a few swallows to clear it. "I was just about to leave. I never wanted to invade your place of rest."
That only seems to perturb him even more, starting the growl right back up again.
This wasn't right, nor was it good. He was supposed to be pleased with you. You didn't want to be a poor guest to him, unwanted.
"I'm sorry," you try not to sound pleading. That never does anyone any good, you've learned. "I don't want to upset you. What should I do to make this better?"
He answers by swinging his long, spiked tail around and planting it right in the path of your escape route.
"... You... do not want me to leave?"
He doesn't respond, naturally, but he has yet to resume growling.
You have a hard time believing this to be true. Just a few days ago, he was defending his possessions against you; now you are a part of it. What could have changed?
His eye is still trained on you, watching for something. You follow where you think his gaze is going.
Tradition details that when offering a tribute, the vessel must be adorned with gold. Thus, your white linen robes and cloak have golden thread embroidered across them. Patterns such as flowers, branches, animals, some more abstract-looking than others.
The thread catches on the high noon sun, reflecting just enough to get his attention.
Hesitantly, you start shuffling back to your previous position. Lying on your side, head tilted up towards his gaze, you watch in wonder as he seems to truly relax once he deems you back where you should be.
That electric green eye closes, and eventually you decide that so should yours.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You wake to a similar sight as before. Talons scrape against the sedimentary floor as he leaves. Sustenance, most likely.
You can feel your heart beating in your chest, another reminder of the life you still have. There is also the strain in your gut. You wait for as long as you deem it safe before rising, semi-unsteadily, to go and quickly relieve yourself outside.
Once finished, you promptly lie back down when you return.
Again, you escape to the quiet darkness behind your eyes.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
The beast returns not long after with another berry bush. You grab what you deem good enough to eat as he makes himself comfortable.
You eat until your hands are thoroughly stained and join him in slumber shortly thereafter. Feeling tortured with unanswered questions and unresolved promises.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
Waking the next day, you eat more berries to try to quench some of the thirst in your throat.
The beast stays asleep. Except somewhere in your gut, you feel like he is more than aware of where you are.
But if so, then what is he waiting for? What else do you need to do to satisfy him?
Your eyes are heavy. You have never been more tired. You lie back on the stone floor and sleep.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You're not sure what to make of it, you think as you arise from another dreamless sleep with a dry mouth. In your head, you are aware that he views you as part of his collection. But it's not truly you he wants. It's your clothes. Yet he does not need to keep providing you with food to keep your robes in his stash. Does he know that?
It makes you feel like a fraud. A garnish with no true sustenance in the grand scheme of the main course. How long will this waiting game last, you wonder.
You cough, and it leaves your chest tight and achy. He gets up suddenly, startling you, moving to grab a golden cauldron of sorts before leaving without another glance. Only to return with it sloshing full of water.
It does nothing but make the guilt in your chest spread like mold.
"Stop it." You wheeze, and he listens. Just a few paces away from where he always leaves you, in his usual sleeping spot. "Stop giving me these things. I'm not what you want."
He looks surprised, if you can even call it that. But all you can focus on is ridding the clothes from your back.
"Enough of this prolonging, just kill me already." You choke on the strangled feeling in your throat, throwing aside your cloak embroidered with blossoms and bunnies. "You were supposed to be done with me days ago, and yet I'm still here."
"It's ridiculous!" The cuffs of your shirt are next, where they're stitched in gold. You yank until they tear.
"This isn't what was promised!" The bottom of your billowing skirt follows, with its golden-trimmed hem.
"I've been nothing but perfect, all this time!" A gold band.
"I've followed every rule, every command!" A ring. Then another.
"And yet for what? What was it all for?! What is my purpose if not this!"
You could spend a millennium screaming, and it would never be enough. Thankfully, your throat stops you before you can get that far. Too dry as it is to produce any more sound.
"Please," you whisper, barely more than a whimper. "Why... Tell me."
Nothing except your heaving, crackled breaths can be heard. Your head swims, and your eyes ache with phantom tears. Your arms shake against the rock while your head hangs between them.
Eventually, when you start to choke on the dryness on your tongue, he moves, approaching.
You close your eyes. Let this be the end of it. Let this tired body finally serve its purpose. Let it happen like you were always told it would. In the dark, at the hands of something greater than you.
He sets down the cauldron; you hear its clang and the subsequent patter of spilt droplets. Then, between one breath and the next, a man speaks.
"I do not have your answers."
Anything you were previously thinking is abruptly cut off as you jerk your head up, eyes flying open.
He's tall, much taller than some of the biggest men from your village. Hair as dark as the rock he stands upon, with pale, flawless skin to contrast. Atop his head are horns, black and spiraled like your beasts'. And much like your beast, he also has wings. Even scales. Black with undertones of purple when the light hits them just right. Gathered over his crotch and hips like a pair of undergarments, but otherwise speckled across his entire body.
He is gorgeous. Terrifyingly so.
"Drink."
While your thoughts swirled with how similar his eyes are to your beasts', the man grabbed a chalice out of one of the beasts' many piles of treasure and filled it with water.
"Wha...? Who—"
"Drink." He commands, pushing the chalice to your lips.
The first touch is your undoing; you guzzle down the entire cup. Or at least try to.
"No," he chides. "Slowly, in small quantities."
You listen, because what else are you to do? He nods, satisfied with your compliance.
"Um," you clear your throat after a chunk of time, watching with pinched brows as he begins picking up and sorting what you threw from your person. "Who are you? How did you get here?"
"What do you mean?" He asks as he regards one of your rings. "I am your supposed promise, am I not?"
Your head throbs for more reasons than just dehydration. "You... cannot be my beast."
"Your beast?" His gaze snaps to yours, sharp with dissent. "I am no one's beast, Child of Man."
"I— I apologize." You stammer as quick as you can, startled by his anger. "I am just... You are a man."
"Never."
"... Then this form is...?"
"Not my true one, merely another."
"... I was not made aware you possessed such an ability."
"Not many humans live to tell the tale."
He's picking through a specific section, seemingly trying to find the best place for one of your bracelets.
"... I do not understand."
"That is to be expected."
There's nothing else you can think to say. Too many thoughts and questions to sort through to pick just one. So, you watch as he painstakingly places every bit of gold you had into what he deems as its rightful place.
All except your cloak, which he picks up, ponders, then lifts his eyes to yours. He closes the distance in steady strides, then kneels down as he drapes the fabric across your bared shoulders.
Immediately, you feel warmer. But whether that's from the heavy linen alone or combined with his proximity, which strangely oozes heat, is up for debate.
"Every single one before you has left."
You blink, confused and still reeling from his closeness, before the context hits.
"They enter my cave, I let them gaze upon me, then they react. Whether they cry, scream, plead, or vomit does not matter. I return to my horde, and they do not follow."
This confession leaves you shaken. Not one of the offerings given has been received. He has been displeased with all of them. But if that were the case, why does the valley still stand? It should've been razed to the ground by now. If the words of the ancestors are true, like they should be, offerings were the peace that tied the valley with the Ruler of the Mountain. Yet, this ruler, kneeling before you in a man's skin, hasn't been taking a single one.
"Except you."
You can't remember if anyone has ever given you such undivided attention.
"You are the only one who dared to follow me."
There is barely any visible expression on his face to glean what he is feeling in this moment. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you imagine him grabbing you by your hips and setting you upon one of his many piles of riches.
"I do not care what your feeble, human mind chooses to believe. The fact of the matter is that you walked in here voluntarily. Thus, you are mine to do with as I please."
He folds the outer edges of your cloak around you, covering your numb limbs in the thick linen.
"You lost your chance to escape the minute I saw you in the light."
His nails are as long as claws, sharpened to a point. Yet he uses them so delicately to push back stray wisps of hair from your vision.
"... What if I need to relieve myself?"
"..."
"Would you have me urinate in your home? Near your horde?"
"You will go outside to take care of yourself. But if you do not return within the hour, I will fly down to the valley and make sure nothing remains."
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You awaken early the next morning, so much so that the sun has barely begun to shine.
You want to sleep. And keep sleeping, maybe forever if you can help it. But your eyes do not want to shut either.
Thus, you lie awake until the sun can be seen through the opening above. Feeling exhausted and jittery all at once. Dazed and melancholic for no particular reason, yet every single reason.
Eventually, your bladder demands attention. And as much as you don't really want to give it any, you know he will be displeased if you wet yourself like an unruly child.
You stand, bundling your cloak close against the chill over your skin. Curiosity wins out, so you turn to look at the being that has now decided to hold you hostage.
His eye is already open, watching. Back in his draconic form.
"... I need to pee."
He grunts, but doesn't shut it.
When you return, it is with an empty bladder and especially cold fingers. The temperature has taken a dive since you last went out. With the wind being just as unforgiving. Soon, snow will begin to fall.
You didn't think you'd ever see snow again.
Curling up on your side, as tight as you can, you close your eyes. And slowly, eventually, go back to sleep.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You're cold. It's the first thought churning in your cotton-stuffed mind. You can barely feel your fingers. Your teeth chatter to an almost painful degree.
You flip over to your other side, facing him.
He isn't there. You think you're seeing things at first, considering how fuzzy your mind is with sleep. Better yet, the lack of light for you to see. But even after your eyes take the time to adjust to the night, you don't see even the faintest reflection of his violet-black scales.
Your heart lurches as you sit up. Where could he have gone? To eat? But you didn't hear him like you usually do. Has he left? For good? But his treasure is still here. He wouldn't leave without it, surely.
Before you can panic any further, you hear the whip of the wind. Or rather, the sharp snap of someone cutting through it. Turning your gaze up, you see your answer.
In a split second flaring of his wings, the beast in a man's body hovers above you.
"You are awake," he comments. For a second, you fear that you should not have realized he left. But his expression is blank, like usual. Merely observing you.
He drops suddenly, and you reach out in a rush of adrenaline. He lands on his feet like he didn't just fall from an impressive height. Not even a wince to tell otherwise.
"... It's c-cold," you stutter, feeling the need to explain yourself.
He doesn't say anything at first. You imagine he's taking you in. Your hunched-over form, swaddled in your cloak, gritting your teeth to try and stop their chatter.
"... I see."
You think that's the end of it. Ready to try and resume your fetal position in the hopes of maintaining some warmth, you're interrupted by a lightning-quick spark of light and a rush of wind.
The man has turned back to its true form, with its massive wings and scaled body. He looms over you. Then looms closer still.
You close your eyes instinctually.
It is not what you expected, because you feel the strangest sensation against your back. Like a snake in its musculature, but so much bigger. Then you're being pulled from off the ground, abruptly tugged forward.
Something between a yelp and a gasp leaves your mouth before you're shoved into the hardest wall you've ever been against. Except it's not a wall, it's him. His tail, which pulls away now, had dragged you into the bend of his neck. Leaving you encircled and pressed up against him.
You're not sure what to make of this, and open your mouth to ask as such.
But... oh, he's warm. Borderline hot. You have to move away from any direct contact for fear of giving yourself a burn. He's like a fire. Like the hearth you so loved to sit and nap in front of, consequences be damned.
You realize that he's looking at you, gauging your reaction. Hesitantly, you nod.
He lowers his head at that, securing you in the circle of his long neck.
You stay there, for what other choice has he given you, in a mishmash of thought.
He truly does not intend to do anything with you. This being, a dragon with claws that chip at rock with barely a graze and a jaw that could swallow even the largest of animals whole, wants for nothing but to keep you alive. For how long, you wonder. Will there come a time when he gets truly sick of you? Will you have to wait it out, convince him of your true purpose? Should you even try? What right do you have to speak with a powerful creature such as him like an equal?
Maybe this is your true purpose? To join his horde. Be at the mercy of his whims until you're old and gray.
Your shivering eventually ceases, and steadily your skin begins to warm. But deeper still, in the hollowed-out cavity of your chest, something like hope pushes up through the bed of decay that it was buried under.
As quick as it buds, you stamp it out. Crushing it beneath your heel.
You have no use for that, you remind yourself. Replaying the words of the mistress.
'Remember, child. All your hopes should be buried by the time you stand before him. If not, he will know. And never forgive you.'
Desperately, swallowing around the tightness in your throat, you close your eyes. Until your lids hurt from the force, until your heart stops its insistent beating, until the tiny bloom is nothing more than a faint echo, barely even a memory.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
if a second part interests anyone, feel free to tell me in the comments :))
syn: your lady Erzsebet was killed, so you venture to revenge her death by killing your ex-lover Adrian Tepes. What you fail to consider are old, bitter feelings of unprocessed heartbreak to peak through your scheme. Through the shared regrets of the failures of your relationship, you come face to face to what you're scared of the most. Love and Adrian Tepes. and u fuck like dogs too but that's beside the point
tags: bdsm, knife play, blood play, hate sex, cunnilingus (male receiving), breeding kink, freaky dynamic, reader has a fear of love, alucard has a rejection fear, sadistic reader, mostly bottom alucard
a/n: PROOFREAD. this was a fun post!! love u whimpering men. also I ended up changing the plot while writing, so the intro might be a little jaded, but over all it should smoothly transition to the new plot.
6.8K WORDS
Alucard, now that he is over three hundred, is attractive in the way observing his every move is a treat, but to be physically intertwined with him is a different story. He is attractive in the way blooming flowers are, how they glisten and glow, having their own aura and status. With eyes brimming towards the future, overcome with prowess. Alucard three hundred years ago had most of his humanity still within him, it's easy to see how the two of you could intertwine. But now he's more vampire than he is human, and how do vampires love? Do vampires truly have soft spots for eachother? And is he worth spending the rest of your eternal life with?
These are the questions that run through your mind as your greedy eyes peered out from the shadows of leaves. You were in Paris, brought along by the sounds of revolution, by the death of your lord Drolta and your precious leader, Erzsebet. And also, by the news that spread about the Alucard stationed in Paris.
You didn't feel you belonged here, not after all this time, not after all the blood spilt your hands. Nothing but crippling anxiety built up in your belly, the bile taste like poison through your vampiric teeth.
You've known Alucard before.
Back when you were human.
The two of you had met on your travels to India. You can easily remember the nights rolling around in silk satin. The warmth of his flesh and fading blonde strands against your bare skin. You remember the ecstasy of presenting your inventions and knowing that somewhere in the crowd lied your partner, Alucard. But you knew him as Adrian Tepes.
You also rememver how quickly all of the bliss went to shit.
You can clearly picture the night when Hindi vampires hailed from the sky. The fear, the trepidation. How your throat logged up, your eyes glossed over in affright.
You remember how Alucard grabbed you by the window of your estate-- but you, too panicked, too terrified, couldnt think straight and fought against him. You didn't listen, more so, couldn't hear him over the buzzing in your ears. So your physically weak body commanded you to fight against him to sit-- just for a moment all you needed was to sit down. Catch your breath.
But, you didn't listen.
Nay, you couldn't hear.
You remember the piercing feeling of--
You winced bitterly. Your hands flew to touch the burnt eclipse symbol on your forehead. Your hands shook, your heart drumming. It was better to stay focused.
But on what? Your mind was racing.
The atmosphere of Paris was lively, the night life was full of partying, as the smell of wine doft around the air. The city was full of glowing lights. You quietly stepped down the stone streets, careful to pull the heavy cloak over your face, and being ever more to hide your fangs.
You traveled down to a bar, following your most primal senses, and finding yourself peering in through the window. There, in the hubub of merry and warm lights, you could see him.
The Alucard.
Your Adrian Tepes.
Your breath fails you.
He's ever the more gorgeous than what he was before. His skin flushed an unnatural white, complimenting to his hair, now completely dull of blonde and bordering delicate sliver. His eyes were soft and doting, as he smiled at the bartender, engaged in a conversation your sharp ears could squander.
It was more so him listening, than saying a word.
You bit your lips, glossy tears brimming your eyes. You should walk in and slay him right now.
Slay him for your master.
Slay him for your h... Heartbreak.
Meekly, pitifully, your hand reached up to stroke the glass, guilt bursting through your body. But even though glass, your hand seemed to sear away from him. Even through glass, his sunshine seemed to burn your moonlit hands. No longer could you walk the day light the way you did before.
You are a creature of the night now. Undeserving to even try for the light.
Forlorn, bitter, and forgotten. Capable of only evil. And that is your reasoning for why you did what you had to do. You did what you had to when Erzsebet chose you. You did what you must, when you bathed in her holy blood.
Alucard has to accept it.
No, he's moved on by now. He doesn't even think of you after all this time.
Yet you could not.
By all law and by all reasoning you should be in there right now, either scorched to death by his paws, or destroying him in yours-- for your dead mistress's sake. But for some reason, now, one hundred years later, your body seems to forsake itself. It and everything you believed in.
Your teeth chattered.
There was too much blood on your hands now.
You could hear the bells of melancholy solitude.
Your fists clenched tightly.
Yea, and must you--
Suddenly, a voice calls out, "I know he's even more daunting in person," a hum trailing after her words. You turn in a shock, your eyes finding a small blonde girl dressed in pink, her hands folded as she stared through the window next to you. Her serious eyes fixated on the Alucard, her lips parted, the faintest air of a flush tinting her pale cheeks.
You swallowed thickly. You spoke, "Why- Yes." Seeing that she was no threat, you simply tugged your hood further. Your gaze averting back to the window.
She continues, "he has this aura. This presence... It brims with..."
"The cry of solitude," you mutter, unable to stop your pitiful hand from touching the glass once more. "Lonely little eyes, lonely stare," you whisper.
Look at you. Begging from your insides for him to turn and look at you.
She cackles, stepping behind you, "Yes, like an abandoned puppy." You suddenly feel magic swelling behind you. But before you can act, the little girl growls, "Move an inch and I'll cut out your throat," she spits.
You freeze on command, your eyes racing back to get a glimpse of her.
She grins, "I'm not stupid. Seriously. Who hangs around in a cloak at night mere days after the slaughter of thousands? Vampires are too predictable... Do you know how many of your kind has staged useless revenge attacks here? I'm not letting you get near Alucard. Ever."
Your eyes redirect themselves to the window, where Alucard parts with the bartender with a gracious smile. Your eyes clench close, savoring the memory behind your eyelids. You speak, your voice barely above a whisper, "If this must be my death, then so be it. For the glory of my lady Erzsebet--"
Yet fate smiles on you.
Before you could finish, you hear that husky, melachonly voice call, "Maria?"
It's slow and smooth, husky and rich.
Just as it was all those years ago.
Your heart caught itself in your throat. You should have never dropped your guard.
As the girl, who you assume is Maria, turns to face him with a zealous fire abrupting out her tongue, you shrink into a bat and take off to the night.
Being the luckier sort, you where able to escape.
Though you didn't dare glance at, him, you could feel the unmistakable burn of his body.
Alucard Tepes.
--
The eve of the next night came around.
Althroughout the morning you told yourself that all of your juvenile feelings would pass. You thought seeing him once would be enough; but your body ached until sunset, not able to even sleep during the day.
You yearned. And swore. It was only bloodlust.
You tossed and turned in the grass of the outskirts of the city, clawing at your chest, twisting and turning, trying to stop the cries that burnt down your cheeks; the wails that accompanied them.
After hours of agonizing.
You decided your pain must be stemming from losing your lady Erzsebet. How she stirs within you.
The guilt.
Of Erzsebet.
Nothing more or less.
"I- I don't know what I am anymore,"
"Let me tell you, please. I can tell you,"
You hissed at the memory, knees weak. He haunts you. Teases you. Regardless of the omen, you took flight into the setting sky.
You found yourself on the balcony of the rooms in the French castle. Your soul seemed to guide you to this particular one.
Longing, yearning.
Hungry.
The windows were open. Curtains lazily flowing in the soft breeze. Your eyes honed in on the white figure, dressed in sleeping attire, latches on the front of his chest barely tied, revealing the delicious skin.
You stood still.
You knew that he could sense you.
But he continued to write, a small candle illuminating his face and letter.
You stepped into the room, shutting the windows and drawing the curtains. The room smelled of him, smelled of aged vanilla and a hint of spiced rum. Your fingers trailed down the fabric of the curtain. It was rough to the touch, no doubt made to block sunlight. Yet still you could hear the wanton scribbles of ink on paper.
You spoke, "I've come to kill you."
Alucard abruptly stopped. He rose his head, slowly turning to lay eyes on you. He blinks once, then twice; his soft lashes lidded over his eyes.
He hushed, "Step into the light."
Intoxicating was the sound of his voice, the breath of his commands.
You obeyed, inching deeply closer. As close as you could without being burned by the radiance of his skin. Which, for you, was right at the edge of where the candle light could meet you.
You watch Alucard's face twinge up.
An expression your body only knew as disappointment.
You were bathed in blood the day you became a vampire. No-- You were addicted to it. Even now, to satisfy your hunger, you drink human blood twice a year. Anything to prevent your previous uncontrollable calamity.
You can't live without it. Even under Drolta's torture.
You slaughtered so many.
Unable to hear Alucard.
Unable to hear Adrian.
You told yourself you needed to find yourself and hid from him. Going to the corners of the world where he wouldn't find you. And then finding yourself worshipping a woman who promised to feed your uncontrollable addiction. To turn the world into an endless night, that you may drink as much as you wanted.
Hell.
You discovered your body had a taste for men's blood over women's. Something adverse to most of the vampire society. It made you feel better. At least you weren't slaughtering the defenseless.
It was only after continuous mental failures that Erzsebet forced you to become clean. She locked you up somewhere in Chukotka, letting permafrost deal with you.
And you came out even more power hungry than how you started.
Yes.
There was countless deaths on your hands.
You weren't misled. Although, yes, a part of you was. But there was an even larger part of you that acted of its own accord. A part of you that you didn't know that you couldn't control. You were fully a vampire, not half.
You want to eat flesh and drink blood.
Not the blood of pigs, or chickens, or cows.
Human men's.
So there you stood with a face of stone, holding a dagger in your right hand.
"Closer. I cannot see you... Come closer," Adrian called.
But you didn't fall to his will this time.
He gulps, breathless. He whispers, "Your hood... At least remove it... May I see the face of the vampire who wishes to kill me."
Truth telling Adrian already knew it was you. He had a feeling when he felt Maria's magic, and seeing the glimpse of your form fluttering away into the night, he knew that whoever it was quite the peculiar vampire.
He promised Maria that he'd go after you, and that she need not to worry. But he knew whoever it was would be back soon. Just. He didn't expect it to be you. Only after hearing your voice did it all make sense.
Truly, this all was a trap, he had his sword floating meters above his head out of sight. And it was aimed right at you.
You obeyed this time, slipping off your hood to reveal your face. His eyes twinge in horror and delight.
Delight, at the nostalgic sight of your beauty. The softness of your face, the sweetness of your eyes, those lips he familiarized all too well with.
And horror, at the almost faded symbol engraved onto your forehead. At the lack of life or passion in your eyes and the deep eyebags that accompanied it. Horror, of how your pretty eyes had turned red- a token of your endless bloodlust.
It was so painfully beautiful to look at.
He knew you were smart, and judging by your eye color, he knew you'd be a difficult vampire to fight. But despite it all, his guard had fell to ashes.
"(Y/n)," he whispered.
"I haven't heard that name in a while... My queen gave me a new one," you spoke. "The person you knew before is dead. And only I remain."
Adrian shakes his head, barking- pleading, "D-Don't do this, you don't want this." He shoots up from his seat, his eyes lost in empathy. A gaze that sears your body worse.
You flinch backward in surprise, but he continued towards you.
You stand your ground, and as his presence draws near, his chest inches away from touching yours, you pull your dagger to rest against his neck.
But he's close, awfully so. His cosmic aura radiating against you, his beautiful luscious hair coating his shoulders, his gaze soft and thoughtful.
You only hardened yours, not allowing a droplet of emotion to slip through, not even for a second.
Adrian swallows thickly, feeling the blade caress his skin for every movement. You were shutting down on him, something he's seen before. He saw it the best the day he tried to save you, and you blindly shut away from him, unable to see the rush of hindi vampires barreling out towards the both of you.
Selfishly, he didn't care about saving that city that day; he only wanted you.
He would've took you so far, he would've cared for you until the end of your days.
He yearned after you for so long.
It was his fault you were swarmed. There were too many to count. Too many to fight.
He didnt mean to leave you in that hoard.
He knew the world still needed him, he couldnt die saving you.
But... He came back for you.
Hell, it was too late.
His eyes weakened, tears brewing up. Adrian weeps, "I deserve it, my love. I've forsaken you- I failed you."
What you didn't expect were those words.
You push him towards the bed as he speaks, forcing him to sit and keeping your blade against his neck as he did so.
"My love," he cries pitifully, his hand weakly grabbing your wrist that held the dagger. "Dying by your hands is befitting. I've lived for too long," he whispers. His beauty glows, shining brighter for every tear.
You push him again, and he lays back onto the bed, gorgeous locks sprawled out. Automatically, he seems to crawl backward, only his feet dangle off the edge. You force yourself on top of him, your hand by his head, the other holding the dagger to his neck, with your knees on either side of him.
Staring at your dead face was worse. He didn't know how to please you. He begs, "Please, my love... Speak to me... My (y/n), my sweet..."
If he failed anyone the most on the world, it was you. You were the frankstein that his mishaps created.
He knew it then, he should have killed you. Spare you of the new life that awaited you. He knew it when you shook in his arms, how you spoke with bloody fangs and an even bloodier chin. He couldn't do it. So selfishly he left you alive.
This was all his fault.
You sliced a small cut on the side of his neck, shallow enough for blood to ooze. He whimpers out, eyes frantically shutting, his knee surging in distress. You dive down, licking a delicious stripe on his neck. His blood is deliciously sweet with a tart, bitter aftertaste. Your free hand cups his neck as you bury your nose into his flesh, fangs threatening to puncture his skin as you slurp and lick.
He groans out, head arched backwards into the plush sheets, hands weakly grabbing fistful of your cloak. In his desperation to grip onto you, the cloak slips off, so his hands spring onto your shirt instead. A trail of delicate whimpers and groans mewl from his pink lips.
You can't take it anymore, and you puncture your fangs into his flesh. He cries out, fistfuls of your shirt growing intense wrinkles. You pull out your fangs and slurp and suck out his crimson. It's ready, as it explodes to meet you. The taste of life and death was in Adrian's blood, your body growing frantic on the taste. Your knees weaken as you hastily sit down on him. Beneath the hilt of your ass, you can feel his achingly hard cock, and your free hand grips his flesh in primal surprise.
He turns slightly, forcing you out of his neck to look at him. It's quite the sight to see you, lips and chin stained with his blood. "(Y/n)... (Y/n)," he's begging pitifully, his face flushed. You don't let him speak for long, as you bury your lips against his, creating sweet music.
The sound of liplocking overtakes the crisp air, as you slurp up his tongue as he feeds it to you. Your hands fall lower onto his body, caressing down his muscular shoulders, your dagger meeting his chest. You break away, slicing another shallow cut on his pale chest.
He groans and arches into the blade. You sink quickly into the taste, licking it up bountifully.
You pull back to admire your work. Adrian lay sprawled beneath you, his gorgeous hair mingling with the white linen, his mouth agape and flushed, your saliva trailing from the corners of it. His neck was sliced and punctured, as the remains of his blood dribbled onto the sheets, staining his hair. He was beautiful.
You softly grind your hips down against his, moaning out quietly, licking the blade as you do so. Adrian cried out, "W-Wait," and grabbed your hips, locking them in place.
You looked at him, and confusion poisoned his features.
"T-Talk to me," he grunts.
Your eyes narrow down on him, "What is it to talk about, Adrian? Our bodies want eachother."
Adrian shuts his eyes close, pain dotting his features. He sputters breathlessly, "I can't do this-- I'm too old... I can't be spontaneous like b--"
You quirk, "You cannot stay up anymore?"
His face brims red, "No! I can-- It's just... (Y/n), I don't want to just sleep with you and forget it-- I loved you... I lo-- care for you... I want you. I don't want to forget you."
Unsettling feeling springs up in your chest. "I'm loyal to no one," you spit. "You killed my master." You pull away from him, dagger still in hand, as you slide off the bed.
Adrian shoots up, rushing after you as you continue toward the window. He captured your hips within seconds, barely dodging the slice you swung as you turned around. He took the opportunity to pull you close, grabbing your wrist and holding your dagger back from another slice.
You groan and struggle like a wild cat. He sinks into your wrist, softly placing a kiss under where his thumb held you. He drug his nose upwards to your palm, where it hit the hilt of the dagger. In surprise, you dropped it, and it landed with a clamor. He follows up your hand until he rests his cheek on your open palm, forcing you to softly carress the skin.
Your breath hitches, that feeling springing up more and more. You try to claw away from it, your free hand to swing at his chest, your foot raising up to kick him uncoordinatedly.
Hurt flashes through Adrian's eyes, but he lets you go. Unexpectedly, you flew back into the closed windows, your heel getting caught on the curtains, making you slip back, falling on your butt to the floor.
In this vulnerable position, Alucard stood above you, hands behind his back, his gown giving away glimpses of his sleek legs. Frantic, your head begins to spin, as your eyes drag back and forth over his body. You whimper out headless sounds as you grab onto the curtain for support. Desperate to gain some sanity.
His smell, his taste, the sight of him.
It wasn't just overcoming lust, but instead this weird feeling from the depths of your brain, crying out. Some sort of emotional response. And emotions were the one thing you sought to control. What Erzsebet saw as a flaw in you.
Listening to your emotions.
Your eyes shut close, freezing up as you tenderly hold onto the curtain. Adrian's quiet, deathly so. You can feel his eyes draw in on you, and somehow it's worse than the fear.
He reaches and opens the window for you, the midnight breeze flying in as the glass door reveals the balcony you entered in from. You eyes pop open, glimpsing out towards the night sky.
Yet you can't bring yourself to leave either.
Your knuckles grow white.
"Leave," you hear him mutter, "You can leave..."
Your head whips to see him, an aura of empathy radiating off his form. All he sees is just another scared vampire.
But he knows if you leave, you might not ever return.
You've got too much of yourself to figure out.
You know that you should leave.
You slowly stand.
His heart burns and he looks off at the floor.
You finally, finally speak, "I-I can't leave... Surely, I'll die." Your heart pounds at the words.
"I'll tell Maria about you," he whispers.
No. He didn't understand. You didn't mean it physically. This was horrifying. Having to explain what you wanted most. Frustrated tears pinged the corners of your eyes, your hands shaking. Stress overcoming your pinched eyebrows.
"Al-- Adrian... Adrian... Adrian," is all you can muster out, a pitiful plea. "Adrian I'll die--"
But before you could finish the sentence, you were involved into a strong embrace. You could hear his cries against your ears as he kept bitterly, your hands weakly holding onto the clothes that hang around his back.
"Stay here-- stay here forever," he yearns.
Your heart bursts. "O-Okay-- Okay Adrian,"
And just as the morning sun peaks in from the clouds, Adrian pulls you back into his dark room, and shuts the door.
You are pulled deeper and deeper into his midnight lair, pulled until your feet crawl against the bed, where he tucks you under with him, encasing you in his arms and in velvet sheets. He seems to swallow you whole, entrapped in his love with nowhere to go. With nothing but fear of rejection lingering him, he braves through it, softly peppering the back of your neck with subtle kisses.
And with nothing but the fear of love in your belly, you brave it, ragdolling and leaving yourself vulnerable to his affections, and also how they make you feel.
Your back is flush against his chest, his legs against the back of yours as he spoons you. He has a strong arm laid on your body. It hooks through your chest and rests his hands on place by your sternum and collarbone. He's holding you there, holding you as he whispers, painful affections and peppers' sweet kisses.
You focus merely on calming your stress, sucking in slow breaths, desperate to process the last hour with him. Its hard to think of anything at all, when you hear his smooth, husky voice calling out your name caressing and kissing you.
You wince and groan out, as his lips dip to the start of your back. His hand releases you to pull at the laces of your shirt, undoing it to reveal more of your back. Your skin is cold, but definitely not uncharacteristic of a vampire.
His large, warm hand caresses the skin, and you arch and sigh out. The warmth drags deliciously slow strokes up and down your sensitive back, his thumb trailing your spine. He reaches and pulls the shirt off one side of your shoulder as he dips into it to kiss it.
You whimper, tension feeling the area.
"I'm sorry for what happened," he whispers.
You try to figure out his intentions by saying that, but the only thing that seems to spring up is genuine care. Tears prick your eyes again. You hate to say there's only one thing your body wants to say. But you have to be vulnerable to let it take over. You wince, and with shaky breath, you spoke, "It wasn't your fault, Adrian..."
His hand slips under your shirt and touches your bare stomach, the warm feeling spreading as he slides up to your ribcage, still kissing at the beginning of your back and neck.
"I failed to protect you, I couldn't help you, I regret it so much," he whispers.
"I ran from you too, Adrian... It wasn't all your fault... I was addicted to human blood... And in the hours you were gone, I already feasted on hundreds with the rest," you whispered. "I wasn't going to give that up... Not even for you."
"But--"
"You were powerless before. You were powerless again... You may be strong, but you can not out number the thousands," you pause, struggling either the next set of words, "Besides... You already fought so hard for me... It was..."
Adrian stops, eyes trailing to you.
"Admirable..." Your tone was fluttering.
He seems satisfied with the answer, as he sinks, unbuckling your belt, and pulling out one side of it. You grunt as his hands slip into your pants, a large hand going to squeeze the warmth of your inner thighs. Despite it all, you still felt an overwhelming sense of peace. He continues to kiss. You lick yours, tasting his sweet, dried blood.
You ask, "Do you want me, Alucard?"
He whines in your ears, "Of course I do." He's like an excitable puppy, just waiting to get off on you. And like a dog, you feel him start to grind against your ass.
A pleased hum escapes you. Within seconds, you transform into a bat, using it to reappear, once again ontop of him. He gasps in surprise, turning over to face you. You grin, caressing his cheek. "Look at my face, you think you can fuck this? Does this not detest you," you lean in with a hiss.
It was your turn to decloth him, as you raised his sleeping gown up higher and higher, revealing more of his pale skin. He's taken aback for a second, his eyes flickering between your ruby red ones and the fading sigil on your forehead. You open your mouth, baring your bloody fangs.
He whimpers, objectively bucking up into your hand.
How pitiful.
You grin sharply, by now his gown was pulled up to his stomach, his unmarked flesh ever so delicious in your eyes. You also took note that he wore no undergarments, his cock half hard as it arose. You sunk down on your knees between his legs, lowering yourself to his dick and laying your hands on his hips.
He grew harder in your stare. You scratched the side of his hip, the faintest dewlet of blood dropping on your finger tip. You brought it up to your mouth, staring deep into his eyes as you licked it away. He groaned, bucking upwards again.
"Ah, ah, ah... Patience, Adrian," you whispered.
He nodded powerlessly, his dewy hair clinging to his neck and face. You bring your lips to his cock, cupping the base of it with both hands, and misting your breath against the sensitive rod. His cockhead pulses towards you lips, you giggle at the sight. Finally, you sink your nose against the side of him, drinking in his scent.
"Oh- fuck," He curses, embarrassment tinting his cheeks. But he can't bring himself to look away. You were enchanting.
You open your mouth all the way, using the front of your fang with your front teeth to drag the smooth side of your teeth against his flesh. He whimpered and cried out, sloppily dropping a heavy hand on your head. You stop just before his head, where you tongue his tip's hole, using the sharper part of your muscle to do so.
He wains, trying his best not to fist your hair for you. Being so good for you.
You turn your head to the side again, sucking the side of his shaft, slurping and swaying against him with your tongue. He was more than hard by now, his dick long and skinny, no shorter than nine monstrous inches, a testament to his vampire side. It was a flushed pale pink, growing red by the second.
You let go of him, and his cock flops back against his stomach with a smack. You laugh, picking him up again with your index finger just to see him fall, again, and again. Adrian doesn't complain, merely, he uses his freehand to grip the sheets beside him, restraining himself all for you.
Once playing with his cock proved enough, you sunk into his balls, burying your nose into him, and ferociously slurping, sucking, and licking him up. He moans out in shock, as you use your hands to stroke his inner thighs comfortably. "Aaah- (y/n)," he seems to stutter out your name. As if a simple plea would make you take him seriously.
You slurp one into your mouth before the other, then you release and drag a long stripe upwards to his cock, and then to his cockhead. You scoop his dick up one last time before finally, finally, guiding him straight into your mouth. You hallow out your cheeks around his length, sucking him, and running your tongue briskly around the bottom of him. You bob your head pacedly to the sound of his wanton moans, using your hands to please what your mouth failed to reach.
Adrian's jaw falls completely slack, his grip tightening in your hair, wanton moans following out of his lips. It had been at least forty years since he had last had sex, the thrills of it burned his pent-up mind. Without thinking, he slowly began to thrust into your warm mouth, sliding himself back and forth against your soft, hot, moist taste buds. You grunt, adjusting your head to accept him better.
He mumbles, "Sorry- Sorry." But its met with an angry stare.
Well. If he's already in trouble, he might as well please himself while he can. His thrusts gain speed, his head hitting the back of your throat.
You wheeze around him, dropping your hands to grip his inner thighs, careful to not squeeze his cock. He takes this small adjustment as an agreement from you as he furthers all nine inches of himself into your deep throat. You can feel him tickle far into your body, a feeling you almost would've forgotten. Only Adrian's ever fucked you like this, and painfully, it sent pleased tingles down your body. Despite how you gagged and choked about him. The sensation was replaceable.
You were vice against him, a sign he was further than where he should, but hell it was exhilarating. His moans grew louder, his head doting back between looking at you and being lost in bliss. His thrusts began to slow as he slipped out of your deep throat, from your mouth, and came right as he slid out of your lips.
You gasped in surprise, as his warmth sprayed your nose, lips, cheeks, some of it dribbling down your chin. You cough, angrily wiping his cum off your face with your forearm. "How considerate of you, Alucard," you grunt, staring at the sticky fluids against your skin.
He merely laughs, "Do forgive me, love." Angrily, you slip off the bed. He calls out, "N-No wait I di--"
"Calm yourself," you hum. You slip out of your clothes, dropping your pants to the floor, sliding out of your boots, and pulling your shirt over your head. Your ruined undergarments fell just as quick. You briskly returned ontop of him, pulling up his gown to his ribcage. You suddenly pause, "Or? Did you not want me to undress?"
How could you say something so cruel when he was only looking at you during that whole process, softly squeezing himself to stay hard, and biting his lip when he saw your bare ass. He's restricting himself for you, can't you see how good he is? All it takes is one pitiful, glossy eyed look from him and you know what he's thinking. "Of course I- By all means, (y/n)," he tries to play it cool.
Your grin worsens. You grab him by the chin, as your freehand lines him up to your hole. Eagerly, you watch as his face constructs, eyebrows pinching forward in delight, sultry eyes staring up at you, lips parted to moan. You kiss your hole against his tip, puckering to seal the deal. He thrusts forward, dipping his head into your honey walls.
You moan, soon, giving all the way in and slipping down on his skinny cock. Your eyes fly to space as you take more and more of him, feeling his cock tickle your gut, until bottoming out. In sync, the two of you moan sharply at the feeling. Your head drops forward in bliss.
"(Y/n)," he sighs, his hands reaching up and guiding your hair away from your face. Last he remembers, you were never put out of commission just by bottoming out on him. Unless, you too were just as pent-up as he was.
You gaze up at him, humming. He becons you closer, so you drop his jaw and pick up your head. He takes the opportunity to kiss your cheek, just beneath your left eye. You giggle, "Aw, how cute."
Immediately you bounced on him, slowly dragging his long cock against your walls. Your head grew heavy again, as you rested your forehead against his collarbone. "Aaah, Adriaan," you hiss, your moans drowning out his whimpers.
You plunge down on his length, feeling him stretch about your gut, and you clench around his cock. That all it takes before Adrian loses it, frantically thrusting and bucking up into you. You cry out in surprise, "A-Adrian," your moan closer to an ecstatic wail.
He's speedy, relentless, his length seeming to make up for his lack of precision. Your body felt completely stuffed. He stimulated parts of you that where never before touched, at least, not by anyone but his cock. His hands gripped chunks of your bare hips, his eyes fucked out and lips spread, his fangs flashing in the disarray.
Your hand leaned forward, resting your palm against the bedframe for support, your head laying next to his by now, ass bounced about adverse to your accord. It was pathetic, as drool dabbled the corners of your lips. "A-Adrien-- Good- Good boy," you mewl, and it only sends him into a worse frenzy.
Through the barrage of frantic, doggish thrusts, your message gets sent straight to Adrian's fangs, a primal urge over taking him. He sits up, stopping for second, to lay his back against the pillow. You dazedly peek up from his neck, but quickly, he starts up thrusting again. Only this time, before you could even moan, he leans down and punctures your shoulder. He doesn't withdraw his teeth to draw blood. No, it's more so to lock you in place. His fangs split your flesh in second, the primal sensation causing you to arch and moan, grabbing chunks of his white locks.
Vampires fuck like dogs.
You reach forward with your free hand and dig your sharp nails into the flesh of his shoulder, drawing blood. Your brain turned off, and your lust fueled off the scent. His thrusts lose all coordination, and if it weren't for his length, he would have slipped out a dozen times by now.
With a deep, whiney voice, he husks, "I-I'm cumming- C-cumming-- I'm cumming," voice interrupted by your skin for every thrust.
"Cum you bastard," you snarl. No way you'd let him have all the fun, as you started to bounce downwards, fucking yourself on him in time with his senseless barrage. It's only through you that his thrust meets some sort of rhythm, as you clean up all his doggish mishaps.
Fuck, you'd be lying to say your climax wasn't rapidly approaching. Hell, it seemed to make you angrier. Next time you'll really fuck him up good.
With a cry, hot semen floods your warm insides, but you can't even look back, as Alucard's fangs trap your shoulder in place. His thrusts stop as he rides out his high, and it only worsens your agenda against him because you haven't even came yet.
"Bastard, have you lost all manners," you ruin his afterglow, as you ferociously fuck down on him again, quick and speedy, replicating it from before. A sadistic glow seems go brim your face, your moans full of delight. Adrian whimpers and whines, overstimulation causing him to buck, squirming away beneath you. Despite it, he doesn't loosen his death grip on your hips, nor does he remove his fangs.
As your moans spiked, he closed his ears to engulf the airy sound of you reaching your orgasm. You cry out, your knees stupidly giving out, bottoming out on him as you exploded. You dropped your head weakly forward, not that it could go anywhere, but still keep your iron grip in his white locks and your nails embbeded in his flesh.
You two were really doing this. Stubborn fucks, mating like vampires and engaging in a childish ritual. Whoever pulls away their fangs or claws first loses power to the other, a primal game as old as time that quickly overrides your natural senses.
Your nails possesively sink deeper into his flesh, unaware of how your red eyes flickered and bloomed a deeper shade. And for the first time in your life, you heard Adrian grunt and growl like a dog, having the upper hand with his teeth embedded in you. His grip on your hips were tight enough to crush and hurt. It only makes your insides flutter around him.
You pull at his locks, forcing his head back. He whimpers, fangs flying out with him, as a fountain of your blood springs out. It's your turn to finally release him, as you lean back, cupping a hand over your wound. You laugh, "Ah-hah..."
Your beautiful crimision leaks down your chest in waves, coating your nipples. He salivates and slaps a hand over himself. "Drink, my love. You've earned it," you mewl. With your freehand you lather yourself in your blood, caressing and squeezing your body as if it were any expensive lotion.
His eyes shut, hips bucking into you. You mewl. He groans, "I have never drank blood. Not once in my three-hundred-years of living."
You blink in surpise. "Aah... Is that why you didn't draw from me." Due to your vampiric healing, the wound closed, leaving only blood to remain. Your hand goes to join the other, as it scoops up a stripe of blood and guides it to your mouth. "It's gooddd," you cackle.
"I know, I can smell it," he grunts.
"Fine," you sadly part with his dick, sliding off the bed and grabbing your cloak from earlier; patting yourself dry. You can hear the bed shift behind you, feel eyes burning against your ass.
"You'll stay, at this castle, won't you?" He asks.
"For as long as I can before that girl comes to kill me," you laugh.
"Then, retreat to my castle."
"The one by the belmont settlement? Surely they'll kill me worse," you roll your eyes.
He grins, stepping out of bed and encasing you in a hug. He burrows his face against you, whispering, "Then I'll have to hide you. You can't leave this very room. M- My pet..."
Your eyelid twitches.
You know he's just trying to rile you up. But still, your fists clench.
"Oh hell, no," you grumble as you shove him back onto the bed.
His hearty laughter fills the air.
You get on top of him, raising meaningless fists (ones that weren't going to hurt him in the first place), that are captured by his hands. He laughs, the sound as pure as sunlight.
It makes your face scrunch playfully, "I am going to get you, I really am. I'll kill you first, Alucard."
He grunts, cupping your ass and tossing you off. You cry, playfully landing on your side. He crawls on top of you, a gorgeous beauty, and he pulls his luxurious white strands back away from his face. "I'd like to see you try," he mutters, but your eyes move to the scar across his chest.
(human!gladiator!)Alucard/Adrian Tepes x (f!slave!)Reader
Ancient Roman AU One-Shot Part 1
Words: 8,256
Synopsis: At base of the looming giant of Mt. Vesuvius, the city of Pompeii bustles to life, unaware of the calamity that awaits. You were a slave in the esteemed House of Batiatus, preparing for the arrival of the grand games to celebrate the Augustalia Festival. But as fate takes its course and the slumbering giant awakens, will you live to see another day or forever be immortalized in the ashen casts of the fallen?
A/N: Oh my god I am so excited to finally share this with you all! This idea has been in my mind for so, so long, and I cannot believe it's finally here. This is my first time in YEARS working on an AU fic, but this premise to me was too delicious not to share. I am a huge lover of ancient history, and the story of Pompeii is no exception. I am initially planning on making this a 3-part one-shot series but depending on how everything goes it may be longer.
This whole premise is heavily inspired by some of my favorite ancient-Roman media (Spartacus, Pompeii (2014) The Wolf Den) etc and will contain some very heavy themes that were common within those mediums.
I hope you all enjoy.
CW: mentions and descriptions of ancient roman slavery in all its forms, period accurate misogyny/violence, discussions of the construct of virginity, first time sexual encounters, mentions of dubcon (dominus/domina and slave interactions with other characters), drinking and drunkenness, explicit sexual themes and language, and more. viewer discretion advised - MDNI
Pompeii, October 79 AD
YOU WERE BORN A SLAVE, as was your mother and her mother's mother. Your ancestors had fallen under the crushingly cruel and unforgiving might of Rome, only to be stolen and sold at market to the highest bidder, the founding patriarch of the House of Batiatus, one of the most power and prestigious families in all of Pompeii. Their wealth and prosperity were built on the backs of slaves and warriors - gladiators - who were trained and molded to fight for them under the guise of eternal honor and glory. For each and every drop of blood that quenched the sands of the arena, their purses grew heavier and their influence expanded into all of the neighboring provinces. It was only within a single generation after the founding of the city that the House of Batiatus became the shining jewel of Pompeii.
You were raised and reared within the sprawling confines of the estate and ludus of House Batiatus, and upon the moment you were weaned from your mother's milk, she was bought and sold to another house in Herculaneum, a gift to a wealthy man's son. You were ripped from her arms as your tiny form wailed and clawed out for her as she was dragged away, never to be seen again. The former matriarch of the house, Cornelia Batiatus, took pity on your stricken form and instructed from that day forth you would be kept close as one of her granddaughter Aurelia's many companions. Though at first you were nothing more than another faceless house slave to the young daughter of Batiatus, your sweet and melodic singing voice awarded you her growing affections and the privileges of a proper education unbefitting to most slaves, earning you the esteemed station as her amicae, her most trusted and loyal attendant.
"I want her to be mine, father! She sings like a bird!" Aurelia chirped, tugging roughly on your arm as she hauled you towards her father Antonius's desk that fateful day. You had barely seen your tenth summer and were still not yet fully accustomed to rules that lower slaves were never seen nor heard, and you made the mistake of humming a gentle tune as you listened to the low drone of Aurelia's music lessons that morning. Her tutor, a pretty and handsome slave called Titus, conducted her lessons that morning in the vast blooming gardens, as was her command. The daughter of Batiatus's own voice floated on the light breeze that caressed your cheek, and against your better judgement you echoed the tune, unable to help yourself. Aurelia had immediately spun on her heels and declared you hers before marching you straight to her father's offices.
Antonius Batiatus was tall and foreboding man, with amber eyes and dark hair that all of his offspring possessed. "My daughter does you an honor, slave," her father smiled down at your meek form, "you will do your best to honor her every whim and wish, yes?"
You didn't dare look up to meet his gaze after having learned the lesson of meeting your betters in the eye only a week prior, the lump on the back of your head still aching with every move you made. "Yes, Dominus."
That very evening you were moved from the cramped slave's courters and into one adjacent from Aurelia's private chambers. It was a far cry from her lavish room filled with expensive silks and expertly crafted furniture, but there between the stone walls and simple fiber rug, you slept on a bed for the very first time. Despite your youth, you knew how precious that simple gift would always be.
As the years flowed by, the stark difference in your status became painfully clear as you and Aurelia stepped into womanhood. Though you were educated, it was not to the same degree of your betters. She and her older brother Felix were groomed and tailored to meet the elevated standards of Roman high society while you existed only ever in the background, a conduit for their entertainment. You sang sonnets and recited poetry upon command, refilled their empty goblets of wine and fed them grapes and dates with delicate hands. You were responsible for Aurelia's upkeep, washing and bathing and dressing her whenever the need arose, massaging scented oils into her smooth and unblemished skin and combing her cascading locks. She would speak in nearly all moments of every day, mainly of the latest gossip that stoked her hunger for speaking lowly of whoever she deemed lesser. You had learned to laugh and smile when her words and innuendo prompted you to do so, even when your heart and soul cried for you to do otherwise. You had made the mistake more than once of underreacting and were always met with the punishing sting of her palm biting across your cheek when you did not behave the way she wished you to.
It was one such morning she sat before you as you gently untangled and styled the mess of her hair. "Did you see what Lucretia wore last night? So utterly tasteless," she giggled cruelly, face scrunching at the memory, "truly, what proper Pompeiian woman would ever dare to wear the same color as I, a daughter of Batiatus!"
You forced a small smile, your hands gently coaxing the ivory comb through her locks as you twisted the tendrils expertly into a cascading updo. "She could not outshine your radiance, Domina."
Aurelia's face brightened as she cackled a laugh, her amber eyes alighting with humor as she stared at you through the looking glass. "Of course not, the ugly wretch! And to think she wishes to be Felix's future wife. Ha! As if father would ever dilute our bloodline with a lesser blood. She's not even a true Roman, you know! She's descended from slaves. How my father stands to do business with hers I will never know."
You dipped your chin, remaining silent as she continued her tirade, your fingers still threading and braiding her hair until you began to weave the glimmering circlet of emerald and gold through her locks.
"As if Felix would fuck her, either. Then again, he does love his whores-"
"Do try and speak like a proper lady lest one day father and mother overhear you, sister."
You froze momentarily before forcing your hands to move once more. You could feel Felix's eyes on you as he sauntered into Aurelia's room, his muscular form adorned in a fine blue and gold tunic, the deep and rich colors accenting his curly dark hair. He leaned against the marble pillar that was a few paces away, eyes shining with humor as he smirked amusedly at Aurelia's rolling eyes.
"You say that as if their opinion matters, brother. As if I do not already know father had her bent over his desk when mother was out to market not only a tenday ago." Aurelia swatted your hands away the moment you applied the finishing touches to her hair, inspecting it closely. With a satisfied hum she nodded before commanding you to start adorning her in the precious necklaces and bracelets that were spread carefully upon the plush cushions that sat atop the vanity.
Felix barked a laugh, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "And how did you come into that knowledge, sister?"
Aurelia shrugged her shoulders, a sly smile tugging at her lips. Her eyes flickered to her brother's form before falling back to her reflection in the looking glass. You held up a pair of emerald and pearl earrings to one ear and ruby and gold drops to the other. With a sharp nod to her right, she picked the emeralds and pearls. "Father always did love rutting into slaves to help him focus on balancing our accounts."
"Not always." Felix muttered, his heavy stare settling over you once again. "But you're right, I wouldn't fuck Lucretia. Not again, at least. Too pouty and whiny that one, as Jupiter is my witness."
You did not outwardly react; however, you could not control the curl of dread that snaked it way up your throat as you fasted the earrings to Aurelia's ears.
"So I've heard." Aurelia laughed mockingly before standing from the vanity, her flowing green and red stola swaying elegantly at the hem with her movements. You bowed your head immediately before stepping back, your eyes trained downcast onto the black and red marble floor. "Should you not be preparing to meet with father and the Senator, brother? He is expected to arrive any moment."
"That's why I'm here. Father sent me to fetch you. The Senator will be joined by his wife, and father asks you to keep her...occupied...while we discuss important matters regarding the upcoming games."
Aurelia muttered under her breath before turning to face her brother. "Why must I? Livia and I were planning to head to market in preparation for the opening games! Where is mother? Why cannot she do it?"
"She's out to market," Felix shrugged before pushing off the column and crossing to the threshold of her room, "which is why, dear sweet baby sister, father has called upon you. Best make haste, lest you earn a tongue-lashing."
~
You stood just behind Aurelia as formal greetings were conducted in the atrium, head bowed with your hands behind your back as your eyes focused intently on the intricate frescos upon the floor. It was a colorful and exquisite depiction of Juno, the vivid white quartz of the stone tiles creating the illusion that her eyes were alive with wanting. The low droning of voices was muffled in your ears before you finally heard Dominus Antonius's voice draw you back to center.
"My dear children, may I present you to Senator Trevor Belmont and his esteemed wife Sypha Belmont."
You watched as Aurelia bowed in greeting before allowing yourself to peer at them from under your lashes for only a moment. The Senator's wife, Sypha, was clad in the most beautiful shade of light blue and silver embroidery you had ever laid eyes upon, the slight swell of her belly barely apparent under her gorgeous stola. Her hair was the most incredible shade of bronze you had ever seen, the short tendrils curling just below her ear while a light blue veil cascaded around the rest of her head and shoulders. Silver and pearl earrings dangled from her ears, glinting brightly in the shining sun that filtered down through the compluvium above. The Senator was just as striking, his tall and broad form adorned in a deep sapphire tunic, his dark brown hair cropped short as was the fashion for proper Roman men. A scar ran down the side of his face, but it did not detract from his gruff handsomeness.
"Salve, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I have heard many great things from your dear father." the Senator extended his arm for Felix to take, the elder son accepting it immediately and grasping his forearm tightly.
"The pleasure is all mine, Senator. You and your wife grace us with your presence." Felix smiled, dark eyes briefly scanning Sypha's face. She inclined her head the most minuscule amount before meeting Aurelia's gaze. The women shared overly kind pleasantries before Dominus Antonius bade everyone further into the villa and towards the triclinium. You followed, silent as shadow, before gracefully crossing to the tables and lifting the clay amphora before promptly serving your masters and their guests rich and foreign wine.
"So, Antonius, it is rumored that the Forgemaster will be your chosen in this year's games," Senator Belmont began, lounging comfortably against the klinai and taking an appreciative sip of wine, "dare I remain hopeful? I saw him fight during last year's Vulcanalia. Blessed by Mars, that one."
Antonius inclined his head, a small chuckle escaping him. "Of course, Senator. I would have it no other way. Hector has been the reigning champion of House Batiatus for nearly a decade, after all."
"My father believes Hector will be crowned the Champion of Pompeii, Senator," Felix snorted, eyebrows raised in barely contained disdain as he extended his cup expectantly behind him. Silently you peeled yourself from your mistress's side to refill it. "While the Forgemaster is a god among common men in the arena, there is another who stands to yet be crowned champion."
Trevor inclined his chin, blue eyes alight in intrigue. "Oh? And who might that be, Felix?"
As you began to return to Aurelia's side, Felix's empty hand shot out to grasp you tightly around the wrist. You stilled; eyes fixated solely on the painted clay vessel within your hands. He sipped deeply from his goblet before extending it to you once more. Wordlessly you filled it when the elder son shared a look with his father, then scurried away before he could reach out for you again. With a nearly indecipherable twitch of his lips, he turned back to the Senator. "The White Wolf, of course."
The air in the room crackled to life as Felix's words settled over you all. The White Wolf - one of the House of Batiatus's newest and most honored gladiators. He hailed from a land far away from the shores of Pompeii, his people defeated and brutalized during one of the numerous campaigns of expansion of the empire. He had arrived at the House of Batiatus with half a dozen kinsmen, a young man barely out of adolescence, hardly older than you. His unusual golden eyes and hair shined as brilliantly as the blistering summer sun above, his skin as pale as unpainted marble. His father, a towering warrior with hair as black as night and eyes that gleamed like rubies always stood beside him, chained with the heavy iron shackles all uninitiated gladiators were condemned with until they earned the brand that marked them otherwise. It was only a year after their arrival to the ludus that father and son would be forced to fight in the arena against one another, the latter emerging marred but victorious and forever changed, forever bearing the weight of what it meant to be a true gladiator, a true pawn in the games. It was that moment his legend and renown began to be catapulted into the collective, his given name chanted and roared through the arena, game after game, victory after victory, until it was known that he was the Forgemaster's only true rival.
Despite his growing infamy, however, the White Wolf mostly kept to himself, his solitude cemented more and more as his kinsmen were slaughtered one by one, witnessed by the roaring crowds of the arena. He barely spoke to his brothers of arms, barely indulged his baser needs as a man when drink and whores flowed between the other gladiators after their victories in the games. Over the years he had caught a number of your curious glances when you accompanied Aurelia onto the balcony that overlooked the vast training grounds of the ludus, and each and every time you ripped your eyes away or feigned business of tending to your mistress. When you would peer back at him, he had always turned his sharp and calculating attentions back onto his training and the barking orders of the doctore.
A loud and resounding chortle escaped the Senator as he tipped the rest the contents within his goblet down his throat. You startled at the sudden sound, pressing your hands tightly into the clay amphora to bring yourself back to center.
"You spoil us with such a prospect, Felix!" Trevor wiped his mouth before lazily stretching his arm and goblet out, beckoning for more refreshment. Another slave stepped forward, filling it promptly. "I have long since dreamed of seeing the White Wolf fight in the arena after his legendary fight against his father!"
"While my son does have a keen eye for potential, my denarii are placed solely on the Foregmaster. But only the gods know for certain." Antonius inclined his head, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "The games are my family's most honored and revered offering to the gods, to the people of Pompeii. Which brings us to the point of our meeting, Senator. You are our most esteemed guest, and it is only befitting for you to choose who will stand in the arena."
Senator Belmont nodded, unable to hide the excitement from flooding his features. "Of course, Antonius." his blue eyes flickered to the carefully neutral face of his wife. "Dearest, why do not leave the talk of politics to us? I'm sure the conversation is rather drab to your delicate ears. Did you know, dear Antonius, that my wife has never seen the marvel of a proper Roman ludus?"
Antonius's eyes widened in surprise. "Well, that cannot remain so! Aurelia, darling, why do you not show the Senator's wife to the balcony? I'm sure it will be quite riveting for all involved."
Auralia smiled, tight-lipped but polite before standing. "Of course, Father. Senator," she bowed gently before turning on her heels and delicately looping her arm through Sypha's. With careful precision you pressed the amphora into another slave's hands before following the two women silently from the triclinium.
~
The air was hot, thick and suffocating as the sun bore down mercilessly from the heavens above. The tiled balcony in which you stood under provided a cooling balm of shade that protected from the sun's harsh rays. Aurelia and Sypha stood leaning against the intricate stone banister as they peered down onto the ludus's training grounds, whetting their drying throats with cooled wine. Nearly twenty gladiators moved in perfect unison as the doctore shouted drilling commands. A thick cloud of dust was kicked up as the warriors maneuvered themselves, their wooden swords twirled expertly in their hands, mere whirls of color as they did so.
"My father only procures the best of the best," Aurelia sighed as her eyes traveled over each and every muscled form that lay beneath her, "aren't they marvelous?"
Sypha's fingers curled around her goblet before she inclined her head. "Yes. I have never seen anything like it."
Aurelia preened at her response before leaning over the banister. "Doctore!"
The towering man froze immediately, his head jerking up to meet his mistress's gaze. His dark skin was coated in a sheen of sweat, the lash in his hand curled tightly in his grasp. His shaved head bowed in Aurela's direction, the ink of his facial tattoos gleaming in the golden light above. With a sharp, barking order, the men halted their movements before standing to attention. "Domina."
Aurelia giggled before peering sidelong to Sypha then returning to his intense attention. "We have an honored guest here today, Isaac. She has never seen the inside of a proper ludus before, nor what true gladiators are capable of."
The doctore's lips curled into a knowing smile, his deep voice echoing out across the training grounds. "Perhaps a demonstration then, Domina?"
"I couldn't agree more, doctore."
Issac inclined his head one final time before turning sharply to face the rows of warriors who stood to attention. "Foregemaster! White Wolf!"
The gladiators immediately dispersed into a large circle, leaving two lone forms in their wake. Even from your position behind your mistress and her esteemed guest, you could still see their striking visages. Hector's cropped hair was a rare shade of grey; his skin kissed by the glow of summer sun. The White Wolf's unusually long golden tendrils were tied back in his usual thick braid down his back, his own marble skin gleaming with sweat.
"We are graced today with your betters!" doctore barked. "Show them what honor it is to fight for the House of Batiatus! Cassius, sparring swords!"
The scrawny form of a young boy ran out from the southern wall bearing two blunted iron blades. Each warrior took their new weapons wordlessly before turning to face where your Domina stood.
Auralia grinned broadly. "Hector, greet our guest, the wife of Senator Belmont."
The Foregmaster stepped forward, inclining his chin in polite and practiced greeting. "Welcome."
Aurelia giggled as she raked her eyes over his muscled form, a small hum of satisfaction escaping her as her attentions slid to the warrior beside him. "You too, White Wolf."
He remained silent as he stepped forward, barely dipping his chin a single inch.
"Have you ever seen such exquisite hair on a man? Let alone a slave?" she breathed a laugh as she peered to Sypha, sipping her wine once more. "At first father desired to have it cut short, as is customary. But the brute nearly killed the barber! He was lashed, of course, but seeing his flowing hair glinting in the sun was too promising to ruin. My father's hunch was right, of course. The people fell in love with it during his first ever games."
"He hails from the provinces?" Sypha inquired, eyes flittering over the golden-haired warrior. "Only the slaves from Germania have that color of hair."
Aurelia shrugged, her eyes drinking in every inch of his towering form and the deep scar that was slashed across his torso. "So, it may seem. Father procured him and his kinsmen half an age ago. Their direct origins were unknown, not that it matters anymore now that the emperor has taken it for himself. To add to the mystery, he has not spoken aloud his name, no matter how many lashes and beatings were wrought upon him. Eventually it became novelty and added to his alure. Not that I care what his name is, especially given he was sculpted by Juno herself and named the White Wolf by my father."
Syha inclined her head. "I see."
Aurelia noticed the strange shift in Sypha's demeanor and was unable to hide the sharpness that narrowed her eyes. "Do my father's best gladiators not amuse you?"
The Senator's wife's eyes tore her gaze from peering down at the awaiting warriors before finding Aurelia's stare. "Oh, forgive me. I believe the wine is fogging my mind more than I thought it would, is all."
Instantly Aurelia's mask slipped back on. "Oh, oh of course! How could I forget you're with child?" your Domina's eyes caught your own before flashing in demand to serve Sypha a goblet of water. You surged forward, doing as you were silently commanded. The young woman graciously took the goblet from your hands, a small 'thank you' leaving her lips so quietly your eyes blinked in shocked bewilderment. Confusion swirled inside of you before you settled yourself just behind her lest she need more.
"Begin, doctore." Aurelia's attentions returned once again to the awaiting warriors as Sypha gingerly sipped from her cup. Your own eyes flickered over Hector as you bowed your head before stilling on molten gold. The White Wolf held your gaze for but a breath before he turned his back towards the balcony and assumed his position.
With a firm nod of his head and crack of his lash, Isaac bid the gladiators to begin. Hector surged forward at once with gods-given skill and precision. The White Wolf parried it easily, and soon the two warriors were dancing around each other like smoke.
"Extraordinary," Sypha marveled, eyes wide as she leaned further against the stone banister. Aurelia hummed in satisfaction; her lip caught between her teeth as she watched with growing amusement as the two handsome warriors fought against one another. Before long, Antonius, Felix, and Trevor found their way onto the balcony as well, coaxed by the commotion of ringing steel and cheering of men. It did not take long for the flowing wine to loosen the men's tongues and minds before an idea for the grand games was struck.
"Senator, instead of choosing one over the other, why do we not allow the gods and fates to decide?" Antonius offered as he eyed his gladiators. "Why do we not have the Foregmaster and White Wolf fight against each other in the arena? The ultimate offering of my best gladiators."
Trevor smiled broadly, his cheeks flush with wine. "What an exc-ccellent idea, Antonius! And so, it shall be so."
《》
AS THE BLISTERING HEAT OF SUMMER exhaled its near final breath, the week before the Augustalia Festival arrived. The House of Batiatus was buzzing with life and crackling energy as you and the hundreds of other slaves prepared for the luxurious banquet that was to be held within the vast villa. While you were spared from working in the agonizing and sweltering heat of the kitchens and gardens, your labor was nearly as arduous. Aurelia toted you around the sprawling markets of the bursting city center, flanked by countless slaves to carry her various purchases and escort you both through the city without worry. She bought bright and rich fabrics imported from the most luxurious shops in Rome, dabbled with perfumed oils and ran her slender fingers through various bits and bobbles that gleamed brightly in the summer sun. When she was finally satisfied that she would be dressed in only the finest of adornments, she turned her cutting attentions to you, her nose scrunched as she took in your plain stola and leather sandals.
"You may be a slave, but you are still my amicae. Come, let us find you something that shows just how much of import you are to me."
As the sun began its slow descent from its zenith, you returned to the villa. The wild torrent of bustling slaves had quelled, and in their stead lavish garlands and tapestries hung from between the towering columns in the atrium. Aurelia dismissed the gaggle of slaves that had followed you both with a sharp flick of her wrist before a cutting whine left her lips about the sheen of sweat that coated her body. You followed after her wordlessly to her private bath, the water from the underground spring warm and emanating curling vapors from its surface. You stripped the fine dressings from her body before helping her submerge into the warm waters, a dramatic sigh escaping her. You bent onto your knees as you began to wash her hair and shoulders, carefully detangling the intricate updo as you did so.
"Father still hasn't told me all of whom will be attending the banquet," she muttered a string of curses, "and mother is useless, of course. I have a feeling she would not know the color the sky if father wasn't by her side to whisper the true answer in her ear." she settled back into the deep stone bath, her head lulling to the side to face you. "Not that it matters, I suppose. Anyone one who is anyone in Pompeii will be there. Do you suppose Quintus will make an appearance? Gods I hope so. That man has such a lovely cock."
Quintus was the elder son of an esteemed military family who had taken residence in Pompeii in the season before. Aurelia and he had met at a dinner party hosted at his family's villa and promptly found themselves within his private chambers, she on her knees and his hands fisted into her hair. You and his own attendant were commanded to stand on the other side of the silk screen in his room in a feigned attempt at privacy, but there was naught to do but listen to the muffled moans that escaped them before they finished.
You peered at her for a mere moment before your eyes focused themselves on the rose-scented soap you began to lather in her hair. "I know not, Domina."
"Is the education my father spent his hard-earned denarii on so utterly worthless you cannot entertain a simple fucking question?!" she snapped.
You bent your head. "Apologies, Domina-"
"Fuck your apologies, you useless whore." she spat, jerking away from you and pushing you roughly away from her. "Sometimes I think my brother has the correct idea after all - that you are good for nothing but for someone to stick their cock into! Gods forbid you answer and obey your Domina! Gods forbid you do your duty and make me happy!" her scream echoed off the stone walls of the private baths, ambers eyes engulfed in fuming fury. She muttered under her breath again before straightening and waving sharply for you to resume tending to washing her. "You should be eternally grateful I care for you as much as I do. My brother wants you for himself, you know. I see how he stares at you. You are no longer a child, and father has bestowed upon me the right to choose who your maidenhead will belong to. Of course, I know he wants it for himself, but you're the gift mother gave to me. He wouldn't hurt me so."
You forced your trembling hands under the warm water to hide them from her cruel eyes before rinsing the soap carefully from her hair.
"But Felix? He is my father's heir. If he wishes to have his way with you, he is well within his rights to do so. He will become the patriarch of the House of Batiatus, and everything that is my father's and my own will become his."
You swallowed the thick lump in your throat. "Yes, Domina."
"Yes, Domina." she mocked you, whipping her head to the side to face you once again. "Is that what you want? For my brother to make you his? Do you care for him more than you care for me?"
"No, Domina."
"It feels as such," she finally turned to face you fully, her hands gripping the edge of the stone bath as her dark eyes peered up at you with swirling emotions you could not place, "promise you're mine, that you will always be my faithful amicae."
Dread and unease rose in your chest like bile, but with practiced ease you pushed it down. "Yes, Domina."
~
The evening of the banquet arrived within the blink of an eye. You spent the majority of the day tending to the desires and whims of Aurelia, making sure she was primed for the arrival of Pompeii's finest. Her body was plucked and pumiced until her skin was raw, only to be soothed by scented chamomile and rose oil that clung to her sweetly. The stola she dawned for the special occasion was the color of purest amethyst, the trim and hem embroidered with shimmering golden thread. You swept her hair into an elegant updo, her dark tendrils held in place by a shining circlet of amethyst and gold, the matching earrings dangling just above her exposed neckline. Her arms were encased in matching bangles, and a polished necklace hung heavily from her neck.
When she primped in the mirror for the final time she turned to you, beckoning another slave girl you knew as Corrina with a sharp flick of her wrist. You were bathed and tended to, sweet and earthy perfumed oils rubbed into your hair and skin before you were being encased by the soft fabric of the garment Aurelia had purchased for you in the days before. It was a simple emerald and gold wrap that clung to your body like second skin, accentuating the curves and shape of you, leaving little to the imagination. A heavy gold hoop was placed around your neck, its intricate details shifting in the nearby candlelight. Corrina then slathered you again in glimmering oil, the millions of flecks of gold catching the light anytime you shifted or moved.
Aurelia stood back and glanced you up and down, a satisfied hum leaving her lips. "Come, then. Father wishes for me to greet our guests upon arrival."
The House of Batiatus was illuminated with hundreds of candles that shifted and undulated with the encroaching shadows of night, the many frescos painted upon the walls seemingly moving with the flame's wavering movements. You stood behind the family of Batiatus as they welcomed the influx of their friends and foes alike, the sweet tune of a flute and hand drum ricochetting off the atrium walls and into the hearts of each and every guest. Platters of fresh fruit and pastries lined the golden and marble tables as wine flowed freely from golden pitchers carried by similarly dressed slaves. Though their garments were the same color as yours, they did not outshine your own glimmering form.
"Carmilla, my dearest, it is so lovely to see you!" Aurelia rushed forward when a slender woman stepped over the threshold, her red and magenta stola catching the light of the nearby flames. Her silver-white hair fell effortlessly down her shoulders, as did the hair chain inlaid with hundreds of tiny rubies upon her head. You recognized her immediately - Carmilla of the House of Vampiratus, the lone widow who had inherited every denarius of her late husband's expansive wealth. She was young and striking, the iciness of her eyes enough to send a shiver down even the most refined of persons.
"Aurelia, darling, it is so good to see you," Carmilla gingerly accepted your mistress's embrace before planting a soft kiss to her cheek, her lips stained with crimson rouge, "how long has it been? Nearly a season?"
Aurelia returned her kiss before looping her arm through Carmilla's own and sauntered to the marble table laden with goblets of wine. She handed the white-haired woman her serving before she took a small sip of her own, a small hum of satisfaction leaving her lips. "Yes, nearly so. Do tell me, how are your sisters? I haven't seen Morana nor Striga since last year's Vulcanalia. Not to mention Lenore has been away in Rome for so long my heart breaks at the mere thought."
Carmilla laughed gently, the sound saccharine and thick as honey. "They are up to no good, I assure you. But they are in high spirits and should be returning to Pompeii before the rains arrive."
Aurelia smiled, and for a moment it seemed genuine until you noticed the tell-tale gleam in her eye. "I eagerly await their return, then. Come, my mother has voiced her wishes to hear all about their exploits."
Your mistress dismissed you with a single shake of her head before turning on her heels and walked away from you. You stared after them for a moment longer before another slave ambled up to you asking for your aid attending to the guests. With a light shake of your head you did as you were bade.
As the sun sank fully below the horizon, the banquet had erupted into full swing. The loud and raucous cacophony of voices and drunken laughter droned mercilessly in your ears as you weaved in and out of the throngs of people that gathered in the atrium and around the impluvium, balancing a golden tray of wine goblets in your hand. You bit back the overwhelm that threatened to overtake you whenever a guest pawed greedily towards you, vying for your affections.
"Most esteemed and honored guests, may I have your attention," Dominus Antonius's voice bellowed out, swiftly silencing the voices that echoed through the atrium. His wife Amellia stood beside him, eyes blown wide with drink and buzzing anticipation. "Tonight, we drink and make merry to honor the late Emperor Agustus," he raised his goblet in perfect time to the cheers and clapping of the banquet-goers, "while tomorrow the House of Batiatus honors Pompeii with blood offerings in the arena!"
The guests erupted in more yells and cheers that made your teeth rattle.
"In preparation and offering to the games, may I present to you the honored gladiators of the House Batiatus!" Dominus Antonius whirled on his heels elegantly, beckoning with his extended hand towards the threshold of the villa. In perfect time, the large iron doors creaked open to reveal the line of warriors who held blazing torches in their hands as they walked in perfect unison towards the wide impluvium that was decorated with wavering candles and aromatic flower petals. Each gladiator stood taller than most of the high-born Pompeiian men, their skin shining brightly with oil beneath the pooling amber light from the sconces and torches in which they held. You couldn't see them fully through the crowd that surged forward, greedily wishing to drink in their fill of the legendary warriors trained within your master's ludus.
"Batiatus! Batiatus! Batiatus!" the gladiators chanted, their deep voices rumbling in your chest as they brandished the torches in time with their words.
"Though these warriors before you are all skilled swordsmen, only two of them hold the honor of being named my chosen. Step forward, Forgemaster, slayer of Alcimedes. Step forward, White Wolf, slayer of Dracula!"
The crowd erupted in loud applause the moment a high-born woman elbowed you sharply out of the way to gain a better vantage point. You sidestepped her enough to escape the brunt of her elbow before you moved around the impluvium as you carefully reoriented yourself to see clearly from your place behind the crowd. Though Hector was completely hidden from view, the White Wolf was not. Your eyes immediately caught onto the bright glimmer of his braided golden hair cascading down his bare back, the large, raised scar dealt by his father in the arena during their fight to the death gleaming with odd brilliance. Sharp gold irises slowly scanned the crowd much to the thrilled, hushed voices of the onlookers before he bent his head towards your shared master in the most miniscule amount, the torch in his left hand never wavering as he kept it still in his extended hold. Your breath hitched at the intensity of his demeanor, and as if he heard the sharp inhale, his eyes settled on you. For a moment time stood still, your own hands still grasping the nearly empty tray of wine, your body frozen in place. His gaze fell an inch lower then dragged back up to your face before he finally tore his eyes away.
"Tomorrow they will fight to the death, spilling their blood in offering to our glorious city and vie for the title of Champion of Pompeii," Antonius continued after another roar of applause, "the one who emerges victorious will be the honored to fight in the final games against the renown Matthias, jewel of Rome! Place your bets, wish your chosen a loving farewell. For tomorrow, one will not be here before you and shall begin their journey across the River Styx!"
More applause and cheers followed until you were able to unshackle yourself from your place before you turned on your heels and walked the circumference of the atrium. The remaining goblets of wine were immediately plucked from the gold tray you bore before you made it back to the serving table, only for your hand to be intercepted by Aurelia's impatient frown. You did not react when she wretched the tray from your hands and thrust it into the arms of another slave before bidding you with a sharp jerk of her head to follow her. You did so wordlessly, eyes once again downcast to the marble floor.
She led you back towards the direction of her brother whose dark eyes were sweeping over Carmilla's form without shame or worry of discovery. The silver-haired woman feigned not to notice his hungry gaze as her eyes roamed over the broad and sculpted form of the White Wolf himself, her head tilted to the side as a long, slender finger ran down the length of his expansive scar. He did not move an inch as he stood upon the elevated stone, back-to-back with his brothers who were also being studied and pawed at under the same level of scrutiny by Pompeiian high society.
"Three thousand denarius on the Wolf emerging victorious," she purred, icy eyes finding the sharp marble of his face, "and twice as much if he kills the Forgemaster with his bare hands."
Felix chuckled from beside her, eying the very same gladiator with amusement. "I accept those terms."
"Hmm," her hand traveled lower, still tracing the edge of his scar before her fingers brushed over the worn leather of his pteruges, "how many denarii for a more...private inspection?"
You could not help the coiled dread that curled in your chest as you dared to peer up at him from under your lashes. His towering form still did not move an inch as Carmilla continued to toy with the hem of his garment; his eyes trained on a distant mark unseen by you.
"Careful, Carmilla. Lest word gets out you wish to fuck a gladiator," Felix mused quietly, his words only audible to his sister and friend.
"As if your cock doesn't harden at the thought of it, Felix."
The two women giggled to themselves before your mistress leaned in closer to her companion. "Ten thousand denarii is enough for even the most thorough of inspections," Aurelia's amber eyes found the icy chips of Carmilla's, "but for a dear friend, it is no charge at all and would be my pleasure. After the main festivities of the night, of course."
Carmilla hummed before her lips parted into a pleased smile. "You are too kind, Aurelia darling."
"Anything for a friend," she finally turned to you, as if suddenly remembering you were there at all, "you know what to prepare when the time comes, yes?"
"Yes, Domina."
"Good," her eyes flickered to the Wolf's heated stare, which now bore searingly into your mistress's eyes. Aurelia purred when she saw it. "We will be seeing you later this evening, White Wolf." her hand graced over the thick cord of his muscled chest before turning away, leading Carmilla and Felix towards the beckoning cry of their mother.
You did not dare to look up at him again as you saw the tight coiling of his fist at his sides and promptly followed after them. The festivities wore on well into the deepest depths of night, until only a select few remained. The Senator Belmont and his wife had had clung closely to Dominus Antonius and Domina Amelia, speaking in droned tones about the politics and dramas of the capital. Felix and Aurelia had settled into the triclinium with Carmilla and Quintus, who had arrived when the stars began to blink down from the heavens. Their words were messy and slurred with drink, their laughter sharp and shrill as they spoke at the expanse of their lessers. It wasn't until Carmilla draped herself over Felix's lap and Aurelia situated herself onto Quintus did your mistress's eyes find the eyes of Corrina the moment Quintus's lips found the hollow of her neck. "Fetch the Wolf," she breathed with a sharp flick of her wrist, "and bring him to my private baths."
Corrina bowed, her straw-colored hair glinting in the low light of the sconces. "Yes Domina."
Aurelia's eyes slid to you, equally dismissive. "Go and prepare him."
"Yes Domina."
~
You stood still; eyes towards the tiled floor as Corinna led the Wolf into the private baths. She left without a single word or glance in your direction, either unknowing or uncaring for the unease that settled inside of you. He faced you, unmoving, hot molten stare crushing into the marrow of your bones.
"You are Domina Aurelia's amicae, are you not?"
The sound of his deep and rich voice snapped your attention from the glittering tiles to meet his gaze. "I am."
"Hmm," he turned from you before beginning to undo the ties and buckles of his pturges, the leather garment falling from his hips as he pulled it down with a single tug. It fell uselessly to the floor, exposing the muscled and sculpted backside of his body. Your face heated at the sight before you turned your cheek, eyes staring intently on the fresco of Juno upon the wall. You heard the water trickle and shift as he descended into the pool before he stilled on the other side of the stone bath, too far for you to reach. Your eyes found his own again, a small frown forming on your face at his distance.
"I cannot reach to wash you," you murmured, crossing to kneel at the front edge of the pool, "Domina instructs I do so. She sits here to allow me access."
"I suppose you'll just have to join me, then." he craned his head back, stretching the taut muscles of his neck, his braid nearly saturated with water. "The water is warmer here."
You scoffed, unable to help yourself. "Join you?"
Slowly he rounded his head to face forward, an amused glint in his eye. "Yes. That is, if you wish to follow the orders of your Domina."
You swallowed thickly before shaking your head. "I cannot."
The Wolf regarded you for a moment, his gold eyes slowly scanning your face and down to the curve of the emerald and gold wrappings that adorned your body. "I suppose you're right. Wouldn't want to ruin your pretty dress."
With slow and controlled movements, he stood, the steaming waters reaching just above the sharp lines that led down into his groin. Your eyes never left his own as he drew closer before turning his broad back to face you. You remained silent as your hands began to deftly unravel his long hair from its braid, rinsing it with water and nourishing oils.
"You sing, do you not?" he questioned lowly as you began to rinse his hair once more.
"Only when Domina wishes for me to."
He remained silent before turning to face you, his large and calloused hand grasping yours before he took the soap from your hold. You stilled; eyebrows knit in confusion before meeting his eyes.
"Do you believe I will be victorious in tomorrow's games?"
Your eyes widened in surprise at his forthcoming inquiry. "I do not have the sight of the gods."
"I did not ask for the beliefs of the gods, I asked after your own." he dipped his chin, a small frown etching itself on his lips. You continued to stare at him, your eyes tracing over every detail of his exquisite face. How water droplets clung to his long lashes, the perfect bow of his pink lips. The way his cascading crown of gold darkened from the bath, the steam that tumbled upwards from the heated waters causing a lone curl to cling to his forehead.
"I hold no love nor favor for the games," you answered quietly, "I take no pleasure in watching men die."
The golden-haired warrior's eyes narrowed. "Does your mistress know that?"
You couldn't help the small flinch of your body. "Domina favors the games. Her beliefs become my own when she is near."
"I see." he stared at you for a moment longer before gently pressing the soap back into your hands. "I hope you will grow to believe that I will emerge victorious. And perhaps in the wake of my victory, you will sing a song in my honor."
You did not respond. Before long he had been bathed to the standard in which you knew Domina Aurelia preferred until he stood from the pool. You turned as he did so, eyes landing on the fluttering form of Corrina returning with a fresh wrapping for his waist. Your stomach dropped when you noticed it was in a similar shade of green as your own before you bade him to follow you into Aurelia's empty chambers.
The loud laughter and slurred jeering could barely be heard down the winding halls of the estate as a thick silence stretched between you as your hands slowly slathered his chest with aromatic oils, the scent of cedar and musk filling your senses. His hair was pulled away from his angular face as you worked, golden eyes staring emptily around your Domina's lavish room.
"Am I expected to fuck the silver-haired witch in front of them all?"
Your eyes snapped up to him, a grimace contorting your face. "No. You are to let them...inspect you."
"Inspect?" he chuckled darkly at the back of his throat. "Romans have the strangest of traditions."
A flare of curiosity bloomed in your chest. "Is it so different in your homeland?"
The towering gladiator shifted imperceptibly as your palm grazed over the large muscle of his upper arm. "Very."
"How so?" the words left your lips before you could stop them, at once breaking the silent pact between slaves: to never, ever speak of ones homeland, as that life was gone, never to be retrned to again.
"Careful," he murmured, teasing, "I have killed lesser men for inquiring less."
You pulled yourself to your full height, your heart thrashing wildly against your ribs. "Apologies."
He rolled his shoulders before pushing your hand away, but not before brushing his fingers a breath above your own. You stepped backwards, allowing him berth as he crossed over to the windows that overlooked the eastern gardens.
"There is no need for apologies, woman. You did not offend." he ran a pale hand through his hair before turning to face you once again, his skin bathed in the low amber light of the candleflames nearby. "The hour grows late, and I wish to turn in for the night. Tell your Domina I am ready."
You bit your tongue before nodding once and turning on your heels. Just as your hand brushed the iron handle of the door you turned your cheek, still feeling his molten stare at your back.
"May Fortuna guide you tomorrow." you met his eyes for one final time before pulling the door open and crossing the threshold. He did not have a chance to respond before you were completely obscured from view as the wooden door settled shut, leaving him alone in the plunging silence left in your wake.
summary - malleus watches over the dreams of those he’s blessed, finding yours to be unexpected, but fondly amusing
warnings - I feel like malleus sort of treats mortals with an inherit disdain or infantilization and I fear we don’t write that enough, so be ready for him to compare humans to a child and a bug ig.
A/n my description of malleus using his unique magic is kinda hc, as it’s never described how he uses it while outside of the dreams, only inside of them. So I kinda came up with a solution
You were his dear friend, how could he not? Ever since you two met, you’ve been nothing but kind to him, nothing but good and gentle and sweet. You invited him to the SDC, you gave him gifts and spoke to him often- you even proposed joining the gargoyle studies club!
In such a short amount of time, you’d already given him so much…so what kind of friend would he be if he didn’t reciprocate? That’s what he was doing now after all, as he set his magic over sages island- he would repay you with eternity, with dreams, with anything and everything your precious mortal heart could desire. It was the very least he could do.
He continued to hum quietly as he drifted around the diasomnia lounge, eyes drifting over the bodies curled peacefully in sleep on the floor. It would be overwhelming to see every dream all at once, so he merely drifted between them- he would simply lock his sharp green eyes on a resting soul as they slept, and he would focus on their dream. It was the easiest way to go about it- like focusing a camera lense on tiny little ants individually as they crawled about.
“I wonder…”
he murmured to himself, strolling slowly in the silence and thorns. His eyes landed on Kingscholar, who’s dreams of royal succession and ascending the throne earned an almost fond chuckle from the dragon. His eyes turned to the more extroverted Leech twin, and he stared blankly for a moment before humming thoughtfully with a puzzled expression and moving on.
His eyes turned to Lilia, his brow quirking in frustration at the seeming static of the dream. He’d done all this for the old bat, and yet he couldn’t seem to glimpse his dream. How peculiar. He let out a huff, deciding to check on his dear guardian later.
He wandered between corpses for a while, enjoying the silent company of their soft breaths as they basked in the eternity he’d blessed them with. Such precious little creatures, he’d grown quite fond of them. But now, his eyes had turned to someone who earned a slight upturning of his lips as he approached. You, with grim tucked at your side, hair sprawled and messy, expression most peaceful. He tilted his head, humming as he looked into Grims dream, which- to keep it short- contained much tuna and winning fights.
“I wonder…”
He repeated again, eyes slowly turning to your shut ones. The great king of darkness, enemy of the world, sank to his knees, tracing a pale clawed hand through your hair, fixing it for you. He was careful to ensure no blot touched your precious skin, that no pain would ever carve itself behind your soft fluttering eyelids as you dreamed
“What do you dream of, my dearest child of man?”
he murmured, fond eyes tracing your features. Because you were no ordinary mortal, not to him. Compared to all the other little creatures in the room, you by far were the most fascinating. The one he cherished to even the same extent he cherished Silver, Lilia and Sebek.
Yes, in your short time here, you'd carved quite the place into his heart. Surely he would never forget you, especially now. The stars would fade and change, the world would rest and shift, but now you would be close through it all, not drowning in the bitter loneliness of eternity, but embraced in it by the blessings of the dreams he bestowed upon you.
So with warm fondness and a gentle stroke of your cheek, he gazed with those bright green eyes into your eternal dream…
»—>
In your dream he awoke, blinking in dim stormy daylight. He recognized his surroundings immediately- his room in Diasomnia. He smirked, slightly smug as he realized your dream took place not in your world, but his. Surely if you were awake to understand the situation, you’d understand now how foolish it would be to return to your home world when you were clearly more content here in tw-
He blinked. Once. Twice. He’d noticed something as he shifted that he hadn’t before for some reason. A weight, a warmth, a scent. Maybe it was because he'd only just entered the dream that it took a moment to adjust, to realize there was something on top of him. He looked down, those bright green eyes that had been so knowing and smug just a moment ago, now widening imperceptibly as he saw you there curled up on his chest, your limbs tangled in his, your breath soft against his heartbeat like you were breathing the very life into him.
what a peculiar situation. It seemed your perfect dream…was cuddling with him.
After the initial shock he couldn’t help but chuckle, amused by your childish affection more than anything. Your soft fingers clutched his shirt so tenderly, your lashes fluttered so adorably as they fluttered open. How could he not find this entire thing to be entertaining?
His friend, his dear child of man, harboring feelings for him? No one had ever had affections like that for him, and if they did, they did not show it. And yet as you woke up, as the dream set in, as the scene was set and your weak mortal mind went immediately along with it, you propped yourself on your elbows and looked up at him with such a loving smile, and kissed his smiling lips so fondly.
Of course he’d go along with it, if it meant your perfect dream would be, well…perfect. Even as his lips tingled from that kiss, and all the ones after as you both murmured sweet words in the morning light. Yes, he’d act the part for you, it was the least he could do for his dear child of man.
»—>
“Oh you sweet thing…”
He murmured in the echoing silence of the diasomnia lounge as he lifted your warm corpse into his arms, tucking you close as he traced his long fingers delicately through your hair, his smile and voice impeccably fond
“That is quite the dream you have, I must admit I am honored to be so important to you…”
His eyes flickered as he spoke, his words unreplied to, unheard in your slumber. In your dreams, he was cuddling you in the early morning hours. In reality, he was holding a corpse…
“No, no not a corpse” he said to himself, pressing his forehead to yours, smiling faintly as blot traces down his cheek, a testament to his current mania.
“You are no corpse to me…to call you such a thing would be a sin. No…you are a sleeping beauty, a beautiful rose in my garden to be tended to…perhaps my favorite one”
He muttered, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth as he lifted you, humming a tune he’d heard long ago as he danced around the silent hall with your slumbering body. His sweet, dear child of man, dreaming of true love of all things...
gummygunk
kianamaiart
