summary: Foxian tails are said to be off limits, but no one said anything about ears.
cw: none
Foxian tails are said to be off limits, but no one said anything about ears.
Maybe it was the fabled “pheromones” foxians are said to give off. The ones are said to induce a type of romantic attraction. Or maybe it was the way his ears perked up in attention to the sizzling of the grill.
They twitched if the steam rose too high. They swayed to the side when someone called him, while still focused on preparing the dishes.
What would it be like to touch them?
“Seems that there’s something on your mind. I’m not just a cook, you know,” Jiaoqiu lightly fanned himself, “I’m also a healer.”
“I’m not so sure you can sort this one out,” you look off to the side. How can you just tell a foxian that you want to touch his ears? You feel warm at the thought.
“How can you be so sure?” Despite the lack of eye contact, there’s a mischievous grin attached to that face.
—
It should’ve dawned on you that attempting to hide anything from the adviser of the Merlin’s claw would end in failure.
Normally, his eyes were closed, but now they were locked onto yours. His eyes were a beautiful golden. You would’ve described Jiaoqiu as having a serene presence. One that soothed the mood, with his soft voice and caring disposition. But, now, it was intense.
Your hand must’ve stopped in mid-air because suddenly, Jiaoqiu was guiding them to his perked ears. He seemed…eager?
“Weren’t you so interested in touching them? Take this as a cure for your curiosity.”
The soft fur grazed your knuckles, then your palm. It wasn’t that different than petting a cat or dog, but you kept that to yourself for your own sake. Outstretching your hand, you lightly caress the inner rim of the ear, while lightly scratching the outer ear where it meets the head. Jiaoqiu couldn’t help but reluctantly lean into the touch.
The white inner fur tickled your fingers. It was even softer than the pink fur around it. You could tell it was sensitive. Although, you had barely touched the white fur, Jiaoqiu’s ears twitched.
“How is it?” You inquire.
The man had simply hummed or leaned in as a response in lieu of talking. He didn’t dare express his thoughts. Though the swishing of his own tail betrayed him, unwillingly wagging back and forth.
“Just don’t offer to touch any other foxian’s ears. I’ll be your only cure.”
It seems he’ll have to cure your curiosity for his tail next.
gaah sorry for lack of posts. I’ve been a bit disappointed with hoyo’s direction recently and I’ve been waiting for the next hsr update. im still active i promise 👆
summary: Aventurine takes up shooting in his free time and offers to teach you.
cw: gun, short drabble
Aventurine's hand rests on top of yours, carefully guiding your hand into the right position.
"You'll want to use two hands for this," he leans close behind you, pressed up against your back. His voice softly whispering in your ear. His hair gently tickles your cheek.
While your dominant hand grips the magazine of the gun, Aventurine places your other hand underneath. He then wraps his hands around yours.
The closeness warms your body. Your heart practically leaps at the contact. It beats gently in your ears. It makes you wonder if he can hear it thumping too.
"Don't hold it too tightly now. You won't be able to hit the target that way," he tuts at you
"Right," you loosen your grip, but Aventurine's hold is still firm on yours.
"Next, you'll hold out your arms," slowly, he guides the gun outward so your arms are straight and un-bent.
The target in front of you is a large bullseye.
"Now, you'll just pull the trigger and..." Aventurine's softly and slowly press on yours, giving you a chance to back out or do it yourself. Upon seeing no hesitation, the trigger pulls.
The bullet lands in the center. As expected of Aventurine.
"Good job. For your first time anyway," he pulls away and playfully grins at you.
"You were the one doing all the work. If it was bad, it would've been your fault," you joke.
"Oh? You want to see me try now?" Seeing the challenge in your eyes, he pulls himself into position and-
thinking about Sunday who under his professional exterior has a rebellious side. those pierced wings are just a taste.
Sunday who has a septum piercing that he flips up when he has to attend work or other important duties. which is an accomplishment that he managed to get away with being under the dream master’s watch nearly his whole life.
Sunday who secretly has his nipples pierced, specifically a barbell. they’re sensitive to the touch. tracing around his areola with your fingers till they’re perked up. brushing your finger tips over his nipple has him squirming.
Sunday who loves the circular motions of your tongue on them. a light graze of your teeth sends a warm shiver through his body.
summary: soon to be betrothed to the head of the Oak Family, Sunday offers you a dance.
cw: arranged marriage, fluff otherwise
It's what's expected of you.
Being related to a high ranking individual of the Nightingale family opened a window of opportunities. But not for you. You were to be betrothed to the head of the Oak Family.
Sunday. Who in Penacony didn’t know who he was? But this was the first time you’d seen him. Supposedly, he rarely attended these events, preferring to stick solely to business.
Nonetheless, there he was. A head of light hair accompanied by a warm luminous halo that reflected the light of the chandelier hanging above the reverie.
As if sensing you from afar, he turned his attention to you, walking away from whoever he was chatting with.
"Care for a dance," he offers a hand to you. Across his face is a gentle smile. You know he wouldn't fault you for rejecting him; but seeing your own hesitance reflected in his eyes ignites a sense of bravery. Reluctantly, you place your hand in his.
When he leads you out from your corner and onto the floor, you can already feel eyes from all around leering at you. It's something that shouldn't surprise you; something you should've been prepared for. Your stomach sinks at the thought of the crowd. So engorged in your worries, you step forward onto Sunday's foot. and nearly stumble, but an arm pulls you closer to him.
A heat of embarrassment washes over you. "Sorry!" you whisper.
Upon helping you regain your balance he leans close to your ear, "It's alright. I'm rather nervous too. I don't usually show up to these events. It's normally my sister who does," he murmurs.
You intertwine your fingers with his, and prop your hand back onto his shoulder. Sunday places his hand onto your upper back.
"You can rely on me to guide you."
Whenever he steps back, you take one step forward. His hand lightly presses you onward. Despite him wearing gloves, you can still feel the heat of his hand against your upper back. The muscles in your back loosen at the contact. It’s surprisingly comforting. The thought brings a warmth to your cheeks.
A light tapping on your back where Sunday rests his hand brings you back to reality. It’s then you realize you’ve been staring at him the whole time. A warmth crawls up to your ears. When you step forward once again, he says softly, close to your ear, “we’re going to do a turn now.”
The hand he placed on your back lowers, and the other hand laced with yours leads you into a twirl. In that moment you see a blur of eyes upon you. In the next, you’re looking straight at Sunday.
He seems to fluster a bit at that, “I apologize that this is the first time we’re officially meeting.”
“Ah, no. You’ve been a great host, and a helpful guide.”
“I’m glad,” despite not needing to, his hand lingers around yours. As if not wishing to depart. You sense the dance has come to an end. You’re the first to pull away.
“Thank you, Sunday.”
He perks up at that and gives a light smile. There’s a tenderness in it only reserved for you. It’s a subtle smile, unlike the forced ones he maintains for professionalism.
Any Halovian would recognize the dance for what it was, romantic. Admittedly, he felt guilty for not meeting you in private beforehand but judging from the reaction of the crowd and the gentle expression on your face, it seems his intentions were clear.
How you made his heart flutter. ♥︎
a/n: this was an excuse to write the waltz trope that’s in every historical romance with sunday.
A Halovian's halo is made up of energy, causing it to be incorporeal and intangible in the real world. However, in the dream world of Penacony, the energy forms into a physical object.
If there was one universal taboo, it would be touching a Halovian's halo. Yet...
Your fingers caress the lower sides of his halo. Running your fingers up and down, it's smooth and a bit too soft to be metal. It's edges are rounded but there's little ridges that dip in between.
You can't help but admire the craft. Halovian halos form based on personal experience. What type of life allows it to become so intricate, you wonder.
When your fingers glide up the points of his halo, it flickers in and out.
"S-sorry," Sunday speaks from below you, he decided to sit to allow you to touch freely, however, "I've never had my halo touched before..."
Pausing your touching, you look down at him. His face is a vibrant shade of red. His wings cover his face in a poor attempt to hide his blush.
"Are you okay? Want me to keep going?"
"Yes, to both of those questions. It's just an intimate gesture among Halovians," he mumbles into his glove.
The points among his halo stand sharp like thorns. Any touch would prick your finger. It suits him, you think. Sunday's status is a thorn that keeps people from approaching him. It serves as his protection.
But he's also soft around the edges, your lips curl up in a grin as you trace the circular arch to the next point. You fondle the halo's eye between two of your fingers.
"Just how intimate?"
Sunday gives you a glare. As best he can anyway. It's not very intimidating with cheeks all red and his wings pressed up against his face.
"Wouldn't you like to know," he shifts his face closer to yours in a challenge.
You would.
a/n: I read the "halovian special issue" for the info btw. probably not reliable but I'm desperate for Sunday and this is all I got, okay 😔
warnings: sunday backstory, implied Gopher Wood being a bad father (Sunday), implied stellaron hunter Sunday, discrimination (aventurine, not said by reader), debt (aventurine), firefly backstory, 2.0-2.2 penacony spoilers
characters: Sunday, Aventurine, Firefly
a/n: it's so obvious who's my #1 fav in this
Sunday: writing
Throughout the world, everyone had the ability to communicate to their soulmates through writing on their own skin.
Sunday doesn't remember much about his childhood. His home-world was entrenched in war. The only constant in his life was his own sister, and the strange symbols on his wrists.
After being taken in by Gopher Wood, he would be taught that those symbols were words, and they came from his Soulmate. Excitedly, he'd take to the books to communicate with the person on the other end. At first it was little doodles, then broken sentences, and then full on conversations.
He wrote about his sister, the charmony dove, music and literature. One day, the writing stopped. You'd jot down messages in concern, so worried to the point your hand writing looked like illegible scribbles. He never did tell you his name after all.
After years, finally you got a response.
'Meet me at Dreamflux Reef, here, at 8 pm.' You couldn't help but notice that your soulmate's penmanship had improved after all these years. The once poor excuse for cursive wasn't just printed letters attached to one another, but font-like in it's neatness with broad loops. Despite the brief words written on your skin, your stomach rolled. Was it nerves or excitement?
There was a little hand-drawn map, taking up a portion of your forearm, with an 'X' on the location. You approached the streetlight ahead of you. It was five minutes before 8 pm, at the exact area he told you to be at.
There was somebody there. In the darkness, it was hard to see. The streetlight offered little brightness. Just a faint glow upon whoever it was. They were clearly halovian, a light bounced off their halo, providing a shine in your line of sight. Contrarily, they stood in dark clothes. And seemed to be fidgeting...as if waiting for someone.
As if on cue, the figure straightens up and turns to look at you. Those grey feathers and yellow eyes were unmistakable.
"Mr. Sunday?" The man hasn't been seen since the Order was chased out of Penacony.
"I didn't expect you to show up early," Sunday gives a halfhearted chuckle, then he calls your name, "you are them, right?"
"Yes, but-" You look towards your arm where the writing is located.
He sighs and shakes his head, "I...I'm the one who's been writing to you all these years." Sunday lifts his sleeve, on it is your reply to him, asking where he's been, and saying you'd be there.
Your soulmate was Sunday. The former head of the Oak Family. An MIA criminal. But also your childhood friend, who you never met.
There was so much to say, but the only thing you could think to ask was, "Why? You've been gone for so long..."
"I'm sorry. My fa-the dream master, prevented me from reaching out to you. He wanted me to be 'the chosen one' for The Order. I'm sorry that it took so long for me to-"
Gently, you put your arms around him.
"I was so worried. Please, talk to me. About everything."
He would, but now, all he wanted to do was rest in your embrace.
Aventurine: eye color
Everyone has one of their eyes the same eye color as their soulmate’s, until they meet.
It’s something that’s so arbitrary and meaningless to most people. There are only so many colors in the universe after all. But not yours.
“Sigonian.” Disdain.
“Poor child.” Pity.
“Whoever your soulmate is, you’re better off not meeting them.” Disgust.
Sigonia. A far off planet somewhere in the galaxy. Lightyears away. Where a people known for their unique eyes resides. Or used to reside.
Looking into the mirror, your right eye looks back at you, it’s a purple tinged with blue. You wonder what your soulmate’s would’ve looked like. You’ve long since accepted that any possible soulmate would’ve died years ago. Not even baseless rumors could settle any feelings of loss.
Knock Knock
Debt collectors.
The gentle knocks turn into bangs. The person standing outside takes a full walk around your house, peering inside any windows in search of you. The IPC was relentless when it came to debt. They'd make constant calls, tell your neighbors, blackmail their debtors, tack on more and more money, all to collect as much money as possible.
Just as your nerves calm down your phone rings. It's from a family member.
"Hello?"
"Hello, I'm calling from the IPC." That's not them. The voice is male with a smoothness to his voice. He disguised his number.
Just when you're about to hang up, "Don't hang up yet, I have a proposition for you." He instructs you to open the door.
You follow his instructions. Each step you make, the pit in your stomach gets wider. The door creeks as you turn the knob.
Two purple eyes, with a blue ring around the pupil. Sigonian. His eyes mirror your right one. But, within his reflection you see your own two regular colored eyes. Wait-
The man's mouth drops in shock, but instantly pulls into a grin. He hangs up the call.
"I see what's going on here. This time, the charge is on me," Aventurine insists. He's covered in designer clothing from head to toe, with golden rings lining each finger. You know right then and there that anything you say will get you nowhere. You're just glad he seems to be on your side.
"...Thank you."
"Mmm, but I never said it was without recompense." Shit. "In return, I'll provide you with a better place to live. This place is a bit...run down," he takes a glance around your home, and you can't help but feel embarrassed.
"Thank you, Aventurine, but that just sounds like I'll be in your debt."
He waves you off. "Debt? No, friend. What kind of partner would I be to let my soulmate fend for themselves?"
Firefly : timer
Every person across the galaxy has a timer leading up to the meeting of their soulmate.
4,000 years. Approximately 35,040,000 hours.
That was what Firefly had.
When she first awoke in her incubation chamber, it felt like she could wait forever. Their purpose was to devote their entire being to Glamoth. She did not dream. Not of the warmth of someone’s hands in theirs. Not of someone telling her that she was more. That was not a right of a weapon.
Yet, under the ashen sky and fields of smoke, not a single light shone through. Glamoth would never see the sun again. That was no place for a firefly.
For the last time she broke all protocol.
They unfurled their wings and chased the light. Finally, Unit AR-26710’s heart fluttered for a purpose that wouldn’t destroy.
24 hours = 1,440 minutes = 86,400 seconds.
They’d be landing in Penacony soon. She looked at her wrist, where the countdown was located. 1 day. She could feel her heart beat in her throat; she was so nervous.
Love. Kafka taught her that emotion. She’d never felt it before. Not that way.
Her eyes never left the window.
5 minutes = 300 seconds.
299, 298, 297, 296… Thinking in seconds was faster than minutes. It made time go faster. Minutes felt like eternity.
120, 119, 118, 117… Were they standing in the same area? Could she be looking at them right now? How far apart were they? Would they be tall or short? Would they be the time to put milk before cereal? Would they even like her?
10, 9, 8, 7… She watched the time tick away. She didn’t dare to look up least she burn up from the inside. It felt like her propulsion accidentally activated.
4, 3, 2, 1—
A figure crashed into her from behind. “I’m so sorry!”
0
She turned to look, and there you were. Yet, there was no celebration like she imagined. No hugging. No holding each other in an embrace. Instead, your face was pulled into grimace. Your arm gently interlocking with hers. Your posture was tight and hunched. All the signs of an uneasy person. Two Bloodhound members trailed after you.
“Did we do something wrong?” Firefly moved to stand in front of you
“That’s classified information,” one of the bloodhound guards say, gaze shifting off to look at you.
“I really didn’t do anything.” You look at Firefly with a pleading look.
The girl looks back at you and nods. She grabs your hand, the one the countdown is located on and charges for the alleys.
You hear the slap of their shoes against the concrete. The hurried pants of the guards. The footsteps behind you get louder and closer. In spite of the danger, all you can think about is the girl whose fingers are intertwined with yours. It brings a rush to your cheeks that only a breeze can soothe.
When your soulmate rounds the corner of the alley, her warm hand laced with yours turn a cold metallic. Her other hand placed around the small of your back in support. The suit of the armor is cold against your skin, but there’s a heat that radiates from the chest of the mech. It soothes your nerves. The lack of heat from her hand interlocked with yours may be replaced, but it was welcome.
When she unwraps her wings from behind her suit, a warm air erupts around you. Suddenly, you’re in the sky. The wind ruffles your hair, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when it dawns on you that you’re in your soulmate’s arms.
‘How would the other hunters react if they knew she blew her cover? Kafka was definitely going to tease her."
a/n #2: aven's was so hard to write. he feels like such a sleazebag in this but its only because he's in work mode I promise !! I want to do more of these bc it was fun.
warning: no spoilers, gn! reader, pining/soft sunday, Sunday info dumping as usual
summary: where Sunday will do everything except confess, and you just think he’s emotionally stunted.
a/n: i read about birds for this
halovian courting rituals
1. Gift giving. Like their close bird companions, Halovians participate in 'nuptial gifts,' a form of gift giving to a potential partner.
You were walking into the Oak Family Headquarters, Dewlight Pavilion, sent to deliver some letters. Although, you’ve been here before, it was still a bit nerve wracking to be in such a place, undetached from your usual position as a lower end employee.
The entrance to Oak Family Head’s office was right in front of you. You bite your lip, shifting the documents to your other arm and knock.
“Nightingale Famil-“
The door swings open. The family head holding the door stands to the side.
“Ah,” Sunday says your name, “it’s you.”
Your eyes widen, blinking a couple times. He remembers me?
“Yes, it’s nice to see you again Mr. Sunday. I’ve come with documents from the Nightingale family detailing a new plan for the dreamscape.”
He looks a bit disappointed?
He chuckles, then calls out to a lone employee, “you’re dismissed for today, I’ll take care of the rest.”
The Oak employee dips his head and leaves. Watching him leave fills a pit in your stomach.
“Mr. Sunday, is something wrong?”
Sunday sits up suddenly, “Oh, no. Not at all.” It’s that movement that makes you realize that he’s been fidgeting with something in his lap…Is he always like this?
“I guess I was just a bit surprised,” he smiles, looking down to the side. You caught him.
“Surprised? To see me?” Although Sunday and you have met a few times. It was always business, just like now—well maybe he did stare a bit intently at you before, but something really was different this time!
He looks up and sheepishly slides a box across the table. “Take it as…being a good part of The Family.”
For a few moments, your eyes set upon him. What is he planning? It’s a small box. Almost nothing could fit in there. You lift the top up.
You gasp. Earrings worth more than your entire life’s salary. You slam it shut.
“M-Mr. Sunday. This really isn’t necessary. I just—“ you ramble on. Sunday places his gloved hand on yours.
“Please, take it.”
Looking into his eyes, you realize that putting up a fight with the Oak Head won’t get you anywhere. You reluctantly take the box.
2. Preening. Similar to nature, touching a Halovian's wings is an intimate gesture to show one's interest in a romantic partner. Someone should never touch a Halovian's wings without asking!
Soon after, you come across Sunday again. This time at the Nightingale Family’s institution. You were putting away blueprints, plans and documents your coworkers left laying around haphazardly. When a familiar voice calls out to you.
“Good evening. Working hard, I see.”
“Mr. Sunday?”
He approached you, then looked around the room. He seemed to realize the situation you were in and scorned your coworkers. He mumbled something about you and moving to the “Oak Family.” As he spoke his wings were fluttering. They looked smooth and soft.
“You’ve been staring at my wings. Do they interest you that much?” He chuckles.
“Well, they are very pretty but—“
“Would you like to touch them?” A light blush spreads across his face. Despite that, he seemed perfectly poised. His hands clasped behind his back, standing straight and looking right at you.
“I-is that alright?” tumbles from your lips. You hesitantly reach out.
“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”
Upon touching them, Sunday’s wings twitched away from you before settling down. The feathers are soft and plush. Some are darker in color while others are more pale. They’re surprisingly fluffy. A bit like fur but more delicate.
The blush darkened, his gaze shifted off to the wall. His composure utterly broken, his hands fidgeted behind his back.
“Did you know that birds groom each other as a social activity? It occurs between…ma-members of a flock.” He sputters. What is he saying?
Your fingers stroking his feathers create a flutter within his stomach. He leans into the touch. Taking that as a sign to continue, you reach farther up, a light brush into the coverts of his feathers. Sunday gasps and pulls away.
“…You must take good care of them. Are all Halovian wings soft like yours?”
He wishes that moment would never end.
3. Song. During courtship rituals many birds of different species tend to sing and dance. While that is popular among Halovian people, some may chose show affection through instruments instead.
One day, a notice appears at your door. Upon examining it you realize it’s an invitation from Sunday, instructing you to his office within the Dewlight Pavilion.
Could it be about the documents you sent him last time? You wrack your brain for any possible explanation. He had been acting weirder than usual.
Heat build up in your face upon recalling Sunday’s recent appreciation for you. The earrings that are far too expensive to wear anywhere, and even worse—you bury your face into your hands. In a profound display of unprofessionalism, he let you touch his wings.
Still, every muscle in your body jittered with excitement, even though it shouldn’t.
♫ ♬ ♩
Suddenly, the closer you got, the more the hallway echoed with the sound of a violin. Slowly, you carefully stepped towards the sound, till you found its source.
Sunday was playing the violin. You couldn’t help but freeze where you were and watch him. He truly did look like angel. As he drew his bow across the strings, the light from the window shined down on him. His hair reflected the light appearing almost white. Was he always this beautiful?
Abruptly, he stands up, “You’re early. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” you closed the door behind you, “I didn’t know you could play. What song was it?”
He places the violin down on his table and approached you, “It’s ‘Salut d’amor,’ one of the first pieces I learned how to play,” Sunday put his hand behind his back, “the dream master was the one that taught me.”
“It was very pretty, I can tell you’ve been playing for a long time.”
“Thank you.” A light blush spreads onto his cheeks, but it’s gone before you can realize it.
A loud silence sweeps the room. The two of you avert your eyes. This side of Sunday feels so different from what you’ve been told. He always maintains a professional barrier. But if so, what was this?
Sunday calls your name, “how do you feel about me?”
“What?” The question is so out of the blue, you must’ve heard wrong, “I think you’re a nice guy—“
“I meant as a partner, I thought you knew. Was I not obvious enough?” He mumbles over the last sentence.
“I—well—“ you stumble over your words. He was serious. The earrings, the wing touching, the invitation. You dismissed it as him buttering you up. The ‘most handsome man in Penacony’ as delegated by the latest magazines, had feelings for you?
Your face felt so hot, you felt as if you could combust into flames at any moment, “I feel the same.”
His expression softened. “That’s a relief, I don’t have to cancel those reservations then.”
“Reservations?! Mr. Sunday-“
“Just Sunday. I’ll pick you up later then,” he smiled, then placed his hand near your ear, as if looking for something, “Oh, but this time remember to wear those earrings.”
a/n #2: soft Sunday is real, did u see how protective he was of Robin in the quest? i need more hoyo. feed my delusion
warnings: spoilers for Acheron backstory & real name, loosely!! based off hades and persephone myth, gn! reader, implied nihility emanator reader
summary: Acheron, who is tasked with ferrying the dead comes across an unusual guest. A living person.
In hades, “the drowned ask for help, lament with songs, find their happiness, enjoy sweet moments, and suffer great agony.”
In hades, the shadows reach out to grasp her ankles in an effort to free themselves from the river of woe; unaware they have long since departed. Their hands are just wisps of something that once was.
In hades, an end does not exist.
Nonetheless, it is her duty to guide lost souls back to the other side, no matter how pointless the task.
In memories long ago, she encountered few travelers, Frebass, Tiernan, all met their departure within the Nihility.
One drowned beneath the sea, picking apart her bones till she was nothing. The other lingered for years, maybe decades, unaware of his own death.
However, you seemed unaware of your own life.
You stood there looking up at the sin thirsters, your feet planted in the water. The constant rain pouring down, drenching your clothes.
“This is no place for the living,” she said, “you must be cold, follow me.”
Guiding the dead was what she was used to. Her title, Acheron, was a river upon which souls of the deceased were ferried across. But not the living. Not even when she was Mei did she avoid bloodshed.
She shepherded you across the black sea in a run-down boat. It bobbed up and down in the water, the sin thirsters nearly turning it over with their claws. They could sense the living. One sight of the sword had them shrinking away.
She led you to a cave which hadn’t been used in sometime. It was damp, droplets slid down the wall of the cavern. The only warmth came from the fire the hooded figure put together.
“Usually those that come to IX are dead or planning to die. You don’t look like either. What brought you?” Acheron broke the silence.
“Death. I must be dead,” you say. It was as if you woke up after a long period of time. Nothing looked familiar. Nothing, not even your last memories gave any hints.
She shook her head, “I guide those who are departed. Those ‘shadows’ were the dead. You certainly aren’t like them.”
“So, I’m alive?” You look at your hands. They were still flesh, and not shadow.
Acheron nods, “Mmm, for now.”
For now? Your eyes widen at the response. Backing up against the wall, you look for the words to say but your mouth just opens and closes. Is she going to kill you?
She looks over to you, expressionless, she reaches into her cloak and throws out a peach at you. “There’s a storm coming. It’ll be a long one. Not to worry, I will guide you,” and this time I won’t fail.
To consume the fruit of the underworld meant to be binded. To be indebted to Hades.
The peach lands in your hand. “Guide me?”
“To lead you out of here. To take you back to the mortal realm.”
With the peach in your hands, you stare at it. The bleak monochrome world of IX comes back to you. The wispy shadows pooling around your feet. Every step making a splash in its waters. Staying any longer…
You look back to the woman who’s called “Acheron,” who led you to shelter, who created warmth in the form of a flame, who leads the dead to a new life. Although her expression never changed, her words were always sincere.
“I trust you,” you take a bite of the peach, “but first, what’s your name?” You ask in between chews.
“…..Raiden Bosenmori Mei,” she mumbles but her words sound more like a whisper, something that should’ve been left unsaid, “But Acheron is fine.”
The only response that follows is the rain beating against the roof, and the flames licking against wood.
“Hey,” she says, “six months. That’s all I need. Just don’t forget when the six months are up,” Acheron grins, “Persephone.”
@ryeins
a/n: this was so hard bc I didn’t want to make it creepy like the og myth but also not ooc. also readers nihility influences them to lose their sense of self (hence the whole dead thing)! lore
Guardian angel! sunday who’s personally assigned to watch over you for his first task. Being one of the head angels is hard work enough, but since it was seraphim Gopher Wood’s request he has no choice but to obey.
Guardian angel! Sunday who’s always had an interest in humans. Their fleeting lifespan, choosing the paths of sin or redemption, working their hardest for the slimmest chance of success. Hoping that the otherworldly acknowledge their actions.
Guardian angel! Sunday who is content to watch you. Sure, he could implant ideas telepathically, but seeing your true intentions is so much more fascinating. He steers away potential troublemakers instead. That guy who was about to mug you? Seems that he forgot to turn the stove off. That older woman giving you a hard time? Her demeanor shifts 180 and suddenly apologizes.
Guardian angel! Sunday who realizes the world is just too cruel for you. The rich stomp on the poor to gain more. The weak will never flourish inside their man made prison.
Guardian angel! Sunday who becomes dissatisfied with simply observing. He has urges that something like him shouldn’t. He wants to caress your hair, wants to bestow a kiss onto you like the couples do. He wants to feel your skin against his. How he wonders what it would feel like. Would your hands be warm? Soft or coarse?
Guardian Angel! Sunday who appears in your dreams. “Be not afraid, dear,” his visage is of a golden eye, with giant rotating halos surrounding it, accompanied by several small wings branching off of them, “I will free you of this unjust world.“
For now he’s content to dream and not to act. But the black feathers spreading across his wings tell him that fantasy isn’t far from reality.
warnings: penacony spoilers, heavily references ‘the raven’ bc that’s canon, reader is called Lenore once but it’s a reference not their actual name, description of dead bird (but not a real bird)
summary: something is lurking around your apartment, luckily someone is there to stop it. and it’s someone nobody’s seen in awhile.
Once upon a midnight dreary, where you pondered weak and weary. The sun has set, but the buzz of the city leaks through the walls, doing nothing but lull you further into slumber. Turning over, lifting the sheets over your head is when you hear it-
rat-tat-tat
‘there’s someone knocking on my door,’ you think, just when you were about to nod off. You roll over, back facing the wall, hoping to just ignore it, but sleep doesn’t come.
Distinctly you remember, it was on that bleak Saturday; and each harmonious note wrought its melodies upon the air. Eagerly you wished the morrow;-vainly you had sought to borrow from books cease of sorrow.
sorrow for the lost and radiant bachelor— whom the angels name, Sunday.
Planets that once worshiped the Order shined brightest before their collapse. And so he too fell like the morning star.
Nameless here forevermore.
The silken rustling of the curtain gouges a pit in your stomach. Then fills you with terrors of uncertainty. Just who could be knocking at your door. To still your beating heart, you stand still, listening. Thoughts repeating in your head, “just some visitor entreating at my door, probably a salesman. Nothing more.”
Perhaps then your soul grew stronger with the mantra. Without hesitating you walk to the door, “sir or ma’am, I’m sorry but it’s late for me. I was asleep until I heard your knocking. It was pretty quiet, so I wasn’t sure I heard you but-“ I opened the door wide,
Darkness there and nothing more.
You stare deep into that darkness. As if your mind tries to fill the void, you stand there dreaming. The mumble of the outdoors is no longer audible. The hair on your arms raise at the silence.
The only sound there to be spoken was a whispered word, “Sunday?” An echo at the back of the hall whispered back “Sunday?”
Just you, again. Merely this and nothing more.
Turning back around into the room, you shut the door. With your back turned, soon you hear another rat-tat-tat, louder than before. The sound is coming from your window. With one foot in front of the other, slowly you encroach upon the threat. Your heart in your ears and the shaking in your limbs, “surely, there’s something…please just be wind.”
Swiftly you pull back the curtains. The window was already open. On the window sill stood a man with grey wings, long past his saintly days.
“Wha-Sunday!”
Taking a closer look at him, you notice black feathers adorned on his white suit. Then see him grasping a raven tightly in his hand, its dark plumage ruffled and disorderly with its mouth agape. The bird had a peculiar eye in the center of his chest.
“Not the raven you were expecting, right?” Sunday smiles but the expression doesn’t match his eyes, “I found him snooping around your lodging. It seems the dream master, well former dream master, hasn’t let up even in my and the order’s absence.”
Could it have been that the “knocking” was that “raven” pecking at your door? The former dream master? He had once told you about the man, Golpher Wood, who raised him and his sister. But it seems he didn’t tell you everything.
While you were staring, Sunday took the opportunity to let himself in. Plucking off the black feathers off his clothes.
“Never mind that! Where have you been? I thought you died. No one’s seen you since…” dominicus. You leave that part unsaid, not like he needs a reminder.
He avoids your gaze, looking off to the side, “I’ve been…busy. Sorting out some personal business out on my own.”
“Sunday. Robins been worried about you. If you won’t tell me, then at least tell her.”
“No, I don’t want her involved in this. She’ll be fine since the family is protecting her but, you’re an outsider. I don’t trust them with you.” He shakes his head, his hand behind his back, always in that contemplative manner.
“Why not?” You ask, putting your hands on your hips.
“Did you not see the ‘raven’ corpses lined up out your door? I saw you open it.” He saw all that too? The hallway was so dark that you didn’t dare venture out least you alert an intruder. The thought of someone out there watching you made your heart pound.
“Truth be told, I didn’t want you to see me yet.” Sunday mumbles. It seems that habit of his hasn’t gone away since you’ve last seen him.
“Are you going away again?” Your hands drop at your side.
“Yes. For now. The family has a target on me. Regrettably, I really messed up. My intention was to help, but it seems I’ve only succeeded in making a political upheaval,” he sighed.
“At least, promise me this, that your presence won’t be nevermore. That you’ll visit again.”
With the grace of a seraphim, his hands cup your face bringing it closer to his, “Of course, my sweet Lenore,” and lays a chaste kiss upon your lips.
“By that Heaven that bends above us—by that Aeon we both adore, tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
a/n: this was so experimental from whatever I do. finals beating me rn so im losing it but i saw references of this poem in the game and it matches so well with sunday and gopher wood that i had to write something with it 👍 even if my brain is fried
snowghoul
janainaart
jacobvanloon
theartofmadeline
germansingergirl
turnnoffyourmind
yousharknotpass
dededos
