Saw Some Of Your Hoshina Fics And It Was Stellar! Absolutely Fucking Amazing. You Don’t Know How Damn

MISS YOU MORE

── ♡ YUU NISHINOYA

"You heave yourself up a familiar hill that you were sure didn’t take this much energy to reach before. You sit yourself down under the singular tree situated. You keep your posture polite, as if invading the space meant for someone’s ghost. When the popsicle first hits your tongue, you cry."

(i)

Most days, you can shrug off the pain that comes with missing Nishinoya Yuu.

However, when it’s especially sunny out, or you see soda-flavoured popsicles being sold in convenience stores, you are reminded. When you think of your sleepy hometown, you are reminded. When you pass by children aimlessly tossing around a volleyball, you are reminded.

His grin had been infectious. His eyes would crease at the corners and his smile lines prominent. The sun would catch the brown hues of his eyes in time for you to, in that split second, believe you were graced by the presence of a wild deity. However, Yuu is painfully human, as the next minute he bites into his popsicle too quickly and gives himself a painful pause. You can’t stifle your laughter even when he glares at you meaninglessly, because he’s still smiling even at the expense of his dignity. He used to do anything to make you laugh.

When asked, you would say you were still in contact with members of Karasuno’s Volleyball Club. It’s a gross overestimation of the ‘contact’ you still have. They are accounts sitting on your phone, still following with stories unwatched and posts unliked. You were up-to-speed with the fact that Ryuunosuke Tanaka and Kiyoko Shimizu were married. You knew Hitoka Yachi works for her mother’s design company, and that she still meets with Kei Tsukushima and Tadashi Yamaguchi based on pictures together. Asahi Azumane is a rising designer in Tokyo. Hinata Shoyo and Kageyama Tobio made themselves impossible to miss, their names and photos circling the internet and live television on every sports network. The point is that you knew where everyone was, and that was a good enough connection as you can manage. You didn’t need to read the messages Yachi last sent you in 2015. You didn’t need to pay attention to the fact that there was an impromptu group meetup with a handful of alumni just a few months ago. You didn’t need to scroll through Yuu’s untouched Instagram account from a decade ago, his last photo had been a grainy and over-filtered selfie with Tanaka and Ennoshita.

Yuu had, for the most part, completely disappeared from your reach. There was the option to message someone who would know where he was, Azumane and Tanaka being the first to pop into your mind. Yet, terror fills you at the notion, an anxiety that leaves you trembling as you blearily thumbed through the interface of the social media app. You always shut your phone before your impulsive thought reached fruition, and you considered deleting the app entirely if it weren’t for the fact you found comfort in knowing where everyone is, as they simultaneously knew nothing about where you were. Most days, however, it was a rude reminder of the bottom of the rung from which you squander, and the heights they have reached since graduation.

Despite your ever-growing list of regrets, not holding onto Nishinoya Yuu had been your biggest one.

“Let’s get married,” He had said under the glow of the setting sun. The apples of his cheeks were a lovely shade of red and your heart danced in tandem with the leaves blowing past gently. The grass underneath you feels more like a cloud, and you’re lightheaded under the weight of Yuu’s declaration. Not now, you tease him, you haven’t even graduated yet. He sits up immediately, eyes wide and shining as a grin graces his lips.

“So you’re saying we can get married after I graduate?” He wiggles his eyebrows comically at you, and you bat his arm where you lay. Maybe, you had said and he followed your response with a series of kisses pressed against your heated, flustered skin while you squirm and laugh.

If you could go back to that summer evening, you wouldn’t have thought twice before following him straight to the municipal office. Anything to have him in reach, kept him where you could still love him.

(ii)

When your morning begins with the ring of your phone, you do not suspect anything out of the ordinary. Your new manager had become audaciously comfortable in abusing your number at every minor inconvenience—“The numbers just aren’t adding up” or “I have a lot on my plate, go teach the new interns”. So you wait until the fifth ring, a small act of rebellion and spite before you inevitably have to answer to a problem above your pay grade. When it’s Kiyoko Shimizu’s name that pops onto your screen, you nearly drop the device. A blurry contact photo of her Tanaka together, her contact name that is unchanged from when you were in your third year, and the way she does not call a second time. It is her, and not a cruel trick of the imagination. You count to three hundred before you hesitantly press on the call-back function. She picks up on the second ring, and her voice doesn’t burst intrusively into your speaker. Dulcet, as you remember it, with a twinge of something more merry in her tone.

She says your name in fondness and it makes your stomach sink, and when she repeats it a second time you can only nervously laugh.

“I’m sorry, I can just hardly believe it,” And that had been the truth. “It’s so good to hear from you,” You weren’t sure if you meant it. She cheekily corrects you when you tactfully greet her as Shimizu-senpai, and you pretend to be awed by her marriage and congratulate her as if the news isn’t laughably old to you. Reminiscent of old behaviours, she jumps straight to the topic after some idle talk. A reunion, she said, to get as many members of the old team together as possible. An overdue meetup. You are submerged underwater and drowning, unable to claw for air as your throat threatens to collapse. Your mind swam with possibilities, of implications, of everything that can and will go wrong. Who will be there, and what will they want to know? Your carefully crafted isolation is gone, all because you never mustered the strength to cut the last cord tying you to Miyagi. Your silence awards you with another concerned call of your name, and you manage to stammer out an excuse in half-lucidity about your work, schedule, train tickets and anything that could placate your lack of answer now. She pacifies you with a passive, understanding response before promising to check in later and hangs up. It leaves you alone with running tap water, and a glass tipped over in the sink.

(iii)

Miyagi greets you as if it had been frozen in time. You view everything from the same hazy, saturated tint as you were a teenager. The breeze feels colder, there is more life breathed into nature than the city you dwelled in, and glimpses of your memory threaten to peek as you note spots that should be familiar to you.

When your eyes scan over a certain signage, your heart sinks. From an outsider’s perspective, the idea of a convenience store overwhelming you with nostalgia sounds pathetic. Yet it is on Sakanoshita Market’s property where everything happened.

He almost forces the popsicle into your hand despite your string of protests. I owe you one, he had said in relation to last week’s cram study. Your notes saved my life, he insisted though you didn’t exactly feel too great about the fact your notes merely helped him scrape by a passing mark. You don’t rain on his parade, so you gingerly pluck the cold treat from his hand and much to your horror, he bites his own. It was like watching a snake unhinge its jaw as he finished the popsicle within two chomps. When he meets your aghast stare, he smiles cheekily. Efficient, he said and so you take extra care in enjoying the treat and he laughs at your stubbornness.

The bell above the door rings as you enter. You are almost disappointed to find that instead of Coach Ukai’s blonde head of hair, you spy a gangly-looking teenager at the counter. He had been reading something under the table, that much was obvious, but upon the alert of your arrival, he fumbles to stand up straight and shove the source of his distraction away. Whatever he finds on your face, likely no recognition of being his boss, appeases him and he relaxes all the while greeting you politely. He doesn’t bother you as you make a beeline through the aisle, stopping at the refrigerator. You pick up one cola-flavoured popsicle. The cashier boy rings it up but eyes you for a split second for your single purchase. He’s likely not used to older people buying snacks popular with school kids.

When you leave, your feet take you through the grass that cuts the street. You heave yourself up a familiar hill that you were sure didn’t take this much energy to reach before. You sit yourself down under the singular tree situated. You keep your posture polite, as if invading the space meant for someone’s ghost. When the popsicle first hits your tongue, you cry.

(iv)

Your hand hovered over the handle far longer than you wanted to admit. It was the final crossroad in which you could back out, but upon silent admission that this would render your motel costs, your nice dressing, and your taxi ride here useless, you finally push down your wave of nausea.

It’s not Kiyoko who greets you, but Tadashi Yamaguchi who had been conveniently idling near the door in wait for Tsukishima. He greets you politely, a high pitch to his voice you recognise from when he would find you before morning practice followed by the term of respect senpai. Even as your vision began to blur under the intensity of the gold lights decorating the ceiling, your attention was drawn by the pair that came to greet you. You can barely breathe when Kiyoko reaches you because she’s as beautiful as in photos, and when her arms circle around you you feel the bile rise to your throat. Too much. All too much. Yet, you muster a greeting with a smile you hoped reached your eyes, and Yachi is next to follow. She doesn’t hug you, and you don’t think you could handle it right now either, but she beams and grasps your hands without a hint of resentment in her eyes despite the fact you had essentially ghosted her all those years ago. You are led to the living room of the Tanaka household, and you manage to blearily pick up the faces of Sugawara, Sawamura and the man of the house himself, Ryuunosuke Tanaka. The teacher and the officer greet you with warm handshakes and squeezes of the shoulder, and while Tanaka has gotten up from his seat he does not go to give you affectionate greetings like the others. You were not surprised, and yet it still made you want to turn to the door and run. Your name doesn’t leave his lips like a slur, and there is no scowl on his face, and yet you know he has not forgotten. Likely none of them did, they are just better at hiding any animosity. It is when your eyes leave Tanaka’s that you finally pay attention to the other man in the room. Tears threaten to spring to your eyes when you see Asahi Azumane, even more so when the man gives you a gentle smile, but you hold back in fear of causing a scene.

“Not now, just—” You turn away from Asahi’s concerned stare as you briskly attempt to out-walk him. “Not now.”

It doesn’t take him a lick of extra effort to reach your pace, and you feel a spike of annoyance akin to blistering fire. You didn’t like this defiant show of persistence, not from somebody who is usually so gutless in the face of confrontation. You continue to ignore him despite the fact the leather straps of your school bag weigh you down like an anchor.

“This isn’t right, you know this,” He keeps his tone even and placid, even in the face of your growing rage. “He cares about you. A lot. This isn’t fair to you or him.”

You finally spin on your heel, causing the man to stumble slightly at your sudden movement. Your tears are hot, burning even, in the ducts of your eyes but you don’t dare let a single one spill. Not in front of Asahi, who will only be further vindicated that you are making all the wrong decisions. Not even for yourself, who will begin to wonder if they are making the right choice.

“It’s because I care about him that I’m doing this,” You snap and he almost flinches under the force of your voice. “I know what type of person I am. I know what I’m going to become. I can’t reciprocate the intensity of Yuu’s feelings. He deserves to have someone who gives him a high like he gives me.”

You don’t realise your heated retorts have died down to near-desperate begging, not until you're digging your nails into your skin, enough to draw blood. Asahi tries to pry your grip away, but you move before he can reach and he lets his hands fall limply to his sides.

“Don’t you dare say he deserves to be stuck with me just because he happens to care. He’ll get over it, and he’ll find someone better. I’m not ruining his life by dragging him alongside the monotony of mine,” You finally meet the brown-haired man’s gaze from when you hung your head, and your glare burns and the fire spreads. “Do you get it now?”

You are seated down, sandwiched between an almost-doting Kiyoko and frantic Yachi as snacks and conversation are passed around. You are asked the expectant questions—How are you, what are you doing, what’s changed? You answer the questions to a degree that should tame any further curiosity, though take care in leaving out unsavoury details. This was only an impulsive trip. After this, you will go home, delete their contacts and finally free yourself from Karasuno, Miyagi, Yuu and all the memories left behind.

The door opens and you suspect Ennoshita or the like to arrive, as Hinata and Kageyama already confirmed their absence due to their busy schedule. Nothing could have prepared you for when Nishinoya Yuu walked in as if he owned the place. It’s the same spiked hair that your hands used to find purchase in. The same slanted brown eyes that would make your heart quake in your chest. Worst of all, the same grin that haunted your memory. When his eyes fall on you after his loud greeting, you can feel the earth cave in.

(v)

The universe, unfortunately, did not end upon Yuu’s arrival. His gaze had quickly shifted from you to the remaining attendees in the house and the lack of acknowledgement made you feel like a first-year again, standing with your back to the gymnasium wall as your sense of person is reduced to dust in the face of much fiercer personalities. You don’t know what you had expected. He wasn’t going to kick up a fuss in the middle of a reunion, and that’s assuming he even cares about you anymore at all.

Which answer would have been more satisfactory? The one where your teenage self got what they wanted—a Yuu who has moved on and no longer cares for them? Or the one present you guiltily wished for—that he cares, that he thinks of you as often you do him, that he hasn’t gotten over you?

With the last guest’s arrival, you all are moved to the dining room, where dinner is prepared. The delectable smell wafts in the air, and excitement grows. You momentarily perk up at the prospect of a homecooked meal that wasn’t your subpar cooking, but you are immediately tense when Yuu brushes past you with a brisk “whoops, sorry.” This is a casual interaction. There is no tremor in his voice, no avoidant glances. It’s akin to two strangers passing each other on the street.

You want to go home. You want his attention. You want to run. You wish he’d say your name again.

The conversation picks up as everyone eats, and you are still kept in between the two ex-managers while Yuu sits on the opposite side but from the furthest vantage point from you. Judging by the passing glances you had gotten when he arrived, you had a feeling this seating arrangement was purposeful. You don’t tact on to the discussions but try to smile and laugh when appropriate so it doesn’t seem like there is something totally wrong with you. At least you managed to gather that Yuu is currently travelling, and you have to bite back your smile when you recall the nights he used to call you and explain his dreams of seeing the world.

Within the hour, ceramic dishes and steel utensils clink together and everyone begins to disperse with the grand idea to watch a few films together over drinks before ending this event. Tsukushima quietly gestures towards his departure with a curt explanation of morning practice when Tanaka hounds him. You realise this is also your only chance at escaping without too much awkwardness. You arm yourself with a list of excuses—sorry, I have to check out early tomorrow. I have a morning work call. I’m still a bit light-headed from the train ride.

Nobody questions you further when you say your general, tentative goodbyes along with an extra minute of gratitude for the Tanaka household’s hospitality (Ryuunosuke’s gaze even seemed to soften when you turned to thank him). You are out the door before you can make selfish eye contact with Yuu, your coat tossed over your figure as you depart with nothing but a sheepish wave.

The night chill hits you in full force, and you shiver as you quickly attempt to find warmth in the rapid friction of your palms. You are not more than just a few steps out the front lawn when your name is shouted, the syllables rolling off a familiar tongue with so much nostalgia it feels sickening. Nishinoya Yuu is broad-shouldered with a sports jacket messily pulled over his figure and calling for you as if you both are seventeen and he’s letting you know one more time that he loves you before walking his half of the way home. You pause where you stand, you let him catch up, and you let him stand close enough that you can recite every minute detail of his face. A decade wasn’t enough, you realise somberly, to shake away your utter adoration for him.

He grins and asks if you want to get popsicles in the middle of the cold. Crazily enough, you agree.

(vi)

He regaled you with stories of his travels under that tree, from when he lost his hotel keycard in São Paulo and had to spend the night on the lounge chair because the staff couldn’t replace it in time, to when had gone fishing in Colorado River and fell of his boat when he got too excitable about his catch. You couldn’t stop your laughs, and he was only encouraged to continue with an eager beam. By the time you catch your breath, you find him leaning back on his hands with a smile so earnest that it makes you feel like you are seventeen and in love again. You grow nervous when he proclaims it's your turn to fill him in on the details of your life and the peace of the moment crumbles under his expectant stare. With the way you left him and the way he’s treating you as if you didn’t break his heart all those years ago, you felt obliged to be honest.

Shuichi Toyama began as your co-worker. He didn’t enter your life in a hurricane like Yuu did, but he did leave behind a disaster once he closed the door.

He asked you out and with you having been off the dating scene since high school, you agreed with some reluctance. The first date turned out fine, better than the awkwardness you first expected, so you let him take you out for a second. Then a third. He asked you to be his, and you agreed without paying note to the premonition behind his wording (Yuu always used to brag that he belonged to you).

It was comfortable. Stable. On good days Shuichi felt like a friend, and that was your first warning that you mistook security for love. He proposed a year later during a fancy dinner date, the restaurant overflowing with patrons. When the pastry chef brought out a slice of cake, moist and carefully decorated with your name, all you could think about was the eyes on you and how much money Shuichi must have spent on this proposal. You agree and something prideful crosses your now fiance’s expression.

A few months after you are wed in a fanciful ceremony with your attire to the decorations hand-picked by your mother-in-law, the cracks in your relationship begin to show. Late arrivals home, heading straight to bed after work, no ‘good morning’ or ‘I love you’ uttered. A year later you catch him in bed with his co-worker he swore to you not to worry about. It’s a sight to see when he struggles to pull up his pants, racing after you as you lock yourself in your car. He keeps a firm grip on the handle as he pleads for you to reconsider. He’s sorry. He didn’t mean for it to happen. It was a lapse of judgement. You listen to the excuses bemused, but you can’t help the tears that sting your eyes. Time with Shuichi had been wasted time, and you could have done so much and been so much without him. Yet, your mind tracks back to Yuu. This must be how he felt when you left, and it comes with a realisation of shame that you were no better than Shuichi. When your neighbour’s young children emerge from the front door to play, you unlock your car and follow your husband back home to spare them the sight of a half-naked man begging in the driveway. Maybe this is what you deserve.

He only kept his promise for two months, then while doing the laundry you find a lipstick stain on his collar that did not belong to you. A normal person would have packed their bags and tossed the stupid shirt at him without looking back. You toss it into the washing machine and go back to the rest of your chores. You don’t bring it up even when he comes back home almost four hours late, drunk and smelling unusually floral. You tell him his food is in the oven, and head to bed.

You let the cycle run its course for another few months until he breaks a plate during an argument about one of your neighbours catching him leaving a woman’s house in the early mornings. You had yelled at him to at least keep his infidelity under warps so that you aren’t embarrassed in the process, and he screams about why you aren’t angry that he’s cheating and more concerned for your reputation. When the ceramic dish hits the kitchen floor and shatters, you go quiet and stare. He’s the one who packs his bags this time, and you don’t implore him to stay. After that, you do not see Shuichi without a lawyer and you eventually lose rights to the house and most of your savings you mistakenly put into a shared account. You quit your job with no available living accommodation and no friends whose couch you could crash on while you try to pick up the remnants of your life. You find a job in another city after several nights at a cheap motel and begin to live in a small apartment in a place unfamiliar to you. Your new job pays less, is more demanding and your coworkers don’t take to you. However, it puts a roof over your head and food on your table. Within the silence, all you can contemplate are regrets.

By the time you are finished, there is a fire in Yuu’s eyes that blaze, fraught with rage. He curses your ex-husband without sparing a breath and you have to bite back a smile because it was just like him to get angry on your behalf.

“That sounds rough, I’m so sorry,” He says quietly and despite his awkward wording, he’s practically melting in sincerity and you only shake your head. You almost wished he felt vindicated by hearing this, but that’s simply an insult to the type of person Nishinoya Yuu is. He is never happy in the face of someone else’s misery, he is earnest and sincere, and he cares for others loudly and passionately. You are free-falling, a pit in your stomach that lurches to reach your throat, weightless and doomed. The words leave you before your mind can catch up.

“From all of this, it’s just a constant reminder I fucked up the moment I left you,” His eyes widen at the sudden confession, lips pressing into a straight line as you gaze at him with glassy eyes. “Yu—Nishinoya, I’m so sorry. I know my words can never make up for my actions.”

“Don’t,” His breath leaves him in a shaky exhale as he closes his eyes, “Don’t call me Nishinoya like that. I’m always Yuu to you.”

Tears now freely roll your cheeks and you know you don’t deserve it when he reaches out to briskly wipe them away with calloused hands. They warm your face and he lets his touch linger longer than appropriate even when your sobbing has died down to quiet sniffles.

“You and I were dumb kids. Sure, back then I wanted to scream and chase you down until you changed your mind,” He moves his hand to grasp yours, intertwining your fingers together as he gives you a reassuring and tight squeeze. “But I didn’t hate you for it. I don’t think I’m able to even if I tried.”

His grin takes on a little more sheepish twinge, a contrast to a teenage Yuu who would have urged you to stop taking things so seriously and to get over it. With maturity, he has the patience to sit down and actually talk with you. However, curtness is integral to his personality so he adds on.

“Even though you’re in the habit of catastrophising everything,” His sly remark earns a look of offended bafflement from you, causing him to laugh loudly in return. He brings you to stand alongside him, tugging you from the hill and onto the street. He insists on walking you back to your motel, and promises to pick you up the following morning. Nishinoya Yuu is cementing himself into your life again. You make sure to take extra care of keeping him.

MAHOYAKU WIZARDS on the wedding day

he has checked everything from the venue to the centrepieces in intervals of five minutes. it had reached a point where he had to be dragged away by his best man: nero

tries to take it easy but is filled with nerves. however, the excitement of his union overtakes any fears. might cry a little when he sees his s/o at the alter: heathcliff, chloe

nonchalant and relaxed throughout all the proceedings. even a meteorite crashing next door won't shake his nerves. people kept asking who the groom is: oz, shylock, rustica, lennox

he was eager to get the formal stuff out of the way so he could actually celebrate the union with his s/o and guests. he's not coming out of this sober: cain, bradley, rutile

there is no wedding because he hates the idea of a big social gathering. he is eloping: faust

there is no wedding out of concern for the guests. nothing wrong with common law marriage, i guess: mithra, owen, murr

he has avoidant-attachment issues: figaro

who was gonna tell me the straw hat badges were a limited time thing 😔

Hey at least it’s your Birthday?? 🎉 HBD Kiyora

thank you for the tag !

looks // personality // style // humour // mindset // vibes

serval // atsushi nakajima // nana komatsu “hachi” // cater diamond // chloe collins // shirahoshi

- tagging whoever else wants to do this !

[ 💌 ]- tag game! how your friends describe you using fictional characters, or how you would describe yourself! <3

🍓include: looks, personality, style, humour, mindset + vibes // link to the template if you need it for reference

my best friend always says that I'm literally just yaomomo, i don't see it but i love her so i'll gladly take it :D (I also used to get compared to March a lot, idk)

tagging: @eroxotckv, @seafumes, @twilightclouds, @luvuomi, @princess-peachys, @agaygothicmushroom, @chuusheartattck, @kunimix, @state-of-grac3 + anyone else who wants to join!

━━ to walk amongst the living .

Jade's last words continue to haunt Sunday as he is cast from the heaven of Penacony and goes from a Family Head to a mere traveler. On his journey to fully understand the struggles of mortals, he ends up becoming companions with you, a fellow wanderer.

sunday x gn!reader

contains: post 2.3, written before 2.7, sunday is hinted to have asthma, sunday is trying his best but bro hasn't touched grass in years so he's struggling, hardcore yearning from sunday

word count: 3.1k

a/n: SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL BARKSI RIYGHGUGHU if hyv doesnt give us any crumbs on what he was doing before he runs into us again. EXPLODES

taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo , @moineauz

“Achoo!“

The cold was starting to get annoying.

Sunday sighed, biting back his frustration as he wiped his nose with a handkerchief and tugged his scarf to better shield his face. It was a good thing he’d decided to bundle up before leaving Penacony; otherwise, he would’ve already died of pneumonia.

The Planet of Dreams and Festivities was the very definition of a paradise. Everything, from the colors, the sounds, and the temperature was carefully maintained to never be too much or too little.

Sunday did not have such privileges here.

He didn’t remember when the last time he saw snow was. Back home, the closest he’d seen to a natural landscape was the Moment of Oasis, where tourists lounged about on the spectacular beaches - and even then, Sunday hadn’t exactly had time to indulge in such luxuries.

His nose was no doubt red from the cold, and his thighs burned from the long hike he’d decided to torture himself with. Wind battered his hood against his face, occasionally blocking his vision or smacking him. Sunday’s wings instinctively shielded him from the incoming snow that somehow made its way past his hood. He grimaced at the feeling of the ice catching and melting on his feathers, already dreading having to clean them out.

Upon reaching a somewhat flat piece of terrain, he gave himself mercy and allowed himself to stop for a break. His halo, his main weapon against frostbite, glowed gently with a heat not unlike a fireplace as he surveyed just how far he’d traveled.

Mountains upon mountains greeted his gaze, all jagged and covered with the same multi-colored snow that was the staple of this planet. He stood among fallen aurora, and down below, he spied a cluster of bright, warm lights that stood apart from the greens, blues, and purples of the snow: the cities, where he’d first arrived here.

Zastrugi was a planet infamous for its harsh conditions, rivaled only by the recently reintroduced Jarilo-VI. Even so, the people here prided themselves on their resilience, and gladly welcomed those seeking a challenge or a death-defying thrill.

In other words, it was a cemetery of the arrogant and the ambitious, and a perfect fit for Sunday’s current goals. After all, what better way to live a mortal’s life than to endure their struggles?

Sunday looked down at himself. His legs were weak, shaking and trembling from the hike, and no doubt were only kept standing due to adrenaline. His chest burned from haggard breaths, cut again and again from each frosty inhale. His head felt light. He wanted to die.

If this wasn’t suffering, he didn’t know what was.

It was invigorating.

Never before had he felt more alive, with the frost biting at his cheeks and the pain that ransacked his body. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, fighting yet strong and resilient and surviving. A soft smile graced his pale lips as his breath fogged in the air.

How strange, he mused. To find such joy in his own suffering… Was he always this twisted?

“I was wondering when you’d catch up.”

Sunday turned to see you sitting on a rock nearby, snow brushed off of stone so that you could sit without wetting your pants. One of your legs is propped up as you look out at the view, your bored expression proof enough that you’d been sitting there for a while.

You were a fellow traveler he’d met sometime on his travels. Sunday still groaned whenever he remembered your first encounter; he’d gotten swept up in a sudden storm and remembered too late that 1.) he didn’t know how to swim and 2.) his wings were not waterproof. Had you not dove into the raging tide and pulled him out, he would’ve drowned for sure.

Ever since then, you’d accompanied him on his travels - or, rather, he accompanied you on yours. Sunday, with what little he knew of the world outside of Penacony, knew not what his destination was, nor where he should head off to. Your goal was a little more simple - you wanted to see all that was beautiful in the universe.

Even if that meant climbing to the tops of unreasonably steep mountains or camping out in unbearingly hot deserts.

Thankfully, you weren’t opposed to his offer (begging) to join you - on the contrary, you were thankful that he had been the one to say it because in your words, you didn’t know if he would survive if you left him alone by his lonesome.

He still didn’t know what to make of that. For his own pride, he chose to ignore it for the time being.

“Were you waiting long?” he asked, gloved fingers holding the edge of his hood as to keep both it and the snow out of his face. You shook your head, your own hooded cloak flapping in the wind as you looked back out at the view.

“Not as long as I might’ve in the past,” you joked lightly. Sunday breathed a laugh.

Back when he’d first walked alongside you, he’d fought a long and hard battle with his own stamina. It was embarrassing when he thought back on it, how many times he’d have to ask you to stop for a break or even had to be carried by you to the nearest rest stop. Sometimes he wondered why you kept him around, but of course, he never asked.

But he’d grown stronger and more resilient since then, at least, he hoped he did - if not for you, then for his pride.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Your voice was rather wistful as you spoke, a little breathless and hushed, yet clear in the crisp, scarce air. “What do you think? Was it worth it?”

“I’m not so sure,” Sunday tried for a joke of his own - although, he wasn’t all joking. No matter how much he traveled, he could never get used to the feeling of his own breath scraping against his lungs as he heaved for air.

You, intuitive as ever, sighed knowingly. “Sit down. You look as if you’re going to pass out.”

Brushing aside some snow on the rock, you shifted over to make room for him. Gratefully, Sunday fought demons in order to stop his trembling legs from collapsing in from under him as he lowered himself onto the rock. That would’ve been mortifying.

His breath fogged in the air as he sighed, thankful for some rest. Around him, the snowfall was gentle and slow, and as the moonlight from Zastrugi’s two moons caught on each individual flake, ribbons of light came and passed like wisps of smoke.

An echoing click of metal caught his attention. He looked to his side and was greeted with a cloud of steam warming his face. In your hand was a small metal thermos that held what he assumed is either tea or hot water. You gestured for him to take it.

“Drink; you need to warm up before we continue. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you died of hypothermia.”

Sunday breathed his gratitude as he took the thermos. Your fingers brushed slightly, but with the cold, he registered it only after it was gone, and by then it was too late to respond. Still, his heart skipped regardless, and he turned away before he dwaddled too long, thankful for the cold that had already reddened his cheeks.

He blew gently on the liquid within, and took small, carefuly sips as to not burn his tongue (it’d happened before, and it was humiliating). He was delightfully surprised with the subtle floral tastes of white tea, his favorite. It was obvious that it had been sweetened, and the honey added was just enough so that it satisfied his cravings.

But, as Sunday drank away, the tea warming him from the inside, he never told you he liked white tea specifically, nor did he ever tell you how much sugar he preferred. How did you know?

Had you, every time you’d taken him to a local cafe or restaurant, watched and observed? Had you remembered, from the few times you’d seen him order or make a drink for himself?

His hold on the thermos faltered as fire rushed to his cheeks. In his chest, under all those layers of cloth and cloaks, a dance unfolded, his heart tip-tapping away, a steady rhythm that was both nerve-wrecking and comforting.

Sunday inhaled deeply, wings fluttering ever-so slightly, and pushed his thoughts away to focus on the tea, nearly burning his tongue in the process. You only raised a brow before returning your sight to the distant city. A comfortable silence enveloped the two of you.

As Sunday gazed down upon the scene, a sharp ache in his sides and a stiffness in his legs, he wondered - was this how Robin felt, when she performed from that grand stage of hers. Sure, the aurora couldn’t compare to the lightshow that accompanied his sister’s concerts, but still - there must be some similarities. Here, at the top of this world, he felt light, as if nothing could ever touch him.

“O chosen one, who dared to exceed his bounds. Sever your wings, descend to the mortal realm, and walk their lands. See what this world is truly like.”

Lady Bonajade’s words rang in his head. Instantly a scowl twisted his features.

He’d never liked the IPC, and he wasn’t going to start now - especially not with a snake like her. He could still hear her taunting voice, that indifferent condescention presented as good-natured pity dampening his mood. There wasn’t much that could truly anger him, but it only seemed natural that it was yet another IPC Stoneheart that managed the feat.

But still, she had been right… much to his chagrin. As much as he hated to admit it, he had flown too high from the people he wished to protect. Even the Astral Express - whom he respected far more than Jade - had made it clear: Know your people before you decide what was right for them.

“What’s on your mind?”

Sunday flinched. You peered at him from behind your hood, face gentle yet your brows were furrowed ever so slightly.

“Ah, I apologize.” He lowered the thermos to his lap. “I was… thinking.”

“I know,” you replied. Shifting slightly so that you could lean back on your hands, you stretched your legs out into the snow. “You do that a lot.”

With a kick, you sent the snow flying into an arch off the cliffside, creating another ripple in the aurora.

“Thinking too much in a place like this… seems like a waste, doesn’t it? Try and take a break from your brain, and just- see. Look at where you are.”

Sunday raised an abdominal wing to block the multi-colored snow from falling into his thermos. Shaking the snow off the twilight feathers, he sighed, staring into what remains of the tea.

You clicked your tongue. Snow crunched, and cloth shuffled, before the cap of the thermos blocked his view. Screwing it closed, you took the thermos from him, a twinge of annoyance tugging at Sunday as he mourned the last bits of tea still left in there.

Before Sunday could complain, however, you beat him to it.

“Don’t give me that look,” you teased lightly. “We’re almost to the top - you can finish your tea there.”

The beginnings of a pout tugged his lip, but with a reluctant sigh, Sunday abided. Pushing off of his knees, he brushed himself off.

“Very well,” he relented, but not without fixing you with a flat stare first. If you saw it, you didn’t say anything, for you had already begun your trek to the mountain’s peak.

The higher you climbed, the harsher the snow became. No matter how beautiful something was, Sunday found that he didn’t care if it was pelting him in the face with as much punch as a bullet. His hood became his shield, and he hurried to keep in pace with you.

Because unlike him, who specialized in Imaginary and Quantum manipulation, you were a master of fire. Your footprints lasted longer than his for the mere fact that you seemed to melt through the snow, and as long as Sunday kept close to you, he wouldn’t be at risk into becoming a popsicle.

But that was easier said than done. Again, you were far more traveled than he was, and as such you moved at a much faster pace despite the melting snow’s attempts at slowing you down. Sunday was already dreading the next morning - he’d have to do a full-body stretch for at least half an hour after this was all done if he wanted his legs to be functionable tomorrow.

Every now and then, you would glance back at him, as if making sure he hadn’t been swept up in an avalanche - which, if it weren’t unfortunately a valid concern, would’ve damaged his already ruined ego. And each time, Sunday would meet your gaze, and offer the tiniest of smiles before returning to his suffering.

By the time you had reached the summit, Sunday was well about to pass out. The air was thinner up here, making it hard to breathe, and his exhaustion did not make things easier. But he had done it, and surprisingly, he had kept in pace with you.

He breathed as much as he could, swallowing what little oxygen he could grasp from the top of the world. A wheeze or two ripped through his lungs. Wordlessly, you pressed his inhaler into his hand, a pat on his back to congratulate him. Sunday nodded his thanks.

Once his medication had done its magic and he no longer had to focus on the struggles of breathing properly, he realized that the world had gone silent. Snow no longer pelted at his face, and the aurora had gone dark.

And then he swept his gaze, and saw the clouds below him. Somehow, without noticing, he’d passed through them, and entered an entirely different plane of Zastrugi. Here, there was nothing but sky, and the stars - real, actual stars, not the false ones created by the snow, danced in nebulae above him.

And there was you, your cloak flapping in the wind as you gazed up at the cosmos. With so little light, he could only see your silhouette, but he has the impression that your back is turned towards him.

You are silent, as you always are when you see new sights. In moments like these, it was as if your breath had been stolen, and it is all you could do to absorb the picturesque scene before you, engraving it into your mind to store for all eternity.

Once, Sunday had expected you to take photos of your journeys, as a memento. But you never did. No, rather, you would stand there, memorizing every little detail, and then return to your temporary home to paint it instead.

And he swore, those paintings were almost always more magnificent than the places they were based on.

Sunday took one last look towards the everlasting cosmos before coming up to your side. Rather than the sky, the image he drank in was you. Your expression was soft, yet awe-struck, much like a child seeing the world for the first time. There was always a sort of melancholy in your eyes, but also a love for everything that he could drown in if you allowed him to.

You loved the world, and it was that love that he adored.

You turned to him, noticing his gaze, and for a moment, it was if time itself had stopped. His breath caught in his throat, and words died on his tongue. All he could do was look into your star-speckled gaze, all the colors of the universe casting their light onto the two of you.

What expression was he wearing, he wondered? A smile, or perhaps… something else?

But then you raised your hand, brushing it against his cheek ever so slightly, and all of those thoughts disappeared.

A smile wove onto your lips. “You had some snow left on you.”

Sunday tried not to miss your hand as it left him. His fingers trace what you had left, his gaze becoming lidded.

“Ah,” he breathed.

The corner of yours eyes crinkle, and you turned to the cliffside. Leaning over slightly, you peered over the edge, the clouds obscuring the true height of the fall. Sunday blinked.

“What are you planning…” he sighed, crossing his arms. You chuckled, turning slightly to meet his eyes.

“One way or another, we have to get down,” you pointed out. Sunday’s expression fell flat.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Your feet toed the edge, sending rocks and snow tumbling down. “You said you wanted to experience life as a mortal to the fullest, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t aware that included throwing oneself off a mountain.”

You shook your head, a grin surfacing. “You’re no fun, Sunday. Don’t you have those wings of yours? What do you have to worry about?”

Sunday’s answer was immediate. “You.”

“How sweet of you,” you commented as he came to besides you. “Well, then, you’ll just have to catch me, won’t you?”

Sunday squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “[Name], I swear upon all that is good in this world-”

He opened his eyes. You were already gone.

Sunday swore.

Midnight unfolded behind his back, clashing with his white cloak. Without so much as a second thought, he dove into the clouds headfirst, shooting through the sky like a meteor as he searched for you.

The second the fog of the clouds leave, however, he was thrust into a world of color. He fell alongside the snow, and unlike when he was on the mountain itself, he became a part of the aurora. The colors nearly blinded him, if not for the fact that he had his sights set on one thing - your falling figure, so close yet so far.

He tucked his wings as to fall faster. The second he reached you, he grabbed you, arms locking around your waist and pulling you into him, where it was safe.

“You’re a fool,” he scolded as your chest met his. You laughed, throwing your head back to return to the aurora.

“And yet, you saved me all the less.”

Sunday rolled his eyes as your legs wrapped around his waist. His wings returned to their full wingspan, catching the wind and ensuring that your fall didn’t end in a tragedy. He swerved and turned and glided, dodging peaks and keeping his sights on the city.

And all the same, you laughed, nothing short of pure glee in your voice.

And he sighed, fondness squeezing him regardless.

Yes, you were a fool.

But you were a fool he couldn’t help but love.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

hi! back with my bullshit. i've been feral about jing yuan lately, AGAIN. this man never leaves the crevices of my barely-wrinkled brain. this time, i'm thinking about sparring with him... you're both grinning and out of breath and you swear jing yuan is trying to rile you up even more with his constant grabbing you whenever he can. and then you end up pinned under him, with his big hands squeezing every piece of your skin he can like he's trying to tear you apart.. oh i'm drooling

punching bag — jing yuan

summary. you regret day in and day out that you asked general jing yuan to help you work on your swordsmanship, and it doesn’t help that he barely takes it seriously.

notes. hi mords my little goober this is for u. also for anyone that likes jing yuan. and praise. and ummm. sweaty sword fighting and making out. i guess.

warnings. minor innuendos. you can tell how i feel about jing yuan just by this piece alone.

“Stick it, old man.” Your sword blocks his, and you gasp in triumph. His blade is inches from your throat, but your own keeps it in place.

It is heavy, though. You geniunely wonder how he’s able to even fight with something that can crack a tree log in two faster than an axe can.

You pant in exasperation, and you almost choke on your spit with excitement. Though you feel as though to your face is on fire and your hair is matted with sweat, the smile on your face is golden.

General Jing Yuan grins. His teeth flash. “Well done.”

You pull back the weapon after a moment, exhausted as you swallow thickly. There’s adrenaline coursing through your veins, and your heart is pumping so sporadically you’re sure it’s about to escape from your throat.

Then, you do it again, and again, and again, and again, and your triumph slowly moulds into something worse. You feel utterly pathetic, being able to fend off the General of the Luofu as if it’s like spreading butter on bread.

To that, you lower your weapon after what seems like hours, but was only a few minutes. “Are you even trying?”

Jing Yuan teases you with a taut smile. “Why would you think otherwise? What if you’ve just dramatically improved?”

You scrunch your face up at that.

His eyes light up with mischief before he raises his weapon. “Come. Again.”

Hesitantly, you draw your blade once more. It’s the same cut as his, you’re sure, for a more even match. It’s hardly ‘even’ though, when one wrong move will have his weapon cracking yours into two. And you feel it every time you manage to stop him.

You clear your throat and stumble back for a moment. Maybe a second of pep talk and talking down to yourself. That usually works

Jing Yuan yawns when you take too long. He’s not even looking at you; rather, he’s busy observing his weapon for any impurities on the blade.

That sets you off.

Your face burns with fury and you reel your fist backwards until it flies at his stupid, dumb, handsome face.

He catches your knuckles easily with his palm. “Someone’s growing claws,” he whispers. He taps you lightly on the leg with his blade. “I am teaching you the way of the blade, first and foremost, before hand-to-hand combat.”

“Scared I’ll land a punch, old man?” you spit, trying to swipe at his face again.

“Terrified,” he responds. “Now. Shoulders back. Again.”

You huff.

Again.

He blocks.

He dodges.

You curse at him at first. He only replies with a fond chuckle.

Then, you stumble, over and over again. He manages to trip you with his foot about ten times. On the eleventh attempt, you stop his attack with a stomp on his blade, but he simply pulls it out from underneath you.

You pull the blade forward and try to slice his face in half. His weapon stops yours almost too easily.

You grow frustrated and almost throw your weapon to the floor in defeat.

“Start trying a little less?” you ask him through bated breaths.

“Having a rough time?” he teases before simply side stepping your next manoeuvre with his eyes shut, before one gentle shove of his finger against your back as you stumbling right to the floor. “Again. You aren’t balanced.”

You try to stand up, but your legs give out, and you crumble to your knees again. He’s not even holding you against the floor, and embarrassment flares in your stomach.

You try fanning at your face with your hands. The afternoon sun is beating down hot and hard, and you’re clearly not the only one struggling. Jing Yuan busies himself untying his hair to retire it since it has come loose and has begun sticking to his face.

You swallow distastefully as you stare up at him from the floor.

He straightens the ribbon in his hair and shakes out the sweat thats beginning to matt in his roots.

You’re too busy admiring his arms to give a shit about what he’s saying, considering his lips are moving. His stupidly big fucking arms. That you want him to squash you with until you can’t feel your face. And can’t breathe.

“Is that all you can take?” he hums. His palms must be sweating as he readjusts the fingerless gloves he’s wearing. He breathes out once, evenly.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you huff and manage to stand to your feet. “Some people aren’t immortal beings with ridiculous spouts of stamina.”

“The stamina comes from training,” he reminds. He’s retrieved your weapon, and he holds it out to you. “And discipline.”

Whatever. Begrudgingly, you snatch it from his hand and raise it.

“Imagine as if this is a fight to the death,” is all he tells you.

And you try. You really do try.

It’s almost as if he grows extra limbs when the time calls for it. Just when you believe both his hands are busy and you find an opening, he suddenly grows a third leg, or an extra finger, or something, and he’s magically stopped your next move. He can predict your every move; he can read every time you’re thrown off guard or you’re distracted or your foot stance is off. He doesn’t so much throw you to the floor, but rather allows gravity to do the work for him.

He does ensure you have a soft landing, however. So, you suppose he can play nice sometimes — that, and the last time he offered to be your punching bag, you’d ended up hitting your head so hard on the ground that you were stuck in the hospital for three days with a horrible concussion.

“Feeling any better?” he asked curiously a few hours after you’d been admitted. He’d been kind enough to visit your little room and was busy poking at a small teddy bear one of your friends had gifted you, alongside three cards and a bouquet of flowers.

That… he’d given you. Well, you think he did, because you don’t remember seeing them before he showed up. You were too miserable to really ask about it, though, so you kept your mouth shut.

“No,” you mumbled. “I feel like… shit.”

He hums sympathetically.

“I apologise again,” Jing Yuan said softly, slotting next to you on the bed and resting a hand on your arm. “If you need me for anything, do let me know.”

You take a deep breath to try and settle your queasy stomach.

“Yeah,” you slurred. Watching him is hard work as it is; you’re already dizzy and nauseous and you were growing antsy and worried that you’d need to puke again. Negative points if the General had to witness it. “Fuckin’ catch me next time.”

He grinned and lightly pinched your cheek, much to your chagrin. “Yes, General.”

You almost fly to the floor again, and Jing Yuan grabs at your hips and straightens you quickly.

You murmur, “I’m not gonna die if I fall.” Your face is hot with blood and you try to turn away from him to hide it.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” He’s even dusting off your shoulders and slicking back the short hairs stuck to your forehead. “You’re a fragile thing. I’d hate to see you get hurt again.”

You try and throw another punch.

He clicks his tongue when you almost crash your nose into his chest plate. And you’ve done that before — and Aeons, that hurt, too.

Miserably, you drop your sword and it clatters to the ground with a terrible noise.

You raise your arms up and thwack him in the chest lightly.

He hums. “Have I told you your arms look better?” He reaches and squeezes at one of your biceps. “Much better.” He looks content, and there’s a coy smile at his lips.

Your face burns.

Your eyes are sparkling, but disdain curls over your tone. “You’re a riot, General. Do you flirt with everyone like this?”

“Maybe,” he responds quickly.

You step back and clear your throat as you retrieve your weapon. “Don’t make me jealous.”

He’s just simply dodging everything, and the flat side of his sword smashes against your stomach, neck, thighs, ribs, anywhere he can reach.

It doesn’t help with every soft land he hits on you, he follows it up with a quick, “dead.”

He taps your ankle at one point and does it again. Your teeth grit and you try to slice his hand clean off.

He easily removes himself.

“I can’t block every angle,” you defend as he straightens up. “How can I block my face and my feet at the same time?”

“By foot stance,” he chimes in lightly. “Here’s a tip: stand back. A sword as deft as this one—” He reaches forward and pinches the tip of the blade between his fingers, “—can be used decently at a distance. Don’t stand directly in front of me.” He presents his own weapon. You don’t even try to hold it up. “Because of its weight, you have a distance advantage over me. And, I have to work around it.”

You listen. You don’t want to, out of spite, but you do. You know he’s not purposefully making you feel useless; he’s told you many times he thinks your skills are impressive. He’s more so attempting to rile you up.

And it’s working.

You’re too busy admiring his biceps to care. “Nice arms.”

He displays a boyish grin just for you. “Thank you.” Then, he readjusts his grip on the hilt. “If you weren’t so busy ogling, you’d have an opening.”

“I play nice, General,” you remind him. “I’m not going to cheat.”

“If you say so,” he taunts.

And then, he lunges for you.

General Jing Yuan hasn’t once initiated a fight on his hand, and it nearly takes you off guard. It’s been a back and forth of you trying to land a clean hit, and him easily avoiding your shots.

You just about manage to hold him off when you almost trip backwards. You regain your footing and nerves wrack up your spine. He swings again. He barely misses your neck when your sword clashes with his blade.

“Good,” he murmurs. “You’re learning.”

“Ooh,” you whisper. “I love it when you stroke my ego.”

“I know.” He tries again, this time reeling back and switching the blade to his left hand to try and catch you off guard. You block that one, too.

You giggle like an idiot.

Then, you shove him backwards with your sword and go for a swipe at his nose.

It doesn’t exactly go the way you planned. Not on your part. Jing Yuan praised you afterwards for the execution, but this is the General of the Luofu, and if he wanted to win, he would win. At any cost.

He trips you over just as easily as he had the other eleven times. Your hands instinctively fly out towards the ground to cushion your fall, but you don’t quite make it all the way into the grass this time.

He catches you again, this time in some makeshift position as if you’d been dancing instead of trying to literally kill him, but he does keep your head from smashing into the floor again. You can feel the headache forming just thinking about it.

Jing Yuan knocks the sword from your hand and it falls by your feet.

“I was having fun,” you whine lowly to him. “You always spoil everything.”

There’s exhilaration there, and you feel it surge in your heart, hot and heavy. You’re excited, somewhat. The adrenaline pumps through your veins, and your skin is so warm and light you feel as though you could pop at any moment.

It doesn’t help your case that the general is so close to you, and has a smile so wide you’re worried his face will split into two.

You admire him for a moment too long.

A moment so long that his grin grows impossibly wider, and mischief flares in his eyes.

His grip loosens.

Your heart drops to your stomach.

You scrabble in a panic and your arms swing around his shoulders.

He holds you again with a snicker.

“You win,” you declare finally. “I’m going home.”

“Sure.” He doesn’t move. “If you can free yourself, that is.”

You barely try to wriggle from his grasp before sighing. “C’mon. I’m tired.” His grip doesn’t even loosen his hold in the slightest. “We can do this tomorrow.”

“This is your last test,” he announces, somewhat dramatically. “Imagine that this is your final moment to choose between life and death.” With one hand still encircling your waist, the other lets go reach downward just enough to retrieve your sword. “There is very little you can do.”

The sword gently taps against your sternum, angled just enough for the tip to barely threaten a carving into your chest.

You claw at his arms, but he doesn’t budge. Your back strains with the position he holds you in, and your legs barely have enough leverage to keep you standing.

You are quite literally at his mercy.

And again, your footwork is off.

You grunt when he leans in close. Way too close for comfort. You feel somewhat like a caged animal, and you’re sure you look the part.

“There are decisions you can make, however,” he chides. “Five seconds. Think.”

You glance down at your weapon pointed at your chest. You hesitantly unwrap your arms from around his neck and try and grab at it.

In the time it’s taken you to muster the courage to let go of him, his grip loosens around your waist again. Your heart drops and you quickly curl your arms around his shoulders again.

“Too slow,” is all he remarks. “Four.”

You make a desperate attempt at wriggling from his grasp, but he only chuckles at your futility.

“Three.”

You almost give up. “This is dumb.”

“Two.”

You narrow your eyes at him. The worst idea springs to mind, and for the final second, you second-guess yourself.

“One–”

Your hands shift from his arms to his cheeks, and you draw him as close as you could before you strained your neck upwards.

Your lips press against his in a last ditch effort as a distraction, and for a moment, you believe it doesn’t work. He completely freezes up and stiffens in your grasp like a corpse.

The sword still presses to your chest, and you find it uncomfortable to inhale for a moment. It feels as though one wrong move will send the sharpened blade driving forth into your skin.

And then, he drops the weapon in favour of slotting his hand behind your head and keeping you on him. The sound of metal hitting the floor rings distantly in your ears.

His lips are coated in sweat, and you taste salt and oranges. The scent is addicting enough, oddly, and you sigh into his mouth with relief.

His hand wanders. Not dangerously, but enough to keep you alert. It slides from your hair to your throat, and it remains against your jugular for a good long while. His thumb then flutters to the notch and keeps you still and placated.

Then, he rubs gently at your sternum, as if in apology. You pay it no mind. Your hands are still, save for the gentle stroke at the nape of his neck.

He’s teasing you, you figure out, even when he’s all wrapped around your finger like the ribbon in his hair. He pulls away constantly to see if you’ll give chase, and of course you do.

You’d feel almost pathetic if he wasn’t eagerly returning the kiss like an idiot.

He then pulls away. Much too quickly for your liking.

You frown and try to tug at his hair to bring him on your tongue.

Jing Yuan presses his fingers to your lips. “I thought you said you played nice?”

“Whatever, handsome,” you mumble. You reach upwards and tussle his already messy hair.

His lips are red with spit. Your spit. You did that. Gross.

Your heart flutters and you giggle.

“That would’ve been a good time to throw a punch,” he says after a moment.

You think about it. Then, you reel your fist back and aim at his face. “Sure.”

His other arm holds strong wrapped around your waist when he catches your wrist. Instead, he places soft kisses along your knuckles.

Something hot bubbles in your stomach. Easy.

“Will you kiss every opponent that bests you like that?” Jing Yuan asks quietly, a sneaking grin growing on his reddened lips.

You hum softly and cup his face gently. “Maybe.”

He scoffs lightly. “Don’t make me jealous.”

game au: voicelines

notes: fluff, paralive game au, no content warnings, kinda brainrot

who else remembers when they lied to us about a paralive game? anyway here's some theoretical lines the characters would have about their significant other

༄ kanata yatonokami:

⁀➷ about their lover:

“ha? the fuck does that have to do with you? 

… did they say something about me?”

⁀➷ fleeting memories:

“nayuta and i didn’t have shit growing up as kids, and they were always annoying about it. dropping by snacks, workin’ extra shifts to help us out - not like i asked for anything. i hate owing people though, so - … oi. get that damn smile off your face. they’re the one that wouldn’t leave me alone.”

⁀➷ quality time:

“mhm, i’ll be by later. love you too.”

[phone clicks]

…

“geez, you ever mind your own business? you can turn in that job yourself. i promised them i’d go by their house today and they won’t quit naggin’ me about it. huh? that’s not what i fucking mean! if i didn’t like em, i wouldn’t even be dating them. they just like sitting at home and talking to me. it’s weird but… makes em’ happy, so whatever.”

⁀➷ the future:

“nayuta won’t get off my case about marriage and all that shit ; says i should hurry up and give them a ring. doesn’t he know how old we are?! ‘sides, i don’t need some asshole with a bible to tell me we’re gonna be together forever. it’s either them or nobody, and they know it.”

༄ iori suiseki:

about their lover: 

“i know it’s tempting, but that one over there ain’t one of my hostesses, so try not to stare so hard. my dearest deserves more respect than that, dont’cha think?”

⁀➷ fleeting memories:

“honestly, i thought everything was over after the suiseki massacre. my family helped out a lot, but they were the one to really drag me out of my slump. it’ll be hard as hell for me to ever repay em’ for that, but ‘m still tryin’ to this day.

speaking of, can ya run out and grab em’ for me? it’s been an hour since i’ve seen em, and i’m goin’ through withdrawals.”

⁀➷ safety:

“i’d like to think we’re pretty guarded these days, but i can never be too sure, yanno? honestly, in an ideal world i could just keep em’ in the house forever to make sure nothing can even come close to harming them. hm? is my face that scary?”

⁀➷ the future:

“oi, c’mere for a sec? i want your opinion. the band on this ring is nice, but the diamond cut on here is much more suited to their taste. ahaha, pick up yer jaw! ‘m not proposing anytime soon. just weighin’ out my options for now. i got too many things goin’ on to give em’ the real life they deserve, but one day i’ll be able to make em’ mine forever.”

༄ shion kaida:

⁀➷ about their lover: 

“hmm? sorry to disappoint, but i’m not really doing stuff like that anymore. my angel might kill me if they catch wind of this, so you can go find someone else to please you, right?”

⁀➷ fleeting memories:

“i can’t blame you for wanting to come back - everyone always does. they were the first time i was the one to go back, though. so cold hearted towards me, i couldn’t help but want to see them crack. ah, but i wouldn’t advise you to try the same with them. i’m not a fan of sharing.”

⁀➷ bad habits:

“it’s hard not to fall into old ways, if i’m being honest. they’re understanding enough, given the… unique circumstances of my situation, but have enough of a backbone to put me in my place. 

though, just between us, i do it on purpose sometimes. seeing their angry face gets me all sorts of riled up. i’m falling in love at quite the unhealthy pace, fufu.”

⁀➷ the future:

“stability isn’t exactly my thing - i’m sure you’re not surprised. the two of us haven’t talked about that sort of thing yet, so i’m avoiding it as long as i can. i’d hate to see their disappointment when i tell them marriage isn’t in the cards for me.

… is what i’d like to believe, but they’re so cute i just might find myself caving into their charms. maybe they’re the manipulator between us after all.”

༄ ryu natsume:

⁀➷ about their lover:

“yaho~! have you seen my alien commander? last i saw they were UP IN SPAAAACCCCEEEE - oh! there they are! WAHAHA, ATTACK TIME!”

⁀➷ fleeting memories:

"hm hm hmmmm - aha! that cloud looks like my rice ball! one time they shot me with a HUUUGGGEEE love beam and GAH! i was their slave for the next ten million years! ryu-kun doesn’t mind though - we can rule the whole world together.”

⁀➷ haunting thoughts:

“ryu-kun doesn’t want to be around anyone right now. they’re the only one who can make the monsters go away - but i don’t want them to see me the way i am. i like them so much… it really hurts.”

⁀➷ the future:

“d’you think they’d get mad if i wear a cat suit to our wedding? of course we’re getting married! everyone in japan is invited! we’ll have lots of cheese and takoyaki, shiki-kun will be the maid of honor, and we’ll be carried down the aisle with pigeons!”

༄ toma hikage:

⁀➷ about their lover:

“hey, hey! which selfie is cuter? i like their hair in this one, oh - their smile is so bright here! but they’re irresistible when they’re annoyed at me! and then this is one where they’re sleeping, but this one’s filter is pretty, and this one -”

⁀➷ fleeting memories:

“long before visty was even a thing, they were always by my side. honestly, i doubt i would’ve become an idol without their encouragement. even with that horrible old face of mine, they always talked about how beautiful i was. haaa, i miss them so much! i need to call them right now!”

⁀➷ overbearing fans:

“maybe saying i’m everyone’s idol was a bad idea, haha. they get kinda jealous sometimes when we’re approached too often, but if i’m being real with you, it’s so hot! the way they call me theirs and grip my hand… totally heart pounding!”

⁀➷ the future:

“i hate to think about the day when visty isn’t a group anymore, but the idea of living a normal life with them is kinda nice, you know? waking up late, going grocery shopping, picking up the kids from school, family vacations. not anytime soon, obvs, but i can’t imagine ever wanting it with anyone else.”

HEIRLOOM

── ♡ FAUST LAVINIA

faust's painful reminiscence of the past, just before everything was lost.

Most nights, Faust dreams of fire.

It nips at his blistered, cracked soles as his parched throat screams for mercy or water. Not a single sound ever leaves his lips, and he’s left with this helpless silence and the burning tightness of rope against his skin. Through his vision blurry with tears and pain, he’ll see Alec, grim-faced and like a skeleton. The flames crackle louder.

Sometimes, Alec’s face is swapped for another, and he’ll see you standing desolately amongst the crowd of still bodies. He can never see the expression you are making, but you always turn and leave halfway. The dreams where you are there always manage to hurt the most.

He rouses himself awake, and after so many centuries of these same nightmares, his heart no longer pounds and he does not desperately grasp for the bedsheets to his side. Now, all he feels are dull aches and a fresh wave of regret. He forces his sweaty body to sit up and reaches blindly for his jug of water. It does little to relieve, but Faust has long since accepted that little can soothe him. He has hurtled to a murky territory in his mind long ago, and he’s only just begun those reluctant steps towards greener grass.

He wonders if you’d be proud of him, but he quickly abandons the notion by digging his face back into the cotton fabric of his pillow. Useless thoughts.

(i)

Faust can’t recall a time when he hasn’t yearned for you. It came as easy to him as breathing. In that sense, you were also integral to his survival through childhood.

He remembers his mother, back when her face wasn’t covered in grime and she still had a full head of hair, who liked to coo that you and Faust have been drawn together as early as babies. You would crawl towards the space he played, and his tiny fists would cling to you even while doing something as mundane as napping. His mother and yours always paired the two of you together, just from the fact you both were wizards and there would be no solidarity to be had outside of each other. This closeness remained, even as the both of you grew into your heights, and tragedies continued to happen around you. However, you both lived in absolute certainty that life would always remain like paradise as long as you had each other.

It was a pipedream because eventually, Faust has a sister and his father disappears into the night, leaving the scrawny teenage boy to quickly take up the helm of his family name. He changes almost overnight, and spring days tending to chores and sneaking off to play vanish. There is resentment in his violet eyes, even as he gently tends to the sobbing baby in his hands. There is anger burning within him when he watches his mother be laughed at and spat on by chauvinist men as she asks around for laborious work. Life dealt him a cruel hand, and he stays awake to the cries of his sister as he wonders what he did to deserve this.

Your presence also begins to dwindle in his life but to no fault of your own. It’s he who keeps pushing you away, telling you he has work to do or he can’t waste his spare moments on you. He sees your hurt and desperately wishes you would one day give up and find someone better to bless your presence with. You never do, and you still knock at his door every morning even when nobody can open it for you. He knows you don’t like this new version of him, but history keeps you returning to the front step.

Some of the light returns to his eyes when he meets Alec Granvelle, who unbeknownst to Faust, had been watching him heal an injured cat found near a hedge. When he heard a “That’s amazing!” behind him, his heart threatened to jump out of his throat. The stranger, eyes the colour of bluebells and hair akin to the feathers of a dove, moves to sit beside him, and Faust’s fear stills to a stop when the boy asks to see more magic. After he is entertained, he still follows Faust back home and begins aiding in the chores without prompting.

When the pale-haired boy finally leaves, Faust thinks that will be the end of it, until the next morning when his door is carelessly opened and Alec walks in as if he owns the place, ready to help out again. No matter how many sharp remarks Faust throws his way, Alec never flinches, and soon Faust reluctantly lets him occupy a small space in his life. He sometimes feels guilty when he thinks of you, but decides it's for the better. You will always deserve better.

Life shifts courses again when Alec visits one day, with you following closely behind him. Alec proudly announces he made a new friend that he wanted him to meet, ignorant to the facts, and you’ve decidedly ignored the blue-eyed boy to fix Faust a disappointed stare. When Alec leaves later that evening, Faust apologises to you sincerely and slowly things begin to settle into their norm.

With the added addition of Alec, a trio is formed and while life does not stop being a hardship for him, Faust finds that he is coping better now that he has the two of you to look forward to seeing. Despite this, you don’t seem fond of Alec and the situation only worsens with the white-haired boy’s flippant attitude. He didn’t understand, always assuming the two of you would have gotten along. You both were stubborn, chatty and free-spirited. However, he decides to leave it be and have the both of you work it out on your own, but it only takes you a night to childishly confess you were jealous, much to his bewilderment and Alec’s amusement. Since that day, a silent rivalry had been born between you and Alec, fighting over Faust’s affections much to the wizard’s bemusement. Idiots, he thought affectionately.

Faust, now four hundred years old and bitter, wishes he could have told you that you were right in not putting your unconditional trust in Alec Granvelle. The only idiot had been him.

He clutches the wedding band in his hand tightly.

(ii)

Despite his penchant for joking around, Alec was an overthinker. Faust pins this to be the reason for Alec’s ultimate undoing.

Alec was always the one with the concepts, while Faust had all the skills to see it to completion. The proposal of a revolution was their grandest, and final plan.

Faust never liked the leader of the country and the nobles who maintained the system. Alec was in a similar agreement. They needed change, and they knew this as they watched the common people struggle while the wealthy paraded the streets in luxurious clothing, even a piece of fabric worth the yearly income of a single villager. It escalated when Faust’s mother died of a preventable illness, unable to afford the expenses to see a doctor despite Faust almost breaking his back to afford the fees. She had to be buried at a hillside, an unmarked grave because they couldn’t afford a headstone. The memory of holding his little sister’s tiny hand in his as she wailed loud enough to shake the Earth’s core had been burned to his mind, and he never wanted to see her cry like that again.

Alec brings up the idea as the three of you sit at a riverbank, overlooking glimmering water as the sun threatens to set on the horizon. You react first, the glare you send is scathing, but you go ignored as Alec’s eyes fix exclusively on the desolate Faust, who sits with his legs to his chest, numb with grief. There is a long silence, and he feels your hand gently rest on his arm in worry.

“Let’s do it,” He mummers and blue eyes glow under the setting sun. He pays little mind to your visible displeasure. Despite your reluctance, you never left. If Faust could have foreseen the future, he would have told you to run and never look back. A fruitless effort, because even if you knew the road following Faust would lead straight to hell, you would have danced all the way there.

(iii)

With Alec’s charisma and Faust’s leadership, the revolution army had already begun to kick off. They clambered supporters from all corners, humans and wizards alike. Alec’s preaching for unity and a centralised government appealed to the angry but hopeful masses, from which they met another addition to their group. Lennox Ram was a quiet man, a wizard and an ex-miner who has lived a solemn life of struggle and loss, and the revolution’s message was quick to touch his heart. He became a devout member and eventually began a close comradery with him, Alec and you. Unlike with Alec, it was easy for you to become fond of Lennox, and Faust figured you were just drawn to the reserved types. If you weren’t around him, you were with Lennox, and similarly, the dark-haired man seemed fond of you.

The first time Alec made a joke about you and Lennox becoming an item, Faust felt himself go cold.

“Don’t talk about them while they aren’t here,” He lightly scolds as he twirls the stick of chicken leg over the open fire, distractedly watching the meat slowly turn brown just so he doesn’t have to look into his companion’s observant eyes.

“My apologies, dear friend,” He chirps, but there is an underlying tease in his voice, a warning sign for what’s to come. “I shouldn’t say such when I know how you feel for them.”

Faust almost drops his dinner into the fire.

“Are you mad?” He retorts instantly as Alec roars in laughter, amused by his friend’s visible distress.

“Perhaps, but even a loon could see the tension.” He hums before taking a large bite of the meat in his hand. “At least from their end.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I was rooting for the both of you, you know?” Alec jumps to explain, picking up on Faust’s growing irritation. “I suppose we have all been far too busy to spend time one-on-one, but even so you haven’t been paying much attention to them, have you?”

Alec’s words send the violet-eyed wizard to silence. Did he seriously imply that you had romantic feelings for Faust? He’s known you before the both of you could even talk. You’ve always been there, and he’s aware he takes advantage of your loyalty, at the very least he’d be aware of the fact you held such affection for him. He lifts his head when he picks up the bell of your laughter, watching you as you pass by the campground carrying blankets and quilts for the night, Lennox conversing beside you.

His heart seizes in his throat. Oh.

(iv)

“How beautiful!” You rave with your hands pressed to your chest, and this is the happiest Faust has seen you in a while. Nobody blames you for your excitability, the joy of today is infectious, and nothing cheers up the mood quite like a wedding. The announcement of the union between Charlie and Erica came as a surprise, and for the first time instead of strategising for battle, the revolutionary members were able to focus their attention on something more light-hearted and fun. You especially were devoted to the planning of the event, and this is where Faust learns something new about you.

“I would love to get married,” You whined over the rim of your glass, to which Faust nearly splutters into his drink. “It’s always been a dream of mine!”

That’s not true, because Faust remembers you had wanted to be a performer, a farmer, a doctor, and even a merchant at one point. When he says this, you scowl at him with no real ire in your eyes.

“Okay, well, it’s a dream of mine more recently!” You snap as Lennox, surprisingly, is the one who breaks into chuckles. “I’m only getting older. I’m losing out on my chance for young love! Nobody wants you when you are old and weary.”

“Now that’s not true,” Alec laughs nervously, reaching over to gently pat your arm. You must have been in a really good mood to not shove his hand away. “Who knows, the love of your life could be just around the corner.”

Faust pointedly ignores the teasing smile Alec shoots his way.

“He better hurry up. I’m tired of waiting,” You huff, tilting your head as you drown the remains of your drink. You sounded less petulant and more sad. Nobody around the table notices but him.

-

As the cleanup of the small but lavish wedding comes to a close, Faust is the one who walks you back to your quarters. The cicadas chirp in tune with your rambling as you recall the auspicious day, despite the wizard having been beside you the entire time. He chooses not to point this out, a lightness in his chest as he finally has you to himself. For this brief moment, there is no war. There are no battles. There are no casualties. It’s just you and him chattering to each other as if you were starry-eyed kids again.

However, no time in the world would be enough, because you both slow your pace as your tent gets closer and closer. Soon, this peace will end and you both will be back tomorrow to your busy schedules with nothing more than passing glances. Faust bites the bait, blurting out the question that has been haunting him all day.

“Were you serious when you said you wanted to get married?” He asks, violet eyes flickering to your form. You ready yourself for a joke but seem to bite back when you take note of his stony expression.

“Yes,” You admit, but you hold no pride, sounding defeated instead. “It’s… gotten lonely. I just can’t help but think about the rest of my life looking like this.”

All because I choose you and this revolution over my happiness, Faust silently finishes for you. No stronger guilt causes his heart to sink than this one. It feels like his responsibility. A terse silence follows your reply before Faust opens his mouth again.

“If you could marry anybody, who would you choose?”

The question surprises both you and him, your eyes widening while he feels like his heart is beating so loud that everyone within the camp can hear him. You are quick to disguise your shock with a contemplative look, pressing a figure to your chin. After an agonising minute, you carefreely shrug.

“Anybody that would have me, I guess.”

“That’s not good enough,” Faust argues sharply and you frown in confusion. “You don’t marry someone just to settle with them.”

He was ready for you to shoot back with a defensive statement. Instead, your eyes soften and your tense shoulders fall, seemingly touched by his concern. You don’t respond, and Faust figures it’s the end of the conversation and readies to bear you farewell. What you say next almost makes him drop the lantern in his hand.

“... Then I’d choose you,” You whisper under your breath, loud enough for only him and The Great Calamity to hear. The night breeze suddenly feels like ice to his skin, and the fatigue of today withers away instantly. He almost wonders if he’s imagining this.

“What?” He says cleverly, voice hoarse. You look up at him, eyes glassy and hopeful, and when a sheepish smile makes its way to your face, he already knows you are about to laugh away your sudden confession.

He doesn’t give you the chance, stealing away your breath with his lips pressed to yours. He barely registers that he’s dropped the lantern to the ground when you press back against him, desperate. The rest of the world fades into the background until all that remains is you, you, you.

Almost four hundred years later, Faust still can’t say whether that night had been a mistake.

(v)

“What an ugly winter,” You mutter from where your head rests against his shoulder, your hand clutching his arm tightly. He knows you aren’t being literal, as the flakes that litter the sky and the snow-covered hill are unarguably beautiful. It was because of the events that had transpired earlier, Alec’s blood painted into the snow miles away. The man himself rests inside a medic tent, sleeping away the effects of healing magic. Faust had been practically forced out of the way by the army’s nurses after he had found out about his best friend’s missing arm. You decide to accompany him outside as you wait for the news regarding Alec’s health.

Faust doesn’t respond, and he knows you don’t expect him to, sitting in silence as snowflakes dance with the winter wind, the air forbidding. It felt like a sign of the worst of times. Oh, how right would that assumption have been.

“Everyone keeps leaving,” You speak again almost half an hour later. Your voice sounds watery, and your grip tightens. You had just begun recovering from the news of Erica’s death, who left behind an aggrieved widower, and now Alec’s ticking minutes hung over the air like a warning. “Do we even have any time left?”

Faust, again, doesn’t reply. The both of you don’t cry despite the tears that line your lashes. The answer was obvious. The sands of the hourglass do not stop, and the wedding ring around his and your fingers only tightens. Would it have been better to die on the battlefield alone, or knowing you would be leaving behind someone who loves you so?

It begins to storm.