#a lil bit inspired by kny because im a weeb

[wincore]

Under the stars, longing, and jaeminnl ♥️♥️♥️

theme: demon!au

tw: mentions of blood, mature themes

Somewhere, the sound of a flute begins. 

You look up, your brush in hand hovering just above the yellowing paper. The red is smeared in the sunset, not quite finished yet. The papers remain scattered everywhere, artwork after artwork in a myriad of emotions that had left you last night.

Fear. That’s what you felt.

You get up, setting aside your work and slowly slide the door open. The smell of cherry blossoms waft in first, followed by the cold air of the night. The festival has only begun, putting your heart at ease with the bustle of people, children and their laughter. The song unfurls itself as soon as you step outside, the notes on a flute lovelier and older than most everything you hear.

You know this song. It’s Jaemin’s favorite to play.

On a whim, you decide to take a stroll. The song mellows out to a more comforting tone, the one you’re used to and the one Jaemin never completes when he plays for you, always interrupted with his laugh and three kisses. A flush creeps onto your cheeks at the memories. You quickly sweep them aside.

“Some wooden ornaments for our lovely guest?”

“Candies for everyone! Only eight coppers!”

“If you can throw three of them, you win!”

“Perhaps you are in need of a little respite, darling. Care to spend the night with me?”

You snake through the crowds and peddlers, a strange gathering of all things pure and sinful under the blood moon. The morning feels only a few moments ago, the sky bluest you’ve ever seen and the winds warm and inviting. You wish Jaemin were there to see it, fascination always in his eyes at tales of daylight. Now the air bites, the sky a dark red with anticipation hanging in every bit of starlight that dares cross the moon.

You pass the wine shop and the silk shop, exquisite fans adorning the delicate hands of the women standing outside to call passersby in and yet—it’s not beautiful enough. It’s not what you’re looking for.

You stop abruptly, weighing the consequences of your decision. If you choose to visit Jaemin again, are you breaking a promise or keeping it? You had parted with a bitter goodbye, after all. 

The churning in your heart continues yet still, a gentle longing for his eyes, his smile.

Your eyes follow his fingers on the flute, relaxed and rhythmic. He stands in front of the large cherry blossom tree, in the midst of lanterns and people distraught by his song, the effect he has all too familiar to you. The white mask over his face is painted in the design of a rabbit, blood red markings of whiskers on the cheeks and a crescent moon over the forehead. You’d made it a few weeks ago. You didn’t think he’d wear it.

You hiss at the sudden pain in the lobe of your ear. You look around to see a boy running towards you, frantically apologizing afterwards, a little collection of darts in his hand. You pick up the shining metal from the ground beside your feet, muster up a smile despite the pain and return it. He leaves with a bow and it takes you a few moments to notice the music has stopped.

You can see Jaemin’s eyes through the mask, dark and warm—so human, even of they’re not. He looks straight at you, flute in hand forgotten as the crowd around him disperses, thinking it’s the end of the song. 

Jaemin wastes no time in walking towards you, the inability to see his face behind the painted mask terrifying and yet, you’re not afraid of him. You’ll never be afraid of him. You say that to yourself every night.

Jaemin pulls off the mask, lips colored light pink and a smile begging to take shape on them. The light shines on his brow bone, a little quirk to it as dark hair spills over. His eyes widen ever so slightly and his lips part but he makes no sound.

“I missed you,” he says, finally. “Why didn’t you come see me?”

“Not here, Jaemin,” you respond, eyes shifting in between people around you.

Jaemin presses his lips into a thin line, bending a little to see your face better. He examines the side of your ear, wiping the blood away with his thumb and you startle at the contact. There’s a serene glaze over his eyes, nothing that gives anything away.

Momentarily, the image from your nightmare comes back. The blood on Jaemin’s hands, chest, lips. 

You shake your head. He would never do that. 

And yet, you had asked him to stay away. You had said that night was your last, you had given back something he gifted to you in broken pieces. You’d said it was over, the game you were playing. Oh, if it were only just a game to the two of you.

Jaemin takes you by the hand, heat searing through as he pulls you behind him through another flock of people, too busy with the pretty satin and bright lights to care about young lovers. It smells like smoke for a good few seconds, the men at a corner shop gambling away, before you can take a breath again. Incense sticks cleanse the air a few shops away, people praying to the shrine as they pass by. A few turns more and you land at a quieter spot, in a circle of grass beside two lanterns. No shops here, no crowds other than the occasional passerby and a few trees lining the end of the village path.

He can’t be what he claims to be, you’d thought once. His eyes are too kind, hands too gentle—so human, you think once again. The villagers had stories of a demon in red, a handsome boy with enticing lips and sharp teeth tearing out hearts from still-living bodies. 

He’d confessed it, to you. Regret seemed an old friend to him.

“I bought two,” he says, turning to you with a smile.

“Even if I didn’t come?”

“Even if you didn’t come.”

You sit across from him, the beating of your heart rapid and just a pulse away from uncontrollable. His yukata dips low against his chest, made of simple cotton colored deep red with a black obi. He looks a little lost, a dreamy look in his eyes as he stares off into the distance. You’ve seen this look several times, usually before an offhanded remark makes its way out of his mouth, the sheer simplicity of it making you laugh. He’s so beautiful, you think before shaking yourself. It’s not right. This can’t be right.

Jaemin places a hand against your cheek and you wince, his hand retracting immediately.

“I scare you, don’t I?” he asks, frowning as he keeps his hand clenched shut in the other.

Sometimes he does. Sometimes it’s for different reasons. He can’t be what he says he is because it’s love he’s made of. Love and affection, and the sense of belonging even when everything else is freezing you through your skin.

Jaemin looks away, a slow gulp moving down his throat. It’s familiar—the look he gives when he wants to be forgiven, pretends he doesn’t.

“Jaemin,” you say, breathless. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Jaemin looks back at you, a short stretch of relief in his eyes before he smiles wide, hands pressed against your cheek again. You place your hand over his, smiling as you look down with the sudden fear you’ll kiss him if you stare long enough.

“Can I do this again then?” he asks, voice lowered.

“Do what?”

He cradles your face, smile faded away as he pushes his lips against yours in a frenzy of sorts. For a moment, you feel ecstasy. You respond with the same persistence, your sense of touch outside of him severe and cold. His hands travel to your waist, securing you in warmth as you continue to kiss, the feeling nestling within your chest. 

A fox cries out in the distance as if it were searching for the two of you. Keeping your breath soft and shallow, you wish only to keep going like this. His lips move away from yours only to press against your jaw, neck and collarbone in a trail of blossoming heat. You let out a soft gasp but you don’t stop him, despite your best judgement.

“I love you, and only you,” he breathes against your skin.

You believe him. For now at least, till the night is over and till you learn to love a demon and all his sins.

glossary:

yukata - a type of casual kimono

obi - sash, often of a kimono