#holds aureate starlight...

[perdidit-vulpes]

they r so queer....

[sasorikigai]

"five times touched" 83c

send me "five times touched" for a drabble about five times my muse touched yours! || @yetremains || selective accepting! 

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || 一. Hanzo Hasashi’s life may be a foretold miracle; but he didn’t believe it until he felt its pain, and the miracle was freedom. Gods and immortals, they wouldn’t understand miracles, because they would have to face death to understand what it means, for Hanzo’s sentence to be deferred, to be saved by the unfurling string of his heart. The best miracles hurt; for they make him feel small and alone in the universe, but together with everyone who feels that way too, connected by fragility and wonder and hope. No longer, Hanzo Hasashi believes in miracles, but he believes for both of them. Fire ignites when hands hold hands, slipping hair under night; his devoted time and love in the throes of his sinking quagmire of unconscious that continue to drain and siphon him. Even in the eidolon breathes through him as the air becomes a ravening luster, in the vacuity of oblivion, beneath the agoraphobic infinity that threatens, Hanzo’s gaze that once would become feathers upon thickened haze of his unconscious becomes cimmerian ash, his burning inferno fueling through the depths of Yang’s familiar gaze filled with pale glitters that reminisce Hanzo of reddened moon affixed in the skies.  

二. There are so many lovely things in the world; lovely, made to be loved, soft like flower petals and that look in his eyes when he says something sweet. And strong like the first push of green through the snow, but oh-so-gentle as the graveled rumble of his voice would smooth like the bleeding red of the rose petal, becoming pliable and fragile under the touch. Hanzo kisses back of Yang’s hand, and it’s an offer and a plea and a gift; how he holds her like something precious as his eyelashes flutter against her skin. In the way how sunsets and sunrises and every way of sunlight can shine down through clouds and rain and dapple through trees. How could he not see the aureate gold of his light and not think how wonderful is it to alive? 

三. Here is what Hanzo remembers. The rhythm of Yang’s heartbeats. The way she usually takes her coffee black, but she doesn’t say anything when he sneaks in some sugar into her cup, because she deserves sweet things in her life. There were melting not caused by fire, and yet, the motionless desire manifests as the novel life of delectation, as the sunflower radiance of flame tendrils become multitudes of petals, as they become glittering pieces of his fragmented heart, dancing in the corners of his melancholic home. They are creating the verses of loneliness in Hanzo Hasashi’s half-lidden eyes, adding rhymes of heartbreak, and singing an ode to the pain. How his soul feels no less than the weary old clothes, which have been ditched in the virtue of new fashionable ones, and lying all alone beneath the dust trapped in the closet of loneliness. The only companion it has would be the lingering chaotic mess. It is not the first time Hanzo has been left in the darkness, but the melancholic blues and onyx blacks that push him into this ocean of suffering will shine a light, even through the bleeding scars. For his heart exudes new and real promises; always waiting for her, always waiting for one as the ebbing flow of his heartbeat resonates against Yang’s splayed fingers. 

四. Maybe Hanzo wants to feel this pain crawling towards his bones, maybe he wants to push himself in a void he cannot get out of, and maybe he wants it to cut deep, to leave its mark, to remember it by. A souvenir, forever on him, or maybe just until the moment he dies. In his deepest slumber, his weary mind sleeps, as the darkness consumes the rampant thoughts at least ephemerally until the morning comes. The glory of his rise will tremble the earth, for it will become intoxicated with his ember’s splendor, as his infused essence will match that of a solar flare. Harumi Hasashi may become his paradox, perpetually living inside his mind, though Hanzo is never dark and uncertain of the newfound love, nor constantly tormented by the laments of his severed love; no longer, would he drown in the regret-ridden sea, as their devotion becomes intense and unique. It never sleeps, and it would become one worthy of eternity and myth. For paradise is those moments when Hanzo is alone with Yang, resting safe and sound inside her arms, loving every second of this devotion that is between them. The cradling emanation of his hearth-fire becomes the silent meadows, as the carnival of starlight echoes through their shared obsidian tapestry, as the scintillating palm of stars flow with their exchanged gaze, even in their slumber. 

五. Society applauds resilience - bouncing back failure after failure, but forgets that healing precedes a rebound, that only with rest will he come back stronger than ever. In his awakening, his essence expels what used to restrain him; what was confessed to him at nightfall manifesting as each unbidden desire that teases them down the rivulet of his impatient skin, speaking with his eyes for he can translate his heathen passions as waterfalls seducing early morning dreams. Yang’s voluptuous, muscled frame awakens him in tremblings, and Hanzo Hasashi knows scent of her before even his lips smile before dawn’s amber forms a halo, teasing between their invisible curtains. He hears her gentle laughter, the length of her in shadows, coalesced into his own nakedness, and in curves wide and alluring, Hanzo finds himself wanting her again as if it were early spring, akin to earth breathing with its whole expanse for the first time; alive, alive, and unfolding. And he would continue to relearn the ways, the rhythms, the rituals as the balmy rose petals of his lips kiss her again and again, as the whisper of the sweet song becomes an orchestra in the echoic complexity as once quieted world blossoms with effulgent colors. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || 

[aurealmaster-a]

“ && I wish I knew how long we’ll have,    It’s like you blink && so much time has passed,    At the end when my heart beats it’s last,    I will still w a n t you    Who can say what tomorrow holds?    Where I’ll end up if I take this road?    People come && people go,    I love you && that’s all I know. “ 

    He lays down first in bed alone, but the sheets are too cold-  the room too quiet and bed too big.  The empty space and sound eats away at his heart, threatens to carve in and hollow him out.  His anxieties poke and prod, play at his heartstrings and will not let him rest.  He sits up in the dark and feels numb.  Is that it?  A feeling of being unfulfilled, incomplete.  A fear.  Tomorrow is the harbinger of true ending; are his affairs in order?  Has he said all he has to say?  All he needs too?  ( An immediate answer of thought:  NO. ) 

   He rises from bed, bare feet on cold hardwood floor and pads quietly into the adjacent living area-- No sign of Láeg at first, of course, not yet.  Cecil is sure he’ll rematerialize once he realizes his Master has stirred.  For now, the cold && hollow home only further serves to drive the point home:  After tomorrow he will dead, or he will be alone. 

   He does not call out to the Rider, does not summon him forth from silence of cold to keep him company.  He seeks instead the company of the stars, drawing back the curtains across the huge wall of windows in the living area-- It is moments like this that Cecil is wildly thankful he lives so far from the city-- From this window is an expanse of clear and cloudless sky-- Here is the solace and distant warmth he seeks:  the stars.  Each is a cold, years away spot of light-- It doesn’t ease his sleepless heart at all.  Leaning against the window pane, the chill of autumn creeps through glass and cloth until it reaches skin, and then through bone, threatens to turn his soul cold under the touch of it.  Cold, cold, cold.  He’s been left staring out the window a few solid minutes-- Something in his soul feels RAW, miles away-- and true to his initial study, there is an iridescent shimmer of color and light. Láeg stands close by and only watches quietly for a breath, before he breaks the silence. 

  “Tomorrow will require all of your strength, Cecil.  You ought to be resting n-” Ah, but when Cecil faces him the words die away.  He could be called unearthly beneath the galactic and glacier glow, painted in hues of starlight and silver falls, lambent and ethereal--  These rivers of moonlight wash over them, fill the room with that graceful, chilling light.  And those aureate eyes of amber are glued to him, dazzling novas of emotion. Láeg’s breath hitches in his chest, it feels like, for a moment, there is a chasm between them too wide and yawning for Láeg to breach-- and just as swiftly gone when Cecil’s voice calls to him.  “Rider.”  ( A hush, a whisper, a prayer.  How could a word sound like a prayer, and steal all of his attention with no fuss that it was better to call it a command? ) 

  “Are you unable to sleep, Cecil?”  

  “Yes.”  He says, he does not say that the silent apartment breaks his heart, that the bed is too cold without his arms.  “I just...can’t stop thinking about tomorrow.”  

  && Láeg is swift to assuage and greet his expression ready resolve and support-- “Don’t worry, I won’t let you get hurt.  I won’t let anything happen to you.”  But Cecil is silent again, arms coming to cross his chest, hugging himself.  No answer is given in the shape of words, but rather, Cecil crosses the space between them and wraps his arms around Láeg ‘s middle without pretense-- presses his face into his chest and hides.  From here, only when he feels warm arms secure around his shoulders, safe, does he voice with a trembling sound:  

  “I’m afraid.  Not of war or death, but of returning to life without you.  How can I sleep tonight, clear headed and dreaming while I should be taking in every second I have left with you?  I don’t want to sleep-- I want to lay in the dark and listen to your heartbeat.  I want your fingers burning against my skin and I want you to kiss me until I’m certain I’ll never forget what it feels like, what you taste like-- I want...” He shakes, shoulders first and those arms tighten around him. Láeg presses his face into his hair, breaths the comfortable scent that Cecil carries, vanilla and sandalwood.  Home.  “I just want you.  Until tomorrow is worlds away in my mind-- Until I...Until I could almost forget...” That I’m losing you.  Raw, so raw, his heart and soul are crying-- He could nearly call it unfair.  What had he ever done to fate to deserve a thing so cruel as to meet your soulmate, worlds and eons away?  To know they are all you could ever want, know they could love you in return and still lose them?  No, It’s cruel, even if he isn’t bitter.  Even if he doesn’t have a single regret, even if he wouldn’t change a single moment of their time.  

  Láeg pulls back and holds his face, hands warm, and kisses him-- a thing of passion without fear.  Of love and fire. “Tá mo chroí istigh ionat.” It isn’t a sentence Cecil knows, but there are some sentiments which can be understood wordlessly, can be conveyed in heart and soul, in the eyes-- and his eyes are exactly where Cecil finds his translation.  “And not even death or fate may change that.  Not even death or fate may take that from you.”  ( && he says it with such confidence Cecil’s heart leaps in his chest. ) 

  “I’m not sad, I’m not--”  He speaks against lips, hands that wander over familiar scars, down his chest-- “Not really.  I cannot be angry over what I was granted.  the very chance to know and love and adore you--”  That hand continues, strokes muscle and scar and Cecil leans up and kisses him again, licks at his lips.  “No matter how short.”  And it seems his desires has caught on, or that perhaps his Rider has shared the same thought all along, holding back for uncertaintly as he is wont to do, because Cecil is suddenly backed against the window and the heat of a body presses in-- It’s his touch alone that chases out the empty cold and fills him.  Makes the apartment feel inviting again-- More like home and less like a beast waiting to swallow him whole.  Cecil brings his arms up to drape and wrap around Láeg’s shoulders.

 ( And like this, the stars swim around them.  That visage of mercurial light is now obscured by drifting clouds, sweeping in and out of the view of a full moon.  It halos around Cecil’s head, and bathes the room when present with it’s company. ) 

 “ If this is it, the last night I have with you, I want to remember it for the rest of my days.”  He wonders if it sounds silly, if it sounds selfish, if Láeg is just as afraid as he is.  Cecil kisses slow down his throat, relishes the pulse that leaps and jumps beneath his lips before he sinks to his knees.  The intent is clearly carnal, and those eyes never leave Láeg’s, looking up at him through dark lashes-- despite the late hour, despite the pressing day to come, Cecil takes his time, moves with such languid desire one might think they had all the time in the world.  That's precisely what he wants.  MORE TIME.  If he cannot have it, then he will make do with pretending they already do.  

           // @dilseacht

[sasorikigai]

 ❛ wanna put your english on my tongue then daddy ? 🥺💕 ❜

Random Inbox Shenanigans, based on this gifset (x) || @rahge || always accepting!

💥 || Hanzo Hasashi’s vision, exquisitely exhausted, enhanced and enriched by the proverbial darkness of his melancholic stride furrows. It remains which, unfounded amongst the clean, are brewed under such resplendent opal starlight shining above him, as it reciprocally basks over the chiseled musculature. His intense, unblinking gaze remains slick with sickness and infused with intent, as the polished onyx stone of his gaze spills the raw essence of his being.

How Akina Mori had opened his heart up, from being torn apart, and had lifted him when his earth-collided facade threatened to shatter his being. Forget the ephemeral spinning of sex and eradicated brood and melancholy as the floating silence sketches the penned desire that breaks the cage of an everyday life. He is trying to be better; striving for the sun, reaching towards a tomorrow that towers above the invisible, intangible cage that holds him inside. 

The glinting aureate beauty of his intense gaze seems to linger in a mystically endless flood of time and their close proximity stirs an endless whirlwind, feeding off life. No longer whirled beneath the whirlwind of despair and depression, the once brooding, cruse assertiveness honed with steeled composure of the Commander’s unbreakable composure visibly mellows. How Hanzo remains delicate like basked mountain amidst the meadow. The dualism of his flourishing force and sensuality coalescing to speak the authenticity of his emotions, raw, unfiltered, and magnificent. 

“Speak plainly, Akina, does this mean you find my accent pleasurable to your ears, or you simply wish me to steal your breath and kiss you passionately?” The accentuated intonation of his timbre lingers, as his inquisitive head leans considerably, enough to breach her personal space. Pupils dilated, with the steady, strong ebb and flow of his broad chest radiates heatwave enough to engulf and devour both in the throes of exuding passion. 💥 || 

[sasorikigai]

Halloween Inbox Shenanigans || @heamatic​ || accepting 

Hanzo has spent an eternity searching for a face to bring him solace; as his chronicle began with a river that screamed misconstrued conception and abuse, inbetween the rocky jagged shores of his conscious, struggling with a voyage of a lifetime. With his skull strung up by a system of unseen cords, so that it appeared to be hanged, disembodied, in the still, heavy air, and it had been crowned with a wreath of fiery expansion, the bloody chambers of his lungs emitting the darkest smoke as Scorpion weaved a sanguine tapestry out of his intangible skin. Now, Hanzo Hasashi sits in front of the desk, with the venom of his gaze honed towards a stack of paperworks, with deep, etched impression of his tribulation sharpened in utter concentration. Despite his psyche sinking into the ribs of the work that needs to be done, Hanzo’s face holds infinitely more than hope when he turns his attention back to his beloved son. Sloppy and uneasy Haruki’s composure may be, but the lanky boy is a strong one, indeed. 

He doesn’t even have to look at the pumpkin to know that it holds his own reflection; for Hanzo still breathes the same world, tucked full of intensity and magnitude; it’s a heavy fissure of the past, still causing him an inevitable affliction. Maybe he was living in a universe where the past can be rewritten and the future could be his for the taking - truly his, now, not as part of just some old saying when he’s told that the future is his. He knows that he’s not really in control, and he doesn’t know what he can or should or want to do and he’s overwhelmed by the possibilities. Both his thoughts and tongue curve around his lips, as they stretch into the slightest of smile. A rarity of twinkle that embeds into the depth of his starlight gaze as the aureate hardness of his form pivots. 

“I did not realize I wear such a death glare, even in my absolute concentration,” although the likeness could be passed for someone else - what could he, a semi-professional artist, expect from a five-year-old and Cassie Cage? - but nevertheless, all of that darkness and light captured in the eyes of their conscious, means so much more than a single word that they can speak. Maybe Hanzo was staring into the depth of his soul, maybe he still was dreaming of the world that could triumph against vehement, unconquerable evil as Hanzo’s hardened, etched visage visibly softens, reflecting the soft crackle in the fireplace. After all, all great things must first wear terrifying and monstrous masks in order to inscribe himself on the hearts of humanity. “We would have to light a candle and put it inside, then perhaps it will take so much of my resemblance.”