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lullabyes22-blog · 6 years

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Would you mind starting off the new year with a Saya and Haji headcanon with them at the Zoo? I love the way you write their relationship during that time and I like your headcanons :)

Thank you so much anon

And, heh heh. You’re actually in luck. I’ve finished a little snippet for a future BMR chapter, with Saya and Haji up to some mischief.

NSFW, btw, so tread wisely >3

“The Birth of Venus.”

Saya aims a finger at the reprint on the expensivefolio.

She and Haji are in the glassed-in library thatoverlooks the gardens, all sunlight and artfully-arranged antiques. (By 2037,it will be converted into an indoor jacuzzi). Joel seldom permits them in here.His priceless object d'art are everywhere: burnished-woodstatuettes and gold-rimmed ceramics and Oriental-lacquered showpieces worthyof The Mikado.

But today, Joel is away on business to Paris. LeavingSaya and Haji to trespass, unafraid and unrepentant.

Saya, anyhow.

Haji keeps apart, anxiety in his ganglysixteen-year-old outline. “Saya. We shouldn’t stay long.”

“Will you stop whining?”

Saya is on her hands and knees in front of a bookcase,tracing the spines. She has finished everything the downstairs library has tooffer—philosophical tracts, penny-dreadful thrillers, classic anthologies. Nowshe is on the prowl for juicier fare. She’d overheard the chambermaidsgossiping about histoire d'horreur in the shelves. She wantsto confirm it for herself. She is no novice: tomes such as Mary Shelley's Frankenstein havebarely stirred a shiver. What she dearly hopes is that the library disgorgesworks by Mary Wollstonecraft, or Harriet Martineau. They must’ve writtensomething truly scandalous for Amshel to dub them homewreckersand harridans.

“Harridans?” Hajiasked. “Really?”

“Mm-hmm. He said their writings wouldmake a ‘febrile mess of the female mind’.”

“Surely not yours?”

It is a gentle tease. His eyes linger on her profilein the late afternoon sunlight: furrowed brows and lowered eyelashes in a studyof fierce concentration.

It is an expression he’s well-versed with. It alwaysappears right before catastrophe.

“His, more like,” muttersSaya, the frilled rump of her dress in the air as she eyeballs the collection.“Joel says it’s because his mother was a bluestocking who never paid himattention as a boy. So he’s angry at any lady with a pen.”

“Yet ladies with pens are what youseek.”

“If I find any,” Sayamutters, as she pulls a folio of handmade foxed leather from the bookcase. Itslides smoothly open in her lap, parted down the middle by a tasseled velvetbookmark in blue. “Oh!”

Curious, Haji peers over her head. He expects toglimpse blocks of text (English, German, Italian, Spanish, Latin—he and Sayaare fluent in all five). Instead he sees drawings in colorful ink. They areexquisitely detailed, and very beautiful. The first is done in a Botticellistyle: a nude woman with half-moon eyes and flowing honey-colored locks, posingwith demure lassitude on the pastry-pleats of a seashell.

“The Birth of Venus,” Saya says.With a fingertip, she traces the flowing lines of the figure. “Areplica of the original painting.”

“It is good,” Hajiconcedes. “But hardly scandala—Ah.”

Saya has turned the page. There is only one drawingper leaf: the back of each sheet is lined in embroidered rag to preventseepage. The second paper shows the same Venus. But she has abandoned hermaidenly pose. One hand no longer starfishes across her breast, but cups it.The other hand lifts from its figleaf at her mons to expose the arrowhead ofher pubic hair. Her head is still cocked to one side. But a look of defiancereplaces the faraway gaze.

“What on earth…?” Sayaflips the page.

On the next, Venus reclines on her shell, with herlegs parted, one knee up. One palm caresses her breasts. The other is betweenher thighs, spreading her pinkish parts open. Her eyes are a half-mooningdelirium now, her mouth open in a swoon.

Saya’s and Haji’s own mouths hang disbelievingly ajar.

They’ve both seen dirty pictures before. Sex, then andin the future, is a pervasive theme in art and literature. But there is alwaysan element of satire to those works. Body proportions exaggerated; genitalscaricatured or blurred out.

Not like this.

These pictures are intimate rather than voyeuristic.They illustrate all of Venus in loving detail. The soft scrim of hair; thedarkish folds of inner labia; the pink pearl of clitoris. It seems less pornographythan a paean to her whole self.

Years later, Haji will wonder why the sight seemedalmost …deviant. He’ll rationalize it as framing. After years of the femalebody framed by the male gaze—in art, in poetry, in prose—its exposure asanother object d'art was quotidian. So the sight of it now, byitself and for itself, felt weirdly transgressive.

And thrilling.

Decades later, as lovers, he’ll ask Saya to recreatethe pose to her fancy—and to forget he’s in the room. She’ll acquiece, shyly,then with abandon, and it will be a quiet revelation for him.Saya-under-his-watch. Saya-by-herself. The differences of each. The way sheinhabits her skin more fully. The way she owns her own space. A culminationthat is wildly arousing—in part because he is neither the subject nor theobject of her attention.

Because she is so whole.

With trembling fingers, Saya stirs the folio’s pages.In each one, Venus grows more frenzied. From stroking between her thighs tocorkscrewing two small tapered fingers inside. From holding the reader’s gaze withher half-moon eyes to disconnecting utterly, lost in her own bliss.

For Haji, it is all indefinably discomfiting. Hisinstinct is to turn tail and flee. Propriety dictates it.

Saya, meanwhile, is in a peculiar, intense state, asif she’s crossed past shock to whatever sits directly beyond. Sitting on thecarpet, the fragile old folio in her lap and her head bent towards its ivorysheets, a strand of dark hair stirring with her breaths, she seems almostentranced.

From the tall windows, late afternoon sunlightglitters. It seems to melt and soften the energy in the air: a stirring, a blossoming.

They are very close together, Haji realizes. No raritythere: since childhood, they’ve been inseparable, practically living in eachother’s pockets. Être cul et chemise, as Amshel sometimessneers.

This is different. Her lovely profile is inches fromhis lips. The light falls through the windows and catches at the dusting of finehairs on her cheek. It reminds him of peach-fuzz. Her scent is the same, asweetish whiff with fruity and floral undertones. The same scent she’d wornwhen she’d first hugged him as a child, her body-warmth seeping into himthrough the expensive fabric of her clothes.

It had felt like a balm then. Now it is abrushfire, her closeness electric, sparks seeming to pop in the space betweenthem.

Then Saya turns her head. Their eyes lock, and Hajisees different things. The shared humor of the moment. A childish sense ofdisbelief. But also something hidden, secret, uncertain. Like she wants toreach for Haji’s hand but doesn’t quite dare

Then she scowls and lobs the folio at his head.

“Ow!”

“Dépraver!”

“What—what did I do?” Hesnatches the folio out of the air. “You are the one who foundit!”

“That’s no excuse to go breathingdown my neck!”

“I wasn't—” Heducks to avoid her swat. “You were staring as much as I was.”

Saya sweeps to her feet. Her eyes are burning-dark andthere are high spots of color on her cheekbones. A strange heat courses throughthe sunlit room. It is like an unblocking of channels, two magnets tangled inopposite polarities.

“You were supposed to help melook!” Saya shouts.

“I was!”

“No you weren’t! You were—youwere—” She balls her fists, struggles forwords, fails to find them. “Pig!”

“Saya—”

She flings another book at him. Haji ducks.

Her temper-tantrum bewilders him. This is hardly thefirst time they’ve perused a nude figure together: solemn, sophisticatedappraisals of Greek nymph-statues in the three-dimensional world, orexchanging jokes and dirty limericks in the manner of schoolchildren, the actitself reduced to either epithet or abstraction.

Epithets and abstractions were about all Haji couldtolerate. At least in those days. It’s not that he wasn’t attracted to women.He was. And to Saya: inordinately, indelibly. But what he knew about sex as achild was brutal and painful and disgusting. He would be happy never to go nearit for the rest of his life. Happier to spare Saya the worst of it.

Saya, who is stubborn, naughty, impulsive, rebellious.But who is, inherently, the most innocent person he knows.

When he was newly brought to the Zoo, Joel told him,in blunt terms, what was expected of him. He’d hinted at a sizable reward ifHaji approached it the right way: a ring, a duchess’s dowry, a standing in highsociety. Barely a year afterward, Saya had confided to him, her little hands ananxious wringing, how afraid she was of married life. Wedding night pains.Childbirth pains. Pains of limited agency or options.

He’d sworn there and then to spare her that too.

Now, she glowers. And Haji can’t fathom thetransmutations her presence wreaks inside his body with nothing but her eyes.

He can’t think of what to say, either, but he reads itin her face. In her gaze, mirroring his own discomfiture strangely back at him.The relation of his body to hers. Space. Molecules in the air between them.

I am a woman, hereyes say. You are a man.

The knowledge seems to leave her silent and stunnedand dismayed.

“Saya…”

Suddenly Haji has the urge to fold her up in anembrace. Yet what was effortlessly simple a moment ago seems all at once fraughtwith subtext.

Then she snarls a litany of swearwords—each moreunladylike than the last—before shoving past him and out the room.

“Saya, wait!”

Helplessly, Haji takes off after her.

~~*~~

Bits and pieces may change as the chapter itself takes shape. But I hope it’s satisfied some Zoo-era hankerings :)

#blood+#bloodplus #blood plus #asks #fic #fanfic #blood moon rising

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