ruruumin

[ruruumin]

𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗘𝗫𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦, 𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗬𝗢𝗨 ; (𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗔𝗬)

SYNOPSIS: What awaits you in the Dreamscape is your quiet place of rest: a patisserie dyed moon-blue in the Moment of Midnight. A promised solitude just as illusory as the pastries on display, because you can’t seem to escape a certain fair-faced Halovian.

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

CONTENTS: sunday/reader, f!reader (referred to as young lady, miss— no she/her pronouns used), patisserie au (cousin of café aus), set in canon and fragmented across the timeline (the first four parts take place before 2.7, the fifth and final during it), fluff and banter, soft yan implications if you squint (coughs)(SUNDAY IS JUST WEIRD.), sunday-typical themes of dreams vs reality, reader is overworked and probably nearing a spiral, robin haunts the narrative in form of a keycharm, the yearning is there but buried under the boundaries of reader pov. reader is oblivious, sunday goes by ”wonweek” (since reader does not realize who he is. lol.) but he’s very much still sunday he’s just being annoying.

A/N: IT’S FINALLY DONE . this is a long overdue comm for my most beloved and cherished sunday fucker ( @stellamancer ) 🙂‍↕️ it was supposed to be 3k but it ran away from me completely … still, i’m satisfied with what it turned into!! i tried my best to do chicken wing boy justice, so i hope any sunday enjoyers who read this are pleased with the end result!! :’3🫶 ALSO big big thank u to my guardian fawn ( @coyotecrumb ) for proofreading and helping me with the editing process … i love u always …… anyway please picture me slamming into sunday at the speed of the astral express because wowww is he stressful to write LMAO. stupid gap moe loser

At the end of the boundary-line between dreams and reality stands a small, quaint patisserie— its doors always unlocked, opening wide when you tug at the handle.

"Welcome back!" sings the interior. "What can I get for you today?"

It rings out from behind the counter when the bell chime fades, when the door behind you closes. The same girl as always, her hands folded neatly on top of the marble; sleeves cuffed up to her elbows, a blue apron tied around her waist and embroidered with what look to be little doves, pure white and fluttering across the fabric. She's smiling, like she's happy to see you. You see it through the dim lighting, the entire lounge painted blue by the moon through the windows.

The air smells sweet. Buttery. Something like burnt caramel and rose jam, threading through the room.

You inhale, then exhale. 

In the glamour of the Dreamscape, people hunger for all sorts of things. Luxury, adventure, shimmering bottles of soulglad and evenly cut steaks— anything that gives the impression of living life to the fullest. The fresh wave of tourists are all off on such ventures, you'd assume. Fine dining, day drinking, sightseeing… gambling, of course. You check most of them into the Reverie yourself, help them with their bags, answer any questions they have. Most of them are easy. Most of them are in the manual.

Some of them— like, are there any spots we should know about? Any hidden gems?—

Well.

Questions like that, you tend to leave unanswered. 

Because there's only one true hidden gem worth mentioning, tucked away in The Moment of Midnight: where tourists are least likely to linger, where trouble stirs itself to sleep. Only one spot not yet trampled by rowdy dreamers, or sponsored by too-expensive brands. Bérylune, reads the sign, though you won't see it until you've ventured through a narrow alleyway and stopped in front of a bright-blue door, flickering street lamps on either side. There it stands, solitary. Like a secret just for you.

No way are you letting anyone in on it. 

"Um, let me think." You shift your weight, absently, reaching up to fiddle with the straps of your handbag. The girl behind the counter hums. 

"Of course! Please, take your time."

Your eyes glide left, to the faint shimmer of the glass display— what you've been dreaming of all evening. What you dream of at the end of every tireless workday. Where you inevitably end up once you've exhausted yourself on your late-night strolls around the Dreamscape, wandering aimlessly, no different from your usual rounds at the hotel. No room ever goes unbooked, so there's no point to sitting down and feigning relaxation.

The least you deserve is to treat yourself. 

(It's not like you hate your job. You'd say you're lucky, all things considered: a hefty paycheck, golden lights wherever your gaze takes you, the superficial glimmer of casinos and streetlights lying at the center of what Penacony is. The extraordinary is routine. That, in itself, has become a kind of comfort. It's better than your old life. Less monotone. The city is always alight, so there's no need for counting stars. 

And there's the Dreamscape, of course. Always close at hand, the hazy bliss in front of you.)

Pastries sparkle from beneath the glass, the sight of them enough to make your mouth water. Soft, pillowy slices of spongecake, slathered in honey, squished between fruit tarts weighty with strawberries. Ruby-red, summer-ripe. Your hungry eyes flit from side to side. The bell chime rings out behind you, but you scarcely hear it over the piano playing from behind the counter, soft compositions from an old-school radio— you don't know who the composer is, but you recognize the song. It never builds up to any crescendo, blissfully empty of weight, of intensity. 

The room has begun to smell more and more like roasted coffee. An espresso machine purring to life. You think of mystery, of something illusionary. When you look down at your hands they're painted moon-blue. 

(For you, this is heaven. The crème de la crème of what the Dreamscape has to offer. Not the Golden Hour, not any casino— but this. 

And it's all yours.)

"I'll have the macaron set, please."

(… Mostly yours.)

Your gaze drifts to where the Halovian is standing, smoothing a steady hand down the fabric of his suit. His locks are next, rivers of silver running in between his thumb and forefinger, barely-ruffled by the breeze outside.

The lady behind the counter gives him a smile. To the untrained eye it's the same as ever, but you've worked in customer service all your life; you're well aware of what's real and fake, what expression says Please be normal, it's been a long day as it is, or I'm so happy to see you again. Seriously. It gleams brighter, much brighter, than the one she'd graced you with. A bashful flicker that has you wanting to sigh. 

… Not that you blame her. He is handsome.

"Of course, sir. Will that be for here, or to-go?"

"To-go, for tonight. Have you been well?"

"Yes!" She shoots up, in the process of bending down to bring the pastries out from the display. "Ah, um. Yes, I have! And you?"

A quiet hum. He isn't looking at her, you notice. Rather, the golden cuts of his eyes are stuck on the glass, on what's gleaming behind it. Not the macarons he ordered, but a golden pudding tart. "I've been well," he says. "Thank you."

Then he's quiet. His voice is nice to listen to, like a late-night talk show host in the prime of his career, pleasant white noise to tune out the world with. Suited for lullabies and ghost stories. Your eyes follow him, vacantly, the way his fingers tug down his sleeve to check his watch, the brittle flutter of his wings when he exhales, pairs of silky-looking feathers twitching against his neck. One of them is pierced, though you can't see it from this angle. 

This isn't your first encounter with the stranger. He's usually here around the same time you are, when the moon in reality would have showed its pearly-blue teeth; either gazing at the display when you enter, or sitting by a table in the corner with his lips against the rim of a porcelain cup. It's unusual for you to beat him to it; maybe work kept him late? 

… Yeah, probably not. He's too pretty to be anything but a flashy tourist. A secret idol, maybe?

You humour yourself with the thought.

His pupils flicker, suddenly, golden ripples across the surface of his eyes. You're zoned out, watching them, only now noticing that he's angled his face away from the counter— the sharp lines of his jaw pointing in your direction.

When you realize he's catching your stare, his lips have already parted.

"Ah, pardon me," he says, silky-smooth, eyes curling into slits. Smiling cordially. "Were you about to order?" 

Stupidly, you blink at him. After a moment, your gaze snaps back to the sheet of glass in front of you. "No, don't worry," your smile is barely-there, though you make an attempt— you never know who's important when it comes to Penacony. Never know when you might be speaking to an idol on vacation, or a CEO with the influence to get you fired. Best to be on the safe side. "I was still deciding, so…"

He waits for you to finish. When you don't, keen eyes of gold leave your face.

"I see."

Silence settles in the space between you. You don't dare look at him again, busying yourself with your choice of pastry, eyes flitting restlessly between them. Should you go for something syrupy sweet, or minty and refreshing..? He's facing forward, but the weight of his gaze is still searing your skin, the butt of a cigarette against your brittle cheek. 

It's heavy. It leaves an impression. 

(Because you've seen him, yes— but you've never caught his eye. Not for more than a moment, a quick glance or absent nod.

This is the first time you've spoken.)

When his voice calls out again, you've settled on a sizable fruit tart. Speckled with blackberries, the crust a nice golden brown, eyes focused on it when that bedtime story cadence echoes on your left. "I'd like them packaged, if that's alright." He tugs gently at the bottom of his glove, adjusting it with nimble fingers. "They're a gift."

Gift. 

The word makes your mind halt, for a moment. Something in the way he wraps his tongue around it. Soft, albeit briefly.

The poor girl behind the counter must have heard it too. Because she's wilted by the time you've raised your gaze, hanging her head a little lower than before, hiding barely concealed disappointment behind a tight-curved smile. 

"… Of course," she chirps, weakly. "One moment."

She places the macarons inside a small, rectangular box, lining them up one by one inside it; green, pink, ochre, repeated twice, a row of sparkling gemstones, only sliced into halves. Then she's closing it, wrapping her fingers around a silky blue ribbon to thread it around the front and back. 

"Thank you for waiting," she slides it across the counter.

The Halovian hums, accepting it with careful hands. He pays, swiftly, brandishing a black card. Yep, definitely not a working class comrade. His halo gleams in the dim light, thrumming faintly when it catches onto its golden edge. Like church bells tolling on a far-away planet. "Thank you," he says, quietly. "Have a good night."

When he turns to leave, his gaze overlaps with yours. No longer than a second, a glimmer of sun-soaked copper— he reaches for the handle of the door, and the moment turns to vapour. Midnight air courses in as he slips through the gap, chills the base of your ankles, the tips of your fingers. A soft jingle, and he's gone. 

His back disappears into the night, his shadow painted cornflower blue. You see it through the window.

(You wonder where he's going.)

"Excuse me, miss." A stale smile, and a downcast voice. "Would you like to order?"

You snap your head back into place. "Y-yes, please."

The fruit tart tastes as good as you expected it to. You eat it there, at a table in the corner— it's not like you could bring it back to reality, even if you wanted to eat it in the comfort of your quarters— sinking your teeth into the crust, feeling it crumble into pieces around them. The blackberries burst with juice, melting together with the cream, thick notes of vanilla and chestnut. You lick your lips with a happy hum. 

Too good to be true, though you guess that's the point.

When you return to reality, the taste won't linger on your lips. Your body won't feel satiated. You know this, but you still keep coming back— to a badly-placed patisserie, in the least popular Moment of the Dreamscape— gorging on pastries made from dreams and stardust. As if just the illusion is enough to keep you full. As if you could keep going, and going, plucking every star from the illusionary sky. 

It's a foolish thought.

(You suppose that's why you're here, anyway. The reason you can't pull yourself away from the Reverie, or the Dreamscape. In a way, you're perfect for each other.

Glamour, and delicacies, and questionable men.

… Truly, the essence of what Penacony has to offer.)

The next time you step inside, the patisserie is empty. No Halovian gentleman by the counter, nor by the tables, no silky-soft voice threading through the air. 

Again, you beat him to it. 

"Welcome back!" Smiles the clerk, her lips glossy and pink. The shade makes you think of cherry balm. With sluggish steps, you walk up to the counter, expression practically trampled in comparison to hers. You muster a weary upward tilt of your lips, a half-hearted nod— you don't really have it in you to do anything more. The guests were just awful, today. Your lips draw into a thin line as your gaze glides over to the glass-layered display, the flimsy excuse of a smile slipping off your face.

A better you would be in bed by now. Watching a soap opera, waiting for your order of real food to arrive. But you're not better— you're just you— and if you don't get your hands on a treat within the next five minutes you think your brain will just burst. The lady behind the counter is humming to herself, the song unfamiliar. 

"I'd like… a croissant," you order, tentative. "With chocolate filling, please."

She nods. "Any drinks, or will that be all?"

Your lips part, before slowly falling shut again. Something warm doesn't sound so bad right now, actually… "I'll take a cup of hot chocolate, too."

"Great! One second…"

You exhale faintly, blinking twice. Watching with unfocused eyes as she presses the tips of her fingers against the small screen in front of her. Beep. Beep— the noise just barely cutting through your muddled senses, your hazy peripheral. 

"Aaand there you are!" She gestures towards the card reader, lacing her fingers together. "I'll get started on your order— will you be eating here?"

"… No." You shake your head, reaching for your pocket. "I'll take it to-go, plea—"

…

Your fingers spread out. One, after the other, like spindly limbs extending. Searching. 

But no, there's nothing. 

For a moment, all you can do is stand frozen in place. Eyes wide with disbelief— the beginnings of denial. Your fingers, still twitching idly in the pocket of your pants, stop smoothing over old receipts and loose change and lip balm— they turn as still as you. Seconds pass, no more than five, before a heaving sigh breaks past your lips.

Your wallet isn't there. 

Clinging onto what remains of your sanity, your hand slips out your pocket, right into the next. But, again, nothing. You're sure it's not in your purse, because you didn't bring it with you, and you remember holding your wallet no more than half an hour ago— unless you're mistaken? It's no good, your brain is already too subdued for second guessing. When you raise your gaze the clerk is looking at you, blinking like she's confused. The scent of cocoa seeps through the air, her hands busy with the milk pitcher, and for once you wish the service wasn't so fast. 

"… I'm sorry," you say, as clearly as you can manage— which is barely above a whisper, really. Your head hurts. You kind of want to cry. Being the responsible adult you are, you attempt to hold it in. "I… think I dropped my wallet."

"Oh no!" Her lips fall into a frown, but she seems hesitant on what to say next. "I'm sorry to hear that…"

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. You repeat it to yourself. It's just a croissant. Except, of course, it really isn't— it was supposed to be your well-deserved after-work treat, and you needed it today more than ever. The illusionary comfort only the Dreamscape can provide.

"Sorry," you repeat, breath pitifully stuck in the back of your throat. Ready to turn on your heel, and walk back into reality, your nails leaving crescents on your inner palms. It's subconscious— you barely feel the ache. "I'll… come back tomorrow."

"No need."

… A voice, feather-soft, calls out from behind you. 

When you turn your head towards its source, two golden eyes stare back at you. A certain Halovian, parting his lips.

"I'll pay for it. Just add it to my order." He pays no mind to your bewildered expression, speaking candidly. How did you not hear him coming in? "A croissant for me as well, please. Savoury."

The familiar stranger walks up to the counter, not even sparing you a glance. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was referring to another customer with no wallet to their name. You're the only ones here, though. He says something to the clerk, something you don't catch, because you're too busy staring at his face like he just dropped down from the sky— crashed through the roof like a bird with burning feathers. 

(Or an angel, maybe. An angel with just the right amount of wings, and a halo made of thorny gold. An angel with eyes like charred sunflower fields.

… Your mind is left entranced.)

"Oh, um. Alright! Will that be to-go, or…?"

"No, that's alright." He takes out his card. "We're eating here."

Only when it moves towards the card reader, does your brain finally catch up to what your eyes are seeing. Without thinking, you grasp onto his arm.

"W-wait, you don't have to!" Your fingers curl around the linen of his sleeve, the protest stumbling out your lips. Your mind is too jumbled up to realize what you're doing— you can't feel the heat of his skin, or the thumping of his pulse, but his eyes coil into slits where they meet yours. "Seriously, I'd hate to bother—"

"Oh, it's no bother." 

He smiles, suddenly; stale, his earrings swaying when he tilts his head to face you. Hand gentle when it comes to lay over yours. His gloved fingers feel silky against your own, untangling them casually, before he smooths the flat of his palm down the fabric you creased. 

"I'd be happy to," he says. 

"… But,"

Without further pause, he slides his card against the card reader. A decisive beep. Paying for your order, seamlessly, the smile on his lips never slipping off his face; from this narrow distance you think you'd be able to see the weariness in his eyes, but it isn't there. Neatly tucked away, maybe. Or is he just a night owl?

You purse your lips, unsure what else to do. The clinking of plates fills the air.

"… Thank you," you settle on. A quiet breath.

"You're welcome." His reply is instant. "Though I suggest you pay more attention in the future. A lost wallet is no laughing matter."

… He's right, but something about the way he says it doesn't sit right with you. You decide to stay silent, until the plates have been served, until you're seated at a table in the corner right across from him. Two croissants in front of you, yours streaked and stuffed with chocolate, coated in a layer of powdered sugar, like snow on a mountaintop— a halved strawberry sitting neatly on top of it— his filled with lettuce, ham, and thinly sliced cheese. He watches you take a tentative bite, the crumbs sticking to your fingers, before reaching for his knife and fork. 

"The Dreamscape is a safe place, relatively speaking." He continues, taking nimble bites between the words. "But that doesn't mean there are no souls who would take advantage over a young lady's naivety. It doesn't hurt to take precautions."

"… You mean, you think somebody stole it?"

An absent hum. "Not exactly." He's smiling, again, though it's hard to tell when the lights overhead intermingle with the shadows from the window to your right. His face is candle-lit, flickering faintly. "What I mean is— you should keep important things close to your person. For an adult, that's only natural, wouldn't you agree?"

(… He's making fun of you.)

"… It isn't like me," you explain, cringing at how defensive it sounds. As if sulking, you sink your teeth into the sugary croissant. "I'm not that scatterbrained."

The Halovian tilts his head, ever so slightly. 

"… Good," he places his cutlery back on the table. Then: "Here you are."

You watch as he brings your wallet out of his pocket. Sets it down in front of you, the leather smudged with a light layer of dust— though the rubber charm you clipped onto it remains unsoiled, her smile devoid of flecks. 

Baffled, you stare at it.

Then up at him. 

"It was lying just outside," he tells you, voice like a news anchor mentioning the weather. Too casual, you think. He brings a pure white handkerchief to the curve of his lips. "—You have good taste. That collection was my favorite of last spring's."

In the moment, you decidedly ignore his knowledge on idol merchandise. The bewilderment still coursing through your veins takes priority, your voice dumb-struck when you ask— 

"You had it all along?" A mortified pause. "Why didn't you give it to me earlier?"

"All actions should have consequences." He answers, simply. "Even something as idle as embarrassment has a strong effect on the mind… I'm sure you'll be more wary in the future."

You blink. Once, then twice.

The Halovian's expression remains carefully concealed. You see no notes of humour, nor of ill intent. Condescension, maybe, in the smooth line of his lips. The way he's looking at you. It's vague enough that you wouldn't notice if he wasn't saying something so…

… Socially obscene?

"I'm an adult," you finally bite, too exhausted to play at sounding cordial. Your brow twitches, restless with irritation. "… I don't need a stranger to gentle parent me, thank you."

…

Are you being rude? Sure. But you're tired, you've had an awful day, and— frankly, you don't have it in you to entertain whatever mind games he just admitted to using on you, even if he turned out to be the CEO of the Reverie himself. He's weird. Weirdo. Waste of a pretty face. The thoughts enter your mind, but don't turn into words.

… After all, you're still taking bites of the croissant that he bought you. The damage is done. 

(You settle on silent, petty scrutiny— he's for sure the type to put a tracker on his girlfriend's phone. The motel stalker type.)

Finally, he speaks. "Pardon me," he smiles, a narrow line. "It wasn't my intention to offend you."

Through a mouthful of powdered sugar and chocolate, you offer him a dubious look. He seems to notice it. "That was only half the reason," he explains, clicking his pointer finger on the edge of the table. Rhythmic thumps, in tune with the composition playing from the counter. "To be honest, I'm not too fond of sweets. But seeing you enjoy them so openly is… refreshing." A beat. "In a sense."

… Is that supposed to be a compliment?

Moreover— how long has he been watching you? The thought lingers on your mind, for no more than a moment. You let it go when he speaks.

"What I mean is— I've been hoping to converse with you." The tapping stops, abruptly. He goes silent— a look in his eyes like he isn't really there, a faceless stare boring into you. "… This was a golden opportunity."

His voice is all honey and silver, but you aren't sure what to make of it. When his eyes flit away from yours, briefly, his halo remains unmoving. Overseeing. His pupils flickering like a pair of injured sparrows. There's a gap in the way that he's acting, you think.

Everything about the way he carries himself suggests social awareness, so—

… what's with this awkward tension? 

(It's like he's a sheltered princess. Like someone locked him up in a tower, and told him how to speak to others— let him practice in front of mirrors, dance with marionette dolls. That kind of feeling. Like he's looking through you, rather than at you— like his mouth is being guided by a silent, invisible hand, lips tugged apart to make space for their words. But then, who is the dragon? The evil stepmother?

… Maybe he really is an idol. That would be the more grounded option. An out of touch celebrity vacationing on Penacony, unused to the mysteries of social boundaries. It would explain his knowledge in Robin merchandise, at least…)

Your stare must unnerve him. Or maybe he gets tired of waiting for a response. Either way, he lets out something like a chuckle; it shatters your thoughts. "Ah, forgive me… It’s unlike me to speak so brazenly. I've overstepped."

With graceful poise, he digs his fork into the nearly-finished croissant. Lifts the final piece towards his mouth, without so much as angling his jaw down. Silent, measured chewing, the seconds between his words filled with nothing but the white noise of the ticking clock behind him. It sits on the wall, hands counting down until sunrise, though it means nothing in the Moment of Midnight. Still hours away.

Like a snake slithering back into its nest, he stands up as soon as he's swallowed— swiping the tip of his tongue across the seam of his lips. The chair is pushed back into place, before he graces you with another easy-curved smile. 

"Please, don't let me ruin your meal."

"Um— wait." Just as he's about to leave, you stop him. "What's your name?"

When he turns his head, his eyes catch the moon-stream from the window. Gold turns to silver in the white streak of light. The Halovian parts his lips, but no noise makes it past them— he seems to reconsider whatever he was going to say. 

A quiet hum, at the juncture of his throat.

"… Wonweek."

"Ah… thank you, Wonweek." You probably shouldn't be thanking him, but it slips out before you can stop yourself. You're more preoccupied with other thoughts— such as, you don't know any idols with that stage name, so either he's lying or the work-stress is having a positive effect on your imagination— "For the food. And… for picking up my wallet."

He surveys you, for a moment. Doesn't say a word. Pupils coiling into thoughtful slits.

Silver locks sway, when he turns around. 

"It was my pleasure." 

… And then he's leaving. 

(The barely-there afternotes of his cologne linger on the seat across from you, stitched into the polyester: deep, mellow amber.)

This time, Wonweek is already there when you open the door.

With the Charmony Festival just around the corner, it's a miracle you can still move your legs. All day— all week— nothing but guests, checking in from every corner of the galaxy. It's so hectic you've been demoted to carrier, lunging around suitcases twice your size while the senior staff tends to the visitors. There's a numbing ache in your limbs, all the way to the base of your joints. Splintered out across your nerves.

Yet you make your usual rounds. The dried blue tones of the midnight sky sweep across your cheeks, as you rouse the bell chime into life— and he's there.

A brief flicker of gold, and a subtle smile, his eyes catching yours when they glide across the lounge. The air is thick with black tea, steam drifting from the silver-lined rim of his porcelain cup, the pure white speckled with bluebirds. His lashes flutter shut when he takes a sip. As always, the radio plays soft piano.

"Welcome back! What can I get for you, today?"

The lady behind the counter offers you the same smile as ever. She painted her nails, you notice— blue, but a touch lighter than the shade of her apron. Like the evening sky of a particularly hot summer. You wrap your tongue around a quiet hum, eyes moving to the glass display. Squinting at the pastries under it.

… Honestly, you aren't sure.

"Having trouble deciding?" Wonweek chimes in, when you've been standing in place for a moment too long. There's a cordial smile on his lips, a cheery note to his voice; like he's in a good mood. He abandons his spot to come stand beside you.

"… A little," you admit. "I guess I'm not sure what I'm in the mood for?"

A soft, affirming noise. 

"Would you like me to decide for you?" 

When you raise your head, his eyes are gleaming. Shimmering gold, flickering playfully, though his smile is nothing but composed, his gloved hands folded behind his back as he awaits your response. You're silent, for a breath. 

"… Sure," you then exhale, spur of the moment. "Why not?"

That seems to please him. At least, if his satisfied hum is anything to go by. Wonweek faces forward, the bridge of his nose falling into your peripheral.

"Let's see…" A thoughtful pause. "What would you say to a parfait?"

Your eyes follow the trail left by his steady gaze, stopping where it ends: on a tall glass filled with layers of custard and meringue, crushed berries and cookie crumbs, topped with dollops of cream and thick slices of fruit. The sight makes your mouth water. You're sure that he notices. That he can somehow tell. 

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction, you simply reach for your wallet, making sure your voice reaches his ears when you ask: "Do you want anything?"

He blinks. 

"… To pay you back," you explain, glancing at him cautiously. Hoping you'll sound even mildly assertive, through the fog around your after-work brain. "For last time."

"Ah." Another flutter of his lashes. "There's no need."

Your brows furrow in frustration. A moment's pause, until you're trying again, taking out your card while eyeing the display. Surely, there has to be something he'd want…? "It's only fair… I mean, you paid for mine, right?"

"Really, there's no need."

You turn towards him fully, lips catching on a sigh. "I want to."

"You aren't going to." 

…

His smile is close-knit. Eyes curled into threatening crescents.

"You're too kind," he says, voice deceptively cheery. His eyes are sharp when he opens them, daggers gleaming in the dark of night. "But, really, I insist."

Any further protests die out on your tongue.

Wonweek ends up buying a lightly toasted sandwich, to go with his darjeeling tea. You recognize the scent when you've seated yourself across from him, led along by his not-so-subtle social cues, like a puppet on a string. Needless to say, he paid for it himself. You get the feeling he'd have done the same with your parfait, had you given him an opening— if only just to get back at you for suggesting otherwise.

Are all Halovians control freaks, you wonder? Or is it just him?

”Are you enjoying the Dreamscape?” He asks, sinking his teeth into the sourdough. Chew, and swallow. He licks his parting lips. ”Is it to your liking?

You lean back in your seat, mellow warmth seeping through your fingers when they curl around the handle of your cup. Rich espresso, a roasted fragrance. ”I am," you tell him, honestly. "I wasn’t sure about the pastries… but they taste just as good as in reality.”

”Of course.” He smiles, something unusual in his expression. ”They need to.”

…

You watch him silently, through lidded eyes. He's looking down at your plate, making an expression you can't put your finger on— then back up at you, seamlessly, his face falling back into something vaguely insincere. 

Controlled.

"Are you enjoying it?"

(His smile curves up. It makes you think of a plant uprooted, tugged from its tender soil— on the cusp of being ripe enough to pluck.

It makes you think, for whatever reason, that you really shouldn't have asked.)

"I am." He answers, easily. "A dream that never ends… don't you think that's wonderful?"

"I guess so."

"Oh? Do you disagree?"

"Well, I…" You clear your throat. "Honestly, I think it's a little scary, sometimes."

He casts you a questioning look. 

"Like… I want to stay here forever." You stir your spoon in circles, watching the espresso swirl, a night-black vortex. "There are people who start to feel that way." 

"Is that so awful?"

Quiet. Stale, like the wrong edge of a scalpel. 

The silence that settles when his words have left his tongue is strained, a bowl about to break in the heat of a bubbling furnace. In your mind, you play out the noise it'd make— clatter, and crack, shattering on the floor and breaking into porcelain pieces— your lips trying in vain to wrap themselves around an apology.

For what, though? 

(You can tell from his tense brow you've upset him— but how?)

The seconds tick on, with the counting of the clock on the wall, a slow, steady mantra. As if to escape the unsettling atmosphere, you direct your gaze towards the tall glass in front of you. Wonweek chooses that moment to speak. 

"… Reality breaks them." His voice bears more than sterness: it bleeds. Tears the silence into overripe halves. When you bite into your parfait you taste peach, streams of sticky nectar in between your teeth, too syrupy. "If the Dreamscape can offer those lost souls some relief, it can be nothing but a good thing."

Chew, and swallow. He isn't meeting your eyes anymore.

"I… see your point."

Seawaves of blue filter in through the window, dripping down the contours of his face. From his cheeks, to his jaw, the shadow between his nose and lips— the glow of a silverfish's squirming body. It disappears when the moon slips beneath a cluster of clouds, his expression obscured. "I've seen you at the Reverie," Wonweek exhales a breath, his voice strung tight; lips falling into a straight-laced line. It softens when they part, near imperceptible. "… You always look so tired."

He meets your gaze when it snaps up. Captures it, and holds it, his own eyes not once wavering. Before anything else— before your mind can catch up to the strangeness of those words— you think to yourself that he looks a little sad.

"It's only when you're here… that you seem to be content." His fingers curl around the handle of the cup, and bring it to his moving lips, steam clouding his cupid's bow. An earthy scent, something like rain on an autumn morning. "In that sense, I thought you and I might be similar. Or, rather— I thought you'd sympathize with the Dreamscape as a whole. The respite it brings."

The three-eyed halo crowning him bears down on you, unblinking; his wings swaying in tune with his voice, a booming kind of quiet, like it's urging you to listen. You wish you could, but your mind is too occupied to truly understand what he's getting at. You can only think, blearily, through the white noise of your weary mind—

That you have never seen him before. 

You're sure you haven't, because as strange as he's proved himself to be— he's annoyingly handsome. You'd remember his eyes, if nothing else. The twitches of his lithe fingertips, the subtle sense of self-perceivement in his voice.

(You've never seen Wonweek at the Reverie.)

"… You're struggling, too?" you ask, tentative. Wonweek simply smiles.

"I used to." His voice is non-concealing. "Things are better, now."

He sets the cup down with a quiet clink. You watch him, silently, even as you realize he doesn't plan on elaborating. His smile is familiar. It's like the one you see in mirrors, when you tell yourself the future is larger than this.

In mirrors, in marble countertops, on nights that never seem to end. 

"If reality brings you nothing but suffering, then there's no need to open your eyes anymore. I've been wanting to tell you that."

You hear the leaving in his voice before he stands up, palms flat on the table when he rises. He pushes his chair back, plate empty save for a neatly sorted pile of breadcrumbs, and raises a hand to thread through his feathers. 

”I hope I'm not overstepping.” he adds, carefully. "Please, do take it to heart."

"… Okay."

One last smile, before he walks out the door. As always, you follow— with your eyes, as much as you are able, before the bell chime fades and takes him with it. You're left with a lacking, troubled feeling, but there aren't enough untangled threads in your mind to make space for it. You eat the remainder of your parfait in silence. 

Behind you, faintly, resounds the ticking of a clock. 

The next time you enter the patisserie, Wonweek is nowhere to be seen.

You sit by the window until the sun breaks through the clouds— until it would have, if it wasn't locked behind a never-ending midnight. A sugar-coated orange lining tearing the sky in half. Weeping dawn across its blue cheeks. There is no sight of him, even then; not of silver locks of hair, not of halos or of wings. 

He doesn't come in the day after. Or the day after that. Days bleed into weeks. Strawberry shortcakes, lemon meringue, coffee with too much or too little creamer. You sit by the table in the corner, and wait for a man that never walks through the door.

(At some point, you stop expecting him to.)

Sunday stops by the window. Inhales a breath.

You're there. As always. 

(What should make him feel relief leaves him with trepidation.)

Silently, he gazes into the interior of the patisserie: the lounge is dim-lit, but he sees you, curled in on yourself by a table in the corner like a baby bird in a too-big nest. He clutches onto the image, for a moment. Considers leaving once or twice. Mr. Yang is waiting— he's on borrowed time, well past owing favours. It would be easier to simply cut this loss.

His steps towards the door are silent. 

The midnight moon gleams just as blue as always, spilling cobalt all over the paved streets, the alleyway that led him here. His own shadow half-transparent. It's more beautiful than he remembers, though perhaps that should be attributed to his own disinterest— The Hour of Midnight never struck him as especially precious. No morning dawn, no golden light, no sound except that of distant partygoers. The glow of the moon seemed somber, if anything. 

(He never quite understood why this was where you'd found your peace.)

For a moment his fingers simply linger by the handle, the chill of the wood dulled by the black fabric of his gloves. His hand curls around it with tentative thought. 

When the door slides open, his eyes instinctually close.

Darkness. It lays itself over his vision, a thick blanket wrung around the sockets of his eyes— Sunday waits for the chime of the bell overhead.

It answers, dutifully. The sound of glass clinking against itself, shattering quietly. When he steps inside, soft piano: Satie's Gymnopédie No.1. 

The door falls shut behind him. Sunday spares no glance towards the woman by the counter, much too preoccupied with the pair of eyes across the room. You've raised your gaze, the silver spoon between your fingers shining with the blue from the window behind you. The air smells of fruit, honeyed and ripe. 

Sunday moves.

You're blinking up at him, dumb-struck, when he stops by your table. Watches your lashes flutter, feels his wings twitch with an emotion he doesn't want to name— something that ties a knot inside his abdomen, inside his chest. 

It makes it difficult to speak. 

(He likes that about you. That blissfully empty gaze. The way it conceals nothing.)

Seamlessly, he takes the seat across from you. Doesn't smile, but his voice is light when he says: "Good evening." A quiet inhale. "How have you been?"

Silence lingers in the wake of his words. It does not unnerve him; he is nothing if not patient. Nothing but a content overseer. Content to watch your fingertips twitch, when you let the spoon you're grasping fall onto the plate, a quiet clink of metal on ceramic. It looks as if you've barely grazed the fruit tart.

You look well, he thinks. There are shadows under your eyes, but they're not quite as dark as he remembers them being. Not the absent, worrying smudges he saw in the CCTV— your eyes themselves look somehow clearer.

He wonders what caused it.

(He knows it's not him. Wishes it did not grate at him, in that shameful, ugly corner of his mind, still not cleansed of petulant pettiness—)

When your lips part, he follows the drag of your cupid's bow. Your voice an arrow piercing through the air. 

"Hi," you say, uncertainly. "It's… been a while."

"It has."

…

Sunday's eyes do not stray, even when your own begin to waver. "How have you been?" He repeats, after a moment's pause.

"Uh, good. Just fine." You tilt your head, softly. "And you?"

An exhale leaves him, amused. Part of him wishes he could give you an honest answer, but— well, how is he to summarize it? I fell from the sky. I had an epiphany, of sorts— no, that's misleading. I think I died, for a moment. Just enough to gasp for air.

How should he relay it to you?

"… I've been well, all things considered," he feeds you a vague half-truth, a small smile tugging at his bottom lip. "I was hoping I'd see you again." 

That makes you look at him strangely. Your lips twitching open, and then falling shut, enough to have his hands wandering, fingers tugging restlessly at the smooth silk of his glove, the thin material stretching to accommodate his absent graze. Sunday hums, lightly.

"I'm leaving Penacony." He straightens his back, speaking clearly, the words filling his lungs with air that smells of honeydew. Of possibilities. "I know it doesn't concern you. We're just strangers, after all… but I wanted to say a proper goodbye."

He's just tying up loose ends. That's all. 

(He doesn't have it in him to hope for anything else.)

"… Why?" Your voice is pure, innocently curious. "If you don't mind me asking…"

"It's a long story. I'm certain I'd bore you."

You hum, tentative— reaching for your spoon. It scoops up the sliced kiwi, the foamy cream, brings a piece up to your parting lips.

"… Well, the Dreamscape has been crazy lately," you say after swallowing, your tongue dipping out to catch the fruit juice dribbling down your bottom lip. He follows it, absently. "I heard Sunday was exiled from the Oak Family, or something?"

— An upward twitch of his lips.

With the heel of his palm, Sunday hurries to obscure it— masks it with an idle cough, though he's certain that it doesn't come off as very convincing. You go silent, like you're confused. The look in your eye is what tips him over.

A melodious chuckle breaks past his lips. Light and clear, a home-bound ocean breeze; when he speaks it's all but muffled, caught between his fingertips.

"You are… so out of the loop."

"… Huh?"

He shakes his head, lightly— silver strands swaying, ghosting the skin of his forehead. Extends a hand across the table, his inner palm facing up. "Sunday," he says, eyes gleaming with mirth. "My name is Sunday."

He can practically see the gears of your mind turn, click sluggishly into place, a series of mismatched blinks. Hopelesslyendearing.

"… Not that Sunday, right?"

His smile only curls further. "I wonder."

"Are you? There's no way." You're starting to look panicked, eyes wide with disbelief. It shouldn't make him so amused, the visible embarrassment upon your features, he shouldn't be enjoying it as much as he is. 

(Inwardly, he berates himself. Right now, he really is no better than Wonweek, is he?)

"I hope you can forgive me," he half-croons, dove-like, a weak attempt at stifling the joy in his expression. "I suppose I enjoyed teasing you. I was sure you'd catch on quicker, but I underestimated you."

You look mortified. It's almost, almost enough to pull another chuckle from his breast.

(No better than Wonweek, he repeats, quelling the urge.)

"… Actually," you say, after the silence has properly settled, your expression far less like you want to burrow your head into sand— sweeping a hand across the silence gathering dust between you, "I'm leaving Penacony, too."

That makes him still. "Oh?"

”I quit my job this morning," nervously, your fingers trace the edge of the ceramic plate. "And without my job, I don't have a place to stay… so I'm going somewhere else. Not sure where, but, you know."

He hums, affirmative.

"I just had to get one last pastry." There's a smile on your face, albeit flimsy; he could probably tug it off with just a swipe of his thumb across the seam of your lips. His fingers twitch with the desire, but he kills it just as quickly. "I haven't been here in a while, actually. Not since the Charmony Festival fiasco… I got really busy, and you weren't here— well, it's not like that was why, you know, but still. I haven’t had one of these in a while.”

The trail of your wandering digits changes course. You break off a piece of the pastry at its center, crumbling dough between your index finger and thumb. A weary sigh escapes your lungs. 

Saddened, he thinks.

"Tarts taste sweeter in reality... I think I forgot."

Sunday watches you in silence.

"… Yes," he exhales, after a moment's pause. "you're probably right."

The composition from the counter changes, Satie's replaced by the tender strokes of a violin, sweet and light, filling the empty space of silence; Ashokan Farewell. His eyelids flutter closed, curtains of half-translucent moonlight drawing shut across his face.

"You know," he hears himself speak, "I think I'll follow your example."

When he stands up you follow, first with your eyes and then with your body— knees audibly knocking against the leg of your chair when you attempt to rise the first time. He smiles at the gesture, his expression serene. 

The glass display shimmers from afar, beckoning. 

… Ever since he had those pudding tarts, he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it.

Sunday waltzes up to the counter, brandishing a gentle smile. "I'll have one crème brûlée, please." You come to a stand-still beside him. "And one for my companion, as well." 

A tingling heat, where your gaze sears into his neck. He meets it from the corner of his eye, a playful cadence to his voice when he asks, "Unless you're already full? Or, would you like something else?"

A moment passes. 

"… Crème brûlée is fine," you hum.

Sunday exhales. "In that case, we'll—"

"But I'm paying."

You side-step him with grace, tugging your wallet open. When you angle your face to meet his expression, there's something pleased about the way your lips are curved; he thinks of Robin, a gentle cat's grin, the look she'd give him whenever she'd foot the bill in secret. 

It makes him chuckle, despite himself.

"Are you usually this stubborn?" he asks, eyes gleaming gold. 

"Not really," you shrug. "I just don't like owing people favours."

He can sympathize with that. 

Still, he pauses. Restrains the urge to be equally as stubborn; a struggle, it turns out, but he stays his hand. Tries not to listen to the voice in his head, familiar nagging, Don't let anyone do what you could do just as well yourself— a hand on the back of his neck. Even worse, the faded lull of his mother's voice, smaller, whispered. Somehow, it bears more weight.

(Oh my, are those for me? My little angel is such a gentleman.)

He swallows, imperceptively.

"… Are you sure?" he inquires. Your reply is instant.

"Yep."

Deadpan. You're weary of waiting, it seems.

Sunday sighs, his smile indulgent. Head lowered in a show of defeat. "… Alright," he concedes. "In that case, thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Next time," he continues, sharply, "will be on me, however." 

The words linger in the air. 

For a moment, he regrets them; almost certain that you've been put off. He's already pushing his luck, he's well aware of that— tongue twitching with a change of topic, willing it to be seamless, but it weighs down on the muscle like lead, iron searing hotly, a path from roof to throat.

You don't say a word. 

Only still, briefly. Stiffen in place. You spare him a glance before your head flips forward, fishing the credit card out of your wallet, the Robin keycharm still dangling from its corner like a wind chime. Her smile strikes him as mischievous. 

"Mm," it's a shallow hum, more breath than word. "That's fine, then."

Sunday blinks. Has to swallow the affection crawling up his throat in pollinated flurries, an itch that reaches all the way back to the root of his ribcage. Leaves his feathers to twitch, no more than a wingspan's worth of fluttering, pinpricks of excitement spreading through his neck— an electric sensation he cannot put a finger on. 

All he knows is that it makes his lips bloom. His hand comes up to cover it.

(Yes, that's right, he thinks. In the vast expanse of the cosmos— in some corner of the universe, wherever that may be— your paths will surely cross again. You'll find another patisserie. One with better lighting, where he can look at you properly from the other side of the table: where he will not be able to hide the smile behind his fingers.)

The lady behind the counter looks bashful, watching the two of you in sheepish silence, as if she isn't sure whether it's alright to chime in or not. Sunday should feel apologetic, but he scarcely notices her presence until she clears her throat. 

"… Will that be for here, or to-go?" 

The words break you out of your reverie. You sputter out a confirmation, visibly embarrassed, the card nearly slipping through the gaps between your fingers in your rush to slide it against the card reader— and Sunday truly cannot help himself. His smile curls upwards, like a bird taking flight, a sunflower twisting its stalk towards the clear-blue sky. It breaks through the clouds, carelessly.

Outside the window, the crescent moon mirrors his expression. 

[ruruumin]

︶⊹ morning's respite | sunday x reader

summary: because how could a man logically yearn for all to experience rest, when he refused to seek it for himself? notes: being a sunday yearner in 2025 is... hard. but it's okay because he's also just as much of a yearner in this fic so i think it cancels out maybe? my self-indulgent worms have struck again... word count: 1.7k ao3 link: here!

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ ⋆ ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It was tremendously hard to tell if it was morning or not.

As a passenger aboard the Astral Express, you were no longer in the audience of a daily ritual of sweet birdsong that announced the start of daybreak, nor did a shimmering sun mercilessly cast its awakening glare upon your poor, weary eyes, for all signs of cyclical nature had been replaced by an endless array of stars.

But even if the start of your days lacked the sight of newborn sunshine, the very kind that stained sleek curtains with gold and painted the perimeters of any chambers with a brush dipped in daylight, one glance at the slumbering Halovian next to you was enough to reaffirm your belief you’d never willingly trade away what you were currently privy to.

Sunday, whom always made sure he arose from the vices of slumber before anyone else on the Express had a chance to, was still weighing down his side of your shared bed, quiet and peaceful as his chest steadily rose and fell.

The flesh of his left cheek was smushed against the soft pillow that cradled his head, and his pale gray hair, which remained relatively unscathed from the whims of his nightly tousling, had fallen across his face and fringed itself in a way that, somehow, only drew out the vulnerability he had always kept stowed away during the waking day.

His long lashes would occasionally, slightly, flutter once or twice, as if he were about to stir awake, but it was always followed up by a firmer shift towards the bedding in an unconscious search of more comfort. such a set of motions clutched your heart and squeezed it until every staggered beat served as a gentle reminder of how deeply and dearly you adored him.

He truly was a precious, heavenly sorts of sight, after all, wasn’t he?

If you weren’t fearful of rousing him, you would’ve already allowed yourself the pleasure of cradling Sunday’s unsquished cheek against the cup of your palm, allowing your touch to encompass the softness of his skin.

It was solely by a miracle that you refrained.

As you tried to dispel your desire to hold your beloved close, you distracted yourself with the notion that you'd utilize this current time to, for once, be the one to complete the morning tasks Sunday always partook in.

With all the intent in the universe to finally unravel yourself from the comfortable bedding that clung to you like a warm embrace, you lifted yourself away from the mattress, only for your efforts to be swiftly silenced by the sound of a hand rustling atop the sheets, carefully seeking out your flesh amidst silk.

In your peripheral vision, you glanced at the pale hand that pressed yours flat against the giving surface.

“...my star?”

Sunday’s voice, soft in tone, yet laced with the amount of weariness one would expect from someone half-asleep, made you give complete pause.

How could he still sound so angelic, even now?

“You’re... up.” you whispered, moreso like it were an absolute statement, and not the question it was meant to be.

“I... It is nearly the set time I always get up—” Your eyes trailed to the alarm clock upon your nightstand. 6:30. Of course, you knew Sunday always began his days before anyone else did, but you never expected it to be this early. “—so, truly, a difference of a few minutes shouldn’t come as such a surprise...”

“I didn’t even know when your alarm was set for,” you said quietly. “...but that does explain why the bed’s always cold in the morning.”

You met Sunday’s eyes in time to witness the guilt that flashed across his features, marring the once peaceful expression. With his gaze now averted and his wings slightly drooping with shame, Sunday simply murmured a ‘I'm terribly sorry...’ filled with remorse in return.

Regret was quick to burn deep within your throat.

It didn’t take long before you squeezed your fingers around his in a rushed effort to show him reassurance, “It’s alright,” you whispered, even if deep down you were certain you knew the reasons behind his habits, even if because of such aforementioned reasons, you knew it was everything but alright. “I understand.”

Sunday seemed to relax, softening the tensed grasp he held your intertwined fingers in.

Taking the leverage as a chance to scoot yourself closer, you laid back down alongside him.

“I understand, because you’ve always been like this, my love,” you finally continued, watching your thumb idly brushing over his knuckles. “...early to rise, hardly ever slumbering, all in the name of servitude—I understand , I truly do,” your eyes flitted back up to meet with his, and you really did try your best to conceal your worry. “...but, when will you realize it no longer needs to be like this?”

Despite your attempts at persuading him, Sunday remained obstinate. “So long as I stay upon the Express, my obligation to be remembered as a helpful passenger, rather than a past hindrance, will remain as a high priority,” he paused solely to take a deep breath, as if reassuring himself that, yes , these truly were the words he’d choose to stand by. “...even if it means operating upon such... admittedly, inadequate rest.”

Your stomach churned at the notion that he was still so deeply troubled by the Charmony Festival debacle.

“You don’t have to still punish yourself like this,” you whispered, brows furrowed as your hand reaching up to finally wedge itself between his pillow and his cheek. “...please, show yourself the same grace you’ve shown countless others in the past.”

Sunday went quiet at your words, resorting to only taking a soft, deep breath, his expression unreadable as he weighed out your sentiments.

“I... merely wish I could see myself the way you see me,” he murmured moments later, his voice cracking and nearly successfully urging your heart to do the same. “I would love to, one day, be able to live up to the man your words paint me out to be.”

For whatever reason, you chuckled wearily at his remark, a sound bubbling with both misery and adoration. “Oh, my silly birdie,” you pressed your forehead up against his and forced down the loving tears that began to well at the corners of your eyes. “...why can’t you see that you already do?”

Sunday didn't respond.

As you trailed intricate, senseless patterns with every pass of your wandering fingertips all atop the expanse of his silk-clad canvas, Sunday’s free hand reached out to cease the motions, grasping your hand softly and bringing it up to his lips.

Sunday deliberately chose to squeeze his eyes shut before he started to brush fleeting kisses atop each and every one of your knuckles, almost as if he feared he didn’t deserve to delight in the sight of your reaction.

His lips froze against the last remaining bump once sudden realization struck him.

“...strawberries.” he murmured softly to himself, his words muffled against your skin.

“Huh?”

“You smell like strawberries,” Sunday rushed to explain, almost as if he hadn’t expected you to pick up upon his musings. “I... simply didn’t notice until now.”

You cracked a small, wistful sorts of smile at his clarification. After all, it had only been a few weeks prior that March had, with an ‘innocent’ grin on her face that was accompanied by a far-too-knowing wink, handed you a bottle of strawberry lotion minutes after noting your dry knuckles, rubbed raw and cracked from the constant streams of water you ran them under whenever you washed the dishes by Sunday’s side.

In truth, you weren’t certain if you’d enjoy such a scent permeating off your skin, but you and March both knew of Sunday’s sweet tooth, so you took the chance and held onto it, choosing last night to be the first time you ever applied it.

“I chose to wear it because of you.”

“Oh, I...”

As Sunday’s voice tapered off into a weak chuckle, his once stagnant wings began to happily flutter once, then twice, stirring up enough air to cause a soft breeze to ruffle through his hair, and in light of such a precious sight, you were certain that, quite coincidentally, the scent of strawberry-related products had magically nestled itself atop your favorites, too.

Sunday soon caught on to his external display of contentment, and he forced himself to still the appendages that dared to betray him.

You could hear him swallow. “Because of me?”

“Because of you.”

And it was with the reassurance of the validity of your confession, did Sunday’s hastily structured walls finally come crumbling down. Quickly, he pulled you closer against his form by wrapping his arms around you, pressing his forehead against your collarbone.

It was hardly a surprise to either of you when a few moments later, his pair of raven wings—despite rarely ever revealing themselves—popped up near his torso, sprawling out as best as their restricted wingspan would allow them, before protectively curtaining their plumes around you like a midnight-colored blanket.

“By the stars, I...” Somehow, you could tell he was slightly irked by the way his voice caught in his throat. “I still don’t believe I truly deserve you, dear.”

You simply shook your head before shifting the self-deprecating Halovian ever closer against you, nudging him forth to rest the side of his face against the top of your chest.

“You deserve all that I can give you, and so much more.”

Sunday’s breath staggered in his throat at the contact, his reaction almost as comically startled as he was the first time you both so intimately cuddled.

The tranquility of the moment was nonetheless shattered by the sharp trill of the digital clock resting atop of Sunday’s nightstand.

6:45.

With a stifled, tired noise that sounded much akin to a groan, Sunday’s gaze shifted back and forth between the clock and your form a dozen or so times, before he used the weight of his palm to gently shut the alarm button off.

After a tremendously shaky sigh escaped his lips, reverberating throughout his body and rumbling against your chest, Sunday finally chose to truly, deeply , look up at you, golden eyes—nearly shyly, you noted—boring into yours, trembling with both pure disbelief that he has you, and utter adoration because he does.

“Do you truly believe that I could... get away with staying here for a little while?”

“I think after everything, you deserve a moment of rest.”

And maybe, for once, solely because it had rung forth from your lips, he would finally allow himself the chance to believe that he did.

[ruruumin]

3.2

[ruruumin]

🌸🍃🌼

[ruruumin]

puppy-like

[ruruumin]

i officially hit 1k followers :o i wonder what i should do to commemorate!

[ruruumin]

Alhaitham is a starer. But it’s in his own sort of way.

A glancer. An admirer.

From over the pages of his book while he reads on the couch and he’ll huff softly to himself when he watches you do something silly, carefully turning the pages of his book like he’s been reading them. He’ll watch you place something precariously close to the edge of the counter and he knows if you were to turn around too quickly, you’ll knock it off.

Alhaitham allows himself a few more moments of admiring your focused expression before clearing his throat to speak.

“Careful now. I’m sure cleaning that up would be quite the hassle.”

By the time you turn around he’s focused back on the pages. Leaving you to believe he’s just got a sort of sixth sense when it comes to your clumsiness. But that’s not really the case. You’ll listen to him though, and by the time you turn back around his eyes are back on you, smiling into the words on his current page.

Alhaitham will glance at you while you’re folding laundry. He’ll lean in the doorway of the bedroom while your back is to him, to allow himself a few seconds of gazing at the back of your head, the dip of your shoulder, the way your fingers delicately handle the fabric of his clothes.

He feels it somewhere in his chest, an affectionate squeeze of sorts— a tug. Like it’s pulling him closer. So he pushes himself off of the doorframe before taking a careful step.

“Would you like me to lend you a hand?” Alhaitham asks, softly.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask.”

He can hear the way you’re smiling before he sees it.

“Well, based on my observations, I’m already impressed with your technique. Who knew you had such a talent.” His compliment urges you to turn your body to face him. You’re still holding one of his shirts in your hands, feeling the fabric in your hands. But you’re smiling at him, delicate and beautiful and before Alhaitham finds himself becoming too flustered he quips, “It’s a shame that can’t extend to other parts of the house too.”

His playfulness urging you to scoff and push at his chest when he comes to stand next to you, “Ugh! Are you gonna help or not?” You pretend to be annoyed, but he sees the way you try not to laugh when you return to folding the clothes infront of you. He sees it when he looks at you again.

Alhaitham will admire you. Today, tomorrow, maybe even the lifetime after this one.

[ruruumin]

foaming at the mouth for more dan heng content

[ruruumin]

eepy dan heng 💤

[ruruumin]

chiikawa, chiikawa!

₊˚ ᗢ dan heng x fem! reader.

⤷ life's toughest decision: which chiikawa plush are you buying?

dan heng, amidst all judgement, was standing in front of a miniso display. dressed in his usual casual wear and totebag, he held in his hands two similar, but very different plush keychains. he squeezes hard with his thumb against the stomach—eyes narrowing in focus as he watches the head expand slightly in his grip. 

which chiikawa keychain would she like the most? he thought to himself. although he has known you for years, (three to be exact) gift-buying was never his strong suit. sure, he knew what you liked, but every time he visits a store, he is frozen with insecurities and worry. he’s not concerned about you being disappointed, its moreso the idea of wanting to see your face light up with excitement that he is chasing.

you’ve always enjoyed his gifts. every time he travels with his family, he makes a note to bring back something for you. when he visited china, he brought back a dozen boxes of make up items for you to use. from the prettiest, strawberry shortcake shaped powders to judydoll’s yoyo balm and contour palette, he has brought back anything you could ever need. it has become a problem for you because you’ve started running out of things to put his gifts on. your pegboard is drowning in plush keychains and small prints signed by your favorite voice actor.

everyone, including the small children who begged their parent to take them to minso, were watching carefully behind shelves. they too were wondering: which one is he going to buy? will it be the chiikawa with the perfectly pink pajamas? or will he go for the more minimalistic, plain one with its bear bag? sure, he could buy you two–he keeps thinking about it, however, you’ve scolded him one too many times about having too many keychains.

closing his eyes, he lets out a deep sigh. perhaps he should consult someone about this. dan heng reaches into his pocket and pulls out a list of contacts. the first name he immediately crosses out in his mind is welt. the man is a little too old to keep up with pop culture references, and dan heng can already imagine him saying: get the simplistic one, that way, any bag would match with it. 

dan heng looks down at the shelf. there are only three pajama plush keychains left. the plain ones still have six. it would be reasonable to get the one that is the most popular, no? if it doesn’t buy it now, what if they don’t restock anymore? what if he regrets choosing the plain one? 

so he looks again at his other contacts. himeko, wise and thoughtful, would say to get the pajama one. its adorably cute and gushing with personality. it would fit you perfectly to a t. you could put it on the pegboard with all the other pink keychains he bought for you. it would even match the yoyo balm you have on your bag. surely, this means he’ll finally leave miniso with the perfect gift for you.

there is still this nagging voice at the back of his head though. and in order to make sure all worries are dispelled, he decides to click on a very familiar name. it rings two times before it finally makes it to the other caller. 

“hey dan heng! what’s up?” march’s cheerful voice perks up. 

“i need your help deciding on what keychain i should buy for (name). you cannot tell her though. it would ruin the surprise if she knew.”

march, on the other side of the line, has to restrain a mysterious giggle creeping up at the back of her throat. she clears it immediately by coughing a little before pushing the phone close to her ear. “ah, what kind of keychain is it?”

“its one of those chiikawa ones. the white… hamster-looking thing. there is a plain one with a little bear bag. the other one is wearing a fluffy pink pajama. which one do you think i should buy?”

“that is indeed a hard choice…” 

dan heng can hear her hum on the other side of the line. there is a few seconds of incoherent mumbles on her end. he waits patiently for her answer and it comes back more cheery than he expected.

“get the pajama one!”

“hm. what is your reasoning?”

“uh… maybe because its the cutest one?”

the man lets out a satisfied hmph. “alright. i will take your word for it. himeko also agreed on that one, so based on general majority, this is the one i will buy. thank you, march.” he immediately hangs up the phone and puts the regular chiikawa back on its shelf, finally freeing him from dan heng’s clutches.

୧ 🍰‧₊˚ 🍓 ⋅ ☆

dan heng decides to meet up with you at the library. with the chiikawa keychain tucked away in his pocket, he approaches the table. you were sitting at the center, hair tucked behind your ear as you pressed a pencil against the end of your lip, focused on the textbook in front of you. lately, physics has been kicking your arse–as you would put it, so you’ve spent the last week heavily focused on catching up on lectures.

he doesn’t notify you of his presence just yet. he only stands for an extra minute, admiring the way you look today. your outfit wasn’t anything grand but it still catches his eye nonetheless. the focused look in your eyes, the way you’re fidgeting and flipping through pages, it’s like cupid shot an arrow through his heart.

everyone knows he is completely whipped for you.

he takes the wooden chair next to you and sets down his bag. you turn your head up at him and smile, the room brightening up by your expression of happiness. 

“i didn’t even notice you! you walk so quiet. could you imagine if you scared me?” 

taking out his notebook, dan heng chuckles, “i think i’ve done that on a couple of occasions. i’m so used to having to tiptoe around stelle’s room. she’s a light sleeper so getting water was like playing a horror game.” 

“no way! she always looked like a heavy sleeper to me…” you’re surprised at this sudden piece of information.

the stelle you knew was always digging around local trash cans for treasure. she invited you to dumpster dive behind a local sephora. just when the girl found something interesting, security arrived. the two of you had to book it across the parking lot to reach the getaway driver: march. when you got home that night, you knocked out immediately. it took your mother shaking you awake by the shoulder before you turn into sleeping beauty.

“that girl is always up to the weirdest things.” dan heng sighs alongside you. he wasn’t short of drama from stelle. her and her twin brother were the biggest troublemakers. one time, the two of them tried making breakfast for everyone in the astral group chat, only to accidentally burn water. to this day, no one knows how it was possible.

“anyway, i have something for you today.”

your eyes lit up, “another gift?”

“of course.” he pulls out the chiikawa keychain and holds it up to you. “i thought this would match with your bag. there was only three left at the store.” you took it into your hands and immediately started pinching the poor hamster’s cheeks. the pajama was unbelievably soft to the touch. 

“do you like it?”

“like it? i love it!” you coo, “he’s so cute in his little outfit.” you reach for your bag and taking the ball chain, you unclasp and attach it to the handle of your purse. “i’m surprised you got one of these! i heard from so many friends they were sold out. i asked my mom to buy it for me but she couldn’t find it either.” 

the look on your face gave him big relief. he’s happy to see that you liked the gift. it was even better knowing that you’ve been wanting it for a while. it must have been perfect luck that the miniso he visited had it in stock. he had no idea it was a highly sought after item at first. he just knew chiikawa was popular and wanted to buy it for you since you off-handedly mentioned it. seeing all this distraught children’s faces when he walked out of the store with one made more sense now.

“i also have something for you!” 

dan heng hums, curiously tilting his head, “you do?”

“yep!” popping the p, you take out a keychain from your bag. while dan heng bought you the pajama chiikawa, you got him a pajama hachiware. they were the perfect duo, just like you and dan heng. shaking with happiness, your legs were bobbing up and down beneath the table. 

he holds the plush in his hands. “how did you know to get this one?”

with an eye roll, you point towards your phone, “march and i were already going shopping when you called. you should have seen the look on her face��she was like a deer in headlights. we were already shopping for you and it was perfect timing that you told her you’d get this one.”

your smile grew wider, “so i got this one so we can match! isn’t it super cute?”

“yes, this is really cute.” dan heng’s face brightened up, “you didn’t have to buy me anything, but i won’t refuse a gift from you. thank you,” he presses a kiss to the side of your temple, causing your face to explode with heat. “i guess you want more matching gifts for the future?”

the grin on your face tells him everything that day. webbing your fingers together, you scooch closer to him, enough to make it easy for you to lean your head against his shoulder. thank goodness the two of you were in the secluded part of the library. away from prying eyes so he can revel in your warmth. rather than studying, he takes a few minutes resting his head against yours. 

he will make a mental note to always buy matching items for you now.

[ruruumin]

omg ruru,, looks like you're having fun with hsr!! can't wait to see ur hsr journey hehe. I'm curious, what do you like about it the most? 👀

i like how relaxing it is!! i feel like im kind of burnt out from rivals and how competitive it feels, so its nice to chill and have the game auto-battle for u :3

[ruruumin]

performative.

₊˚ ᗢ dan heng x fem! reader.

⤷ asking for help shouldn't be hard, but you're scared.

“they make men like you in factories.”

dan heng’s head immediately perked up. his once muted and expressionless face broke at your words. the book that is nestled between his fingers suddenly lost his interest as he looks up.

“what?”

the two of you were seated at a bustling cafe that had just opened. it was filled to the brim with young college students with laptops and ipads. you have to restrain yourself from chuckling too loud. when you look around the cafe, there is a staggering epidemic you and march have been talking about. 

boys with permed hair and loose baggy jeans. all of them were equipped with at least one matcha drink in hand and a carabiner around their belt loops—it was the performative male outfit. the kind that any woman can identify as someone wanting to look more sophisticated than they actually are. it didn’t help the fact that the man sitting in front of you, dan heng, bless his little heart, was the perfect victim.  

the tote bag he brought today had a very cute, cat keychain that anybody with eyes could tell was matching with yours. and if someone with the guts could ask, he would tell them that he bought it on a whim because it was cheap. it was definitely not because you were being too close to caelus at the gift shop. he would rather eat a shoe than admit he felt a pang of jealousy seeing you together.

“black, permed hair. drinking matcha at a cafe. reading publicly. tote bag. minus the carabiner, you are the perfect representation for performative men. don’t you realize this is getting patched?”

“i have no idea what you are talking about,” he crosses one leg over the other. settling his book down in front of you, he taps the cover of it with the tip of his finger. “i simply like reading. the drinks here are great. its close by to your place. and what’s wrong with my hair?”

finally being able to let go of the laugh in your throat, you heartily reply, “there’s nothing wrong with it. it just looks like you’re trying to impress some girls around here. have you even noticed the amount of stares we got since you walked in? you’re simply oozing–”

“please don’t use the word oozing.” he sighs, “i’m not trying to impress anybody here anyway. i thought we are here so i can help you with your resume.”

“and you are! i’ve just been so distracted…” 

he notes the subtle pout and crestfallen look on your face. it hasn’t been a good week for you at all. after nearly getting hit by a woman driving on the wrong side of the road, your electric stove catching on fire due to a faulty wire, you ended your week with the devastating news that you’ll be let go of your job. on top of everything, there were small things that irked you to no end. from roommates not cleaning up after themselves to having no time to buy groceries and cat food, everything became a huge burden. 

dan heng took it upon himself to run a few of the errands for you. that is the least he could do to save your week from getting worse. looking over your resume was part of his masterful plan of being close to you. he was praying to every star in the sky you wouldn’t ask welt or himeko because it’d foil his efforts at being more than just friends. thankfully with march’s encouragement and recommendation, you sought out dan heng.

“i understand. looking for jobs isn’t easy. it usually takes a person six months to find a new one but your job only have you one…” he mutters, “nevertheless—there are plenty of opportunities. if you need anything, i could always drive you to work as well.”

you almost spit out your drink in surprise. “you don’t have to do that!” scratching the back of your neck, you look sheepishly at him. “i mean, i—just don’t want to burden you more than i already have. you’ve done a lot for me already. looking after my cat and buying him food, and also picking up my new shampoo…” 

you continue to list things under your breath that he knows is a spew of nonsense. if you asked him to rope the moon down, he would do it in a heartbeat. and besides, getting cat food meant coming over to your place. just as you were selfishly benefitting from him, he was as well. 

“don’t worry about it. we live pretty close together anyway. it’s not a problem for me to pick you up, is it?”

“ah… but your classes don’t align with mine. didn’t you say the data analysis class was taking up more time than you thought?”

dan heng shakes his head. “its only the class projects that take a lot of time. everything else has been pretty simple.”

you tilt your head downwards, twiddling with your thumbs from beneath the table. it’s not that you don’t want dan heng’s help–if anything, you want it more than ever now that life has been turned upside down. but you can’t brush off the fact that you feel like you’re asking for too much. you don’t want to look like a helpless lamb. the thought of burdening dan heng eats you alive. 

you are broken out of your stupor when you hear the snap of a finger. dan heng is leaning over the table, face closer than ever to yours. 

“w-wauh!” leaning back against the cushions of the chair, you feel a strong heat rise to your face. “why are you so close to me right now?”

“just wanted to see if you were still in there.” he sits back down in his chair. 

“of course i’m still here!” 

“that look on your face tells me you’re thinking about something else. is there anything on your mind that’s bothering you?” his question has you pressing your lips tightly together, concerned and conflicted by your inner turmoils. “actually, don’t answer that. i think i know.” 

“huh?”

as if he read your mind, he says: “you’re not being a problem for me.”

dan heng stirs the green straw that is connected to his drink. “i don’t mind helping you. if i didn’t want to, i wouldn’t have agreed in the first place. i won’t think of you any less for wanting help. i’d actually prefer it if you came to me more often.”

“i see…” 

he cautiously touches your hand, feeling the back of it with his thumb. “anything i can do for you, i would. i’m not trying to impress anybody here so—” he sucks in a deep breath, “believe me when i say i’d do anything if it’s you.” 

“you sound so romantic right now.” 

the heat hasn’t died down from your face. in fact, it has actually gotten worse. it feels like you’re melting on the inside. was this the dan heng you knew before? for a man who sits in the back of the class to avoid conversation, he was being overly confrontational with you. it was like the feelings he had in his heart had suddenly betrayed his mind, and he’s exposing it all to you.

he clears his throat and straightens his back. before he can withdraw his hand to pick up his book and continue reading like nothing ever happened, you stop him. tethering the line between close friends and lovers, you nervously web your fingers with his. 

“if… you could look over my resume right now… that’d be great.”

this act has dan heng sighing a breath of relief. perhaps he truly was overthinking everything. when march told him that she saw a spark in your eyes for him, he couldn’t believe it. he thought everything was just delusion and he was caught up in all the small signs to see the bigger picture.

“of course.”

you bashfully look at him, trying to steel your nerves as much as you can. “and… can we go grocery shopping after this? i forgot i wanted tomatoes for the summer.”

his eyes soften immediately. his pupils dilating with adoration so strong, it leaves you completely weak.

“anything for you.” 

[ruruumin]

honkai star rail masterlist.

welcome to my honkai star rail masterlist ₊˚ෆ

⤷ terms & conditions: no nsfw & heavy gore/comfort fics only.

⤷ dan heng: - performative (fic). - chiikawa, chiikawa! (fic).

[ruruumin]

WUAHAHAHAHA

[ruruumin]

yall might be wondering where i went

truth is i downloaded honkai star rail a day ago and i already played for over 16 hours

im cooked

[ruruumin]

07/09/25; 01:00pm

{ drabbles / headcanons }

[ when you make them buy pads for you / take care of you during your period ]

featuring: jinu, abby, baby, mystery, romance

note: slightly suggestive, but this is lowkey a crack fic. i need some laughter rn because i am in so much pain!!! 😭

jinu would be able to sense your pain, pulling you into his lap as he soothed you with his gentle kisses against your forehead. he would remain vigilant by your side while providing you with everything that you needed-

however, the moment you ran out of your usual pads and begged him to go buy you some, jinu was honestly at a loss for words. he stopped by the closest convenience store and found himself staring at the aisles upon aisles of colorful pads.

jinu loves you-

adores you to the moon and back, even!

he doesn’t want to screw this up, hence why he was so hesitant when it came to giving you a call and asking you for help.

so as he kept scouring the aisles, (looking just as lost the moment he first stepped in), a kind woman steps forward, gently tapping him on his shoulder.

nearly jumping back and letting out a squeal in response to the sudden touch. the older woman’s laughter makes his cheeks heat up in a scarlet hue, her voice remaining patient when she asks him, “does your girlfriend need some pads?”

“uh, y-yeah! s-she does…” jinu awkwardly trails off, scratching the back of his head when he allows the employee to help him. with a hum, she chooses a single pack before heading into the snack aisle, grabbing some bars of chocolates and a pint of ice cream. carrying the items with her, she gestures at jinu to follow her to the check out register.

“now she’ll need these to feel better.” grabbing a packet of medicine, she tosses it into the mix, scanning each item before telling the flustered demon the total price. taking out his card, jinu pays for every item, thanking the lady for her help before grabbing the bag filled with your stuff and making mad dash out of the convenience store-

his face and ears still burning when he hears the woman softly laughing at him before saying out loud, “ah, what a joy it is to be young and in love again.”

you were currently curled up on top of his chest, your breathing slightly labored and in pain as you continue clinging to your boyfriend. meanwhile, abby was simply threading his fingers through your hair, lazily scrolling through his phone when you call out to him.

“abs… abby- can you buy some pads for me, i think one pack will do.”

he raises an eyebrow at you, “why do i have to do it?”

you give him a pout, jabbing at his chest with your finger, “because i’m literally dying over here, these cramps are no joke. and if you loved me, you’d do it.”

abby lets out a groan, already pocketing his phone as he grabs his wallet, placing a kiss against your forehead while calling you his spoiled princess before leaving your shared apartment.

after walking toward the closest convenience store, abby looks at the wide variety of pads, deep in thought as to what you actually needed. yet the more he kept looking at each package, the more overwhelmed he felt.

not wanting to mess this up, abby takes out his cellphone and gives you a call. two rings later, you had barely answered when he loudly asks, “yo, what size is your pussy?”

cue a few other customers stopping what they were doing to give abby a side eyed glance.

“ABS! OH MY GOD-“

“babe i’m totally serious right now! there’s just so many, and sure, i’ve seen how pretty it is… hell, i’ve even been in it a few times, heh… but like, i don’t know the size of it?”

if only the earth could just swallow you whole right now!

“listen, okay, just listen! buy the ones that are the overnight ones and come home!”

abby whistles, searching the aisle before landing on a pack that had ‘for overnight coverage’ as he placed it in his arms with pride. “i got it babe, i’ll see you later.”

you immediately hang up the phone as abby saunters toward the cashier, seeing her face go completely red when he points toward the box of condoms settled on a shelf behind her, “be a dear and toss in that box for me too, yeah?”

when it was that time of the month, baby would always share his snacks with you and even feed you your favorite ice cream in hopes of soothing your cramps.

as you cling to him, you gave your boyfriend the best pout you could muster, “baby, i think i ran out of pads, can you go get some for me?”

playfully rolling his eyes at you, baby takes one last spoonful of ice cream before standing from the couch, “you wait here, i’ll be right back.”

so with his wallet in hand, he heads toward the closest convenience store, searching through the building before seeing the aisle filled with pads. he takes in the sight of all the packaging and sighs, catching the attention of one of the male employees.

the man stops what he was doing before jogging over to him, “yes?”

“do you do deliveries?” baby asks the man, and he confirms his question with a nod. “yes, we do deliveries.”

“then i’d like you to take one of each pack right here and deliver them to this address.” baby flashes the employee his silver credit card, telling him your address as the employee got to work.

meanwhile…

back at your apartment, you begin pacing your living room, wondering why it was taking baby so long to get back to you. you were about to call him when a sudden knock at your door interrupts you.

curious as to who it was, you unlock it, only to see a deliveryman step inside while bringing in a plethora of pads and massive amounts of snacks. you were absolutely mortified, watching as the deliveryman stacked an insane amount of pads in the corner of your room while baby enters your shared apartment with a lollipop in his mouth.

when the deliveryman was finished, he gives baby a bow before leaving the apartment, leaving you alone with your boyfriend. your face still felt hot from the embarrassment, yet you were unable to say a word to baby.

he meets your gaze, taking the cherry-red lollipop out of his mouth before putting it in yours, “why are you looking at me like that for? i got you your pads.”

but i didn’t need this many!

however, the words wouldn’t come out of your throat, being trapped within your gaping mouth that now had baby’s lollipop hanging from it.

needless to say, you didn’t need baby to buy you any pads for a long time.

you and mystery were taking a nap when a sudden rush of blood was felt between your legs coupled along with a new series of cramps. the pain of it all was enough to take your very breath away, making you curl up away from mystery.

noticing the lack of your warmth beside him, he wakes up, seeing you curled up in a fetal position as a series of whimpers escapes from your parted lips.

“what’s wrong, honey?” mystery asks you, now rubbing comforting circles behind your back.

“it’s nothing… just cramps.” letting out a shuddering breath, you meet his gaze and ask, “do you think you can go out and buy me some pads, myst?”

he doesn’t acknowledge your question, choosing instead to silently leave your shared bedroom. frowning slightly at his actions, you sit up in bed and call out to him, “mystery?”

just seconds later, he returns with some familiar items in hand, making your eyes go wide in response. in his hands was the brand of pads you often used along with some medicine and your favorite brand of chocolate. “i keep a stash of these in my pantry, just in case you ever needed them…”

mystery’s admission causes a surge of warmth to go through you, making you lean forward to press a lingering kiss against mystery’s lips. he returns the kiss with just as much fervor, pulling you into his lap as he allows the items to fall to the ground all while basking in the warmth of your love.

much like mystery, romance also keeps a stash of your needed toiletries and treats when it was that time of the month-

however, he also went above and beyond for you, often spoiling you in hopes of lessening the pain you felt. from cooking or ordering your favorite meals to feeding you your favorite treats and snacks-

to say you were treated like a queen would be an understatement.

after dinner, romance carries you away from the dining table, helping you strip out of your clothes as he prepares a bath for you while using your favorite scented body wash. only when the water was the ideal temperature did he carefully settle your form into the bubbly depths, earning a soft moan from you.

the hot water felt divine on your lower abdomen, providing a soothing balm for your cramps as romance worked on washing your hair, lovingly lathering your favorite shampoo into it. relishing in his soft touches, you ease back into the tub with a hum, “mmm rome… you spoil me too much.”

hearing his chuckle, you felt him press a kiss against your wet hair before whispering in your ear, “you deserve it, love. now just sit back and relax… let your man do all the work and take care of you.”

practically turned into putty now, you surrendered yourself to his soft touches, falling into a peaceful sleep as romance continued to take care of you throughout the day.

end notes: oh to be spoiled by the saja boys when you’re in the throes of period pains 😭🙌🏻

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[ruruumin]

#. SAJA HOTLINE: ABS, SASS AND AFFECTION

featuring 𝘀𝗮𝗷𝗮 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝘀 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

smau + comedic + fluff. you vs the random demon guy they told you not to worry about. the sajas have abs, issues, and at least three red flags each. but also? you kinda love the dynamic.

JINU

ABBY

ROMANCE

MYSTERY

BABY

taglist: @seneon @y2kuromi @irethepotato @justanindiangirl12 @zuhaeri @levifiance @amery-benson-cvii @ririrenni3 @tsukimoon-chan (sorry if i missed someone; please let me know if you'd like to be added to the general kpdh taglist!)

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