#SUNDAY HSR

[tsukishiroism]

there are gay people kissing in my team select screen

[thedivineladyinwhite]

honestly...Hell fucking YEAHHHHH!!!

obsession w/ sunday

inspired by @yandere-romanticaa's fic! Tehee your works are so eye opening 0.0 <333 I licherally haven't created a yandere content for such a looong time lolol let's see if I can still pull this off lmao

WARNING/S: Yandere, Obsessive Behavior

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[petorahs]

moreeee pirate!Aventurine x mer!Sunday <3333333333

bonus below!

[crepezinhos]

Sucumb to the Sin

POV: You and Sunday are currently trying for a baby, but as you two do it, the task turns out to be harder than Sunday thought it would be, so he decided to listen to his sinful friend’s advice to try achieving it… and he fell in love with it. Art Credits

⚠️ WARNINGS:

— This is a fluffy NSFW piece

— Reader is FEMALE and uses SHE/HER pronouns

— AU is: Modern

— Virgin!Catholic!Sunday x Virgin!Catholic!Reader

You swallowed.

Don’t stare, don’t stare, don’t stare, don’t stare…

You repeated to yourself in your head over and over while staring at the blank white roof above you.

But the way you could hear noises of silver tingling and clanking, then noises of a zipper being pulled downwards, made your heart accelerate its pumps with anxiety and unease.

I swallowed.

Don’t stare too much, don’t stare too much…

I repeated to myself in my head over and over while trying my best to not succumb to the temptation while staring down at her… breasts.

But the way they moved up and down according to her slow breathing made butterflies kick my stomach, whether I wanted to feel them or not.

“Are you… Are you ready, my love?” You heard his voice speak calm and low above you, his body slowly leaning down so he could make better eye contact with you.

“I…” You stared back at him out of respect, although it was a very hard quest. “I am.” You nodded your head, confirming your consent.

One of Sunday’s hand moved down and gently stroked his own length, very cautiously positioning it between your folds, right outside your hole. Sunday couldn’t help but sigh very hard in anticipation, feeling your wet flesh almost making him slip inside.

A little hic of anticipation escaped your lips when you felt his tip touch you, knowing it was probably going to be a little painful to lose your virginity. You pressed the pillow under your head a little harder, trying to get ready for it.

“Don’t worry… I’ll be gentle.” Sunday whispered, and his hips finally started hooking forward as soon as he saw you nod again.

You really tried keeping your hands in the pillow as his length begun stretching your insides, but you just couldn’t. They savagely reached up to Sunday’s shoulders midway and your nails begun crawling on them.

“AaaAHhh!!” You screamed in pleasure and slight pain, causing Sunday to pause almost immediately.

He somehow managed to hold a grunt of pain down his throat due to your nails.

God almighty.

Why the heck does this feel so weird but… so good?

No matter if Y/N is hurting my shoulders, my body feels like it’s begging to keep—

…

… No. I shouldn’t be thinking about this or… desiring this.

This is really one of the most dangerous sins, isn’t it..?

I quickly shook my head away from these thoughts and focused my eyes back to Y/N.

“Are you ok?” His voice was very sweet, trying to comfort you the most he could.

“S-Sorry…” Your wings instinctively moved forward and covered a bit of your eyes from him. “You can… keep moving…” Sunday nodded as soon he heard your weepy voice giving him consent.

He unpaused his initial thrust, the skin of his hips finally slapping against yours after a few seconds pushing in.

“Ah…” He couldn’t help but groan out of the pleasure he felt and relief of finally being able to drop his elbows to the bed and relax his arm muscles.

As the Bible says…

“Halovians ought to cover their eyes during the act with their cranial wings.”

So that’s exactly what I did next, finally respecting Y/N’s privacy and the Bible’s prophecy.

“You can move…” You consented again, lowering your hands to his wrists, trying to find better comfort, while your cranial wings repeated Sunday’s actions.

Here it comes…

The moment Catholics most fear throughout their lives trying to obey God’s checklist for Heaven.

Resisting the temptation of carnal activities.

But… it is unfortunately the easiest way you and Sunday could afford to breed a child.

You remembered your friends, who were definitely not a member of your religion, describing in a few conversations how it’s not easy for women to reach what you need to ‘complete’ this session of carnality…

An ‘orgasm’.

It made you wonder multiple questions. Why is sex a way to procreate? Is it a test from God? Were your friends being realistic about their claims? Were you and Sunday going to have to stay in such awkward situation for a long time?

It didn’t matter. Sunday begun to move.

He slowly started pulling out and pushing in again, trying to treat you and your virgin body like a wet pot of porcelain.

Although you knew agreed with Sunday being gentle at first, so he wouldn’t hurt you, you found it weird how he didn’t seem to be trying to increase stimulus. He kept slapping his hips against yours as slow as a snail and at a disappointing strength that barely made you even feel his length around your gummy walls.

You deeply love Sunday with every corner of your heart, but… does he know how to do this..? How to take lead on this..? Because… you don’t think either of you would ever achieve an orgasm at such an embarrassing pace like this.

Am I… doing this right?

This is how you do it, isn’t it?

Then why is she not making a single noise rather than a few of grunts that sound uncomfortable..? This awkward silence is killing me but there can’t be a better way than this.

Any other way to do this is merely lust. Lust is a sin.

Remember to not succumb, Sunday Oak.

To make your embarrassment worse, you realized just how it felt bizarre to have Sunday’s naked hips touching yours and feeling his dick reach such intimate depths of you, especially whenever his testicles tickled your skin every time he went down too.

Testicles are a… funny organ… to say the least.

Oh, my God, you were actually sharing your nudity to him.

“How do you feel..?” You heard Sunday’s voice above, sounding a little hoarse due to the effort he was doing to thrust you.

“Ok…” You awkwardly answered the most honest opinion you could give him without offending him, attempting to cover your face even more due to an instinctual fear of him possibly looking at your nudity.

‘Ok’? That doesn’t sound good.

But I… I can’t do nothing greater than this, can I?

This is probably everything that the Bible allows me to do for this kind of process…

Still, even if your answer was an obvious ‘yellow flag’, for the next minutes, you just kept yourself laid down under him like that while he kept thrusting your insides in that same boring formula.

Slow pace, weak thrusts, slow pace, weak thrusts, slow pace, weak thrusts…

Was it even doing something to his body? Because yours felt as normal as ever, and even… empty.

Is this even doing something to her body? Because mine feels as normal as ever, and even… empty.

God, what an embarrassing situation.

All you two have to do is to make Sunday ejaculate inside you, yet it doesn’t look like you two are even trying to reach it. It actually looks like that you two are torturing yourselves.

The weak soggy noises coming from his thrusts filling the room accentuated the awkward silence even more, and neither of you could help eachother. You’re both not allowed to moan due in this process according to the Bible, especially you, a woman.

You and all women, who heir Eve’s sins, that could only possibly be purged with procreation, are a danger to men, and you’ve always done your best to not make your dear husband get close to make a sin.

If you sin, Sunday can fix it for you.

But if he sins, it’s over for the both of you.

And you love him too much to make a mistake that would lead him to go to hell.

I gently spread my wings away from each other, finally giving me the answer I was looking for.

Her face seems relaxed too, with only a few exceptions whenever she decided to let out a grunt. She was doing such a good job at keeping her moans jailed inside her body, but this body of hers is—

Stop it, Sunday! You’re not supposed to be looking!

But… does that mean I also can’t… do other things to her..? As long as I’m not looking, could I…

What was it again..?

“Ratio, I need to ask you something…” Aventurine banged his cup at the table as he called Veritas’s attention.

“What?” Ratio made sure to also place his cup down at the table out of reciprocation with his friend.

“Have you ever made a woman cum yet?” Such a lewd question made Sunday’s eyes widen in shock immediately, but Ratio remained unmoved by its lewdness, letting out a chuckle while taking another quick sip of alcohol. “I mean, you’ve slept with a lot of women yet, haven’t you? You’ve surely—” Aventurine felt pressured to contextualize his question.

“One of the easiest equations I’ve ever done.” He responded, taking an extra, unnecessary sip from his drink as a prize for his achievement.

Babysitting drunk Aventurine alone was hard enough, but accompanied by another drunk-head was definitely a challenge for such a pure guy like Sunday.

“How do you do it? Topaz kept complaining about it to me last time we did it and I promised I would make her orgasm next time!” Aventurine threaded his fingers in his hair in stress while venting.

“I’ll pray for the both of you tonight.” Sunday commented, trying his best to focus singularly on the book he was reading rather than the God-offending ambient around him, but he wanted to be there for his friends if they needed him.

“The clit.” Ratio initiated, but Aventurine seemed to be a little lost in the matter. Sunday couldn’t deny his own confusion and curiosity too. “The little bulge above their vaginas. That’s the clit.” Aventurine finally seemed to understand his words and nodded in excitement like an obedient dog.

“Yeah? What about it?” He sounded like an excited kid.

“Mess with that while you fuck her g-spot. Fingers, mouth, whatever. It makes women go crazy.”

Do I… really need to do that?

Dang it…

You felt the left side of the sheets become lighter, meaning that Sunday had taken of his left hand away from there.

“Y/N…” He moaned your name very lightly. “Do you mind if I… touch you?” Sunday’s wings were flapping due to the enormous embarrassment.

“W-… What..?” You found that question really random and… sinful.

“I don’t think this is taking us anywhere, so…” He paused his hips. “I want to try… making this… feel a little bit better.” As soon as you heard those malicious words come out of his mouth, your wings spread wide away from each other too, meeting him staring at you.

And you took it as an offense.

For how long he has been staring at you?!

“S-Sunday, that would be a sin!” You immediately moved both your hands down to your boobs and covered them.

“But, Y/N, how else are we gonna going to make this work?! We’ve been like this for the past 5 minutes now, which should’ve been enough to make at least one of us close to an orgasm according to the Priest!” Sunday decided to pull his length out of you, getting turned off by your immediate discomfort, rolling his body until he was sat in the edge of the bed.

You sat up too, but not moving close to him.

“I feel horrible about doing it too, Y/N, but an in-vitro fertilization costs almost 5,000 dollars.” Sunday threaded his fingers on the hair that was resting in his forehead, as if he had some sort of headache. “It would still need me to commit a sin to get my sperm anyway… both are pointless.” His voice sounded more defeated and stressed out, which made your heart melt in worry and regret of being so rudd.

You decided to redeem yourself and crawled closer to him, careless about the fact that both of you could clearly see each other’s genitals now.

“Oh, Sunday…” You hugged him by the neck sideways, your breasts rubbing against his arms with no bad intentions. “I don’t know… I believe my advice would be useless and dangerous to you.” Sunday looked at you likr you had offended him rather than yourself.

“Don’t say that, Y/N.” He turned his chest to you. “I fell in love with you and married you for a reason. I don’t think you’d ever make me do a bad choice.” His face leaned closer to yours, gently smooching your lips.

“Sunday…” Your hands moved up to his cheeks, wanting to hold his face that close to yours.

“I’ll take all responsibility for this decision.” Sunday’s hands reached down to your hips and started threading your bodies together again. “I won’t… touch you too much, I promise. It’ll be very little. Just until we reach an orgasm, ok?” He reassured you once again and paused for a beat to organize his thoughts. “I mean… we’re just… trying to make the most sacred thing in the world… a baby, aren’t we?” Sunday started to gently push the both of you down to the sheets again.

The way he whispered about your objective made you feel a little sparked again and your wings instinctively reached for your eyes again.

“No, no… Don’t do that.” You could feel Sunday’s breath itching your nose as he positioned between your legs again, and you felt obligated open your wings again, meeting his eyes dark with anticipation as he admired you from such an intimate proximity. “Let’s do this together. Eyes open.” You felt hands move up to thread with yours, perfectly pining you against the bed.

“Are you sure, my love..?” No matter your worry for his decision, you still complied to him and hugged his hips with your legs, preparing for his entrance.

“Yes, my dear.” He very gently reached his lips to smooch yours another time.

But you couldn’t help but reach your wings to his head, trying to make that quick smooch become a kiss, one of that quickly became deep, warm and intimate. As you two spent some seconds savoring each other’s tongues and dancing them around as a pure demonstration of love and care, you started to feel his length beginning to make way inside you again, accompanied by his wings embracing your head underneath your wings too.

Sunday grunted in your throat at how your gummy insides were already more aroused and welcoming than before.

Perhaps my comforting words made her feel better?

I should… remember that.

While you were distracted by his dick feeling thicker and longer inside you, a hand of his climbed down to where you two were fully connected, and a sudden feeling of his index touching your raw flesh made your legs shiver in pleasure.

“Is this it..? Your clit..?” Sunday asked when he found a little bulge right on top of your hole, fully dependent on his touch to tell what’s your clit or not since he didn’t want to take his eyes off yours.

“Y-Yes!” You moaned as Sunday started touching it with more fingers and delicacy.

He had no idea what Dr. Ratio meant with ‘mess with it’ that day… he assumes that he should just… rub it around with his thumb while his passionate thrusts melted you.

“Aaahhh! Sunday!” You couldn’t help but scream and squirm with the amount of pleasure he was serving you now compared to before.

Your pussy instinctively tightened around his length, which made Sunday uncontrollably let out a louder, sinful moan. He wasn’t expecting such a dramatic reaction coming out of you with so little effort, but he couldn’t deny it that he definitely didn’t hate it.

“And this... this is your g-spot..?” He paused for a moment just to grinf against that sensible spot of yorus that made you quiver immediately.

“Ah, yes! Right there, right there!” You hated how your human instincts were making you act that out of your mind, making you beg like an unholy prostitue for him to continue fucking that spot of your walls, but Sunday was equivalently responding to you, nodding at your answer like an obedient nasty dog.

And havng nothing else to do and see rather than your teary eyes and sweaty hair, Sunday decided to reach his mouth down to yours again, sealing your wet lips shut in a serious kiss.

Fuck.

This is good.

This is really damn good.

Oh, God, forgive me… this is really hard to resist.

You felt Sunday’s knees climbing upward, forcing your hips and legs follow his due to your connection, now in an angle where your genital was barely facing the entire roof.

And finally, Sunday started quickening his pace with the help of gravity making his thrusts deeper and harsher against your g-spot. No matter if your mouth was being devored by him, you couldn’t hold back all the petty moans andn screas that needed to come out, and Sunday didn’t dare making you stop emitting them.

“Oh, yes! Yes, yes, yes!” You hated to part away frm his lips to make such slutty noises, but the position simply favored your pleasure way too much for you to ignore it.

You thought it was very mean of him to keep rolling your clit with his thumb even if you were already stimulated enough.

And Sunday took it as a compliment, a living proof that he was doing way better this time. The addicting way your warm, soggy walls were embracing his cock so passionately and your moans echoed in his ears were definitely stimulating him into insanity.

This can’t be that sinful, right?

I’m just making love to my wife and myself so we can have a baby. We’re just… pleasuring each other with the biggest level of intimacy a couple could ever have, aren’t we? It’s love. And this might be my purest demonstrtion of love because I’ve never felt this good pleasing my wife.

And, God, I promise you… I’ll never do this out of lust…

Your hands felt bored being so oppressed against the sheets and finally crawled away from his grip, reaching his back instead and hugging him closer to you. You decided to repeat the same movements with your legs too, somehow trying to make him reach even deeper corners of your walls.

Sunday decided to crumble his only hand that was keeping him in that position, making his chest fully attach to yours, the fluffy dough of your breasts making him let a deep, long grunt again.

“Huuummm… Ah! Aaah!” You were surprised at how Sunday’s tough character broke voice, beginning to repeatfly moan in an erotic, broken tone.

Oh, God… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry!

You decided to be a little dominant this time and you were the one to take Sunday’s lips, making him shamelessly whimper inside your mouth.

You were whimpering with him too while his precise thrusts perfectly punched your g-spot over and over. If only you could roll your head backwards and see stars on your own to not let the pleasure overhwlem you, but it was perfectly pleasing to be threaded Sunday like this.

Nothing else mattered to the both of you anymore.

You were feeling every raw corner of each other.

“I love you, Y/N…” Sunday suddenly whimpered, a thick chord of saliva connecting both your tongues.

“Oh, Sunday, I love you too..!” Your hands couldn’t help but roll upwards and hook his hair with the tip of your fingers, carelessly hurting his sweaty, blue scalp.

“I can’t wait…” A tear fell down from his right eye, pausing to moan at the feeling of your pussy gushing his crotch. “I can’t wait to have a baby with you, my love.” His cheeks flushed as he thought of the scenario of your bloated belly or you breastfeeding a baby in your arms.

“I can’t wait for it either, Sunday..!” Your back arched and your legs spread further, trying to facilitate his sloppy thrusts inside you so you could reach your objective faster.

“I’m gonna… fill you up…” His eyes darkened with that overwhelming lust that he couldn’t hold back anymore. “Make sure that we’ll only need to do this once…” Sunday’s thrusts started building up into a more erratic pace. “Impregnate you in a single round…”

“Do it, Sunday! Do it! I’m feeling so good!” You tried your best to not say anything more obscene than that, but at the same time attempting to incite him into achieving his orgasm.

“Are you gonna… cum with me too..?” Sunday’s eyes widened, trying to get an answer out of you from your eyes.

“I think I am..!” Your hands clawed his head more violently, causing Sunday to groan.

“Fuck, honey, I’m sorry…” Both of Sunday’s hands suddenly slammed the sheets by your head and he rose his chest again, forcing your hands to fall down to the pillow again.

Sunday’s cranial wings were fully spread due to the stimulation, flapping and shivering while his eyes locked in your bouncing body.

“Sunday, you can’t—!” You tried turning your head to side and covering your eyes from the intoxicating view of Sunday’s upper body while your hands tried to make a barrier infront of his eyes.

“N-No..!” A hand of his quickly reached one of your hands. “Please… let’s look at each other for… stimulation.” His words slowly convinced you to turn your eyes to his again, but with a lot of embarrassment and resentment, and your hands held his wrists again just like at the first try.

Oh, God… how gut-wrenching was to see Sunday’s chest moving and up and down frenetically while ripping your virginity away, and that irresistible fucked-out face, hyperventilating to survive.

Sunday’s cock slowly started to feel thicker, as if your pussy was swelling around him even harder than before.

“Aaahhnnghh! Sunday, I’m close!” Sunday growled at the view of your body curling under him, giving him such a twisted, erotic view of you that made his cock twitch in the spot.

He had to swallow all the accumulated saliva pooling in his mouth so it wouldn’t drip down on you like a starved predator, although that wouldn’t be a bad alternative either.

“Let’s do it together, ok?” He tried his best to remain calm and sane for the sake of ‘purity’.

You nodded weakly and Sunday started pinching your clit rather than just rubbing it in loops, trying to tick that orgasm out of you. Your head rolled back once again, and Sunday took the opportunity to lean down and kiss you in multiple spots, starting from your collarbone to your neck and jaw as a way to comfort you through that building climax.

“It’s coming..!” He grunted with a lot of effort, his heart aching due to exhaustion it was going through.

And finally, with a final thrust of his, you started feeling a whole load of a hot liquid being spilled inside you mercilessly. No matter if Sunday had thrusted you the deepest he could, he still kept pushing his hips inside you while pulling your hips closer, trying all his best to make sure that you’d drink in every drop of him cum so he wouldn’t need to sin with you like that anymore.

Your whole body spasmed accompanied by a desperate scream, feeling your womb release all of your buildup with Sunday like a firework bring fired. You were absolutely surprised with that new feeling, not expecting such ecstasy to overtake your whole body so easily.

Sunday was also grunting in a high volume, but still sane enough to bite his inferior lip and hold most of it back.

Lord almighty..!

I never expected this to feel so—!

Argh!

Control yourself, Sunday!

Neither of you knew what to say. The more that sensation of orgasming dissolved, the more you two quietly stared at each other’s face, beginning to feel guilty immediately while still trying your best to not look down at the rest of his body.

You saw Sunday swallow hard again.

“We’re…” It still seemed like Sunday was too distracted by the view of your flushed face to continue speaking properly. “We’re done.” Even though his words claimed finality, his body didn’t dare move a single inch out of you.

“Yeah…” You were too distracted by his sweaty face too.

“Ok…” He awkwardly mumbled, and after some other seconds staring at you, he finally covered his eyes with his wings once again, and begun the process of pulling out.

You, as obedient as you’ve always been, decided to cover your eyes too, and let the moment finally be over.

As soon as you felt Sunday’s body moving away from you to get up, the first thing you did was immediately sit up and cover yourself with the sheets of the bed.

You had finally seen your husband, who you’ve known for over 5 years now, naked.

You could hear the sounds of the bedroom’s bathroom’s sink running water and noises that reminded you of someone washing their hands.

I have seen Y/N naked.

I have seen Y/N naked.

I have seen her breasts.

I have seen her vagina.

I have seen Y/N naked.

You couldn’t help but pout in your mind about the fact that you technically didn’t actually see Sunday’s penis.

It wouldn’t be that bad if you peeked at it when he came back, right?

Ok, Sunday, breathe in… breathe out…

You’ve exhausted her and yourself.

Is she even ok..?!

“Y/N.” You heard his voice back to his normal tone again.

“Yes..?!” You were awaken from your perverted thoughts, slightly getting scared with his call.

“Are you… ok?” His voice sounded a little bit more low and embarrassed now as he’s asked that intimate question.

“Yes…” You were embarrassed too.

“Do you want me to bring you a cup of tea?” His body lingered against the wall that separated the bathroom and bedroom.

“I… sure.” Your mouth watered at the thought of drinking a good cup of tea, now realizing how your throat was dry.

“Ok.” You heard his steps slowly becoming more and more distant.

After a few minutes of silence in the room, and many noises of things moving in the kitchen, he came back to the bedroom, still naked, with half his face censored by his wings.

“Sorry, I…” You finally realized Sunday was carrying an entire tray of appetizers and that he was walking towards you too. “I was a little thirsty too.”

“It’s ok! Thank you for… bringing more than just tea.” You gently placed your hands on the edges of the tray, trying to replace his grip with yours, but that caused him to twitch, rumbling many of the glasses in the tray.

Luckily, none of the cups had fallen, but you had to hold one to make sure it wasn’t going to fall.

“I-I’m sorry!” He quickly let go of the tray as soon you were officially carrying it.

You giggled in response.

“It’s ok, Sunday…” You quickly placed it down at your lap and started exploring the menu of sweets while your back relaxed at the fluffiness of the pillow.

Be a man, Sunday!

It’s just your wife!

Your… naked wife.

…

Oh, God, why did I remember that?

“I brought your favorites…” You saw his wings tightening around his head, practically blinding him entirely, finally giving you a chance to…

…

Oh,

My

God.

How did that fit inside you..?!?!

He’s gigantic and he’s not even hard anymore!

You quickly censored your naughty eyes using your white feathers and tried focusing on the food.

“Thank you.” Your voice sounded more unstable now that you were a little embarrassed again. “You can… lay down. No need to keep watching me.” You tapped the sheets beside you, and Sunday immediately took the order.

He quickly walked to your side and sat down on it just like you, staring at the wall ahead of you two blankly.

Neother of you could help but remember.

The wet, slapping noises.

“I feel so good!”

“I love you, Y/N…”

“Do it, Sunday! Do it!”

“Impregnate you in a single round…”

Both your wings shivered remembering those moments and dramatizing them with your own little fantasies.

You, imagining this more dominant and confident Sunday, particularly trying to make you feel the most pleasure between you two.

And Sunday, imagining this more submissive and loving woman, smiling and enjoying every ounce of his dick inside you, praising him and embracing him.

While you enjoyed your lunch, he couldn’t help but become more and more nervous about the fact that he wasn’t doing anything at all. He was just sitting and staring at the wall after finally having sex for the first time in his life. How pathetic could that be?!

“It was good.” He suddenly blurted, making you turn your head to him immediately in shock.

Although you were munching the sweets he brought you, you were also doing nothing rather than stare at the wall, which was why you got so shocked at listening to his voice out of nowhere.

And you didn’t what to say.

A). Pretend like you didn’t hear so he’d feel more comfortable in stating that confession again.

B). Thank him.

Or…

C). Reciprocate.

And at the desperation of the moment…

“Thank you… Itfeltgoodformetoo.” You quickly rambled your confession to not overload yourself with embarrassment.

B and C.

Sunday couldn’t help but feel glad when he heard that, his wings flapping gently as a response. Yours were barely flapping too, but you were really trying to not let that happen, and was succeeding.

“May I have a piece of—” Sunday begun reaching his hand to your tray, and you immediately leaned it closer to him.

“Yes.” He was surprised at your instant reaction, but he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity given to him.

You and him shared food with each other while still staring at the wall to reflect over what tou two just did, now with the tray between you too. Your hands sometimes bumped at each other, which made the both of you flinch, but quickly, your hands finally couldn’t feel nothing on the plates with sweets rather than their glassy texture, nor would any liquid slide to your mouth whenever you placed the cup on top of your inferior lip.

Finally, the tray was carefully put on your nightstand, and you finally laid your whole body down, turning your body to the wall instead of Sunday.

He was a little concerned when he saw you neglecting him like that, his eyes stoned at your sleeping figure so hard you could feel his stare. When he laid down his whole body too, you didn’t feel him choosing a side, meaning he was probably staring at the roof at this moment.

Did I… take it too far..?

Was she lying about her liking it?

Is she scared about the fact that I’ve sinned and made her sin too?

Oh, God… I messed up, haven’t I?

After a few minutes of attempting to rest your brain, you finally felt Sunday moving in the bed.

And… you were feeling him move closer to you.

You felt something touch and embrace your hips from behind, making you immediately look backwards.

“Y/N…” Sunday’s sweet voice whispered in your ear, truly apologetic. “I’m sorry if I… scared you. We can go to church tomorrow as soon as possible to repent—” His embrace became a little tougher as he tried to compensate you.

“Scared..? I’m not scared…” You really didn’t understand what Sunday meant with that apology, cutting him off before he could get you even more confused.

“You… aren’t..?” You felt his head move upwards, trying to take a better look at your whole face, feeling warmer seeing how normal it seemed.

“I’m just… a little embarrassed.” You looked away from his mesmerizing face again.

“Oh…” Sunday’s wings almost closed his entire face again as he remembered the act you two just did, but after confessing that, you finally felt a little bit more… free.

You started worming in the bed, trying to turn around in a way that wouldn’t move too much of Sunday’s hand in your hip, and you finally managed to do it in a few seconds.

“I really hope I get pregnant…” Both yours and Sunday’s wings flapped with your words.

Is it ok to wish she doesn’t get pregnant?

…

Probably no…

But…

“Do you think it’s ok if we kiss each other right now? Despite being naked? Because I really want to kiss you right now.” Sunday’s cheeks darkened in red as he also confessed his affection, his wings indecisive rather they flapped away or in direction of his face.

“I… I think it is…” You immediately started leaning your head closer to Sunday’s.

And it didn’t take him a second to reach your lips.

Nor did it take him another second to use his arms to embrace the back of your chest. Arms, hands and fingers, all clinging into you while you two shared a passionate kiss at 12 AM.

Taglist: @komelliko

(Not tagging anyone else because I don’t know how you guys feel about Honkai Star Rail posts)

Don’t forget to like and comment if you liked it <3

[aventurineswife]

UNDER THE MISTLETOE WITH THE FOLLOWING

Aventurine, Kaveh, Dan Heng, Mortefi, Xiangli Yao, Aalto, Sunday, Boothill

(I say you break it into parts and add more characters you wanna write for for this one)

-Smooch Anon 💋

Under the Mistletoe

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Mortefi x Reader, Kaveh x Reader, Aalto x Reader, Xiangli x Reader, Romance, Holiday Season, Mistletoe kiss, Slow Burn, Gentle Intimacy, Slight Angst, Soft Kaveh, Mutual Feelings, Tender Moments, Heartwarming, Sweet Confessions, Comfort, Winter Special!

The warm glow of the holiday decorations illuminated the cozy room, the soft crackling of the fireplace adding to the festive ambiance. You and Aventurine found yourselves standing near the mistletoe, a playful glimmer in his eyes.

"Ah, it seems we’ve been caught under the mistletoe," he remarked with a smirk, one eyebrow arching. His voice was light, playful, but there was an unmistakable tenderness behind it. He tilted his head, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "What do you think we should do about that, hmm?"

You glanced up at the mistletoe, a light blush creeping up your cheeks. "Well, tradition says—"

Before you could finish, Aventurine stepped closer, his fingers gently tracing your jawline. His gaze softened, and he leaned down with a playful grin. "A kiss, then." he whispered, before capturing your lips in a gentle, teasing kiss.

The world around you seemed to fade as his warm embrace enveloped you. When he pulled away, his smile was one of both mischief and affection.

"You know," he murmured, eyes gleaming, "sometimes fate plays its hand quite well."

The dim glow of the holiday lights danced around you as the train moved through the vast expanse of space. You stood in the small common room of the Astral Express, your thoughts drifting in peaceful solitude.

That is, until Dan Heng entered, a quiet figure in the doorway. His gaze flickered to the mistletoe hanging in the corner, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as he caught sight of you standing there.

"I... didn't expect you to be here." Dan Heng said, his tone as reserved as ever, though you could detect the slight tension in his voice.

You smiled at him. "It seems the mistletoe has decided our fate for the evening," you teased gently, the warm holiday spirit making you bold.

Dan Heng’s usually calm demeanor faltered just slightly, his lips pressing together in a tight line. Slowly, he stepped closer, and the moment stretched out. “I... I don’t usually partake in such traditions,” he admitted, his gaze avoiding yours for a brief moment.

But then, almost as if drawn by some invisible force, he closed the distance between you, his fingers brushing the side of your hand before cupping your cheek. He leaned in, his lips brushing yours softly in a rare moment of vulnerability.

When he pulled away, his eyes met yours, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I suppose it wasn’t so bad."

The cold wind of the galaxy’s outskirts ruffled Boothill’s white hair, and his sharp, shark-like teeth glinted as he scanned the space station’s holiday decorations. His mechanical limbs clicked with each step, a mix of metal and muscle, as he followed you through the crowded halls.

You couldn’t help but laugh at how out of place he seemed among the bright, colorful decorations. "Not exactly the place you'd expect to find a cowboy, huh?"

He shot you a smirk, his eyes glinting under the dim light. "I’m a man of many surprises," he replied gruffly.

As you rounded a corner, you found yourself standing beneath a hanging mistletoe. Boothill raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “What now?” he asked, his voice laced with challenge and curiosity.

Before you could say a word, he stepped forward, his hand resting on your shoulder as he leaned in close, his mechanical arm gently grazing your back. "Guess it's tradition, darlin’," he muttered, his voice low as his lips met yours in a quick, fiery kiss.

You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the tension of the moment quickly evaporating as Boothill pulled away, offering a rare, roguish grin. "Wouldn’t want to break tradition, now would we?"

The soft glow of holiday lights twinkled through the windows, casting warm, golden reflections onto the floor. The chill of winter air had made its way into the room as you stood, adjusting the decorations hanging from the ceiling. As you reached for the last sprig of mistletoe, the sound of footsteps behind you made your heart skip a beat.

Turning, you were met with Sunday, his eyes glimmering with an unreadable emotion. He stood tall, his shoulder-length hair flowing like a cloud of silver-blue waves, and his long, dark coat perfectly tailored to his frame. His usual composed demeanor softened, just slightly, in the warmth of the moment.

“I see you’ve been busy.” Sunday remarked, his voice calm yet laced with a subtle amusement.

You smiled, positioning the mistletoe above the doorway with a sense of finality. “It’s almost perfect.” you replied, eyes meeting his.

The silence between you stretched for just a beat too long. Sunday’s eyes flickered to the mistletoe, then back to you, the flickering of his halo shimmering faintly in the soft light. His usual restraint was evident, but there was something different now—something almost inviting.

You couldn’t help but laugh nervously, realizing the unspoken rule. “You know what comes next.” you said, the words hanging in the air.

Sunday took a slow step closer, his presence commanding but gentle, his golden earrings catching the light. A soft smile tugged at his lips, though it was still tempered by his usual thoughtful composure.

“Under the mistletoe, is it?” he mused, almost too casually, his golden eyes locking with yours.

You nodded, unsure how this would unfold. There was a subtle tension in the air, the quiet warmth of the room at odds with the thoughts running through your head. His calm nature was always a grounding force, yet you felt something new simmering beneath the surface.

Without a word, Sunday’s gloved hand reached for yours, his fingers warm despite the chill in the air. “I suppose it would be improper to leave you standing here alone...” he said, his voice still quiet, but there was something deeper now, something vulnerable.

He leaned in, his face inches from yours, the soft scent of his coat mingling with the festive air. His lips were a whisper away from yours, the space between filled only with the steady rhythm of your heartbeats.

The moment hung in balance, his breath warm on your skin as he paused, waiting.

You had only a moment to decide. The choice felt monumental, though Sunday’s presence was enough to make you feel safe, even in the most uncertain of moments.

Finally, he closed the distance, the kiss slow and deliberate, carrying with it the weight of his quiet affection and complex thoughts. For a fleeting moment, the world outside faded, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of your shared connection.

When you finally pulled away, Sunday’s gaze softened. “You are my dream...” he whispered, the words carrying more meaning than you expected. His voice, usually so detached, now seemed to hold an intimacy that stirred something deep inside you.

“Even if it’s a dream I’ll never wake from?” you teased softly.

His lips curled into a knowing smile, but his eyes held a certain sadness. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice low, “but some dreams are worth living forever.”

And in that moment, under the mistletoe, you understood. His world, with all its complexities, found a kind of softness in you. And for now, that was enough.

The cozy warmth of the holiday season had settled into the lively halls of Sumeru, and the air was filled with the scent of spices and pine. Lanterns glowed softly, their light dancing across the walls of the grand hall where you stood, adjusting the last few decorations on a towering tree. The sound of footsteps approached, and you turned, finding Kaveh leaning casually against the doorway.

His hair, slightly tousled as always, framed his face perfectly. The red hair clips and feather above his ear gave him a distinctly regal air, while the intricate design of his cape—flowed elegantly behind him. His eyes, sharp yet gentle, softened when they met yours.

“You’ve outdone yourself again,” Kaveh remarked, his voice full of admiration. He pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer. “I swear, I’ll never get used to how beautiful everything looks when you’re in charge.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the compliment, feeling a little warmth in your chest at the sincerity behind his words. Kaveh had always been generous with praise, but this time, it felt especially meaningful.

“Thank you, Kaveh,” you replied, adjusting a few stray branches. “I had to make sure everything looked perfect. You deserve something beautiful for all the hard work you’ve been putting in lately.”

Kaveh chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’m not the one who deserves all the credit here. My work’s always been more about others than it is about me.” He paused, his eyes flickering to the mistletoe hanging above the doorframe. “Though, I suppose some things are meant to be.”

You followed his gaze, and with a small laugh, you realized the implication. The tradition of the mistletoe, hanging there like an invitation to something more intimate, stirred a sense of anticipation between you.

“Well,” you said, stepping closer, “it seems we’re supposed to follow the tradition, aren’t we?”

Kaveh looked at you for a long moment, his sharp eyes softening in a way that made your heart race. He had always been the kind of person to let his emotions show—open, passionate, sometimes even too much for his own good. It was part of what made him so endearing, but it also left him vulnerable in ways others might not understand.

His lips curled into a small, playful smile. “I suppose we are.”

Kaveh’s presence was calming, yet there was a tension in the air, as though both of you were aware of the quiet, unspoken connection between you. He took a step closer, the scent of his cologne mixing with the festive atmosphere of the room, and for a moment, it felt like time slowed.

His hand reached up, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. The touch was gentle, as if he was savoring the moment, and it sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. His eyes locked with yours, and for a fleeting instant, it felt like everything else disappeared.

Then, without another word, he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a soft, almost hesitant kiss. It was tender, careful, as though Kaveh feared pushing too far, but there was also a depth of feeling in it—an unspoken promise of understanding, of connection, of him offering a piece of himself that few ever saw.

When the kiss finally broke, Kaveh lingered, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and steady. “I’m not sure if I’ve ever been more relieved to follow a tradition,” he murmured, his voice low, the weight of his usual burdens momentarily forgotten in this shared moment.

You smiled softly, a gentle laugh escaping your lips. “I’m glad I could make it worthwhile.”

Kaveh’s hand rested against your cheek, his thumb lightly brushing over your skin. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who makes me feel like this,” he confessed, his tone full of raw honesty. “I’ve spent so much of my life thinking I had to carry everything on my own. But when I’m with you…” He trailed off, his words faltering for a moment.

You pressed your palm gently against his, your smile tender. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore, Kaveh.”

His smile, soft and genuine, reached his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For this, and for everything.”

Under the mistletoe, amidst the holiday lights, the world seemed to pause just long enough for Kaveh to let down his guard—just enough for both of you to share in something beyond the trials and struggles of everyday life. Something beautiful, something real.

The soft, rhythmic hum of classical music filled the air, mingling with the crisp winter air that crept through the open windows. Snowflakes gently settled on the windowsills of the academy, their icy beauty casting a delicate glow across the room.

You glanced around, taking in the sight of the holiday decorations carefully arranged for the occasion. Huaxu Academy had always maintained an air of strict order, but today, there was an unfamiliar warmth in the air, one that seemed to soften even the hardest edges of the most meticulous minds.

You weren't sure why you had accepted the invitation to the academy's annual winter gathering. But there you were, sipping tea in a corner, admiring the decorations, when a familiar presence made itself known. Mortefi. His crimson hair, combed neatly, caught your eye, glimmering like a flame against the backdrop of winter. He stood, as always, with an air of reserved elegance, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd with cool detachment.

You couldn't help but smile at the thought of how effortlessly he stood out—his pristine white robe, the Tacet Mark on his chest hidden beneath bandages, the fiery energy that he radiated despite his careful composure.

As you moved closer, your gaze caught the mistletoe hanging from an archway above, positioned perfectly in the center of the room. You blinked, realizing the perfect opportunity to finally have a moment with Mortefi.

Before you could even make your move, Mortefi seemed to sense something, turning his gaze in your direction. The slightest flicker of annoyance flashed in his eyes before he spoke, his voice sharp, though the tension in his posture was palpable.

"What is it now, [Name]? Are you planning to mock my scientific rigor with another one of your childish antics?" His words, laced with irritation, still held an edge of fondness underneath. It was how he spoke when he was trying to hide his softer side.

You smiled mischievously, stepping toward the archway, ensuring that both of you stood directly under the mistletoe. The moment was impossible to ignore. You had to admit, the suspense was delicious.

"Well, if you insist on being so… rigorous," you teased, the words coming easily. "I suppose this might be the only scientific way to test your… emotional control, Mortefi."

He blinked, his expression shifting to one of confusion, and for a moment, his ever-present pride flickered. His jaw tightened as he glanced up at the mistletoe, then back at you, realizing the game that was unfolding.

"You—" he began, but the words failed him as his usually composed demeanor faltered, just for an instant.

He sighed, his breath visible in the chill of the room. "You are insufferable," he muttered, but his eyes gleamed with something softer now, something closer to resignation—or perhaps curiosity.

The warmth in his gaze caught you off guard. Mortefi, for all his hubris and perfectionism, had a side to him that only a few had seen—and you, it seemed, had become one of those few. A slow smile curved at the corner of his lips, and though his posture remained stiff, there was a palpable change.

Without a word, Mortefi leaned in, his breath warm against your skin as he gently cupped your face with his gloved hand. The moment was brief, but the kiss was soft, almost hesitant, as if the fire that so often burned inside him had been temporarily quelled.

As he pulled away, his crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Don’t think for a second that I’m taking this as a weakness," he warned, though the faint blush staining his cheeks told another story.

You laughed, the sound light and teasing as you stepped back, savoring the rare moment of vulnerability. "Of course not, Mortefi. Who would think that?"

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, the fire in his eyes momentarily dimmed, before he returned to his usual composure.

"Next time, I expect more… suitable behavior, [Name]." His tone was back to its usual sharpness, but the warmth in his voice couldn’t be ignored.

You simply smiled, your heart lighter than it had been before. "Of course, Mortefi. But for now, how about a dance?"

He raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable for a moment before a smirk tugged at his lips.

"I suppose, if you insist."

Under the mistletoe, surrounded by the glow of the season, Mortefi was still the same brilliant, proud man. But for just a moment, you’d seen a different side—a side he would only let you glimpse.

And that, you realized, was enough.

The winter evening at Huaxu Academy was serene, the snow gently falling outside as lights twinkled from the windows, casting a soft glow on the polished floors inside. The academy, always a place of quiet intellectual pursuit, felt different tonight, alive with the hum of conversations and laughter as students and faculty mingled in celebration.

Xiangli Yao stood near the edge of the gathering, his deep-set eyes scanning the room with the same focused intensity that defined his approach to life. His prosthetic arm, a marvel of Automata Mechanics, gleamed in the ambient light, a stark contrast to his calm, collected demeanor. Despite the festive atmosphere, his mind was always racing, considering the boundaries of human knowledge and the complexities of his ongoing research.

You had noticed him standing alone, as he often did, caught between his devotion to academia and his reluctance to fully immerse in the chaos of social interaction. With a soft smile, you decided to approach, weaving through the crowd with a quiet grace.

"Xiangli," you greeted gently, your voice cutting through the murmurs of the event. His eyes flicked to you, his expression softening ever so slightly.

"[Name]," he replied, his tone polite but tinged with an emotion that was hard to place. "I was just—" He paused, glancing down at his prosthetic arm, his fingers flexing instinctively as if testing its strength. "I was just reflecting on my latest project. There are always new mysteries to solve."

You could see the familiar tension in his shoulders, the weight of his constant drive for discovery evident even in this moment of reprieve. You knew him well enough to recognize that his work often consumed him, and sometimes, a gentle reminder to experience the present was necessary.

"The mysteries of the season, perhaps?" you teased lightly, nodding to the mistletoe hanging above them, a playful invitation that had long been a part of the holiday tradition. Xiangli’s gaze followed your gesture, his brow furrowing slightly, as if the concept of a simple holiday tradition were as foreign to him as the mysteries of his latest inventions.

"You know I have little patience for such trivialities," he remarked, his voice betraying a hint of amusement despite the sharpness of his words. But there was something in his gaze, a glimmer of curiosity or perhaps something deeper, that made your heart skip a beat.

Without waiting for an answer, you stepped closer, positioning yourself beneath the mistletoe with a playful smile. "Perhaps," you mused, "this one mystery is worth solving?"

Xiangli stared at you for a moment, his usual calm demeanor wavering. His mind, as brilliant as it was, must have struggled to reconcile the present with the complexities of his thoughts. You watched as his fingers slowly relaxed, the tension in his form easing just a fraction.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, though his lips quirked upward in a smile that was rare for him. It wasn’t often he allowed himself such moments of frivolity. His eyes held a tenderness that you hadn’t expected from the man whose life was so consumed by the pursuit of knowledge.

Before he could pull away, you reached up, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Just for tonight," you whispered, "leave the questions behind."

For a long moment, Xiangli was still, his gaze deep and contemplative. Then, almost imperceptibly, he leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek as he met you halfway under the mistletoe.

The kiss was soft, fleeting, yet it carried with it the weight of all the things left unsaid—his unspoken vulnerability, his struggle between intellect and emotion, and the quiet connection you shared that was anything but trivial.

When he pulled back, his gaze lingered on you, the light of contemplation still present in his eyes, but his usual analytical distance was gone, replaced by something warmer, more human.

"Perhaps," he began, his voice lower than usual, "some truths are better discovered when not in a laboratory."

You smiled, your heart lighter than it had been in a long while. "I agree," you said softly, taking a small step back. "And maybe some mysteries are better enjoyed, rather than solved."

Xiangli’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at them. For once, his mind seemed quiet, his curiosity tempered by the warmth of the moment.

And for just a moment, Xiangli Yao—the brilliant, thoughtful, and complex man—was content to simply exist in the here and now, under the mistletoe, with you.

The glow of the city streets outside was softened by a light snowfall, the cold winter air making its way through the cracks in the windows. Inside the bustling café, the warm scent of spiced coffee and freshly baked goods mixed with the sound of laughter and soft music. It was a rare, quiet evening, the type where you could almost forget about the danger that often lurked around every corner in your line of work.

You were enjoying the calm, for once. At least until you felt that familiar presence before you. The air shifted, subtle yet unmistakable.

"Mind if I join you?" Aalto's voice slid through the space between the bustling crowd and your own thoughts, smooth as ever, with a hint of playfulness that never quite left him.

You looked up from your cup to find him standing there, his ever-present sunglasses perched on his face, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He was always dressed impeccably, his usual ensemble of dark, practical clothing reflecting his elusive, mysterious nature.

"Didn't expect you here today," you teased, motioning to the empty chair across from you. "I thought you'd be too busy making deals or causing trouble."

Aalto chuckled lightly, taking the seat with an almost exaggerated nonchalance. "The mist has a way of keeping me occupied... but tonight, I'm in the mood for something more... low-stakes."

His fingers tapped rhythmically against the surface of the table, and as always, you couldn't help but wonder if he was calculating his next move—or if he was simply enjoying the moment. Knowing him, it was probably both.

The conversation drifted between small talk and the occasional, cryptic remark only Aalto could make, leaving you with the sense that he was always hiding something just out of reach. As the evening wore on, the mood in the café began to shift, and soon enough, a soft laugh caught your attention.

Aalto looked up, his eyes twinkling behind those ever-present sunglasses. He raised an eyebrow as he motioned towards the small decoration hanging above you—an innocuous mistletoe, which had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

"Looks like we're in a bit of a predicament," he said, his voice smooth as velvet, though there was an unmistakable challenge in his tone. "What are we going to do about that?"

You stared up at the mistletoe, the weight of its tradition suddenly hitting you. Aalto’s smirk grew, and you could see the mischievous glint in his eyes behind his glasses.

"Don’t tell me you're one of those who believes in the magic of mistletoe?" he teased, leaning closer. His breath was warm against your skin, the subtle scent of fog and something else, something uniquely him, filling your senses.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart couldn’t help but race. You knew exactly how unpredictable Aalto was, and in moments like these, when he was this close, there was a tension in the air you couldn't escape.

"You never miss an opportunity, do you?" you said, your voice quieter now, just loud enough to reach his ears.

He didn’t answer right away, and for a moment, the two of you just sat there, suspended in the space between the past and the present. He was the type of person who could read every situation like a book, but in this moment, you were the one who had the upper hand.

With a sigh that seemed almost theatrical, Aalto stood up. "I suppose if we’re bound by tradition..." He placed his hand on the top of your head, pulling you gently but decisively toward him.

Before you could react, he leaned down, his lips brushing against your cheek—light, playful, but carrying an underlying sincerity that made your heart skip a beat.

"Consider it a business transaction," he whispered in your ear, his tone laced with a subtle, playful promise. "A deal sealed under the mistletoe."

The moment was fleeting, as elusive as Aalto himself. But as he straightened, giving you one last, lingering look through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of something even more unexpected than you'd ever imagined.

He turned to leave, his voice calling back to you softly, "And don't worry, your next piece of information will be on the house."

You smiled to yourself as he disappeared into the mist outside, the echoes of his laughter leaving behind a warmth that stayed with you long after he was gone.

[sasashroomlife]

I love the little wing floppies 🥹🥹🥹

[milkyerinys]

rainy

[mokkkunn]

[komelliko]

manipulative!boss!sunday x timid!secretary!reader (& aventurine!)

summary: You get drinks with Aventurine, only to be interrupted by a rather cross Sunday. wc: 1.7k - cw for drinking, stalking... and heavy worldbuilding. oops! a/n: The guillemets «» are used to indicate Sunday's telepathy!

part 4 / part 5 / part 6 (nsfw) ---

Most bars and hostelries in Golden Hour had been established long after the rebellions has ended and the prohibition on alcohol was lifted. The Pendulum Speakeasy, however, was an exception. You had no reservations in believing that Aventurine had every inch of Golden Hour memorized—gambled at every table, met every bartender, sweet-talked every showgirl—so when he leads you to The Pendulum without even stopping to check for directions, it only feels fitting. "You go out drinking often, doll?" You shake your head bashfully, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. "No, that's never appealed to me. Sunday took me to dinner earlier this week, but other than that... I just sort of like to keep to myself in my free time." You look down, knowing full well your outfit corroborates this—Other than the dress Sunday had delivered to you, the only things you can wear out are your work clothes. Fitted white pants, structured blazers, things of that sort. Aventurine's interest piques. "Oh, he took you to dinner?"

"Well—Yes," you concede. "-No? ...Yes. It was a work meeting." "Yes, but still. Never took him as the type." Aventurine wraps one arm around your waist, headlines flashing in his head: 'Stoneheart Missing After Scandal In Penacony', 'Rendezvous With The Family Gone Wrong'. He'd previously assumed that his plans would involve catching Sunday's ire somehow, but not yet considered to this degree.

Still, he surmises, he has faith in his odds. "Ah, but don't you worry your pretty little head about work tonight," he adds. "What I care about is you having fun." Finally winding the final turn into The Pendulum's alleyway, Aventurine thrusts his other hand into his pocket to pull out a small poker chip. You assume by the logo in the center and the golden sheen on its edges that Aventurine had stolen it—Maybe he'd slipped it into his sleeve after a game to take as a trophy. You'd heard of his exploits from time to time, and you can only assume the usual prizes of victory has lost their luster in his eyes. Perhaps he wishes to gamble for more unconventional things: Favors, promises, human lives. Aventurine knocks on the door, and a small set of twinkling Pepeshi eyes peers back at him from an open slat. You're sure the Pepeshi must be standing on a stool of some sort for them to be at Aventurine's eye level. "Are you welcome?" a squeaky voice asks. Aventurine smiles, flipping the poker chip in his hand up into the air one more time before catching it in his palm. "Very. 'Lady Arctus has saved me a table'." There was no need for any speakeasy in Penacony to still work on the password system—especially for one as well known as Pendulum's—but you assume that requiring it lent itself to some atmosphere. The atmosphere of a place like The Pendulum was its primary selling point, after all. When all of the drinks came from the same suppliers and every band played in whatever bar had an open stage, there was nothing else they could use to distinguish themselves but looks. Aventurine led you through The Pendulum by the hand, the two of you passing under a large chandelier decorated with fifty or some Halovian statuettes, each static crystal figurine draped in flowing cloth and ebulliently presenting sparkling glass bulbs of lights to the crowd of guests below them. The chandelier shook and twisted from the rumble of a car passing over the Speakeasy, sending an explosion of reflected rainbows around the room like a burst of confetti. As the two of you reached the bar, Aventurine lets you take your seat first, the barstool squeaking against the wooden floorboards. Once he takes his own seat, Aventurine raises his hand to call the bartender over. “An Interplanetary, if you may,” he asks. “And for my guest here—“ Aventurine looks back to you, his tongue tucked into his cheek as he stalls for your answer. “Pika White with an olive.” “Pika White with an olive,” he emphatically repeats to the bartender. Once the two of you are alone, he turns to add “My, how distinguished of you.”

You flush, eyes down looking at the velvet carpets over the floor. “Oh, no, that’s just what I got used to ordering for lunch meetings. Back when I started out at The Family, the easiest way to get people to like you was to drink with them.” You laugh under your breath, commenting to yourself “You know what they say, ‘Penacony is just one big party’.” “Indeed I do.” Aventurine’s own gaze is caught by the gleam of the poker table in the center of The Pendulum, itself swarmed with a small crowd of betters. He leans in to you, pointing towards the table. “—How’s about I show those guys what a real game of poker looks like?”  Aventurine gets up before you can even truly answer, but you follow anyways, adding “I don’t think anyone here hasn’t seen one of your games.” He shoots back a smile. “They could do with a reminder.” … … … … Aventurine wins nearly 40,000 credits before finally backing out, and you can’t stop yourself from hanging your head low in embarrassment on his behalf as he howls with laughter at his own victory. While the group of incensed Pepeshi that lost to Aventurine mostly sent him his winnings digitally, Aventurine finds a way to slip an extra 100-credit bill or two into your back pocket amidst the chaos anyways. “What a scene,” he remarks to himself, taking a sip of his Interplanetary. “Wouldn’t be a night out without a good game, would it? You saw that one guys’ face when he saw I still had a straight flush.” You cradle your glass of Pika gingerly in your hand, smiling into it. Between it and the sweet sound of the trumpet from The Pendulum’s stage, your mind is drawn between too many things to respond with more than a good-natured sigh. That is, until a noise cuts through over the sound of the big band and the chatter lingering around the bar. « ♪♫♪♫♫♪ » "Did you hear that...?" you ask, almost speaking it under your breath. "Hear what?" The whistling was probably in your head. It was the same melody you'd heard the other night while at dinner with Sunday, after all. « [Y/N]? Is that you? » You whip your head around to find the source of the voice, only to realize you can't tell which direction it came from. Unfortunately, its owner makes himself known quickly enough. "Aventurine of the Interastral Peace Corporation," your boss says. "I'm not shocked at all to see you here." Aventurine leans over in his seat, putting himself between you and Sunday. Maybe even... shielding you? Still, there was nothing in his voice that makes it seem like he finds Sunday a threat. "Been a while, Feathers," Aventurine grins. "Had to make sure you're not working your staff to the bone." Sunday smiles in a way that almost looks forced. "Never," he replies. "Though, I should warn you. It's against policy for Oak Family employees of a certain rank to consume alcohol of any kind. As the law that upholds Penacony, we must never let ourselves be of ill-affected mind." "That's never been enforced, sir." You feel a sense of shame splash over you the moment you finish your sentence, clasping your hand over your mouth as if you'd just cursed Sunday in front of his mother, or even broken a child's toy. You look back up to him to see if he would take the correction in stride. "Perhaps because until now, it has not been necessary to enforce it." Sunday inhales, his smile squinting his golden eyes as he looks back down at you in what you could only fear was contempt. "I don't want to have to report one of the hardest working people in Penacony for such negligence in following the rules."

"Sunday." Aventurine has fully moved in to separate Sunday from you. "I'm the one who invited [Y/N] out for drinks. They're not the one you should be having problems with here," the gambler sneers. "And what does it matter to you if your beloved secretary spends an hour or two in other company? Scared they'll share a bit too much?" Sunday's smile drops completely. It almost feels crazy to say, but you start to wish he was back to that unprofessionally-touchy, overly-sweet self you were used to seeing. You were able to ignore it because you were used it to it: You're not used to this. "If you think you will achieve any of your ends through [Y/N], Aventurine, you are sorely mistaken," Sunday scowls. "My employees are not playing chips for you to leverage at your behest, especially not my secretary." His golden eyes seem to pierce right through Aventurine's own as he asks "Have I made myself abundantly clear?" "That you have," the gambler replies through grit teeth. "Just let me finish my drink in peace, Feathers." Sunday finally shoots a glance to you before exiting the bar. You push your drink away, having lost all desire to finish it. "Sorry, Venny. I didn't even consider..." "Aw, doll, don't sweat it. Just not your lucky day," he shrugs. "But I'd be a chump to let him walk all over you." His voice lowers to a mutter as he adds "—Fuck, where's Gallagher when you need him? That boss of yours needs a good kick in the pants. Maybe his pretty face, too, if the first doesn't hit him right." "Aventurine, don't." Aventurine sighs, his grip on his glass tightening. "...Sorry, doll, what am I thinking? Not awfully nice of me to being speaking ill of the handsomest, most powerful man in Penacony." He downs the rest of his drink in one fell swoop. "If he's still hearing me, I'll get the sweep from him for sure. Then I'll really need a drink."

--- a/n: Arctus is the 12th of the The Hours in Greek Mythology, so I thought a reference to her would fit well in a Moment that's apparently one before midnight. tag list: @j1yu425 @crepezinhos @i-am-tiredd @8x9d @ruruize @herrscherofprocrastination @khxii-i @moonsaver

[tnsophiaonly]

is this a sign that he''l come home now pls come hoekm the kids miss u

I can´t be bothered to draw all the details of his stupid outfit but yay yandere sunday ig.

[mooishbeam]

ㅤㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎『♡』 Ode to Rue

♡ featuring: pianist!sunday x reader

♡ synopsis: In the dazzling Penacony Grand Theatre, a fallen angel known for his haunting performances captivates you with his music.

♡ wc: 3.3k+

♡ tags: slight angst but mostly fluff, sunday pianist, canon-divergent

notes: I highly recommend you listen to La Solitude during the piano scene. It was my inspiration for the fanfic. its been a while so im a little rusty, pls forgive me :( thank you all! art by snifflesmp4 on ig! comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

song link (Spotify): La Solitude

The Penacony Grand Theatre hangs like a thoughtless prayer in the deep expanse of dark and starlight. Gossamer hangs from the bronze halo, tethering the theatre to the sparkling planet it threatens to ascend from. It is just as outstanding, however, covered in stained glass and benevolent sculptures, with a pair of angel wings that rise above the domed roof.  

Seeing it up close, you can barely pick up your slacked jaw. Nothing like you’ve seen before, an attraction that stands as the centerpiece of Golden Hour and commands the attention of all who encounter it. You’re reluctant to tear your eyes from the telescope, enraptured by its elegance. Still, residents walk by as though it were the dim alleyways of the Fading Echoes. The muffled voice behind you utters something you don’t quite register. Dainty layers of your cream petticoat brush against the unusually slick concrete, and you push your knees together as you squat to match the angle of the telescope. You can hardly contain your excitement.  

Because today would be the day you witness the renowned pianist in action.  

The rumors carried itself back to Belobog. You seldom cared for gossip, or the dwindling appeal to venture away from your warm manor into the bitter cold. But even the maids began to wonder.  

The talebearer tended to the kitchen as she spoke. A nameless angel, who must have descended from heaven, had been driven to madness by a catastrophe so devastating he could not prevail against it. Caught in the midst of a dying planet, he turned to music to expel the torture wracking his shattered mind. She claimed to have seen it, the room of the pianist. Walls etched with forgone prayer, a rushed and messy verbal overflow. There were said to be crosses methodically placed around those prayers, with sickening, glowering eyes that seemed to judge your every waking move. Music sheets haphazardly scattered with compositions he’d never finish, scores that could never be.  

Penacony, the planet of festivities, home to the Charmony festival. It made your eyes roll to indulge in such frivolous matters. On either end, you had no one to accompany you, and so you never attended. But the prospect of witnessing his madness in action piqued your interest, and ever since you’d been calling the theatre, hopeful for a reservation.  

The angel was unpredictable, though, sometimes choosing to cancel at the minute of his expected arrival. He was not without criticism, some enraged at his pure disregard towards the audience. After each show, he disappeared behind the curtain and left without a trace. Others said he appeared to loathe the very thought of being onstage. It made you all the more interested. To have such varying perceptions meant he had a gift far greater. To hear his genius was the highest privilege.  

A gentle chorus whispers from the hypnotic depths of the arena. “My lady.” You turn your head to face the voice, yet your eyes remain glued to the lens, as if the music will cease to exist should you avert your gaze.  

“The show will start soon.”  

You’ve taken your plush seat front row, beyond the crimson portiere and into the theatre. The seats are occupied by impatient, rather loud elite. Pocket watches and monocles, ridiculous top hats that earned a soft snort under your breath. Their attire wasn’t made for a place such as this, but you couldn’t say much yourself. It is more akin to a house of prayer than an outlet simply for singing. Decorative columns with lavish scripture rose to the ceiling where they came together at the corners to form the shape of a sun. Your eyes trail up, to the embossed medallion art of flying doves chasing the never-ending cycle of day. In the middle, an opulent chandelier dangles thousands of twinkling diamonds and dimly lit wax candles.  

“Marvelous” you gasp, panning to the stage before you. Rows of long, bronze organ pipes line the back wall, framing the massive stage. A divine glow peaks from behind the curtain, spearing slivers of warm, glimmering light.  

This space is incomparable to any opera house you’ve attended in Belobog. You feel unworthy to speak above a whisper. It’s almost sacred, crawling with benevolent structures and hymns you couldn’t decipher. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to decipher—meant to find you instead.  

You’re restless with anticipation bouncing around in your churning stomach. Its halls play a generic tune as more are seated. A million questions run through your mind. Who was he? Were the rumors true? What horrors did he see? Who was his teacher? You weren’t afforded the smallest of glimpses. Even the gaudy posters promoting the show didn’t show his face, choosing to represent him with a pair of angel wings. He must’ve declined a photo shoot. A pianist…who hated the piano? Or maybe it was the lack of tact, or genuine appreciation for the music. The pictures that received more attention for the scarcity of the show than for the soul of the symphony.  

You’re fiddling with your gown when suddenly the lights fizzle out, leaving only the meager glow of the chandelier above. Hitches, then nothing. A silent audience in the wake of a brighter stage. It reflects in your eyes, an unshakable longing reaching just behind the curtain. The same pit you felt, at the foot of a frosted cathedral on your last shred of hope; the deadly hands of a loving Aeon.  

The tableau, adorned in gold trimmings and tassels, begins to waver, and your breath tugs like molten iron in your chest. It begins to scale upwards into the cornice board, offering sight to the set.  

A simple, black piano with a stool to match takes center stage. You hear an audible sigh. A snicker. You wait, glossy eyed, infatuated by the sight. It’s truly barebones, no ball peonies or accompanying ensemble. Everything he needs awaits him. Everything he has exists on that stage.  

The spotlight casts onto the piano, spurring dust particles.  

The right curtain moves slightly. If it weren’t for that, you wouldn’t have noticed the hooded angel come into view. It’s eerily quiet as the audience is hushed quickly in his presence. A few vague murmurs here and there, but nothing more. Hardly the footsteps of the angel, stepping in airy, elegant movements across the stage. Had you closed your eyes, it’d be lost to the background.  

He’s burdened by a navy hood, draped across the expanse of his laden shoulders. You can’t remove your eyes from the hovering blessing bobbing behind his head between movements. Black gloves embellished with gold and silver rings arranged so they wouldn’t clink. He walked with professionalism unexpected of just a pianist. The cloak seldom flared by his stride, though when it did, you caught the dark patterns of his boots, a garter taught on his thigh. The faintest strands of grayish blue peak from under the hood, soft and silky.  

One foot after the other, silent and orderly—comfortable with being invisible.  

As expected, he doesn’t regard the crowd. He smooths his cloak under his thighs and takes his seat in front of the piano. The minute details surrounding him worked with intent. A calculated click to his side releases a book with intricate detail, similar to his halo, with an eye on the back cover. A songbook? Notes? You can’t tell. However, the moment he places it on the rack, it fans open on its own. The front cover slams against the piano, and you’re stunned to see the pages flicking wildly, a mild radiance on the edges. The sound of paper fills the air. Then it stops.  

He brings his slender fingers to his hood, and in one fell swoop, the fabric slips away.  

The empyrean feathers of once cowered wings unfurl at the taste of newfound space. Broad, downy wings extend like a stretch, as if preparing to fly. The canary-colored spotlight enacts a seraphic air onto the pianist. Half of his face is lost to obscurity, but you still study his perfect ivory skin, drawn to subtle pinkish hues near his eyes and downturned lips. His hair spills over his shoulders, meeting with fluffy wings now comfortable on his sides. He wore an expression both content and lost, a soul far removed from the scene before it.  

Suchlike a painting you think. Whether it be the growing swell in your heart or unforeseen heat, his presence itself was breathtaking. You’ve seen art reminiscent of this in the Everwinter City Museum, oil paintings of angels in effortless beauty. Divinity just out of reach.  

His long lashes flutter for a second, and you watch his chest heave deep before expelling an extended breath. You hold yours.  

His eyes close. The audience goes deafeningly silent.  

He starts. Near machine with zero hesitation, a graceful melody waltzes to the keys summoned by lissome hands. Sweet, airy in tune as it graces the walls of the opera house.  

It evokes a childlike dream. Carefree summers, a vacation with no winter, planets with no struggle. You marvel the way his wrists roll over the keys. Refined, fluid, but commanding. Deserving of honor. His expression never changes, but his eyes—stirring with vibrance, like he was coaxing notes from the harmony itself. Captured by song, weaving a tapestry of forgotten memories.  

Still, there’s a harsh end to them, a teetering peak that keeps you on edge. Pads confidently moving under the swift turns of the music. The piano seems to come alive on its own, unbroken as the emotion pours from his veins to the object. Each high point, a reminder of a dream's eventual death, a memory lost to the throes of time.  

Suddenly, the deep clashing of the piano raises the hairs on your skin. He slams with graceful power, a note that should be out of place. It sends shivers up your spine.  

Your mind is heavy. You feel it in every sense of the melody. In the crooks of your walls, buried in the cracks where no one could see it but you. You saw him, filling your world and becoming of nothing. The knot that crumpled in your throat at the gravestones of your family, or the corners of the home you became accustomed to as you isolated yourself from the world. The tears you rarely shed for the sake of your family name, only allowing them to fall when a blizzard hammered against the windows loud enough to subdue your wails. Desperate for the kind words of anyone who’d spare a glance. You’ve tasted it countless times. A pitiful, bitter drink.  

Inexplainable, profound sorrow.  

He’s faced it, too. His wings appear stiff, flared and fire-scorn. Taut with the tension in his fingers. Alone and forgotten, dancing across the piano with such aloofness, shouldering the weight of the notes. A pause in between, and you shifted to the edge of your seat unconsciously. His fingers were methodical, searching for an answer he hadn’t fully discovered, finding belonging on the notes. This was his signature way of scribbling. There was no fated wall or room of eyes, nor the frantic manifestos of a madman. The piano was his journal—seeking meaning in the music.  

You aren’t sure what draws you to him. If it’s the chaos of his song, the unnerving focus, breathing in the melody for a second time. Wrapping himself in a sound of pure calamity, and somehow looking beatific and at peace, as if whatever he’d given up on was already somewhere underwater, out of reach and destined to drown.  

You understood now, why the audience was the most insignificant part of the performance. He played for no one. It was a a prayer to the choir, the last crumbling wish of a fallen angel.  

The crescendos landed harsh, unfinished, dying brutally in your ears. Tortured overtones ran soft, unexpected and fleeting before another crash. War across the keys, fighting a battle he wouldn’t win. On the piano there was bloodshed. And in this moment, he shares that war with you. Your eyes swelled before you could notice, splitting goosebumps across your skin.  

He throws his head back, letting his wings droop as he plays. Trailing his digits from the highest octave to the lowest, slowly closing his eyes once again. His posture reads of a Greek tragedy—falling from the sky, allowing fate to capture him or embrace the awaiting darkness. Was there anything left for an angel forsaken by an Aeon? Who could the fallen turn to for comfort?  

There’s a pit in your stomach.  

He throws both hands on the keys for the final crest, a booming sound sending vibrations through the floor. A dreams end.  

Then it’s quiet.  

His head returns to its rightful place, hanging low past his shoulders. Poised hands slump away from the piano, and the book closes to mimic.  

Hood coming up over his head in the aftermath, and he slumped away from the piano.  

He takes the book and tucks it back on his side. He stands, and the audience erupts into cheers. He flinches at the sudden noise. Pulling his hood over his head, he uses his fluffy wings to shield his face. Whistling, praises, and pleads for an encore can be heard from the whole interior. You barely hear it, muffled to the chatter around you.  

Because you’re sobbing. Fat tears stream down your cheeks, blurring your vision, resemblant to a small child with a scraped knee. In this noise, no one can hear you cry. It didn’t matter anymore, reputation or not. You needed to cry.  

But you swear you see it; a single tear trailing down his cheek, below his pouty lips, dropping with a shimmer. It couldn’t be a trick of the light. You find yourself staring past his wings. His eyes were Baltic amber, spiced honey with warm hints of midnight brilliance. Your heart skipped a beat.  

He steps away from the spotlight and exits just as fast, to the tragic dismay of an applauding crowd. 

He was but a stranger. Gone as he was, gone as you knew he’d be, your mind rejected it. A ridiculous impulse tests your restless legs, pushing you up out of your seat.  

You needed to know something, anything about him.  

His name.  

You’re on your feet quick, barely picking up your dress as you skip steps towards the hallway. The gem encrusted hair pin securing your updo slips to the floor when you whip your head towards the back exit. You don’t bother to go back for it. A hairpin was replaceable; this is a once in a lifetime opening.  

Pushing the exit, a fit of cold graces your shoulders. You forgot your coat in the theatre. It may be cold, but it’s not Belobog. You keep running around the end of the building, skirts picking up in the wind, a cool breeze biting your tear-stained cheeks. You stop in your tracks.  

A small boy with a head full of hair looks up at the man with a halo. You watch as the black gloves you studied carefully hand a stack of coins to the child. He flashes a gapped tooth smile, and the hand interlaces through his hair, ruffling it.  

You approach steadily. You’re clammy now. Struck with the chance, you can't formulate a string of words to save your life. The conversation shifts into focus.  

“Run along, now. It’s getting late” he says. That glacé, somber cadence stops you in your tracks. A voice befitting for an angel. The sentences elude you. You’d forgotten what you came to say. Aeon's help you.  

The child skips away, and you’re trained on him until your eyes snap back to the man now observing you. His eyes. On you.  

“Oh…um, sorry…” You can’t maintain the gaze imparted onto you. It’s much more intense without hundreds of eyes doing the same, even with his face somewhat obscured.  

“My apologies miss, was I too loud?” He asks with a courteous hand to his heart, tender voice sticking to your brain like thick pools of honey.  

You shake your head wildly “Ah, no! I’m sorry,” you hesitate, unsure if you should divulge your recent attendance. Granted, you understood how weird it may come across to search for the performer post-show, but it was too late for you to retreat. “I was just at your performance.”  

“Ah…” He pans to the floor, lashes fluttering underneath the street lamp. This version of the pianist is unsure, a confidence reserved for the stage. Then he regards you for a second, unmoving. “Was it enjoyable?”  

Enjoyable…that wasn’t it. It was suffering, a beautiful torture for those who’ve survived hell. You have to physically bite back to words, and yet they pour out of you.  

“It was lonely” you blurt, rubbing your arm to soothe your awkward disposition.  

His eyes widen briefly. You watch his flushed lips part and close. He felt human again. He, too, could be lost for words. When he doesn’t speak, you continue.  

“I am also…”  

“…going through things.” His earrings dangle in the wind, and you feel like a fool right about now for wasting his time. You manage to look everywhere but his face. Two studs on his left wing and lustrous curls meeting around his neck near a thorny choker. Such beauty should be forbidden.  

“The only way to go is forward. I hope you will do the same” he lilts. You gaze into his eyes.  

“Have you uncovered…what you’re searching for?”  

He pauses a long while, wind picking up in the space between you. You aren’t sure if he recognizes that he’s touching his book cover. “Not yet. There is a long journey ahead of me, lined with plenty more mistakes. But I’ve been given a second chance. I will do what I’ve set out to do.”  

It’s an answer enough for you. You nod, leading into a half-curtsy. He interrupts, “May I ask you…is there something you found within my music?”  

You aren’t sure. It could’ve been nothing at all. Or maybe the winter snow was worth treading, if it met unlatching from those hopeless shackles. “I don’t know. I think I’d have to find it within myself first.”  

His eyes crinkle and his lips curve into a cloying smile. The gentle undertones in his face burn rosy tonight, resembling a blooming carnation. “That’s a great answer.”  

Heat creeps upon your ears, and you look away, a slight crack in your throat. “I’m assuming you won’t play again, then? Since, your journey…”  

“Yes. That is correct.”  

Sad but not surprised, you’re grateful for this opportunity alone. “Alright, then”, you clasp your hands together, “May the Aeon’s guide you to safe planets and safer skies.”  

“You, as well” he smiles. You toy with your fingers, ashamed to ask for extra beyond this.  

“What’s your name? If you don’t mind?”  

“Sunday.” An odd name. So odd you believe it to be a lie. Nevertheless, you accept it.  

“Okay. Goodbye, Sunday.” You return a grin before turning on your heels.  

“Goodbye.”  

You’re walking back, but footsteps are coming towards you. When you look, a royal blue tweed restricts your eyesight. It binds you, heavy and warm to stave off the chill. Sunday puts the cloak over your body. He’s inches away from you, securing the tie near your neck. The light peaks behind his halo, streaks of gold aside the night kissing his delicate features. You feel his breath on your frosted nose, hot despite the air. He smells of salt and sugary pudding. Thankfully, the weather prevents your blush from being too obvious.  

“And do be careful tonight. It’s rather cold…” his voice trails off, waiting for you to catch the hint.  

“Oh! I-it’s (Y/N).”  

“It’s rather cold, (Y/N)” he puts an emphasis on your name. Each syllable, smooth and undeniably gratifying from his lips. He pulls the hood over, a finger ghosting against your cheek as he retreats. “Sweet dreams.”  

He leaves this time, never looking back.  

The ill-fitted garment about your shoulders. Heavy on your heart like a stone. You breathe into it. Salt and toffee pudding. Something blooms in its barren embrace.  

Pleasant, snug and all encompassing. Yet bittersweet. A final farewell to no destination.  

A hug. A hug is what it was.

[sleepynoons]

SANTA TELL ME BY ARIANA GRANDE – sunday (hsr) x f!reader, guardian angel!au + college!au, sfw

genre – fluff, angst word count – ~2,700 warnings – explicit language synopsis – to put it quite simply, you have horrible taste in men. you're more than aware of it, so this year, you really, really, really want santa to hear you out because god definitely hasn't. but what you don't know is that someone does love you very dearly – you just can't see him.

Sunday ought to change positions. In fact, his sister, Robin, had notified him of an opening two weeks ago, no doubt confidential information that still somehow made its way through the Department, and he really should have brought it up with his manager. But more than likely, the position has already been taken, and even if it was not, no one gets to transfer at such a dire time in the year.

Holidays are what the Department calls “High Risk Periods.” In other words, during these trying times, humans are more prone to injuring themselves, usually from their own idiocy and recklessness, and that means Sunday and his guardian angel colleagues have to work overtime to prevent any major accidents or incidents, unless instructed otherwise in the Book of Fates. After all, humans seem to have found a plethora of ways to amuse themselves – getting drunk till they black out, doing parkour across the roofs of buildings dozens of floors tall, having disastrous sociopolitical conversations at the dinner table that devolve into screaming matches, the list goes on. Robin says she finds them entertaining, while Sunday constantly wonders why he was assigned to the Department in the first place.

Regardless, there is one truth about humans that Sunday wholly believes in. Out of all the humans he has been assigned to, you, especially, are stupid.

–

For the first time in weeks, your phone’s silent. No texts, no phone calls – not even a single email notification! Even your college seems to have decided to leave you alone when you least want it to. You lift your head, taking one last peek at your screen, and wail in disappointment and sadness despite knowing nothing will have changed within the second since your last glance.

Your girl friend grunts in response. She’s been sitting beside you in your room for the past few hours, having fallen victim to your post-breakup breakdown.

You yell into your pillow. “Why isn’t he reaching back out!”

“Because he’s a man,” she deadpans. 

You flip over so that you’re lying on your bed, face staring up at the ceiling, before letting out a pathetic moan again.

With teary eyes and trembling lips, you choke out, “I really thought he was the one.”

Bewildered, your friend drops her phone onto the floor. “What in the fuck are you saying, darling.”

“No, really! He’s so sweet and has this impish smile –“

“Sweetheart, you’ve been reading too many YA novels. No one fucking calls a smile ‘impish.’”

“– and he always bought me flowers when I least expected it.”

You release a dreamy sigh, with a slight undertone of frustration and envy. Since you started college three years ago, you haven’t really had any luck with long-lasting relationships. In your defense, first year’s meant to be spent frolicking, meeting different potential partners, and not really holding any expectations. Second year’s when you’re supposed to start settling down and finding an actual boyfriend, but sometimes, you just don’t meet someone who clicks. Unfortunately, even though you’re already halfway through your third year now, your misfortune seems to be nowhere near ending.

But you’re really trying! During the school year, you made sure to do your makeup and wear cute sets to class every day. You even got a new perfume – a little sweet, a lot more floral – to make sure your presence was known and committed to memory, and the new hair oil you rubbed through the ends of your hair had been giving you that extra healthy sheen and glow. And to your best judgment, your personality isn’t that bad either.

Your girl friend knows what you’re thinking by the downturn of your mouth. “It’s not you, love. You just don’t have the best… eye for men.”

“But aren’t you supposed to date men who can at least do the bare minimum?” The more you think about your now ex, the more you want to shrivel in a corner and question yourself. After all, you were hoping to spend all winter break long with your ex, but now you’re totally, completely, definitely alone for the holidays.

Your friend scooches over to the head of the bed and pats your arm with gentle thumps of her palm. “Yes, but they have to be consistent, too. Your ex may have been nice, but only sometimes. Remember how he forgot about your dates and always showed up late? Or that time you asked him to get painkillers, but he totally forgot because he went to the gym for four hours instead?”

You can only nod, unable to refute these instances of your ex’s incompetence. And by the knowing look on your girl friend’s face, it seems she has a laundry list more.

“I was just trying to give him the benefit of the doubt,” you mutter. You know you sound so naïve, but truly, you can’t help it. You don’t like it when others find fault in you, so you’re just doing the same for others – that’s the golden rule, right?

She gives you one final pat before standing up and stretching.

“Enough about this douche,” she says, with a sense of ultimatum to her tone. “Our Christmas party’s still happening, and who knows, maybe you’ll find a cute guy there.”

That’s true – at least there’s one good thing you can look forward to this winter break. You’re not returning home, so you’re celebrating Christmas with some other students who have also decided to stay on campus. You don’t know any of them, with the exception of your girl friend, well, so this party will be a good opportunity to meet someone new and outside of your usual circles.

Though you still feel sluggish, you do your best to follow your girl friend’s lead and drag yourself out of bed. When both of your feet are planted on the floor, you feel slightly more grounded. With a deep breath, you glance at your friend, and when the two of you lock eyes, for the first time since the breakup, you feel like there is a way up.

–

There’s another thing that humans do that Sunday finds incredibly odd: they never dress properly for the weather. Whether it be forgetting an umbrella or wearing shoes that’ll easily get soaked through by snow or dressing so bare and scantily in the dead of winter, Sunday simply cannot wrap his head around it.

He’s hovering above the edge of your bed as he watches you and your friend chatter about. He does not usually clock in at night out of respect for your privacy and space – which is, in reality, a moot point, since you do not know that he is there in the first place –, but you previously had a fiasco where you knocked over a glass cup in your drunken stupor and left a deep gash in your hand. That gash was not supposed to be there, and Sunday has learned his lesson to always supervise you when you are out and about, socializing and mingling and making out with strangers.

Sunday sighs as he watches you fidget with the end of your dress. As always, you seem to try to wear as little as possible when it is literally freezing outside. The ponds in your neighborhood have frozen over. The weather forecast reported an intense cold draft. Yet your jitters are not from the chill or wind – they are solely from your excitement. When your girl friend tells you to fold the dress up by another inch, to show off more of your arse, something in Sunday’s temple jumps unpleasantly. But of course, you nod enthusiastically in agreement, and he blocks his sight with his wings as you lean over your dresser in search of a safety pin.

Sunday knows your only singular goal tonight is to find another “catch of a guy” to satiate your needs. He wants to scream at you – to wear more? to keep it in your pants? something else? maybe all of the above? –, but guardian angels are forbidden from appearing or interacting with their humans. He also reminds himself that he is not your mother, so there is no need for him to worry over you when he does not need to. He should only be stressed if he has to intervene.

He sighs as he follows the two of you out of your apartment. He really hopes your idiotic antics will not cost too much of his patience, and if they do, he swears he will put in a transfer request next year.

It does not take long for you to find your prey for the night. You arrived at another student’s apartment where a small crowd had already gathered on the floor, all exchanging drinks in red plastic cups and hiccuping with veins full of vodka and whisky. You join, naturally finding a spot beside who you deem to be the cutest in the room, while Sunday miniaturizes himself so that he can sit on top of your head.

The room is so loud, and woody cologne, gingerbread, and hair spray do not go together. But what he hates most is the direction in which your conversation is headed.

“Never seen you around,” your prey comments with a flash of a toothy grin.

You hum and nod your head vigorously. “Yeah! That’s so odd, since we’re in the same year and all.”

“For sure,” he continues, tone already a little too bold for a pre-game, “I definitely wouldn’t forget a face as pretty as yours.”

Guardian angels are supposed to be ambivalent towards humans in general, but even that poor excuse of a pickup line wants Sunday to abort his job. But you still eat it up, and he feels his blood pressure rise.

The two of you continue to make small talk before the majority of the group decides to relocate to someone else’s unit, which is larger and has freshly baked brownies resting in the oven. But because this apartment is bigger, you and your partner manage to find yourselves a comfortable corner, distancing yourselves from everyone else to have more “privacy.”

You ask, “Why are you staying back on campus?”

With a shrug, he responds, “Flights are expensive. I was upset at first, but…”

You cock your head to the side, look up, and flutter your eyelashes. Sunday’s eyebrow quirks, but he is not sure if it is out of annoyance or something else. That is your signature move, your flawless routine to pull boys in, and he has seen it over and over again before.

“But… what?” you ask, voice shy yet tinged with coyness.

He shakes his head. He needs to remain calm, vigilant, and most importantly, neutral. As a result, he decides the best thing he can do is abandon his post as an eavesdropper and entertain himself with other matters. He stands up and flutters down to reach your shoulders. As he descends, he watches as one of your eyelashes falls to rest on the apple of your cheek. He would move it out of the way – obviously to assist your efforts in getting your prey, not that the guy has noticed it in the first place –, but he knows he cannot. He then observes your earrings. Although he tries, the metal does not reflect his person, and he does not understand why he reacts with a drop in his stomach.

Frustrated with all these questions and indeterminants, Sunday perches on your shoulder.

At some point, you excuse yourself for another drink. Sunday follows closely, occasionally intervening so that you do not bump into other crossed students and experience another catastrophe. However, once you get your cup of punch, instead of returning to your partner for the night, you head over to the bathroom. Sunday is not sure if he should join you, but there is a glint in your eyes, something that triggers his intuition that you are planning something reckless and most likely desperate, so he stays rooted to your shoulder.

And lo and behold, his intuition has never failed him, and it does not tonight either. You down the juice in one go, slap your cheeks with your hands quite forcefully, and look at yourself square in the mirror. Sunday wishes he could have slapped his hands over your mouth.

You say, with feverish determination and promise, “I will not screw up! I think he’s the one, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure we work out! It’s Christmas, too, so I should be extra lucky!”

Sunday cannot resist the urge to roll his eyes. It is more than obvious that that guy is only in for a good time, not a long time. This is why Sunday insists you are one of the stupidest humans he has ever had the misfortune to work with.

But whenever he explains how much of a lost cause you are to Robin, rather than believing him, his sister questions him instead.

“Are you sure, Brother?” she once asked.

“Yes, absolutely! How can one be so blind!” he proclaimed as the feathers of his wings ruffled with displeasure.

“Well, I think your human is just dense, and I find that quite adorable. Is it not?”

Sunday quieted immediately.

Even to this day, he chalks his failure to respond up to the sheer shock at his sister’s reaction. It is not surprising in that his sister finds a human adorable – many of his coworkers often express their never-ending fascination and curiosity towards human nature, behaviors, and quirks. Rather, it is unjustified to find your idiocy, your denseness, your ignorance cute, and that makes him seethe.

Now, though, he is not sure his original conclusion or feelings are right or appropriate. As you head back, a strong desire to prevent you from finding that man stirs within his gut. Of course, Sunday does not act on such unreasonable urges, but truly, he would be lying to himself if he said he was neutral when it came to matters concerning you. Again, perhaps he is just impatient, perhaps he does not want to deal with your grief-stricken self – especially when your state is caused by an inconsequential man’s actions –, perhaps he simply does not want to see you unhappy.

But neither of your wishes come true. 

You return to the living room, only to find your desired partner cozying up with another girl. Sunday can only watch, looking up as he sees tears, droplets so large relative to his miniature size, stream down the sides of your cheek and chin. When you are not looking, more occupied with scampering back to your apartment as quickly as possible, he catches one of your droplets in his hands, observing it as it hovers in front of him, still failing to show his reflection. He lets it go moments later, but how he wishes he could hold onto it for longer.

But more than that, he knows he would never make you cry like that. If only he was allowed, even one chance, to speak to you, knock some sense into you, demonstrate to you the treatment that you deserve. That way, you would learn your lesson, your true worth, and he would feel like he is actually doing his job as your guardian angel.

In the back of his mind, though, Sunday knows he would never actually feel satisfied – and that he will always worry over you, no matter what. After all, there is a reason why that rule is in place, and it is not to regulate humans. Indeed, humans are fickle creatures. Guardian angels, on the other hand, watch over a human from the time they are born to the day they die. This rule was created to keep the angels in check – to restrain their possession, greed, and lust from running amuck.

Robin is right. You are as downright adorable as you are clueless. But he did not want anyone else to find out, despite knowing there is nothing – nothing at all – that he can do about that.

winter event masterlist

[sapphireicecream]

Christmas Tree Angel 🪽🎤🎄

[h0neysp1ce]

Since Sunday is now a playable character on HSR, have been debating making a part 2 to this :^

Random Thoughts about Sunday

Sunday! - who asked you to marry him in his own way, interlocking your hands with his while you look at each other face to face. "My Dear, [Name] I could spend Eternity with you don't you know?"

Sunday! - who has the habit of tracing over your hands, especially the hand with your engagement ring and wedding ring. he loves admiring how lovely the rings look on you, and he won't admit it out loud but he loves that your his and he's yours.

Sunday! - who while he's handling affairs with the Oak Family, or just any business at all, he's fidgeting with his own wedding ring that is hidden under His gloved hand, It reminding him every time just how much it makes him happy that he's with you, and maybe a way of Missing you when he's busy at work.

Sunday! - who thinks of you as his light, the center of his universe, his way through the darkness, his anchor, his most beloved ,His most dearest.

Sunday! - who will make sure you never come to no harm or danger, this man's priority is your safety, he's very protective of you.

Sunday! - who thinks you're the most beautiful person he's ever met, and you'll continue to be forever in his eyes

Sunday! - who sneaks glances at you when you're not looking.

Sunday! - who kisses your hands, littering them in his kisses, praising , whispering sweet things as he kisses a new patch of skin.

Sunday! - who lets you touch his wings, every so often, you happen to have the special privilege, only he allows you to do this and no one else

Sunday! - who greets you with a kiss, once he's finished with his work.

Sunday! who loves when you pepper kisses all over his face, soaking up all your attention and affection.

Sunday! - who loves embracing you, any chance he gets.

Sunday! who picks you up bridal style and carries you.

Sunday! - who loves calling you "His Dove", "His Darling", "My Angel"

Sweetheart, Love (Pet names)

was reading up on his lore and story last night and got inspired 🤭

[akicine]

Won’t you say goodbye? (Sunday x Reader)

Was your love all a joke to him? You’ll never know the answer. He already left .

A sigh escaped your lips as you gently swirl the liquid inside the glass in your hand .You look upon the horizon , watching penacony from the dreams edge . Your eyes well up with tears as you attempt to recall if you did anything wrong .

When you find nothing , you set down your glass on the edge of the wall and let the tears fall .

It all started when you realized that Sunday was hiding some crucial from you , now , being the head of the Oak Family required keeping secrets because , well , it’s confidential information.

But it wasn’t that , it was something that endangered everybody and could force everyone in an eternal slumber that nobody wanted .

He became an enemy of the astral express , a fugitive from Penacony , and disappeared to who knows where .

You closed your eyes , rested your forehead in the palm of your hands , and choked on a sob just thinking of him and how much you love him .

You spent weeks trying to find him, you went to the reverie , the golden hour , dreams edge , anywhere and everywhere.

And still , all your efforts were wasted .

Was he avoiding you? Did he hate you? Did he want to avoid your wrath? What did he want?

All you want is to see him again.

To hold him , to make him laugh , to see his face and admire all of him , to be there with him, lay down on the bed and sleep with him , kiss him . You just want him back . That’s all you ask.

Then you feel a cold metal hand on your shoulder , drawing you out of your thoughts.

“ Excuse me , are you feeling alright miss?” A soft voice asks you , though it sounds warped .

You turn around , and your eyes widen as you see Sunday , but when you blink , it’s just an intellitron . But you blink again .

It’s Sunday . Your lover.

You were about to tackle him , but then realized.

He’s hiding from you.

Your eyes dull , and you plaster a fake smile on your face as you respond to him ,” I’m … not doing the best or the worst . Just sort of numb .” Who wouldn’t be when they found out their lover was hiding from them?

You watch his eyebrows furrow, worry in his eyes, but also watch the intellitron’s face remain the same.

Their voices overlap each other as they say ,” I see , I do hope your day will get better ,if you don’t mind me asking, why are you so somber?”

You give a sad smile as you look away from him and stare into the horizon , “ I was looking for someone , someone so very dear to me , I looked for them for the past few weeks , giving my all . Only to realize they don’t want to be found by me or anyone else .”

You turn your head and see his eyes widen , and you also see the intellitron’s face remain indifferent . The person you’re looking for is right here . But you know he doesn’t want to be found .

The intellitron gives a curt nod , while Sunday’s eyes show a hint of guilt as they say ,” Truly ? I hope that you’ll find them soon . I’ll be taking my leave now , it’s seems that you need some time .”

A sigh escapes from your lips , your heart wrenching as you watch him slowly slip away from you , leaving you alone . Tears start dripping down your cheeks faster and faster , your vision blurring as you gaze longingly at his retreating form .

“I want to be with you again…” you whisper .

And likewise , he says “ May we reunite somewhere amongst the stars”

You clench your fists as you look down at your feet , sobbing as you let the love of your life leave your sight and board the astral express . Making you wait even longer to be with him.

( You feel like a fool , waiting for him )