#gave up on the colouring it is what it is

[vrystalius]

hiii there, i was wondering if we please get some more recruiter/salesman cutesy stuff?? you’re such a good writer (love your work) and we do NOT have enough fics of him being an enamoured wife guy on this app. thank you <3 😔

Secret Love Notes.

You keep slipping small love notes into all his pockets and suitcases to remind him that his wife loves him no matter what.

Pairing: Recruiter/Gong Yoo x wife!reader

Summary: You leave small love notes all over for him to find and he cherishes every single one of them.

Words: 0.7k, short and sweet!

Genre: fluff <33

Your husband never admits it out loud to you, but he notices how you slip little love notes into his pocket when folding up the laundry or when packing him a bento box. They have cute little encouragements and affirmations written on them along with some doodles of you two together, holding hands, kissing and whatnot.

You think you’re being sneaky by crouching a little when approaching his coat hung up by the entrance, stuffing a small folded note into his chest pocket.

Whenever he is about to go out the door, you hand him his leather suitcase and a colourful bento box you packed for him. Once you found out Gong Yo only plain loaves of bread or sometimes even nothing at all, you always insisted on packing some food for him so your poor husband can eat something home cooked every day.

Even if the box doesn’t match his aesthetics, he savours every bite and would never shy away from letting out a loud hum of content.

Gong Yoo sat comfortably on a wooden bench by the metro station, well aware of the two mobsters following him the whole day, but who cares?

He leisurely opened up the bento box. His face brightened up at the sight of another small love letter presented to him.

“Keep it up! You’re going great ♡ Your wife loves you ~ ☆ “

Accompanied by your sweet words was a chibi doodle of you doing a heart with your index finger and thumb and him as a chibi too, holding a pair of chopsticks and giving you a wink. He chuckled quietly to himself and folded the note to keep it in his pocket by his heart.

Once, after successfully recruiting a new player, Gong Yoo handed the confused and wounded man your love note with a confident smirk. That man was lucky to have escaped the games but was kind of confused on why a handsome looking salesman gave him a love letter that reminded him to “stay hydrated!! ☆ (drinking coffee doesn’t count >:( )”

He tries to leave behind as many love notes as you lovingly prepare for him, but his doodles were kind of wonky and presented you in a rather disturbing light.

Sticking to his trusty craft of origami your husband instead began leaving small paper roses for you to find as a way to leave his own love messages.

A paper rose in the fridge, in the pocket of your jacket, in your bag and on your pillow; they change colours based on the day too. Blue and red are the most frequent and popular ones though for some reason. Probably because those are the only kinds of coloured paper he owns.

After every day you leave letters behind for him, Gong Yoo always tries to come home on time to properly thank you for them. Pampering you is his favourite activity, meaning you get banned from the kitchen and forcibly made comfortable on your bed or couch with cushions and blankets to keep you warm and cozy.

To return the favour of you preparing bento for him, he’ll cook you a fine dinner that could rival that of high-end restaurants. Afterwards, he’ll make himself comfortable right next to you to plant well deserved kisses all over your face and body and let his hand travel over your body freely, tracing invisible patterns.

A man like him should not be holding a woman like you, that’s what he’s always thinking. You are way too good for him, too gentle, kind, loving, too much of everything good.

“I love you. More than letters or silly paper roses can convey. Allow me to demonstrate just how much I love my wife, hmm?”

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading!

The amount of smut and non-con about this man is INSANE, I just need to live my silly life as a wife with him where we snuggle on the couch like a boring cuddle every night and then go to sleep while he read a book and I knit like grandparents 🫶😭 Anyways, hope you enjoyed it anon!!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33

[beah388love]

Dyslexia Problems

Full Masterlist Lando Norris Masterlist

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader

Summary: you and Lando both have dyslexia

Warnings: swearing, dyslexia (if I’ve missed any please tell me!!)

You had gone golf with Lando and max for the day and they had randomly decided to go live on twitch. You was sat in the cart trying to cover your phone from the sun so you could read your text out but you huffed when all the letters were jumbled because of your dyslexia. “Lan? Is this spelt right?” You asked as you looked up to him as he held the camera.

He held his hand out and read your text but shook his head with furrowed brows when the letters were also jumbled from his dyslexia too. “Chat how do you spell neighbour?” Lando asked and looked at the chat to see the word repeated, some in caps.

“Okayyyyy thank you guys” Lando said with a little laugh as he typed the letters in on your phone and let you hit send.

“Thank you chat!” You said louder so they could hear you whilst max took his shot.

That was not all though….

Stupidly max asked you to read the subs out on the camera “thanks…uh- daivid? And thanks…kivy? For the subs” you smiled as you positioned the camera to look at max and Lando who were having a little play fight ending in Lando trying to poke max’s ass with the golf club and max running away with his hand covering his ass.

“Idiots” you shook your head behind the camera.

Chat:

User1: LMAOOOO THEIR SO FUNNY

User2: not y/n calling everyone the wrong name 😭

User3: ITS VICKY NOT KIVY 😭💀

User4: is she stupid?

User5: she’s dyslexic bro

You knotted your brows as you read the comments, “omg! Guys have I been calling you the wrong names?! I’m so sorry!” You gasped and slapped a hand to your mouth when you realised what the chat was talking about.

“Max! You take the camera! I suck at this job” you said dragging a hand down your face, “what are you talking about?” Max asked confused as he took the camera off of you.

“I can’t read the chat or their names…sorry guys” you said with an embarrassed smile “dyslexia?” Max grinned and you nodded “alright baby your turn!” Lando said as he handed you your golf ball.

“Thank you baby” you smiled as you took the ball from him.

“Y/n has really bad dyslexia guys” max explained as he read through some of the comments. “Yeah she hates it” Lando agreed with a nod of his head.

“You have dyslexia though” max pouted confused on why you hated it so much “yeah but hers is worse than mine and she loves reading but she has to use the text to speech thingy” Lando explained and max nodded “yeah she hates it” Lando gave a tight lipped smile but smiled when you walked over, he instantly wrapped a hand around your waist.

“Also chat- I didn’t wanna play this stupid game-“ I murmur to the camera but got cut off by Max “it’s a sport not a game” he corrected me for the 100th time.

I roll my eyes to the camera. “It’s a game.” I whisper to the camera making lando stifle a laugh.

……

This also occurred on streams…for example the time when Max was streaming with you and Lando.

You had somehow been given the job of calling out and thanking the subs..again.

“Thank you…uh- poopy?” I tilt my head and scrunch my brows as I read the username out and gasp when I read it again “sorry-! Sorry- I meant poppy..! Thanks poppy for the subs” I correct myself embarrassed

I hear lando’s laugh behind me as I’m sat on his lap, “Lan. it’s not funny-“ I roll my eyes playfully but he can’t help his laughs.

“Babe- you called her poopy?-“ he wheezes out whilst laughing, hiding his face in my hair from the stream. I shake my head smiling “I didn’t mean to!” I cover my face embarrassed.

Max is trying to bite back his laughs as he tries to focus on a game. He looks to the comments and bursts out laughing at all the jokingly offended fans.

I feel Lando squeeze his hold on my waist slightly “babe?” He whispers into my ear and I hum “mh?”

“Want your coloured slip thingys?” He asks quietly and I shake my head “no it’s fine..can you just read the subs out?” I ask and he nods “yeah.”

He continued to read the subs after that. I didn’t think anything of it until I saw the twitter posts the next morning…they did make me laugh.

…

Your dyslexia would also affect your texts…which were also pretty funny-

Lando was sat on the sofa at your shared apartment. max was also there but he was on the other sofa. Lando scrolled through instagram bored until he got a text from you.

Lando tried to read it and sighed, his eyebrows scrunched in confusion. He rubbed his forehead and looked up when max chuckled “what?” Lando asks

Max laughed “has y/n texted you?”

Lando nods “yeah- how’d you know?” He smiled confused

Max chuckled “cuz you look like your trying to read a different language” Lando laughed shaking his head

“Here you try and understand what she texted me.” Lando chuckled and handed his phone to max.

Y/N: Can yuo garb me smoe ciream?

Max knotted his brows as he tried to read it “fucking hell mate- how do her eyes make her think that’s right?”

Lando chuckled “don’t ask me.” He said as he took his phone back and texted back.

Lando: babe. I just had a headache trying to read that.

Y/N: gbra em some icremea?

Lando: it still ain’t spelt right babe.

Y/N: seriosly?

Lando: just call me. I cant keep trying to read this.

Max Fewtrell added to his story

Landonorris: I acc have a migraine after texting her.

Ynusername: blame my dyslexia not me ✋🏻

McLaren: you think her texts are bad..we have to deal with her emails!

User1: LMAO NOT MCLAREN CALLING HER OUT

User2: I WANNA SEE EM NOW 😭

Lewishamilton: relatable.

Ynusername: hey! Give me a break.

User3: how r her replies making sense if her texts don’t?

Landonorris: y/n uses autocorrect and speech to text to help her

Ynusername: idk what id do without it 😔✋🏻

…

This would also cause problems between her and her radio engineer, Fred.

“Freddie?” I ask into the radio as I hold the steering wheel tightly, going around a corner on the track.

“Yeah y/n?” He responds through the radio

“There’s something wrong with the uh- screen thingy-“ I say and Fred furrows his brows

“Uh- ya sure..? I’m looking now and it looks fine?” He asks confused

“It says I’m going at 013mph?” I ask confused as I ready screen on the car.

I hear Fred’s small chuckle through the radio “y/n- it’s your dyslexia. It says 103mph” he explains and I can’t help my embarrassed smile under my helmet

“Oh- I forgot about that. Thanks Freddo.” I giggle through the radio.

Fred chuckled “it’s fine. The cars fine though right?”

“Yeah- it’s fine. Just my dyslexia.” I giggle

I do another turn and sigh “Fred- what’s the gap?” I ask confused

Fred looks down at his screen “uh- Max is…0.845 seconds behind.” He reads and I nod

“Okay” I say as I try to remember the track in my head. I go to turn right but quickly swerve left.

“Shit- fuck- oops-“ I curse under my breath and I hear Fred through the radio

“What happened-?”

“I uh- I just forgot my left and right but it’s fine-“ I giggle quietly “sorry.”

Fred can’t help his laugh “don’t worry- just try to remember next time yeah?”

…

Or another struggle for you and Lando was cooking…

Lando was streaming whilst you and him baked or shall I say tried to bake a cake.

Lando was leaning against the counter, holding his phone with the recipe on it “uh- babe? I think we need help.” He says with knotted brows.

You look over to him “what? Why?”

Lando tuts as he tries to read the ingredients “I can’t make it out.”

You roll your eyes “lemme try” Lando scoffs lightly “okay- but I highly doubt you’ll be better than me.”

You try to read the ingredients and instructions but it’s all jumbled and messy “uh…never mind then.”

Lando chuckles and looks to the camera “guess we’re having pasta tonight chat.”

You giggle and nod “yup! Pasta it is.” You say as you grab different ingredients.

…

Lando, you and Oscar were doing an F1 game interview thingy for fun.

The interviewer had given you all your own white board. The game was that Oscar would have to guess the word that you and Lando got.

The interviewer smiles “okay- start.”

Lando and you look to the word on your boards. Lando tilted his head confused “uh…”

You also knotted your brows confused as you looked at the messy word. “Uh…lan? What does it say?” You whisper.

Lando chuckles “no idea..”

Oscar shakes his head amused “how the hell do I guess if you don’t know the word?”

Lando laughs lightly “uh- I think maybe you should do the word and me and y/n guess it.”

The interviewer giggles and nods “okay- switch if it’s easier”

Lando and you switch. Oscar chuckles “this is why we never let you two team up. You guys are awful together”

Lando nods with a laugh “two dyslexics.”

You giggle and nod “perfect match” you joke

[tommi-tiber]

Not series Lestat but kinda what my brain produced when I read the Vampire Lestat book. (The Outfit is- I'm begging the series costume designers!!!!) Probably gonna redraw the face tho, I kinda gave up bc I didn't expect to manage with the colours. Surprise pause or smth.

[nymphaea-blue]

Oneshot - A date with Rafayel.

Info : 900+ word count, possible grammar errors (this was written at 11pm.), reader and Rafayel are in a relationship, very cute fluff, mention of worries/insecurity about self worth, small mention of alcohol.

“Rafayel, are we getting close now?” You asked as your lover guided you to an unknown place, one of his hands gently placed over your eyes to keep you from peeking as his other hand made sure to guide you along the path, so you wouldn’t get hurt.

“Almost, be patient, cutie.” He responded simply and after a few more moments, he stopped and moved around you, you could just hear his footsteps, the wind and… the sea?

“Okay, you can open your eyes.” Rafayel gave you the go ahead and as you opened your eyes, your breath almost got stolen. You were on the beach, the one by his house, but it looked different now. The moonlight was shining down onto the table that was set up, with two chairs and a few dishes arranged alongside candlelights. The dock was dressed in cute lights and rose petals, it looked like a scene from a dream.

“Oh, Rafayel, this is wonderful.. you did this all for me?” You asked, almost not believing what you saw.

“‘Course I did, who else would it be for? Now come on, take a seat, it won’t bite you.” He nodded, he was happy that you liked his surprise, that’s all he wanted to see after all, you being happy. He pulled out the seat for you and then pulled it in as you sat down.

The dishes all looked so good and they were fresh too, you knew from the steam coming from them and the amazing smell. It was a few seafood dishes, as well as some pasta and some of your favorite comfort dishes and drinks. He really seemed to think all of it through.

As Rafayel made a plate for you and himself, you couldn’t help but admire the wonderful sights. The moon was shining brightly, the waters were calm and they reflected all the lights and the moon perfectly, making for a romantic atmosphere. Rafayel himself looked quite striking too, even more than usual. He wore a suit, which was typically reserved for more special occasions but his tie was colourful and playful, like his personality. 

The both of you soon started eating and the food was as good as it looked, it was a perfect meal for a night like this, it warmed you up a little and put you in a good mood.

“Mmh, this is delicious! Did you make it yourself?”

“I did, I made all the seafood dishes!... Some of the food here is our favourite takeout though, I hope you don’t mind.”

After your first course, Rafayel stepped aside for a moment so you took the time to walk along the dock. You were left thinking for a while as you reached the end of the dock, did you miss an anniversary? Was it your birthday? Did something important happen on this day? Because the surprise was wonderful though it left you wondering what was the reason for it.

You didn’t have much time to ponder about it as soon you heard soft classical music playing and Rafayel stood alongside you.

“Enjoying the scenery?” He asked as he gently wrapped his arms around your form and brought you closer to him, a faint blush present on his face alongside his signature smile.

“Yeah, it’s really wonderful, you outdid yourself! Can I ask, what’s the occasion though?” You smiled and leaned your forehead against his in an act of affection.

“Does there have to be a reason? I just thought that we both worked really hard lately and I missed spending time with you, so I decided to treat you a little.” He answered with a smile, his eyes, full of love and adoration, were focused on you. It was touching really, how he organized a date for no reason because he wanted to get closer to you and make you feel happy, but that was just Rafayel for you, your playful, loveable, boyfriend.

“Really? You didn’t have to, I would be happy even if we just sat down on the couch in your studio, you know that, right?” You felt a little surprised but also so charmed by that simple action. It was cute how he thought of doing this for you but you also were a little worried, he worked so hard on this, but did you really deserve it?

“I know, but I wanted to spoil you, you deserve it, my love.” He gently took one of your hands that was previously by your side and intertwined your fingers, before placing the hand on his heart. You could feel how fast it was beating, all for you.

“If I can make you feel better by spending a little money and time on preparing this, then why wouldn’t I do it? There is nothing I love more than having you next to me, there doesn’t need to be a reason for this.” The soft feeling of his hand on yours, his fingers gently brushing against your knuckles and that gentle smile seemed to make your worries almost disappear. 

Rafayel then gently leaned for a kiss, but stopped a millimeter away from your lips. He looked at you with half lidded eyes for a moment, and you could notice the gentle freckles on his face, before he finally put his lips on yours when he saw your expression, and it was as if time stopped.

The rest of the night was full of laughs, good food and wine and after this date, there were many more to come, because in Rafayels mind - there didn’t need to be a reason to make his most precious person in the entire world happy.

[my-my-my]

Haii I would like to request a Shinji x reader, with some spice please please🥹

Sure!! I had an idea tinkling around, so hopefully this suits your fancy 😊

Summary: Coming back to the Gotei 13 means getting a new office, a new lieutenant and of course... a new uniform. The process of moving unlocks dormant memories of Shinji’s past, but not all of them are bad, especially the ones involving you.

CW: MDNI! use of pet names (from Shinji), oral sex (m and f receiving).

Word count: 2713

Shinji scoffed at his new captain’s uniform neatly folded on his desk, in his newly renovated office. The Squad 5 barracks didn’t change in the century or so since the Hollowfication Incident, but squad members were different. And he could only thank Aizen for that.

“I got my work cut out for me.” Shinji grumbled, as his mind raced thinking the best way to approach his new subordinates and new lieutenant… but one step at a time. He quickly grabbed some magazines tucked away in the boxes he brought from the World of the Living.

Sighing, he placed the uniform and magazines under his arm and headed out to one of the few places that gave him solace in all of Soul Society, Rukongai district 9.

Shinji was holding his breath. It had been a century since he was here, would the shop even be here still? He walked down the street, seeing familiar stores and unfamiliar names. The Fashion District of Soul Society was alive and well it seemed.

There were various tailors and stores that catered to most of the particular tastes of the Nobles in Seireitei, but Shinji was never to follow their trends. Centuries ago he would bump heads with different tailors for unique pieces of clothing.

Until the day you opened up your shop.

And just like that, maybe out of habit, maybe out of anticipation, Shinji found himself in front of your shop once again. The sign held the same design as before and the name was boldly painted as ever.

As he entered the store, he grinned to himself to see familiar sights. Bolts of various types and colours of fabric were stacked upon each other. Stacks of magazines and hardcover books stacked randomly across the store, and amidst all the chaos, stood one counter.

And you, lost in thought as you concentrated on a commissioned, silk embroidered handkerchief.

“Ya still taking commissions?” Shinji chuckled as he sauntered over to you.

“Shinji! You’re alive!” You gasped, dropping your work on the counter. “I was told you died in combat.”

“That’s what they were tellin’ y’all? It’s been 110 years and they can’t keep their lies straight.” Shinji grumbled and tensed as you immediately wrapped your arms around him.

Shinji looked away as his cheeks grew pink at how close you were to him.

“You have to tell me all about it!” You beamed at him, taking in his lean figure and now short hair. “Also short hair suits you.”

The sincerity in your voice left Shinji uncomfortable. After a century of living in the shadows of the World of Living, to be thrown into your bright, cheery disposition, was enough to unnerve him. Even if coming to see you was entirely self-inflicted.

Once you let go of Shinji, you immediately noticed the now creased uniform and the peeking of magazine covers under his arm.

“Ah, I’m guessing you want me to tailor your haori, Shinji, but what’s this?”

Shinji gave a small grin, “I figured I can’t come here empty handed since it’s been a while. Got to travel to some interesting places in the World of the Living, and thought you’d like them.” As he handed you the magazines. Your eyes went wide as you skimed through the covers, eager to read them in detail. Then he handed you his uniform, “darlin’, do what you do best.”

You nodded your head, smiling at the pet name you missed hearing from him. You took Shinji by the hand and led him to a stack of magazines and books, “well let’s start here, maybe we’ll find something you like.” You bent down to pick one magazine, dating from the early 1970s.

“What do you mean?” Shinji asked, “you don’t wanna tailor it?”

You laughed, “things have changed in the Gotei 13! I think the Captain Commander has loosened the rules a bit.”

Shinji gave you an uncertain stare.

“Some of the other tailors have been tasked to modify some of the captain haoris in particular styles.” You said, as you flipped through the magazine, “and knowing you… I figured you’d like to do something to yours too.”

Shinji chuckled, picking up another magazine off the ground. “Fine, I ain’t gonna say no to that.”

“Perfect! Let me grab my notebook.”

Shinji sat on the ground as he thumbed through the pages, skimming different styles, cuts, and pieces that he saw pass through his time living amongst the World of the Living. You eagerly wrote down all the preferences he noted, asking him about any additional embellishments, trimmings and other oddities he would want.

“I think I have an idea.” You murmured, closing your notebook. “Let me close the shop, and you can go to the back. Let’s take some measurements.” You gave him a soft smile as you pulled out your measuring tape.

 Once you closed the shop, you made your way to the parlour room of your shop. Shinji was looking at himself in the mirror, pulling his bangs from side to side, mumbling to himself.

“Are you gonna cut your hair again?” You asked, as he turned himself around to face you.

“Maybe, not sure yet.” Shinji remarked, feeling uneasy again.

“Shinji, relax! You’ve done this a million times before.” You tried to ease the tension, but Shinji seemed lost in his thoughts. “I know you have a lot on your mind right now,” you murmured, “but for now, I want you to lift your arms out to your shoulders.” You gave him a reassuring smile as you measured the length of his arms, taking note that they were still strong as you remembered it. “Ok, put them down now,” as you proceeded to measure his sleeve length.

You quickly jotted down his arm span measurements, “ok I’m going to measure your shoulders and back now.” You murmured as you went behind him. Shinji tried to relax, but his heart began to quicken as you were so close to him. Your touch was firm, yet gentle, and it was throwing him off. “And now your chest,” as you went in front of him. You were focused on your work, but all Shinji could do was look away and watch you from the side mirror.

“You’re cute when you’re workin’, you know that?” He muttered.

“What was that?” You said, completely oblivious as you thought how his chest had gotten bigger from over 100 years ago.

“Nothin’, don’t worry your pretty little head over it.” Shinji sighed.

“Ok, I think I got your upper body down. I’ll take your lower body measurements.”

Which led Shinji’s mind to stray, as he watched you go on your knees as you wrapped the measuring tape around his thigh, scribbling down the measurement, then the length of his legs. He closed his eyes as he tried not to think about you in this position, before his mind flashed of having you bobbing your head along the length of his cock.

Shit, too late. He thought, but before anything could be said or done. You closed your notebook and got back up.

“Perfect, I think I have everything I need, Shinji. I should have this ready for you in two weeks.” You smiled softly, noticing the way his cheeks were pink. “Are you alright, Shinji? You’ve been a bit cagey today.” You said, sadness evident in your tone.

“Nah, nothing like that. Just like ya said, I got a lot of my mind right now.”

You frowned slightly, “ok, but, and I know I’m just a tailor, but you can come by and talk anytime. My doors are always open for you.” You murmured, wrapping your arms around him again, causing Shinji to tense up.

“I know. I might take you up on your offer, but not today.” He gave you a wry smile, “and besides, can’t leave without paying.”

“Oh for you, it’s on the house! You brought me those magazines.” You laughed, flattered he brought you something to begin with.

“Darlin’, I got a captain’s salary.” Shinji yawns, “I can pay my share and then some. It’s the least I can do.”

“Alright, but it’s only 50% today.” You said, as you tally up the fabric and tailoring cost, “I’ll take the rest when it’s complete.

“Ya got yourself a deal.” Shinji smirks.

The messaging system within the Gotei 13 improved significantly while Shinji was in exile. It surprised him to receive a message on his phone, of all places, that his haori was ready.

But he wasn’t surprised you finished it so quickly. You were always so concentrated with the work he commissioned, but how did you know his number?

He texted you a reply that he would be coming later in the afternoon. He was still wearing his World of the Living clothes, much to the dismay of everyone else in the Gotei 13. He rolled his eyes at the commentary and chiding he would get, as if he didn’t know the rules.

He lazily walked his way around District 9, another gift under his arm for you. Your texted him that your store would appear closed today, but to text you when he arrived.

And with a quick text, you quietly opened the door and led him back to the parlour room.

“I’m so excited to see you wear it, Shinji!” You grinned, excitement rolling off you, “I hope you like it,” as you handed him his new uniform.

“Before I change, have this.” Shinji said, handing you a small box with a light green ribbon tying it closed. “Open it while I go change.” He murmured.

You stared at the box in your lap as you gently unravelled the ribbon. Lifting the lid, your eyes widened as you saw what laid underneath, but before you could say anything, Shinji was done.

You gasped as you saw his new uniform. The modified, white waist coat with a frontal tie feature was tailored perfectly the uniform underneath, but you laughed.

“Your cravat is a bit crooked.” You chuckled, as you went to him. You hummed as you adjusted his cravat, with the custom white gold pins you ordered for him. You took a step back and admired him and your work, but then your brows furrowed.

“What’s wrong?” Shinji asked, as he stared down at his uniform and you.

“I think I need to hem your pants a bit more.” You said, as you immediately went down on your knees. Shinji’s cheeks went pink again, as you quickly remeasured the length.

“Oh I think I was just seeing things. It’s fine.” You said, laughing, but still on the ground. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Shinji?” You smiled, looking up at him.

Shinji sighed and closed his eyes, trying to get his mind out of the gutter with the way your eyes were looking up at him. “Nah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” You ask softly, as you slowly trailed your hands up his thighs, “I can help with other things.” You murmured, your face between his legs.

Shinji took a deep breath, “ok, fine, you can help me with one thing, c’mere.” He murmured, lifting you up. He gently cupped the back of your neck and kissed you softly on the lips. You kissed him back feverently, startling him, before he held you closer. The two of you broke away and panted, before Shinji grinned at you, “that wasn’t exactly what I wanted help with.” He snickered, before leading you to an empty couch. He sat down, spreading his legs, “I need your help with this, but you gotta work for it.”

You smiled and nodded your head as you sat between his legs, hands pulling aside his uniform. Shinji relaxed as he felt your arm hands wrap around his growing erection, gently moving them along his shaft as you began to kiss the tip of his cock. You hollowed your cheeks as you took him down your throat, moaning around him as you felt his fingers in your hair.

Shinji groaned your name, “good girl” he moaned, petting your head as you bobbed your head up and down his cock, running your tongue over the tip and along the veins of his cock. You wrapped your hands around the base of his cock and pumped him in time with your mouth.

Your pussy throbbed at the sounds he was making, as you pulled one hand away, slipping them between your clothes as you rubbed your clit, moaning around his cock.

That was enough to send Shinji over, “Be a darlin’” he gasped, “and swallow for me, ok?” Shinji said, bucking his hips and holding your face down as his cum spurted down your throat.

Once he was done, you pulled away from him, a ‘pop’ as your swollen lips let go of his cock. Shinji panted as he looked down at the sight of you. You immediately got up and went to the gift Shinji brought you, a handkerchief, and used it to dab your mouth clean, giving him a smirk.

“It wasn’t meant to be a cum rag” Shinji complained, throwing his head back into the seat and sighed. “I made it for you to keep.”

“I am keeping it! And I’m putting it to good use.” You laughed, as you sat next to him on the couch. Shinji wrapped his arms around you as you laid against him, your fingers crawling up his legs, close to his soft cock, before Shinji pushed your hand away.

“Darlin, you’ve done enough for me today.” Shinji drawled, sitting up. You looked up at him, pouting, “don’t give me that look.” He scoffed, “I can’t leave my lady alone after all of that.” He chuckled, kissing you again. The two of you tugged down your clothes and undergarments, leaving you bare for him.

Shinji soon trailed his lips down your body, with his long, thin fingers pinching and rolling your nipples. He sank down to his knees as he faced your wet pussy. Shinji smirked as he looked up at you, your body flushed with sweat, panting his name.

“Since you worked so hard,” Shinji murmured, hooking your legs on his shoulders, “my darlin’ deserves another gift.” You cried out as Shinji gave a long lick along your pussy, before flicking his tongue against your clit. Your body jolted as you felt something smooth against his tongue and your clit. But before you could ask, you squealed, immediately weaving your hand through his hair as you brought his face closer into your pussy, screaming Shinji’s name as he buried his face in your cunt.

You held his face close as you felt the same sensation hit against your clit. Your legs twitched as your orgasm was fast approaching, with Shinji increasing the flick and laps of his tongue.

“Shinji – I can’t” you cried, as you felt your body jerk in response. But Shinji didn’t let up and continued, pushing his tongue into hole. A low moan left your body, eyes rolling as your orgasm waved through you. Shinji savoured the taste of your juices as he gently licked away at your slit, before kissing your inner thighs.

You gave him a shy smile as he sat back down on the couch. “Where’d you learn how to do that?” You murmured, as you tried to even out your breathing.

“Learn what? Eating your pussy? You taste good, darlin’” Shinji remarked.

“No,” you laughed, “there was something on your tongue.”

“Surprised it took you this long to notice.” Shinji chuckled, sticking out his tongue. A metal piercing was straight through its centre.

Your eyes were wide, “when did you get that?!”

“A long time ago, but it doesn’t matter.” Shinji yawned, “you’re gonna feel more of it later.”

Blushing, you leaned into Shinji’s body once more, “and thank you for the handkerchief.” You murmured, holding his hand, “you made it didn’t you?”

“I did. I learned somethings while I was livin’ out there ya know.” Shinji responded, squeezing your hand back. “Anyways, how’d you get my Soul Society number?”

“Oh that, I asked Rose’s tailor and Rose gave it to me.”

Shinji scoffed, then kissed you on the forehead, “ya really are resourceful, aren’t ya darlin’?”

Thank you for your request! I hope this is to your liking. I wanted to incorporate his new uniform and tongue piercing, so voilà! I was also inspired by MICHELLE'S Pulse.

[alloru]

GUESS WHAT. the crochawk nation is going to be fed again!! this time with a coloured sketch because I gave up on the line art not even halfway through :D

I have no idea where this headcanon of mine came from, but in my mind Mihawk never bothered to learn how to dance properly (he prefers silence over music, never has had anyone to dance with, let alone someone he trusts enough to reveal a "weakness" like that), so the thing he's lacking most in his technique is being able to do footwork without thinking about it!

that changes when Crocodile notices he's not very comfortable with evading backwards or diagonally (he's hung out with Daz enough to get swordfighting basics) and instead relies mainly on his arms and observation haki to get the job done.

Whom then convinces Mihawk to let him teach him how to dance, which turns into a little fluffy bonding experience <3

have a lovely next 24 hours everyone!

[zeyris-daydreams]

Nocturne to The Consecrated - 15.6k longfic

Yandere!reader x (whatever this is)!Sunday

This idea was piling in my mind for weeks now, but it is finally done. Reader displays some concerning tendencies, all the while we get to watch. I’m not sure what to label Sunday in this, yandere is too harsh but he’s NOT normal. That aside, special thanks to Adam, my musically talented friend, who lent me his expertise for orchestral accuracy in this.

Warnings; stalking, manipulation, sort of abuse of power if you squint.

[ao3] [music used for this fic]

“He was never supposed to know you existed. You kept your distance, content with watching from the edges, learning his movements, his habits—his power. But Sunday has always understood the weight of unseen things. And when he calls you forward, it is not with accusation, nor with anger. It is with amusement. With interest. Because the moment you stepped into his world, you were already playing by his rules.”

The paper was a white, dove colour, shade of the freshest feathers plucked, long before they had a chance to stain with the unruly ground - stark contrast to the blood red seal at the front of the envelope, throwing off the harmony of the already too thick sheet.

It weighed heavy in your sweaty palm, breathing shortened as you stared at the object, pondering the reality of the situation - or lack thereof. The envelope bore a shade similar to the halovian’s feathers, and as himself, the stamp was perfectly pressed. Not a spillage of wax outside of the shape it held, formed into the innermost layers of a tree. A symbol you’ve grown used to seeing already, and you could imagine his gloved hands pressing the form into the wax.

Sitting on top of the beige sofa in the comfort of your own apartment didn’t fix the restless feeling of unease in your gut. Lack of emotional control in your own safespace, lack of control over the situation - things unfamiliar. You didn’t want to know them.

The wax felt smooth beneath your fingertips when you grabbed it instinctually, like all the other times when you've taken the courtesy of receiving the mail from the Oak Family in the comfort of your office.

Your fingers lingered on the envelope for a moment too long, as though the act of unraveling it would change something irreparably.

Index finger easily pried the edge of the wax up, before you remembered to keep it intact. It is a symbol of the Oak Family, and a symbol of a perfect person. Then again why would something like this matter to a deadman? It was nothing but bad news to be addressed by him directly, feeling akin to a freshly penned death sentence.

Your position and expertise was nothing but a candle’s flick to a sun’s roar, guaranteeing you no recognition in this field. To be sent paperology so personally was below your tasks.

You could gently peel it off to hold onto it like with everything related, but perfection didn’t matter in this situation. This time, this single time, you ripped it off in haste. If— If there would be another chance like this, you’d preserve the wax. To ruin such a shapely sigil would be unsightly, you knew he’d most certainly dislike it.

A strange bile rose in your throat when the paper protested, holding onto its shape despite your harsh tug on the front, and the edge of the envelope tore in the sudden action. It didn’t matter.

Your heart felt like a rock upon water, its beat sending a steady rhythm down your fingertips.

The envelope gave you one last mocking frown before it was unveiled, and the pristine white sheet was taken out from the inside. Empty and purposeless exterior fell to the ground as you held the beating heart of the problem, fingers digging into it like into your last meal, and you pulled the organ apart, exposing its secrets to all eyes that may be watching—

All colour and blood drained from your face. Your fingers shaking against the thing that felt all too thick and all too glassy, like blood ready to spill from your fingers. With a flutter of paper the temperature dropped, the chill settling on your skin as though the air had anticipated with you. Eyes drifted down towards where the signature would be laid, at the end of the correspondence. So down it was almost passable, and despite the dimmed light in your apartment, you saw it well.

“Sunday, the head of the Oak Family”

The ink felt bold, as if it had been pressed with force into the writing - precision remained, as many of the items he wrote before. It bled into the thick sheet, still in your retina despite your frantic glance around the space of your dull living room.

As fast as that happened, your eyes shot back to the culprit, and you scanned it. Once - skimming, the letters blurring as if they smudged under the weight of your gaze.

Second - drawing out the key words, ones which escaped your grasp, like a mouse from the claws of a cat.

Only the third time did the message register, painting in your mind as you analysed each stroke, lips moving along to each syllable.

”—Esteemed member of the Nightingale Family. It is my utmost pleasure to invite you to a private soirée following the Assembly of the families this Friday,“

The dryness in your mouth only intensified. It was Wednesday.

”where the evening shall continue with further contemplations in a more intimate setting. Please arrive promptly at the close of the performance, for the evening promises to unfold in unexpected ways.”

The penmanship was what you knew already, having collected countless letters and signatures with the same strokes before. The same quill, the same ink. The same hand.

As a member of the Nightingale Family you were more than aware of the tradition; each year Family representatives gathered around a table to discuss the future of the land of festivities together - more to uphold an idea than to have any political discourse.

That, and apparent parties they partook in for the duration of the day.

”Should you accept, you may find the atmosphere illuminating and serene—

Though I suspect it will be, for you, anything but.”

Your gaze felt pinned to the sheet. That is all it said, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that the wording left much to be considered.

Hand tightened against the paper and the fabric bent like a neck to jaws, the thick saliva in your mouth finally swallowed.

—

The residence was quiet, spare for the echo of footsteps you took. Hum of conversation and murmurs of others long died - never to be witnessed by your ears. Maybe you had come too late - an idea proven by the eerily empty room you stood in.

Perhaps they have slipped unnoticed, long gone to leave you to your reckoning - and perhaps if you knew it was the plan, you too would’ve slipped into the shadows as always.

Now though, you were alone, with light above too bright for the liking of your eyes.

The realisation weighed like a boulder, each breath becoming heavier as you looked around. The walls were washed over with a dull shade of blue, akin to a vast ocean in which you could easily get lost in, where all land was too far to be seen.

As though the room wished to retain nothing but stretching emptiness - your body felt lightweight.

You had come, expecting the soirée, the event—you had come wishing to slip unnoticed at a time opportune. But now the space seems cavernous, the shadows stretching long, looming above your frame. Mocking, laughing at the predicament.

The butler that had taken your coat has long vanished, and yet the feeling of eyes on you was unmistakable.

A sharp note cut through the quiet.

Your body turned rigid. Another note joined it, narrow, and they danced in your ear in a tango from the very far left, tempting you to join their flow. Their threads pulled your limbs out of the space, forward and down the corridor.

You knew the tune immediately, and just as instantaneously you wish you didn’t. You have heard the piece before - when he played the piano like this during the private event, then again you couldn’t be sure if that was more than once; being too preoccupied with the pianist each and every time.

Sunday was at the piano when you had found him, seated with utmost perfect posture, his back to you. Skillfully his hands glided across the keys akin to a painter mastering their craft. The melody building and twisting, every note deliberate. The way he played it - precise, restrained, as though there was something beneath the rhythm being held back. It gripped you in an unmistakable way.

He spared you not a glance. He didn’t acknowledge you. For a moment, you’d be hopeful enough to believe he hasn’t taken notice of you at all.

The sound arches as you observe him, rolling down a steady slope-

But then, as the melody faded into silence before the next part of the composition you’ve already grown to anticipate, the fugue, he glanced over his shoulder.

Eyes of gold met yours.

”Ah,” he mused, as though he only realised your presence. “You’ve arrived.”

Nothing in the halovian’s tone sounded unusual, nothing to suggest he had been expecting you, here, alone. Yet the faintest rise of the edges of his lips - a knowing smile.

For a moment you opened your trembling lips, trying to apologise for intruding, but your throat felt tight. It was of no significance to Sunday, as he turned back to the piano. His gloved hands returned their dance upon the keys. The silence between notes stretched out however, purposeful and nearly deliberate.

”Do you recognise it?” He asked suddenly, voice so soft it blended with the sharp tune of the music, smudging with each passing second.

Your chest tightened, throat burning. Of course you recognised it, how could you not? The obvious answer doesn’t find the escape through your teeth, clenched together.

And so you said nothing, and he too didn’t press. The melody shifted, the last keys being played, and the tune grew softer, before a sense of almost pleasant silence followed. As though the aroma of the tune remained in the air, lingering thickly like smoke.

Not for long.

As if nothing happened, he raised to his full height, facing you as he smoothed down the sleeves of his suit. Perfect. Preened.

”I’m sorry for the absence of company,” his voice cut the momentary reprieve, words so casual they felt nearly calculated. Restrained, and deliberate, a perfect chord resolving a dissonant phrase. “But I thought it might be better this way. Simpler.”

Simpler. The word twisted in your mind, an apple rotting as soon as it began its descent from grace. It felt sour on your tongue.

You wanted to leave, now. The urge clawed at you, sharp and insistent, a cat scratching at the window to take run. Something in the way he watched you, though, his head tilted slightly. Sunday waited for something you couldn’t quite pinpoint, a reaction possibly.

”You’re quiet,” his tone was conversational, light. Sunday stepped closer, and it took every single fiber of your will to keep yourself grounded, not retreat. “But then, you always were.”

The calm in which he said it, the purposeful use of ‘always’. A fact, not a guess, something he knew as well as the fact that the sky is blue. And that the candles are meant to burn.

Before you processed his words and had a chance to decide on a reaction, he tilted his head slightly, arm gesturing towards the hall beyond.

“Come,” he says. “I’d like to show you something.”

The words carried a tune of softness, but they weren’t a request.

You hesitated, but something in his posture and unblinking, unrelenting gaze forced you to move. The weight of his tone made it impossible to refuse.

Sunday waited just enough for you to take a step, and he then turned, beginning the walk. Each move was precise, soft yet measured - certain against the floor. Despite the tightness of your mind and your flesh, you followed him.

You tried to focus on the sound of your own footsteps to drown out the sense of anxiety that muffled your rational sense, the floor feeling as though it dipped beneath your shoes. Like sand, wanting to swallow you whole.

The walls, despite the lights, felt long, decorated with your moving shadow, one that laughed cruelly at the predicament of the ‘real’ you. The silence stretched similarly to each darkened spot on the walls, mocking, staring over you.

When he finally stopped, you nearly stumbled, heart racing when you realised that you’ve reached a room. For a change, you didn’t recognise it, an unknown pathway of the forest you always bravely threaded. The doors were closed, surface carved with an intricate design you again didn’t find familiar - regardless of the dim light.

A sense of sickness pooled at the bottom of your stomach, threatening to burn through the layers of the already sensitive flesh.

Sunday turned to you, his face unrecognisable. For a moment the halovian merely watched, gaze steady as it was when he played Bach’s melody, and you felt its weight sit heavy on your shoulders, weighing you down like a sinner’s record.

”Go ahead,” his voice was smooth, hand gently pulling on the handle to reveal the interior to you.

”After you.”

—

The light shone from above you in a distinct halo, and you looked towards your ticket once more. The edge dipped in gold, reflecting the beam from the chandelier in an almost blinding manner. Yet your walk persisted, following the usher into an entrance tucked away from the common guests.

Upright posts traced the way forward, the most elaborate pathway towards the grand doors at the end. The surroundings around the venue felt spacious, creamy white walls and intricate decor of the walls, the pillars which supported a far too high of a ceiling. Crown mouldings above were nothing but detailed, white and free and pure and untouched.

As you walked you wondered what sort of person could reach and clean it from possible cobwebs. Fingers absentmindedly moved over the repertoire of the concert, the surface glassy and smooth against your skin. A measure to ground yourself, a futile one. You chose to focus on the feeling of your formal wear against your body, and the discomfort of your shoes against the heels of your feet.

The usher led you towards a gradually darkening hallway, where you and the grand doors could bid each other another greeting and farewell. With a smile akin to paint on porcelain, the usher opened the doors, letting you walk through, as the manners demanded.

The grand concert hall beyond was one you’ve witnessed already, the main stage in front of you, the seats empty still. As a person of precision, you were always present before most other guests; a privilege you weren’t truly aware of.

Behind you the usher waited for you to take in the scenery, automatic, still as a robot. Your eyes lingered at the seats before the stage, the balconies in front of you. As of now, your perspective was laid from the spot behind the stage, elevated.

An important point indeed.

The chandelier was elaborate, shards and crystals hanging from it, the water hardened upon branches of a tree from the frost - hanging and anticipating warmth of spring. A cruel irony when the tree looked best in the cold. The light from it was sharp, separating in thousands stars and halos in your vision - starbursts and rays of shine.

Your thoughts drifted to the balconies, eyes following sluggishly. The hall was well lit for now, illuminating each empty seat, highlighting absence of presence. Unknowingly the corners of your mouth moved up, in a smirk you had a hard time keeping down. Soon enough everything would be filled with life, but for now it was yours to enjoy.

The orchestra situated in front of the stage was an intriguing concept. Not one for you, no. While the stalls in front of the musicians provided an auditory experience out of this world, it wasn’t that aspect that drew you to observe. From your perspective it was no effort to lay your eyes upon the guests who chose seats with such little proximity.

From that point the melody surely seemed multifaceted, filled with layers that threatened to spill from the nearly full cup, overflowing to the edges - held only by its surface tension. The listener must have been able to feel the steady drumming of the liquid underneath their fingertips. Each blow of flute - painfully separate from the essence of the violin. All notes and tunes flowing in a river to fill the senses, yet not mixing, like oil to water.

To witness it must’ve been extraordinary. The melody diverging into few, solely due to how easy each sound could be separated from the rest had they paid attention. Not that you’d know - price wasn’t an issue. Had you deemed fit, you would’ve graced the stalls - which were closest to the stage on the ground level - with your presence.

The guests at the front must’ve thought themselves to be connoisseurs, wishing for an up-close view, as though it made a difference due to the balanced acoustics and the view of the performance.

But you weren’t one to enjoy cacophonous melodies.

The true performance wasn’t in the eye of the guest; not in the eye of the conductor, and definitely not in the wooden or metal hearts of instruments. The true performance was the event, the observation of all that unravels - and in that light, you were the spectator.

The usher took a step to lead you to your seat - once you were done admiring the view of the unmoving hall, that is. You were led towards the designated choir spot - empty during this performance, and the other person left.

Formal dress felt comfortable once you wore it often, and you found yourself feeling as easy as in any pair of clothes, spare for the bite of your shoes. The coat on your arm was slowly put onto the arm rest of the seat, before you walked forward to the barrier-like structure between the seats and the stage.

It bore ornamental mouldings at the top, extending forward to you, and you could rest your elbows on it. Leaning against it you took in an inhale.

You opened the plan of the orchestra in your hand, pretending to yourself, and anyone that can be watching, that you paid any mind to the compositions listed.

“Beethoven” You mouthed.

Beethoven - Egmont Overture, then Symphony no. 7,3rd movement.

Bach - Erbarme dich, mein Gott

Beethoven, Symphony no.3, 2nd movement.

The repertoire at the back went over the musicians at play today, but any technicalities caused you to shut the paper soon after. It was of no significance, in the end, the music was not what you judged.

Someone could call it recklessness or inelegance, but you weren’t one to dwell. The performance tonight was a special show indeed - an appearance of a prominent figure; a man who was to take the leadership over the Oak Family. That itself gave you more power, it was after all an exclusive performance which only family members could join. And - as many as there were - not all afforded the ticket. A delight for not many eyes was what you were in for, disregarding the parts of this that went unspoken.

You thought yourself to be above such political matters, and so you had no care in that aspect; then again you were always like this.

The emptiness of the hall was enjoyed by you for about half an hour, where you gazed and thought absentmindedly, before it began to steadily fill. With the grace and normalcy of a cat you moved back from the barrier, sitting in your designated place.

The guests arrived from entrances slowly, filling in the balconies and the boxes along. Perhaps you were lucky enough to visit this unusual hall, none wished to share your space.

For a moment you considered whether this was due to you, or due to the spot. Not that you’d ever complain of solitude. It was enough to see with your very sharp eyes how people gathered in pairs and groups, little doves and robins flocking together to pick at the seeds dispersed. Only prey stuck together. The three-course meal of this orchestra seemed to have been tailored to you.

Your stomach fluttered at the thought.

—

The people all took their places in an orderly manner, like ants to honey - all drew in by the sweet promise of melodies and sounds cleansing their mortal mind. Seats near you remained nearly empty due to their unconventional placement, much to your pleasure. With your legs crossed subtly, you watched the musicians tune their instruments. And the audience fell into one, long quiet note of nothing - respectful to the craft.

Your face slowly moved once the whispers began; far away; but you saw it. People in balconies leaned towards each other to speak quietly, their tone a hushed sound, like dust in the otherwise clean air. It was evident their thoughts were ignited by a spark, and soon enough the person came into view.

It was time for the conductor to enter - and he did, with grace unseen by the mortal squarol previously, from the far entrance, walking towards the stage.

All the whispers stopped, hung in the air like a promise.

As he stepped his figure grew clearer, and given your unique position in the seats behind the stage, you saw the man from that much more unique standing. Dark suit tailored by the night, elongated at the back - plain and simple, yet elegant all the same.

A halovian - you realised.

The apparent new heir to the Oak Family. Your fingers laid upon your knees so you could lean in to focus better, and you looked with bated breath.

He walked onto the stage with no slip up, measured and precise. Once atop, he turned his back to you, and acknowledged the audience. Sunday - that was his name, that was what you remember from all the gossip you have overheard. In arrogance you ignored the thought which appeared in your mind; no, you were not aloof, nor were you dismissive. Why should you care who pulls the strings this time?

However, the impact was undeniable. You were in this hall many times, and not once has this man played. In fact, you never heard of his protege before. Your eyes followed each move with judgement, and found not a thread to latch onto, rather, you were left with an impression.

An impression of skill, as Sunday graced the audience as though he did it thousand times over before, the anxiety of performance not read from his body either. And as the halovian turned back to the musicians before him, his face remained equally as neutral as his body language.

Your upper tooth caught against the dry skin of your bottom lip, a strange cotton filled your mind. The concertmaster readied her bow, straightening instantaneously, as though she hadn't sat properly previously.

The chandelier above the stage illuminated his halo, which reflected in rays and beams that made your eyes squint, an ache to the very back of your skull. It was a cruel mockery of fate, the astigmatism you were bestowed got in the way of truly analysing this new figure.

From what you saw, his silver hair gave a sheen of iridescence as the light fell upon it, draped over his shoulders. Despite the odd sensitivity to light separating from all that emitted it, your vision was as sharp as always.

Beneath the glow of his halo you saw a pair of golden eyes - as you assumed. The sharp features of his face like paint upon canvas, crafted and catered to by someone already mastered. You saw it all despite the proximity, the stage was quite the distance in front after all, and nothing around seemed to matter, spare for the main course. As everything around grew dark, the focus was on the musicians.

In spite of that, only the man seemed to have been graced; seemingly bestowed upon heavens with sunlight breaking through the clouds of the weather, highlighted as starkly as snow during summer. (Snowflakes could not dream of reflecting this sort of shine)

A strange feeling in your throat rose, and you forgot how to breathe for a moment. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, unlike all times otherwise.

An angel. He must have been an angel. His gaze swept over the orchestra - subtly and unhurriedly, with certainty which seemed preordained. You felt ringing in your ears, and he raised his baton, the musicians nearly under a spell. With no further dragging or prolonging, sharp noise of strings cut through the air, building slightly to cascade in a slope. A bold and decided melody, it was much more than just that.

A statement of bravery, a statement of honour. Your tongue moved against your lip. Sound bold and foreboding and-

The musicians pulled and moved their hearts of instrument, but all you focused on was the movement. He welcomed other sections to join in the dance, a heavy feeling in your lungs. This was no mere performance of skill.

Involuntarily you leaned forward, hands at the barrier separating you from the space in front. For the first time in months your brain stopped sending signals, and you looked to the conductor empty minded.

It felt akin to a hypnosis, you stared thoughtlessly as the tunes changed. Each time his demeanour fit the melody - but it was pushed to the back of your mind. You were no longer trying to gauge reactions of the crowd, no - your eyes were glued with amber to his grace. You didn’t know if you’d ever be able to break through it, the soft flutter of feathers in your skull pushing against the boundaries of mortality.

—

The music carved a space in your chest. When he moved, the orchestra moved, and so did the air, and so did your mind. And he conducted the performance with something- something else.

The baton altered the law of reality itself, and with the last note’s death came the end. And before he even had a chance to turn around properly you rose from your seat, hands joining together for a moment temporary. You inhaled deeply. This you have never done - you have never graced people with your approval. You stood for none and clapped for none.

Yet your heart decided for you, movement so quick you couldn’t register your logical will behind it. The sound of your clapping gave way for others joining in, the sound filling the hall shortly after.

Sunday bowed to none. And he didn’t bow now either, turning away from where your gaze could see him. He surveyed the room not with air of appreciation, and as the applause echoed into its death, his gaze swept over the audience.

Not with politeness, but quiet authority— as though the evening had never been about music at all.

The guests took their time to come down from the grandiose, and he watched like a hawk as they slowly left, trailing through the exit in monotony.

You couldn’t budge. Your feet were planted, and it took minutes for the room to empty once more. Sunday finally turned his gaze to the puppets he guided, and gave them but a nod of approval. But then he looked up, eyes meeting yours for only a second.

Throat tightened on an instinct, and before anything else he averted his gaze—you were another soul in a crowded cemetery, abandoned by your saviour.

It was time to go, but your feet moved on their own only when the musicians were left behind by Sunday. He headed for the exit, and you headed for your own, grabbing your coat and walking back in haste. With your chest burning, you stepped fast, nearly stumbling over your feet before you forced yourself into grace. Through the dimly lit corridor, up to the doors which you swung open hurriedly.

Most parts of this hall had their own entrances, and you walked fast, to catch even a glimpse of him in the entrance hall where all the exits connected-

Sunday was at an advantage, as he could swiftly make his way out through the grander entryway; you felt blessed to even witness him truly leaving the building, moments after your entry.

Your feet carried you to the centre of the entrance hall, and you stared at the doors for moments, long after he had left.

A sweet aftertaste lingered in your mouth, and you licked your teeth.

—

It was innocent - initially. You had to see him once more.

The first purposeful encounter wasn’t hard to navigate, and to satiate your curiosity, you decided to grace the event with your presence. A week and a half since his debut and final performance in one, came his ascension.

And he looked brilliant as he did all these days ago, white suit, perfectly ironed. His wings were preened as always, nearly translucent at their ends; only this time his halo didn’t reflect the light right at your eyes, allowing you that much more comfort.

Your side leaned against the pillar, the shadow of it like a comforting blanket for a person with fever. The side of your head pressed into the carved stone soon after, and you averted your gaze from Sunday.

It wasn’t worth mentioning what kinds of people gathered here, family representatives and the executives, and then the other four heads of each organisation - showy and loud about their presence, begging for a gaze as divine as sweet.

Not you, no. Refined as you were, you knew what to do despite your elevated rank. Amongst your kind - the aristocrats - you were still quite low, a piece of wood right near the ground, hardly necessary for the ladder to function. You knew that, and in spite of it, you were still important enough to enter seamlessly.

There had been no issue with signing onto the guest list.

The room was dimly lit despite how spacious it was, quite intimate for family’s standard; with tens of guests, yes, yet still smaller than life itself. That was proven by the scarce decor of the tables, only drinks served - when speech was delivered, no one was to consume food.

It wasn’t the food you craved, nor the appraisal that the other representatives seemed to strive for - you knew they didn’t care about the speech. They didn’t care about Sunday and his rank, merely what he had to offer.

They were here to show everyone that they were here, to make a statement with their insignificant presence, demanding approval. Not you.

You were here with purpose, and you’d fulfill it. You weren’t like them; you weren’t here for favour from singing Sunday praises, and you weren’t there to scrutinise the new family head. Different — that’s what you were, and you weren’t here as a Nightingale Family member. You were here as you.

Your brow rose, and you straightened upon hearing the chatter come to and end - and then a soft clink. Decisive voice cut through the air, in a mere clearing of his throat.

It was time. Your head whipped sideways as you leaned aside from behind the shadowed pillar, watching Sunday at the very end of the room. That marked the first time you heard him speak, for a smaller audience at that, but you were here.

“On behalf of the Oak Family, I’d like to extend my gratitude to those who took time out of their day to come. Alas, on my own behalf as well.”

He held a glass in his hand idly, somewhat elevated before the guests. You watched carefully, unnoticed and concealed, subtle like needle amongst hay.

Like a cat flattening into the ground when it was observing a bird.

”It is a rare privilege to stand in front of you today—not simply as an individual, but as a representative of what we all wish to achieve. Today we not only celebrate an appointment, but a shared vision and a shared wish; one that binds us, not separates us.”

Sunday spoke boldly, against all you expected. From the distance you could take in vague hints of his demeanour. Your eyes narrowed softly.

In his gold irises there was calculation, and in his words - a sense of certainty. He had no need for reading off anything, as a person of his stature should. You turned to face the pillar, fingers on the cold stone as you ran your finger down the engravings on it.

You remained concealed, despite the tilt of your head allowing for vision of the saint to shine through. “It is not our personal ambitions which allow us to weave law into reality — but a sense of duty we share. As we stand here, let us remember it is our collective will to push the boundaries of the possibilities we have today.”

The guests paid much attention, and you tried to as well. It was hard to focus on the taste, and you drank the honey of his voice like a deserted hermit, left with no water to the point of their lips resembling dehydrated land. The sweetness stung your sore and dry throat, but you couldn’t stop.

There was no focus on admiring the taste. Trying to decipher what sort of flowers went into the golden dew you were drinking wasn’t an option anymore.

His tone was fluid, and you swallowed dryly.

“Our ultimate goal is to benefit Penacony, and we are not competitors in improving our ways; rather, we are collaborators.“ Sunday glanced over the guests, scattering an air of appreciation for their presence, the pollen of flowers to rest upon their eyes.

In your mind you felt there must’ve been more to his words. There always was, and the orchestra hadn't been only about showing people his conducting talent.

It were the people that he conducted, and the orchestra was only the symbol of it—something clear as day when you considered his stance when addressing others.

Once the guests were paid attention to as such, the halovian continued, his tone gaining an air of boldness, confidence. Firm and unwavering as stone. Cold stone. Your fingers touched the pillar with an unseen curiosity.

“It is not enough to respond to the changing world; we must seize it and adapt our ways, improve in ways we want the future generations to do. We must set an example not only in the public eye, but in places where no eyes lay.

Penacony is a planet of potential—boundless and ripe, full of opportunity not only for us, but for our people. It is up to us to direct that potential, mold it, guide it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, the pressure in his words evident. Sunday wasn’t trying to appease the elders' ways, despite what all the other heads did. He took the route of openness, stunning them with light and only then—allowing them vision.

“And so, as I step into this role, I make this promise to all of you; I will do what is necessary. I will push the limits of what we thought was possible, we will no longer simply adapt to change—we will become it.”

A strong middle of the speech, as strong as it was in the orchestra. And then the aftertaste; lingering and sweet whisper of what would come undoubtedly. Like in his performance.

“I will not ask for approval based on words, what I offer is action. And with action, I’ll reap results. To those who stand beside me, I offer support, and I’m grateful to know the weight of choice is understood. To those who oppose—I offer nothing but silence-“

You involuntarily gripped at the stone tighter.

”-for in silence, we will do what others cannot.”

—

The public meetings left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth, akin to drinking tea after consuming a cake most layered and sweet. Such tea was reality that you had to be struck with when the sweetness of the event eventually washed away like foam upon sea.

It was nearly voracious and gluttonous, a stomach which didn’t know how to seek satisfaction with a balanced diet; disregarding the idea of a fulfilling, voluminous light meal, for the idea of something small and dense, over and over.

Your gaze was trained on the papers in your hand, the desk beyond them so dull and lacking that it didn’t catch your interest. Your eyes moved upon the words with little interest — it was a proposal for a financial strategy for the upcoming year, one you had to analyse and sign to confirm that you realised your responsibilities.

Like all areas of your work, the technicalities didn’t matter, as longest as the job got done. A weary sigh, and then the papers dropped onto the wood in front of you. Your elbow rested upon it, and you instinctively flipped to the last sheet, signing it without realising you held the pen all this time.

The secretary in front of you tensed. A frail and new thing really - her hands balled at her lap, her breathing coming to a stop. Unimpressively you watched her mouth open.

In that moment you wondered what it may be that she wanted to say—maybe question you, or correct you. Leaning back against the seat you released the paperwork, and waved her off; her nervous departure taking even less than reading the writing itself.

Many people hoped for this work to be a gate for them, a stepping stone to an oh so grandiose and dream-like future they assumed they’d get access to. It was proven by the way they decorated their work areas and offices, you’ve seen it countless times really. Pictures of their family and loved ones, small memorial trinkets of their goals and interests. Some even kept plants, or testaments of their hobbies; like paintings or figures.

With a sharp gaze you looked at the walls of your office. Plain, with the decor scarce spare for what you arrived to all those years ago—a still-life painting and a vase which was empty for a long, long time.

Some people got too invested in their work, while some took it for granted; you were neither. A boat never ending too far on the deep end, yet never as much as scraping the oceans floor. All reports were on time—never early, and never late.

Conversations and useless chatter reduced to minimum, spare for whatever could bring gain.

Some people worked too hard, while some worked too little. Former—welcomed promotions, more money, more power, which inescapably tied to more responsibility, less time. And the latter ended up on the grey end, replaced by better; fired.

You would say you value your free time; you would even say your schedule was already too tight as it was. Colleague invitations all declined, small talk cut with a dismissive scoff.

With your head held high you never engaged in office politics, never asked questions. Your colleagues talk about career trajectories, while you’re wondering when the work hours are over.

—

Sunday was an important figure now, more so than he was before.

He was so utterly unlike you, in that aspect. The man seemed to have been ambitious, something you’d never imagine in your own life. Stuck in monotony, content in uncontentment; having enough to live, but not to dream. In a sense it was intriguing, a person living so.. distinctly.

Sunday must have had it all. The recognition fell upon him shortly after he was officially recognised as the new head of the Oak Family, and it didn’t take a genius to guess other parts at play.

An underwater current, unseen to the naked eye, until it pulls you in, and you’re drowning — you had to stay away, never allow yourself to linger too close for fear of being tugged into its rhythm.

You never danced to someone else’s tune, and you never sang to the directions of others.

And so—to keep your distance, you joined a conference where he would be the speaker. Counterproductive, in a sense, but your actions didn’t need to be logical for others. The ascension event has left you hungry for more of his articulate wisdom—

Because you didn’t want to truly stay away. Not in any way that mattered - it wasn’t usual for something to properly catch your eye, catch your heart. Admiration—a word you’d use to describe this occurrence.

You admired Sunday, and that’s about it.

And admiration truly could carry people places they’d never think to visit; that’s how you found yourself seated in the last row of the otherwise empty hall. It felt clinical and grey, large windows on one side of the room, draped over by zebra blinds, cream coloured and clean.

The windows gave way to a majestic view of Penacony from great height, but you didn’t find it in yourself to look through this time—waiting in your seat like lamb for slaughter.

As before you were early, rationalising it by the need to observe rather than be watched. Yet the seat was quite far from the spot where the speakers would converse, an unpleasant taste left in your throat at the idea of not seeing the events unfold properly.

You leaned back in the chair, and half-mindedly thought to grab your coat and just sit elsewhere—but whoever watched over you, be it Xipe or otherwise, had different plans. Before you made your move a group of people entered the hall, marking the end of your silent campaign.

So much talk—you shouldn’t be annoyed, the conference hasn’t even started yet. Yet the lack of appropriate behaviour boiled you over, and as more guests arrived in their restless and bored chatter, you inhaled and exhaled shakily.

Then, you checked your wrist watch, and looked ahead. People sat in front of you, next to you. Never behind you—something to actually be grateful for.

Ten minutes.

And then it was five minutes, which dragged over like hours. You bounced your knee, hands pressed together on your lap as a deep sense of unease filled you. As people took up their seats, you hardly felt like watching them this time.

It was different from the previous admiration.

—

You wouldn't say you were infatuated or enamored with the idea of Sunday at all; he hardly lingered in your mind. Then again that was the best subject for observation, and as such he would remain one. Something to treat as a sweet treat, or as a dessert.

Perhaps it was a good way to get out of the house more often. You never got along with people, and so it was easier to stay home with your own thoughts, rather than be exposed to the mediocrity of others. Given that attitude, you usually spent time by yourself.

Occasionally though you were in a people watching mood; not just any sort of window-gazing or park-sitting watching. Sometimes you picked places where humans gathered to dine and discuss, to wine and speak.

It wasn't that you needed their secrets in particular, or that you needed their sense of familiarity from some form of loneliness—rather it was a background noise you seemed to want.

Sometimes you'd try to filter the noise and information with your mind, cutting through the nice and useless threads to gather an image of something. Usually you weren't trying to spy.

You weren't spying now either, you were merely observing. Sunday was a few tables away after all, sat straight, with no sweet drink in sight as all the times before.

It was an accident that you found yourself here—well, one that became intentional with each visit. Wind told you once that a particular person enjoyed such a setting on very specific days, and you merely wanted to check it out yourself. That was how it began.

Soon after you found yourself arriving at the cafe multiple times a week, slowly trying to gauge out a routine tied to this place. The day was long, and so was the week.

It was mere curiosity that led you to sit in the cafe for hours at a time to try and see which moments were the graced ones—as it was only fascination that caused you to memorise the schedule.

You had a habit of chewing your food slowly and steadily, instead of consuming it all before you accurately enjoyed the taste. Watching from a controlled distance was a sign of a connoisseur.

The cafe was muted in colour, beige and darkened, giving off a feeling of an autumn evening rich with burned shades of yellow—spare for how washed out they were.

The halovian was at the table in the corner, and so were you, just the opposite side. His discussion was most fruitful indeed, and instead of focusing on the tablet in front of you, you were listening.

Sunday seemed to have been engaging in a light yet meaningful conversation, which carefully threaded between personal and professional. The noise around them and you made it harder to catch all detail—so your mind wandered.

From what you gathered, the person was someone close, whom Sunday must've known. Not by work, despite the distance that was between them, as the tone was far too light hearted. Each time Sunday frequented the cafe, it would be easier to spot the same habits of his.

Such as the way he hardly gestured during a conversation, spare for when you assumed he was making a point. Frequently he would place his hands upon his vest to straighten it out, if it ever dared to crinkle from his movement.

Even in such a comfortable setting he tried to carry himself with grace, just like at the events. And just like at the orchestra, he was eloquent in movement. His hands never made any sudden gestures, and he would ensure his vision remained trained on the guest he was speaking with.

Slight changes were present, you noted, finally lowering your gaze to the tablet. You grabbed the pen nearby to write down more.

Sometimes, Sunday would change the ordeal of his actions depending on who he spoke to. Once he came here with a family member of his—the famed singer Robin. You only knew more of her after extensive research which followed that encounter, and it led to more conclusions.

Sunday seemed more carefree around such a trusted person. He even allowed himself to lean an elbow on the table, his expression ever so pleasant then. Unlike what it was now, neutral and to the point. A mixture of his professionalism and an inherent familiarity he couldn't reject nor deny.

Not often would his posture become harsher—strictly detached and shielded, yet offensive nonetheless. It all laid in the anger of his gold eyes sometimes, covered over by a soft neutrality to mask his stance. Maybe Sunday remained detached, keeping his cards to his chest, but you could see it on his face.

You bit your lip in deep thought once your eyes moved up. The Head of the Oak Family seemed to have been holding onto something at this very moment. Perhaps it was his sense of conduct.

Remembering these few differences of his demeanor, you leaned down to put the straw of your drink between your lips. You wondered how he'd act around you. Would he disregard you? Would he treat you with disgust?

How does a rabbit behave around a fox? Would a dove fly away if a cat sat close?

The black haired male in front of Sunday nodded to him, and the cacophonous conductor only looked to the side, meeting the gaze of someone near his table. It was averted shortly after.

You wondered for a moment, with a sense of unease; if he sees them, does he also notice you?

—

Formally, the Oak family was a collaborator, not an enemy or opposition. Then again formal agreements hardly translate into words or actions, and it was no surprise that the name of competition lingered within the work area like cheap perfume, gone when waved away, short-lasting.

It was unlike the true aroma of your coffee, not enjoyed in silence, but in the noise. As soon as you grabbed a sugar packet you turned away from the machine, only to watch that one inconvenient pest trail behind you.

Superficial as all—a person kept around only for appearances. The girl cleared her throat as she walked with you.

”…and still they haven’t. What should I do?

Her voice was like a sound coming from an untuned accordion, and you gripped at the paper cup. You spared her a glance only. Nothing was as annoying as interrupted willful solitude.

“I don’t know”

The reply caused her to frown, and she immediately reacted at the dismissal. “What do you mean? Here I am asking you for advice, and—“

”Well, this is your problem.” You retorted.

Frankly, you didn’t care whether she had her reports on time or not. You only gave enough to hold onto her in case of emergencies—a nameless girl you simply felt bad for.

”But I need this report—“ She spoke, catching up to your step, and you weren’t willing to slow down your walk to the elevator in the building. You clicked the number of your floor without looking at her. “If i don’t get it, the presentation won’t get done in time.”

The anger simmered in your chest, but your face remained as neutral as before, and the metal doors of the elevator slid open. “Why won’t you tell him to wrap it up then?”

She skittishly followed you in, eyes closed as her long eyelashes rested upon her cheeks. “How do I make it not sound rude?”

When she didn't notice your eyeroll, you glued your gaze to the closing doors of the elevator. “You're asking the wrong person.”

“But I really need it-”

“Tell the higher ups.”

“I'll really get in trouble, I really need that report to- to calculate the possible profit from collaborating with Oak Family on a project and-”

She wasn't aware what sparked your interest, but you immediately turned your face towards her. She swallowed under the scrutinising gaze, but her reaction was misplaced.

“Send me the items of interest. I'll do it.”

—

The next time you saw him at an event, you secured the spot with your unique predisposition. Maybe this work of yours was useful sometimes, as it was with financial access to exquisite things. Museums and galleries, orchestras, operas. You wanted it all.

Reactions of people to artistry were interesting to put it simply, how their eyes would squint or narrow—and their brows would furrow, knitted together in a concentration similar to a prophet upon receiving a revelation.

Some people would have a different reaction, with eyes widened and brows raised—shock and surprise, akin to witnessing an apocalypse, hearing an angel blow the final trumpet, closing the gates for forgiveness.

You were never the subject who experienced it, spare for understanding the reactions of others, a second hand emotion you were privy to.

And while elaborate paintings or sculptures hardly moved your long rotten heart, there was something that had your blood flowing anew, breathing life into you like a musician into their trumpet. It made you come alive—no longer a piece of metal, but a thing to be heard. An utter vibranto.

Despite the setting of a museum, you weren't here for whatever new items of culture it could offer you. You were here due to the event which would follow its opening, an invitation to all the folk of Penacony.

You ensured your placement at the back of the hall despite the early arrival, the guests and alike all gathering at the front. They wished to hear Sunday's opening speech, to see him. And oh, did he have a way with words.

It was for Penacony's grand history, a museum to gather the evidence of Families hard work and ambition. A monument of sorts, to celebrate how far everyone has come.

But that was only a side reason, something you convinced yourself of to feel better. You weren't here for it, no—you were here for Sunday.

He was speaking as always, a long talk to appease the masses with his wisdom and eloquence. A charming ritual in which all the eyes were magically drawn to him, hanging on each word he spoke. The details of his face evaded you from the distance, and for a moment your fingers shook in your pocket. You wanted to be closer. You were here only for him after all.

The history of Penacony was something you had no care for.

Would he see you from the first row?

—

All you had to do was to ask, and it was a given. Securing an important position at your work wasn't because of ambition, but because of your will to own.

It was hard to remain in such a placement without being promoted, or without drawing much attention to yourself that is; and while the job helped with achieving your goals, it wasn't ideal.

If you could have the same pay for less labour, you'd gladly take any offer; but good things don't just occur like natural phenomena, just as miracles don't shine down on sinners.

Another weekly meeting, another scheduled misery. Your arms were neatly placed upon the long table in the room, and you ignored the coworkers which sat around as. With a gaze most bored you stared at your folder, not meeting the gaze of the executive who was explaining the agenda; there was no need to. You never asked questions, and you never wanted more.

“We are currently facing many allegations from different sides” The executive stated, her blonde hair tied behind her head in a slick bun. It didn't get in the way as always—everything was programmed to not get in the way.

She looked behind herself to the whiteboard which contrasted with the otherwise dark blue wall. “First being our deal of halving the Bloodhound income in half.”

You frowned to yourself, fingers moving over the skin around your nails. You focused on the shape of it, feeling the texture beneath your fingertip.

You traced the side of your finger, to the dip between the digits, before moving up again, right to the peak of the knuckle. The art of not listening was ingrained within you by then, and as the executive listed current issues, you were wondering when the break would be.

You could do with a coffee.

“...inherently tied to the new Head of the Oak Family. He may not be as lenient as we had hoped—”

Involuntarily you looked to the executive. You wouldn't have listened otherwise, but— “While it is not Oak Family's business what we do with our deals, they allege we violated the code of..”

Whatever else she mentioned faded to the background. Oak Family. Sunday—

She went over the possible lawsuits or disagreement, but it didn't matter. You hardly listened to the tasks which were expected to be fulfilled regarding that issue, and when she asked who would partake in that assignment of the week, your hand shot up.

Eyes lingered on you, but you held back the urge to shrink under the gaze.

—

Like all figures which were sacred and holy, Sunday was away from the reach of your palm. A star you could only gaze at when it was night, a rare occurrence of the moon when it took different shades to show to the mortal filth below.

To a literal extent, he was also far from reach. The head of the Nightingale Family was someone you couldn't hope to meet despite being its member; what made you believe you were worthy to know Sunday, the head of an entirely different family?

Perhaps over time it wasn't about knowing him. It should be enough to admire him from a controlled distance. Distance gave certainty, and measured proximity gave control.

Two things which you found more delightful than any cake. And to uphold said control over the situation, without being a reckless fool, you decided to take a closer look this time.

Sunday was a prominent figure for months, and as his reputation and responsibility over the Family grew, so did the curiosity of many prying eyes. But you weren't just any prying eye.

You didn't wish to ever know him personally, and you didn't want to be a part of his life. His company you didn't seek because of possible fame or clout, but for your own satisfaction. Sinner casting prayer in silence, compared to ones who proclaim their worship in the street.

Inherently, that made you better than all of them. And such human weakness could not hold you back from confessing your wrongdoings.

You hoped to find no forgiveness in the holy scriptures that the private library offered.

As an important member, you could enjoy the privilege of having connections. Superficial as all, but that was what mattered in the world of adults; not deep friendships which ended with sleepovers, rather—dinner parties which ended with agreements and unspoken favours.

It took nearly nothing to sign up for a membership which only important figures were privy to, after all who sane would be in a private library?

Sunday could easily afford to make a library within the Oak Family manor; in fact, if he wished to, he could probably own an entire library for himself. It was most intriguing then, that he picked this specific one.

You slouched in your seat, the thick book raised just enough to cover your face. You sat near a computer, at the second story of the grand family-owned library. Commoners couldn't hope to be here, and a sense of warmth filled your throat at the idea of such exclusiveness. A private bird sanctuary in an enclosed garden.

Sunday didn't come here often and so it wasn't a treat you could get your hands on. Still, there seemed to have been routines he followed. As with cafe being the more-likely spot, you found he visited the library at least once a week. There were places you visited already as well, such as his most frequented benches in the Golden Hour.

Or his most favourite balconies at the edges of the city which never slept. You were there already. Sunday never changed.

You weren't surprised at his pristine attire as he browsed the sections, his back turned to you. All the other people ignored him, busy in their books.

Maybe they thought themselves to be better than him. A figure of Sunday's stature was a sight unseen, and your jaw tightened at the thought. His fingers lingered over a book, which he pulled out to scan. Dark wood of the shelves against the emerald green book cover, as mystical as a forest. The halovian tilted his head in curiosity, his wings fluttering.

Soft and gentle as ever. Preened, clean. You wondered how it would feel like to touch them, to run your fingers over them, to pluck them for yourself. Take away his metaphorical flight.

You wondered how it would feel like to slide your fingers underneath his gloves, to push the boundary of what you knew to be possible. A mortal craving the delight of flesh of a saint. You wanted to sink your teeth in his jugular.

The item was put back on the shelf soon after, and he stepped aside, where your eyes could no longer see him.

Perhaps it was his means of having a slither of commodity, behaving like an average person for feigned normalcy.

When Sunday finally moved to a further section you closed the nameless book you held, slowly walking to the bookshelf abandoned by him.

Your eyes scanned the spines, and your fingers touched upon the book he discarded, an indirect way to feel connected. You didn't pick the book up though, looking towards the doors of the library. The distance was enough for him to be right next to the exit.

He grabbed the engraved handle, and then stopped. Your heart throbbed, and his face turned. Sunday looked in your general direction, brows knitting together—a small shard of his broken up composure, and your heart stopped. It appeared as if he sensed something—someone— and you held your breath.

His facade concealed him once more, and he left.

—

Routine was a defining factor of a member of the Nightingale Family, and the schedule didn't change much. Meetings were always on time, spare for emergencies. The work hours didn't change, and all holiday breaks were consistent each year. The layout of the offices and rooms never switched, and workers usually stayed the same.

Routine—integral and true part of your life, as real as the blood that rushed through your veins like a wild river restricted by the channel layered with stone and sand. Something so simple, so expected, yet troublesome all the same.

Discipline was something tied to routine, and routine was dependent on previous discipline, creating a cycle of short lived codependency, in which the routine finally tore away to be by itself—leaving discipline to tie different aspects of life to established habits.

The more you watched Sunday, the more integral it was in your routine. As obvious as the moon rising in the night, it was slowly becoming a necessity. Like the smoker needing nicotine because of their own weakness—unable to stay away, despite initially using cigarettes as a means of relaxation.

Reliance gave way to habits born from stress, and escapism with such reliance was another means of growing a routine. A routine not based around day to day life, but a situational one, only working when certain things clicked into place. An addict only smoked when stressed, and the habit of stress-smoking created the routine of smoking on a time-based schedule.

You weren't sure which applied to you, but the gnawing scrape of routine gnawed at the lining of your stomach. It took your appetite and will to live with itself, causing a vortex only satisfied with relentless pursuit.

It was no longer thought of or planned, it was desperate. Like a hungry dog whining and scraping at the doors, a mouse squeezing through the hole in the wall only to slither inside.

As before, it only took a small amount of curiosity for you to gain more gossip. You initially were against the idea, provided your general nonchalance towards your job; if you privately asked your connections about questions only relating to Oak Family, you'd be seen as suspicious. And so you had to slowly worm your way into the graces of the Bloodhounds—their.. unique job in the Penacony made it all the more easier.

Bloodhounds were responsible for ensuring safety and peace of citizens, and so they were always watching, observing. And, in your growing desperation, you used some of your connections to gain favour within them—something which your co-workers would only see as making more connections. That was something praiseworthy.

From there, by pulling a few strings on behalf of Bloodhound Family, you were privy to information pertaining to routines of figures of importance. Because even the most important figures relied on routines and habits, that was what made them successful.

In mere mortal desperation, as a smoker consuming any sort of cigarette, you quickly used such an opportunity to ask about the Head of the Oak Family, despite the original plan to ask around for others first.

But it didn't matter. In the perpetual evening of Penacony's sweet dream, you didn't feel like you were committing a crime in broad daylight. Because you weren't. Observing someone wasn't something punishable.

You walked a pace slower than Sunday did, watching him from the street parallel to the one that his footsteps graced. The light above his head illuminated his halo each time he walked beyond a street lamp, the shine beaming and splintering into thousands shards in your vision as with all light.

The lamps emitted a rainbow halo around themselves, the brightness making it difficult to keep your eyes open. Even as he strolled peacefully as a means of relaxation, he was graceful. A swan confident of its swim across the shimmering, moonlit lake.

In retrospect, the halo around particularly bright objects did take your mind to Sunday. Something illuminated past your mortal comprehension, as if trying to gaze out into the roaring sun. Lately everything took your mind to him.

An apple that you bit, or the movie that you watched. A cat always eats the bird, but not all birds are prey, and not all cats are predators.

The street was filled with joined buildings, and people around didn't seem to care for anything other than going about their day—something you wilfully deprived yourself off. Like a madman cutting off their leg despite not being bound.

You did this to yourself.

Despite the stark awareness you continued the walk, at all times remaining a pace behind. His halo was shining as always, as if freshly polished and wiped away, his wings relaxed despite the spikes which bound one. You wondered how it would feel to place your mouth over the cold metal of them, and then tear at it. If you gripped his throat, would he have the strength to stop you?

His step stopped abruptly, and your body ducked into an alleyway with an unreasonable speed. Concealed by the comfort of the darkness you saw him turn his head to a poster on one of the buildings, entirely uncaring about your—

Sunday's back was to you, but he moved his head to the side, just enough for you to see his eyes flicker, looking at the street ahead with a newly formed frown.

It was like nicotine on an empty stomach, and a weird sense of rush filled your body.

—

“Didn't think you cared about these briefings.” A voice from beside you muttered as you took the seat close to the executive, just this once.

“I don't,” you replied, flipping through the agenda. “I just want to know who's attending.”

It wasn't an utter lie, but thanks to your newfound connections to the Bloodhound's, you figured out there would be a business deal in regards to the Oak Family.

All you had to do was get the Bloodhound's some information and keep a stable contact, something unlike your connections to the Iris Family. Those required little to no contact, spare for only exchanging favours with no further familiarity.

Bloodhounds were more knit together you realised—troublesome, but doable nonetheless.

With a few bats of your eyelashes you learned new things. New opportunities to witness Sunday —and gain political intel.

The executive finally arrived, and you closed the folder to put it back down. Proper and perpetual courtesy you did but default.

The blonde woman looked over at the gathered co-worker's, before turning on the screen situated behind the ever present whiteboard. “Thanks to the quick thinking of one of you, we managed to salvage the deal with Oak Family before the allegations got out of control.

Mr. Oak liked our programme and the idea to improve on our cultural industry—courtesy of the Iris Family.”

Whatever that meant, you nearly rolled your eyes. That was until the executive finally said your name, and you straightened, looking towards her with your hand at the table. It squeezed into a fist.

“Thanks to you we managed to get the presentation in time—where credit is due, of course.” She cleared her throat.

Mr. Oak liked the presentation. He saw it; you signed it.

Something in your stomach fluttered, simultaneously excited and nauseous. You didn't know whether to throw your hands in the air or to throw up, and you swallowed the dryness that formed within your throat.

You forced a smile on your face.

The eyes lingered on you, and you gripped at the table, before switching to holding your paper cup. The executive briefed everyone else on their tasks, while you wondered if you weren't digging your own grave.

He saw you where you couldn't see him.

—

You arrived to the event early, an Opera. You figured Sunday must've enjoyed the themes of grandiose and grandeur, and all things classic and exquisite. Bloodhound's were known for their straight forwardness, yet even they couldn't escape the tug of culture and an air of normalcy that the Oak Family enforced onto others.

Before they would sign the agreements once more, due to the five year policy, Mr. Oak required the important personnel to accompany him to one of the Opera's hosted at the grand theatre of penacony. Unnecessarily so, as the real discussions were said to start in an entirely different spot once the theatre was over.

The act was one he picked.

The Bloodhound who informed you of it was kind enough to let you know that only Bloodhound's and the Oak Family knew of this arrangement. Then again the tickets were available to everyone, as the event wasn't private.

Of course you had to go. And of course you chose the VIP section.

Glancing at your wrist watch you realised there was half an hour left until the performance began, and once more, like at the orchestra, your seat was elevated just enough to oversee the stage. The actors prepared the props, the musicians their instruments, and you prepared your mind due to a weird sense of unease.

A waiter came over with a smile strangely stretched, and you accepted the offered drink. You placed it at the small table in front of you, glancing around the darkened cubicle.

People of importance enjoyed the privacy that the shadow provided, and this was no different. Only when the light is cut, only then can the roaches crawl from underneath the stones like vermin.

You finally picked up the glass, red wine. Your hand was flat against its bottom and your brow furrowed when you felt a strange texture against your skin, akin to experiencing the streaks of the wood in a tree.

The glass was raised to your eye level, the bottom of it engraved in a pattern of a rose. Your palm slid towards you gently, until your fingers could run over the intricate design. You haven't seen glasses like these before, but it wouldn't change the taste of wine, and it wouldn't change the outcome.

—

You were here before. But it was only right to be aware of the territory you stepped to. The Oak Family manor was usually open for guests in the parts accessible, alongside the specific offices you could go to if you wished to file a complaint.

You were overstepping. But all your control and observation? You had nothing to show for it—the wax and stamps you've collected didn't count. You received them at your work, after all, merely as means of exchanging envelopes with the family in regards to some matters you didn't care about.

There was a need for something closer. A fear of wanting to eat the entire cake after tasting a slice, but you'd control yourself.

Maybe you'd try to break into some space, just for the feeling of familiarity. Surely he had to have his office, and he had to have his belongings—you were utterly pathetic.

A crime in broad daylight. You stole the gloves that he accidentally left on the table after signing paperwork. One time you watched him press the wax into the envelopes that he sent.

And one time you saw him from a balcony at a gathering in a garden. It was truly a beautiful day.

The sky was clear, spare for a small amount of pristine white clouds, and the guests were more than happy to discuss things with him in the open air, a breath of life from the early spring.

Things didn't make sense anymore.

—

It wasn't enough. Public meetings, seeing him walk on the street; it wasn't enough to satiate the gnawing in you.

You wished to know him; as well as you could from a distance, as a researcher astronomer knows the stars, as well as a biologist knows the layers of an oak tree. For now you had to satiate on the scraps you were fed after sacrificing your dignity.

No amount was fulfilling enough—and this time, in foolish recklessness, you arranged an entry into one of the private parties of the Oak Family. It was hosted right in the famed manor, and you signed up for it a week or so before it even took place. It wasn't something members of other Families would do, but you couldn't think of the consequence. You've followed him to events before.

You've been where he was, and did what he did, and you admired the view of the city once when he was admiring it, in a skyscraper. He wasn't aware of your presence then. But that was before, and now is now. And just because someone ate dinner, didn't mean they didn't crave breakfast.

Who would blame you, though? You've been starved of his enlightening presence for over a week—he didn't partake in anything special over the time, and just seeing him in a library, or a cafe, or on his walk, or in his gardens; it wasn't as satiating.

In his lonesome moments he didn't speak. He had no reason to. If you engaged with him, would he converse with you? Would he wave you off?

Your decision was done in haste, in sheer animalistic desperation with no thought. You hesitated for a second only, before deciding to screw it all. What would you from nearly a year ago think of yourself now? You'd shame yourself.

And so, right when the announcement came a week ago, you signed up, handing over your information just to be granted entry. Just to see him.

You tried your best to force your hands into compliance, stiffening them when you showed a guard your identification document. As they took it from you to inspect, something incoherent lingered on their otherwise neutral face, before you were allowed to pass.

All Families had their property; not that the members lived there, it was more like a governmental building tied to the place where the officials stayed.

You were allowed into the general guest area, while the other parts of the manor were entirely blocked, accessible only from the outside entrances for these specific parts. As much as it gnawed onto you to travel around, despite the risk of being caught, it simply wasn't possible.

As all guests were led to the major hall of the event, you wondered how personal this one would be. The space was gentle blue and heavenly, the light wooden panels serving as the great basis for tall walls and windows, and the blue curtains which draped over like leaves on trees.

The chandelier was grand, and you looked upwards for a moment, its colours golden and rich. Squinting, you cast your gaze downward again.

The guests gathered round an important figure, gravitating towards him like planets around the sun, listening intently to all he said. With a shaky sigh you found your feet involuntarily leading you over to the nearest table at the disposal, your shoes inaudible against the noise of the people.

Your hand lingered on its pristine white surface, but you didn't sit. Slowly but surely your gaze resumed its walk forward, spotting an empty table right near the centre of all the fuss.

It felt strange. Your blood was turning cold, and you swallowed. With one last hesitation you stepped forward, claiming the empty seat within Sunday's vicinity, where there were gaps between the guests in the front.

That felt.. nice. He looked over at the people, and he was smiling. The champagne in his hand was merely a prop, and his sister stood beside him. She wore some sort of a nightgown that you didn't spare your time for— your eyes quickly drifted to Sunday.

It seemed he was comfortable here, the cold facade of stone and divinity dispersed like leaves on wind. He talked to the guests as if they knew each other closely, his halovian sister smiling. On occasion she nodded, and added to his sentences, having guests laugh.

Your eyes remained glued to his suit, a cold and ice shade of white, and then a hot blue tie, like the utmost bottom of an iceberg. His hair was neat as always, parts of it brushed back while the longer strands draped upon his shoulders like water which spilled from glasses.

Behind Sunday was a white piano to match the design, something you assumed to be only a piece of decor.

“Exactly that, dear. Though it makes me wonder what challenges we will face next. After all,” Sunday gestured to the crowd. “we can expect the unexpected from some, while some choose to be predictable.”

Robin nodded, tipping her head. “Well said, brother. It makes me all the more excited for the charmony festival this year—” her wings fluttered excitedly, contrary to his, which seemed to hardly respond to his emotional stimuli.

You leaned your elbow into the table, hand supporting your chin. Just hearing him talk made your earlier anxiety ease, the hands of darkness which peeled at the lining of your intestines having retreated far into the world unknown. Sunday was akin to a miracle cancer to a condition he himself caused upon you. Truly cruel.

Sunday hummed. A guest joined the discussion, an older man. “I haven't seen such development since the times of the old Gopher Wood, Sunday. You truly do live up to the promise!” a hearty laugh followed.

Despite how often he was praised in public, in the newspaper—oh, the newspaper. Once it called him the most handsome man in Penacony, followed by so many mentions of fan accounts. A celebrity of his caliber seen by so many. It made your throat tighten and an unreasonable anger rise in you, just thinking about it—

“Now, now. Let's not be excessive.” The head of the Oak Family stated, tone gentle and conversational. He did not speak to you, but it felt like it.

“Let's focus on things that truly matter. Now, I've been asked quite nicely by someone,” Sunday's face turned to his sister, who couldn't keep her face neutral, as a smile involuntarily formed on her face. “to play a piece for us tonight.”

He slightly side-stepped, giving view to the piano behind. Robin's wings gave a flutter, and she nodded.

Sunday straightened his suit a little. This was unlike the conferences between families, this was more casual. Personal. Private, intimate.

Why were you here?

He headed for the stool situated in front of the piano, opening it for all the guests to see. To keep the politeness, he was still turned sideways, his back straight. But a soft chuckle left him. It seemed he only now realised the piece he'd be playing, reading off the musical sheet right in front of him. And then his face turned towards the audience for a moment.

“As requested, I'll play Clair de Lune. To commemorate this eventful night—” he stated. “And to bring upon ease.”

The guests whispered for only a moment, and Robin stepped aside, letting her brother take the attention this time. You assumed it must've felt good when eyes weren't on you, as they always were.

His hand moved to the keys, the touch gentle as he pressed them. Sunday's gloved fingers moved with ease, trailing along the instrument with an unseen softness and care, each break between the note filled with an echo.

You forgot how to swallow for a moment, the saliva collecting in your mouth until you finally recalled how to perform functions such as breathing.

On an evening like this, the tune was most appropriate, liquified moonlight amplified by his instrument. Despite no change in light, it felt akin to the piano dispersing the reflected beam of the moon across the guests, and all seemed as in awe as you were.

It was breathing life into you, and an uncanny unease as well. No one dared interrupt nor speak, and you leaned forward, both your elbows resting upon the white table.

Sunday moved with grace. You could see his head slightly tilt, despite seeing mostly his back at such an angle. All it did was help you witness the measured and precise dance of his fingers, like droplets of water upon the moonlit lake, gentle and careful and carefree.

The tune was revitalising, and when the last note died, your body forced you to finally exhale. Small round of applause fell shortly after, which you didn't join.

Unexpectedly Sunday raised his hand. “Well, while I am at it, I do believe another piece would be appropriate?”

But he didn't look at the crowd. Hell, he didn't seem to want to hear what they had to say. Sunday tilted his face to Robin. And she nodded excitedly.

It was sweet in hindsight.

“Very well then. For the new beginnings, and for the ends which start them”

This time he didn't need a sheet in front of himself, playing an entirely different rhythm. Sharper.

And by the time the guests were satiated with Sunday humouring them, the party was coming to an end. It was hard to say where each melody began and when it ended, and while the guests slowly began to converse between each other, Sunday's play faded to the background.

It all ended. The guests were leaving, spare for you and few others. They drank, and you lingered in the after-taste of the moonlight you were hand fed. The hosts were leaving too, Robin first, and then Sunday. His conversation with one of the people came to an end, and he stepped to the exit, shoes softly sounding out as he made his way forward.

You realised you pushed your limits when he stopped in his tracks right next to your table. A flicker of amusement was all you were given, and he left soon after.

The liquified moonlight’s effect was cast away when the coldness of anxiety coated your skin once more.

Does he know?

If he does, why doesn't he say anything?

—

There is always a bigger fish, just as not all birds get eaten.

Some birds eat.

—

You didn't want to walk through, but it was as inevitable as a hawk stealing a lady's pampered dog.

Then again you clung onto hope like a leech, hoping that maybe this really wasn't true. It sure felt like a dream, and it made you light headed with sickness. Your face turned to his to try and gauge any silent confirmation, but his eyes were glued to your face.

Lowering your eyes you walked through into the room with hesitation, acutely aware of the sound of his footsteps right behind you.

Before you was a rather large table, filled with blocks and models of sky-scrapers. The front of the model, Penacony's banner, was turned towards the doors. Such a mini city caused uncertainty to build in your throat, and your fingers twitched against each other as they folded before you.

The sound of a click cut through the air, and you didn't have to turn your face around to realise that the gates to salvation were long locked for you. Closed, never to be reopened again.

Above the grey model of the city was a lamp, leaving the room in a comfortable yet dim, warm yellow light. It did nothing to make you feel any warmer or any more welcome.

You were aware of sofas situated near each wall, it seemed like a gathering spot of sorts—spare for the way it's been mostly empty.

Aside from the two of you.

Sunday stepped from behind you, approaching the city model with an ease and certainty inappropriate for the situation. Using the opportunity you looked behind yourself once more, the engraved doors having been long shut as you had assumed.

The halovian cleared his throat, and your face shifted back to see the space before you. He stood at the side of the table, picking up the wine that was sitting conveniently next to him, a thing so normal yet out of place.

“Come,” his other hand gestured to you. “there is lots to discuss.”

As ambiguous and vague as it was, you had truly no choice. And so you took the first step, approaching the model. You were sure you were shaking despite the composed demeanor, one you held onto like a lifeline—your heart struck your ribcage with each frantic pump, but it felt like the blood coursing never gave enough air.

It was art to not hyperventilate right now, your senses dulled; as though the rush of your blood muted your ability to hear. And, yet, you heard him well.

You stood a good pace away from Sunday, but close enough to the table for him to have no objections. The bottle of wine was already open, and all he had to do was to take one of the glasses into his gloved hand, tilting it. The red liquid poured inside of it, rolling over the walls of the glass like a heart filling with blood.

He reached it out to you, and after a momentary period of stillness, your hand took the glass.

It did not spill, your oversensitive muscles however did not take kindly to the strain, the grip on the wine causing it to vibrate. It was not only humiliating, but just embarrassing. Your other hand joined the grip, moving underneath the glass’ bottom.

Sunday had his gaze glued to you, and the temporary shaking of the glass did not escape his gaze. Alas the corner of his mouth only moved up, before he cast his look down to the glass he was filling for himself.

Your skin felt the intricate design on the glass’ bottom, and you could swear your heart stopped. With eyes widened you took a peak downwards, and surely enough you saw that the bottom of it was engraved.

You would run out of here if you could. Even if it was pathetic, even if it was embarrassing and humiliating and even if you had to look like a prey to get out, you would. You'd leave Penacony, change your number, you could even change your face and identity. You'd—

“The city breathes, you know?” he began, causing your train of thought to derail entirely off the mountain. You swallowed, your confused expression causing the man to continue. “Not because it wants to. Because it must.”

The model before you was detailed, as a model could be that is. The buildings had their respective lights from the inside, even the Golden Hour held an unnerving degree of accuracy to it.

Sunday always made sure all buttons were in place. “Not in the way people do, of course not, but in a way that something vast and living shifts under its own weight.”

You were aware of his face turning to you for a moment, the silence stretching. It lingered on your face, before he tilted his head to the model, hand sitting loosely on one of the wider buildings. His index finger moved in a circle for a moment, but he didn't unnecessarily fidget.

“A change in the air, a tilt in the balance—no matter how small and insignificant, it's all felt somewhere.”

Your eyes glued themselves back to the model, and you felt tense, like a piece of wood waiting for the carpenter to arrive. No—the carpenter has arrived. And right now he was preparing his tools properly.

His hand moved towards one of the streets, pressing into one of the buildings. It dipped into the model's bottom, before clicking, and as his pressure released, the building loosened. Sunday picked it up with his hand, bringing it closer to his face.

It was a cafe, one too similar, and you felt like you were being mocked right now. Sunday sighed. “More often than not, it isn't the grand movements that matter, not the political ones either. It's the small ones that set the tune for the city's music. These ones—define its breath.”

He hummed, his finger running over the bottom of the mini building. With a click its light turned on, and he pushed it back into its appropriate place, slow and unrished, with no misstep.

Your fingers tightened against the glass, and you prayed you wouldn't shatter it. “Small steps like these measure up to grand tunes, be it a street closing early, or a whisper in the wrong ear,”

“even a shadow where there shouldn't be one.”

His gaze flickered to you, unreadable.

With a throat tight and mind spiralling, you couldn't hope to know what to say. It was no magic trick, you didn't know your last words.

“It doesn't take much to alter the shape of something—yes, even something as vast as this.”

He raised his glass in a silent toast, and you did not raise yours. You had no intention of consuming it, not from fear of it being drugged—Sunday did not play dirty. Rather, you were afraid your stomach would reject all that wasn't his flesh. Not from desperation, but sheer anger at the situation.

Sunday's eyes closed as he straightened, head tilting. His movement was slow and deliberate. “That makes watching interesting, don't you think? That's why I do what I do—”

“—it is most interesting to see what happens when someone changes the rhythm.”

He was calm, something contrary to your jerky movement as you set the wine glass down, the tension inside you snapping like a hairband; flying across the room like a miscalculated bullet of a faulty gun. “What's the meaning of all of this?”

Sunday didn't snap back. He smiled knowingly. Instead of responding immediately, he tilted his head slightly, as if considering whether to answer at all.

Informed and restrained, yet not forceful, as though the causality was something simple. He spoke at his own pace. “What is it, I wonder. Maybe you can tell me?”

The room felt all too small, and your words didn't change anything. Subtle amusement found itself passing on his face, yet he didn't wait for your response as you would've expected.

“I’ll admit—” he began. “I thought, for a time, that you belonged to someone else.” The halovian mused, his fingers lightly moving over the edge of a building, dancing forward towards the concert hall. “That you were someone's carefully placed piece.”

He exhaled, almost amused. Almost disappointed.

“But no.”

Sunday's fingers knew where to look, and you followed their movements as they pressed against a part of the structure of the building. The concert hall clicked, and its outside lights sprung to life like confetti bursting from pressure. This soft click, precise and deliberate, caused things to fall into place.

“You were moving on your own, weren't you?”

His gaze meets yours. Not in passing as before, Sunday truly looked at you, eyes flickering over your eyes, and the curve of your lips. A glance measured in centuries, in calculations that have already reached their conclusion long before you were aware of them taking place. His finger rested on the model, poised like he could collapse the entire thing with the slightest pressure.

“It's a dangerous thing,” he continues. “To move like that, without knowing whose board you're on.”

A beat of silence.

Sunday's hand leaves the city, and he lets it fall to his side, watching you with something unreadable.

“Then again you know what by now, don't you?”

There it is. The checkmate. A fail proof strategy which you thought you controlled, falling through your fingers like sand. The checkmate. The knowledge that this game—your game—was never yours to control.

Another pause, each stop between the notes of the tune made your heartstrings compensate for the silence. Then, just as the weight of it settles—

“Of course,” his voice is light, a shard of kindness in the otherwise cruel situation, as if he was offering you the last slither of dignity. “you could always try again.”

His lips curved into a smile.

“This time, perhaps, with me watching.”

—

There was a deliberate sense of being observed. It was unlike being watched by his mentor, and it was unlike being watched by a pesky Alfalfa spy.

Sunday showcased his abilities before; he could guide the masses, the grand symphonies—as easily as he guided singular figures and pawns.

He was a soloist as he was a conductor, and a conductor should know how to push things into place. He could lead the whole and he could lead the singular, yet there was something that was hidden in the darkness.

Sunday had realised it long before anyone else, and he saw through it long before being warned. Gopher's words, for the first time in a while, fell upon deaf ears.

And while originally it was his idea to introduce Sunday to the masses with orchestra, to have him make the repertoire, it wasn't his idea to drag the game longer than necessary. Much to your displeasure—if you ever did find out—the air of the order around Sunday pulled dirt out from the darkness without having to be prompted.

And, while you initially saw your steps as infallible—instead of covering them up like branches used to cover traces in the snow, you only highlighted your path.

With his resources it was a game of cards. Many names have repeated before, it was to be expected that same members visited the same events more often than necessary.

But there were things which were not accidental. Why would a spy have to follow him to a library? Sunday, when he was young, learned that the only way to understand mechanisms was to push all the buttons. He did not do that anymore of course, he preferred instructions, but it's not how it worked with people.

In your blinded following you chased after him everywhere he led you, without realising it. Sunday found it amusing—you were no good of a spy.

And then, he came to find you weren't anything like that at all. You were pathetic.

[briastar-artz]

Since you all have seen my TGAMM X GF AU, here are other TGAMM AUs I drew that I come out with.

Friends In Time

Post The End Swap (I need a better name)

Also here an extra drawing I made of Todd/Scratch. Sorta like a deltarune sort of thing I think. This one is not an AU btw, I just wanted an excuse to draw him with a sword.

Below will have an info about these 2 AUs, so I'll be rambling bout it below. :)

Friends In Time

★ This AU is inspired by the Gravity Falls AU called Twins in Time. I love that AU and be like, "Hey what if Young Scratch and Adia got sent to the past but they ended up with eachother present self?"

★ This AU takes place after the 'All In The Mind' episode.

★ Scratch and Molly was messing around with the rare curses (Molly's idea) and Scratch accidentally messed it up, resulting for a portal to open up in the past and young Adia fall in it and she ended up in the present with Molly and Scratch. Past Scratch sort of witness how his friend just dissappear through a portal infront of him, another portal open up behind young Scratch and he falls in it. But instead of ending up with Molly and present Scratch, past Scratch ended up with present Adia. This left everyone confused. Especially present Adia.

★ Molly was kind of excited with the situation since she got to meet her ghost best friend old best friend. Though Scratch suggested for Molly to not reveal anything to Past Young Adia. (I mean hey, seeing your best friend kind of 'died' in the future isn't very nice to know.) I think they'll try to change Scratch name incase. He called himself Duke. They'll reveal about it later.

★ With Present Adia and Past Young Todd/Scratch, despite being confused, they both went on an adventure together while trying to get back to Brighton and find Past Young Adia.

★ Past Young Adia stick around until 'The End' episode. Present Adia with Past Young Todd/Scratch finally reach Brighton during The End too and they visit Todd's house, which also the same time Molly and Scratch and with Past Adia were there to see them.

★ The End would be a bit different than the original. Adia and Scratch finally have a talk before he goes back to his body. The Past selves are sent back to the past. And both Adia and Molly would try to help Scratch remember his time as a ghost before he and Adia went on their adventure together.

Post The End Swap

★ This is basically a personality swap between Scratch and Molly after 'The End'. Or a swap, literally. Thanks to Bill, one of the TGAMM creator for telling us what will Season 3 be like if Disney gave them a green light. This just gave me an idea on how this story would go.

★ In this AU, Scratch did not die. He is still alive and healthy and did not get into any hang-gliding incident.

★ But in this AU, Molly finally gave up her soul after experiencing the rough aftermath of how it gets harder to try to enhappify people, making Brighton better and losing people she love. (Patty becoming a ghost and Ollie moving away) She became lost and hopeless as years went on till high-school. Feeling less joy also made her wraith form change colour to pink like her eyes but a bit dull and a bit gold.

★ Idk how Scratch and Adia will meet Molly yet, but when they did Molly put a curse on them. The same curse that made Scratch got pull to Molly's side whenever she calls for him, but it's Molly who got dragged to Scratch's side when he said her name.

★ Molly had been a ghost for about a month or two. Ofc her family and friends are aware and tries to find Molly's ghost but unsuccessful. The Chens who now stay in another place after the move also being informed by the Mcgees about the situation too.

★ As for being a ghost for too long, Molly's memories started to become fuzzy and she had a hard time recalling them, slowly losing her memories and forgetting who she is. Though it's not as bad as Scratch, but she just had a hard time recalling. She forgot her name and only remember that it probably starts with a M. So Scratch just called her Moll and his reasoning is, "Idk, you just look like a Moll person." Which confused Molly, Adia and himself with it.

★ And yes, these two duo has no idea who the other are due to memory lost. Molly having a harder time to recognise Scratch since he is Todd now and alive instead of the ghost buddy she always remembers. (Same with Scratch as deep down he remember his friend being a human instead of a ghost, and the change of her wraith colour instead of gold is also less helping.) But the name sorta ring a bell for her a bit.

★ Together they tried to uncover Molly's memories as Molly follow Scratch and Adia through the adventure. Plus without them realising, they're also gonna uncover Scratch's memories too! Now it's The Ghost and and Todd/Scratch Mortenson, with Scratch being the optimistic one and Molly being EMolly or realistic and hopeless, or just season 1 Scratch but it's Molly, and Scratch is Molly but in Scratch own way, yk?

Welp these are the info I have about these 2 AUs for now. There are still more TGAMM AUs that I would love to share more in the future! Like there's ALOT in my notes. Wish I could make a fic for all of 'em. Anyways cya and have an enhappifying day/night!

B★

[arcana-greenleaf]

Can I please request Garrett as a girl dad? 😭😭😭 Even as a vampire he'd be so gentle and loving! I'd love to see him with a human mate who happens to be a single mama.

First off, thank you so much for this request! :) I absolutely loved the idea of Garrett as a girl dad, and I had so much fun writing this. I decided to mix headcanons with full scenes to try and bring his relationship with Reader and Lily to life. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! 💖

Garrett had wandered into the small town looking for nothing in particular. He never stayed in one place too long, but something about this town felt... different.

He first saw you at the grocery store, struggling with a tired, fussy toddler on your hip while trying to pay for the groceries. Lily, barely four years old, was squirming in your arms, clearly unhappy about something. Garrett wasn’t one to intervene in human affairs, but when he heard the cashier’s rude tone, something inside him bristled. “Look, lady, if you don’t have enough-” You sighed, clearly exhausted and completely done with the cashier, and reached for your wallet with one hand while the other tried to keep Lily still. “I do. I just need a second.” Something in Garrett made him want to help. In a blur too fast for human eyes to catch, he stepped beside you and placed a crisp bill on the counter. “This should cover it.” You turned to him startled and confused as Lily blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes. “Oh, no, you don’t have to!” “I insist,” Garrett said smoothly, flashing a charming smile. He turned to Lily and spoke in a gentle manner that surprised even him. “Besides, it looks like this little one deserves a treat after being so patient.” Lily studied him carefully, then, in a completely unexpected move, reached for his wild hair. “You look like a pirate!” Garrett chuckled. “Aye, that I do, lass.” You shook your head but smiled nonetheless. “Thank you. That was… kind of you.” Garrett tipped an imaginary hat. “Anytime.” And just like that, he was hooked.

You have been hesitant at first. A mysterious, handsome man appearing out of nowhere and taking an interest in you and your daughter? It sounded like the start of a fairy tale….or a horror story. But Garrett was patient. He didn’t push nor did he invade your space. He simply kept showing up wherever you guys went, always ready with a smile for Lily and a knowing look for you. One evening, he found you sitting on the porch, visibly exhausted, while Lily played in the yard. He took a seat as well and watched the little girl chase fireflies. “She likes you,” you admitted, almost begrudgingly. Garrett smirked. “What’s not to like?” You rolled your eyes at him. “She doesn’t warm up to people easily.” Garrett watched as Lily toddled over to him and held up a tiny hand. He extended his own, letting her place a glowing firefly in his palm. “Seems to me she’s got good instincts.” Lily beamed and gave him a toothy grin. “You can keep it!” Garrett smiled endearingly. "An honoured gift, princess." Your heart softened a little more.

Despite his wild, rebellious nature, Garrett is shockingly gentle with Lily. He makes sure to always speak softly to her, even when he’s passionate or frustrated about something else.

It starts as a joke, but Garrett becomes the designated client at Lily's hair salon. Lily loves his long hair and insists on playing with it, weaving it into messy braids and pigtails, and adorning it with colourful hair clips and flower crowns. At first, he pretended to hate it but it was really obvious that he loved it. He even begged you to teach him how to braid hair so he could do Lily’s hair as well.

(you are planning to buy Lily a kid's makeup set next, Garret would look really good with sparkly blue eyeshadow)

Garrett has fought in wars and challenged authority figures, but he will sit through an entire tea party wearing a ridiculous hat if it makes Lily happy. you secretly take pictures

He feels an overwhelming instinct to keep you safe. Whether it's shielding you from supernatural threats or simply ensuring Lily never crosses the street without holding his hand, he is hyper-aware of your safety.

Let's be real he has centuries of knowledge and firsthand historical experience, so bedtime stories with Garrett are next level. Lily gets to hear about the Revolutionary War in dramatic detail, but he always makes sure to tone it down to keep it child-friendly. Just you wait when she is old enough so he can help her with her History homework…

As a vampire, he doesn’t sleep, eat, or get tired, but he adjusts to human life. He learns how to cook even if he doesn’t eat the food. The food was inedible in his humble beginnings but with time he started getting better. He even started preparing Lily's lunch and is always trying to arrange it into some animal-looking thing with a little note. While cooking, Garrett wears a ‘kiss the cook’ apron only because you got it for him.....he huffs and puffs if you don't actually kiss him.

It happened on accident. Garrett had been in your lives for almost a year by now, seamlessly blending into your little world. Lily adored him, and you – well, you had stopped pretending you didn’t a long time ago. One night, Lily was half-asleep after the bedtime story when she reached for him instead of you. “Daddy,” she murmured, curling into his chest. Garrett froze. Time stopped. You were standing in the doorway, eyes wide and a hand over your mouth. Lily’s breathing evened out, already lost to sleep again, but Garrett felt something shift deep in his immortal cold heart. Later, when you met his gaze and whispered, “Are you okay?” he swallowed hard, his voice rough when he finally spoke. “I’ve never been better.” Garrett didn’t move for a long time. The sound of Lily’s sleepy voice echoing in his head felt like a shock to his system. Something shifted and clicked into place in a way he never knew was possible. Daddy. He had lived through centuries, fought wars, and roamed aimlessly through life without a single attachment. And yet here he was, with a tiny human trusting him enough to give him a title that carried more weight than anything he had ever known. He glanced up at you. You were still watching him with an unreadable expression, but your eyes were soft. Softer than he had ever seen them. Slowly, you stepped forward, kneeling beside the couch where he sat. “She already thinks of you that way,” you whispered. “I think… I think she has for a while.” Garrett carefully adjusted Lily in his arms, his fingers brushing through her soft curls. “And you?” You sucked in a breath but didn't look away. "You know how I feel." He did. He had known for weeks, maybe even months, but hearing it aloud, seeing it in your eyes – it was completely different. Garrett reached for your hand, his cool fingers tracing over your knuckles. “I’ve never had anything like this,” he admitted. “Not in all my years.” You finally gave him a small smile. “And?” He exhaled, brushing a kiss against Lily’s forehead. “And I never want to lose it.” You leaned in, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “You won’t.” For the first time in his existence, Garrett believed it.

Garrett never expected to find a home, much less a family. But in you and Lily, he found both. And for the first time in centuries, he wasn’t just a wanderer anymore. He was only yours.

[ask-the-golden-god]

@askstormscall

A bottle drifts to a soft fall in the library. Its weight is heavier than normal as if it was carrying something other than letter. Inside was a letter and a warm iridescent feather, its rainbow hue bright beneath the light.

"Dear Goomy, I am... not good at this! I have never made a letter before. You will be my first! I'm so glad I have met you at the party. You helped me in a way I would have never thought about. Mo'o says this was a best way to maybe reach you. I hope me and my brother will keep to work things out and I hope your days will flourish after helping me!"

*Cepheus was awfully confused by the bottle that had drifted in through the sky light in the library. Where has it come from? Why was it here? He gave a looked to Kel who shared the same expression. Seems they were not expecting anything like this to happen. The duo slowly approached it, getting a much clearer look at the contents contained within. When Cepheus saw the delicately iridescent feather in the bottle, his face immediately lit up. There was only one Pokémon who had that stunning colouring - the unique lugia he had met at the beach event! Seems she had sent him something.*

Cepheus: Yo Kel, seems things are chill with this. It’s from that Lugia I’d met.

*Kel was still confused but trusted Cepheus. They immediately floated to the bottle, carefully levitated it with their psychic powers and took both the feather and letter out of the glass container. The subtle rainbow shine on it was truly beautiful. Not something Kel had ever seen before. Ah, of course, that Lugia with the dazzling feathers. How kind of her to leave something for Cepheus. They began reading the contents of the letter to the arceus.*

Kel: What a lovely way to be thanked. See? You helped someone on that beach.

Cepheus: Yeah yeah. It is nice she gave me one of her feathers. I mean, just seeing her in real life. Wow. Most radiant, I’m telling you.

Kel: I’m sure she was.

Cepheus: Would you be able to put the feather in the treasury please? Something like this can’t just be left out in the open. Gotta store it in the right place, you dig?

Kel: Of course.

*With a quick wave of their hand, Kel teleported the feather into the safest area of the treasury - somewhere where it would rest without fear of being damaged. They grabbed a small ballpoint pen and a sheet of paper from one of the shelves nearby.*

Kel: I am to assume you want to write a letter back?

Cepheus: It’s like you can read my mind or something! Of course I do. And maybe I should add a little something in it too from me. Could you do the writing?

Kel: Sure Ceph.

“Dear most unique lugia,

Thank you for your letter. It is most kind of you to write to me! It’s been ages since I’ve had one but I dig the vibes of it! There’s just something most excellent about writing letters. Just has this vibe, you get me?

I am glad to have met you too! It’s not often you get to see a lugia of your colouration out in the open! Truly a most radical sight to see. I am also thrilled that my words were able to help you out. That’s just what I like doing, helping others who need it. I’m sure things will go well with you and your bro but remember that it’s ok if it’s not a completely smooth journey. Sometimes these things take time, you dig? Definitely wishing you luck on everything.

Absolutely dig the gift you left me. That feather? Wow. I am going to treasure it forever. So, I’m leaving you a little something from my personal collection. I’m not sure what size you are but-“

*Kel had to pause because they knew exactly what Cepheus was going to give to the lugia. They turned to look at the arceus who had already got the item next to him. A pair of lugia-shaped crocs. Oh, why did it have to be crocs? It could have been any gift. Cepheus was obsessed with them. Kel just could not understand the obsession and shook their head when they spotted them. Cepheus looked at them with his usual chill smile, ushering them on to continue with the letter. Kel rolled their eyes, adjusted their round glasses and continued writing what Cepheus wanted them to write.*

“here’s some of the most excellent footwear you’ll ever have. You see, I just so happen to own the largest collection of crocs ever. I just love them and figured you could do with a pair for your own. And look, they’re lugia-shaped! Isn’t that just the most radical thing you’ve ever seen in your life? You can do what you like with them!

Hope to meet you sometime again soon,

The most radical goomy ever.”

Cepheus: Yeah! That sounds like a most excellent letter! Thanks for writing it!

Kel: You’re welcome. I know you struggle with spelling so I’m glad to help. Though, I have to question how you’re going to see her again. Are you going to visit her?

Cepheus: I was thinking she could come here. She’d get along with Genera I think and it’d be nice to see what progress she’s made with her brother, if you get me?

Kel: But she doesn’t know where here is. That’s why she sent the letter.

Cepheus: Oh, you are most right. Yeah, ok. Just hold the letter close to me.

*Kel did as instructed, holding the letter close to Cepheus. Using one of his levitating arc pieces, he touched the letter and it immediately began to glow a soft golden light with small sparkles lining the edges of the paper.*

Cepheus: Ok, could you add a PS to it?

Kel: Sure.

“PS I’ve been able to, through mysterious, magical means, give you a way to find me through this letter if you wanna speak to me face to face again. Like, the letter will, if you request it, become a magic portal that’ll lead you to me if you want to. I know it seems completely wild but the power of goo is strong. I’m chill with keeping up with letters but just wanted to give you the option just in case you needed someone to talk to or whatever.”

*As Kel had finished scribbling away, Cepheus was looking over their shoulder, making sure everything came out ok. He seemed very satisfied by what was written. Kel rolled up the letter and gathered the rather large (well, large in comparison to them) crocs from near Cepheus’ feet. They proceeded to attach a bow to the crocs which held the letter firmly attached to the odd footwear before giving them a tap. They disappeared, leaving no trace of ever being there in the library.*

Kel: Ok, I’ve been able to send the letter and your…lovely…pair of crocs to the location where this lugia wrote her letter. The letter should adjust to being the right size for her to be able to read.

Cepheus: Excellent work my most excellent friend. Hopefully they’ll arrive without getting damaged or anything.

[ammyamarant]

Kamen Rider Gavv ep 1 thoughts

Just going to watch one episode right now because I need to finish Kabuto and I need to Know what Kabuto has up its sleeve. But, the tl;dr of Gavv: Cute show, I can see how traumatized this poor kid will get by the end

Gavv ep 1

okay so I’m already reminded of W. Wonder if there will be a mentor figure that dies like Soukichi does in the first fucking five minutes of W

oh neat doors. I’ve seen Labyrinth too.

jfc how old is this kid he looks baby

yeet out of a plane and the tinkly “oh this is the world mom is from” music lmao

lbr considering the environment you just escaped from and the way you were happy to be freefalling because you were where your mom is from, I think needing some food is understating it.

"what do you have? Do you eat it?" has the same energy as my "what is gender? do you eat it?" joke

WHAT IS YOUR BODY MADE OF

Karakida I want your jacket. Give

Ah you have no communication skills. Understood

"This isn't a monster case" "So what is it?" "Woman fucking killed her own husband and shh keep your fucking voice down"

"today's harvest" and it looks like bloody organs. Hey I've seen 12 Hour Shift too.

oh you've never been allowed actual food have you

oh goddamn it I can hear Apollo aiming the dodgeball already

my dude. you got a tummy ache then gave birth to something. human women would kill for that to be their normal gestation cycle.

mm, cgi is kinda……………………

"hey now I've been fed actual food and have real energy I can make minions" yeah I mean that makes sense. People get all kinds of bodily processes back once they've been properly fed. Usually takes a while for their body to recover but hey you ain't human so I get it

this kid is so sweet and kind giving obvious main character (yeah I know it's shouma) a place to stay and some sweets to eat.

oh right the street drugs WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT HENTAI ASS THING

oh it's just a mouth. Wicked teeth.

Shouma is such a sweetheart

Also ye, I can see why Shouma is enchanted by sweets if his mom never let him have any of the family drugs.

excuse me I need to figure out a way to get into this world and beat down this addict before he hurts this kid

Shouma I would like a full rundown of what you can do because was that super speed and running perpendicular on a vertical surface? My dude? Answers?

Mm, sick monster design

Yeah, the monster and the kid both being like "hey what the fuck" to Shouma is fucking hilarious.

oh fucking ow

your mom turned into a bloody organ thing. Are we sure this isn't just a horror movie?

I feel like these minion things showing up saying "eat gummy!" shouldn't feel as threatening as they do.

OH GOD THE CRYING EYES. I'M HOWLING

"oh with the other one" lmao

I wonder what this show is like on edibles because the bright colours are fun and I had a blast watching Ex-Aid baked. Tho I'd consider that a little too on the nose considering the street drug metaphor of those dark candies

little dudes go somewhere safe that isn't under the fighting feet!

oh interesting so if he gets a lot of battle damage he can repair it by using another minion. Very neat. Wish more "battle damage" was repairable that easily. Looking at you, 3rd Birthday.

oh calling both of them monsters and Shouma just taking it is heartbreaking.

I'm definitely feeling the difference between Takaiwa and whoever the suit actor for Gavv is, but it's more "huh, that's a different way of doing the stunts" than anything bad. I do miss Takaiwa but that's mostly because he's a fucking legend. This guy's doing great, tho.

did… they repurpose the build driver for this?

takaiwa usually stood upright, even for meek characters like Ryotaro, while it seems like this guy's default stance is hunched over. iiiiiiiiiiiiiinteresting. Says a lot about Shouma in this form

okay I was about to say this Rider Kick is lame, but nah, it's pretty good.

Shouma you are sunshine and joy wrapped in ptsd. That's not even a joke I know you're fucking riddled with ptsd from just your memories of your mother alone

Shouma you are not Eiji stop being a hobo

Cute show.

[makeitworse]

make-up

˖ ࣪✦ thanos/su-bong x fem reader nsfw (mdni)

su-bong’s busy ruminating over what nam-gyu gave you that he couldn’t. but you want to prove to your boyfriend that you’ve never regretted anything more.

c/w: dark content! cheating, angst, toxic relationship (manipulation, guilt-tripping), drug use, blowjob/handjob, choking, lowk sub thanos a/n: a sequel to this fic <3 for my thanos lovers who felt bad

su-bong hadn’t shifted from the bed as soon as you guys got home.

nam-gyu decided you leave the bathroom first - it was his place after all, he could be elsewhere. your heart in your throat, you had found su-bong already awake on the couch.

he said he’d been waiting for you. as your resolve fell to your ass, he added that he was impatient to go home.

was that really all?

maybe he’d been half-asleep and thought he dreamt hearing anything. maybe he didn’t hear anything at all. maybe.. he did.

then why? why did he still drive you home in silence, eyes trained on the road when he’d usually risk your lives checking you out in the passenger seat. why did he head straight to bed and collapse there without a word?

but most worrying: why was he sober?

if he knew, you thought surely he’d be stuffing his face with any substance he could get his hands on. but he was just laying there. unmoving, unexpressive. silent.

it scared you more than if he was actually off his rocker - punching the wall and smashing glass.

when you’d walk around the room, he’d just watch you with empty eyes, his lips pressed into a firm line.

for hours during suffocating silence, su-bong twitched and shivered. he didn’t use anything to take the edge off. for an addict, he was being eerily collected if he really just found out you cheated with his best friend.

of course he did.

su-bong’s guard was permanently up when you and any other male were in the same vicinity - especially his sleazy best friend, nam-gyu.

you were fucking smoking, he knew well that even once you were his, it wouldn’t stop guys from drooling at your feet. who wouldn’t anyway for his gorgeous girl?

it’s why he pulled nam-gyu up on it every time. he knew that nam-gyu was looking, hell even touching, while su-bong was right fucking there.

su-bong let you join their smoking sesh with great reluctance, fully considering nam-gyu’s intentions with you. he wouldn’t let you out of his sight.

until you were already.

and suddenly the room’s dim, the couch is empty, and su-bong has no idea how long he’s been asleep, and where the fuck you or nam-gyu are.

he knew it when he heard you. of course he did. how couldn’t he recognise the sweet sounds of his girl?

su-bong’s blood was boiling. you sounded so fucking sexy, but his stomach was in knots: it wasn’t him.

he knew nam-gyu couldn’t keep his cock in his pants around you - it was only a matter of time before he snatched you from him. or rather, lost you to him?

su-bong was conflicted.

on one of his tatted hands, he held the option to take back what belonged to him: he could pin you to the floor, and fuck you senseless until the only name you could say was his.

and on the other hand, he could crawl around shitty clubs, downing any hard liquor he could find and chucking back pills in all the colours of the rainbow until he couldn’t feel anything.

but none of his options could make you his again. now any high didn’t matter.

his mind played back every high he’d chase and how he hurt you. each time you begged him to stay home for once just for him to fuck off anyways. he’d stumble through the door at ungodly hours of the morning, eyes blown wide open and scarlet.

each time you scolded him for his drug vice, arguments ending in screams and tears. belongings would litter the floor, thrown during his rage. his knuckles bloodied while he sobbed that he’d change.

each time you shoved him away when he was coked out of his brain and practically eating your face. he’d fuck you while you knew damn well he couldn’t even feel his dick. he just needed you so bad, can’t you see how you drive him crazy?

after every comedown - despite all the crying, all the yelling till his voice gave out - you didn’t leave him. never once.

su-bong couldn’t get shitfaced at a bar and look forward to coming home to you, his perfect girl. tears in your worried eyes, holding him like you thought he was gone for good this time. if su-bong left right now, you’d forget all about him with nam-gyu’s cock in your mouth.

how could you do him like this? nam-gyu? he so badly wanted to believe you couldn’t have consented to that. but deep down, he just knew.

he knew he was a fuck-up. he knew nam-gyu was out to get you. he knew you’d eventually find better, someone who wasn’t just a mess for you to clean up.

“su-bong?”

your voice was even, careful. a test.

treading the waters, you sat on the bed next to him. he noticed your caution not to touch him. there was a thin gap of air between your bodies.

“you feeling okay, love?” an offer. from you to him: are we acknowledging this? are we ignoring it? su-bong thought, and minutes passed before he realised you weren’t going to say anything before he does. you don’t know if he knows.

su-bong didn’t even realise he had tears streaming until you softly swiped them away with a finger. he leaned into your touch, and your palm opened to cradle his face.

he was putty in your hand. su-bong sobbed quietly, pulling you in by your waist to hold you to his body.

he enveloped you in his long arms. if you were going to shove him away and leave, he’d have felt your warmth one last time.

you let him cry in the crook of your neck. when he looked up at you, all the air left his lungs. your face held so much guilt, so much shame - you’d seen the exact same face before on his own.

this was all his own fault. you wouldn’t of run into nam-gyu’s arms if su-bong didn’t shove you first.

“has it happened?” he choked out in between sobs. “did i lose you this time, baby?”

“su-bong..” you threaded your fingers softly through his hair. he was looking to you for an answer like it meant his life. “..i’m sorry.” you could only murmur.

su-bong broke down in wails. the time his empty promises had bought were finally up.

he was grabbing you all over. grabbing anywhere his hands could reach. grabbing anywhere nam-gyu must’ve tainted you. through his tears, he was quietly repeating ‘please’.

please what, he didn’t even know. but you answered in kind.

he shivered when you pressed your lips to his temple. and again, when you trailed your way to his cheek, and then over the line of his jaw.

su-bong was melting in your touch. another kiss to his neck, and his breaths were coming out heavy.

with two hands flat on his chest, you gently guided him to lay down, with you on your knees above him. he forgot how to breathe when you lifted his shirt and planted a kiss on his bare chest.

whines shamelessly spilled from his mouth as you trailed down his torso, swirling your tongue and taking the skin between your teeth. he couldn’t help but twitch at your touch, hips bucking into your chest - he was begging for any warmth.

dragging your tongue across his v-line, your chin brushed over his erection, eliciting a groan from su-bong. you looked up at him with curiosity. he’s sure the look he returned was full of desperation.

your eyes trailed off in thought. “i thought you wouldn’t want my touch.”

he grabbed a fistful of your hair. his chest was rising with pants. “of course i do.”

you lay a careful hand over his bulge. he bucks into your touch.

“do you still want me, honey?”

su-bong means to just say ‘yes’, but his mouth doesn’t coordinate with his thoughts: “fuck, yes baby, please-” his voice is almost whiney as the words tumble out of him. “babe, come here- i need you,”

your palm rubbed at him steadily, spots of pre-cum blooming on the front of his pants. he couldn’t keep his hands to himself, and snatched your wrist to drag it underneath his waistband. he threw his head back with a moan when your fingers wrapped around him.

you pulled his pants down to beneath his balls. su-bong’s pelvis was bucking into the hand around his dick, greedy for any friction. you swiped your thumb over his tip and his eyes were rolling.

you kissed his tip so sweetly. it was all that prepared him for you taking his dick fully into your mouth.

his hands were needy, grabbing at your face, your hair. you kept a hand wrapped at the base of his dick, following your mouth in strokes as you sucked him.

su-bong was a wreck. his face was still wet with tears, and now his voice was cracking with wails. he almost forgot why he was even upset.

you had a tight grip and an unforgiving pace. your tongue swirled up and down, your fist stroked and turned. with his eyes screwed shut, su-bong was already seeing the blinding white.

your mouth pops off him, and you crawl up to crash your lips onto his. he could barely return kisses with the noises shamelessly falling from him. your wrist

“you didn’t lose me, baby.” your wrist was twisting while you jacked him, in between the disruptive rhythm of his thrusting hips.

he snatched your neck into his hand, and you squeezed his dick in return.

“you’re still mine?” he panted.

his face crumpled when your hand rode up to just stroking the tip, palm gliding over his frenulum. as if he wasn’t at the tipping point from the start, su-bong didn’t have much longer. he wanted to cum in you.

“baby, i need you-” his words were half-whines. “let me fuck you, ah fuck- please,”

“but i’m dirty.”

“i don’t, ugh-” in protest, you fisted him at an unforgiving speed.

his dick was throbbing, and your kiss to his lips broke any resolve that remained.

his eyes screwed shut as he came. his whole body tensed and trembled, all he could feel was the warmth of your hand riding up and down. any words became wails from his mouth. you planted sweet kisses to his nose through his orgasm. he felt the warm ropes of cum falling onto his pants and stomach.

you lightly squeezed his tip as your hand moved off of him, a sharp moan coming from the back of his throat. su-bong’s whole body was light and hazy. you smiled.

you moved to stand, but he grabbed your wrist.

“wait, just give me a minute. i wanna fuck you.”

you sighed. “i’m not..”

“baby, i need you.” he cupped your face in his hands. “you’re still my girl. always.”

it didn’t matter what the fuck he got up to when he was tweaking at some shitty club - su-bong always came back home to you.

and whatever the fuck you did at nam-gyu’s.. you still came home too. (he came in your hand, even.)

he pulled you into an embrace with his arms wrapped around your shoulders. he doesn’t want to know what you did, or what you’ll keep doing. as long as he still gets to call you his.

[hungermakesmonsters]

Stolen Moments was sooooo damn goood. I came to shyly ask if there's a chance you could write a little piece about how and if they meet after returning to the US? 🥺

Of course I can!! Honestly, I might eventually have to turn this into a proper thing (maybe a mini-series??) because I really love this dynamic. Though I do feel like this little piece falls into the porn with the slightest hint of plot category 😅😅 (sorry not sorry?) but after a month or so without Billy, you can't exactly blame reader. 😅

Perfect Moments

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Fic Universe : follow on to Stolen Moments

Story Rating : M 

Warnings : [This is 18+ only, minors DNI] Smutty behaviour.  

It was strange being home again.

It felt familiar but, at the same time, different. Like something was missing but you couldn't rightly say what. You felt like you were drifting, like you weren't quite real, like you hadn't come home at all.

So, when you returned back to the States to find a message waiting for you from a certain Lieutenant, asking you to meet him for a drink, you spent a few weeks deliberating.

You'd joked with him, told him you had no interest in some jarhead out in the real world but, honestly, you'd been scared. You hadn't wanted to build up some romantic idea of Billy Russo in your head, and you hadn't wanted to let yourself believe that there could ever be something real between you. It was easier to pretend it was just sex, that he had been horny and sick of looking to his own hand for gratification.

But the moment you saw him waiting at the bar for you, there was no denying or ignoring the fluttering of butterflies in your stomach.

He got off his stool to greet you with the sort of awkward hug that gave nothing away.

"Lieutenant," you said as the hug broke, taking a step back to look at him.

He looked better than he had the last time you'd seen him over six weeks ago (in your office on base in Kandahar, fucking you senseless on your desk), being home had brought some colour to his cheeks and he didn't look quite so haunted.

"Not anymore," Billy answered, returning to his seat. "I got out."

"Huh, always figured you as a lifer," you said, taking the seat beside him.

Over the first couple of drinks, you caught up, listening to him explain how he was starting his own business, and telling him about how you were going back to school to train to be a paramedic.

It was a strange conversation, the words felt like they didn't mean much, but the way he looked at you... it was like he was undressing you with his eyes and replaying every time that he'd fucked you.

By the fourth drink, the tension was starting to become palpable.

"So, did you reach a decision?" He asked, suddenly, cryptically.

"About what?"

"About whether you want to waste your time on a jarhead like me now you're home."

"What do you think I'm doing right now?" You answered playfully.

His eyes travelled down your body. "I think you're sitting there in that little dress waiting for me to take you home and give you what you've been missing."

"And what exactly do you think I've been missing?"

"Me," he said, daring to lean a little closer to you, close enough to kiss. He placed a hand on your bare thigh, fingertips just below the hem of your dress. "I bet you're already getting wet just thinking about how good I can make you feel."

He wasn't wrong, and it took all your restraint not to squirm and give away how right he was. Before you could think of some clever answer, his lips claimed yours, his tongue meeting yours in that familiar way that made your toes curl.

The kiss didn't last long, just long enough for Billy to prove his point, and when he pulled back, he knew you were on the hook.

His hand moved from your thigh to your and he stood, not saying a word. You got up and let him lead you from the bar, out into the cold New York air. But it wasn't long until his hands and lips were on your again.

He led you to his car at the back of the parking lot, muttering promises between kisses that it wasn't far to his place, but it was already clear to you that he wouldn't make it that far.

Soon enough, you found yourself pressed back against his car, his body against yours, his hands reacquainting themselves with every dip and curve that he could get to over your dress. Your own hands quickly moved from gripping his shirt to pulling at his belt.

It was stupid, it was dangerous — but when wasn't it when it came to Billy?

The moment the button was popped and his zipper was down, you sank your hand into his underwear and gripped his cock, grinning against his lips at the sound he made.

Your sudden escalation had him following suit and, mere seconds later, his fingers were slipping between your thighs to touch you though your wet panties.

"Fuck, Doc, you're —"

You bit his lip, cutting him off. This wasn't the time to be playful. You needed him too much. And Billy got the message, loud and clear.

His fingers dipped beneath your panties, stirring between your folds, spreading your arousal up to your clit. You were so lost in his fingers, in the kiss, in him, that you didn't notice his other hand awkwardly pulling open the car door until he moved you.

Your feet shuffled as he took a step to the side, then you found yourself turned, pulled back against his chest. Billy didn't give you time to ask what he was doing before pushing you forward, bending you over the back seat of his car.

Fuck.

Glancing over your shoulder, you caught a near-feral look on his eyes and it made you want him more than you ever had before. You didn't care that you were in some dingy parking lot behind a bar, didn't care than anyone might stumble upon you both. You wanted Billy. You needed him.

You braced yourself on your elbows as he pushed up your dress and pulled your panties to the side. He hesitated only for a moment, listening to the stifled moan that escaped you as he dragged the tip of his cock through your folds.

But he didn't waste time, gripping your hip to hold you in place as he slid home. And that's what it felt like to have him inside of you again, it felt like home, like somewhere you both belonged.

Your face pressed against the soft leather seats as Billy started to move, giving you both what you'd been missing. You'd told yourself that it had been a silly fling, something to keep you sane when you were on deployment, but you could see now just how wrong you were.

And, from the way he was already groaning, you could tell Billy felt exactly the same way.

Every thrust of his hips sent a jolt through your whole body, reminding you that he was the only one who'd ever made you feel like this — he was the only one who could make you feel like this. No one else had ever made you feel like the world was ending, like you'd expire if you couldn't have just one second more.

Your thighs knocked awkwardly against the side of the seat and your legs trembled, barely able to hold your weight. It wasn't long until your arms gave beneath you and you all but collapsed over the back seat of his car, at his mercy and so incredibly glad of it.

It could have been seconds, minutes, hours — it didn't matter. The only thing you cared about were the sparks of pleasure he drew from you each and every time he buried his cock deep inside you.

And, with each slam of his hips, each moment of feeling gloriously full of him, you felt a familiar tension start to coil inside of you.

It had been so long, nothing had made you feel that way since him; not your fingers or even the vibrator that you'd relied upon for so many years before him.

Billy Russo had broken you. He'd ruined you.

Now, he was the only thing that could sate your longing.

"Lieutenant — Russo — Billy —" you gasped and moaned mindlessly before succumbing to the pressure.

You pressed your face against the soft leather to muffle your cries of ecstasy as you came undone, your body a trembling wreck beneath him. And, as you shuddered, you barely noticed him withdrawing, pulling out of your trembling pussy. You didn't notice much of anything until you were clumsily flipped over and pushed further into the car.

Then Billy was on top of you, his cock filling your still spasming pussy with ease.

Desperately, you tried to spread your legs, wanting him closer, deeper. Your hands clawed at his back through his sweater, pulling his body against yours as he continued to fuck you. At some point one of your legs ended up draped over the back of the seat, leaving you in the most debauched position you'd ever found yourself in. But you didn't care.

"Billy —"

Your hand slipped up his back to grip his hair, pulling him down and into an eager kiss, moaning as his tongue found yours again. He kissed you like a man possessed, like he was trying to dominate you from both ends, like he'd never have enough.

(He wouldn't and neither would you.)

And, again, you felt that coiling deep down inside you.

"Please, please, please," you whined against his lips, not sure what you were begging for. (More. Everything.)

He kept going, kept fucking you like he was the only man in the world who knew how. A sharp gasp spilled from you as he pushed your leg back and angled his hips to hit just the right spot inside of you. Then he hit it again, and by the third time, you were a goner.

This time as you started to come, you felt Billy let go, his thrusts turning awkward and clumsy and he groaned your name. He buried his face against your neck as his cock twitched and spilled inside you, hips giving gentle stilted movements as he emptied himself.

Then came the stillness, the quiet that was only filled by panted breaths.

Your fingers were still twisted in his hair, holding tight, and you had no intention of ever letting him go.

Minutes passed and he stayed inside you, his cock softening while his breathing slowed and levelled out.

You'd never had this before, you'd never been allowed to bask in the afterglow with him without fear of being discovered — admittedly, that fear was still present, but being caught fucking on a military base had worse punishments than the simple embarrassment of some random civilian finding you.

Billy didn't say anything, nor did he move.

"So much for taking your time with me," you said softly, hoping to break the strange tension that had descended.

He lifted his head and looked at you, managing a smile. "The night's young, Doc, and I'm just getting started."

"Good, 'cause I'm gonna need you to do that again," you said, letting out a laugh.

"You keep talking to me like that and I think I might fall in love with you."

[jealousmartini]

"Such'a fuckin kluts.." ݁₊ ⊹

Rating Katsuki Bakugo's stupid nicknames for me in my mha dr

Kluts - 9/10

— It sounds so cunty and its pretty catchy too 😍

— He calls me this often because I fall over my own feet so easily "such'a fuckin' kluts. Can't even stand on your two feet without trippin like an idiot"

Brat - 8/10

— I know he doesn't mean it in a cunty way but that's the way I take it

Brit - 🇬🇧/10

— He says it like a slur

Bug eyes - 5/10

— I get it because of my freakish looking goggles I wear with my hero costume

— It's observant but it's not all that creative because he already calls Mina and Iida nicknames based on their eyes too

Smartass - 5.7/10

— I hardly get questions wrong and mostly get straight As in tests

— It doesn't help that I am canonically a genius too and he likes to role his eyes whenever I win games against him saying shit like "I let you win" or "don't get too cocky smartass"

Antennas - 3/10

— This one's alr I guess...

— He gave this one to me when he noticed how the top two small chunks of my hair would raise and react to the environment around me and said I looked stupid

Twilight - 10/10

— A real fan favourite.

— It's probably the most creative nickname his given me so far. Most of my close friends call me Twilight more than my actual name now, and it's frequently used when making ship names.

— Almost became my hero name.

— A time when he used the name in a sentence. He was referring to me and Mina when he complained to someone, "... because Twilight Sparkle and Pinkie pie over here though it was a good idea to ditch the plan and freestyle it..."

Tech nerd - meh/10

— Basic.

— I'm sharing that infamous nickname with Deku now

— At least it shows he knows I'm good at what I do

Dimples - 8.8/10

— I love how he's so observant, "Dimples" is by far the cutest one he's given me next to Twilight.

— I find it kind of endearingg 🥹🙏🏾

Loopsie - 4.7/10

— One of my drawbacks from using my magnet quirk too much, is that my weight almost completely drops. I go dizzy, get hiccups and build static shocks and I start to get a little floaty.

— It literally looks like if Uraraka used her zero gravity on me for a short while or if lightning is about to strike because my hair and the hair on the arms start to raise from the static.

— I can't even stand straight without wobbling, swaying side to side thus where "loopsie" comes from because it looks like there should be swirls in my eyes like a cartoon character😭😭

— I said it kinda sounds like a drug and he said that's the point cus I look like I'm on something or im drunk

Tenticle hair - 2/10

— Would've prefered "shitty hair" to that ☹️☹️

— Aside from my hair colour being the reason he calls me Twilight, he really doesn't like the fact I can control my hair in anyway I want (hair awareness quirk)

— Hair awareness is my sibling quirk, and it freaks him out how I can manoeuvre around the place and pick things up with my hair lmao

— I told him I like to use my hair quirk as an extra pair of limbs, like an octopus' tentacles, and he said "he can tell" with the worlds most disgusted frown 🙄

[somecosmic-typashit]

╔══ஓ๑°๑ஓ══╗

⋆ ★ 3D and 4D reality ★⋆

There's only one of the two that

is more real than the other.

- January 18th 2025 (Rework)

╚══ஓ๑°๑ஓ══╝

To immediately get to the straight point. 3D/physical realm doesn't exist, it's illuminated film or show that comes from 4D/our imagination. You can compare it to hologram or the eyes, because the pictures/video can't be generated without camera & information, or let's just say source. Our subconscious and inner world is more like projector, while the the huge screen is "physical realm" with different channels you can choose to watch (the reality we create with our imagination).

Holography is a technique that uses light to create 3D images. It works by recording how light waves interact with each other. When the object wave is generated by light scattered from an object or a series of objects, a real image is formed on the opposite side of the hologram plate to where the object was located and is deflected from the normal axis by twice the angle between the reference wave and the normal direction.

When light hits the retina (a light-sensitive layer of tissue at the back of the eye), special cells called photoreceptors turn the light into electrical signals. We typically think of the mind as a camera. We take in the world via our five senses. These electrical signals travel from the retina through the optic nerve to deliver them to the brain which interpents the data. The visual cortex is made up of specialized neurons that turn the sensations they receive from the optic nerve into meaningful images. -----The occipital lobes sit at the back of the head and are responsible for visual perception, including colour, form and motion. Direct electrical stimulation of the occipital lobe produces visual sensations. The brain (projector) turns the signals into the images you see. The projected image in the back of our eyes is actually upside down, it's our brain that decodes this image so that we perceive it the right way up.

This reversal of the images that we see is much like a mirror in a camera.

It's literally how "3D realm" works. Everything you're "seeing" right now, doesn't have to be the way you see it. Why? It's all a mirror of who we are, all of this is happening because you gave awareness and attention to it.

The universe is quite literally the YOU-niverse. You create the universe, you create reality for yourself by observing it, not seeing it with the eyes, but your imagination, nothing exists unless you make it to be and all you see is what your mind is able to comprehend. Reality is observation. That's why things you focus on the most come to you, including the fears, including the negative things. Everything you're seeing, doing, feeling and hearing right now is just electromagnetic feedback, which draws out conclusion that you're in your body. But you're not really here, because it's all a hologram and because you wanted to feel like you're really here, you set your mind to everything you're experiencing now.

Your consciousness stimulates nerves and nerves trigger reaction like pain and touch, you assumed you'll feel something before even touching something, right? It made you "feel it". All of this, objects, people, surroundings, your body and senses. The whole world is in your consciousness. It doesn't go other way around. We exist in a totally self-made and self-projected reality which we consider real. And as long as we are locked into the self-made and self-projected reality, we do not even have a chance to realize who we truly are and what this all is. The external world we see and experience is the product of our “inner world", since our subconscious minds take everything literally, it doesn't know difference between illusion and what's real yet it's always active, yet it controls most of of experience, it's active even when you're asleep. What you tell it and feed it with the most, it shows you exactly that.

Denying it denies your power, in literal sense.

[sakurawolfy]

I redesigned Chiffon slightly (not many big changes tbh) and then it made me want to compare when I first created her to now, because she is so different now 🥹 it's like she grew up... so here is a comparison of how my IkeRev OC was back in 2020 and how she is now in 2024/2025 (^o^)

2020 Chiffon:

- she basically was created for Twitter RP groups and I confess I just created her because I didn't want to feel left out of the OC groupchat (but between managing both her account and a Seth RP account it became too overwhelming to me so I ended up giving up on her for a while lol)

- I also admit I molded her way too similar to Mousse (likes to sleep, worked at the Civic Center, etc)

- she used to like to bake for her friends (I didn't change that tbh)

- much shy-er and quieter than she is now

- also she was clumsy for some reason, but idk why lol

- she wasn't paired with anyone back at that time also

- and here is her original first design made in a picrew:

(You can see how she looks shy and a bit "what am I doing oh my")

(Also her hair is definitely supposed to be darker lol, Picrew is a bit limited in hair colour sometimes)

And now for 2024/2025 Chiffon:

- she got a more bubbly, hyper personality and she is still shy, but much less

- more confident too

- she works at a bakery (or a coffee shop, I still haven't decided which one)

- (that is also why she still likes to bake for her friends lol)

- she also still likes to sleep, but unlike Mousse, she isn't an usually sleepy person

- but she likes travelling and maps and reading about other cultures (her big brother is her role model)

- if I had to compare Chiffon back then to Chiffon now to any character, I think the 2020 version would be similar to Noelle from Genshin Impact and the current version is more like Navia/Mualani

- she didn't have a pet when I first made her either, but now she has two... a deer and a shima enaga

- now for the slight redesign, I gave her less formal clothing (it is a modern au) and also made her bangs (fringe? Whatever you call that part of the hair) longer. Everything else is pretty much the same 🩷

Look at my girl nowadays, she grew up so much 🥹

I shall eventually do art of her in IkeRev's art style (and also more art in my own art style)