#modern au! sunday

[sharkiethrts]

hi! speaking of ur modern sunday…i’d like to request sunday x reader, where reader is absent because they’re sick and sunday just spends the entire day trying not to mope before he visits them. just smth rlly silly where he’s on student council etc having to try to subtly text his s/o.

robin is kind of over him but who cares‼️

prompt: highschool!au reader is sick and responsibility ridden Sunday must ensure that the assembly goes on without a hitch, despite his worries for her.

warning: none.

relationships: modern!sunday x gender neutral!reader (highschool!au)

author’s note: so sorry for the late response! I was eagerly awaiting for the day when I can finally work on this! :) (Two more exams to go, exams should end by Friday. Wish me luck!)

This is also not reread and is posted late at night, so do forgive me for any type of grammatical or spelling mistakes or if the pacing of the story is too rushed!

- Highschool au! Sunday is so obviously the president of the student council

- He is popular among everyone and when it was announced that he was running for president, everyone accepted defeat and simply resorted for vice presidents and secretaries roles instead (the surplus of people that signed up for vice presidents that year were daunting, hoping for a chance to work closely alongside him)

- Prior to his appointment as president (which he was rightfully confident in winning), he had always made sure to spend time with you after school (even going as far as to not sign up to any clubs for the michaelmas term after you jokingly chastised him for ‘prioritising Mrs Burns, TA of the reading club’ instead of you)

- However, post appointment Sunday found it difficult to make compromises like so, much to his chagrin- with the added rewards, the necessary expectations would naturally accompany and hence his dilemma:

- Oh, how the thought of you ailed with a cold squeezes his heart so, his hand itching towards his phone every second

- He’s sure that his composure will fall soon and that it’d only be a matter of time

“Please ensure that the seventh up until the twentieth seats are marked, it’s reserved for the parents visiting today,” Sunday reminds the flushed boy, clearly not used to the responsibility he is expected to conform to and although Sunday attempts to maintain a composed facade throughout, it’d be a lie to say that he isn’t positively frustrated by how incredibly slow he is. Seriously, the drink aisle should clearly be placed inside the auditorium, not outside. It’s summer for goodness sake, by the time the guests arrive, the drinks will be diluted with ice and the honey would have been completely dissipated.

Speaking of honey, perhaps he should consider saving some for you. The Manuka honey booked specially for this occasion is known for doing wonders for your throat. Perhaps he should ask kitchen staff to pack a bottle or two for him? They quite adore him so, it shouldn’t be difficult for him to ask for a favour or two of this size. Interrupting his train of thought, it seems that the incompetent boy couldn’t stand having a supervising eye off him for even a second. Sunday watched in controlled horror as he dropped a tray or two, effectively denting the sides of the perfect sliver.

“Miss Amelie,” Sunday calls, his hand reaching for the back of the boy’s waist, helping him up, “Help him with relocating the treats, we can’t have dented sliver wares front and centre in the room.”

The said girl quickly arrives, her head down and stressed, “I’ll tell him what to do, don’t worry-“

“-I should hope that this predicament ends soon, I do have quite a few appointments to attend to,” Sunday cuts her off coldly, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. It’s not uncommon for Sunday to become cold at times, if not outright off putting. With uneducated rumours of his OCD and what not. However, it seems that this doesn’t seem to be one of his tangents, rather, he seems… occupied.

Sunday mulls over the thought of your upset face, further dampening his mood. How incredibly horrible of him, despite his previous talks of marriage with you during your late night calls- he only feels more incompetent and ineligible for the title of husband. He’s not only inattentive but outright unsupportive. What type of boyfriend who asks for your hand in marriage would leave you all alone in your bed fighting a cold alone? His frown deepens and he catches a few of the volunteers flinch due to it, clearly worried that they may have triggered him somehow.

He flashes them a friendly smile, to which he sees them relax slightly to before tending to their duties quickly.

While making haste with the decorations and reading over the script he had prepared for the following speech (god forbid he reads off a script, it’s one his many pet peeves and he is not willing to entertain the thought of slacking off in his chase for perfection), he thinks of your voice when you had greeted him this morning via phone call. Despite your obviously tired disposition, you had taken the initiative to call him to motivate him for the following day, you seem to know him well enough to realise his unending infatuation with your voice (how embarrassing for him but he’s far too touched to care for it for now).

Despite your well wishes and intentions, the phone call left him with more guilt and worries than assurance.

‘I’m fine’, you had insisted, saying that you had managed to snack on cut apples for breakfast.

By the moment Sunday snaps out of his thoughts, he notices a crinkle at the side of the paper where his thumb laid.

He’s not composed at all.

“ Sunday?”

By the time the clock struck ten and the assembly had concluded, Sunday took it upon himself to rent a bike at a nearby bus stop rather than waiting for his driver, hoping to make a quick detour to your house instead (his adoptive father would never have allowed him to do so). He had recognised your address from your first date, where he dropped you off by your neighbour’s house to prevent you from getting teased by your parents (you had insisted and he obliged). Your mother was there to greet him by the door, clearly whiplashed by the sight of a disconcerted, red faced handsome boy standing at her front door. She quickly flashes him a look of familiarity, to which he feels happy at (you must have shown your mother pictures of him, his ears redden at the thought).

He could only hope that you showed her the good ones and that despite your mischievous peculiarity, you’d care enough to help him make a good impression.

“You look much handsome in real life,” Your mother comments when he enters.

Never-mind. You definitely took it upon yourself to show her the worst ones. He could only pray that they don’t include his baby features, where his bangs were chopped short, “I apologise for coming so late, I came as soon as the assembly had finished-“

“- I understand,” Your mother chuckles, “I’m more impressed that a teenage boy would make so much effort to care for a partner with a flu when it’s so close to midnight,” She hands him a glass of warm water, urging him to walk up the stairs to your room, “They’d heal in no time after all.”

He shakes his head decisively, “That’d be an unfitting behaviour for a husband.”

The once vibrant mood turned quiet in no time and realising what he had said, his cheeks flushed a vibrant red and his ears burned incessantly.

Your mother watches him with shell shocked expression, thankfully the glass had been on Sunday’s hand at this point, judging by how her hand had loosened immediately he had blurted the words out, the glass would have been on the floor otherwise. Which would have been unsightly for a first impression.

“SUNDAY!”

He hears your familiar yell, clearly happening upon his arrival and his words.

He had planned to scold you for your misdemeanours (showing your mother terrible pictures of him) but it seems that he had committed a far graver crime than you did: an impromptu proposal at hours so close to midnight.

“… I sincerely apologise. Please pretend you didn’t hear anything.”

Sunday wishes for the concrete floors to eat him alive.

[slowd1ving]

[INAMORATA] SNIPPET . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE, SOMEWHAT JIAOQIU??

more jiaoqiu and moze being a little creep, male incubus reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Of course you don’t end up stealing a kiss outside the building—Moze taking the opportunity to clean the bathroom obsessively while buzzing from the liquor, while you walk Jiaoqiu out. 

Of course you don’t mean to, but you’re drunkenly complaining of the professor for your statistics module, and he’s merely gazing. When the sun’s long gone to its slumber—and the only light available is the halo around your head from the flickering streetlamp—who can blame him for the way his eyes drink your pout in, the way he’s getting lost in the way you smell? Menthol cigarettes and something sweeter, something his nose picks up that could be caramel but could also thrum deep in your veins to intoxicate others. 

He cuts you off when it gets too much for him, right when you push your glasses up to continue to ramble comfortably. 

“—every lecture, I swear—mmph—” 

You swear up-and-down you weren’t planning this; you’re taken completely aback as he surges, pressing you up against the rough brick of the building. He’s warm, you think deliriously—with his hand cradling your cheek and his other nestled in the back of the loose pullover you’re wearing, you’re warmer than you’ve been in weeks. 

It’s not desperate, but you can feel the build-up of emotion behind it: taste the cherry on your breath, the tequila on his. Alcohol may have prompted this, but even a fool could savour the heavy yearning on his tongue. 

“Jiaoqiu,” you mumble, but he merely tilts your head, nipping at your slicked lips with an eagerness he only seems to display when it’s the witching hours. He’s shorter than you, yet tonight he’s the one caging you in an inescapable lock—so hungry, so avaricious and naturally, you oblige, raking your hands in his pink hair. 

You taste blood. You taste life as you feel his steady pulse against your body, lust as he groans and melts into your touch, desperation as he entwines his arms around you with the sole goal of pressing himself into you even further. 

You are equally insatiable, gradually feeling the vivid colours flow from his tongue onto your own. 

You are equally gluttonous, but your work isn’t going to finish itself and you’re quite a good demon, if you do say so yourself. 

You are equally voracious, and perhaps completely degenerate, yet still you wistfully and regretfully ease your lips from his—though your hands remain white-hot on his body. 

It’s enough energy to get through the rest of this day and then some. It’ll do. It has to do. 

“I’ll see you at the Film Festival,” he murmurs, but the two of you know the encounter between you both will be sooner—a clandestine encounter between sheets, in fact. 

He’s walking home, so you watch him disappear into the night—and when his small figure is swallowed up in the void space between street lamps, you watch a little while longer. 

Unbeknownst to you, someone else has been watching this entire time too. 

[saintshigaraki]

there’s just something very sexy about a 2d man with absolutely no social media presence whatsoever

[cocrante]

Boothill picks up Robin with his moto and knocks on the door, but Sunday opens it, scanning him from head to toe disapprovingly everything he sees: from the leather pants to those things that look like chains... Are they necklaces? What are they??

Robin going down the stairs as quickly as she can, looking beautiful in a pastel dress with a matching purse. She gives her brother a kiss on the cheek, promising not to be late, and disappears on the horizon, tightly embraced to her boyfriend.

Sunday, extremely worried, thinks he's taking her to some shady place, maybe to something clandestine like he saw on TV 😭😭 but instead they're just going to see a movie, the cheesiest romantic comedy ever. When they come out, Boothill takes her to dinner, and they share a strawberry milkshake, one of those where the straw forms a heart

[faetima]

𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐚 . .

. . judging by how many times you fell for him, you probably had amnesia.

// tws ; blood !! slight swearing ; gn reader ; modern & high school au, hanahaki au 

a/n: amnesia by boynextdoor is so good i love it sm i want to inject it into my veins

he was so ethereal, whether he was happy, sad, or pissed as fuck.

even as his face curled up into an ugly scowl or fell in despair or suddenly brightened with a subtle and soft smile, you couldn’t but find him absolutely gorgeous.

maybe that was why you were laying here on the ground now, pitifully hacking up pungent and bitter blue hydrangeas.

it was almost funny how the color of them were almost the same as sunday’s hair, just a little more blue than it.

it was also almost amusing how accurately they symbolized his response if you were to tell him your feelings; rejection.

your feelings were concealed within the hydrangeas too — regret and despair.

you sobbed as you heaved up the stupid blue flowers. they flopped onto the once clean floor ungracefully, leaving a trail of blood and mucus, of heartbreak and hopelessness.

maybe it would’ve been better if you had never laid your eyes on sunday in the first place.

—

as you saw sunday in school the next day, you felt yourself toppling head over heels for him all over again.

at this point you might as well have amnesia with how many times you’ve felt yourself falling in love with him again.

every time you saw his stupidly perfect face, his pretty wings, his fluffy grey-blue hair, you dug your grave deeper than it already was.

why did sunday have to be so fucking perfect, so fucking pretty, and so, so sweet?

—

it was dumb falling for someone you had barley talked to.

maybe if you pushed your shyness and anxiety aside you could’ve talked to him.

maybe you could’ve been acquaintances.

friends.

maybe even lovers.

but, alas, that was never going to happen.

you hated yourself so much — why couldn’t you just fucking talk to him? what the hell was wrong with you?

you sobbed, coughing out more of those wretched blue hydrangeas.

—

you were going to get the surgery.

it was useless dying over someone who didn’t even know you.

you could live without knowing him.

now you would get amnesia for real.

—

you woke up blearily, blinded by the extremely bright fluorescent lights of the hospital.

you did it.

you finally got the surgery.

you couldn’t remember what you got it done for, though.

—

after recovering, your parents saw fit for you to go back to school again.

you sat in your english class, waiting for your peers to fill up the empty room.

you watched people file in, chatter filling the room, bouncing off the walls.

and then you saw a face.

an extremely pretty face, paired with almost piercing yellow eyes and hair that reminded you of blue hydrangeas.

suddenly you started coughing. you brought your elbow to your mouth, muffling your coughs.

pulling away your face, a single blue petal drifted down to the ground, a little bit in front of you.

and then it was crushed by none other than sunday.

[plague-of-insomnia]

A sneak peek at the next chapter of The Glue That Binds Us, a sebardagni post-apocalyptic sickfic:

Sebastian was tired today. His muscles were complaining especially, like teens wanting to sleep past noon on the weekends, and he had to carefully brace himself with both hands on either side of his body to ensure he remained sitting. He didn’t think he could walk today, but he didn’t want to admit it. Not when Bard had only been home a few days and Sebastian was doing all he could to make it seem like he was fully recovered from the pneumonia and as fine as he could be.

He knew he should call Agni. If Bard weren't home, he would have already. But something about Bard returning from the seeming arms of death meant that Sebastian felt like he owed the man at least a few days without excessive worry. He couldn't prevent the attacks that often robbed him of sleep during the night, but this--pretending he was fine during the day--he could at least attempt.

He slid his arms into the familiar loops of the homemade forearm crutches Bard had made him and wrapped his fingers around the handgrips. He could do this. The cabin was small. It was only a few feet from the bed, through the bedroom door, and then just a couple more to the sofa in the main room where he'd be able to stop and rest.

Of course, if he fell, he could seriously injure himself--not to mention get a lecture from both Agni and Bard for his stubbornness. But it was already bad enough that both men treated Sebastian like glass. It was already infuriating how he'd desperately want to help, have the motivation, but not the strength, energy, or breath to help Agni with much of the house and farm work.

It didn't help that every time he closed his eyes he wondered if he'd never wake up again. Or how much it pained him to know that he would be leaving Bard alone, most likely, when he did.

Agni was a good actor and did a fairly decent job of keeping his spirits up and his true emotions hidden, but Sebastian had been with Agni for most of his life now; nearly a quarter of a century. He knew Agni almost better than himself.

It had not escaped Sebastian's notice in the last couple weeks as he finally began to recover from the pneumonia that had knocked him on his ass, when his mind had cleared enough for him to be able to notice things Agni likely thought he was still too sick and confused to.

Like how exhausted he was, physically, mentally, and emotionally, as if it radiated from his bones. Sometimes, Sebastian had wondered if he had died if it would have lifted the other man's burden, though he feared it might actually be worse.

Sebastian wasn't certain, but he suspected that Agni wouldn't want to live once Seb was gone.

Which would mean Bard would be alone again, like he was when they'd first met almost five years ago.

[bmoshh]

Slaps this quick doodle of modern clothes on ahkmenrah and Sacagawea

[nattravn-art]

Happy shitpost sunday, I missed these idiots (affectionate) and this made me think about them!

Bonus:

[weird-an]

nsfw, because of dicks (in the end)

The Creepy Kids Club made a fucking group chat that is called "Hawkins Monster Hunters". Max added his number a few weeks ago and since then, Billy has left the chat seven times on his own and got blocked three times by Max after one of their stupid fights.

It's not really about the stupid monsters. Demodogs are gone and won't ever eat anyone. So what's the point of the chat? Billy doesn't want to talk to dorks.

Apparently Henderson likes to sends photos of his fat cat, Mike Wheeler sends the most embarrassing selfies only Will reacts to and Sinclair sends a few basketball memes and well, that's something Billy can support. He gives him a like for each post.

But besides that? Billy leaves the group chat on read most of the time. Oh, or occasionally he lurks a little and laughs about Max' attempts at trying to look cool.

Steve Harrington is also in that group. On a whim, Billy saved his number under Pretty Boy. It's his phone, no one will ever find out. It's not like Steve is ever gonna text him.

Or so Billy thought. It's after midnight, he's on the way home, only that home is way too many miles away and he's a bit tipsy, after one or two - more likely five - cocktails he drank with Heather and God, it's that moment when he feels so fucking lonely, when he wants to cuddle and hates this shit stain of a town.

U up?

Billy almost trips. Pretty Boy sent this text. It's a mistake, Billy thinks. Maybe his name is right under Betty or so. Harrington is probably too drunk to realize. He's just gonna ignore it.

His phone vibrates. Another text.

Cum over

Poor Betty. What a lame booty call, Billy thinks.

This is Billy, he answers. His fingers are shaking. He shouldn't be nervous. Those texts aren't meant for him.

I know

Billy's throat turns dry. He's either more drunk than he thought or not drunk enough for this. This has to be a joke, right?

Got something for u

Billy stares at his phone. It vibrates again. This time, it's a photo.

Steve Harrington has sent him a dick pic. Billy knows what Harrington's dick looks like. He has pretended not to stare at that huge cock under the showers every practice. Fuck, he's pretty sure he could draw that cock, even get the thick vein and the mole just above it right.

He never expected to see it hard, the tip glistening with precome. Dark curls around its base. Harrington must have stopped shaving.

He shouldn't. If Neil ever finds out, Billy is still all the words he calls him, he's six feet under.

He stares at the photo again. His own pants are way too tight right now. He hasn't gotten laid in ages. He's way too lonely easy.

What's your address?

Harrington starts typing.

[spacenintendogs]

hirschel "hiccup" haddock (15) with toothless (also 15); manager strike class expert for berk dragon's nest sanctuary

[sharkiethrts]

short prompt: dancing and singing ('vulgar', as sunday would call it) songs with sunday

relations: sunday x reader, robin mentioned at the end!

Notes: modern au. Highschool prom au? You can interpret this however- even Sunday going to a club for the first time (how did you convince him, even?) Nevermind, maybe a house party is more fitting? Sunday doesn't have his wings here since it's supposed to be modern au. Did not reread this by the way, so grammatical errors wouldn't be surprising.

warnings: borderline suggestive??? to be honest, it's just the lyrics of 'california girls' that you should be worried about haha Reader is gender neutral by the way (but if there is any insinuated of gender in the story I may have missed, please correct me!)

-------------

Walking into the crowded room, the blaring music and the rising temperature caused by the throng of students accumulating in one spot overtakes you. You try to stand on your tiptoes, eyes squinting to gauge how far you are from your goal- the dancefloor. You're far. Like, remarkably far.

You had planned to enter much earlier, discarding your coat at the coat-rack placed not-so-meticulously at an inconvenient spot behind the door, yet your diligent partner just couldn't let it be. Although Sunday has tried to seem more laidback while he was courting you (as he'd call it, you tried to call it 'chase' once, while abbreviating the blooms of your love story to your friends at a housewarming party, but he cut you off rather curtly- claiming that it made him sound predatory- he seemed offended when you laughed at that).

Nevertheless, he went on to smoothing out both your coats, folding them (in a way you've only seen store employees do) carefully and then stuffing them into a bag he had brought. The bag is then hung carefully at the middle of the rack, careful to not trip the other clumsily placed jackets of your mutual friends (some unknown to you, you realise now- Jess has always been popular).

You swear that he would have done the same to the rest of the coats if it weren't for the fact you pulled him incessantly by his arm, shooting him pouting looks and an annoyed cry.

You shoot your partner a brief glare, he returns a confused look right back at you but not bothering to ask for further details- you do have quite the idiosyncrasy only belonging to you, he reasons. Your interaction is cut short by the switch of the songs. Sunday seemed rather disappointed, it had been Robin's newest song after all. But it seems that you two came in too late (you'd pity him if it weren't for him suffering from the consequences of his own actions).

You, however, are absolutely beaming. California Girls.

You pulled him by his sleeve (you're not quite sure why he chose a stiff button-up for this occasion, but then again- you don't think he has any other attire that'd be suitable for this), "You sing right?" You say over the noise.

"What?" He doesn't seem to hear.

"You sing! You told me before- you were in a choir!" You scream this time, he seems to understand now- shaking his head to refuse.

"Sippin gin and juice!" You ignore him, taking the lead. He shakes his head, saying something like how it's too 'vulgar' and how the 'lyrics are disrespectful and have objectifying undertones'. You roll your eyes, "Tryna creep a little sneak peek- At us!"

You encourage him more, flashing your most earnest look (you do feel rather earnest, the only time you've ever heard him sing was when you had a nightmare, he had hummed you to sleep- but other than that? Nothing else. No lyrics, no nothing. Since then, you have been rather adamant on pushing more out of him.

He seems to have been convinced (weak, you'd tease- if it weren't for the fact that Sunday is petty enough to never sing again just for that) and you wait for him to join in, "But nothing comes close to the golden coast," Your eyes gleam at the gentle tune of his voice, with an expertly tuned technique. He makes this song sounds holy, even.

"Once you party with us," You lead on, leaning in with a teasing push on your knees, your hands moving to grasp at his shoulders. He reciprocates by holding onto your back, completing your line, "You'll be falling in love"

Exhilarated by his concession, you let out an off tune and off time plethoras of 'oh's, to which he had laughed at- eyes wrinkled and head slightly thrown back- messing up his neatly combed long hair.

You grin. This was going to be a night.

You grip at his hand with your other, feeling the clammy surface of it. You realise he's nervous, baring his feelings like no other. He must be unfamiliar with the closeness of it all, with the downright sexual lyrics spilling out of his mouth at this point.

You lean in by his ear, breath hitting where he shivers.

"Sex on the beach," His cheeks bloom red- alongside with his ears that now look bruised in purple and red. He tries to pull back, definitely to scold you for your 'indecency'. You don't let him, ". We don't mind sand in our stilettos."

By the end of the night, you forgot your coats at the rack, walking home singing your surfeit of Katy Perry songs.

You remember to film a clip of Sunday belting the lyrics of 'Last Friday Night'. To which you sent to Robin, where she responded with long series of questions.

Funny, to think that you had been to shy to ever talk to her before this. Where she had given you her phone number when Sunday had first introduced you in a cafe. You had thought that she was just exchanging polite platitudes, to which Sunday refuted that Robin had been genuinely lonely.

With her excited response, you finally start to believe him.

'Send me more! You have more, right?!' to 'Where were you? Invite me next time! We should go together!"

You grin, it's the next morning (scratch that, it's one) and your feet are sore from the dancing (Sunday had spun you around once, you think he told you- 'it's my rendition of the galopede of the 1820s').

You call her, to which she picks up immediately, "He vomited the moment we came home," Was the first thing you said.

She understood you immediately, "He drank?"

"Vodka. Even took his part in games- won his first note, I'd wager."

You spent the whole afternoon recounting the night to her, to which she swooned and battered you up for more.

"Ah." You paused for a second.

"What is it?!" By this point, Robin has forgotten about her upcoming rehearsal in fifteen, to which she always comes thirty minutes early. She missed that mark fifteen minutes ago.

"I think we may have left our coats at Jess' house."

Robin completely lost it at that. So worth it.

[slowd1ving]

[INAMORATA] SNIPPET . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE, SOMEWHAT JIAOQIU??

for some additional context reader is an incubus and also joined a class on catching/apprehending monsters in the modern world as a joke, but now is doing a project on said monsters (cough, incubi) thus is in a really fucking awkward position rn anyways this will probably be the last snippet before I actually post the work so enjoyy

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

“…edit it documentary style. It’s professional, organised, and will suit the Professor’s tastes.” Sunday’s mellifluous voice washes over you as you sit in the campus library with your classmates, desperately trying to look engaged. 

It does not work. 

Sunday’s fountain pen wavers in the air and turns on you, and your heart jolts and skips past a few beats—it looks far too close to a weapon for your liking, and you would not trust an angel with a dagger for the life of you. Or without the dagger. He does not inch it closer, but it’s rather an unconscious mirroring of his thinking that betrays that he’s about to scold you for falling asleep. You’re thankful for the table that separates the two of you, but you fear wood can only do so much to counter flames of divine punishment. 

But before he can lecture you, Moze beats him to it. And for the record, you don’t know how he ended up sitting right next to you, and you’d like to complain. 

Leaning across his chair, he gets unnecessarily close to talk to you, and it’s not like whatever he’s saying is important. 

“Do you have anything to add—” and here his leg ghosts up against yours, but you don’t flinch. At least, you don’t think you do. “—or did you not get enough sleep last night?”

His voice is low—enough that there’s an undercurrent of tension without him even trying. You choose not to reply directly to him; instead, you look at Sunday once more, and you swear you feel a spike of irritation from the angel. But, surely not, right?

Mulling your words over, you carefully select a sequence that won’t land you a one-way ticket back to hell. There’s a certain trick to this, you see—and that’s crossing your fingers and thinking of an escape plan in the event you fail, or the shameless cowardly demon approach. It may not land you a spot among the Lieutenants, but it sure is better than being skewered by some angel. 

Especially one named Sunday. You disguise your grimace. 

“Uhh,” you wrack your brains, before settling on the first thing your mind falls upon—yesterday night, all cozied up with Jiaoqiu. Fuck. “A horror movie.”

You can feel Moze’s stare burn into dermis, sizzle a bit, then singe your very bones.

“That’s an— unconventional idea,” Sunday coughs, and you remind yourself that angels are way meaner than you’d expect. 

“If you think it’s ill-founded, then I would like to remind you our professor’s maturity doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll enjoy an orthodox style,” you argue, suddenly remembering that angels are also ill-suited for debates and ‘gotchas’, and also that incubi can honey their tongue to saccharine degree.

Fuck. You’ve really spent too much time in the human realm. 

Before Sunday can get a word in, you keep talking, desperate to look enthusiastic to discuss incubi and possibly give yourself away. “If it’s being entered into the Film Festival, a mockumentary or a horror film could be both informative and entertaining. Or even a silent film.”

“It’s succubi and incubi,” Moze mutters. “If there were more people I’d bet there’d be one group submitting porn.”

You stifle a cough, but you don’t think you did it well. 

“What, with Hopkins as the intended audience?” you glance at him, and see the traces of laughter on his mouth, and suddenly your own feels somewhat dry. Just a little. 

“Yeah, imagine,” he matches your airy tone—and the proximity forces your heart to lapse. Just a little. 

Sunday’s glare bores into both of you. “Can the two of you take this seriously? We are absolutely not doing that.”

If you ever forgot he was an angel, this is a poignant reminder. Should you squint, you think you can see a faint halo around his head, but that could also honestly just be the library light causing the incandescence. 

“Yes, which is why we should do horror or a mockumentary,” you interrupt. This is the only fight you’d ever attempt with an angel, and boy do you deserve a medal for it like the humans do. “The topic isn’t particularly… uh… safe for work, so horror would convey the right message that we investigate in each class, while still having space for detail. Think something like found footage horror films or something.”

“You raise a good point,” Sunday deliberates—if there was anything good to say about angels, it would be that they are gracious with their concessions. Some concessions. “Fine.”

Fine. 

Fine.

Fine. 

With glee, you save the moment to brag about when you next visit downstairs. I got an angel to agree with me. 

But simultaneously, you compose your face, knowing the next item on the agenda will inevitably be the very topic of the proposal. 

Suddenly, you no longer feel the glee of just a minute ago. 

Oh shit. 

[dawnrider]

Since I never manage to share "Only Six Sentences" I made a more accurate banner. 😅

Have some In The Blood!

“Have you been able to find an antibiotic that can help?” The doctor folded in on himself a little. “Unfortunately not. Miasma is typically dealt with either with nullifying energy or…” Or it wasn't dealt with at all.  If a youkai were infected, they would have to overpower it with their own youki or they would succumb. Humans could be helped by someone – typically a monk or priestess – who was capable of emitting the type of energy that could nullify both miasma and youki. Which meant it was considered too dangerous to use on anyone with youkai heritage. Kagome bit her lip. “If I have his permission, can I attempt it?” “Excuse me?” the doctor choked out, aghast. “She's gonna purify my ass,” Inuyasha piped up, entirely unhelpfully. He was smirking rather lazily, but it was clear that he was coming around a bit more.  “Don't say it like that. You know I hate that word,” she snapped. “Keh.” Kagome took several slow breaths, allowing her shoulders to relax. “I also have to have some ability. It is… not much, but it might be enough to lessen its effects and allow him to heal.” The doctor pressed his fist to his chin in thought, looking Inuyasha over and referencing his paper chart a few times. “We need the delirium effects to fade some before I can allow him to give consent.” He paused. “He will likely be in a fair amount of pain.” “Pfft. Pain, schmain.” “Inuyasha, you have several cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder and a miasma-infected stab wound. Oh, and the gouges in your leg you neglected to mention.” He blinked at her with a slightly dopey smile on his face. “You are going to feel it.” “Can’t be worse than when it happened!”

[twokinds-es]

Break Apart

La quimera ve a Laura jugando el juego de Lego, y cuando Laura murió la quimera ve como su personaje se desarma y le dice que ella también puede hacer eso, y se lo muestra XD, creo que el seguro de viva de Laura va a subir de nuevo, boceto sugerido por LegoStampy.

Publicar original "Patreon"

(Salu2 de Spark)

[faetima]

𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. .

. .your love had turned into ashes.

// tws ; slight cursing, blood ; gn reader ; modern au, hanahaki au, you n sunday are exes

the time of daylight in your day seemed shorter than everybody else’s—when their day was filled with sunlight, the sun had already set in yours, leaving nothing but twilight.

if you recalled your thoughts about him, even in the middle of the day, it would become night again.

there was no escape.

sunday’s words used to make your heart flutter, your neck heat up, your ears burn, your face break out into a grin.

now?

now those same words made you fucking furious. they made you want to kick and scream and cry and cry and cry. cry tears of anger of sadness of everything you had felt ever since he had left you.

it was winter. the temperature had cooled down outside, but the feelings between you both had only gotten hotter.

they had burned up. now only ashes of the darkest black remained.

ashes the same color as the roses you were coughing up now.

you dry-heaved, gagging up pitch black roses. the once sweet aroma they had carried, the aroma you had once loved, had now turned sickly. 

just smelling it made you want to hurl.

you coughed and coughed and coughed, black petals falling onto the floor. the stark contrast between the pure white of the tiles and the darkness of the roses made you dizzy.

no trace of sunday remained in your home. you had gotten rid of everything he had left—toothbrush, some random ass documents, pictures of him, everything. if your love had been a fire, only ash remained.

but, even if you had gotten rid of every memory of him, you still cried when you thought of him. 

your lungs and throat burned, begging for mercy. black roses—splattered with scarlet droplets—flopped onto the tiling, staining it with the same red they were coated with. the flowers shone underneath the blaring, almost fluorescent, lights of your house, slick with mucus and spit.

sobs wracked your body. your tears, salty and crystal clear, spilled onto the floor and the stupid roses, translucent drops of your misery.

of course, out of all people, you had to be in love with your fucking ex that had broken up with you.

fuck, you hated everything. you hated yourself you hated him you hated your feelings for him you hated how every single fucking time you looked out the window it was twilight you hated how—

another series of harsh coughs interrupted your thoughts, breaking you out of your daze.

it was supposed to be three in the afternoon, but, for you, the sun was setting and it was night again in your room.

—

you wanted to throw up.

sunday looked so pretty in all the photos you had taken of him. a gentle smile on his angelic face, his gray-blue hair a little messy but neat at the same time, his amber eyes soft with affection.

fuck, you wanted to go back in time.

you couldn’t even bring yourself to delete the photos you had of him on your phone.

god, you were pathetic. 

your love for each other had begun to crack, falling apart, so much so you were scared to touch the cracks in fear it would break more.

—

the once delicate adoration you had held for one another had faded away into bitter resentment, mixed with lingering feelings.

was there no pretty, happy ending?

—

you took shallow, shaky breaths, thorns piercing your lungs and digging into your throat as you spat out bitter black roses. your eyes burned with tears of pain and sadness, while your throat was raw from all the coughing.

you hurled another batch of the ugly fucking roses, barley able to breathe. black spots, the same color as the roses, danced in and out of your vision, making you dizzy. your room spun around you, and you clutched onto the floor with your trembling, frail hands.

it was harder to find him than all the stars in the sky. did he hide behind clouds? you couldn’t even see him in your dreams, let alone in your memories, now.

you couldn’t even see him in your future.

you gasped for air, eyes fluttering open and shut, lungs begging for mercy.

before you closed your eyes for the last time, you glanced out your window at the night and the emptiness left in it.

[plague-of-insomnia]

Six-Sentence Sunday: Synchronize AU, Ch 8

I’m sadly still quite a long way off from finishing the next chapter, but I was finally able to write a little for it the other day, so here’s a small sample.

This scene is basically one in which Sebastian is having issues swallowing and Agni decides to step in, which leads Sebastian into admitting something.

Agni was always observant, and the instant he heard Sebastian coughing, he was at his side, a concerned expression on his face. “Are you having swallowing problems today?”

Sebastian couldn’t meet Agni’s eyes. “I’m fine. I just need some water.”

Agni frowned but nodded and left to get him some.

Sebastian stared at the cup in his hand, setting it on the over-bed table in front of him. He tried to swallow again and felt like he had to use his tongue and accessory neck muscles to execute it. He shut his eyes tight and swore in his mind. He was supposed to be better. He was stronger. He could sit up unsupported for a short amount of time and even transfer to his chair from bed on his own.

This felt like a slap in the face. He didn’t want to believe it. Maybe he was just tired?

“Here you go,” Agni said, offering him the cup with a straw. “I’m going to put my hand on your throat, but swallow normally.”

Sebastian acted indifferent, but he was scared. And pissed. He hesitantly took a sip of water; it felt like it took five or six swallows when it should have easily passed with only one. And he’d barely finished when he began to cough again, several times, enough that Agni took the cup away.

“You’re NPO until Dr. Albrecht clears you,” he said with authority, taking both cups away, meaning that Sebastian wouldn’t be allowed anything by mouth—not food, drink, or medicine. “I’ll give you your medication via your g-tube and go prepare a liquid meal for you once I’ve done that.”

“No,” Sebastian said, his fingers bunching in the blankets. He coughed again since it felt like the water was still stuck in his throat, even though he knew he had to be imagining it. “Please, Agni.”

Agni paused, cups in each hand, staring down at Sebastian, his face sympathetic, and yet stern. “Aspiration pneumonia is serious. This isn’t negotiable.” Basically, if Sebastian’s mouth and throat muscles were weak, it meant he couldn’t prevent food, liquid, and saliva from going down into his lungs. If that happened enough, it could lead to infection and even death.

Sebastian said nothing else as he watched Agni move, suddenly feeling crushed by despair. It had been foolish to hope, he’d known it.

But Agni made things different, somehow. As odd as it might seem, the one who’d come to care for all the needs he couldn’t attend to alone somehow made him feel more independent than he had in years.

And now . . .

“Sebastian? Are you all right? You’re breathing OK?”

Sebastian’s eyes flew from where they’d been fixed on the feeding tube supplies to those beautiful gray eyes. He wanted to be furious with Agni, as if he were to blame for Sebastian’s body betraying him, but he couldn’t bring himself to take his frustrations out on the nurse. Not now. Not after all they’d been through, how much Agni had helped him, even when he probably didn’t deserve it. “Do you have to do this?”

Agni tilted his head, assessing Sebastian. “I’ll do everything I can so you won’t be nauseous.”

That wasn’t what Sebastian meant, but he sighed and moved the blanket away, lifting his shirt to expose his abdomen, the little button that lay flush against his skin in the lower right just above where his pants waistband would be.

“I didn’t want this,” Sebastian said, watching Agni as he worked.

Agni paused what he was doing. “Sebastian?”

“The tube.”

Catch up with Synchronize by reading ch 1-7 on AO3!