#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.

[fenr1r]

i love femme harrow i love butch harrow i love genderfunk harrow i love goth harrow i love catholic harrow. all of the modern renditions of her are true and beautiful and we should make as many as possible

[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. 

[cowboah-baby]

ysl homage for @spoilthevines (full version on bsky)

[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.

[twokinds-es]

Snow Leopard Mike

Mike no solo cambia de genero si no que ahora también de especie, y una esponjosa leopardo de las nieves, demasiada rikura para el pobre corazón de Evals XD, también hay una versión vieja de Mike leopardo esponjoso pero hombre, boceto sugerido por Athetos.

Publicación original "Patreon"

(Subido por Spark)

(Saludos del equipo de Twokinds-es)

[biowaredisasterbisexual]

Shameless Self-Promotion Saturday Sunday

Thanks so much for the tags @thedissonantverses and @littlemissgeek8! I am slightly more awake today, so let’s do it!

Also, I’m using this as my Sunday Accountability post #efficiency. 😁

The rules: We make a post and show off, what cool stuff we created over the past week. Art, Screenshots, writing (anything from a questionnaire about your OC to the 100K epos...) anything we do is worth to be seen and to be promoted. And by tagging people, commenting, and reblogging, we share the love and boost ourselve's and other's confidence. No matter what form you choose, whether you reblog your initial post, or create a new one with teasers, you decide!

It was a busy week here at casa BDB and @mageofquandrix, but I did manage to get up another of the Getting Into Trouble one-shots:

Reckless

(Rated: T; Words: 2,044; Pairing: Neve/Disaster Rook)

Beyond that, I did a bunch of editing and a little bit of writing, so snippets from stuff I worked on below the cut!

I’ll tag (apologies if you already did this and I didn’t see it <3): @basedonconjecture, @ofcrowsanddragons, @bygonesigh, @hyperions-light, @dymme, @hedwigoprah, @jouskaroo, @mythals-whore, @corvus-frugilegus, @galluslonging, @future-ghoost, @taashyvashedan, @lurkiestvoid, and @pinkvbay.

Working Title: Oh No, Not Now

Not now. Not this. Not…him.

Neve let out a shaky breath as she looked down at her hands. She couldn’t help but replay the last few minutes over and over again in her mind.

The way Rook had dropped the humor he wore like armor. The awkward, almost hesitant, way he’d begun what undoubtedly would have been some kind of confession. That he felt…what he felt.

What they both did, really.

The way he had listened as Neve told him all the things her head told her — that they both chased trouble, that the world wasn’t fair and this was something they probably couldn’t ask for — with an open face and soft eyes. His quiet confidence as he’d reassured her.

Good things happen, Neve.

She could still feel the pull that had existed between them as they had leaned closer, and for a few moments shared the same breath, before reality had interrupted.

Neve had taken the hint, creating the space she had needed, and he’d accepted her decision without comment. That easy acceptance, that gentle kindness in him, as he’d respected her choice.

The heartsick little smile he’d given her — softer than a person could ever reasonably be expected to withstand — as he had left, eyes on her the entire time, haunted her.

Neve’s chest hurt.

Working Title: What Now?

She stepped in close, wrapping her arms around him from behind, and resting her forehead between his bare shoulder blades. His chest vibrated softly beneath her hands as he hummed in greeting, and she kissed one of the scars that crisscrossed his back.

“Hey, Neve Gallus,” he murmured, and he turned slowly in her arms to face her. This late, when it was just the two of them, she’d learned he became different: the frenetic energy he usually exuded fled, sharp-edged humor and wit were softened, and his presence shifted from a storm of persistent optimism to something steadier.

This was a part of him others rarely saw, this inner core of him, but Neve now saw it often. This was her Rook.

“Mmm, what’re you doing up, Trouble?” She leaned back to better see his face.

He smiled, apologetic. “Did I wake you up?”

“No,” she assured him, and relief flitted across his face, chasing away the forming guilt she’d seen in his eyes. “But you could have.”

Working Title: The Modern AU, Chapter 2

“You left last night for a job?” It wasn’t really question, so much as a request he admit it, and Rook’s little smile in response was chagrined.

“Guilty.” No dodges, no excuses. The world felt a little less unstable again.

“How many times have you entered that plea?” She teased, and he laughed.

“That’s more third date material, I think,” he joked. “I try to get a person used to the fact I’m uniquely troublesome before I give them my rap sheet.”

Neve rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t a date. And I think that you’re trouble is clear enough even without.” She wasn’t entirely sure if she was convincing him, or trying to remind herself.

“I know.” He chuckled, but the smile on his lips didn’t quite meet his eyes now.

Very interesting.

Rook pulled a black, cloth hood over his face, and Neve had to wonder just well he could see through it. “Ready!” He said brightly, and she realized she disliked the hood immediately. He had an expressive face, most of the time, and his communication felt oddly incomplete without being able to see it. Still, she could almost hear him grin. “Let’s do it.”

Working Title: The Ventus Job, Chapter 5

Rook crept through back alleys and side streets until he reached the inn, and gutted his way through a short climb up a trellis to the second floor so he could let himself in through a window.

There was a silver lining in Neve’s absence in the fact she didn’t witness him slip on the window sill and fall into the room face first.

He peeled himself off the floor and, after shooting down a healing potion like cheap whiskey, began taking off his armor. Once stripped down to his smalls, he flopped onto the bed and relaxed for a minute as the potion worked its way through him. Neve hated them — he could think of all of one time he’d convinced her to take one, and he was pretty sure the fever had weakened her resolve at the time — but Rook didn’t mind the burn in his throat so long as they worked.

They did taste disgusting, though. She was right about that.

Once any lingering pain had faded to a dull ache, he got up and dressed. Fighting was hungermaking work, and he’d skipped breakfast. His belly was complaining more than Tarquin. So, once fully clothed, he headed downstairs.

“Micah?!”

A blonde blur shot across the room and he felt arms around him before he could process what was happening.

“Sorry,” Julia called from the desk, eyeing him receiving his forcible hug. “She followed me back here.

“Wait,” the teenager said, confused, “when did you get back?”

“Not long ago,” Rook said, though he offered no further explanation as he tried to gently pry his assailant off.

Finally, she let go, and he looked down into the face of Livinia Mercar.

Almost the same face as when he’d left, really; he’d have recognized her anywhere. Now that he could actually see her, that was, which the near-strangling hug hadn’t exactly allowed.

“Hey Livvy.” He said, giving her a hopeful smile.

She reached out and smacked his arm.

“You’re gone for seven years — no visits, no letters, nothing — and your lead-in is ‘hey Livvy’?” She crossed her arms over her chest and pinned him with her gaze.

[raphaerolo]

Last Line Challenge/Several Sentence Sunday

I got tagged by @lttrsfrmlnrrgby thank you <3<3

I was working on my hockey au fic today, which goes with the hockey au drawing I did for cwfkb :

There are reporters outside asking for an interview, and Windu’s come in to ask for volunteers. He makes eye contact with Kenobi, who then looks around briefly before standing up himself. He’d only just finished with his skates, not yet put on his shoulder pads or jersey. Nonetheless, he stands up on his skates, pulling the sleeves of his compression shirt down on his wrists seemingly unconsciously, then follows Coach Windu out of the locker room while pushing his hair out of his face.

Cody watches Kenobi leave, attention caught on the particular hang of his shoulders, the way he has to change his posture right before entering into the sight of the cameras, the nervous ticks that only Cody seems to notice. He narrows his eyes and sighs as the door swings shut behind his captain.

His thoughts remain on Kenobi as he finishes putting on his shoulder pads.

Pregame jitters amiright

(Yall im so excited for this fic im trying new things with it and its nice)

Tagging no pressure @frostbitebakery @bluemaskedkarma @ecarian @loverboy-havocboy

[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.

[plague-of-insomnia]

Six-Sentence Sunday: Synchronize AU, Ch 8

So I know I barely wrote anything in 2024 and it’s been nearly 2 years since I was able to update Synch, but I’ve never stopped thinking about this story and I absolutely want to finish it.

I finally was able to assemble all the disparate pieces/scenes into an order more or less, and I was able to write one scene!, so I am hoping this means I’ll be able to update with something soonish, but again, no promises.

The story so far: Sebastian has been weaned off steroids and despite growing stronger in many ways, his swallowing muscles weaken to the point he’s no longer allowed anything by mouth. But he’s struggling to tolerate the tube feedings, and the last week has been dealing with severe GI symptoms and pain unlike anything he’s ever experienced. And Agni, caught up in his own anxiety, slips too far into nurse mode and fails to truly listen to why Sebastian is so upset…

Anyway, a tiny taste for the 2 people who still care about this story:

Sebastian lay on his side in bed, curled into a relaxed fetal position, Tanaka holding one of his hands as he tried to count in his head, hoping to slip into sleep.

When he felt this bad, he couldn’t think clearly enough to imagine and escape in his mind the way he might other times, which made these moments so much worse. He was too sick to watch TV or play a game or even follow the story that Tanaka was telling him as a way to try and distract him.

And the sad thing about this was, he was in a lull right now. That uncomfortable, heavy feeling in his core lingered, like someone had filled his abdomen with jello. The nausea hovered, always just beneath the surface, blending with the tension and anxiety of not knowing if he’d be able to fall asleep before the next bout of cramps and spasms hit.

Didn’t help that his rashes hurt, his skin irritated and inflamed in some of the most sensitive areas of his body. Agni was treating them with various medicated lotions, but they only seemed to get angrier. It would be better if his skin could be given the chance to breathe, but his fever had been hovering in the region of obnoxiousness ever since he weaned off the last of the steroids. Not so high his life was in danger or his mind was bleary— its own escape— but high enough to coat him in an almost content sheen of cold sweat. His body in a perpetual battle between sizzling and shivering.

Both Tanaka and Agni were attentive, but they were still human.

Tanaka sighed and temporarily laid the beat-up picture book on his lap. A well-loved copy of Momotarou, in colorful, large hiragana that Sebastian remembered fondly from his childhood. “I always loved this story. Sometimes I feel a little like the old couple, since I never imagined I would ever have a son, and I definitely consider you a gift from the gods.” He leaned in and brought Sebastian’s fingers to his lips, kissing them tenderly. “You’ll get through this rough patch, I know you will.”

Sebastian managed a faint smile, but he didn’t believe his adopted father’s words. He couldn’t. He’d never been sick like this before. He’d never lost his ability to to swallow so completely. He’d never—

Sebastian moaned as he felt a sharp cramping pain in his lower abdomen. No. It was starting again already?

Read Ch 1-7 of Synchronize on AO3

[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. 

[mer-acle]

Me: So how about we write the new ftbl chapter bc Friday is in like 1.5 days? Brain: Modern AU? Me: Fighting to be loved has an upload schedule. The modern AU doesn't even have a fic planned as of now. Brain: That fifth part of the the SltmF scene should also be written. Me: Again, upload schedule. Brain: Also remember the fanart we wanted to make? Me: Saturday is a thing. Brain: You have social obligations on Saturday. And Sunday. And Monday uni starts up so your life is basically over, yk? Me: Fuck. Also. If we're not gonna write we should do FtbL comments cos we have like 60 unanswered ones rn. Brain: I'm about to shut down and let you do nothing istg. Me: THAT'S BEEN ALL DAY SO FAR! Brain: BC I DON'T WANNA DO WHAT YOU WANT RN Me: AHHHHH Brain: AHHHHH

[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: