Requests: Open

capitano was who had you first, your legs were sprawled out on his lap. you could feel how hard his cock was against your back whilst one of his fingers slipped inside your wet folds. and god, his fingers were long.

capitano did not even have to say anything, the small hums of approval that vibrated across his chest as you leaned on him was enough for you to understand what he wanted. you knew him long enough to know what he liked, but that didn't stop the surprise that caught you off-guard; a second finger.

capitano loved seeing you squirm, it wasn't even the first time he had taken off his clawed gloves in order to get at an angle that would curve them right into your g-spot.

your pretty little back arched in unison, your head leaned into the space beside his neck.

capitano loved seeing you so fragile, others always saw you somewhat stone-faced, either that or a kind, pretty face in the cold winter that of the harbingers. but here? you were his.

oh but the utter shame you felt whenever pierro felt like joining in. especially with how different they treated you individually.

capitano—his touch was soft, but roughened you up with the right volume. but pierro? his words were laced with the soft snow you'd find outside,

the difference? one didn't have to speak, and the other spoke for both.

so it would've made sense that pierro loved whispering praise into your ears whilst keeping it 'professional'. praise that could easily turn into dirty words that would turn you on either way.

"doimg a great job for us, ms. (reader)." voice with a tone similar to softness itself, his hands were massaging the spots capitano couldn't cover, you couldn't tell how someone could feel so warm yet so cold all at the same time.

not to mention, they always mentioned this between each other like it was apart of your duty. but the thing is? you get to control whether you want it sweet, and sensual, or hard and rough. although that choice is yours, it's been a requirement for awhile that you 'help' them at least once a week.

especially when it had been one particularly annoying servant making it obvious they more-than-dislike their pretty little secretary? they were already calling you over.

capitano loved dipping his monster-sized tongue into the tight enteance of your pussy while your soft thighs would crash against the rough, ragged sides of his head. pierro always preferred to watch, rather than to give oral.

pierro preferred to whisper sweet little nothings into your ear, a hand on his pale cock while watching his close coworker go down on you.

but you know what? you don't know what turned you on more, when they were sensual, and sensitive with how they touch you, or if they did not care at all. (at least if they act like they don't)

did you like capitano better when he had your head forced into the desk below you, penetrating your cute little hole with that abnormally large cock?

"fuck, t-take it baby—take your boss's cock like you're mine." you couldn't do anything but moan and arch your back.

your ass was poised up for him like you were just a mere doll for him, but honestly? capitano never made you feel like you were just a plaything. he made sure you felt at the very least appreciated when having sex.

as much as he had liked pounding your fat ass into the mattress, he loved eating your pussy out waaaaay more.

the way your walls clenched on his tongue, and how he had to hold your hips down onto his face. just let him handle your weight, pleeeeeease, he wanted needed to get all up inside your velvety walls before anyone else could have a taste.

or...

was it pierro when he let you ride him, letting you take control of the pace until you can't, so you beg him to do it for you—

"what do you say then?" "p.. please s—sir? wan' it s'bad." "good fuckin' slut."

that's all you heard before his large hands landed on you, one on your waist, and the other gripping at your ass. god he loved your ass so much.

pierro always needed to have his hands on you. he couldn't help using the excuse of looking out for his secretary. or making sure his secretary was going to be saved from some random on the street trying to hit you up.

so when you were in private? he needed to have his palms, and especially when gripping at your ass. he loves how bouncy it was, he loves when you threw it back on his cock when you sank down onto him.

capitano who always uses the excuse of needing you to help clean up when in reality he just needed a breather from that damn helmet, and kiss the cunt he's grown to be obsessed with.

and pierro who falls in love with how much pleasure you could give him. just by being all cute and vulnerable with him was enough. he always used his authorative role to make sure he got what he wanted.

This journey is filled with a hundred impasses and twice as many ultimatums. What is the right choice? What needs to be sacrificed? What can he bring himself to sacrifice?

Aether had long since given up on sleep, both because he was so busy and because as hard as he tried there were things that weighed on him more than he’d like, and he could wait to reunite with his sister. He could deal with cold meals and a cold bed when he did sleep at odd hours of the day, sometimes he could even deal with the stray hairs that tickled his neck as his braid frayed. This or that, he was slowly becoming numb to that question.

He would not accept this or that now though. The mildly important tactical meeting and report, or spending time with his beloved girlfriend…

“Please, please, please,” he whines into her neck, leaving kisses along the marked skin between each word. He’d completely forgotten about the meeting and, for a moment, lived in the blissful world where it was just them. “If I leave you now, I might actually kill someone.”

The prince drags himself away from Y/n’s neck and looks up at her with pleading eyes. She smooths her thumb along his cheek, trying to wipe away the dark circles, and frowns down at him. Meanwhile his hands knead absentmindedly at her thighs that straddle his hips.

“Aether, I’m going to be there anyways.”

“Yes but we’ll be all professional and you’ll be at the other end of the table. I want you to sit on my lap.”

Y/n’s frown deepens and she squishes his cheeks between one hand.

“This is a formal meeting, not a dinner with friends. And even then I still don’t see how me sitting on your lap so you can get off is appropriate.”

“I’m not asking you to cockwarm me. My pants will stay on, I swear.”

He, technically, kept his word. His pants didn’t come off, but his dick didn’t stay in his pants. He also didn’t ask her to cockwarm him.

Y/n rests her chin in her palm, fingers curled to cover her mouth, and leans against the meeting table. Aether sits behind her, arms looping around her waist, watching the heralds set the map up while gently stroking her sides. His hips roll slowly against hers, and he grins– burying his mouth against her shoulder– as she tenses when his tip catches his clit.

Beneath her carefully splayed skirt, Aether had pulled his pants down just enough to free his dick– they were still on, they only counted as off once they were below his knees– and tucked himself under her underwear.

“Your highness, are you ready to begin?”

“Yes,” Aether rests his chin on Y/n’s shoulder, feeling the fabric of her high collar against his cheek, “what’s the report?”

His grip on her waist tightens, pulling her back against him as he rolls his hips forward. From where he is, he can hear her breath hitch and can feel the muscles under his arms tighten. She’s still leaning against the table, because it’s the only way she can think to cover her mouth, and trying to focus on the meeting. Even though they’d both read the report and this was really a formality that could have been a letter. Seriously, why was he here?

If this had been a letter he could be in bed right now, balls deep in Y/n instead of carefully fucking himself between her cunt and underwear. He could be adding more marks to the pretty collage on her neck. She could be biting him back and clawing at him, leaving marks that she’ll insist he needs to cover and he will because he loves her.

His hips stutter at the thought, and Y/n bites down on the heel of her palm to keep from moaning. She shifts back and he hisses.

“Your highness, are you alright?”

“Just stubbed my toe. Continue.”

Y/n shifts her hand so that Aether can see her mouth and the smug smirk on her lips, then settles back before he can make her regret her decision. He’s still going to get her back though.

One hand slips under her skirt and into her underwear. He bites back a moan when he brushes his dick, and slides his fingers through her folds until he finds her clit. It’s throbbing, he can feel it twitch, this is so unfair.

He begins to rub slow, firm circles against the bundle of nerves and her thighs immediately squeeze shut. Aether rolls his hips again, this time into the firm pressure of her thighs. Another roll and he moves Y/n with him. Y/n leans back into his chest and clears her throat.

Aether stops all movement.

“I’m a little concerned about supplies.”

His grip on her waist tightens, nails digging into the flesh through her shirt, as she stays in her new position. One hand slips into her lap and under her skirt to lazily stroke him through her underwear.

The heralds go on to address her concerns. Concerns that Aether knows she’s already addressed because they read the report together and she left notes about the responses she got. Aether goes back to tracing circles on her clit and rocking his hips against hers. Y/n nods along while moving her hips in time with his.

He can feel the way she clenches around nothing and the way the knot in his own abdomen tightens. Her breathing is shaky and he’s still hiding in her shoulder, but neither of them stop. In fact, Y/n’s hips buck as her fingers graze her folds when she wraps her fingers around his dick to squeeze him. She turns her chin up and he moves his ear to her lips.

“It’d be a shame if you wasted… supplies,” she whispered, pulling her hand away and setting it back on the table. 

Aether’s dick twitches. Look at her, being all professional and saying they shouldn’t do this during a meeting just to turn around and edge him like that. Okay, maybe this entire situation was entirely his fault.

The fingers on her clit sped up, and she bit her palm to try and stifle her heavy breathing. The heralds had gotten into some kind of debate and weren’t paying any attention to the two at the head of the table. Aether places a kiss to Y/n’s neck.

“So considerate.”

He began to prod at her opening with his ring finger, feeling it flutter from the stimulation to her clit. A soft whine caught in Y/n’s throat as she closes her eyes and bucks her hips against his hands as she shudders. Aether bites his lip to stifle a groan, slowing his pace to help Y/n ride out her high.

“Your highness?”

Y/n slowly opens her eyes and Aether looks back at the heralds. Had they addressed him?

“Is that all?”

“Yes, your highness. I think we’ve covered everything.”

“Then you’re dismissed.”

Aether withdraws his hand while the heralds collect their things and leave and then-

Y/n’s feet hit the floor, her legs shaking, and Aether presses a hand to her lower back– bending her over the table. He pulls his hips back and takes a second to align himself before sinking in with a groan.

“He-hey,” Y/n breathed.

The day Welt announced to the entire Astral Express Crew that Sunday was going to be a new member, you were baffled. It’s not like you’re against having new members aboard, but it’s mainly because, well, Sunday scares you. Sunday was part of the Oak Family—he had so much power and influence over what happens in Penacony that you can’t help but feel like a frightened kitten whenever he’s in the same vicinity as you. Not only that, but you and Sunday didn’t have a good first impression of each other, but that was so long ago, so maybe he has changed! Right?

“So, we have a new member in the Astral Express Crew! Remember when [Y/N] was first welcomed to the crew?” Caelus asks, throwing an arm around your shoulders.

You rub the back of your neck awkwardly. “To be honest, I don’t remember that day. My memory’s fuzzy. Do you want to refresh my memory?” You poke Caelus’s ribs, causing him to jolt. 

Dan Heng sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. The day you arrived at the Astral Express was definitely an event. You woke up on the Xianzhou Luofu, clueless about what happened and how you ended up in this universe. You slept a lot, which isn’t abnormal for you, but that day specifically, it was very weird. You were not “asleep,” your consciousness was stripped from you just so the Aeon of Destruction could communicate with you. 

You nudge Dan Heng and Caelus. “Psst! Why’s Sunday looking at us like that?” You whisper, glancing at the Halovian from the corner of your eye, trying not to make it obvious.

“Maybe he’s curious and wants to befriend us all. After all, he’ll be with us everywhere we go from now on.” Dan Heng murmurs, stroking his chin.

Welt and Sunday converse for a bit before walking over to where you, March 7th, Dan Heng, and Caelus are standing. You try your best to act normal. Whatever happened back in Penacony was so long ago, and Sunday is a changed man! Welt stops in front of your small group with Sunday beside him.

Welt clears his throat. “March, Dan Heng, Caleus, [Y/N]. Please give a warm welcome to Sunday.” A small smile appears on Welt’s face.

“I am happy to be here with you all. I look forward to exploring many planets with you all and creating new memories,” Sunday says, smiling at everyone. 

“Why is he so formal?” March 7th mutters, earning a nudge from Dan Heng.

You and Sunday lock eyes, and for a moment, you see something flash in his eyes. His expression is unreadable, but he continues to smile at you and tilts his head forward as if he’s showing some kind of acknowledgement.

You clear your throat, smiling at the Halovian. “Welcome to the Astral Express, Sunday! I hope you enjoy your stay here. I would show you around, but I have things to do.”

As if on cue, Sampo and Gepard enter the Astral Express. Sampo has his eyes locked on you the minute the doors open. Sampo charges at you, tackles you in a hug, and spins you around. You wrap your arms around Sampo’s neck, yelping about how Sampo needs to stop doing that to you or else you two will end up on the ground one day.

Sampo lets out a loud laugh. “Oh, Gumdrop. You’re so cute for assuming I would let that happen! Can you blame a man for being happy to see someone as cute as you?” Sampo coos, caressing your face in his hands before peppering your face with kisses. 

Gepard shakes his head with disapproval. “Sampo, for once, can you please behave?” Gepard mutters before shooting an apologetic smile in your direction.

Sampo makes a face at Gepard before reluctantly putting you back on the ground. You pat Sampo’s head before walking over to where Gepard stands, allowing the Captain of the Silvermane Guard pull you into his arms. Sunday raises an eyebrow at your interaction with the many men around you, finding it interesting and, dare he say, scandalous. 

“It’s nice to see you again after so long, Geppie,” you coo, reaching up to pinch his cheeks.

Gepard chuckles, resting his cheek on your head. “It truly has been. I’ve been so occupied that I didn’t have the chance to stop by to visit you.” Gepard leans down, muttering, “Every day, I miss seeing you and hearing your voice.”

You run your fingers through his soft blond hair. Someone clears their throat, grabbing your and Gepard’s attention. Sunday crosses his arms over his chest, his eyebrows raised as he watches you not only show affection for Sampo, but to Gepard as well. How could anyone be okay with this? Sharing one person with who knows how many other people? Himself included. Well, not yet anyway. 

You and Gepard slowly separate from each other. Man, it feels like Sunday is your dad, scolding you for showing affection to the men you care about. Okay, maybe not a dad, but someone who does not like seeing affection. A nun at a Catholic school, or an overly religious person who looks down upon PDA, because any form of affection outside of marriage is considered premarital sex. Yes, seems pretty fitting for someone like Sunday.

Sunday points an accusing finger at you, Sampo, and Gepard. “Is this what you meant when  you said that you can’t show me around the Astral Express because you have things to do?” Sunday asks, raising an eyebrow at you.

Caelus snickers. “When you put it that way, it sounds very… uh, not appropriate.” Caelus comments.

“Caelus!” March 7th hisses.

Your face feels incredibly warm. Dear Aeons, you cannot handle this right now. There’s no way you’re being scolded for showing affection towards the men you’re in a relationship with. Before you can open your mouth to retort, the doors to the Astral Express open, and more people—ahem, men walk through the entrance. Much to Sunday’s displeasure. 

“Wow! More guests! [Y/N], did you happen to send out invites to everyone?” March 7th teases, turning to you with a cheeky grin.

You look at March 7th with your mouth agape, unsure of how to respond. You certainly didn’t send out any invitations! If you did, you would’ve remembered. As you scan the crowd of men, you notice one person in particular is missing. A certain Aeon, who is responsible for your presence in this universe, is nowhere in sight. Nanook. 

“Is there something on your mind, [Y/N]?” Jing Yuan asks, approaching you.

You blink and slowly shake your head. “My head is empty, actually.” You reply, earning a laugh from March 7th and a concerned look from the others. “I think I need a nap.”

Just as you’re about to walk away, Luocha gently grabs you by your wrist, shaking his head. “I know you’re joking, but I can’t help but be worried about you,” Luocha says, pulling you to the side.

You pat Luocha’s head. “I’m fine, really. A lot of things have been happening that it’s hard for me to keep up. Now that things are kind of settling down, everything that’s been occupying my head is gone.” You shrug your shoulders and plop onto the nearest chair.

Despite your reassurance, Luocha continues to give you a brief checkup to make sure you’re okay and nothing is affecting your health. Thankfully, it was nothing, and the others were just worrywarts. Off to the side, Sunday watches how the others treat you. They treat you as if you’re the most precious thing to have graced the universe. It’s almost like they baby you, in a way. While it’s amusing, Sunday can’t help but feel this strange sensation building up in his chest. It’s hot, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s almost suffocating.

Jiaoqiu kneels before you, grabbing your hand. “If you’d like, I can make you something to eat.”

You tilt your head to the side, looking at him, confused. “Your food is meant to heal, no? To treat the sick, I mean. Unless I’m mistaken.”

Jiaoqiu smiles. “Indeed, they are. However, I’m making sure you’re eating a meal and not relying on snacks to keep your tummy full,” Jiaoqiu replies, lightly poking your stomach.

Now standing beside Jiaoqiu, Moze sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Just accept his offer, [Y/N]. Jiaoqiu has been going on and on about making your favorite dishes while we were on our way to the Astral Express,” Moze mutters.

Jiaoqiu continues to smile at you as he ignores what Moze just said. However, if you look closely, you can see a faint blush on the apples of his cheeks that slowly creeps its way to the tips of his ears. 

You laugh. “Alright, I can’t deny a generous offer like yours, Jiaoqiu.” You’re tempted to reach out and pet his ears, but you refrain from doing so. 

Jiaoqiu perks up at your response and bows before walking away, his tail wagging with happiness. The more Sunday watches you interact with these men, the more Sunday realizes that not only do these men treat you like you’re a rare gem, but it’s also almost like they… worship you, and it makes Sunday nauseous. Are you, perhaps, a divine being that Sunday is unaware of? 

Argenti rolls up to you, a stage light shines upon the Knight of Beauty with rose petals scattering around him. Sunday blinks, confused about where these things are coming from. He looks around, trying to see if he was on some theatrical stage at the moment. Argenti kneels before you, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckle.

“My dearest muse, your beauty continues to shine as the day goes by. Every time I see you, I am in awe of your beauty and grace. I have a gift for you,” Argenti announces, never releasing your hand from his grip.

Luka and Boothill approach you and Argenti while holding a large object hidden beneath a blanket. Argenti stands up, briefly releasing your hand before approaching Luka and Boothill, thanking them. He grabs the blanket and yanks it off, revealing a magnificent painting of you. Naked. Surrounded by red roses and beautiful scenery, it reminds you of a Renaissance painting. 

Your eyes widen, face feeling warm. “Oh, wow! This is beautiful!” You exclaim, approaching the painting. Your gaze falls upon one thing, causing your face to turn even warmer. “Wow, you really made it bigger than it really is.”

Argenti shoots you a cheeky yet charming grin. “Oh, really? Perhaps you should let me see the real thing, and I can correct it if you’d like?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you.

“Yer quite the pervert, aren’t cha?” Boothill asks, smirking at Argenti. “But now that you mentioned it… I am curious to see if the painting is spot on or a little different from the real thing.” Boothill strokes his chin, glancing at you, then at the painting.

Luka clears his throat, looking at the painting from the corner of his eye, then at you. However, he doesn’t say a thing. But instead, he scratches his cheek with his index finger, trying to act like he’s also as curious as Boothill. 

“The painting is beautiful. But I wonder where it’ll be hung up since it’s such a huge painting and it’s also heavy,” Luka mutters.

You shrug. It’s not like you’re going to be hanging it in your room. You have a lot of pictures on your wall, and the pictures are mostly of you and the Astral Express Crew on adventures. You have many more pictures you want to hang up, but haven’t had the time to put them together. Maybe this is the perfect opportunity to rearrange your bedroom! 

Gallagher approaches the painting, arms over his chest. “Impressive. How much did it cost you?” Gallagher looks at Argenti.

Argenti shakes his head. “A work of art is priceless, especially when the art subject is the beauty before us,” Argenti gestures to you with a wink.

Gallagher nods in approval while Aventurine inspects every part of the painting with scrutiny. “Interesting choice of color,” Aventurine murmurs. He gently touches the frame, nodding with approval. “Very high quality for a high-quality person,” Aventurine looks in your direction.

While almost everyone is gathering around to admire the painting, you stand to the side and quietly talk to March 7th. Sunday can make out the words “beautiful,” “redecoration,” and “it doesn’t make me look like a narcissist if I have this hung up in my room, does it?”

The painting is beautiful, but Sunday can’t help but feel scandalized when it comes to the painting. Again, why are these men depicting you as a divine being when you’re merely human? As one of Robin’s haters once said, “I don’t get the hype.” After seeing that comment about his sister, Sunday created an anonymous account online to send hate to that person. What? Sunday is simply being a supportive brother! How dare that anonymous hater have a negative perception of his dear sister, Robin? 

But when it comes to you? Surely, Sunday can’t be the only Halovian who doesn’t harbor such strong feelings towards you, right? Sunday is actually in denial about these emotions bubbling up within him every time he sees another man swoon over you. 

You’re minding your business, chatting with March 7th, and here comes a man tall enough to touch the ceiling of the Astral Express. The same man who will grovel towards you, kiss and worship the ground you walk on. Looking pathetic in the eyes of Sunday. 

Blade clears his throat. “If [Y/N] doesn’t want the painting, then I will gladly take it off their hands.”

Dr. Ratio laughs, shaking his head. “I believe the painting will look magnificent in my office. A scholar like myself should have a tasteful painting in their office.” Dr. Ratio says, propping his hands on his hips.

You rub the back of your neck, looking at March 7th, who shrugs in response. You don’t mind if other people (that you know) see the painting. However, you do not want random people of high status to see you in your naked glory. At least not when you’re still alive and roaming the universe.

“A painting is impressive, but not as impressive as a marble statue.” Mydei comments.

You slowly turn to see Mydei standing at the entrance with Anaxa and Phainon at his sides. It’s almost like they’re striking a pose. You bite the inside of your cheek, hoping what Mydei said isn’t actually true and just meaningless words. But alas, the universe loves to prove you wrong once again. Phainon clears his throat and gestures for someone to wheel in a large statue of your likeness into the Astral Express.

“You guys are going to make me look like a narcissist!” You exclaim, clutching your head in shock. “Gentlemen, it warms my heart to see that you all love me to the point of having to create an art piece and marble statue in my likeness. However, I don’t think I can accept these offerings.” You say, approaching the tall marble statue of yourself.

Phainon pouts, approaching you. “But it took months to create this marble statue! You wouldn’t let it go to waste, now, would you?” Phainon asks, giving you the puppy dog eyes.

Sunday stares at the statue with astonishment and almost horror. The lengths people would go through to show their love and dedication to someone like you is quite impressive, but also horrific. Is this what Robin had to go through as a renowned singer in the cosmos? 

Robin having such admirers makes sense because of her level of fame, but you? No offense to you, but you’re part of the Astral Express Crew who go on adventures and get into sticky situations! You’re not famous of any sort, but you are quite famous when it comes to these men who lay their eyes upon you. Perhaps you’re a witch who can bewitch many men just by existing. 

Yes, maybe that is the most logical reasoning why do many men are in love with you. Men who are in high power and status, groveling to you, kissing the ground you walk on. It’s pathetic. But seeing these men give you heart eyes makes Sunday feel uneasy. If he’s on the Astral Express for the time being, then that means he will be witnessing it for as long as he’s alive and with the Astral Express Crew. 

“Sculpting a marble statue of someone from head to toe takes up to three months to two years. It would be a waste if you didn’t accept the gift that we made for you.” Anaxa comments, crossing his arms over his chest.

You shrug. “I will accept it, but where will I put it? I can’t put a giant statue of myself in my room. It will look like I have a shrine of myself. Would it not be narcissistic of me to do so?”

Sunday nearly cracks a smile at your comment, but refuses to show an ounce of reaction. You not liking the idea of having a statue and painting of yourself in your bedroom is the bare minimum. No. He mustn’t fall for your character and be a part of this scandalous harem of yours!

A few days go by, and Sunday finds himself actively seeking you out whenever he enters a new room. He subconsciously looks around the room, searching for the familiar head of hair of yours, or listens closely to hear your voice before entering a room. Compared to the past few days, today feels off, and Sunday does not like the shift in the air. 

Sunday walks into the Parlor Car, and he freezes in his spot when he sees you with a new person. Someone he has yet to meet out of the twenty people who practically worship you. This person (?) is taller than any of the men Sunday despises, perhaps as tall as General Jing Yuan of the Xianzhou Luofu. White hair, tan skin, very muscular, sitting on the nearest couch with you snuggling up to his side. Is this the infamous person—Aeon—who somehow managed to yank you into this universe?

“Nanook, Aeon of Destruction,” Sunday finds himself blurting out loud before processing it.

You and Nanook look up to see Sunday standing at the entrance, looking stiff and almost like he’s close to meeting his creator. You and Nanook stand up. Nanook nods at Sunday, approaching the Halovian with you by his side. Sunday’s gaze falls upon you, that unfamiliar feeling forming in his chest. Seeing you walk so close to Nanook, by his side, makes Sunday feel sick. It doesn’t matter if you have these men wrapped around your fingers, seeing someone achieve something Sunday wanted makes him feel nauseous. 

Sunday gives Nanook a thin smile. “It’s nice to finally meet the Aeon of Destruction. I’ve been hearing many interesting things about you through the grapevine.”

Nanook raises his eyebrows at Sunday. “Is that so? Interesting things, but still good, I hope?” The corner of Nanook’s lips curves up into a smirk.

Sunday presses his lips into a thin line. Good things? About the Aeon of Destruction? That’s debatable. That’s something Sunday wants to say to Nanook, but since you’re in the same room as both him and Nanook, Sunday will refrain from doing so. No one has anything good to say about the Aeon of Destruction. It’s in his name. Destruction. Nanook brings nothing but harm and danger to every living thing in this universe, but now Nanook hopes that he has a pristine reputation?

You wave your hand in front of Sunday’s face. “Sunday, you’re staring,” You comment, snapping the Halovian out of his thoughts. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting strange since you first arrived on the Astral Express.”

Sunday chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, [Y/N], ever the caring person. I am alright. I am doing my best to adjust to being on the Astral Express. It is my first time being so far away from Penacony.”

“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you. Perhaps you’ll join like the rest of us. Just letting you know that I was here first before anyone else joined,” Nanook jokes, earning a nudge from a very flustered you.

Sunday’s eyebrows furrow with confusion at Nanook’s comment. What does he mean by that exactly? “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Care to elaborate on what you mean? Have I not already joined the Astral Express?” Sunday asks.

Nanook chuckles, shaking his head. Before he can say anything to Sunday, you quickly cover Nanook’s mouth, glaring at the Aeon of Destruction. You can’t help but feel conflicted over the interaction between Nanook and Sunday. Nanook is very possessive, but is also very welcoming when it comes to Sunday? Strange. Does Nanook know something that you’re not aware of? 

“You will find out eventually,” Nanook states.

Sunday watches Nanook wrap his arm around your waist and pull you back towards the couch, pulling you down with him. Instead of you sitting beside him, Nanook pulls you onto his lap and kisses the side of your head without breaking eye contact with Sunday. 

“I doubt I’ll ‘join’ whatever it is Nanook was implying,” Sunday thinks sarcastically. 

There’s no way in hell Sunday is going to prove Nanook right. What kind of sick joke was that? Despite the stubbornness that is Sunday, he finds himself in your bedroom on the Astral Express in the middle of the night while everyone else is sleeping. Sunday’s relieved to find out that no one in your harem of sins lives on the train or sleeps in your bedroom. At least, that’s what he’s assuming. 

Sunday’s lips trail down your neck, kissing, nibbling, biting your neck. You whimper, tightening your arms around his torso when Sunday adjusts your legs around his waist, sinking further into your warm heat.

You bury your face into the crook of his neck. “I thought you didn’t like me,” You panted. “Yet here you are, in my bedroom in the middle of the night, balls deep inside me.”

Your vulgar comment causes Sunday to become flustered, making him buck his hips against yours harder than he intends to. You clench your jaw, digging your nails into his back, and squeeze your eyes shut. 

“You lack filter—just spewing the raunchiest thing you can think of,” Sunday mutters.

Sunday caresses the back of your head before pressing his lips against yours, swallowing your moans and whimpers. Sunday proceeds to increase his speed, drilling into your heat. The sound of squelching fills your once-silent bedroom. 

You break the kiss, cupping his face in your hands and lightly pinching his cheek. “But you still didn’t deny it—ah!” You yelp when the tip of his cock hits your cervix.

“I do not hate or dislike you. I hate the idea of other men liking and claiming you,” Sunday mutters, thrusting with every word that comes from his mouth. “I do not want to share you. I want you for myself. Is it a sin to want you for myself?”

Your head lolls back, almost going limp beneath him. Sunday grabs your hand and laces his fingers with yours, gently squeezing your hand—a big difference compared to how he’s pistoning his cock in and out of your squelching gummy walls. 

Sunday suddenly stops thrusting into you, and he leans down close to your ears. “Do you know what is also a sin?” 

You look at Sunday, eyes bleary with lust and confusion. “What?” You reluctantly whisper.

“Greed and lust. You lust for the many men you encounter, the same ones that is part of your lustful harem. A harem is a sin because you are greedy for more than one man,” Sunday murmurs.

You and Sunday stare at each other in the dark; the small night light in the corner of your room barely illuminates both your faces. “If that’s what you think of me, then why do you want to be with a sinner like me? It’s almost like you love the idea of being with someone with me because you can, I don’t know, try to change me.” You whisper.

Sunday chuckles, leans down, and kisses your temple. “How can I not love a sinner like you? I am not perfect myself. Once I get a taste of you, I want more of it, and I do not want to share you with anyone else.”

Sunday tilts your head up before smashing his lips against yours, proceeding where he left off. The night gradually blurs into tangled limbs, bodily fluids, breathless moans, and whimpers. 

After what feels like an eternity—Aeons, Sunday would love it if it lasted an eternity—you and Sunday collapse in each other's arms. You’re snuggling up against Sunday, arms wrapping around his waist and head resting on his left bicep. You’re out like the light, snoring away. Then there’s Sunday, staring at you as you sleep. Sunday brushes a strand of hair away from your face, a small smile gracing his face when you snuggle closer to him in response. 

Sunday leans over and kisses your forehead before staring up at the ceiling as the clock on your desk ticks away. Sunday was supposed to show up at your room to talk to you about what happened the past few days since his arrival at the Astral Express and becoming part of the Astral Express Crew. Before he knows it, one thing leads to another, and he finds himself on your bed with you caged by his arms, making out with you like a starving man, while clothes fly off your bodies and to the ground.

For a moment, he’s able to extinguish the burning need for you. Being able to kiss you, touch you, and be inside of you felt intoxicating, and he can’t get enough of you. Sunday subconsciously leans in and presses his nose on top of your head, inhaling the scent that is you. Your hair smells like honey. He slowly trails down, breathing in your lotion mixed with the smell of your sweat from your and his activity from moments ago. How can someone have this much power over him? Just being around you, with you, inside of you, isn’t enough for Sunday. He wants more of you, all of you, for himself. 

Sunday wants to hear your cries, whines, breathless gasps, whimpers, and laughter. He wants to be the only reason why you’re making these noises; he wants to be the only one to hear them all. In a perfect world, it’s just you and Sunday with no one else to interfere. No one. Just you and Sunday. Perhaps there is a distant planet in the universe where he can take you to, just you and him, no one else to get in the way. 

Aeons, what have you done to him? This unholy thought, unholy actions, unholy words… It’s too late for him to repent. Too late for Sunday to ask for forgiveness when he doesn’t want to be forgiven for loving and craving you. 

“I thought so.” Kafka says at last, acknowledging the meaning of your silence.

“Look, I know how it must look now, but there are hundreds of men who look like this on this planet alone—” you attempt one last time to salvage some dignity.

“[Name],” immediately your mouth shuts upon recognizing the tone, “What do we do when we make mistakes?”

You avert your eyes, lips pursing, words practically a grumble, “Not make excuses…”

“And?”

“Fix them.” you grit out after much struggle.

“Yes. So, what are you waiting for? You know what to do, don't you?” a clink echoes from Kafka’s wine glass settling on the table, signaling the finale of this exchange.

You mutter a half-hearted agreement, still petulant. Not really paying much attention to whatever she says afterwards as the call ends.

Six months. Twenty six weeks. One hundred and eighty three days of sleepless observing, learning and planning to pin down one man just to be told that you had the wrong person since the beginning. A sigh forces its way past your lips as you shove the phone in your pocket, repressing the urge to throw it at the nearest wall instead.

“Luckin Luckin, drink it up..”

All your muscles stiffen as that familiar jingle drifts to your ears, you sharply turn to see your hostage swaying from side to side on the chair as he sings that damnable song without a care in the world.

“Carrying carrying, Snowy’s here!”

Instantly, a maelstrom of memories flood your mind.

“A leap that leads to an encounter with you!~”

Days of dealing with stupid customers, a narcissistic boss and loud fangirls just to get close to the celebrity. Abandoning your self respect as an aspiring Hunter to suffer in minimum wage hell all for it to mean nothing.

“Today’s a lucky day— uwah!!”

A loud thunk echoes in the air, startling the napping cat and silencing that maddening tune for good, your heavy breaths prompt him to hold his.

You look up to his bewildered form so quickly he wonders how you didn't snap your neck, cyan eyes almost bulging out of their sockets.

You dare him to maintain eye-contact, which he loses within two seconds, flickering downwards to where the heel of your shoe rests in between the gap of his legs.

(If anyone asked later, you’d deny the reason you’d retreated was not for the loud gulp he’d forced down his throat, or the flush of pink coating his cheeks.)

“Phainon.”

The addressed man stiffens further at the terse way you use his name, “Uhm, yes?! Uh- Well-”

His sputtering spree stops as you flash him a dazzling smile, the remaining adrenaline manifesting in a flinch instead.

“How do you feel?” you ask sweetly.

If Phainon was bewildered before, his cognitive abilities are out of function now. His mouth opens and closes, neurons firing and synapses aligning to form one response.

“I'm fine? How about you?” and then his whole face flushes as he realizes how dumb that sounded.

A corner of your lips twitch, which you immediately smother as Phainon fake-coughs, “I mean! I’m okay… but! I definitely would be finer if you… loosened these ropes?”

You fix his sweetened smile with a blank look and Phainon bends after three seconds, “Only if you want to, of course! No pressure!”

You shift to lean your weight on one leg, a hand gripping your hip as Phainon looks at anything but you, bouncing one of his legs. You catch a glimpse of his hands twisting behind his back against the restraints.

A hum from you stops Phainon’s squirming just a little, “Don’t worry. You’ll feel ‘finer’ soon.”

The man whips his head just as your shadow falls upon him, the response that’d been on the tip of his tongue dies there as you reach behind him.

He inhales sharply at your sudden proximity and his mouth runs before he could stop himself, “M-my, are you going to pin my arms above my head? Oh noooo, please don't! I won't be able to move my hands ahaha—”

His teasing bravado falls flat as light glints over the needle of the syringe you fix.

“Ha…”

You look at his gaping expression from your peripheral, “I told you not to worry, didn't I? It’ll sting just a little bit. Then, you’ll wake up forgetting everything that happened.”

Phainon straightens at that, face twisted in alarm, “Wait wait! No no no! I swear on Aedes Elysiae that I won't tell anyone about this, just wait—”

He tugs at the ropes with a sudden burst of energy and to his luck, the ropes loosen just enough for him to wiggle one hand out.

But that's where his stretch of fortune ends, a gasp is all that is heard as you strike the needle of the syringe right on the tattooed sun at the side of his neck.

Your left hand raises as his head limps forward, all the energy sapped out of his body in an instant. You toss the syringe aside, the previously napping cat catches it midair and drops it in an open plastic bag nearby.

You place your now free hand on his shoulder, steadying him so that he doesn't topple you over. A web of the next steps already taking shape in your mind.

Your thumb traces an absentminded circle over his cheek one last time before you let him go, trying your hardest to not think about the softness of his skin, or how you wished to feel more of it.

—

A week later, you sit at a secluded corner in the dining space of a fast-food chain, three tables away from your real target.

Your thumb swipes over the screen of your phone, pretending to scroll alongside the occasional munch of the fries you’d ordered.

Your attention, albeit, is zeroed on the man talking animatedly to the person in front of him.

You surmised it to be an argument, and the realization begets a pleased spark in you. The more tumultuous the emotions, the easier it was to bait someone.

“So, who are we stalking this time?”

You tilted your head, stealing a glance at the man in front of you over the rim of your glasses.

“The one with the shades, voice so booming it might as well be a verbal attack—”

Wait a minute.

You don't recall bringing a partner.

Slowly, you turn your head to your left, eyes long having forgotten how to blink.

“Missed me?” his voice drips of honey, sitting in utter leisure with a measly one inch gap between you, one elbow propped on the table, cheek pillowed by his palm.

Your soul almost leaves your body.

Phainon— damnable Phainon— blinks for a good few seconds in what appears to be concern at the force of your flinch, before an amused chuckle echoes from behind his masked face.

“You— what— how—?” your arms flail, trying to make sense of it. Why are you here? Why are you talking like you know me? Did the drug not work? How did you find me?

Phainon leans back slightly with a hum, his silver-blue tresses dance along the gesture, “It seems like you did miss me, a lot.”

Your brain ceases buffering at that, rebooting to adapt to the sudden change of circumstance, “Who… says I missed you? I don't even know who you are!” you cross your arms, angling your head straight.

Phainon makes a pained sound, a gloved raises to clutch at his chest, ever the actor he is, “Now you're just breaking my heart, Mx. Kidnapper! After we shared such an intimate, heartfelt experience—”

He lowers the volume of his exclamation at the death glare you direct at him, but doesn't stop, “Ahh, how I ache! But it's alright. I know you may pretend to be annoyed with me, but there's a soft spot for me in your heart. You even tucked me into bed even though I was such a naughty boy—”

Your jaw slackens, eyes appalled as he continues his soliloquy about intimacy and punishment, without a care in the world about how easy it’d be for him to get exposed here out of his stereotypical celebrity disguise.

You force yourself to swallow, no no, there is definitely something more to this. At the same time, your actual target springs from his seat, following after the other guy in a rush and that prompts you to attempt an escape.

You yelp, as the momentum of you standing up is used to yank you back down, your hand shoots out to cushion the abrupt pull, landing right on Phainon's thigh in time with his breath brushing over your face.

“Ah ah ah,” he tuts, fingers fisting into the fabric covering your arm, “Running away so soon, Mx. Kidnapper?”

His free hand hovers over your hips for a brief moment, you can feel the weight of his hand even from the inch of distance and you instinctively draw in a breath as the tips of his fingers brush against the dip of your waist.

The golden flecks in his eyes twinkle behind his shades, you blink out of the daze as he raises his wandering hand to re-adjust your crooked glasses instead.

“I could kill you.” your whisper is far too loud in the thick silence.

There are a million other things you could've said, million ways you could've shoved him away. But your mind decides to not be partial to either.

Phainon tilts his head, eyes softening in what you could only assume was curiosity, “You wouldn't,” his response is just as tender, just as heavy as your threat.

You scoff at his audacity, pulling back with a jerk, and he lets go of your hand when you sit down beside him instead of running away.

“And why wouldn't I?”

The playful edge returns to Phainon’s countenance, “Because you own a cat.” he declares with the utmost confidence.

You stare at him blankly, “What? Cat?” and then you realize what it was that he was referring to, “You idiot, that wasn't my cat, that was my boss.”

Phainon blinks once before a carefree chuckle leaves him, he waves a hand, “Oh, I know! You cat-people treat your cats like they're your employers, no? Not saying that I don't get it, by the way! Completely valid, completely valid.”

Your eye twitches in irritation and resignation, realizing that he couldn't be shaken out of whatever narrative he’d convinced himself of. You lose any motivation to argue with him further, suddenly conscious of how ‘my boss is a cat’ sounds like to an ordinary person.

“Anywho!” you flinch as he stops his frantic waving to point a finger directly at you, you realize then that this man would give you a heart-attack if you don't leave soon. “To return to the point I was making, you won't kill me. Because I know that beneath all those scoffs and eye-rolls, you actually have a really soft heart.”

You reward his oh-so-confident exclamation with a deadpan.

“I am a wanted criminal.”

Phainon flinches and gears up in defense, “C-criminal?! Don’t sell yourself short! You're a… professional! Are you not?” he fixes his sunglasses and places a hand over his heart, “But even that is a matter of perspective. I know that villains are made, not born. If we're condemning anyone, it should be society! What I'm trying to say is— wait! Don't go! Wait!”

You equip yourself with imaginary noise-cancellation and get up to leave with a determined gait, no longer trusting yourself to stay sane before this man’s yapping.

Phainon scrambles after you, his legs eating up the distance with a few strides, “Mx. Kidna—”

The tips of his fingers brush by your scarf, before being shoved aside by a waiter in-rush. The noise of Phainon's shades hitting the tiled floor resounds as its pushed from his face from the impact.

The waiter gasps.

“Phainon?!”

Immediately, all the heads nearby turn, footsteps and swooning eating up the previous silence. Within seconds, Phainon is swallowed by a crowd.

“I’m extremely sorry, I'm in a hurry—” his plea is pushed aside by the excited yells of admiration and requests of autographs, the crowd does not budge an inch.

Phainon can only watch helplessly as your silhouette disappears amidst the helter-skelter.

—

A few weeks have gone by since that incident, the majority of which you’d passed in your apartment after a reasonable amount of earful from the others.

“Elio says that you should lay low for a while. The mission will be handed over to Bladie instead.” Kafka had instructed.

“Don’t leave your place unless absolutely necessary, we’ll be investigating the case.”

And, you did as you were told, left with no other option besides reflecting over everything that had happened throughout the past six months.

You couldn't even bring yourself to feel frustrated this time, numbed from the failure of being unable to complete the one assignment that would've solidified your position as a Stellaron Hunter.

You were half expecting police to kick down your door any hour of the day, but nothing happened, not even a peep was heard about the fact that Amphoreus’ golden boy had gotten kidnapped even after a month since the incident. But you chalked it up to be one of your colleagues’ work.

And every time your thoughts circled back to that day’s incident, your mind arrived at the same conclusion again and again.

That man was dangerous.

Not necessarily in terms of strength (though you weren't very confident about this point either), but for how he’d tipped you off of your axis so effortlessly that day.

You have a soft spot for me in your heart, his words would invade your mind in the middle of washing dishes. Villains are made not born, the statement would gyrate in your head as you twisted and turned while trying to chase after sleep, the image of that annoyingly cute, repulsively adorable smile would flash before your eyes—

Then, there were the texts.

“Good morning (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧”

“Have you had lunch yet? D:”

“Don’t stay up too late playing otome games!”

You’d initially thought them to be Silver Wolf messing around with Blade’s number or something, or even bots. But the more you ignored them, the less and less avoidable they became.

“The new pajamas are so cute! I love the cat print (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)”

“Coffee mug placed precariously close to the edge of the table. Alert alert!”

“You left the hair-tie on the sink.”

“A roach almost crawled on your bedsheets last night, but don't worry! I took care of it (｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧”

“You look so cute when you're fidgeting, Mx. Kidnapper.”

It was only after a reluctant consultation with Silver Wolf that you found out, “Someone had hacked into your webcam.” you felt your heart drop, not because of the news, but because of the twinge of worry in her usually deadpan voice. “You should check your whole apartment, too. For secret cameras and tampered locks.”

You could only hear the drumming of your own heartbeat in your ear, the apartment canopied by a deafening silence as you plucked the cameras one by one— two from the potted plants of your bedroom, one in your shower, one in your kitchen and one from the socket of your living room.

You gripped your phone tightly in one hand, the device already cracked from when you’d thrown it towards the wall in your earlier panic.

The bite of the splintered screen against your palm grounded you, giving you courage to check the locks.

Communication from their end had gone conveniently quiet, leaving you to fend for yourself until further notice. It was no secret anymore who the sender of those creepy texts was, but it didn't make it any less disbelieving.

You're jolted out of your daze as the doorbell rings at the same time as you twisting the screw in on the additional lock.

You hold your breath, again, it rings, confirming that you didn't mishear.

For a moment, you consider backing off and crawling under the bed, not at all interested in finding out who was behind the door, even though there was a good chance for the person behind it to be one of your colleagues.

But that treacherous, curious part of you whispered, nudging you closer and closer to the door until you were looking straight through the peephole, towards a far too familiar pair of cyan eyes.

“I know you're in there, Mx. Kidnapper.”

You jerked away, nearly toppling over a stray wrench on the floor.

Phainon. Phainon was was right behind your front door, confirming all the facts you’d wrestled with denial against up until now, attempting to break into your apartment with an ease that made you shudder.

Had anyone told you that this man, this ordinary pretty boy whose smile earned him his livelihood, who you’d been targeting to kill would be the one to corner you in your own home even a day ago, you would've laughed and rolled around on the floor.

The frantic clicks of him attempting to twist the locks brought you back and sigh tumbled out of your lips.

At least, the extra locks you’d put and the drawers you’d pushed against the door would be able to keep him at bay, enough time for you to think about your next move.

Which, namely, were two — you could either climb down from the nineteenth floor right now, or you could push another closet to the front door and wait until one of your colleagues came to rescue you.

Wait a minute. Your thoughts screeched to a halt ; run? Hide? All against one ordinary actor who you definitely would win against in a brawl should it come? You're seriously on the verge of having a panic attack from that? Where's your pride as an aspiring Stellaron Hunter?

Your fingers stopped their tapping against your arm, you turned to cast one last look at the door, and then swiveled on your heels towards the kitchen to make yourself something warm, enjoying the frustrated noises of Phainon trying to unlock the door as you turned on the stove.

—

That night, you had a marvelous sleep, belly full with a hearty dinner and moisturized skin. Both sides of your pillow were cold, the sillage of sunlight still lingered on your bedsheets.

A dream unfolds and cradles you. Sunny skies, the scent of petrichor, cars whoosh by, billboards flashing blinding smiles, a ray of light — reach for it, grasp it, the whirr of coffee machines, the buzz of crowds, shadows fall, the lonely strum of a guitar, tousled silver-blue, oh how you yearn, a palimpsest of memories sealed in tar, a hand brushing away wayward strands of hair, fingers in between yours—

… Fingers in between yours?

You gasp, nails digging into skin and sinew.

One blink, the blue of your bedsheets become clear to you in the dimmed light of the night.

Another, and startled cyan gleaming in the dark, amusement slowly crawling from the corners of those eyes.

“I used to be into lock-picking.” he twirls a hinge between pale fingers, useless now for anything besides mocking your hubris.

You spring forward, one hand still holding onto his wrist, the other wrapping firmly around his throat and push him down to the floor.

The hinge clatters to the ground.

An ‘oof’ heaves out of Phainon's lips as his head hits the cold tiles, getting cut-off towards the end as you squeeze against his windpipe, your legs wrap around his midriff.

“You.” Phainon snaps his eyes open to meet your shadowed visage, his Adam's Apple bobs against your hand as he swallows hard.

And then, his face flushes bright red, from the tips of his ears to the nape of his neck.

“Finally, finally you're looking at me again, Mx. Kidnapper.” he exhales, you blink as his free hand raises to not push you away, but to tuck a strand of hair away from your face, baring your bewildered expression to him.

“…What?” your grip slackens in surprise.

The corners of Phainon's eyes crinkle as he smiles so wide it nearly splits his face, “I missed the feeling of having your eyes on m-me.” he chokes slightly as you squeeze his throat again, his body goes utterly pliant beneath you.

“I—I quite… enjoyed you watching me, y-you know?” there's something of a pout in his voice, even as he’s getting the life choked out of him and his eyes— oh, there's apparitions of hearts setting those cyan eyes ablaze.

You let go in horror, but don't succeed in retreating far as he clamps one hand firmly on your waist, dragging you back to straddle his hips.

“Never do that again, okay?” his request is sickeningly sweet but there's steel in his gaze. You have a feeling he isn't just referring to you holding him down. His other hand guides yours back to his neck, placing it right against where a blazing sun bleeds into skin.

Tracing a maddening circle over your hand, “I’d say it's a fair bargain. Stalking for stalking, attention for attention, affection for affection, ownership for ownership.”

A pause.

“Tit-for-tat… wouldn't you agree, Mx. Kidnapper?”

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