#sundayxreader

Meet me at the Pearlescent Chateau. Bring pajamas, a change of clothes, and any toiletries you may require for an overnight stay

It's a bold message, coming from someone so tight-laced. He's more… "affectionate" with you than he is with most other members of the family. You pretend not to notice the cloying gazes, the way in which his tone softens when he speaks to you, but you've spent so long at his heel that it's impossible to remain oblivious. All of this, and yet he's never once invited you to his home.

You're not in any position to refuse. You've no other obligations for the night, something he most likely knows. Trepidation knots your gut. An odd, eerie feeling hands over your head as you pack slowly pack your things, neatly folding your clothes and tucking your toothbrush into an overnight bag. Hairbrush. Medications. You check off each one on a mental list, hoping the monotony will settle your already overwrought nerves. Sunday, leader of the Oak Family and overseer of Penacony, asking you for a sleepover, of all things?

He's finally lost his mind. All those years of tight control have cinched the blood flow to his brain. That's what you assume as you make your way through the streets, through the Reverie. The Pearlescent Chateau is seated at the very top of Penacony's physical form, a mansion made of marble and silver steel. Three banners depicting the Oak Family's signature sigil loom on either side of the opening corridor, hovering eerily still, no wind to shift them. The air is crisp and cool, perfectly conditioned by vents and cold, unfeeling mechanisms.

You don't like this place. It looms too large, too clean, as though your very presence will mar its flawless veneer.

"Ah, you've arrived," a voice says. Your gaze flickers to a smartly dressed attendant, "Welcome. Please, come right this way—shall I carry your things?"

"No thank you, that's alright," you assure him, voice raspy from disuse.

He nods, leading you down the main corridor and deeper into the hallowed manse. Generations of the Oak Family have ruled from this heavenly seat of power, and it looks every bit the legacy it holds. You pass grand paintings and tall, arched windows of stained class. You traverse a spiral staircase to the second level, and struggle to keep track of all the twists and turns you're forced to take. Just how deep does Sunday hide in this labyrinth? You don't think he ever has to fear an assassination. Any potential assailants will lose themselves in the identical, patterned corridors before they ever reach him.

Finally, after perhaps ten minutes of walking (is this attendant leading you in circles on purpose? Is this, for some reason, a concerted effort to get you lost?), you come to a pair of towering double doors. Ornate motifs involving vines and roses and charmony doves have been painstakingly carved into the wood–perfectly symmetrical.

The attendant raises a gloved hand to gently rap on the heavy door, "Your company has arrived, ser."

"Good. Let them in," Sunday calls. He sounds no different than usual, no more haggard or manic. The doors are opened for you. You fiddle with the straps on your bag as you step into the room–well, "suite" would be a better word to describe it. Sunday's chambers contain multiple rooms, located in the dead center of the Pearlescent Chateau. You toe your shoes off and gently tuck them into the rack by the wall.

The doors shut behind you, making you jump. The lock clicks into place. You pretend not to hear it, and try to forget about it.

The living room is a quiet space with a circular, domed ceiling. The floors are made of the same marble tile as the rest of the villa. A sectional sofa and three arm chairs surround a square coffee table. The arrangement is perfectly symmetrical, facing a wall-mounted television and fireplace. The kitchen and bedroom are on either side of the living room, either hidden behind a pair of ornate double-doors. It is surprisingly cozy, for being so cavernous.

There are blankets over the back of the couch, and more cushions than you recall. Even the chairs have their own quilts–perfectly folded and placed. You don't get much to inspect these new, odd changes. Sunday stands in the middle of the room, devoid of his typical suit and tie. He's wearing… pajamas? An elegant, fluffy robe obscures most of his pale skin, cinched around his waist by a silky sash.

The lines of his face are softer in the dim light. Unguarded. You've never seen him so undressed.

"Sunday, sir–" you begin, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

"Please, there's no need for formalities. We're closer than that, wouldn't you agree?" he asks you, but it it isn't a question. There are employees here who have been working under him long before you came into the picture, who still address him as "sir" or "young master". You fiddle with the strap of your overnight bag, feel the coarse, bumpy texture of the fabric, and give him a rigid nod.

"Alright, Sunday," the name grates like sandpaper in your throat, "May I ask why you've called me here? Is—is something wrong?"

He blinks at you, surprised. Pale lashes fanning against the perfect sculpt of his cheeks, "No, nothing is amiss," he assures you, "I simply… craved the company of one my oldest and most trusted friends."

Never have you quite considered Sunday a friend. The gap in your statuses is too wide, and he acts in ways too disconcerting for you to trust him enough to call him anything but a superior, or an acquaintance. As a beta, it's easy for you to slip into obscurity, to become another cog in the machine. Your subtle scent and neutral personality should have ensured that you forever remained nameless and faceless to him. Perhaps, though, that stability is what caught his attention in the first place. Right now, though, isn't really the time to think about that.

There's a slight flush to his cheeks—lurid compared to his typical porcelain complexion. Is he sick, or—

"Come, take a seat. Put your things down," he invites, voice airy and soft, "Would you like something to drink?"

"I would hate to impose," you say. Slowly, because you're still attempting to puzzle him out. Betas, despite their subtler scents, are just as capable of picking up on smell-based cues as any other dynamic. You, though, are dulled in that area. It's not something you typically think about, but you imagine you'd have a better picture of what's happening if you weren't.

"You believe yourself possible of imposing on me?" Sunday asks, shaking his head with a chuckle, "Perish the thought," he says. He ventures over to you, gossamer fabric of his robe shimmering under the dim light. Standing before you, his molten irises seem to glow from beneath his low-lidded lashes. He regards you with a fondness that is unmistakable, "Nothing more would delight me more than ensuring your comfort. This is a safe place. You can dispense of all titles and formalities when we are alone together."

"I'll make us some tea," Sunday continues, when you don't reply. He bustles over to one of the double doors. The frosted glass slide open, revealing a glimpse of the kitchen.

And you're stuck here, now. Sat in his living room. You hear the steady thrum of his footsteps as he bustles about the space. Time becomes liquid. You stare into the space of his extravagant living room. Your gaze lifts to the ceiling, where the crystalline chandelier twinkles in the pale light. Each one winks at you as they sway in the minute currents of the air. The room is warm. Not overly so. The cushion beneath you and at your back are soft enough to sink into. Against your better instincts, you find your eyes lulled shut.

The scent of soft vanilla fills the room. In the kitchen, cabinets open and shut. Sunday hums a lulling, distinctly familiar melody. A tea kettle whistles. The shrill noise makes your eyes flutter open. The room returns to you in blurred shades of beige and pale. You catch sight of Sunday–two of him, hovering in the entryway between rooms, a tray balanced atop his palms. You blink to center your vision and they merge together, forming one solid vision of him. Still draped in his fluffy robe, coming closer.

He delicately places the tray atop the table. Steam rolls into the air from a cream-colored mug. Even the dishware holds to his aesthetics, whites and off-whites with touches of blue and gold. Puff pastries and macaroons sit atop delicate porcelain plates.

"Please, help yourself," he says, voice a delicate purr.

"Thank you," you murmur. You keep your gaze pointedly on the mug as you reach for it, even as he glides around the table and sidles up to your side. He sits close, warmth of his body pressing through your clothes.

The tea is a soft, herbal blend that washes over your tongue. It's soothing despite yourself, the keen edge of your nerves wearing away. Sunday is weird, but he's not going to hurt you. Not right now, at least. There's a dreamy, faded look in his eyes and he's settled comfortably back into the cushions. If you didn't know better, you'd assume he indulged in three glasses too many of Timony wine.

"It's no trouble," he murmurs, voice soft as a secret. The downy feathers of his wings press against the cool cushion. He tilts his head, cheek rubbing against the fabric. Nuzzling. You're so taken aback at the tender vision that you forget to drink until his eyes, dimmed to honey-gold, slide back in your direction."Is it good?"

"It is," you swallow dryly, and take another sip.

A realization is hitting you, now, the gravity of which is both unforeseen and potentially massive. It's a possibility can't believe you hadn't considered, before. But the signs are all there. He's cozied up his quarters, bundled himself in his softest, most comfortable clothes. He craved company so badly that he called you here for the lone purpose of spending time together. Never before has Sunday summoned you without wielding some work-related matter as pretense. And he's perhaps doted on you before, but in the most distant sense. In the way one would treat their favorite employee.

All of this, combined with the unusual flush of his complexion leads you to one, striking conclusion.

"Sunday," you say. His gaze, honey-sweet, flickers in your direction.

"Yes?" he asks.

"You.. are you…?" you swallow around the word. Saying it aloud will speak it into reality. Your head is already buzzing. You can't bear to think about the implications of him calling you, of all people, during his time of need.

He blinks–and then his expression warms with realization.

"In pre-heat?" he says. He looks at you through the fan of his pale lashes, bats them in a way that feels imploring, whether purposeful or not, "Of course. I wish I weren't. For all of my powers and privileges, this is one of the few things I'll never be able to rise above," his voice twists bitterly. How terrible, you think, for someone who treasures control so much to be so robbed of it. Becoming a slave to his instincts is probably one of his worst fears. You imagine he's on a regimen of suppressants–but every omega and alpha needs to endure their cycle at least once a year, or risk a grocery list of detrimental and increasingly severe side-effects.

"But recently…" His finger rolls circles on the velvet of the cushion in front of him, gaze growing distant, "I've started thinking about it differently. A change in outlook."

"Every time it comes, that heady wave of unbridled instinct, I feel an overwhelming need to reach for you. To be enclosed with you, around you," it's a breathy wisp of a confession, softness of his tone betrayed by the fervent gleam in his eyes, piercing even though the preheat haze, "It's so–so strange. As though I can hardly control myself," he rasps, "And so difficult, sometimes, to reach out to you. So many fears and doubts about what our relationship would be, or what it would mean, or how others would perceive us."

Something nudges at the edges of your consciousness, sweet and lulling. The sensation jolts you. Your eyes open wide–when had you closed them? Disoriented, you stare into his bottomless gaze, foreheads pressed together, much closer than before. He looks like something out of a dream, the edges of him wobbling, form drenched in watery, pale light. The adoration curled onto his expression remains in stark clarity, so open and unbridled that it takes the wind out of you. When was the last time someone had looked at you like this?

"All of those things don't matter, right now. I suspect they never did. Perhaps, if I weren't in such a state, I wouldn't have brought you here, today. Perhaps it's granted me clarity," he says, hands coming up to cup your cheeks. He leans forward. The seconds double into moments, and the moments double into minutes.

You take in every ivory lash as his eyes close, gaze inevitably drawn to the plush pink of his parting lips. He closes in. He kisses you. Soft and chaste, thumbs rubbing circles onto your heat-flushed skin. The tips of his downy wings tickle your temples, arching around the side of your head. Your view of the room is obscured by waves of creamy pale blue as he tilts his head. The angle deepens the osculation.

How had you allowed this to happen? The long history of your tenure flashes before your very eyes. Memories jolt by in fragments and fleeting visions. You comb through the messy drawer of your mind in search of when the change began, where exactly you hit the fork in the road, how exactly you chose the path that led to this moment. You run out of breath before you find the answer. Sunday sits back. His gaze is assessing as it slowly roams over your face, lingering quietly on your lips.

"It's your turn," he says.

You blink at him, "What?"

He chuckles, shaking his head, "Ah, to be rendered speechless by something as fleeting as a kiss," he smiles, and it reaches his eyes, "I've made my confession. I apologize if I started you. I probably should have waited for a more opportune moment—but this felt just right."

"So, what is your answer?" he asks, something feverish in his eyes. You open your mouth to reply, and he continues talking. Sympathy shades his expression. His lips curl into a small frown—more expressive than he would ever allow himself to be in regular circumstances, "It isn't right for me to pressure you for an answer so immediately, is it? You should take time to think about how you feel."

"I… I appreciate that," you begin, choosing your words very carefully. This is a different Sunday than the one you're accustomed to interacting with. A little more manic, a little volatile, "I will need time. I think."

"Yes," he smiles again, "I'd be happy to give it to you."

Your shoulders slump with immediate relief. Your mind kicks into rapid gear, already engineering possible ways out of Penacony, assignments off the planet you could potentially explore without having to go through him. There are other supervisors who could approve such a request. Securing permission wouldn't be hard. You're well-liked, and have a reputation for being hard-working.

Before you can thoroughly explore any of the possibilities, Sunday speaks up once more. He reaches out, plucks a teacup from the tray to take a sip.

"However, for the duration of my pre-heat, I would have you remain here," he says. cradling the porcelain in his palms, fingers tapping an even rhythm against the outside. He looks at you coyly, from beneath fanned lashes. Knowingly, as though already privy to your thoughts. You barely resist the urge to swallow and steel yourself.

You're not directly under the employ of the Oak Family, but to directly rebuke an implied command could have political ramifications for your own branch. Pre-heat lasts for two days at most. Surely, you'll be able to survive that.

"Of course," you murmur, like there was ever another option. "Though… can I ask what you'd have me do? Betas aren't the most efficient partners."

"Secondary gender has no bearing on your capabilities to soothe my weary spirits," Sunday chuckles, shaking his head. He says it like it's something obvious. And maybe it is. You've never been too dialed into how these dynamics interact and play out. You know the basics, the extremes, the general path of the anatomies and actions, but you've never delved any deeper. Never held any desire to, never had any attraction to it. If Sunday says you're the best person for this particular job, who are you to correct him? He knows more about it than you do. He's lived it. Is living it right now.

And perhaps it's sympathy for him that softens your usual edges.

"You haven't answered my question," you remind him quietly.