⋅ ♰ ⋅

He never really meant to overwhelm you.

Nagi’s just… like that.

Big. Heavy. Lazy in the way his body folds over yours like a weighted blanket, his limbs thrown over you without thought. When he stretches, his abs tighten and ripple in the dim light of the bedroom, and you swear he doesn’t even realize how obscene he looks — cock flushed and thick, resting lazily against your stomach.

And that’s before he even gets hard.

“You’re tight,” he murmurs sleepily, as if it’s news to him. As if he hasn’t just spent the last few minutes coaxing his cock into you inch by inch, stretching you open around a girth you’re still not quite used to. He pauses halfway in, his brows furrowed slightly. “Huh. It’s not all in yet.”

You groan, head thrown back, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Nagi, you—fuck—you’re already too big.”

He blinks, unbothered. “Really? Doesn’t feel like it to me.”

Then he pushes the rest in.

It’s slow, but the burn still lights your nerves on fire, a delicious ache that borders on too much. Your body arches into him instinctively, needing more, needing him, even as he bottoms out and lets out a soft, drawn-out sigh — like he’s slipping into a warm bath, not rearranging your insides.

“So warm,” he mumbles, lazily pumping his hips. Each thrust is slow but deep, grinding against something inside you that has your breath hitching and your thighs trembling. “Could stay here forever…”

You’re not sure if it’s a threat or a promise.

And gods, he’s so messy.

There’s slick everywhere — dripping down your thighs, coating the base of his cock, smeared between your bodies as he rocks into you without rhythm, without urgency. Like this is just another part of his nap. You can hear it, wet and obscene, each thrust a slap and squelch that echoes off the walls. His cum from earlier is still leaking out of you, mixing with your arousal in a sticky, decadent mess neither of you seems inclined to clean up.

Nagi doesn’t care. Doesn’t notice. He’s too busy staring down at where you’re joined, mesmerized. His fingers press into your hips to hold you still as he angles deeper, testing what makes you twitch.

“You’re squeezin’ me,” he mutters, voice low and a little slurred with sleep. “Feels nice.”

You choke on a moan, vision going white as your orgasm slams into you. Your walls flutter and clamp down, and that seems to finally get a reaction out of him. His breath stutters, hips jerking erratically.

“Gonna cum again—” he gasps, head dropping into the crook of your neck. “Inside’s okay, right? S’too late now anyway…”

You can only whimper as warmth floods you again, thick and unrelenting.

He falls asleep still inside you. Still twitching. Still leaking.

And still so, so big.

← BLLK ┆ NAVI →

a/n : thanks for reading.. i love nagi .

Not entirely surprising, the call of his name went verbally unanswered, leaving you to wince with every indignant click and scrape of his cane against the tiles. You'd already put your book aside, debating if it would be futile to offer assistance despite how the urge to do so crawled like beetles beneath your skin.

It was truly a terrifying thing how rapidly Zandik's body had decayed over the past few years. Having never fully understood the premise enabling the segments to exist, you could only infer from the state of the man hobbling through the living room and collapsing into an armchair that it was a closed system. There was a finite amount of 'life' to share between them, and the body that truly breathed would suffer the most from having a reduced amount.

Of course, he was also getting old as any human would. For all his brilliance and stubborn temper, there had been little he could do to spare himself from atrophy.

"You're staring again," he grumbles, audibly straining to settle into a comfortable position.

You huff, shaking your head to distract from how right he was, "I was thinki-."

"Judging," Dottore corrects, spreading his arms in a mockery of flamboyance, "tell me then, what is your verdict?"

"You look," the words weighed heavily upon your tongue, yet not nearly as heavily as the guilt for adding to his worries weighed upon your heart, "like someone who would benefit from a week of rest."

The creases around his eyes grew deeper as you spoke, only making him appear all the more worn. Zandik discarded his leather gloves with almost painful carelessness, revealing hands that now bore more bruises and cuts than you could care to count but only longed to kiss. Your chest tightened at the sight, such dexterous tools reduced to a shaking mess.

He tossed the monocle aside to better rub at his eyes. The dark circles beneath only seemed to grow with each passing day despite Zandik now maintaining the healthiest sleep schedule he had in decades. Possibly centuries. Not that he had much choice, unable to keep himself awake far into the night.

"What an astute observation. You know very well I can't do that if I want to keep the rest in line. They're already plotting, I know they are. Perhaps you are as well?"

Your body shifts to face him fully, trying to school your expression before he can spot the look of pity. This was no time for you to feel hurt at the accusation he'd so carelessly tossed into the space between you. Zandik had never taken well to your inquiries about his health, but it was clear that he felt less secure in his position these days, always snapping at and punishing anyone under his authority.

You sigh, giving him a once-over while trying to piece together memories of days that bled into each other. "How about accompanying you into a shower instead?"

Zandik mimics your sigh, his shoulders slumping in what had to be defeat. The subtle nod of his head could easily be mistaken for exhaustion, but you get up all the same to stand between his legs, offering a hand instead of the cane.

There's nothing dignified about how you lead him towards the bathroom, one arm wrapped so firmly around his waist that your bicep starts to cramp up within the first ten steps. Meanwhile Zandik, so used to being by himself that it is more than second nature, hobbles at your side while clearly trying to put as little weight onto you as possible. Absolutely infuriating that for all the years spent together, learning to rely on each other, the moment he truly needed aid with something so tangible as moving about, he pulled back into the shell of that lonely boy he'd told you about.

The child who'd been cast aside and scorned by all.

Who'd set his sight on something impossible, on transcending every rule laid out by reason. Whether to earn the praise and acceptance of his peers, or to prove once and for all that they had been right to think him a monster was something you'd never truly been able extract from him.

Your heart, and the mood, sank further once you'd gotten him undressed. Though aware that it was decades since he could last have been considered conventionally attractive, his body having long been littered with the results of countless experiments performed on himself, it was clear that the sudden turn for the worse had caused him grief. Now, Zandik would shy away from your gaze, curling in on himself as if to shield wrinkled skin and the jarring loss of muscle from you.

"..here," you muttered, helping him step into the shower and down onto the shower stool.

It was quiet while you undressed yourself, the lack of smoldering eyes roaming your form somehow more disturbing than their presence had ever been.

"I can still wash myself, you know."

You hummed, stepping in beside him and turning on the water, angling it away from both of your bodies to let the icy stream heat up. Stepping directly under the water was a mistake you only made once in Snezhnaya, the biting cold akin to millions of glass shards shredding the skin.

"Yeah, but doing it together is more comfortable, right?" A small smirk tugged at your lips while slowly moving your wrist until the freezing water hit his feet, causing Zandik to jerk in surprise. "And it lets me do that."

For a moment, silence and tension choked the air before it was broken by a raspy chuckle. "Cruel monster, kicking a man who is already down.."

Relief bubbled in your chest, the little smile on your lover's lips a treasure more precious than the sum of whatever exotic acquisitions The Regrator had stashed away. And these days at least, it seemed exactly as rare.

"Don't they say cold showers are healthy?"

The look he shot you was almost scathing, but in that fond way where his eyes crinkled at the corners. "I suppose every sane man must have his limits."

You laughed, testing the temperature of the water with your hand. It was warm enough that you placed the showerhead back above you both. "And you draw the line at cold showers?"

"Absolutely."

Silence settled between you, but no longer the kind that could choke you like smoke, this was comfortable. Zandik slowly relaxed a little when you stepped behind him and began rubbing at his shoulders. His hair had gotten messy from neglect, so you took your time slowly untangling the knots before reaching for shampoo.

By the time steam coiled around your ankles, Zandik seemed to have shed his earlier reservations and was leaning against your legs, his head turned so his cheek was pressed against your stomach. If not for the little grunts and groans of pleasure you'd have thought him asleep. There was something about how swiftly his guard had dropped despite everything that made your chest flutter.

You reached for a washcloth and let warm water soak through before leaning down to carefully scrub his shoulders and chest. Both of your arms were draped around him in a near hug as you wiped away layers of grime and dead skin. Every little grumble when you were being too rough was soothed by pressing a kiss to the tip of his ear.

Even sweeter was the little sound of protest when you moved away, one shaky hand gripping and squeezing your thigh for as long as he could reach. Zandik's eyes widened when you sank to your knees in front of him. Any attempt at hiding himself behind his arms was abandoned within seconds when he caught your little smile. You watched him roll his eyes, careful not to let any semblance of pity into your expression.

"Want me to shave you after?"

Zandik snorted and shook his head. "Even if there were infinite parallel timelines, there wouldn't be a single one where I let you close to my neck with a sharpened blade."

Both of you chuckled, memories of countless times where you'd hastily helped him shave spots that he'd missed or forgotten coming to mind. But he always said that same thing. He leaned into the touch when you cupped his cheeks, thumbs running along the patchy stubbles that he insisted on calling a beard.

You released his face and instead leaned forward, pressing a kiss just beneath his belly button and trailing your lips down the thick patch of hair. Zandik jerked and you immediately felt an almost frantic pull at your hair.

"Don't-"

"Relax," you whispered. It didn't do much, but Zandik did go quiet. The interested twitch of his soft length told you what you needed to know. He might still feel embarrassed, but his base desires remained. "Let me remind you how much I love every inch of you."

You pushed his legs open a little further, shuffling forward on the wet floor as water continued to drip down both of your bodies. Zandik shivered beneath your touch as soon as your lips met his inner thigh. A quiet hum left you when he tugged at your hair once more, not as insistent and certainly not to pull you away this time, but impatiently trying to guide you towards his crotch.

That little glimpse of your arrogant and selfish lover made you smile. Another time you might have teased or even scolded him, but now you simply obliged and pressed a kiss to his soft tip.

The skin was soft and a little wrinkled, cooler to the touch than the rest of him. You wasted no time poking your tongue out and licking up along him, water collecting on your tongue and dripping down your chin. Above you, Zandik sighed in pleasure and you heard the little thud of his head hitting the wall behind him.

Breathless sounds soon filled the enclosed space as you continue to lick and kiss while he steadily grew harder. One of your hands gently cupped his balls while the other rubbed at his hip, everything about him having turned soft and pliant where there used to be nothing but hard lines and lean muscle. Perhaps you should make sure to tell him that you appreciated this new development, no longer having to worry about protruding bones pressing uncomfortably against you when cuddling.

Zandik groaned in relief when you took his tip between your lips and suckled, tasting a little hint of tangy pre when you pressed your tongue against the slit. You felt him twitch against your tongue, his hips momentarily pushing against your hand in an attempt to get deeper. Once more you obliged, wanting nothing more than to satisfy the man breathing shakily above you.

Slowly, you lowered your head and took all of him into your mouth, relishing how every muscle in his body seemed to tense up.

"Darling.. careful.."

You wrapped a hand around the base and squeezed before hollowing your cheeks. The pull at his length and your aid in keeping the blood vessels constricted made Zandik hiss out your name in another warning.

It had been a while since he'd let you this close, clearly, he was pent up and hard pressed to keep himself under control. Well, you'd just have to show him that there was no reason to hold back.

You began bobbing your head, small movements at first while your tongue rubbed along the prominent vein on the underside of his shaft. Your movements steadily grew until you were pulling back and leaving just the tip between your lips. Every time, you tried to look up at Zandik and enjoy the way he had brought one hand to his lips to bite down and stifle his sounds.

It didn't work half as well as he undoubtedly hoped, a strangled whimper leaving him when you took all of him into your mouth and swallowed.

"I said careful-.."

He cried out when you did it again, tugging harder at your hair this time. His hips weakly bucked beneath you, thighs trembling on either side of your body.

Zandik's release was sudden and for a moment you feared that he might fall onto the floor with how he was writhing as small spurts of his seed shot into your mouth. You dutifully swallowed, keeping him inside for a while longer while both your hands were stroking along his hairy thighs. Only when you pulled back and turned off the water did you realize that tears had been gathering in his eyes.

It made your heart squeeze with fondness and pride, having reduced him to such a mess so easily. He truly had been pent up.

"You expect me to just-..." Zandik paused momentarily to heave a sigh. "Get up and walk to bed after that?"

You gave his knee a little pat, careful not to put any real force behind it. "Well it's not like I can carry you."

One hand came to rest atop your head and play with the wet strands of hair. Without the water running, the water that clung to your skin was swiftly becoming unpleasant. You knew you should get up and fetch a pair of plush towels before either of you got cold, but perhaps you could both be allowed just a moment longer of this fragile peace.

A devious idea wriggled its way to the forefront of your mind and you perked up, lips pulled into a grin that you couldn't control. "How about this.. if you're in bed within the next few minutes, I'll do this again."

The idea seemed like lightning striking a sleeping body when it registered in his mind. Zandik sat up straight within seconds, too much going on behind those crimson eyes. No doubt he was plotting how to get out and dry as fast as possible.

✦ smut tags. m&f masturbation. lighter steals your underwear in a moment of weakness and jerks off with them lol. use of sex toys. penetrative sex. copious amounts of dirty talk, bordering on ooc. disgustingly self-indulgent (you have been warned okay... don't say i didn't...)

You don’t notice what you’ve done at first.

You’re still riding the reckless little high of having done something impulsive and a bit daring for a Wolf Thiren you’ve been getting frisky with for the last few weeks. Your ears are warm, your tail swaying in lazy, pleased arcs behind you as you toss your phone onto the bed and wait for a reply that you hope will be very enthusiastic.

A full minute passes. Then two.

You frown, roll onto your stomach, and grab your phone again.

Still nothing.

You open Knock Knock to double-check it actually sent—and that’s when your stomach drops so fast it feels like missing a stair in the dark.

The name at the top of the screen is not the one with the flirty nickname.

It’s Lighter.

Your roommate.

Your absurdly considerate, unfairly attractive, definitely-not-the-intended-recipient roommate, currently on duty somewhere in the city protecting an A-list celebrity as a bodyguard.

As you stare at the very risque photo you just dumped in Lighter’s Knock Knock thread, you feel your soul gently peel away from your body. Your ears slowly flatten against your hair as if trying to reduce your profile out of shame. How in the world did you tap the wrong thread?

You slam the unsend button so fast you nearly throw your phone. The message disappears, which would be great if Lighter hadn’t already seen it.

Because of course he did. He’s a professional bodyguard. He once gave you a five-minute lecture about always checking notifications immediately in case of emergencies. You literally sent it to the worst possible person if your goal was not being perceived.

Your hands start moving before your brain catches up.

Me: WRONG SEND. I AM SO SORRY.

You drop the phone onto the bed and let out a groan that vibrates through your skull.

You’ve lived together for three months. Three blissfully easy, drama-free months. Despite his rugged appearance, Lighter’s quiet, tidy, never complains about your late-night baking experiments. You cook extra portions when he works long shifts. He fixes things without being asked. The entire roommate situation has been suspiciously perfect.

And now you’ve detonated it because you were horny on a random Tuesday.

Moments later, your phone buzzes and you flinch so hard, you almost convince yourself to ignore it. But curiosity gets the better of you and you deign to take a peek.

Lighter: It’s okay. I figured it was an accident.

That somehow makes it worse.

You type immediately, trying to suppress the urge to bash your head into the wall.

Me: Please tell me you didn’t actually see it

The typing dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

You imagine him somewhere glamorous and high-profile, surrounded by flashing lights, staring at his phone with the same quiet, unreadable expression he always wears behind his sunglasses.

Lighter: I only glanced.

Your tail curls around your waist like it’s trying to physically restrain you from spiraling into another dimension. Because that is not a denial.

That is the legal language of a man who absolutely saw everything.

You do not, as it turns out, evaporate on the spot.

Life continues with quiet cruelty, the hours slipping by whether or not you are psychologically prepared to brave the day or not. You shower. You change your sheets. You open Knock Knock, stare at the thread with the man the photo was supposed to go to, and then close the app without replying.

The thought of flirting again makes your stomach twist into knots. Whatever heat had been simmering in you has gone cold, replaced by the mortifying certainty that your very nice, very easy-to-live-with roommate has seen you in a way roommates are absolutely not supposed to.

You tell yourself you’ll explain later. Or tomorrow. Or never.

The next few days pass in a strange, fragile truce between you and your own thoughts. You move through the apartment carefully, hyper-aware of the way your clothes sit on you now that you know someone else has seen what’s underneath. You half-expect Lighter to act different, to make things awkward in some unbearable, irreversible way.

He doesn’t.

Lighter simply asks how your shifts went. He thanks you when you refill the water pitcher. He does not so much as blink in a way that might suggest he is replaying anything behind his eyes.

Which somehow makes everything worse.

By the time your next bakery shift rolls around, you are exhausted from pretending you’re not thinking about it. The early morning rush drains you physically, the scent of sugar and yeast clinging to your clothes as you lock up and step back into the late afternoon air. Your phone buzzes once in your pocket, and you ignore it without even looking.

You are not in the mood right now.

When you get home, the apartment smells like fried noodles and something spicy enough to make your eyes water pleasantly. The lights are on and your shoulders drop on instinct before you can stop yourself.

Lighter is there.

You realize belatedly that it’s his day off. He’s changed out of his usual gear and dressed down in sweats, his hair still damp like he’s just showered. Your roommate looks up from the counter when he hears the door and gives you an easy nod.

“Hey,” he greets. “You’re home late.”

“Yeah. Busy day,” you sigh.

“Figures.” Lighter nods solemnly before gesturing toward the bags on the counter. “I ordered takeout. Thought you might not feel like cooking.”

The words land gently, without expectation or any hint that this is him compensating for anything or trying to smooth over an unspoken disaster. He’s just… thoughtful. As usual.

“…You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “I wanted to. Oh, I also did the laundry this morning. It was my turn anyway, right?”

You stand there for a moment, tail flicking once behind you, unsure what to do with the gratitude swelling in your chest. “Yeah, thanks. Pretty productive day-off, huh?”

“You bet.”

Dinner unfolds quietly. You sit across from each other at the small table, trading anecdotes about how you both spent the day, your plans herewith, and nothing else in particular. Lighter listens like your words matter even when they’re mundane, and it makes the tension unspool from your shoulders.

You try to play it cool, and act like your eyes don’t catch the way he leans back in his chair, sleeves pushed up his sculpted biceps. You try to forget that you once sent him something that stripped you of all this carefully curated normalcy.

Later, when you’re alone in your room, curled on your bed with the lights off, you replay the evening in your head and feel the strange dissonance of it all. How gentle he was. How unchanged. How safe Lighter still made the apartment feel.

What you don’t know—what you couldn’t possibly know—is that your roommate is simply very good at keeping his own secrets.

Lighter is not a saint.

There are too many things stacked against that illusion—years as the head of a mercenary crew that paid for his negligence with their lives, time lost in the underground ring where survival meant learning how far a body could be pushed before it broke. Even now, with a place among the Sons of Calydon, he isn’t foolish enough to believe affiliation alone scrubs the blood from his hands.

Salvation is a generous word. At best, he has learned how to carry on knowing the others did not.

Living with you has complicated that discipline in ways Lighter did not anticipate. You were practical about it when you first offered to split rent. You made space. You trusted him with the keys to the apartment and the soft rhythm of daily life. There was no agenda in it or expectations beyond coexistence.

It was something he wouldn’t have taken for granted.

Except Lighter learned there are other kinds of sins left to him—smaller, quieter ones that leave no bruises but still manage to feel more dangerous than entering a Hollow without a Proxy.

Like doing the laundry.

Earlier today, he had decided to tackle the pile that’s been accumulating in the hamper over the last week. Lighter doesn’t mind; chores like this remind him that life can be as simple as sorting lights from darks, measuring detergent, and letting the machine hum away the hours.

He’s done this more times than he cares to count. Laundry duty rotated like everything else with the Sons of Calydon. The girls never batted an eye at handing over their delicates, and neither did he. Lighter doesn’t flush when he dumps the hamper’s contents onto the floor of the small laundry nook. He separates items methodically: Thiren-modified clothes that accommodate your tail comfortably, his own sweat-stained work clothes, a few bed linens that have seen better days.

But then there’s the something that catches his eye amid the jumble—a scrap of black lace, delicate and designed to be noticed before it’s removed. Lighter recognizes it immediately, and it hits like a delayed punch, pulling him back to that night.

He’d been on the job, while his charge was midway through her segment on a late-night talk show. Lighter had positioned himself backstage, out of the camera’s glare but close enough to intervene if needed. It was one of those idle stretches where he could let his guard drop just a fraction.

Sometime later, his phone had vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out without thinking, thumbing open the notification from you because that’s what he did, always.

The image took a while to load in the Knock Knock thread. Lighter had initially assumed this was just another baking experiment fail that you shared with him on occasion. He liked those—your whimsical messages always made his time on the clock less of a drag.

But the moment the photo showed up, his brain short-circuited.

It was you, unmistakably, captured in a mirror selfie. Your shirt was rucked up, baring the soft swell of your breasts where your pert nipples peaked in the cool air of what he now knew was your bedroom. One hand held the phone at an angle that framed everything just so, while the other tugged teasingly at the waistband of those black racy panties, pulling them low enough to hint at the curve of your hips, the shadow between your thighs.

Your ears were perked forward, tail a blurred arc in the background like it couldn’t contain your excitement, and your expression—that sly, inviting smile, eyes half-lidded with mischief—made it clear this was meant for someone who wasn’t him.

Lighter had only glanced, as he told you later. That wasn’t a lie, exactly. He’d swiped the app closed almost immediately the moment his brain processed what he was seeing. But that glance had seared itself into his memory, replaying in flashes during quiet moments: the way your skin looked under the warm light, the delicate filigree of the lace against your fingers, and the confidence in your pose that contrasted so sharply with the flustered apologies that followed.

Now, holding that same pair of panties in the laundry pile, he feels that image resurface with a vengeance.

His fingers brush the fabric, and it’s like a direct line to that mental snapshot. Heat coils low in his gut, a reminder that he’s not as detached as he’d like to pretend. He’s not embarrassed—that would imply shame, and there’s none of that here.

What he feels is worse: a sharp, aching want that he has no right to.

You’re his roommate, his friend in this fragile domestic setup. You’ve trusted him with your space, your routines, and now, unwittingly, with this glimpse of your intimacy. Seeing the crumpled lace now only amplifies the dissonance, and makes him aware of how it’s touched your skin in moments he wasn’t meant to witness.

Lighter exhales slowly, forcing his grip to loosen as he tosses the panties into the delicates bag with the rest. He tells himself it’s nothing, just fabric, just a chore. But as he starts the washer, the rhythmic churn of the machine does little to drown out the thoughts circling his mind.

He wonders if you wore them that day, if they’re carrying traces of your scent from the bakery—sugar and flour mingling with something warmer, headier. He shakes his head. This isn’t him; he doesn’t indulge in things like that. By the time you get home later, the laundry will be done. He’ll greet you, ask about your day, and keep the rest locked away where it belongs.

Lighter manages the restraint for all of five minutes after the washer kicks into its spin cycle. The delicates bag sits there on the counter, but his eyes keep drifting back to it like a magnet he can’t ignore. He tells himself to finish the chore—sort the dry load, fold everything neatly, leave your things on your bed as always. That’s the routine he’s clung to these past months.

But the tension in his body is a live wire, coiled tighter than it’s been in years. Not since the underground ring, where adrenaline and pain blurred into something primal. This is different, though—hotter, more insidious.

He fishes the black lace panties out of the bag before he can second-guess it, the fabric cool and soft against his callused fingers. It’s you invading his thoughts with that damned photo, and now this tangible reminder in his hands.

Lighter’s pulse hammers in his ears as he glances toward the apartment door down the hall, half-expecting you to burst in early from your shift. The place is silent, save for the continues whirr of the washing machine. No one’s here. No one will know.

He shouldn’t. God, he knows he shouldn’t. This is another sin to add to the ledger, smaller than blood but somehow dirtier. The Sons of Calydon preach loyalty, protection, and a code that keeps the chaos at bay. If Big Daddy or Caesar or any of them found out he was perving on his roommate like this, stealing her underwear to get off... fuck, they’d kick him out and strip him of the Champion title in a blink of an eye.

This was disgusting. Pathetic. A betrayal of the trust you’ve given him so freely.

But the ache in his cock is insistent, straining against his sweats, and the mental image of you—tits bared, fingers teasing that lace down your hips—won’t fucking leave him alone.

It’s been days of this torture, pretending normalcy while his brain replays it on loop. He needs to dispel it and purge the tension before it snaps him in half. Just this once. Then he can toss your panties in the next wash cycle, put them away, and bury this deeper than the ghosts of his past.

Lighter retreats to his room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that makes his stomach twist. The space is sparse but functional. Bed by the window, weights in the corner, manga volumes Caesar loaned so he “wouldn’t get bored in the city” stacked on the nightstand.

There wasn’t much room for indulgence here, usually. But as Lighter sinks onto the edge of the mattress, the panties clutched in one hand, today proves to be different from the rest. His free hand palms himself through his sweats, giving a rough squeeze that draws a low groan from his throat. He was already hard, leaking precum that darkens the fabric.

Shame burns hot in his chest, mingling with lust until it’s a toxic cocktail he can’t stop drinking. You’re so good to him—cooking extra portions for his late nights, sharing your silly baking stories, making this apartment feel like something close to home.

And here he is, defiling that with this filthy act.

He shoves his sweats down just enough to free his cock, thick and veined, throbbing in the cool air. The head is slick and flushed dark with need. Lighter wraps the lace around his shaft, the delicate fabric a stark contrast to his rough grip. It’s wrong, so fucking wrong. Yet the lace drags against his skin anyway, soft and teasing as he bites back a curse, hips bucking into his hand.

In his mind, it’s you. Not just the photo, but more—vivid, feverish fantasies he hasn’t allowed himself until now. You on your knees in this very room, vulpine ears twitching as you look up at him with that sly smile. He’d tangle his fingers in your hair, guide your mouth onto his cock, and watch those lips stretch around him.

“Fuck,” he mutters raggedly, pumping faster. The lace catches on the ridges as it sends sparks up his spine. He’d be gentle at first—always gentle with you—but then you’d moan, and he’d lose it, thrusting deeper, feeling your throat tighten around him.

Or he could have you bent over the kitchen counter, where you bake those late-night treats. He’d hike up your skirt, yank these same panties aside and bury himself inside you. Your tail would thrash, brushing his thighs as he pounds into you, one hand on your hip, the other reaching around to pinch those pert nipples until you cry out. Sugar and yeast would cling to your skin, mixing with your sweat, and he’d lick it off your neck before biting down just hard enough to mark.

It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting. A protector turned predator in his own head, and the shame of it makes his balls tighten, the orgasm building fast and relentless. His strokes turn sloppy, the lace abrading his skin just enough to hurt, a punishment he deserves. Lighter thinks of your face in that photo and twists it, imagines you whispering his name instead of whoever it was meant for.

Lighter... please...

That’s what breaks him. A guttural moan rips from his chest as he comes, hot spurts coating the lace, soaking through the delicate threads. His vision blurs and his body shudders with the cresting release. Finallly, the tension embedded in his bones uncoils in waves that leave him breathless and hollow.

For a long moment, Lighter sits there with his cock softening in his hand, the ruined panties a sticky mess. Reality crashes back in, prompted by the continuous ringing of the washer down the hall letting him know the cycle’s done. Shame floods him full throttle now.

What the fuck has he done?

He cleans up quickly rinses the lace in the sink, scrubs until there’s no trace left, then tosses it back into the delicates bag like nothing happened. By the time this next load finishes, he’ll fold it all, place your things on your bed, and greet you with that same nod when you get home.

But unlike laundry, this secret is a stain he can’t wash out.

You’ve been feeling off for a week now.

At first, you tell yourself it’s nothing. Just one of those days where you wake up irritated with no clear cause, your tail flicking against the mattress like it’s got a mind of its own, and your ears twitching at every small sound.

By midday, you can’t stay still for long. Standing feels wrong. Sitting feels worse. Even familiar routines itch under your skin.

The bakery has been busy lately—too many early mornings with the constant warmth of ovens pressing in from all sides. By the time you’re halfway through your shift, sweat beads along your spine despite the cool room, and there’s a faint, uncomfortable heat pooling low in your body.

It’s distracting. Enough that you fumble an order you’ve made a hundred times before.

“Hey,” your boss says gently, appearing at your side. She’s a Rabbit Thiren with long, fluffy ears and sharp eyes, and she’s been doing this long enough to notice things others miss. “You alright?”

You open your mouth to answer and sway instead.

“Whoa—easy.” Her nose twitches as she steadies you, eyes lingering on your form for a beat longer than necessary. The look on her face then shifts from concern to something more knowing.

“…Have you been feeling feverish?”

“Just tired, I think,” you admit. “My sleep quality’s shit lately.”

She hums softly. “When was the last time you tracked… you know. Your cycle.”

Your stomach sinks.

“Oh.”

Her ears twitch. “You might be coming into heat. I can smell the beginnings already.”

Thank god the afternoon rush has already come and gone because that explains too much, all at once. The restlessness. The heat under your skin. The way your thoughts keep circling the same empty spaces without landing anywhere solid. You do the math quickly in your head and grimace.

“It should be around now,” you mutter. “I just—forgot, I guess.”

Your boss winces in sympathy. “That’ll do it. Especially if you haven’t been using suppressants yet. Pre-heat sickness can be rough.”

You sigh, disgruntled more than embarrassed. Of all the times to lose track of it…

“Yeah. Guess that explains why I feel like garbage.”

“No shame in it,” she reassures, already waving you toward the back. “Go home early. Get what you need. You don’t want this sneaking up on you while you’re stuck on your feet all day.”

You hesitate, pride flaring briefly before the lightheadedness makes the decision for you.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

When you step outside, the air feels cooler but sharper, every sensation turned up just a notch too high. By the time you’ve bought the necessary supplies and make it home, you’re fully aware of your own body in a way you haven’t been in months.

That’s right. This was why you’d been trying to get with that Wolf Thiren a month ago. Why you’d felt confident enough to send something reckless to keep his attention just long enough to bridge the gap to your next heat. You’d always been good at planning ahead.

Except your plans hadn’t just fallen apart.

They’d detonated—right into your roommate’s inbox.

And now you were going to endure this heat miserable and alone, because seduction required a clarity of mind you no longer possessed. You’d been so distracted by the fallout of sending Lighter that photo that you’d forgotten the most basic contingency: surviving the season at all.

You get home and prepare like this is a siege.

Water bottles lined up within arm’s reach. Easy food that won’t turn your stomach. Cooling packs shoved into the freezer just in case. You were also stocked up heavily on lube and batteries for any… toys you’ll need to use. You inventory everything twice, because this is the one situation where overpreparing actually feels sane.

At least you won’t be caught off guard.

Lighter, mercifully, is away for a few days. His client’s press tour has dragged him out of the city, which means the apartment is yours alone for now. You don’t know if your heat will be finished by the time he returns, but you cling to the hope anyway. It’s easier to endure discomfort than the thought of navigating this with your roommate present, no matter how unflappable he is.

You change into the lightest clothes you own: a loose tank, cotton shorts that won’t trap heat. Your tail swishes irritably as you crawl into bed, curling on your side like some half-feral creature trying to ride out an illness. The room is dim, curtains drawn, the quiet punctuated only by the distant hum of city traffic.

Your phone buzzes.

You groan, half-expecting it to be another message you don’t have the energy to deal with—but when you check, it’s actually your roommate himself .

Lighter: Blazewood is exactly as thrilling as you’d expect.

Lighter: Which is to say, not at all.

You huff a small laugh despite yourself and type back.

Me: Aren’t you from Blazewood though?

Lighter: Exactly why I feel qualified to complain about it.

You smile at the screen. The conversation drifts easily after that—him complaining about how living in the city has made him unused to the desert heat, you responding with dry sympathy and a few jokes about him missing decent takeout.

You set the phone down eventually, still smiling faintly, and stare up at the ceiling. Whatever comes next, you’re oddly grateful for this small normalcy. For the quiet proof that you and Lighter have, somehow, moved past The Incident.

At least on the surface.

You roll onto your side and let yourself rest—hoping, perhaps foolishly, that when he comes home, this will all already be behind you.

Except it’s not as easy as you’d hoped.

You wake up tangled in your sheets, disoriented enough that for a moment you don’t know where you are or how long you’ve been there. The dim glow of your nightstand clock blinks accusingly—12:03 AM. Midnight.

Grogginess clouds your thoughts as you fumble for your phone, the screen’s light stabbing at your eyes. No missed alarms? You swear you’d set one for dinner time—to take the suppressant before things escalated. But the hours must have slipped away in that uneasy nap, your body betraying you by crashing hard after the pre-heat haze.

Now it’s too late; suppressants are preventive, not curative. Taking one mid-surge would only make the symptoms worse. You’re committed now, stuck riding this out the old-fashioned way.

A low whine escapes your throat as you shift, the movement sending a fresh gush of slick between your thighs. Your pussy throbs with an insistent, painful emptiness, clit swollen and hypersensitive even without touch.

It’s been years since you’ve gone through a heat solo and you’ve forgotten just how brutal it is. The restlessness from earlier has amplified into agony. Your tail lashes against the mattress, ears pinned flat against your head as sweat trickles down your neck. Every breath feels too hot, too shallow, your body screaming for relief that fingers alone won’t provide.

Shakily, you reach for the drawer of your nightstand to pull out a vibrator. One of the stronger ones, ridged and curved for that extra edge. You peel off your soiled shorts and underwear with a hiss, the cool air hitting your slick folds like a tease that only heightens the ache. Slick coats your inner thighs, proof of how far gone you are. You switch the toy on, the low buzz cutting through the silence, and press it directly to your clit.

The vibration hits like lightning, ripping a gasp from your lips as your hips buck involuntarily.

It’s intense, almost too much at first, but the pain of need overrides any overstimulation. You circle the tip around your clit, chasing that sweet spot, your free hand fisting the sheets as waves of pleasure-pain crash over you.

Your body arches as you grind against the toy. It’s mechanical, desperate; you come fast and hard in a shuddering release that floods you with temporary bliss, slick spilling anew as your walls clench around nothing.

But it’s not enough.

Heats like this demand more. Solo play is a bandage on a gaping wound, providing spurts of relief but no true satisfaction. As you catch your breath in the dark, your mind starts to wander, filling the void with hazy fantasies to push you toward the next orgasm.

At first, it’s generic—a faceless, broad-shouldered Thiren your biology craves. You’d imagine him pinning you down, his knot swelling to lock inside you, filling that aching emptiness until you’re mindless and sated. But the image shifts unbidden, the features sharpening into something familiar.

Dark teal hair, tousled from a long day. A lopsided smile that quirks just so, the one he gives when he’s teasing about your baking disasters or thanking you for dinner.

Lighter.

God, no—your brain stutters, but the thought sticks, heat flushing your cheeks even as your body responds. You press the vibrator harder against your clit, dipping the tip lower to tease your entrance, imagining it’s his fingers instead.

Broad, callused from years of fighting, sliding into you with that quiet confidence he carries everywhere. He’d be gentle but firm, stretching you open while his other hand strokes your tail, your ears, murmuring in that gravelly voice.

“Easy,” he’d say, like he does when he steadies you after a long shift. But then he’d see how wet you are, how desperately you need it, and that restraint would crack.

You whimper, thighs trembling as you fuck yourself with the toy now, thrusting it in shallowly while the vibrations buzz against your clit. In your mind, Lighter hovers over you with his sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes, that lopsided grin turning hungry as he sinks into you.

No knot, but fuck, he’d make up for it with stamina, pounding into you deep and relentless, one hand on your hip to hold you in place while the other teases your nipples. Your tail would wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he’d groan your name, burying his face in your neck to breathe you in.

A pang of guilt flickers at the edges of your thoughts, but it’s drowned out by your building release. It’s wrong—he’s your roommate, your friend—but that only makes it spurs you on. You come again with a cry, back arching off the bed, the toy buried deep as your walls flutter around it.

The room spins gently, a post-climax dizziness that leaves you boneless and temporarily sated. You slump back against the pillows, your vibrator discarded beside you on the damp sheets. It’s a fragile peace, one you know won’t last, but for now, you savor it as you reach for a water bottle.

The cool liquid slides down your throat, quenching a thirst you hadn’t fully registered. You drink greedily, half the bottle gone before you set it down and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

But as the hydration hits your system, your baser instincts begin to stir awake. The emptiness returns, manifesting as a deep, gnawing yearning not just for physical release, but for connection. For a mate’s presence, their scent wrapping around you, grounding you in the chaos of your cycle.

Logically, you know you don’t have one, but your body rebels against the thought, hormones flooding your veins with irrational insistence. You need it. Need him. Someone. Anyone.

No—not anyone.

Your tail flicks restlessly as you slide out of bed on unsteady legs, slick trickling down your thighs in a fresh wave that makes you whimper. You’re naked from the waist down, tank top clinging to your sweat-slicked skin, but modesty doesn’t register in this heat-addled state.

Disorientation clouds everything; the apartment feels too big, too empty. Sounds are muffled, like cotton in your ears, and your phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand.

The caller ID flashes with Lighter’s name across the screen.

But you don’t notice, too lost in the primal pull guiding you toward the hallway.

You trudge toward his room on autopilot, frowning when you try the knob and it twists all the way. Why would his door be unlocked? He must have forgotten in the rush of packing for the trip, or maybe it’s just habit—trusting you as much as you trust him. Either way, it’s ajar just enough for you to nudge it open with your shoulder, and the moment you cross the threshold, his scent hits you like a tidal wave.

Spicy and musky, like smoked cedar mingled with desert sand and a hint of leather from his gear. It’s the scent of safety, of quiet evenings sharing takeout and late-night fixes around the apartment.

Your legs buckle beneath you, knees weakening as a gush of slick floods your core. A needy whine escapes your lips, ears flattening as you stagger forward, inhaling deeply. It’s comforting, wrapping around your frayed nerves like a balm, but it only amplifies the ache, turning satisfaction into torment once more.

The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of city lights filtering through the blinds, but your enhanced senses pick out details: the sparse furniture, weights in the corner, books on the nightstand. And there, on the neatly made bed is a stack of folded clothes.

You don’t think; you just act, crawling onto the mattress and curling into the pile. A soft shirt, sweats, maybe a hoodie. Whatever it is, you bury your face in them, breathing him in deeply.

Lighter’s scent envelops you like a security blanket, making you feel protected even in his absence. Your tail curls around the bundle, hugging it to your chest as you nuzzle deeper. A contented purr rumbles in your throat despite the lingering need. You’ve forgotten all about the toys back in your room, mind too fogged to care.

Your fingers find your slick folds easily, parting them with a gasp as you circle your clit, the touch electric in the haze of his aroma. It’s sloppy; dipping two fingers inside yourself, thrusting shallowly while your thumb rubs frantic circles above.

Slick coats your hand, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, but all you can focus on is Lighter: how safe he makes you feel, how even just the ghost of his presence chases away the isolation of your raging heat.

Your eyes are squeezed shut so tightly that white sparks dance behind your lids. The fantasy has solidified now: Lighter above you gazing at your poor form with eyes half-lidded, that deep voice murmuring your name as his hips roll in the same rhythm as your fingers. You can almost feel the weight of him pinning you to the mattress, the heat of his breath against your ear.

A broken sound escapes you when the pleasure starts to crest again. But then you hear it.

The sound of your name.

For one disoriented heartbeat you think it’s part of the fantasy, another cruel trick of your heat-drunk brain. But the voice comes again, laced with something that sounds dangerously close to shock.

“…hey.”

You freeze.

Your fingers are still buried inside you. Your tail is still wrapped tight around the bundle of his clothes. Your face is still pressed into the soft cotton of his shirt, nose buried in the collar where his scent is strongest.

And Lighter is standing in the open doorway of his own bedroom.

He hasn’t moved past the threshold. Leather jacket still zipped, duffel slung over one shoulder, sunglasses perched on his nose even in the middle of the night. The faint glow from the hallway spills around him, turning his silhouette into something almost unreal.

His eyes—visible now that he’s slowly, carefully pushing the sunglasses up into his hair—are wide. There is no disgust in there, but there was confusion. His gaze locks on you like he’s forgotten how blinking works.

You should scream. You should scramble off the bed, yank the sheets over yourself, stammer apologies until your voice gives out. But your body refuses to obey. The heat has you pinned in place, slick still leaking around your fingers, clit throbbing with the orgasm that was so close a second ago.

You can’t even pull your hand free. The humiliation is there—searing, and white-hot—but it’s tangled up with the scent of him, the reality of him, and your traitorous cunt clenches hard around your fingers at the sight.

“Lighter,” you bleat. “You’re… you’re supposed to be at work.”

He exhales through his nose, a short, unsteady sound.

“Client’s press junket got pushed up, so we wrapped up early. I texted. Even called you. Twice.” His voice comes out carefully, like he’s talking someone down from a ledge. “You didn’t answer.”

And now he is presented with the reason why.

Another wave of slick drips down your thigh. You whimper and his gaze flicks down, then back up to your face so fast it’s almost comical if the situation weren’t so mortifying.

The door clicks shut behind him, soft but final.

“You’re in heat,” Lighter says. Not a question. A statement. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You nod jerkily. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming collision of need and embarrassment. How could you ever begin to explain this?

“I forgot it was going to hit today…. I didn’t mean to—” Your voice cracks. “I just… needed… your scent. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead Lighter drops the duffel to the floor with a muted thud. Then, slowly, he shrugs out of the leather jacket and drapes it over the back of the desk chair. The movement is deliberate, almost gentle, like he’s trying not to spook you.

“You don’t need to apologize.” His voice is rougher now, frayed at the edges. “Not for this.”

You swallow hard. “I’m on your bed. With your clothes. Touching myself. That’s—”

“Instinct,” he cuts in quietly. “You’re not thinking straight. I’m pretty sure heats make you do that. We have a Cat Thiren back at HQ, you know.”

He takes another step closer. Close enough that you can see the way his throat works when he swallows. He’s trying to stay calm. You can smell it—his own arousal spiking beneath the careful control, sharp and smoky.

Your fingers twitch inside you, and a fresh whimper slips out.

Lighter’s jaw clenches.

“Tell me to leave,” he murmurs. “Say the word and I’ll go crash on the couch. Lock the door behind me. You won’t see me until morning.”

Your heart hammers so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

But the thought of him walking away—of losing his scent, his presence, the only thing that’s made the last hour bearable—feels worse than the heat itself.

You shake your head with a whine.

“Don’t,” you breathe. “Please don’t go.”

Something flickers across his face. Relief, maybe, or hunger, or both.

He crosses the last few steps to the edge of the bed in silence. He doesn’t touch you just yet. But he looks down at you with those steady eyes, taking in the mess you’ve made of yourself on his sheets.

Then, very slowly, he reaches out.

His knuckles brush your ankle, the leather a foreign yet sweet sensation against your skin. You shiver hard, thighs falling open another fraction without conscious thought.

“Tell me what you need,” he pleads, and his eyes are so earnest, you can’t help but answer.

“You. Just… you.”

Lighter exhales, long and ragged, like he’s been holding his breath for years.

Then he leans down, plants one knee on the mattress, and removes his gloves.

Moments later, his knuckles linger against your ankle for one more heartbeat—giving you every last second to pull back—then his hand slides higher, that warm palm smoothing up the trembling length of your calf. He moves like he’s handling something fragile and explosive all at once.

“Still with me?”

You nod frantically, ears twitching, tail lashing once against the sheets before curling tight around his wrist like it’s trying to anchor him there.

Lighter lets out another long breath before settling fully onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. He doesn’t crowd you—he kneels between your spread thighs instead, broad shoulders blocking out the faint hallway light, leaving you both in soft shadow.

His fingers—those big, scarred, calloused ones you’ve watched fix cabinet hinges and stir soup without thinking—hover just above your slick-soaked folds.

“Look at me,” he says quietly.

You do. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, but the expression behind them is steady. Kind. The same look he gives you when you burn toast at 2 a.m. and he wordlessly scrapes it into the trash for you.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” he tells you. “We stop the second you say. Even if it’s just ‘stop’. Even if it’s just a look. Okay?”

Your throat works. “Okay.”

He nods once. Then, finally, he touches you.

Two fingers glide through your folds, gathering slick without pressing inside. You jolt anyway, a sharp whine punching out of you before Lighter shushes you gently. His free hand settles on your thigh, thumb stroking soothing arcs over the sensitive skin.

“Easy, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

The endearment hits like a spark. You’ve never heard him say anything like it before—not to you, not to anyone—and it makes your cunt clench hard around nothing. More slick spills out; he groans under his breath when he feels it.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he mutters. “That’s it. Let it happen. You’re doing so good already.”

He circles your clit with the pads of his fingers—light at first, then firmer when your hips buck up into his hand. You’re already so close from earlier that it doesn’t take long. Your thighs tremble, nails digging into the sheets.

“Lighter—please—”

“I know, baby. I know.” His voice stays calm, even as his breathing gets rougher. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

You do. You shatter with a choked cry, walls fluttering around nothing while his fingers keep rubbing slow, steady circles through the aftershocks. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from overstimulation, hips twitching away and then back again in confused need.

When the tremors of your body subside, he leans down and presses the softest kiss to the inside of your knee. “Good girl,” he whispers against your skin. “So fucking good.”

The praise sinks into you like warm honey. You’re still mortified that he walked in on you like this, dripping all over his bed and scent-marking his clothes like some desperate animal. But every time the shame tries to rise, he does something gentle—strokes your tail, murmurs reassurances, looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters—and it melts away again.

He keeps touching you slowly and patiently. Two fingers sliding inside once more, curling just right, thumb brushing your clit in lazy figure-eights. You’re sensitive, overshot, but the heat won’t let you stop. You need more. Always more.

Lighter is more than aware.

“You want my fingers deeper?” he asks, voice dropping into something silkier. “Want me to fuck you open nice and slow until you can take three?”

You whimper, nodding as your hips rock down to meet his hand.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Y-yes, please. Deeper—”

He obliges. Another finger slides in, stretching you carefully, scissoring just enough to make you see stars. His free hand pets your ears, scratches lightly behind them until you’re purring through the moans.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Look at you, taking me so well. Bet you’d look even prettier stretched around my cock, huh? All full and needy and dripping for me.”

The filthy words make your brain short-circuit. Your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, and he groans like his restraint is hanging on by a thread.

“Fuck, you like that. Don’t you?”

You’re beyond shame now. “Yes… Yes. Need it…”

“Need what?” he coaxes, thumb pressing harder on your clit. “Tell me exactly.”

Your voice cracks. “Your cock. Inside me. Please. I can’t… I need you—”

For the first time since he walked in, something flickers across his face—real conflict. His jaw ticks, eyes searching yours like he’s looking for any sign of hesitation, any sign that the heat is speaking for you instead of you speaking through it.

“You sure?” he asks quietly. “This isn’t just the heat talking?”

You don’t answer with words.

Instead you surge up, fingers tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck, and yank him down.

Your mouths crash together; messy, desperate. You taste salt and smoke and him, and it’s better than any fantasy. Lighter groans into your mouth as his restraint finally starts to fracture. His fingers slip out of you; you whine at the loss, but then his hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding under your tank top to palm your breasts, thumbs brushing over hard nipples.

He kisses like he fights: controlled until he isn’t. Then it’s filthy—open-mouthed, licking into you, sucking on your tongue until you’re trembling again. You bite his bottom lip; he growls, hips jerking forward so you can feel how hard he is through his pants.

When you finally break apart, both of you are panting.

“Fuck,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours. “Are you really sure?”

Even through the haze of arousal, his discretion makes your heart flutter. But instead of answering, you tug harder on his hair, dragging his mouth back to yours for one more bruising kiss before you whisper against his lips:

“Take your clothes off. Now.”

That’s what finally breaks him.

Lighter tosses his sunglasses onto the nightstand and pulls back just enough to yank his shirt over his head—muscles flexing, a collection of scars catching the dim light. He shoves his pants and boxers down in the same impatient sweep. His cock springs free moments later, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip. You stare as your cunt throbs with fresh need.

Lighter settles back between your thighs, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to your entrance. He notches the fleshy tip against you and pauses.

“Last chance,” he chuckles, but there’s little mirth in it. “Tell me no and we stop.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you breathe.

He exhales a shaky laugh—half relief, half surrender.

Then he pushes in.

He sinks in agonizingly slow like he’s savoring every flutter of your walls as they stretch to take him. The head of his cock pops past the tight ring of muscle and then it’s just heat, pressure, fullness, until his hips finally press flush to yours and he’s buried to the hilt. The size of him overwhelming you so much that if not for your heat-laden slick, you would’ve struggled.

You choke on a sound that’s equal parts a sob and a moan. Your nails dig into his shoulders; your tail lashes wildly before coiling around his waist like it’s trying to keep him exactly where he is. He’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your guts.

Lighter stills, breathing hard through his nose, forehead pressed to yours. His hands bracket your head, thumbs stroking along the base of your twitching ears in slow, soothing circles.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he rasps. His voice is wrecked, but the gentleness is still there.

You nod frantically, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Not from pain. From relief. From finally having something—someone—to fill the screaming void that’s been clawing at you for hours.

“Words,” he murmurs, brushing his lips over your damp cheek. “Need to hear you.”

“Y-yes,” you gasp. “Please—move. Please move, Lighter, I can’t—”

He kisses you then, a soft press of his lips that makes you purr. But then he takes it deeper. Hungrier. His tongue slides against yours in lazy strokes while his hips give the smallest experimental roll.

You keen into his mouth.

That’s all the permission he needs.

Lighter pulls out halfway then snaps back in with a wet, filthy sound that makes your whole body jolt. Every thrust dragging against every sensitive spot inside you until your vision whites out at the edges.

But he doesn’t stop there.

His hands are everywhere. One palms your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple in time with his hips. The other slides down your side, grips your hip, then slips under to cup the curve of your ass—lifting you just enough to change the angle so he hits deeper, harder. His calloused fingers knead the base of your tail until you’re arching, purring brokenly against his throat.

Lighter kisses your neck. Your jaw. The sensitive spot behind your ear that makes your toes curl. When he nips lightly at the shell of your ear you whine so loud it echoes off the walls.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he groans against your skin. “So pretty when you’re falling apart for me.”

He shifts—hooks one of your legs higher over his hip, opening you wider—and the next thrust punches a scream out of you. The headboard starts to knock against the wall in steady rhythm.

You’re drooling now; dazed with spit slicking the corner of your lips. Every thrust drives another helpless sound from your throat. Your nails rake down his back and he hisses witch each pass, but it only makes him fuck you harder.

“That’s it,” he pants, low and filthy-sweet. “Let it out, baby. Let me hear how good it feels. You’re taking me so fucking well—look at you, all messy and needy just for me.”

You try to answer but all that comes out is a garbled moan. Your cunt clenches hard around him; he curses under his breath, hips stuttering for a second before he finds the rhythm again. He moves like he’s trying to imprint himself inside you, and you’ll gladly let him leave his mark.

Lighter’s laces your fingers together, and pins it above your head. The other slides between your bodies, calloused thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight, relentless circles. The dual sensation—his cock splitting you open, his thumb working your swollen clit—snaps something inside you.

You come so hard your vision blacks out for a second. Walls spasming, gushing slick around him, soaking the sheets, his thighs, everything. Your whole body seizes and your back bows off the bed as a broken cry ripping from your throat.

Lighter doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it—slows just enough to drag it out, to make every aftershock feel like another peak. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your whimpers, kissing you sloppy and deep while he murmurs praise against your lips.

“Good girl. So fucking good. Coming so pretty around my cock—gonna make you do it again, yeah? Gonna keep fucking this sweet little cunt until you can’t think straight.”

You’re a drooling, trembling mess beneath him. Tears streak down your cheeks; he kisses them away without breaking rhythm.

“Again,” he growls softly. “Come on, sweetheart. Give me another one. I know you’ve got more in you.”

His hips snap harder, the wet slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room.

“Lighter. Lighter, please—too much. Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

“Never,” he promises, his breath hot against your throat.

Lighter angles his hips just right—hits that spot again—and you shatter a second time, harder than the first. Your scream muffles against his shoulder as you bite down, nails sinking into his back, cunt milking him in frantic pulses.

He breathes out a broken moan of his own and finally lets himself go.

His rhythm stutters. Hips slamming once, twice, then burying deep as he comes with a ragged curse, spilling hot and thick inside you. You feel every pulse and it drags your own orgasm out longer until you’re both shaking, panting, clinging to each other like the world might end if you let go.

Lighter doesn’t pull out right away.

Instead he stays buried, softening slowly as he presses lazy kisses to your damp forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. His hands stroke down your sides soothingly before petting your ears and tail until your trembling eases into boneless exhaustion.

“You okay?” he whispers hoarsely.

You manage a tiny, wrecked nod. Then, barely audible:

“…stay inside. Please.”

He exhales a soft laugh against your hair.

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” he murmurs.

He shifts carefully, rolling you both so you’re tucked against his chest, still connected, his arms wrapped around you like he’s shielding you from the rest of the world.

The heat still simmers under your skin.

But for the first time in hours, it doesn’t feel like torture.

It feels like coming home.

Sunlight filters through the half-closed blinds in thin, golden slats, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets and the two bodies still tangled in them.

You wake slowly—lucid for the first time in what feels like forever.

The heat is still there, but it’s no longer a screaming inferno. Your body feels heavy, pleasantly sore, every muscle singing with the memory of last night. You can breathe without wanting to claw something apart. You can think.

And the first coherent thought that hits you is: oh god.

Lighter is asleep beside you, face half-buried in the pillow, one arm slung possessively across your waist. His dark teal hair is a disaster and there are fresh marks blooming across his throat and shoulders: your bite marks, red-purple lovebites, long parallel scratches down his back where your claws had dug in when he’d fucked you through your third (fourth?) orgasm. You can feel the mirror image on your own body—his teeth on your neck, your collarbone, the faint imprint of his fingers bruised into your hips and thighs.

You stare at the ceiling for a long second, mortification rising like steam.

You need to get out of here before he wakes up. Before you have to look him in the eye and remember how you begged for his cock, how you sobbed his name. You start to inch toward the edge of the mattress, trying not to jostle him. One foot touches the floor—

A large hand shoots out, snags your wrist, and yanks.

You squeak as the world flips. One second you’re sitting up; the next you’re flat on your back again, Lighter looms over you, knees bracketing your hips, forearms braced on either side of your head. His eyes are still heavy-lidded with sleep, but they’re focused enough and there’s a tiny, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, voice rough from disuse.

Your ears flatten. Your face burns so hot you’re sure it’s visible from orbit.

“I—um. Bathroom. Water. Normal things.”

“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t budge an inch. “You’re cute when you’re panicking.”

“I’m not panicking,” you mutter, even as your tail curls nervously around his thigh. “I’m… strategically retreating.”

He huffs a soft, fond laugh and the sound does dangerous things to your already fragile composure.

Then he sobers.

“Hey,” Lighter says gently. “We should talk. Before the next wave hits.”

You swallow before nodding along.

He shifts his weight, settling more comfortably between your legs. Just close enough that you can feel his warmth, smell that familiar mix of smoked cedar and leather and now, unmistakably, you.

“So,” he starts. “The photo from back then.”

You wince. “Yeah. About that. It… wasn’t meant for you.”

“I think we both know that already.” He traces a thumb along the edge of one of the bites on your shoulder. “Who was it for? If you don’t mind me asking.”

You exhale through your nose. “Some Wolf Thiren I met a couple months back. Thought he’d be… convenient. For this.” You gesture vaguely at your own body. “I was trying to line up a heat partner. Got cocky. Sent it to the wrong thread. And then the heat hit early and I forgot every contingency plan I ever had because I was too busy being mortified that you saw my tits.”

He breathes out a quiet laugh.

“Understandable.”

You blink. “That’s it? No… judgment? No ‘what the hell were you thinking’?”

He shrugs. “You’re an adult. You were trying to take care of yourself. Heat’s rough enough without adding shame on top of it.” His thumb brushes over the bruise on your hip. “And in the end… you got a mate, right?”

Your brain short-circuits.

“M-mate?” you sputter. Your ears flick straight up, then pin back again. “I—I mean… technically? Maybe? But you don’t have to—”

He raises one brow. “You kept moaning it last night. ‘Mate.’ ‘My mate.’ ‘Please, Lighter, my mate—’”

You slap both hands over your face with a muffled scream.

“Oh my god. Kill me now.”

He smiles before peeling your hands away so he can look at you. His expression is soft in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I’m not complaining,” he says. “I liked hearing it.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “…You did?”

“Yeah.” Lighter leans down, presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of your mouth. “A lot.”

Your heart does something ridiculous in your chest.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again. “So. How long do I have to file for leave?”

You blink. “What?”

“Well obviously I can’t let you deal with this alone now.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m your mate, right?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

“Why do you keep saying that!!!”

“Because I’m your mate,” he deadpans.

You make a strangled noise and bury your face in his chest. He laughs again and wraps both arms around you, rolling so you’re tucked against him instead.

When your mortification finally eases enough to speak, your voice is small.

“…Thank you. For not making this weird. For… everything.”

He hums, fingers carding gently through your hair, scratching lightly behind your ears until you melt against him.

“No problem,” he murmurs. “But I want you to know—I don’t do this with just anyone.”

You lift your head, look at him.

“Neither do I,” you admit.

His expression softens even further—if that’s possible—as he presses another kiss to your forehead.

“Good. We’ll sit down and talk it through properly once your heat’s passed,” he adds. “Figure out what this means. No pressure. No rush.”

You nod, throat tight with an emotion you can’t quite name.

“But for now,” he continues, voice dropping into something warmer, “we should probably shower. Eat real food. You’ve been running on snacks and orgasms for twelve hours.”

You snort despite yourself. “Romantic.”

“I try.” He grins and rolls off you, offering a hand. “Come on, mate. Up.”

You take his hand.

And when he pulls you to your feet, steadying you when your legs wobble, you think maybe this unexpected heat might turn out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

(And yeah. The shower is definitely not just a shower.)

(But that’s a story for after breakfast.)

✦ afterword. YIPPEE you made it to the end of my most delusional fic ever... if you know me before reading this, you'd know how batshit insane i am for this man. this is actually the first time i've written smut for lighter bc I JUST COULDN'T BRING MYSELF TO DO IT BEFORE. i would always get too lighterpilled to focus on writing and nothing would come out of it... SO HUZZAH. i finally wrote something worthwhile??? ish?? for him T_T this is EXTREMELY self-indulgent and the fact that i lowkey slapped my selfship with him onto this is very obvious, but i tried to make it as reader-insert friendly as possible :3c thank you so much for giving this a chance!! (also before any of you ask, no reader does not find out about the panty theft until much later LMFAO)

Moment of Morning Dew

The chandeliers of Dewlight Pavilion glimmered like suspended constellations, their fractured light spilling across polished marble in soft gold and pale violet. Even in the Dreamscape—where beauty was manufactured to perfection—this place still carried a certain weight; a stillness that pressed gently against one’s lungs. Amidst the grandeur of the Pavilion, you stood a step behind Maeven Ellis’s absence—your adoptive mother—her authority as Iris Family Head lingered in your posture in the way attendants lowered their gaze as you passed.

Third to the Head of the Iris Family, yet today, you felt oddly like a child again; waiting in a suffocating office as you were summoned by the Dreammaster himself, you weren’t aware of the reason why he had called upon your name but judging from your senses, you weren’t going to like it.

Across the room, not far off from where you stood, was Sunday, he was situated beneath a stained glass window, its colours painted him in shifting hues of amber, indigo and rose where it bounced off his gleaming halo, depicting him as some kind of reverend being. When you had entered the Dreammaster’s office, you were greeted by the Oak Family Head—a mere formality, a simple nod of his head. No words, no nothing.

It had been a while since you’ve last stood in his presence like this, most of the time you’d see him around Penacony or during grand Family banquets but that was about it, nothing more than a hollow distance between the two of you.

Minutes of deafening silence passed before the doors to the office opened once again and in came Mr. Gopher Wood, it wasn’t his original form, merely someone else’s body—presumably someone from the Oak Family—he had possessed.

“Come closer.” He had instructed before taking a seat behind the wooden desk, his tone was calm yet it held unparalleled authority—as a child, it would always send chills down your spine; countless Family gatherings where he spoke to your mother in such a tone. The Dreammaster was a kind man yet something about him unsettled you.

Without another word, you stepped forward just short of his desk, heels echoing faintly against the marble floors. Sunday mirrored your actions, standing a few centimetres away from you—it was enough to get a whiff of his scent.

Vanilla and musk, something sweet yet pierced one’s senses. You tried to ignore the way his shoulder almost brushed your own and how his figure towered you.

“I’m sure you’re both well aware of rumours that are circulating around the Dreamscape,” Mr. Gopher Wood began, hands folded neatly atop the desk.

You sucked in a small breath, you’d heard them too. Whispers that drifted through velvet corridors, murmured between the cracks of reality that there was in-fighting between The Family lineages which ultimately questioned the Dreamscape’s stability. For a space designed to eliminate unfavourable factors, it wasn’t hard for negativity such as baseless rumours to start circulating within its walls.

Dangerous words which challenged The Family.

But . . as for summoning you and Sunday, you were clueless. Why did the Dreammaster specifically choose you? You weren’t skeptic about Sunday as he held authority over the Oak Family, in other words, he was Mr. Gopher Wood’s successor but as for you . . it didn’t quite make sense.

Neither of you answered, instead, you both waited for the Dreammaster to speak once more. 

“Rumours are . . fragile things, if they are left unchecked, they fracture trust. And in Penacony, trust is the foundation upon which dreams stand.”

The Dreammaster continued, “Thus, we shall give Penacony something stronger than baseless rumours—a symbol of eternal harmony.” Something inside your stomach tightened, you didn’t like the tone in his sentence, as if it was final and had no room for if’s or but’s; an idea that was already concrete before it came into existence.

“You two will be married.” Mr. Gopher Wood stated as if discussing something as simple as a change in décor.

Silence fell.

If the previous silence felt suffocating, this one was much, much worse. It felt heavier and pressed onto your skin tighter as though it was determined to live inside your bones. For a moment, all you could hear was the faint hum of the warm chandeliers—even its glimmering lights felt hot against your skin, a searing burn.

Was the Dreammaster serious? An arranged marriage between you and Sunday? In your eyes, marriage weighed more than a coin being tossed in a bucket, it symbolised unity between two individuals who loved and cherished one another, not a façade to combat baseless rumours, and especially not a lie.

A million emotions surged through you; the thought of eternal unity with Sunday was something you had always dreamed of ever since you were a child. The first time you laid eyes upon him was when you were both naïve and wide-eyed, and something inside your young heart stirred when he laughed at your jokes or tugged at your hands with his, running away from panicked attendants assigned to look after you.

Back then, your adoptive mother would bring you over to the old Oak Family manor for play dates with Sunday and his younger twin sister—a young trio built on mischief and pure wander. The three of you were inseparable until the day duties and career came into talk, where days filled with innocent laughter turned into monotonous lessons that prepared one for the burden of authority.

Yes, you weren’t going to deny it, you had feelings for Sunday that stemmed a long while back but being married to him under a contract that screamed nothing but business was not what younger you would’ve wanted, no, she had dreamed of a blossoming, genuine love.

There was also unease for the role entrusted upon you; how would being in a false marriage affect your naïve heart? You were well aware Sunday didn’t mirror your feelings at all but having him pretend and play the part of a husband was beyond dangerous. It was ironic to think that this marriage was akin to Penacony’s Dreamscape itself—a dream becoming a reality.

But . . was it your dream to be married off to Sunday in the name of falsehood?

With the Charmony Festival inching closer, it wasn’t a surprise the Dreammaster was becoming desperate for a solution.

You laughed. A humourless sound that conveyed the disbelief in your heart; you were raised to be a respectful, refined woman especially in the presence of esteemed Elders but not when said Elder proposed such a bizarre idea. This was marriage the Dreammaster was talking about, a life long commitment—a life long role that was anything but real.

“Pardon my brazenness, Mr. Gopher Wood but . . are you serious?”

The Dreammaster didn’t so much as blink, “Completely.”

At his affirmative reply, you slowly turned your head to the side towards Sunday; he remained expressionless, the glimmer in his citrine eyes hiding more than just pure emotions. His posture remained straight, one hand tucked behind his back just as he had been taught by the Oak Family Elders. Whether the idea affected him or not, Sunday didn’t let on, not even a twitch of his brow nor a rustle of his ivory wings.

“A union between the Oak and Iris Family presented as one of harmony—of perfection. A model pair for Penaconians to look up to, and once the people see The Family’s harmony upon supporting this marriage, rumours will fade.” Mr. Gopher Wood continued, which turned your attention back to him.

The Dreammaster had a point, with two significant figures in the five lineages getting married, Penaconians would witness The Family working together to ensure it happens flawlessly—the Oak Family would be tasked with organization, the Alfalfa Family with financing, the Bloodhound Family with security, the Iris Family with reception entertainment, and the Nightingale Family with decorations. All in perfect harmony.

“And what it needs to see,” You murmured quietly. “Is a lie?” You knew it was only a matter of time before the Dreammaster exhausted his patience and snapped. He had always been fond of you but knew to draw the line at disrespect.

His gaze remained fixated on you, it wasn’t unkind but it was firm, unwilling to back down from the challenge you had presented; he noticed the way your wings rustled imperceptibly, how it curled inwards as if to display silent retaliation.

“The Dreamscape needs stability.”

That wasn’t the answer you were looking for.

Slowly, you exhaled then fully turned toward Sunday, his golden halo glimmered brighter than ever, “Sun—Mr. Sunday.” He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a split second—just a flicker—you saw it. Something from years ago when he used to grin at you over ice cream and toys.

“Are you okay with this?” The question came out softer than you’d expected, laced with vulnerability. Sunday held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then, parted his lips to speak, 

“As Oak Family Head, it is my duty to ensure that everything within the Dreamscape remains in order.”

“. . That’s not what I asked.”

Were you surprised, though? You’ve always known Sunday was a selfless individual, especially when it came to Robin but you wished—more than anything—that he’d be a bit more selfish; to do something that he truly wanted and not because he was bound by duty and expectations.

“This arrangement fulfills its purpose.” As expected, Sunday spoke like this matter was nothing more than another responsibility to be managed, throwing out the fact that he was to be married off to someone he didn’t love.

You nodded, “Right.” A small, hollow sound. And once more, you were hit with the harsh reality that this Sunday wouldn’t run away the same way he did during the lessons he found boring, no, instead this Sunday would build the cage himself if it meant keeping everything intact and under his control.

Hesitantly, you looked away first, directing your attention back to the Dreammaster—any second longer looking at those citrine eyes was far too dangerous for your heart, “Apologies, Mr. Gopher Wood but I need time. This isn’t . . exactly a small decision.”

But did you even have the luxury to make a choice? Nonetheless, Mr. Gopher Wood inclined his head slightly and indulged you in your request, “You will have what time is necessary but do understand, the longer uncertainty lingers, the more damage rumours may cause.”

A gentle threat wrapped in silk.

You nodded calmly, though your thoughts were nowhere nearly as composed. Marriage. To Sunday. It was as though the stars were playing a nasty elaborate prank on you but as twisted as it was, a part of you—one buried within the depths of your being—was happy.

Could you blame yourself though? You’ve pined for Sunday for eons because maybe, just maybe, he would finally look at you the same way you’ve looked at him: under the light of romance.

“Then, I shall take my leave. Mr. Gopher Wood. Mr. Sunday.” After necessary formalities, you turned to leave, light from the chandeliers above stretching your meek shadow across the marble floor.

“Maeven Ellis’s daughter.”

You paused. It was the Dreammaster’s voice once again, “You are an actress, are you not?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you spoke up, “Yes.”

“Then think of this as your most important role.”

At his words, your lips pressed into a thin line. That was easier said than done. A performance, of course, everything in Penacony was. You didn’t bother responding, instead, you kept walking, heels echoing with each careful step, out of the Dreammaster’s office and away from Sunday.

Moment of Golden Hour

Despite the name of Golden Hour, sunlight didn’t spill like liquid gold in the Moment but the Dreamscape was as beautiful as ever. After the impromptu meeting with the Dreammaster and Sunday, you found yourself sitting on an iron bench at Aideen Park—a quiet corner devoid of commotion to collect your thoughts. In the distance, laughter echoed and soft music the band performed.

On your lap rested an important document for an upcoming film, pages and pages of a bound script to read and remember but for once, you didn’t feel like reading. Not when your mind wandered off to the encounter a few system hours back, you couldn’t help but replay Mr. Gopher Woods words—that you’d be married to Sunday.

Amidst the serenity of the Moment, your ears perked up at the sound of familiar footsteps coming closer—calculated and sharp—but you didn’t bother looking up.

“I thought you might be here.”

The owner of the calm voice was no other than Sunday, you were more than certain of it because only he had the power to make your heart stutter. You didn’t let on—didn’t show an ounce of emotion just as you’ve been doing for the past years you’ve known him. Slowly, you exhaled, gaze still fixed on the inked pages atop your lap.

“The Oak Family Head seeking an audience with me? What a lucky woman I am.” You chuckled humourlessly. Sunday didn’t reply and you almost felt bad for greeting him with such a sour state, so you spoke up again, “. . Are you surprised? You know my hiding spots better than anyone.”

Growing up, Sunday learned that whenever you had something in mind, you always seemed to seek out quiet spots to unwind and one of them happened to be in Aideen Park—a tucked little area away from everyone while still able to bask in the Moment’s luxury.

“You never changed them.” Sunday whispered in a soft tone, if you hadn’t caught it, you’d think he was merely murmuring to himself. There was something in his voice you didn’t quite recognize, one that made you curl your fingers tighter around the pages.

“Is there . . something you need, Oak Family Head?”

As much as he appreciated authority, Sunday never did like it when you addressed him with formality but he’d rather sever his halo than admit it to your face. After all, it was merely a silly thought. He let your question linger in the air for a while, letting the background noise of the park fill the space between the two of you, then, he spoke,

“I came for your answer.” Straight to it. Of course he did.

A quiet, humourless laugh slipped past your lips, you finally turned to look at him. The golden lights of Aideen Park engulfed his pale blue strands, it softened the edges of his otherwise composed expression but it didn’t make him easier to read. You couldn’t lie, Sunday looked absolutely breathtaking and it pained your heart at how effortless it was for him; his citrine gaze shone the same way his halo did, bright and blinding.

“My answer? That’s what this is to you? And here I thought you came to seek me out as a—I don’t know, maybe a friend?”

It was microscopic but you saw the way Sunday’s shoulders sagged and how the wings behind his ears lowered but you weren’t about to be moved by something minute; what the Dreammaster had asked of you—and Sunday—wasn’t something simple, it asked for your soul, to play a never ending role built on lies.

“It’s a matter that requires resolution.” He replied evenly. Your chest tightened, “Do you know what you’re asking of me, Sunday?” The question came out sharper than intended but you didn’t take it back and for the first time, something flickered across his face, maybe it was surprise, maybe it was discomfort, you didn’t bother deciphering.

“I am aware of the implications—” “No.” You cut him, shaking your head as you stood, the script on your lap swiftly falling onto the ground, long forgotten. “No, you’re aware of the politics of it—the outcome.”

Frustration rose within your body, a scowl forming on your face as you stepped forward. Sunday had never seen such a look painted on your face, he had only ever seen pleasant expressions from you, especially directed towards him.

“You’re asking me to stand beside you in front of all of Penacony and smile like it means something. To let them believe—” Your voice caught slightly but pushed through it, “—to let them believe this is real.”

“That’s the role we’ve been assigned.” He said quietly. “Assigned,” You echoed, almost incredulous. “Is that all this is to you? Another duty? Another piece of the Dreamscape you have to keep polished and intact?”

“If you think I have the luxury to treat it as anything else then you are sorely mistaken.”

“Then, let me ask you one thing, Oak Family Head. Did you have a hand at choosing your . . partner?” With Sunday willing to fulfill such a role, you were certain Mr. Gopher Wood had already told him about the proposal prior to the meeting earlier, and you were sure the latter had at least given him freedom to choose.

Sunday nodded, “Yes.”

You let out a shaky breath, your scowl turning into something much softer. Sadness. “But why? Why me, Sunday? Don’t—Don’t you know how cruel that is? To ask for something that big?” You looked away, unable to see the way regret briefly shadowed his face. His chest tightened at your pitiful form, he didn’t mean to put you in a troubled spot but he wasn’t entirely innocent either.

Marriage meant the two of you were bound to each other for eternity with divorce was absolutely out of the table, especially for prominent figures like you and Sunday; it made sense for a planet that worshipped the Aeon of Harmony.

“. . Because I assumed you wouldn’t be scared doing it with me, at least—doing it by my side.”

Oh, your foolish, foolish heart shouldn’t have skipped a beat at his reply but it did and it angered you even more that it did because despite it all, you still loved him. And maybe you were willing to comply but a greater part of you was stubborn.

“Do not try to mold me with flattery, Sunday. What about us, hm? We’re not symbols—not the ‘model pair’ the Dreammaster deems us to be. We’re people with lives of our own! I cannot dictate for you but I know marriage is something I want to be organic. To fall in love with a man who cherishes and loves me back.”

Words hung heavy in the air, fragile and bare. For a split second, you were convinced he was going to take a step closer and say something that wasn’t measured or wrapped in a silken ribbon called duty. And maybe some twisted part of you wished Sunday would have told you that he’d at least try to love you—to reassure and tell you that your heart has a home in his hands but he didn’t. 

Instead, he said: “We are what Penacony needs us to be.”

Silence settled once more, you didn’t answer this time as you were reminded that you and Sunday held very different dreams. You closed your eyes to steady yourself briefly, and when you opened them again, your expression had shifted, something more resigned, “. . Fine.”

Sunday’s ears perked, wings spreading ever so slightly as if to convey shock. You straightened slightly, smoothing the invisible wrinkles from your clothes—a habit you’ve picked up before you stepped in front of rolling cameras.

There was no use arguing with Sunday or pushing your ideals to him, he was stubborn and he’d do anything to ensure the stability of the Dreamscape, even if it meant carrying the weight of falsehood his whole life. Besides, arguing like this in public was sure to garner unwanted attention, it was only a matter of time before someone heard of the conversation.

“If this is the role entrusted to me then I’ll play it. I’ll accept the marriage.” The words felt foreign on your tongue—too final but you didn’t waver. 

Sunday carefully studied you as if to search for something beneath your composure, “Are you certain?”

You laughed humourlessly, “Do you think I have a choice? But if you want me to be honest, no. But I’ll do it anyway.” For you, you wanted to add. You bent down to swiftly pick up your script, dusting it off lightly, and when you returned his gaze, your expression had settled into something practiced.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it believable.” The corners of your lips tugged upwards despite its heaviness.

“I . . never doubted that. You are one of Penacony’s greatest actresses.” Sunday intended to lighten the mood, to flatter your skills and forget about the tension in the air but for some reason, his words hurt more than anything else. You put too much faith in me, Sunday. You thought.

Sure, acting came easily to you but not when you had to play the eternal role of a loving wife for a man you’ve pined for. For years. It was a twisted game that tested the borders between a dream and reality, and you could only hope to build a cage around your naïve heart.

Moment of Morning Dew

Wedding preparations commenced shortly after meeting with the Dreammaster once more to confirm your stance on his idea; everything was a blur, from colleagues and close friends congratulating you on your engagement (even Robin who sent a congratulatory letter despite being aware of everything) to exclusive interview appearances—sometimes accompanied by Sunday—to talk about every detail.

Of course, since the engagement came out of the blue, it was met with a lot of speculation, and rightfully so as not a single soul had seen you and Sunday together outside Family gatherings but even in banquets, neither you nor him would really converse.

But, those speculations were easily dismissed by letting interviewers know that you hid your relationship with him for personal reasons; it wasn’t foreign for celebrities to do such things. Though, the only truth you uttered during those interviews was probably the fact that you loved Sunday.

There was no denying that, and for Penaconians, that alone was believable. Aside from planned appearances on interviews, you hadn’t seen much of your . .  fiancé but maybe it was for the best, the more he remained at a distance behind closed doors, the more your naïve heart wouldn’t mistake the relationship for something real.

Silk draped from the ceiling in soft, cascading layers, mirrors framed in gold caged you in, it reflected you in every angle, each one just slightly more flattering than the last. Assistants moved like whispers—adjusting and smoothing but never loud enough to cause unnecessary chaos.

The Dewlight Pavilion served many purposes for The Family—the main being a place where Heads discussed important matters but you didn’t expect it to host a fitting room specifically curated for wedding preparations; it only made sense with how busy your schedule was, not to mention how you just finished a table-read two system hours ago which meant the script was still swimming in your mind and so was exhaustion.

“Hold still, please.”

A quiet exhale escaped through your nose, resisting the urge to fidget as a pair of hands adjusted the fall of fabric at your waist; you just wanted to go home. “I am still.” You murmured.

“Still-er.” The head assistant replied gently.

Tired, you bit back a comment, there was no point arguing with anyone. It was evening and you wanted this over and done with, the more you cooperated, the faster this whole thing would be finished.

The gown itself was unsurprisingly perfect. White—of course—but not the stark kind, it shimmered faintly like it had been spun from light filtered through clouds. Intricate golden embroidery traced along the bodice, delicate and intentional. 

“There. All done! How does it feel, miss?”

The head assistant’s dainty voice faded into as you looked at the mirror, it was the first time you stared at your reflection since standing inside this fitting room yet strangely enough, an actress stared right back—the ‘you’ all of Penacony knew, the one in front of flashing lights and rolling cameras.

“You’re truly beautiful, miss!” Another one of the assistants gasped, her reddened face tucked between the hearts of her palms.

“. . Thank you. The dress feels . . fine, it’s not too heavy.” The staff dismissed the absentmindedness laced in your voice, mistaking it for pure awe. You didn’t know what to feel seeing yourself in a wedding dress because even with an exquisite ring wrapped around your finger, you still couldn’t believe you were getting married.

“Turn slightly, please.” The head assistant instructed and you did. The skirt fanned out like a blooming flower, its silken fabric faintly glimmering beneath the lights.

“Perfect.” She breathed out.

Perfect. The word followed you everywhere these days—about your relationship with Sunday, about the engagement ring, and now about the dress. You were about to give her a practised reply, the same one you’ve been giving everyone else—a ‘thank you’ and a smile that reached your eyes—until the atmosphere shifted.

The curtains behind you weren't drawn yet but you knew who was beyond them and you were certain the attendants knew as well from the way their backs straightened, immediately stepping away from the raised platform you stood upon.

“Pardon my intrusion, may I step inside?” 

Sunday’s voice filled the silence. As if on cue, heat blanketed your cheeks, heart racing at the thought of him seeing you in a wedding dress. Your gaze landed on the head assistant through the reflection, giving her a slight nod to which she immediately understood and swiftly drew the curtains back.

As Sunday stepped inside, both attendants silently bowed their heads and headed out, closing the curtains behind them to give privacy. Alone in a small space with him with too many mirrors; you swallowed thickly and smoothed down the skirt of the dress, “I wasn’t aware of your visit.” You murmured, tucking a loose strand behind your ear.

“I was told preparations were underway. I wanted to ensure there were no complications.” 

Of course.

“Well?” You started, head tilted slightly. “You came all this way, you should at least give your evaluation.” Your hands found its way atop your clothed hip. It was half a joke, half a challenge yet you awaited for his words.

Sunday didn’t reply immediately, instead, his gaze settled on you—steady and unreadable. You observed how his amber eyes lingered on the bodice of your dress a second or two longer before moving on to the bloomed skirt. Beneath his wandering gaze, something in your chest tightened, cheeks burning deeper, it almost felt like a thousand needles prickling your skin.

“. . It suits you.” He said at last.

You blinked, brows knitting together, “That’s it?”

“You expected more?”

“I expected something. I’m about to be married off to the Oak Family Head and become the half of Penacony’s model pair, surely that warrants something far better than ‘it suits you’.”

“You always did prefer honest reponses.” That caught you off guard. Sunday wasn’t one to reminisce about the past—at least not with you—but he has done it twice now, once back at Aideen Park and once today.

You didn’t reply nor did you acknowledge how his gaze softened slightly, “Well, if you want honesty then . . you look exquisite and the dress harmonizes with your beauty perfectly,” The end of his sentence ended awkwardly, as if he wanted to speak more but ultimately decided to hold back.

You were well aware there was no romance behind his compliment, it was merely an honest, straightforward one but you couldn’t help suck in a breath. You looked away, clearing your throat lightly, once again smoothing a none existent crease on the dress, “That’s the goal, isn’t it? To make me look presentable for the big day.”

Sunday hummed absentmindedly causing you to risk a glance at him once more, his eyes were still on you but this time he wasn’t assessing, he was admiring.

“How is it then? Convincing enough for you, Mr. Sunday?”

His gaze finally drew upwards ‘til it met your own, a strange glint flickered in his honeyed eyes, “. . Too convincing.”

Whatever that meant

Before you could respond, the head assistant spoke just beyond the drawn curtains, effectively breaking the . . moment between you and Sunday. Akin to a deer caught in headlights, you slightly stepped away from the latter; funnily enough, there was already a great distance between the two of you but somehow you just felt like distancing yourself further.

“Miss, we need to finalize the veil fitting.”

You cleared your throat, trying to burn down Sunday’s weighted stare, “Of course.”

“. . I should take my leave then.” His gaze lingered on your face but you didn’t dare meet it. With that, he let out a soft sigh, turning around to part the curtains and leave but before he could even take one step, you called out his name, tone laced with . . desperation?

“S-Sunday . . ?” You weren’t sure why you did it or what possessed you to even utter his name yet somehow, you felt it was necessary to do so; though, you didn’t know what to say because now, Sunday looked over his shoulder—citrine gaze, full of hidden curiosity, just above his ivory wing—waiting for what was to come next.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” What did that even mean? Why did you say that? You were certain Sunday was just as confused about your reply as you were but he didn’t seem to let on, in fact, without so much of a hitch, he tilted his head, gave a little smile—one that had you biting the inside of your cheek—and replied, “Of course.”

Then, without another word, he gave both attendants a nod of acknowledgement before heading for the door.

Moment of Blue Hour

After two strenuous weeks of running around the Dreamscape—whether it be for work or for wedding preparations—the big day finally came, and in all honesty, you weren’t sure what to feel. The morning felt like a huge blur, attendants rushed in and out of the bridal suite to tend to you, and several loved ones visited in between, it served as a gentle reminder that you weren’t entirely alone. At least not today.

The first to check on you was Robin, she had peeked into your suite with a warm smile on her face, though, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. You didn’t blame her, she knew of the situation and you assumed she also didn’t know how to feel for you—happiness seemed too cruel but sadness would also dampen the unsteady mood that lingered within the atmosphere.

The least she could leave you with was encouragement and a few good words about her brother: “I know you know my older brother well enough so I won’t say much but . . he will never hurt you. You and I both know he wants the best for everyone, and that includes you.”

The next two who visited were Ms. Maeven Ellis and Siobhan who stayed a little longer with you, especially the latter—out of the three, Lady Siobhan was probably the only one who understood your emotions the most as she, too, was pressured with countless expectations within the Iris Family as the second to the Head.

Being an adoptive older sister, she always looked out for you, most of them during young days where Ms. Maeven Ellis would push you to take acting classes. Though, despite the former’s efforts of letting you choose your own path, you did eventually end up in the artistic industry just like everyone else in the Iris Family.

The Eventide was as romantic as ever, docked in the Sea of Dreams where its tranquil waters lulled guests with awe. Warm lights illuminated the expansive boat, it bathed everything in a gentle gleam of gold; its cathedral-like structure effortlessly blended reverence and spectacle, a quiet yet bold message that The Family did not hold back on this grand event. 

Rows upon rows of guests filled the hall, a sea of fine silk and polished smiles—though, however warm they may be, all you could feel were the weight of their stares, a sense of anticipation that settled over your shoulders, it seemed to be heavier than the gown you wore.

The cameras also didn’t help, the subtle click of the shutter every second or so, they hovered discreetly and blended within the crowd but you knew they were there, capturing every movement and emotion etched into your face.

And as you stood at the altar facing Sunday, your hands resting atop his bigger ones, you trembled slightly—a barely noticeable crack on the surface of the glass. He must have noticed because within the next second, his hands squeezed your own, a gentle action to ground you, to serve as a reminder that only you and him mattered in this moment—not the officiant, not the guests, just you and him. A soft, shaky breath escaped your crimson-stained lips, you mirrored Sunday’s action. A small thank you.

The officiant’s voice carried smoothly through the air, unwavering as he spoke of harmony and unity, of two individuals converging into one for the sake of something greater; you heard his words but they felt far away, almost muffled and dream-like. Your focus drifted over to the feeling of Sunday’s hands in yours, to the warmth of it, to the quiet reminder that despite everything, this moment was real

Well, at least parts of it were but you wanted to believe that softness in Sunday’s gaze as he watched you walk down the aisle earlier was genuine—that it wasn’t a mask he prepared and wore for this ceremony but you’d be lying to yourself. To you, Sunday was the hardest book to decipher, the more you read in between lines and paragraphs, the more you’d doubt your thoughts.

“. . And by the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you—”

Your breath caught and the room seemed to still.

“—Husband and wife.” The officiant paused for a split second, letting the words linger in the air and manifest into existence. Then, he continued,

“You may now kiss the bride.”

As his words echoed in your mind, your gaze slowly lifted to Sunday’s and for a moment, you both hesitated. He was the first to move, his head inclined towards you—eyes fluttering shut—slowly leaning in, his hands rested on either side of your waist; the quiet hum of the Dreamscape faded into the background as the space between your faces narrowed with each long second.

This was a part of the performance, you both knew that but it wasn’t something that was rehearsed, and even though you were an actress yourself—where kissing co-actors came naturally—this felt entirely different.

You closed your eyes, heart stuttering, the traitorous beast banging against the cold bars of your chest; for a second, you wondered if Sunday could hear it but upon noticing the unreadable expression on his face, you assumed he was focused on how to approach the kiss everyone anticipated—the subtle pause in his breath was enough to tell you it wasn’t easy for him either.

And just as Sunday was about to seal the kiss, he gracefully lifted a wing to obscure the view, leaving everyone unaware of the small distance between you and him; it was deliberate yet to everyone else, the veil of feathers seemed natural given the way your faces were angled slightly. The perfect illusion of an elegant kiss.

“Forgive me, I do not wish to make you uncomfortable in front of everyone. This . . should suffice, we do not have to go all the way.” Sunday whispered dangerously close, your knees almost buckled at the feel of his hot breath ghosting over your lips.

Your hands, which rested atop his clothed chest, curled slightly, nails digging into the hearts of your palms, “Right . .” You whispered back.

You told yourself it didn’t matter, that Sunday only thought of respecting your boundaries—as a matter of fact, you should even be grateful that he didn’t force you and yet something in your chest dipped in disappointment. Albeit small and quiet, it was significant enough to feel it within your ribcage, the low murmur of your heart.

Of course. Sunday would never force something like that and you respected him for it! But . . you couldn’t help think that he simply didn’t want to kiss you. As childish as it sounded, you were convinced.

You bit the insides of your cheeks, lids tightly pressed against your eyes, you didn’t dare take a small peak. Not when his face was barely centimetres away from your own and absolutely not when his intoxicating scent invaded your senses. The wings behind your ears rustled briefly, brushing against Sunday’s.

Slowly, the moment passed; each camera click and quiet gasps from the guests enveloped the enchanting scene at the altar. A few seconds later, his wing lowered—as graceful as ever—once again revealing you both to everyone else, and it was like the entire room breathed out a long sigh.

The guests responded instantly, applause swelled throughout the Eventide, everyone wore a smile on their faces, completely convinced by what they’d witnessed.

You pulled away first, immediately turning to the crowd with the most genuine smile you could muster, trying to mirror everyone else’s joyous expression.

Among the guests, you caught Robin’s gaze who sat on the front row pew—she wore a smile like everyone else but her cerulean eyes gleamed with apology; you assumed she felt partly responsible for her brother’s decision regarding the marriage but you never blamed her, if there was anyone to blame it would be the Dreammaster but you’d never dare utter it into existence. After all, you were just pawns in his Dreamscape.

Funnily enough, as the person who decided you and Sunday to be married, he didn’t attend today, you’ve heard whispers within the Dewlight Pavilion that the Dreammaster wasn’t feeling too well these days, not that you cared about the man. You may have grew up with him around but that doesn't mean you’ve warmed up to him; he still carried the same unsettling aura he had when you were a kid.

After the long awaited ceremony, everyone settled into the reception where an abundance of congratulatory greetings and hugs were given to you and Sunday; most of them came from close co-actors who you’ve worked with on previous films, they also took the time to converse with him and didn’t hold back with such questions.

“Okay, this might be a bit silly to ask but who fell in love first?” Cassian—a co-actor you’ve grown close with—asked with pure curiosity, his hazelnut gaze darted between the two of you, he nursed a half empty glass of SoulGlad, swishing the golden liquid within as he stood before the table you and Sunday sat on.

You briefly looked over to Sunday who already had his eyes on you. “I did,” You started, setting your gaze back to Cassian and pairing it with a small smile.

“This is actually the first time I’m admitting this but . . I’ve had a crush on him ever since we were kids so I’m assuming it was me who fell in love first—I mean, who wouldn’t, right? He was kind and caring, and from then on, my young heart knew who it wanted.”

With every word that rolled from your tongue, heat that blanketed your cheeks intensified. Obviously, everything you stated was the truth but saying it aloud in front of him was rather embarrassing even if he didn’t have a clue how real it was.

A confession veiled as a lie.

You could feel Sunday’s honeyed gaze boring into the side of your face but you kept your eyes on Cassian who animatedly cooed in response, “Well, aren’t you a lucky one, Mr. Sunday!” The brunette inclined his glass towards the two of you as if making a toast.

Sunday chuckled softly in response, uttering a small ‘Indeed, I am.’ You ignored the stutter in your chest.

“Do you guys have a destination for the honeymoon? There are so many worlds to choose from!”

You let out a cough, the heat from your cheeks spreading down the column of your neck and onto your chest where it bloomed, “A-Ah, well! Sunday and I decided that we’ll have to push back our honeymoon for a while. With the Charmony Festival approaching in less than a few months, he’d be busy with preparation and as for my schedule, it’s packed with shoots—you should know.”

Cassian enthusiastically nodded, “That’s right! We’ve an upcoming film together—I can’t believe I forgot! Well, I shouldn’t take up anymore of your time, the two of you should enjoy your first few moments as husband and wife. Haha! I’ll get going then. Oh and I’ll see you on set!” With that, the brunette excused himself and headed for the open bar.

“I wasn’t aware Mr. Cassian is going to play the lead role along with you.” Sunday curiously stated. You shrugged, “I wasn’t aware you were interested in my matters but yes, we will be in a romance film together. Why? Interested in seeing it in the theatres once it comes out, Mr. Sunday?”

He let out a humourless laugh, “I liked your little story earlier. The one you told Mr. Cassian.”

Little story. Well, little did he know how true it all was.

This was supposed to be a happy day but with the amount of times Sunday had unknowingly shattered your naïve heart into more and more pieces today alone, you weren’t certain how long you’d last in this foolish charade, and you couldn’t blame him at all—not that you had anyone else to blame but your feelings.

“What can I say? I’ve been told I’m amazing when it comes to improvising.” You didn’t meet his gaze, instead, your eyes scanned around the room, pretending to skim and scan, feigning interest in the uninteresting.

Well, at least the guests looked like they were having more fun than you—they laughed over clinked glasses and exquisite Penaconian dishes, a genuine expression of joy painted on their alcohol tinted faces.

Sunday left the conversation at that and tended to his own glass, briefly swirling the liquid inside before taking a calculated sip; the golden beverage blanketed his tastebuds, its familiar sweetness putting his mind at ease. He wasn’t certain of the reason but he felt somewhat odd upon hearing your reply, the feeling irked him down to the bone.

Clearly, it was an uncharted territory and Sunday despised places he couldn’t control—the unknown and the unpredictable. He hated the thought of not knowing how to unpack his emotions.

But the real question was: Why did he feel this way? and what was the root of it? Maybe it was stress getting to him, he rarely got decent sleep and his daily schedule was always packed. Yeah, definitely stress.

Old Oak Family Manor (Reality)

A few tiring system hours later, you and Sunday were finally surrounded by pure silence—no prying eyes, no endless questions, just silence. The two of you found yourselves inside the old Oak Family manor, a separate building from the Hotel that stood in Reality but remained just as grand and expansive.

“So . . you’re the only one who lives here now? What about the Dreammaster?”

The manor stood like a quiet declaration of wealth—just as you’ve always remembered it to be—it gleamed like polished marble kissed by dawn, its towering windows framed with intricate carvings and draped with silken curtains.

Everything felt all too familiar and with every turn of your head, an old, tucked memory resurfaced like a bubble floating upwards—the curved staircase you and the twins would sit on to tell ghost stories, the expansive field outside where you’d spend afternoons running around, and . . Sunday’s room where he and Robin would ‘perform’ concerts .

The very room both of you stood in.

You had spent enough time in the old Oak Family manor to know that his room barely changed—sure, his toys were replaced with endless stacks of books and documents, and his bed no longer housed soft plushes but apart from those, everything was the same.

“Ever since I was appointed Head, this manor was entrusted to me. I am not aware of Mr. Gopher Wood’s whereabouts nor do I question it.”

“You don’t have company?” “I have attendants.”

You let out a snort which earned a raised brow from him, “That’s different, Sunday. The attendants work here.” The manor used to be so lively, now it felt completely empty and a little cold; you couldn’t help but wonder if Sunday ever felt lonely, especially with a building so vast—was he haunted by the echoes of his lone footsteps? Did he ever avoid eating in the dining room because he’d be the only one sitting at the long table?

“Nevermind, disregard my last question. Though, I do have another one, are you sure you’re comfortable with me sleeping here? I mean, there are tons of other rooms in this manor.” Naturally, since you were now married to Sunday, it only made sense to reside together in the Oak Family manor, however, you didn’t expect to actually share a room with him.

“You’re my wife, are you not? If anything, it’d only rouse suspicions from attendants about us sleeping in different rooms,”

He had a point.

 “And just because our marriage stands on falsehoods does not mean I won’t uphold my role as your husband. I’m sure you’re aware I’m not that kind of man.” Sunday continued. Again, he was right, he certainly wasn’t the type of person to slack off just because he was out of the spotlight and you didn’t know whether that was a blessing or a curse.

“I suggest you wash up first, it has been a long day, after all, and your clothes are in the closet.” Oh, that’s right, you almost forgot about your belongings, thanks to the help of the Bloodhound Family, all of them were transported to the manor safe and sound; you assumed the attendants must have unpacked it all for you.

You absentmindedly nodded, trying to process the fact that you were now bound not only to Sunday but the manor as well for the rest of your life—that you would come home every single night and sleep beside him.

A foreign feeling washed over your body, the feeling that would grow from the depths of your core in response to a drastic change in your life. It wasn’t unsettling nor uncomfortable per se but it was extremely hard to ignore.

Bathing beneath the warm water took a lot longer than you’d intended, the feel of it against your bare skin soothed you so much that it almost felt like someone had wrapped you in a cozy hug, one that you’ve been deprived of these days.

Now, sitting on your side of the bed—the left side—in your silken nightie, you carefully combed your freshly dried hair, a thousand thoughts coursing through your mind and none of them were coherent.

Sure, what you were wearing was designed entirely for sleeping but Xipe above! You felt absolutely exposed; the way its flimsy straps slid down your shoulders every other minute didn’t help at all.

Even the way Sunday’s honeyed eyes widened when you walked out of the bathroom clearly meant he was taken aback by the brazenness of your attire—or the lack of it. But could you really blame yourself? Prior to tonight, you lived alone and that meant you could wear whatever you wanted to bed with no one to judge.

Setting the comb on the night stand beside you, you quickly tucked yourself beneath the ivory duvet upon hearing the shower turn off; if you hid yourself inside the bed, it would make you feel less exposed to Sunday, you pulled on the duvet ‘til it covered all the way up to the base of your neck.

Yeah, this seemed about right.

He stepped out of the bathroom, clad in a pair of matching pyjamas, hair and wings damp, it took him only about three steps before he stopped in his tracks, gaze fixated on you.

“Is the temperature too cold for your liking . . ?” Sunday stood there dumbfounded at the silly sight before him—you, on the bed with just your head and neck sticking out from under the duvet.

“No, it’s perfectly fine. Why do you ask?” You shook your head, blinking up at him. He replied with a small sigh, “If this is about your . . attire then rest assured I do not mind but if you feel uncomfortable, I can offer you a top to wear over.” He immediately looked away, feigning a cough.

His reply may have been nonchalant but you caught how the tips of his ears flushed a deep pink hue; obviously he, too, was as embarrassed as you were, only he was better at hiding it.

Once again, you shook your head, “I don’t want to bother you with such trivial matters. Besides, I’ll be going to sleep soon.”

Sunday wordlessly nodded before turning off the lights and proceeding to walk towards the shared bed—towards you.

As darkness filled the entire room in an instant, you swallowed thickly, trying to calm your poor, poor heart as his footsteps echoed closer than the last; you closed your eyes as he lifted the duvet—a breeze of cool air momentarily enveloping your bare skin—he slipped inside and the mattress dipped beneath his weight, it made you realise just how small of a space there was between your bodies.

Not enough to have your bare arm brushing against his clothed one but enough to feel warmth that radiated from him.

“Pardon me but would you have trouble sleeping if I turned on a lamp?” Sunday whispered into the darkness.

“I don’t mind but are you not going to sleep? It’s well past midnight.” You opened your eyes and inclined your head, facing him.

“I’ll be writing for a bit as sleep has not yet caught up to me.” The bedside lamp turned on with a soft click which immediately illuminated his half of the bed, casting a warm gentle glow on his softened features. You replied with a wordless nod before turning your back to him and letting the faint sound of pen and paper sully you into endless clouds of dreams.

A couple of pages and half a system hour later, Sunday finally looked up from the inked pages of his book. Curious, he glanced over at your sleeping form which remained with your back towards him, he watched the rhythmic rise and fall with every shallow breath.

Compared to earlier, more of your torso peeked from beneath the duvet, he noticed how the flimsy strap of your nightie had fallen from your shoulder and took the initiative—after whispering an apology for his brazen behaviour—to lean over and fix it.

Sunday let out a sigh, he pulled the shared duvet upwards to cover your shoulder before returning to his side of the bed.

For some reason, he couldn’t help but feel that you held disdain for him—and honestly? Rightfully so because truthfully speaking, he had foolishly roped you into an eternal duty without your consent, without considering how you would feel about the entire idea. It wasn’t like him to involve others in such serious matters, and if given the opportunity to shoulder the problem alone, he would’ve done so in a heartbeat.

Sunday gazed down at his book once more, catching a glimpse of glimmering gold wrapped around a digit of his left hand—his wedding band, it shone quietly beneath the warm glow of the lamp. He brought his hand up to examine the piece of jewellery, honeyed gaze following each curve of the intricate pattern engraved on it. Despite its small size, it sat heavy on his finger and whether it was the weight of burden or something more, he had no idea.

Funnily enough, never in a million years did he think he’d be married before Robin; sure, he was the older twin but relationships and marriage rarely crossed his mind, and as embarrassing as it was, flirting definitely wasn’t for him either.

Moment of Morning Dew

“So what you’re suggesting is a date?”

“Indeed.”

“Wow, I didn’t know you were quite the romantic, Oak Family Head.”

“To be frank, it wasn’t my idea. It was merely suggested to me and I think it’d be appropriate to make occasional appearances in public as husband and wife.”

Well, there goes romance out of the window. So it was tied to duty after all, and here you were thinking Sunday acted out of his own will for once but if there was anyone to blame the feeling of slight disappointment, it would be none other than you and your naïve heart.

It had only been a little over a month after the marriage yet you’ve already been met with disappointments and you hated yourself for feeling that way because it wasn’t even Sunday’s fault—he was only upholding his role but you? You had mistaken his actions for reality.

The chaste forehead kisses whenever he visited you on set paired with a humble bouquet of flowers, the endearments he called you in front of your co-actors, holding your hand—all these were initiated by him and every single time, like a fool, you had mistaken it for something sincere.

How ironic that between the two of you, Sunday would be the better actor. You’ve paid him a visit countless times in Dewlight Pavilion when you weren’t needed on set—brought him food, offered him a shoulder massage whenever he seemed visibly stressed, and even tried convincing him to take a breather but you were rigid and hesitant.

Today just happened to be one of those days where you visited him. As usual, you were as stiff as a board and your words barely held any sincerity in them, as if you merely read off a script. 

And maybe that’s why he took the initiative to lead because he had sensed your hesitancy regarding everything.

“Where are we headed?” You raised a brow, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

Sunday gathered every document on his table and stacked them neatly in a pile before placing it to the side, “Aideen Park. I heard there was a small event happening there and I thought we could pay a visit.”

Moment of Golden Hour

Aideen Park was livelier than normal, people lined up for several reasons—food trucks, photobooths, and even a mini ferris wheel ride. Naturally, the band which usually performed at the heart of the Park gained quite a crowd as well, they played an upbeat melody to fit the joyous atmosphere. Several booths and signage within the vicinity was enough to deduce that this public event was run by SoulGlad with their iconic logo plastered everywhere.

“Hm? Did SoulGlad release a new flavour?” You fell into a step beside Sunday, eyes fixated on a stall where a staff happily gave away freebies and judging by the unfamiliar packaging of SoulGlad in his hand, it had to be a new flavour.

He nodded, jutting out his right arm which you wordlessly held on to, “Indeed, SoulGlad has released a new flavour called Charmony to honour the Charmony Festival. I figured I’d acquire several bottles for Robin.”

You hummed at his reply. It was nice knowing he still thought about his sister even in her absence, at heart, Sunday was truly just an older brother taking care of his family and it warmed your heart more than anything.

You’ve always wondered how he felt when Robin left Penacony; from what you could remember, it was a crucial turning point in their lives as well as yours—her music career was taking off, Sunday was training to be Bronze Melodia, and you had just secured your first lead role.

“Have you had the chance to try the new flavour?” You asked, shaking the thoughts away.

At your question, he shook his head, “I have heard from several people that it has its own unique twist to it. Now, I know we have personal security around but it’s best to stay close to me with this many people present.”

With his free arm, he adjusted your hand on his clothed bicep, allowing you to hold him better. “It’s not like I’m going to run away.” You murmured, ignoring the blanket of heat settling on your cheeks.

There had already been a few instances where you had held Sunday by his bicep like this or his hand but you’ve never gotten used to the feeling of his body pressed closely against your own.

Even through the fabric of his blazer, merely touching him seared your skin like a thousand flames—it felt like it was forbidden to do so yet at the same time, you couldn’t quite pull away even if you wanted to.

Sunday led the two of you to a food truck lined with customers and on the way there, you were both excitedly greeted by many event goers and passerbys, with some even coming up to you for autographs and photos.

You only managed to get through three autographs and two photos before Sunday came up behind you, a chivalrous hand hovering on the small of your back as he gently ushered you away, a wing curled around the back of your head, “We should get going before people start shoving one another to get signatures and such.”

Nodding, you smiled apologetically before bidding them good bye, “It was nice seeing you all! I hope everyone enjoys this SoulGlad event!”

“Pardon my intrusion but I noticed you were getting quite flustered so I took matters into my own hands.” Sunday apologised, not realising his hand—which rested on your lower back—had protectively snaked around your waist, it pulled you closer to him, effectively turning your legs into jello. If it wasn’t for his hold, you would’ve already kissed the grounds of Aideen Park.

Oh god, you hoped he hadn’t noticed how your torso shook with a small shudder. You feigned a cough, “T-That’s quite okay, Sunday. Thank you. What did you want to ord—”

“Mr and Mrs Sunday! How lovely to see Penacony’s harmonious couple in our humble event!” One of the SoulGlad staff at the food truck rushed over to the back of the line where you and Sunday stood, effectively gaining attention from customers in the queue. They turned around and whispered amongst themselves, not-so-subtly pointing at you both.

Sunday greeted the Pepeshi staff with a smile, “Ah, hello. Thank you for having us.” 

“Are you two seeking to order? I can take it in advance so the two of you won’t have to wait!” He excitedly spoke, the fluff ball atop his head vigorously swinging back and forth.

In unison, you and Sunday both shook your heads, declining his kind offer, “We shan’t. She and I are here as humble customers, we don’t mind waiting a little while. It would be unfair for those who are before us.”

“No such thing! Mr. Sunday and Mrs are our esteemed guests! You know what? I’ll go ahead and get two servings of our best seller—Clockie Pizza!” Before the two of you could humbly decline once more, the Pepeshi had already taken off towards the food truck, excitement budding with every step he took.

Within a few minutes, he came running back with two servings of Clockie Pizza on a paper plate, steam which radiated from the slices indicated it was freshly taken from the oven.

“Here you are! Two slices for our very special customers, enjoy!” Both of you thanked the Pepeshi staff as he handed the plate over to Sunday, he gave the two of you another excited smile before skipping off towards the food truck. You and Sunday could only exchange lopsided smiles, not really knowing what to make out of the situation; as much as you felt bad, you were pretty hungry so you were absolutely more than thankful.

After eating, the two of you found yourselves in one of the photobooths (Embarrassingly, Sunday had noticed you were staring intently at them while you were eating and asked if you wanted to go). Naturally, the booth had limited space inside which meant you two had to squeeze yourselves on the bench—arms and legs flushed against one another.

You tried not to think about how your wing momentarily brushed his own, his ivory feathers tickling yours; Halovians’ wings were a sensitive area and one couldn’t just reach out and have a feel of it, many Halovians treat their wings as the most important part of their body and consider it an intimate gesture if they willingly let someone touch it.

“How does one operate this?” He drew the crimson curtain on his left side to close off the booth before turning to you with a hint of confusion on his face. At his question, you  mirrored his expression, brows drawn together, “Have you not tried one before?—Nevermind. We simply press this button on the screen to get started and once it starts, the camera takes three pictures so we have to think of different poses for each frame.”

“And oh, it’s timed so efficiency is needed.”

“Seems quite pressuring, no?” Sunday humourlessly laughed. This was his first time trying out a photobooth machine and the thought of coming up with three different poses in a span of mere seconds . . He couldn’t even think of one off the top of his head.

“Oh? Is the Oak Family Head intimidated by a photobooth? Well, if you ever feel stuck, you can go ahead and copy my poses. Ready?” You glanced over at him who only nodded in response, honeyed pupils gleaming beneath the harsh lights of the booth.

Without another word, you leaned over and  pressed the button in the middle before quickly getting into a pose—the classic smile with a peace sign.

On the other hand, Sunday blinked as he watched numbers on the screen count down. 3. Ah, what pose should he do? 2. Maybe just a smile? Would that be too formal? 1. He quickly looked over to you to imitate your pose but before he could even get his hand in position, the camera brightly flashed indicating that the first photo had been taken.

“Quick! Finish off the other half of this heart!”

As the screen began counting down once more, Sunday hesitantly mirrored your gesture with his left hand. Four fingers curl like so . . and how does the thumb go? Ah, straight down at an angle. Then, place it against her hand. While he mused over how to complete the hand heart, the camera flashed once again. Another photo taken, another frame where he wasn’t ready. Why are photobooths so hard?

“Why don’t we just do a smile?” 

Finally, something he could get behind. The two of you instinctively squeezed closer, inclining your heads towards one another with smiles on your face, then, the camera flashed. Sunday let out a soft sigh, it’s as if weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

A small laugh escaped your lips as the two of you exited the booth, “Not bad for your first photobooth experience, huh?” You didn’t notice how heated your skin had become ‘til the air outside pressed against you like an icy envelope.

“You are teasing.” Sunday stared at you with a deadpan expression which only pulled another laugh.

The small machine whirred to life, producing two copies of the strip, you took them both and handed one over to him, “This one is yours, Mr. Oak Family Head.”

You took the time to examine each frame and couldn’t help but crack a smile at how clueless he looked in the first two photos; the first one was him blankly glancing over at you while on the second one, he wore a confused expression while glancing down at his half of the hand heart.

As for the third photo, you didn’t want to look at it for too long. Not because it was hideous or any of that sort—quite the opposite—but because both of you looked like an actual happy couple, a pair who loved one another. You swallowed thickly.

“Where shall we head next? Up for a ferris wheel ride?” Tucking the photo strip inside the pocket of your jacket, you looked up at Sunday with a calculated smile on your face. His gaze lingered on you for a second longer as if to search for something but nonetheless, he nodded.

The ferris wheel carriage was quite small, meaning either you and Sunday would have to squeeze together—again—on one side of the carriage or sit on opposite sides; obviously, both of you opted for the latter, which despite facing one another, at least gave you room to breathe.

You avoided fully facing him by slightly angling yourself sideways to gaze beyond the carriage; the ride wasn’t as grand as the one in Clock Studios Theme Park  but it was able to reveal a great area of Golden Hour once at the top.

Below, Penaconians went on about their day as usual—whether it be shopping, working or simply taking a leisurely stroll in the Moment, you watched as they led their own lives, wondering what it felt like to be a normal Penaconian.

But what did normal mean for you, exactly? You wished you had the answer.

Sunday knew it was rude to stare but he simply couldn’t bring himself to stop either. Earlier, when you were examining the photo strip, he had noticed the solemn expression on your face; how the corners of your lips sunk ever so slightly and the faint gleam of sadness in your eyes.

A wave of regret hit him once more, the same way it had done for the past month—hard. And now as he watched you observe the Dreamscape below, he couldn’t help but feel responsible for your sadness. There had been many instances where he had caught you with a somber expression but he never dared address it, though now seemed like a great opportunity.

“Are you quite alright?”

Turning your head to him, you drew your brows together, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sunday pressed his lips in a thin line, “You . . can always talk to me. As a friend.”

You chuckled, adjusting your body so you could face him fully, “Is the Oak Family Head missing his Bronze Melodia days?”

Deflecting—that’s what you were doing, a habit he never once liked from you but as concerned as he was, he didn’t press any further. Doing so would most likely only worsen whatever you housed inside your chest, and he didn’t want to be the cause of that. Maybe some day you’d finally open up to him about all your worries and feelings but for now, he’d wait even if it meant waiting for eons.

Moment of Sol

“Ah, Mr. Sunday! Lovely to see you here once again. As you can see, we’re about to start filming so it’s best to keep quiet. Other than that, feel free to watch.” The director—who he had come to know as Thaddeus—gleefully whispered before heading to his seat. The former wasn’t old, most likely in his early forties but he did don several silvery strands on his head along with a full beard.

Sunday made his way over to a quiet corner behind all the film crew with a decent view of the scene unfolding before him. The set was a large bedroom dimmed to convey a sultry atmosphere, in the middle sat a large bed draped in crimson sheets where you and Cassian were positioned. Judging by this, he could easily deduce that the scene you were filming was rather intimate—it was a romance film after all.

During the previous times he had visited you, the scenes he witnessed were more . . family friendly. Scenes where Celestine—the character you played—merely caught up with her friends in a coffee shop and all of that sort; there was one that Sunday particularly took a liking to, where you and Cassian argued back and forth—an intense quarrel between two lovers.

It reminded him how much of an amazing actress you were, he didn’t want to admit it but that scene moved him enough to make his eyes water, he could only imagine what it would look like on the big screen. But this scene was entirely different, Sunday had never seen you act intimately before and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.

“Quiet on set! Pictures up! Roll sound! Roll camera! Marker . . and action!”

Clap!

The slate’s sound echoed throughout the entire set and Sunday watched as you and Cassian instantly got into character. He sucked in a breath as the two of you slowly inched closer to one another, sealing each other’s lips in a heated kiss.

Soft, wet sounds filled the room, the kiss deepened and turned into something less innocent  and for a brief moment, Sunday forgot he was in a set, and that the scene before him was scripted.

He swallowed thickly, shifting his weight from one foot to another as Cassian roamed his hands all over your body, even going as far as raking his palms along your clothed chest and the area behind your wings. A dainty whimper slipped past your kiss-bitten slips in between breaths, followed by a whisper of his name. 

Something strange bubbled within Sunday’s chest, he was well aware everything was scripted but seeing another man brazenly touch you with lust and fervour, and hearing you breathe out someone else’s name did not feel right at all. Was he jealous? No. But he wasn’t entirely fine with this either. 

Nonetheless, Sunday didn’t have the right to have a say on these matters so he kept quiet and continued watching how Cassian eagerly shoved his tongue past your lips like a hungry beast. He didn’t even realise his jaw had tightened and the tips of his fingers had dug into the hearts of his palms ‘til the Thaddeus yelled ‘Cut!’ ultimately breaking immersion. The two of you pulled away from one another, breathless and hair mussed.

“Cassian, remember to angle your arm slightly or else we won’t be able to see her face—” 

As the director gave him instructions, you managed to spot a familiar face within the small crowd of film crew, his golden halo shone lightly beneath the artificial set lighting—Sunday.

Xipe above, you almost forgot he was going to pay you a visit today, not that you didn’t want him to come, it’s just that having him watch an erotic scene with yourself and Cassian felt odd. You were embarrassed, to say the least. As an actress, you took yourself out of comfort zones countless times for different roles and they were no easy feat but who knew you’d be struggling to act in an intimate scene before Sunday?

With a lopsided smile, you shyly waved at him to which he responded with an incline of his head. Whether he had a smile on his face or not, you weren’t sure, you couldn’t see clearly beyond the lighting.

Sunday, in fact, did not have a smile on his face

It was childish and idiotic to sulk over such a minor thing and if he could stop his chest from tightening weirdly, he would have done so already but he couldn’t, and now a subtle frown blanketed his face. He tried to look at the bright side—how talented you were at acting and how proud he was that you’ve come so far but god he was powerless to his own thoughts.

“Alright, from the top! Sound! Cameras! Marker and . . action!”

Clap!

Again, the entire room snapped into place, including you and Cassian. For the second time, Sunday watched in silence as the two of you passionately made out once more, this time the scene escalated to him pushing you down on the mattress below, lips still locked onto your own, and hands pinned against the pillows.

Even with your eyes closed and even with Cassian smothering you like there was no tomorrow, you could feel the heat of Sunday’s gaze from beyond the cameras and lights—the intensity of it. Getting into the zone was second nature to you yet you couldn’t shake off the nagging thought that he was watching you, it felt like you were cheating right in front of his face; Sunday probably didn’t mind at all but still.

This went on for a few more minutes until Thaddeus was satisfied with the outcome and wrapped up the scene, “Actors, we need you in a wardrobe change and can we please rearrange lighting on the set for the next scene?”

With that, you stood up from the bed and walked over to Sunday who greeted you with a small smile, “Hey, I’m glad you’re here.” You mirrored his smile before loosely wrapping your arms around his waist. A simple performance in front of everyone. He did the same and placed a chaste kiss on the crown of your head.

“You did well, my love.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Mm, really? I’m glad you think so.”

“Well, I shan’t take up any more of your time. Mr. Thaddeus did mention a wardrobe change for you, right?” Sunday slightly pulled back, a warm smile on his face as he gazed down at you. Ah, you wished he stayed for a little longer even though embarrassment ate you alive in his presence  but alas, he was a busy man, so you simply nodded,

“I’ll see you around?” The corners of your lips curled into a smile.

He hummed, he gave you another chaste kiss, this time on your forehead before completely letting go of you. Oh, god. Was it merely your imagination or was he acting extra . . touchy? You wouldn’t even dream of putting Sunday and touchy in the same sentence—they were like two magnets with the same side that repelled one another but his actions proved otherwise. Or maybe you were highly delusional.

Before he could walk away any further, you called out to him, “Sunday?” He turned around, an expectant look painted on his face.

“I . .” Love you? Was that what you were going to say? There was no harm in that, right? Right? Come to think of it, neither of you had ever uttered those words—were you about to start now? Technically, the two of you were married and expressing love to one another was normal. God, why were you even overthinking—

Whatever.

“I love you.”

Sunday’s wings momentarily rustled, a hint of shock washed over his face, albeit subtle, you caught on. His chest tightened but it wasn’t the same feeling as earlier, it didn’t hurt, instead, it felt like a dainty butterfly fluttering inside his ribcage. He stared at you momentarily, the rush of everyone else around fading into the background, his breaths turned shallow and slightly uneven. Was he sick?

“I . . love you, too.” And without another word, he left.

Fake. Fake. Fake. Fake!

You reminded yourself this marriage was fake and so was his response but your heart believed otherwise because now it pounded against the bars of your ribs, it wanted to leap out and find comfort in the warmth of his palms. Heat spread from your cheeks, along the column of your neck, and all the way down to your chest—it bloomed like a fiery flower, its blazing petals hungry for more. 

The urge to tell Sunday as soon as possible settled in your heart.

The night before the Charmony Festival, Old Oak Family Manor (Reality)

Unfortunately, with both your schedules tightly packed, you rarely saw Sunday within the past week—only some nights during ungodly hours where he carefully slipped next to you in bed but other than that, no words were exchanged, and as much as you wanted to talk to him, exhaustion weighed on your body. And as soon as you were enveloped by the softness of the bed, it immediately lulled you into a deep sweet dream.

Tonight wasn’t any different, you came home to yet another empty house—save for the attendants—without Sunday and frankly, you were worried he wasn’t getting the proper rest he needed. You did leave him a couple of messages earlier between your shoots simply asking how he was but he never replied to them, though that wasn't surprising given how close the festival was.

The shared bed felt a lot colder and bigger as you slipped beneath the covers, you turned to face Sunday’s side, stretching out an arm as if to reach for him only to be met with emptiness. A small sigh slipped past your lips, you silently prayed to Xipe that THEY would answer your wishes to see him soon. 

For now, you closed your eyes and went to sleep.

11 system hours later

Ri█—ng!

█Rin█g!

Ring!

At the sound of your phone, you stirred awake in bed, sleep still weighed heavy on your body. Was that your alarm? You didn’t remember setting one last night . . Nonetheless, you slowly opened your eyes and reached for the device atop the wooden nightstand, bringing it to your face. You blinked a few times, doing your best to adjust the blur of your vision to see better.

Mr. Oti Alfalfa

Huh? Why was the Alfalfa Family Head calling you? As if your entire body was doused in icy water, you quickly shot up, fingers raked through your mussed hair as you answered, “H-Hello?”

“Ah, it seems you’ve finally woken up, Miss.”

“Mr. Oti Alfalfa! My sincere apologies, it had been a long night . . May I ask why you’re calling?” You rubbed your temples, looking at the wall clock to check the time—11 system hours?! You’ve been asleep for 11 system hours? Just how tired were you last night? Though, with the weight of sleep on you, it did feel like you slept for quite a while, almost like a never ending dream.

“The Family has cleared your schedule for today, we require your presence at the Dewlight Pavilion right this moment. There are important matters to be discussed.”

At the mention of The Family’s residence, you looked over to your right. No Sunday, an empty space. Seeing as how they required your presence, that meant they asked for him too, right? He must’ve been at the Pavilion already but why didn’t he wake you up from your sleep?

There were a thousand questions that ran through your mind regarding the whole situation but what could they possibly need to discuss with you? They even cleared your schedule which meant it had to be something very serious, not to mention how you could sense the urgency in old Oti’s tone as he spoke of important matters. 

It made you somewhat uneasy.

“Alright. I will be there in a few minutes.”

With that, you quickly got dressed and headed for the Dreamscape.

Moment of Morning Dew

The Dewlight Pavilion housed more members of The Family than usual, its entrance had at least six Bloodhound Family security officers guarding the doors, and the inside wasn’t any better. What was going on? Today was the Charmony Festival, right? So why was almost everyone present in the Pavilion? You walked down its long halls, each step taken heavier than the last.

There was a slight tension in the air, you felt it and it made your stomach churn; you noticed how some attendants gazed at you as if you were some kind of criminal. 

Was . . something wrong? Nonetheless, you ignored them and kept walking ‘til you reached the Council Chamber.

Inside, gathered four Family Heads, they gathered at the heart of the chamber, sitting around a vast circular table. Robin was also present but where was Sunday? Shouldn’t he be present as well? 

“. . May I ask what this is all about?” Your brows furrowed, a small frown forming on your lips; you looked over at Robin who only gave you a solemn expression, even the look on your adoptive mother’s face was hard to explain.

“Are you aware of what has transpired in Penacony?” Oti Alfalfa spoke up.

Slowly, you made your way over to situate yourself next to Robin. “No . .  I have been asleep and only woke up from your call. Did something terrible happen in the Dreamscape?” You felt asking that question would do more harm than good but there had to be a clear reason as to why they needed you here.

The atmosphere was unbearable. Every Head, including Robin wore an unreadable expression, it’s as if all of them were in on some kind of secret and no one dared to inform you about it. Sunday’s absence in this meeting made you all the more nervous. All of them shared strange looks with one another before Oti Alfalfa spoke up once again,

“. . The Oak Family Head and the Dreammaster had committed the highest act of treason—not only to The Family but to the entirety of Penacony. Sunday usurped the Harmony and revived Ena The Order to use THEIR power to create an eternal dream paradise.”

You didn’t know what to say. Was there even anything appropriate to say? 

It didn’t feel real at all, you were hoping they were merely playing a sick, elaborate prank on you but the look on their faces proved otherwise. Old Oti’s words reached your ears the same way nightmares did—fragmented, disjointed, and absolutely impossible to process all at once.

Sunday. Treason. Eternal dream paradise.

No. That wasn’t the Sunday you knew, he couldn’t have possibly done something like that, not the man who had spent most of his life looking out for others—putting their needs before his. It felt contradictory to everything he was. But did it really? Your mind scrambled for reason and context, for some kind of missing piece that would make everything make sense but there was nothing. 

Among the million of questions, your mind raised another: What exactly had your marriage been for? 

You stood with him before all of Penacony yet all this time he secretly worked with the Dreammaster to dismantle the very concept you and he were assigned to uphold—Harmony. A deep, aching sorrow settled beneath your ribs.

“Rightfully, the former Oak Family Head was imprisoned but it has come to our attention that he had managed to flee from prison, he is now deemed a wanted fugitive. We asked you to join this meeting because we have a few questions regarding your husband.” Flee from prison? How? And who aided him? A part of you was relieved that Sunday managed to flee from The Family’s wrath but you were also scared of what he might face once they found him.

You knew what was coming next.

Maeven Ellis parted her crimson-stained lips, she still held onto that unreadable expression, “Oh, Triple-Faced Soul, please sear her tongue and palms with a hot iron, so that she will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.”

“Everyone in this room is aware regarding the status of your marriage with the former Oak Family Head, orchestrated to refute rumours within the Dreamscape. Were you an accomplice to him and the Dreammaster? Was your marriage merely a disguise to direct Penacony’s attention from their dark schemes?”

You shook your head, “No. I was only aware that our marriage was a solution against those rumours.”

Why were they asking you this? Each Family Head had already agreed to the Dreammaster’s proposal of having you and Sunday marry one another, why was Oti Alfalfa acting as if he wasn’t in favour of the proposal?

“Did you have a hand at helping the former Oak Family Head escape?”

Once again, you shook your head, “No. As I mentioned earlier, I just woke up. I came home from a long shoot last night and went to bed as soon as I could.”

“Did the former Oak Family Head tell you of his schemes?”

You were getting sick of this, twice you’ve already told them you weren’t aware of the Dreammaster and Sunday’s plans, why were they so insistent you had a hand at their schemes? Your mother—out of all people—knew you’d never get involved with something like that. Sure, you had the third highest ranking in the Iris Family but you were merely an actress and stayed out of The Family’s business.

“No.”

Oti Alfalfa nodded, briefly glancing at the golden band around your finger, “That is all but let me tell you this, once The Family finds out you have made contact without any notice or you are actively helping the former Oak Family Head hide, you will be met with punishment for aiding and abetting. This applies to you as well, Miss Robin.”

He didn’t have to verbally say it yet you knew between those words he spoke, he wanted to remind you that The Family was always watching.

After being dismissed by Old Oti, you headed straight to Golden Hour to clear your head—you still couldn’t wrap your head around the whole incident. Did he really manage to revive a dead Aeon? The one that Xipe assimilated? The severity of the entire thing was beyond you and there was no easy way to process all this.

Moment of Golden Hour

“You know, Sunny, won’t it be better to bid farewell to her instead of staring at her poster like a total creep?” 

“That implies we won’t see each other again and I do not intend to keep it that way. Even so, I simply cannot bring myself to face her like this even with a disguise. It’s far too risky, Wonweek. I am a fugitive, after all.”

Amidst the glittering luxuries, billboards, and rush of people in the Moment, Sunday—disguised as an Intellitron—stood before an expansive poster of you at Oti Mall, his honeyed gaze traced over your features once, twice, thrice as if to engrave them in his mind.

He was aware the poster was merely an advertisement for a skin care brand yet you looked extremely happy in it and he could only wish the same for you now. With the amount of Bloodhound Family security patrolling around, he assumed news had already broken out regarding his escape, and that you were also aware of it—of everything he had done.

The Pepeshi—Wonweek—who stood next to him hummed, “Oh, really? Not even when she’s right there crying?"

Sunday immediately turned to his companion, “What?” He followed the Pepeshi’s line of sight, it took a few seconds before finally spotting your familiar figure—you sat on a bench in front of Clock Diner, arms crossed over your chest, seemingly staring into nothing. Even though you wore a hat and sunglasses, Sunday could still tell it was you.

“W-Well, maybe not crying but she certainly doesn’t look okay to me.”

“Stay here . .” Sunday absentmindedly murmured, his eyes remained fixated on you, and as if his feet had a mind of its own, he started walking towards you.

“Hey! What the heck happened to ‘I simply cannot bring myself to face her like this’!” Wonweek called out to him, mocking his voice but didn’t bother interfering, he figured the two of you needed to talk, even if it was indirectly.

This wasn’t Sunday’s plan at all, he wasn’t supposed to approach you yet here he was merely three steps away; he had to remind himself not to get carried away with things and that he had a disguise which meant he was a stranger to you.

“Pardon my intrusion, Miss but are you okay?”

At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, you immediately snapped out of your thoughts and shifted your gaze to its owner who stood to your left, just beyond your line of sight—it was an Intellitron clad in a long plum coloured dress. Despite their unmoving facial features, you could sense the hint of concern in their voice.

“O-Oh, um! Yes, of course thank you for asking . . Apologies for my rudeness! Did you want to sit down?” You feigned a cough and adjusted the sunglasses atop your nosebridge before scooting to the edge of the bench to make room. The Intellitron murmured a small thank you as she sat down, smoothing the skirt of her dress.

“My apologies if you were taken aback by my brazenness.”

“Not at all! I’m grateful to have someone look out for me, Miss . . ?”

“Wonweek.” The Intellitron replied.

“Miss Wonweek! What a lovely name . . Thank you, again. It’s just that it’s been a long day and, uh, a . . dear friend of mine has gone somewhere far, far away from me, and I am not certain when I will see him next. Or if I will ever see him again.” You tried your best to stabilize your voice but as each word slipped past your lips, they trembled harder than the last, and the only way to calm yourself down was to caress the golden band wrapped around your ring finger.

“This friend . . he seems quite important to you, no?”

Letting out a shaky sigh, you nodded, “He’s someone I hold very dear to my heart and all I wish for is to talk to him. I’ve been meaning to tell him something.” Sunday swallowed thickly, what could that something possibly be? He’d rather not get his hopes up.

“Your friend may have gone off somewhere far away but I am certain once the time is right, destiny will intertwine your paths once more.”

“Of course. And should the path he chooses not include me in the future, I can only hope it’s a path where he is genuinely happy. I am willing to sacrifice that.” After all, your ties with The Family would make the situation difficult—Oti Alfalfa had already warned you earlier that they had eyes and ears everywhere.

“I may not know your friend well but I am certain he would not want a future without you in it.”

3 months and 3 weeks later, Consternation Starzone, Planarcadia

“Ugh, come on! You already picked the last movie, Stelle! Let me pick one for movie night this time!”

As Sunday walked into the hotel room, he was immediately met with a scene of his bickering companions, however, one of them remained seated in a corner with his arms folded across his chest and eyes closed.

“Great, Sunday’s here! He can back me up on this one! Can you please convince her to watch this movie?” The pink haired woman —who he had come to know as Miss March 7th—eagerly walked over to him and shoved her phone before his face, presenting an opened browser tab for an overview of a movie.

Love and Devotion (1h 49m): Estranged childhood best friends find their way back to one another which results in a trip down memory lane and a blossoming love. Faced with obstacles from their contrasting paths, they navigate through difficulties together, ultimately challenging their relationship.

Cast: Mr. Cassian Noctis, Mrs.—

She swiftly pulled away her phone before he could read any further, an expectant look in her eyes. That was your movie, March 7th wanted to watch your movie—he made a promise to himself he’d make time to watch it once it comes out but ever since he boarded the Express, it had only been missions after missions. Though, he was updated enough to know that it received a lot of love not only in Penacony but across the cosmos as well.

“Do you even know what you’re asking of him? That’s his wife in that movie!” Stelle—the other woman March argued with earlier—scratched the back of her head, whisper-yelling the other half of her sentence. She sat on the edge of the bed, a pillow tucked beneath her arms.

The latter quickly connected the dots, her eyes wide with realisation, “O-Oh! Um! You know what, I think we can go with the movie you picked!”

It wasn’t a secret among the Crew that Sunday was married but they figured the topic was sensitive to him as he barely talked about you, even the mention of Penacony had him wearing a solemn expression.

Though it was the complete opposite for him, Sunday wanted to talk about you—about his homeworld but he was afraid doing so would only get his hopes up for nothing. For the past few months he had been hoping to at least get a glimpse of you during his journey around the cosmos, you were an actress after all, you occasionally went on film press tours.

“I don’t mind at all. I had the opportunity to watch behind the scenes while they were shooting and I was more than intrigued to see the finished piece.” Sunday shook his head, he handed March their room keycard she gave him earlier before sitting next to his dark haired companion on the couch.

“Really? That’s so cool! Ugh, I wish I could get her autograph! You know, I was quite surprised when news broke out that she was engaged! I’ve also seen some of the wedding photos and you two looked absolutely stunning! Anyway, how about you Dan Heng? Do you have any movies you wanna watch?” March turned to the man next to Sunday.

Dan Heng opened his eyes and slowly shook his head, “I’m okay with any movie you guys pick.”

After a few more minutes of going back and forth, all lights were turned off and everyone eventually settled on Love and Devotion. Sunday was the most intrigued—even more than March 7th who initially convinced all to watch the movie; he knew of your acting prowess yet  he was completely speechless.

Every single time you appeared on screen, his heart seemed to skip a beat or two, he chalked it up to not having seen your face for a while which is why excitement enveloped him every now and then. 

However, half way through the movie while a particular scene played—the scene he vividly remembered watching on set—a foreign feeling enveloped his entire body, a hint of heat and something more.

Subtly, Sunday looked around to see his companions’ reactions, March 7th and Stelle who were sitting on the bed were unfazed by the escalating scene of the movie whereas Dan Heng merely scrolled on his dimmed phone, a slight blanket of pink dusting his cheeks.

With the volume turned all the way up, wet kissing sounds filled all four walls of the hotel room, it made Sunday’s stomach churn in a way that had him digging the tips of his fingers on his palms.

You and Cassian were only kissing but the intensity and lewd noises you made sent an icy shudder down his spine.

This wasn’t good.

A quiet, shaky sigh left his lips as his pants tightened with each passing second. Oh god, was he . . aroused? He didn’t remember feeling this way when he was on set—quite the opposite—so why now?

Sure, the room was dark enough to hide his growing erection but it wasn’t exactly ideal to experience one around three people. Besides, it was uncouth and he needed to leave. Now.

Sunday immediately stood up, gaining curious glances from everyone else, he tried to subtly cover pants, “Uh, I-I need to get something in Dan Heng and I’s room. Feel free to keep watching.” He didn’t bother waiting for anyone else to respond and immediately headed for the door.

As he stepped out onto the hallway, he breathed out a sigh of relief, at least there wasn’t anyone else around the corridors this late at night. Carefully, he walked towards the shared room, trying his best to avoid further friction in his pants or else it would be a very embarrassing moment for him—it was  humiliating enough to walk with a weird gait, anything more and he’d bury himself in the ground.

Thankfully, Sunday reached the room which he hastily opened with the keycard tucked inside his pocket, he swiftly slipped inside and sat on the edge of his bed with his eyes closed.

Silence settled in the air, it was accompanied by his heavy, uneven breaths as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. He felt extremely filthy—to think of you in such a lustful light without your knowledge, it was beyond unmannerly. 

“F-Forgive me . . for my vulgar thoughts and for what I am about to do.”

In the blink of an eye, Sunday found himself inside the bathroom, door locked and back pressed against it.

Dizziness washed over him and embarrassment ate away at his feverish skin as he reached for the waistband of his pants, he hastily pulled it down with his underwear, a sharp hiss leaving his lips, cock slapping against his lower abdomen. It wore a deep blush of pink and oozed with pearlescent pre-cum, he wondered how his cock would look against your face while you licked and sucked at it.

The soft fabric shamelessly pooled around his ankles which completely exposed his lower half, the cool air against his legs left an icy shudder. Sunday brought the hem of his shirt to his face, biting down at it so it didn’t get in the way.

He wrapped a trembling hand around the base and squeezed, a loud moan immediately spilling from his lips, pre-cum that decorated his sensitive cockhead trickled down.

A pearlescent sheen covered the entirety of Sunday’s cock as he eagerly spread it from tip to base—up and down, up and down, a couple of languid strokes that had him panting heavily.

A vivid imagery of you pumping his cock plagued his mind as he shut his eyes closed, both hands wrapped around the length of his shaft while your tongue gave experimental licks, “Ngh—ah! Mhm!” Sunday whimpered, free hand gripping the cool surface of the bathroom door behind him, he hadn't been doing this for long yet his knees were ready to give up from the immense weight of pleasure.

His chest vigorously rose and fell as each inhale and exhale turned more shallow than the last, he picked up the pace, stroking himself a little faster.

Pure bliss gnawed at his feverish skin, it sank its teeth into him ‘til it reached his very bones, engulfing his entire body in an intoxicating pleasured state.

“Ah—! Haah! Oh, god!”

Despite the sound of blood rushing in his ears, Sunday replayed the sinful moans you made in the movie, how your face contorted in pleasure as Cassian kissed down your neck—lips parted and brows tightly knitted together.

You sang the most exquisite melody he has ever heard and he could only hope to pull the very same ones, maybe something even better, one that would flawlessly intertwine with his own to create an immoral tune.

He bucked his hips into his curled hand at the thought of having sex with you. Embarrassingly, Sunday had never gotten intimate with anyone—his days were packed with duty on top of duty and he wasn’t given the chance to get into a relationship as it was the last thing he had in mind as (former) Oak Family Head. All he knew was to govern the Lineage he grew up in.

But he wondered . . How would you feel around his cock? Were you warm and soft?—maybe even a hint of greediness where you readily swallowed him whole.

It almost pained him that you weren’t in front of him right this moment because now, he had to settle for his inexperienced hand and just the thought of that grew a bud of frustration within his chest. Sunday wanted you—he needed you. 

Badly.

He desired to bury his shaft deep inside and have you come undone around him once, twice, as much as you wanted—‘til your legs trembled around his waist, ‘til your throat ran dry from repeatedly calling his name like a sacred prayer, and even then, he wasn’t sure if his thirst would be satiated.

This wasn’t just lust anymore. No. Sunday wasn’t merely aroused by a heated scene in your movie, he held something much deeper for you in his heart. It had always been there from the start but remained dormant and quiet enough to go unnoticed by him but now that it has bloomed into something greater, he realised that what he held for you was love.

Sunday loved you. Deeply, truly, and agonizingly.

At the sudden realisation, the coil inside him snapped instantaneously, spurts of hot cum spilled from his cock, he came with a loud wanton moan which echoed throughout the bathroom walls. His body trembled and pleasure which engulfed his entire body took him to places he’s never been before.

Sunday grunted as he milked his cock, shamelessly pumping it ‘til it emptied; he slumped against the door, filth settling over him while he tried to catch his breath.

Despite his lust-clouded mind, he only thought of one thing—to tell you how he truly felt.

As morning finally came, Sunday stepped outside the hotel to gather his thoughts after last night’s realisation, he figured getting some fresh air while walking amongst the locals and taking in the beauty of Ahatopia would quench the yearning in his heart.

Duomension City was as busy as ever with students, office workers and early risers trying to get through the morning rush, even at this hour the City remained lively—this world wasn’t entirely different from Penacony, teeming with large and colourful animated posters, it reminded Sunday of Moment of Golden Hour which also brimmed with bright billboards, music, and the surge of Penaconians out and about, it made him miss home even more.

But Planarcadia was different, it was a world that devoured silence and perhaps that’s why Sunday had grown to relax a little because silence left too much room to think. He adjusted the collar of his coat as he stepped through the crowded avenue, weaving between strangers with practised ease.

The cool air smelled faintly of freshly brewed coffee and expensive perfume, it blended seamlessly with the sounds of passing conversations and the quiet hum of cars.

A group of students rushed past him suddenly, laughing too loudly and nearly colliding with his shoulder. Sunday stepped aside instinctively, accidentally knocking into a stranger; the sound of a distinct thud reached his ears, an object falling onto the ground.

He halted his tracks to pick up the fallen object—a bottle of iced coffee—and return it to its owner. Ah, he should really watch his surroundings.

“My apologies for bumping into you, I should’ve been more aware of my—” Sunday stopped mid sentence as he faced the owner of the beverage.

The world didn’t go silent, no, if anything, Planarcadia only grew louder around him—footsteps rushing past, the distant sound of train announcements echoing, laughter from down the street but all of it blurred into meaningless noise because standing only a few inches away was you.

There was no mistaking it with your ivory wings and gleaming halo.

Was he dreaming? It had to be an elaborate prank, no? This was the world of Elation after all, maybe some Fool decided to play a sick joke on him. But the look on your face mirrored his own—shock and confusion.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the sea of people in the vicinity weaved their way around—they split and reformed like water around stone. Strangers brushed against his shoulders unaware that his world had just tilted violently off its axis.

You weren’t doing any better at all, it's as though your heart had forgotten how to beat. Sunday looked different, it wasn’t a drastic change but it was enough for you to notice.

The pristine perfection once attached to him had frayed at the edges, his attire was less . . uniform, and his eyes gleamed with more sincerity but there was undeniable exhaustion on his face, as if the last few months had carved something deeper into him.

And yet it was still him—your Sunday.

“. . You’re here . . ?” He broke the loud silence first.

“So are you.” You breathed out.

He looked down, suddenly remembering the bottle which rested on his palm. Carefully, he stepped closer and held it out, you took it with your left hand, fingers brushing against his gloved hand.

Sunday sucked in a sharp breath as he noticed the familiar band of gold around your ring finger, “You—You still wear your ring?” He asked with a hint of hope evident in his tone.

You almost laughed at the absurdity of his observation but curiosity soon followed, “We are still married, after all. People notice everything, if they don’t see a ring on me, they’d immediately assume divorce. It’s not exactly easy given your absence in Penacony. Why? Do you not wear yours anymore?”

Oh. So you only kept the ring on to avoid speculation and here he thought it meant something more to you but he didn’t have the luxury to sulk about it because every second spent in his presence faced bigger punishment for you—he knew The Family, they weren’t lenient.

He didn’t wear his ring anymore but kept it with him at all times, it was tucked safely inside the inner pocket of his coat, close to his heart. He refused to wear it for the same reason he severed his halo back in Penacony—to feel pain. Albeit not physically, he felt the emotional pain of being undeserving of loving you and being loved by you.

“I think I should go. We—We shouldn’t be talking . .” Sunday shook his head and slowly stepped backwards which earned a baffled expression from you.

That’s it?

After not seeing each other for months, he was just going to chicken out and refuse to talk? You were well aware he only cared for your safety but you believed you needed answers from him and besides, the confession in your heart sat long enough—it was finally time to set it free.

“Really, Sunday?”

The sound of your voice uttering his name had him swallowing thickly. “Because if I remember correctly, you still had the guts to talk to me back in Penacony hours after you became a fugitive.”

He stopped in his tracks, now it was his turn to be confused, “You saw through my disguise?”

“. . I had a hunch it was you. I’ve replayed that conversation a million times for the past few months—over and over ‘til it finally dawned on me. So, please, let’s talk? You told me in that very conversation you wouldn’t want a future without me in it, right?”

Sunday couldn’t refuse.

The two of you found yourselves back at your hotel room—he would’ve offered his room if he wasn’t sharing it with Dan Heng—both of you figured it wasn’t best to talk about such matters in public, especially since merely being seen together with Sunday was already a crime itself.

The hotel you stayed at was more luxurious, a suite which offered a generous view of the bustling city below and its panoramic skyline, and carefully selected artwork adorned its beige painted walls.

“Are you here for a press tour?” He asked, eyeing the expansive room. 

“I’m here on vacation.”

Silence stretched and tension grew thicker with each second, you and Sunday stood a few metres apart from one another, sticking out like sore thumbs. Neither of you dared to speak with the amount of thoughts that raced in your minds—there was simply a lot to talk about that none of you knew where to start at all.

Should you address the elephant in the room? What he did back in Penacony and the fact that he was now a wanted criminal? Or should you tell him the very words in your heart that desired to be known?

Yes, Sunday committed the highest act of treason against his homeland, its people, and The Family but what exactly could you even say to him regarding that matter? Get angry and berate him further like everyone else did in his absence? Doing so still wouldn’t change what he had done. You’ve heard every word The Family higher ups spoke of him—they were rightfully angry, of course, you wouldn’t deny them that feeling but it pained you.

“I need to tell you something.” Both of you spoke up in unison, urgency in your tones equally evident.

“You go ahead first.” Sunday cleared his throat. If he was being honest, he hasn’t been able to sit still ever since he last spoke to you in Penacony—you mentioned how you wanted to tell him something, and judging by the look on your face, he could only assume what you wanted to say was regarding that matter.

Letting out a sigh, you nodded, never in a million years did you think you’d be confessing to him in a luxury hotel room, in a foreign world, stars away from Penacony,

“I know our marriage requires us to . . act in certain ways to make it believable but I have something I’ve buried inside my chest for as long as I can remember and no matter how many times I push it down or simply ignore it, it just won’t go away . . What am I even rambling about? What I’m trying to say is . . I have feelings for you, Sunday—even before this whole marriage act, ever since we were children.”

You looked away and stared at the abstract painting near the bed, you simply couldn’t handle returning Sunday’s stare, especially not when silence grew. Maybe you should have just kept your mouth closed and let him go first because now you were starting to regret it—what if he wanted to get a divorce?

Clearly there was no point in your marriage anymore, he has been absent in public for months and there was no reason to keep up the charade.

Even though your marriage was sealed with a legitimate contract, none of The Family Heads acknowledged its authenticity; your mother and Robin were a different case—it was more so out of respect while the rest did so out of disdain but still, the Dreammaster who orchestrated this unity was already dead which meant it held no significance at all.

Just an empty legal document.

“I . . feel the same way.”

. . What?

“It was foolish of me not to realize sooner. It was easy for me to show affection for you because what I have in my heart is genuine but I merely hid it behind the reason of duty because I wasn’t entirely sure of these feelings at all.” 

Now, it was Sunday’s turn to look away in embarrassment, a hue of deep rose graced his pale cheeks and heat prickled his skin.

Your breath stopped and the city below seemed to disappear, his words weren’t grand but they were honest, probably the most honest it has been since for as long as you could remember, it was a simple truth laid bare beneath a foreign sky.

For a long moment, you couldn’t speak because part of you had wanted this—you dreamed of this for so long now that it felt entirely cruel.

Cruel because you couldn’t be with him, not by your side, not in Penacony, not elsewhere, and now that your hearts were on the table, you simply couldn’t stand the thought of separation.

But for now, you wanted to cherish this moment. To convince yourself that you and Sunday had a future together where he didn’t have to run from The Family and face consequences, that the two of you weren’t bound for interminable separation.

“This is so unfair.” With a shaky breath, you buried your face in the hearts of your palms. You were certain if Aha was aware of the situation you and Sunday were in right now, THEY would be laughing. What a cruel joke from the cosmos.

He closed the distance between the two of you, protectively wrapping his arms around your body as he rested his chin on the crown of your head. It’d be absolutely selfish of him to ask for something more but he couldn’t bear the thought of you being with someone else.

He pulled back and pried your hands away from your face, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheeks as he cupped them, tentative  in a way that almost undid you more than certainty would have.

“. . May I?” He whispered. The warmth of his hand against your skin sent something sharp and aching through your chest.

“You may.”

Sunday slowly leaned in and for a moment, you remembered the ‘kiss’ at Eventide, only this time, it was as real as it got. The kiss wasn’t dramatic nor theatrical—it was merely his lips pressed against your own, soft with a small tremble, as if almost unsure if this was the right thing to do.

One hand found your waist carefully, drawing you closer with a reverence that made your knees feel less reliable all of a sudden. The kiss deepened but not with force but with feeling, slow and tender.

It felt like grief and relief at the same time, as though the two of you mourned the past few months but also treasuring the fact that, somehow, there was still the present and the future.

His lips were warm and softer than you’d imagined in moments you had long since stopped permitting yourself to imagine. Every slight shift was careful, as though he was memorizing the map of your lips. For the first time, this moment was entirely yours and Sunday’s—no ivory wing to shield the kiss, no cameras, and definitely not out of duty.

Your hands found their way to his collar, fingers curling more firmly into him which pulled the faintest sound, something quiet and surprised that sent a shiver down your spine. When you finally parted, it was only enough to breathe; your foreheads rested together, the city below spinning while the morning seemed to hold itself still around you.

“. . So,” You whispered, still breathless, “That was significantly better than the wedding.”

Sunday’s shoulders shifted slightly, he laughed, “I would hope so.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself, and perhaps he saw something equally dangerous in your expression because his gaze softened into something so openly affectionate it nearly stole your breath all over again. You pulled him back down on you, this time the kiss was less hesitant but just as tender than the last, and maybe also a bit rougher—full of desire and hunger.

Sunday’s hand remained at your waist, steady and warm as though he feared everything might vanish if he held on too tightly but this second kiss had already undone that illusion, there was nothing uncertain left in the way you leaned into him, nothing hesitant in the way your fingers dug into the fabric of his coat.

The kiss deepened not with urgency alone but with the quiet ache of something long denied, every touch seemed to carry the weight of love restrained far too long.

“Tell me to stop.” Sunday breathed out between kisses, a shaky whisper. His words weren’t obligation, they were reverence as he would simply not take what was not freely given. 

Your answer came not in words but in the way your hands rose to cradle his face, the way you kissed him again with a certainty that made his breath hitch, and that was enough for him. His restraint broke softly akin to silk slipping loose, not reckless, never reckless but what laid beneath the silken veil was a brewing storm of desire—the feelings of yesterday suddenly coming back to him.

The hand on your waist carefully slid upward, the tips of his fingers tracing your clothed body before he gently ushers you out of your jacket, it fell onto the polished floors with a soft thud—one layer deeper, closer to what you both wanted.

But before you could go any further, Sunday completely pulled away from the kiss, cheeks bitten with pink and lips parted as he breathed heavily.

There was a hint of hesitancy in his face, “I’ve never done this before but I want you . .” He whispered, trailing off as embarrassment engulfed him.

You gave him a small smile and leaned in to kiss his lips, “That’s okay,” Then, the column of his neck, “You can simply,” And the spot beneath his wing, “Follow my lead.”

Oh, you’d be the death of him.

Soon, your hands slid down to unfasten his coat, easing him out of his outer layer ‘til it met yours on the ground.

There was something so heartbreakingly human about this moment—two individuals who had once stood at the altar of Eventide, beneath thousands of watchful eyes, now trembling more in private than both have ever had in public.

No words were spoken as each layer was shed, only the quiet rustle of fabric, shared kisses, and the growing anticipation as you bared your feelings to one another.

Sunday barely noticed you had guided him over to the bed ‘til his back kissed the soft ivory sheets, he was so caught up in the heat of the moment he almost forgot to drink you in—to bask in the sheer beauty of your naked body.

Through tinted cheeks and wet lashes, he looked up at you with pure desire and slowly raked his honeyed gaze all over your body—from your breasts, to the dip of your waist, and all the way down to the apex of your thighs. Sunday let out a shaky breath as he felt his cock hardening even further.

“You’re exquisite.” He breathed out. Paired with your glimmering halo and the wings behind your ears, you were a sight for the heavens.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Sunday.”

A small chuckle escaped your lips, it was clearly a tease to mask the fact that his naked form drove you to the brink of insanity. Beautiful was an understatement—there wasn’t a word in the thesaurus that could describe the angelic sight before you.

The shy look on his face was ironic because his cock stood prouder than ever, begging to be inside you. It flushed pink and leaked a generous amount of pre-cum, and it took all your will power not to lap it up right then and there.

“Wait,” He started. “I want to please you.”

At his request, you switched positions, only this time you sat up on the edge of the bed. Sunday slowly got on his knees before you as he placed a trail of chaste kisses down your neck, collarbones, and just above the valley of your breasts. Sensing slight hesitation from him, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist and guided his hand to your chest,

“It feels good when you massage and squeeze it—ah! Just—mhm! Just like that.” You moaned as he gave an experimental squeeze, brain short-circuiting at your immediate reaction to his touch; his palms were expansive and his fingers were long which allowed him to stimulate most of the sensitive area.

Sunday brought both hands to cup each breast, gently massaging them while his eyes darted between your chest and face, he wore an expression full of wonder and curiosity, rosy lips lightly parted as he breathed heavily.

Curious, he eagerly wrapped his lips around a mound, tongue swirling around your hardened nipple, causing your hands to fly to his hair.

“S-Sunday—!”

He responded with a hum which sent vibrations across your skin as you gently tugged at his hair. If he was being honest, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing and his actions were merely fuelled by the sounds and expressions you made.

With one hand still on your other breast, he gently fondled your sensitive nipple between his lithe fingers, you arched your back, pressing your chest further into his face. Your skin was extremely warm and soft beneath his touch it almost felt unreal; he couldn’t believe he was right in front of you, intimate and vulnerable.

Sunday then switched between your breasts, giving the other the same amount of attention and stimulation before he trailed downwards.

Gentle and hot, he placed wet open-mouthed kisses between the valley of your chest and along your stomach, taking the time to lap up the sensitive area just above your bellybutton.

Once he reached your sex, he looked up at you briefly to look for any discomfort in your face, and upon not finding any, he slowly pried your legs open, revealing your sopping entrance.

All for him?

Though, it felt rather daunting not really knowing where to start. With two fingers, Sunday gently rubbed up and down your slit a couple of times, observing your reaction—you bit the bottom of your lip and your brows slightly knitted together.

So far, so good.

“Y-You can—ngh! Wet your index and—ah—ring finger with your mouth and put them inside.” You let out a soft moan, one hand planted firmly on the mattress to support your crumbling torso while the other explored his hair. Sunday may have been inexperienced but god did he pleasure you effortlessly, he hasn’t even touched you properly yet you were already trembling.

At your words, he paused slightly. Put his fingers inside his mouth? What a bizarre thing to do. His cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red as he wrapped his lips around his digits, effectively wetting them as instructed, he could taste a hint of you.

You could only watch in awe as the sight before you unfolded, never in your lifetime did you think you’d see the revered Sunday—former Bronze Melodia and former Oak Family Head—stick his fingers inside his mouth.

“Now, with your palm facing the ceiling, slowly push them in one by one.”

A soft pop echoed in the silence as he removed his digits from his mouth and brought them down to your sopping cunt. Slowly, he pushed his index finger past your folds and immediately sought your reaction—a soft sigh.

Oh, how warm you were, it felt like he was dipping his hand in a pot of warm honey, slick and smooth, and maybe even as sweet. Sunday gave a few shallow experimental pumps before adding the second digit, eliciting a shaky whimper from you.

“Haa—ah! C-Curl your fingers upwards and—yes! Oh, god! Just like that, Sunday—mhm!” You threw your head back as he curled his fingers, face contorted in pure pleasure.

At your pornographic reaction, he swallowed thickly; he tried not to think about how much his cock ached, being untouched for so long, it’d have to wait for a little while, he wanted to please you ‘til you were satisfied.

Deep in a haze of lust, you tried your best to form a coherent sentence, “Can you—oh, that feels good. Can you feel a spongy texture? Gently apply pressure and rub it back a-and forth—hngh!”

Sunday absentmindedly nodded, he could feel the area you mentioned just above the pads of his fingers. As you instructed, he pressed on it lightly, afraid he’d hurt you if he did more. With a grind of your hips, you let out a wanton moan in the shape of his name.

“Is this okay . . ?” He breathed out.

“Y-You’re doing good. Just keep a delicate, steady pace . .” Your hand on his hair snaked down to the apex of your legs to spread open your cunt, “If you want—haah! You can also kiss at this spot here at the top and—oh, fuck! Sunday!”

Before you could finish your sentence, his lips were already flushed against your entrance, closely following every word you uttered. A slight shudder washed over your naked body as his feathered wings brushed against the insides of your thighs.

“Yes! Lightly suck on it like tha—aah! Ngh! Haah, I’m so close. Don’t—mhm! Don’t stop, please”

With the combined stimulation of his fingers inside you and his lips around your clit, a string of colourful moans left your lips as you slowly sank deeper into the depths of bliss. The sounds you made were music to his ears which only fuelled his actions further.

With a forceful grunt, you threw your head back as you came on Sunday’s fingers—toes curling and thighs shaking at the immense wave of pleasure that hit you.

He slowed down his movements and resorted to languid strokes which allowed you to grind your hips and ride out your orgasm. He let out a shaky moan at the sensation of your walls tightening around his fingers, oddly enough, it felt satisfying for him.

Coming down from your high, you slumped down on the bed, face extremely heated and lips parted to catch your breath.

Wide eyed and in slight awe, Sunday slowly pulled out his slick coated fingers which earned a low whine from you, he curiously examined his soaked digits, they were faintly trembling from the repeated motion.

Without a second thought, he wrapped his lips around them with the sweetness of your taste settling on his tongue. Oh, how dangerously addicting you were. Wet sounds slipped from his mouth as he sucked his digits clean from your saccharine slick, earning a curious glance from you as you lifted your head off the mattress.

He was trying to kill you.

The two of you found yourselves situated further up the bed with Sunday slotted between your parted legs, he hovered over you with one palm firmly planted beside your head while the other languidly pumped his hard cock just before your wet cunt.

He let out soft pants above you, flushed face contorting with pleasure, “A-Are you sure?” Even with his mind entirely clouded by lust he prioritised your comfort.

“As long as it's you, I can never be more sure.”

He smiled in response and placed a chaste kiss on your lips before slowly guiding the tip to your folds. Snaking a hand between your bodies, you helped Sunday position his cock correctly—a few centimetres down—then, you loosely circled your arms around his neck, allowing him to go at his own pace. 

The morning glow surrounded him like a serene aura, it bounced off his pale skin which gave him a heavenly glow. With a shaky exhale, he pushed his cockhead inch by inch which immediately earned a sharp gasp from both of you.

The feeling of you around him was foreign yet oddly comforting, your walls were warm—extremely warm—it almost felt like he was soaking inside a hot tub of water and it made his head spin in a good way.

Sunday met your gaze with his starry ones, a light sheen of tears coating his eyes at how amazing you felt around him.

He couldn’t believe he was inside you, buried deep inside the woman he truly loved; he prayed in the back of his lust-fogged mind hoping that this wasn’t a dream.

You bit your lip as he bottomed out, watching the way Sunday’s body reacted to everything—how his wings curled inwards, how his abdomen tightened and untightened, and how his breathing grew uneven with every passing second. He genuinely looked like he was on cloud nine.

Unwrapping an arm from his neck, you slotted your hand against his jaw—just at the spot below his ear and wing—to caress his cheek, “You okay . . ?”

A small nod, then, his eyes fluttered shut, the tips of his lashes brushing against his rosy stained cheeks. Sunday leaned into your touch with a faint whimper, one that had your brain short-circuiting.

For a minute or two, he stilled inside, allowing you both to adjust to the feeling; this wasn’t your first time but the sheer length of his cock reached spots you didn’t know even existed to the point where you had to count to ten just to steer yourself away from spiraling and cumming right then and there.

“S-So tight—ngh. You feel good.” Sunday slowly pulled back about halfway before thrusting back inside, drawing wanton moans from both of you.

He resorted to languid, deep thrusts which allowed you to feel every inch of him—for your sopping cunt to remember the exact shape of his cock—and each time he bottomed out, his cockhead deliciously kissed your sweet spot.

With the slow rhythm set, the bed creaked and groaned in time with the movements of his hips, sounds of light skin slapping and lewd squelching filled all four walls of the entire room.

Everything felt sinful—from the pornographic moans you let out to the slick that covered his cock and your inner thighs but god was it completely addicting. 

Sunday’s face remained a mere breath away from yours, keeping eye contact, his honeyed gaze pulled you into the depths of warm bliss, akin to a gentle hug that enveloped one’s body.

Every intentional push and pull of his hips knocked out oxygen from your lungs which had you incoherently gasping for his name.

A light sheen of sweat coated your bodies as the morning air grew impossibly thick, the ivory sheets beneath your back clung onto you like second skin, and Sunday’s hair stuck to his forehead but neither of you cared about the filthiness of it, not when your bodies pleasured one another like there was no tomorrow.

Not when he firmly pressed his cock with every thrust inside you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, effectively pulling him closer and allowing him to reach you a little deeper than before; your hands spread across his shoulder blades, curling inwards to decorate his back with rubied streaks.

The sharp sting of your nails sent Sunday forward, his head fell onto the pillows beneath your own, shamelessly moaning dangerously close to your ear.

“Haah—ah! Ah! I’m s-so close, Sunday! God! Please don’t sto—ngh! Don’t stop!”

At the sound of your moans, he picked up his pace, his cock hitting your g-spot a little harder. He also neared his climax and with the way your greedy cunt tightened around him and he knew he wasn’t going to last any longer.

Using all the strength he had left, Sunday lifted himself with trembling arms and gave you an open-mouthed kiss, it was messier than he had intended but the mere feeling of your mouths slotting against one another with your saliva mixing only fuelled the drive of his hips further.

He pulled away slightly, a thin string of spit connecting his lips to yours, “Please cum for me! Ngh—ah! Haah! C-Cum with me!”

With a few more sloppy thrusts, Sunday sheathed the entire length of his cock, firmly pressing into your sensitive spot as he came with a loud, shameless moan, ear feathers shaking from pleasure. You followed shortly after, nails digging into his skin which left red crescent shaped marks all across his back.

Ribbons of thick, warm cum generously coated your walls, you’ve never been this full before but you weren’t complaining, the feeling of Sunday filling you to the brim had you whimpering beneath him.

His cock several times twitched inside you as it emptied itself; he came so much to the point where his cum had started spilling out of you and dripped onto the sheets below, effectively soiling them but he couldn’t just simply stop himself even if he wanted to—it kept coming out in waves ‘til there was nothing left.

Embarrassed, Sunday buried his face at the junction of your neck, prickly heat creeping up his cheeks. A breathless chuckle left your lips, hands soothing over the reddened trails you left on his back, who knew he could actually get embarrassed over something as little as cumming too much?

How adorable.

He rolled over with a grunt and plopped onto the empty spot next to you, you curled next to him, the uneven rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheeks somewhat pulling you back into reality.

One of his arms rested loosely around you, absentmindedly tracing slow, soothing patterns against your back as if he reassured himself that you weren’t just a dream, that you were real and remained right next to him.

For a while, neither of you spoke—the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, just your breaths slowly steadying itself with each second.

A saddened expression washed over your face as reality settled on your shoulders akin to cold seeping through glass—slowly yet adamant—and you were immediately reminded of the predicament you both faced. Your fingers tightened slightly where they rested against him and Sunday noticed immediately,

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” He whispered, confusion painted on his face; his voice was much softer—achingly gentle.

You shook your head, gaze lifting towards the expansive windows and the horizon beyond it, “I just . . I was just reminded of what you and I have to face and I’m scared, Sunday. What—What if The Family finds out you’re here in Planarcadia and—I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do. I’m scared for us because . . I finally have you and I don’t know if that means we’ll be separated again . .”

Really, there was nothing you could do but you wanted to be with Sunday, you wanted to spend your days with him out in the open, not a single care in the cosmos about The Family being after him—you wanted him back home and beside you.

Beside you, he shifted closer, he carefully tilted your chin upward ‘til you had no choice but to look at him. Funnily enough, for all the uncertainty ahead, his gaze remained steady, “We won’t lose one another.”

“Sunday—” “Listen to me.” He softly interrupted, thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye before tears could fully gather.

“I do not know what the next month will look like—or the next year, and I cannot promise you our union either but I can promise you this: when the time comes, I will face it all and I will do everything in my power to rightfully earn the spot beside you.”

Your lips trembled, not only from sadness but from the fragile, terrifying hope that began to bloom beneath your chest.

“The Family won’t stop.” You whispered.

“I know.”

“They won’t forgive easily.”

“I know.”

“There’s a real chance we could be eternally separated.”

Sunday smiled, not because it was funny but because somehow—despite everything—he felt almost fond of your catastrophizing, “Then we shall simply find our way back to one another the same way we did today, no?”

Your laugh came unexpectedly—it was humourless and full of disbelief but purely light hearted, “You make that sound very simple.”

“It won’t be but difficult has never meant impossible.” He murmured, brushing a strand of stray hair from your face with unbearable tenderness. 

Mirroring his smile, you shifted closer to bury yourself against his bare skin as though you were anchoring your heart to him. Sunday’s arm tightened around you immediately, protective without thought before pressing a quiet kiss to your forehead.

And as though all worries dissipated into the skies of Planarcadia, the once lonely suite had transformed into something far more lived-in—the bed remained half unmade, blankets tangled and abandoned, heated remnants of earlier faded into something more wholesome. Room service trays sat on the wooden coffee table, silver lids pushed aside in favour of half-finished lunch.

Sunday was seated on the floor—pants and top messily thrown over his body—eating a fruit. He looked up from where he sat, brows lifting slightly as you eagerly rummaged through your luggage near the entryway. You returned to him with your arms full, a couple of somewhat familiar-looking objects tucked inside.

“What is that?” He blinked

You grinned with entirely too much satisfaction, “Emergency provisions.” 

His confusion turned to suspicion but nonetheless, you carefully set your haul onto the polished floor one by one like priceless contraband:

Sweet dream cloud candies in iridescent wrappers. Golden lullaby honey crisps. Starfall sugar biscuits dusted in edible shimmer. Moondew fruit chews. SoulGlad. And finally, 

“Chocolate pudding tarts.” Sunday breathed out. He stared at the familiar dessert packaging as though it had appeared through divine intervention. 

“I brought these snacks with me so I wouldn’t get homesick while on vacation. I often do the same during press tours—”

Before you could speak any further, the lighthearted atmosphere shifted subtly but you noticed it—the way an expression of sadness crept up his face.

Sunday was homesick.

You hadn’t thought he’d be—no, that wasn’t true, you had thought about it, you just didn’t expect something so minor to make it visible.

Slowly, you opened the packaging and offered the pudding tart. For a second, he simply stared at it but carefully took it nonetheless. He grabbed a silver spoon from one of the trays and scooped a small amount, as if indulging any further was forbidden.

Its familiar sweetness melted on his tongue and you watched as his expression changed into something more nostalgic.

You knew where he had immediately gone—to childhood, to the happier memories where he only worried about how to sneak in more pudding tarts in between music lessons, and what to write in the letter he’d regularly send to Robin (There was just too much to talk about!)

“It tastes the same as I remember . . I—thank you.”

You shook your head, “You don’t have to thank me. I just thought you’d miss some snacks from home.”

You and Sunday spent the entire morning and afternoon holed up in the suite reminiscing about the colourful past, revealing how one deciphered their feelings for the other; he also took the time to give you a proper apology for involving your name and reputation in his affairs to which you accepted.

Maybe it was fate playing a hand.

Once full of worry and fear for the uncertainty that the future held, you learned to slow down and appreciate the present—the fact that Sunday was right beside you, safe and healthy.

For now, you’d cherish this moment in a foreign world, and whatever the future may bring, you knew nothing could pry you and Sunday apart, that was something you were certain of. And this time without any hesitation, you spoke up,

“I love you, Sunday.”

Noise pollution outside; the early morning starts with the honks and beeps of traffic. The loud, resounding metallic jostle of trucks passing and a couple shouts from people who have no care for decorum. A regular, early city morning.

And it starts with the older man exhaling from his nose slowly as he furrows his brows. Shorts pulled down and thin shirt hiked over his stomach, it flexes, abdomen tightening more, as it glistens with sweat. The contours ripple as a warm shines and slides down the ridges.

Lightly, you fingers gently ghost through the course hairs and over his flushing length, slowly awakening it with soft brushes as it lays on his trembling stomach. You smoothly rub two fingers along the side, stroking a vein, and his breathing stutters.

Ashveil’s eyes are sealed shut tightly from the pleasure, so delicate and light yet all the more impactful than immediately stroking him. When his breathing stutters, you break out into a laugh, and he follows suit—atmosphere easygoing and mellow.

The man opens his eyes and is greeted with your smiling face, shoulders shaking from your amusement. “What’s so funny?” Voice deep and raspy from only recently been used.

You go back to tracing your fingers on his cock, spelling your name on it with small swirls of your finger. “You.”

He hums as he relaxes more into the sheets, playfully lifting an eyebrow. “Me?”

You lean down to his face, and he responds in kind, raising his prosthetic to cup your cheek. Ashveil lets out a low groan when your thumb rubs his slit, already leaking and coating your fingers in a shine. “Yes, you. You almost look like you’re in pain.”

The long-haired man’s lashes flutter for a moment as the veins lining his abs ripple when he bucks his hips, the increase in pleasure doing its magic. Affectionately, his cold thumb rubs your cheek when you lower your face more—he could wake up to this everyday, both the beautiful view and gratifying touch.

His lips gently part as he lets out a low moan, thighs spreading.

“I’m,” he breathes out, “I’m not.” 

You giggle again, and a smile breaks onto his sleepy face at the joyous sound— sounding so pretty and sweet to him as always. Ashveil opens his eyes halfway and gently pulls your face down. Tenderly, your lips press against his as you continue whispering your fingers on his cock that now stands tall.

The kiss is sweet and appreciative of the soft moment. Unhurried and slow, lazy with its urgency. And when you wrap all your fingers around his flushed cock, he harshly sucks in a breath—Aeons, he can never get used it it. He doesn’t want to get used to it; every touch, every brush feels new and fresh again—it keeps him alive, and it keeps him yearning for more.

The hand on your cheek then reverently slides down to cup the back of your neck, metallic fingers a biting cold when he urges your face down. A greed to have more of you.

The fever of your lips moving increases. Each peck and breath met with a soft but growing want as you begin to pump him. 

Ashveil groans against your lips and reaches out his free hand, joining you with pumping his cock.

You pull away from the kiss to admire the sight while he lays his head back into the sheets, allowing the pleasure to wash over him in soft waves. Welcoming and loving with how your pace isn’t urgent, and all encompassing from the warmth of your palm. 

Beads of white begin bubble from his slit and becomes a lubricant as it gets spread from your pumping hands. Ashveil’s hand, bigger than yours, is more so guiding your hand to move rather than fully touching and pumping it like you are.

He prefers it that way; he’d rather your touch than his any day.

You look back at him, and his eyes are closed. The older man’s fringe is messier than usual, and his long tresses are around him in big ringlets, untamed like a wolf’s mane. His face, peaceful, is flushed and relaxed as his lips part with every deep inhale and exhale—dipped in pleasure from head to toe, he is.

You smile then kiss his cheek.

Ashveil cracks open one eye and smiles softly, “Mmm?”

“Can I get on top?”

Do you even need to ask that? He’d let you make yourself home on his face with no complaints. Maybe next time you could wake him up that way—scent drowning his senses as he holds your moving hips. Definitely a next time. Or tomorrow morning—again, no complaints here.

He opens his eyes and sits up a little, taking his hand from his cock. “‘Course you can. Come here, sweetheart.”

You grin more and let him grab one of your thighs, draping it over his waist and pulling you to straddle him. You steady yourself by planting both hands on his shoulders then bring a hand down, too lazy to pull your underwear off so you urge it to the side.

Ashveil places a hand on your side to keep you upright then breathes out a moan when he feels your plush pussy press against his cock, already slick. He relaxes back into the sheets as your slit rubs against his hardened cock.

You lower yourself a bit to press yourself more against him, and his eyes flutter shut from the ground weight—it lets him know you’re here and this sweet morning is real, not just some dream conjured up by his aged mind.

The hand on your hip then moves to plant itself in the middle of your back, urging you to lay your full weight on his bigger frame.

When your chest touches his, his thick arms wrap around you, wanting you closer. Your lips find his cheek again as you begin to rock your hips, pussy wetly sliding on his dripping cock.

Ashveil sighs deeply, content and blissed out, then turns his head to capture your lips again. They slowly slide against yours as his other hand lowers itself to knead your backside, digits sinking into your plush ass. Each small little smooch and tug sends a little fire into the base of his spine, joining with the sparking pleasure from your grinding.

“Any assignments today?” You mumble against his lips, pulling away to speak. The man, however, slowly chases after them instead of answering quick, too fogged in the mind and too relaxed to care to answer.

He pulls away as he opens his eyes, gently guiding your hips to keep rubbing your slick mound against his twitching length. “You should know I don’t,” he chuckles.

Always strapped for cash, the usual. That’s why he’s always taking on odd jobs—the consequences of being an underground detective. 

You press your nose against his, and he instinctively rubs his against yours in response, foreheads touching as his heart unfurls from the innocent affection. “Wanna stay in today?”

He’d love to.

But he’ll soon have to go back to the Agency and return to the freezer, to soothe the phantom pains and ease the sins trembling in his prosthetic. 

“I’d love to,” he mumbles as he kisses the corner of your mouth. He breathes out a sigh from another glide across his cock, “but I’ve gotta return soon. Mr. N is probably waiting for me, and I probably have a potential client waiting too, all that jazz.”

He really wants to stay. Not just because you have a warm bed, but because the pleasure washing over him stems deeper than just the stimulation.

You bring him warmth and comfort; you bring him the idea that waking up isn’t such a bad thing—seeing the world and lasting one more day isn’t as grueling. That itch to have things pass over quickly not there. 

He closes his eyes and rubs circles into your hip when you lay your cheek against his, fully welcoming the warmth.

Now, Dottore admits, this sort of approach was leagues beneath his level of competence. A plan so ridiculously simple it was entirely unworthy of both your efforts. As lovely as a more complex order of events would have been, finding a new way to curb your favor would have taken too long for the impatient man.

Like some cheap sort of suitor, Dottore offered you a drink. Alcholic, and mixed with mysterious things he could only describe as something that would solve all your troubles.

In most cases of Dottore drugging others, he made a point to prevent their consciousness. No complaints from those not awake. But for you? He wouldn’t want to frighten you.

The drink was a concoction of only mild effects. A muscle relaxant, a painkiller for your aches, even some vitamins, just in case.

The real show stopper though was an aphrodisiac. It was such a specially curated thing, making a person most honest without making them outright stupid.

Did you know that drink was drugged? Absolutely. In the end, however, you said fuck all and drank it down before the ice could even melt. Dottore needed you, otherwise he wouldn't approach you directly. At the very least… you wouldn't die.

Dottore had, up until this point, cursed his good looks many times in his life. Many nosey types investigating too deep for the sake of glimpsing at him. But right now? Right now, he was delighted.

You had complied with transportation easily. With puffed red cheeks and a bratty attitude, admittedly, but you complied none the less.

Dottore took you to his nearest lab, allowed you to remove your stuffy clothes, and even provided you a silky dress that fell sexily to your thighs.

Dottore had to swallow his excitement. You were a smart, cute girl to him and despite all his misfortunes in life, he’d actually gotten you willingly into his bed. Or hospital bed. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine this would be possible.

Dottore was a violent man, he was aware. He could have dragged you kicking and screaming and tore your legs open for him to partake in…

But that would utterly destroy your heart and mind. And Dottore might be downright evil, but even he would feel reprehensible for harming his precious thing in such a way.

Besides, stress isn't good if he wants to put a baby in you…

All this in mind, witnessing you laying beneath him as he stroked your bare soft flesh in an almost clinical manner was euphoric.

You were such a good girl for him. The perfect girl, he’d wager.

Dottore’s cold hands started at your knees as you closed your eyes delicately. He pet and stroked your thighs, humming in thought. He enjoyed even this, standing above you as you remained submissive and draped on one of his beds.

The hands rubbed circles, sliding up and you shrunk just slightly, his palms coming close to that special private place.

They came to a rest, finally, the crooks of his hands on either side your pussy. It was bare beneath the dress, for his eyes only. Dottore felt like a man crazed, but he kept composed. The tantalizing presence of your partially aroused genitals was crawling up his spine.

“As a doctor... I have responsibility to alleviate any symptoms you are pained by…” Dottore exhaled, his voice growling and thick with arousal himself, leaning close to your crotch with his excited breath, “But only if you should permit me…”

Teasing and borderline taunting, the prideful man prodded for submissive confirmation. A weak beg for the doctor to soothe the simmering heat in your groin. Internally, he was begging too, begging to her you want him with all your heart and body.

Won’t you beg for his cock? Pretty, pretty please?

You might not have begged, but you did permit him. Dottore had to take what he could get. Maybe when your womb was being conquered by his desire you’d be more willing to plead in future scenarios.

Petty as he was, Dottore pressed his thumb in a fast and rough circular motion upon your vulnerable clit, leaving you to spasm for a moment.

The second you arched your back, Dottore used that same momentum to manhandle you, turning you over in a split second using strong arms. Humilatingly, the sensation of being flung while so turned on sent pangs of pleasure to your belly.

Dottore forced you onto your knees, back arched to reveal that drooling spot he so desired.

You tried to turn to watch what the doctor’s plan was, but he playfully threw the top of your dress over your head.

“Lay your head and relax, doctor’s orders.”

You sighed from your nose and complied, quite tired and very aroused.

On the side of the hospital bed was a padded drawer. Dottore had prepared for this, for you. What was contained in that drawer was beyond your sight, but Dottore was determined to make you enjoy anything he had in store.

Your body was massaged, your ass specifically. You felt Dottore spread your cheeks apart and you blushed at the idea of him staring at your back door.

“Don’t move.”

The voice was so stern you froze. What was he doing? Was it going to be uncomfortable?

Indeed it was.

Two thumbs came to either side of your puckered hole, and spread it open. Your face felt aflame.

Soon after, a liquid oozed inside. Your body was so completely lax and eager, you had issue with resistance, and couldn’t even prevent the entry.

This too, made you tingle.

It seeped deep inside and your body just drank it with no reservations. It took you a moment, but your realized it wasn’t cold like lube was.

Dottore had spat. He had spat inside you.

Tears of arousal were pearling in your eyes, and some shame was coaled in the back of your head. Dottore’s fluids, even something like his saliva, lubricating your organs was something so very sexy and you felt embarrassed by the fact.

You had to ask the man, did he intend to just toy with you? Doing vulgar things just for reactions?

“I assure you, we will get to the main meal soon enough. Let me ease your body into me, you won’t regret it.”

Dottore didn’t give you a chance to respond, pressing a ringer into your tight ring and pumping.

You had played with your butt before, but found it only to be a gross sensation. With Dottore, while uncomfortable, the feeling of his long digit invading your tummy, lubricated generously by only his spit, it was different.

It felt good. The invasion was still an unnatural feeling, but it was leaving tingling in it’s wake. He was in such a place… and it felt naughty in a way that only served you.

One finger turned into two, and he pumped the and spread that forbidden place wide for his hungry eyes.

You had almost begun to wonder what was in the drawer, but you didn’t have to now.

Dottore pulled his fingers out with a gross squelch. The sound of a cap opening was quickly followed by something akin to a marble being pressed into you.

As said marble popped into your body, you jolted and went to look, but Dottore gave you a stern look.

“Turn your gaze. I’ve told you once already.”

To his utter delight, you hid your face in your arms, made shy by his firm tone. Even his vocals had you paralyzed in pleasure.

One “marble” was now in your belly, and more were to follow. The sizes started small, like a pea, popping in one by one.

You’d begun to ask yourself, how many were there? Was he just going to keep putting these mystery objects until your tummy was distended? The thought, in spite of reality, made you even more excited.

Had you ever been so turned on?

The pea sized balls turned larger, soon like golf balls. Your butt fought these ones a little bit but soon relaxed around them. When they passed the rim, it was like your anus swallowed, happily gobbling was Dottore was generously giving.

The final three were fairly large. Like tennis balls. Your body was way to eager at this point. They went in with resistance, before disappearing in your depths.

Once all was said in done and all you could think was if Dottore, as a Doctor, could remove them, there was a tug.

If felt like your body went in reverse with the tug. It was just a gentle pull that had you moan, covering your mouth at the lack of self-control.

Anal beads! They were anal beads! A whole damn string was now inside you and now Dottore was going to pull it. His typical cruelty made you nervous.

Dottore knew what you were thinking, but you were his darling, he wouldn't be so mean…

“Push. Don’t be shy. If you want these,” the doctor pulled at them, “out of you, I suggest you do as I say.”

You’ve never known such humiliation. Humiliated as you were, though, your slick was beginning to drip down…

The massive balls wouldn’t even peek out. Your ass was so hungry it wouldn’t let them go, keeping them just out of sight. Dottore watched you struggle, your muscles flexing and failing. Poor poor you, so full and so greedy, he thought.

Mercifully, perhaps, Dottore gently pulled, assisting you as the first the three popped out your rim.

It actually felt good, to your utter shock. Everything was so deep and intimate, and every ball that was released from your ass sent a brief shock into your stomach that had you shuddering.

With the final bead, Dottore chuckled and leaned over you, back pressing you like a helpless animal into the bed.

Teasingly, he laid the beads out before you to see them.

It was horrifically long. Maybe even two feet… and it had all be inside you!

“Impressive. You have always done so well…” Dottore spoke directly into your ear and you quaked. The sound of him close to your ear made you whimper.

The doctor left you cold as leaned back up, “You’re so resilient, I had hoped you’d cum from this. Anal orgasms are, reportedly, one of the better ways to finish… worry not. I have just the thing.”

Dottore made you arch your back properly once more, and within moment, another thing was teasing your hole.

It slid in without resistance.

Thick from tip to base, Dottore split you open on a dildo. When the base hit your ass, a button was clicked.

The tip of it vibrated, massaging delicately the deepest part of you, and you could only groan in pleasure, helpless to the toying.

Dottore had the dildo make love to your now comfortable ass, spreading the hole wide and cramming the material in until your were stuffed and your tummy twitched. Completely full to the brim and yet you still wanted more.

The doctor was careful, and he was too careful for you. Long calculated strokes, slowed when your body resisted, and only a moderate speed when you were relaxed.

Dottore knew it wasn’t going to be enough. He couldn’t make you cum through ass alone with so little training. He would just have to help you.

Settling behind you and crouched possessively above you, the kind Doctor reached beneath you.

You may not have realized how erect your clit was, but Dottore saw it’s firmness and immediately knew the quickest way to make you cum.

Lovingly, so uncharacteristic for him, Dottore generously stroked your clit. Simple movement, and yet they shocked you.

A clitoral orgasm usually starts from the clit and spreads out. This was different.

Brain numbing sensations of pulsing pleasure erupted from where you were certain the tip of the dildo was, deep within you. It infected your entire belly and head. Your heart pounded and your body unraveled all it’s muscles. A completely vulnerable form.

Your ass and pussy too became possessed, lax and starving. Slick was pouring down you and you felt your ass try to eat the dildo within it, pulling all close.

Dottore wouldn’t have told you, but he watched in slight worry as your depths sucked in, almost taking the dildo within… he would have had to stop everything to remove it had you managed that, but he kept his fingers firmly on it’s base. How lucky for you, to have him worry at all.

You felt you may never recover from that peak. Your body was sweating and your face felt melted. Your tummy twitches and your thoughts were but sludge in your head.

The doctor, however, was eager for his peak.

Drawing the silicone phallus from your bowels, Dottore freed his own replacement.

Standing tall was the doctor’s cock, a warm tone fitting of someone who grew so close to the desert. It leaked plenty, oozing onto the bed below.

The looming feeling was back as Dottore consumed you from behind, his arms now on either side of your waist.

Playfully, Dottore let his girth trace your slit, pushing your hard clit to attention and holding you still while he did it.

The poor lonely heart of the Doctor, however, wasn’t completely satisfied.

You went flying a second time, back to belly side up as Dottore opted to tuck you into his crutch like a puzzle pieces, a mating press.

Impatient as you both were, Dottore went all in first try.

Squirming was your first instinct but the strong and arms laying on top of you wouldn't permit it.

Not a single millimeter would be allowed to leave your core, your womb. Dottore has you encompassing him perfectly and he fully intended to give you any and all pleasure known to man.

Just relax and let the good Doctor breed that lonely womb of yours, yeah?

It was humilatingly wet, the sound. His thrusts weren’t as long as the anal ones, but it kept you stuffed and stimulated. The sheer force had you body bouncing like from a piece of pornagraphy. Like a fuck toy being used silly.

Your moans turned dumb and ugly, but Dottore didn’t mind. Your gaze wouldn't even meet his at the bar, but here you were facing him, cock drunk, and helplessly his.

Pleasant massages, euphoric, were worked into your sensitive cervix with the head. You had read somewhere that even touching the cervix was painful, but the knowledge that Dottore could just… explode right against its entrance. Pumping your vulnerable womb with hot potent semen, no chance of sliding out once trapped by the cervix wall.

Like a woman possessed, the thought of Dottore dangerously pouring his cum into you has you cumming. The power of your orgasm pushed even slick out, a gross slimy sound in the air.

Dottore wasn’t done with you, but he slammed in regardless to both aid in your orgasm and prevent himself from slipping out. Even with his entire shaft consumed by you, the tip carresing the end goal, the desperate pushing of your pussys climax spurred the doctor on. Would your body have done the same for him if this had been… Less consensual? Could he have interpreted this force as your bodies refusal, instead of its euphoria?

Oh, but honestly, what does that matter?

Movement resumed, and now with you even more hungry than before.

Dottore was so locked onto you, you would have guessed you were a medical specimen before a romantic fling. The thought irked you, far too aroused to even think about Dottore doing this for nothing.

Pulling the man down by his collar, you took his Adams apple into your mouth.

Hickeys. Hickeys were surely the way to go! Some marks and kisses to keep him your own.

The doctor never even considered leaving you after this. He’d chain you to a wall and leave himself your only company for the end of your days before he truly released you. You were far too good a girl…

Generous, the Doctor surely must be, as he removed your tongue from his bruising neck and placed his lips instead.

Dottore could only replicate what he’d read about, but it seemed to suffice for you.

Suckling in each others tongues, moaning and groaning into each other's throats, nipping at lips high in anticipation.

There was a factor so lewd about letting the noises out, you realized. Letting Dottore know how good he’s pounding you, even when you don’t fully mean too.

Dottore seemed to think the same, his breaths of pleasure leaving pretty unrestrained too.

Warm handing eating you, a demanding tongue, a dick so insistent it has forced your pussy into shaking submission.

What other way was this supposed to end?

The biological weapon burrowed snuggly beside your cervix finally peaked, giving the entry to your baby maker a firm passionate kiss.

Dottore detatched from your mouth and closed in on your ear, “Let my cum inside, won’t you?”

Shit, that sent you hurling over the peak for a third time. Dottore wouldn’t let anything get between him and putting a brat in you, only squeezing your whole body with an iron hug.

Push as your canal did, any drop that hit the cervix, that being every drop, was sent directly into your core.

Pushing Dottore’s shoulders did nothing, his body keeping your struggling body pinned. It wasn’t that you wanted to run away, you more so enjoyed the physical movement with Dottore. His large presence was consuming and arousing, spurring your orgasm the longer he held you down with brute force.

As the last of the cum was pumped into your womb, Dottore pet your head, whispering praises.

At this point, Dottore didn’t matter if you were ovulating or not. Maybe he'd get a kid, maybe he wouldn’t. Hopefully, he won't, but regardless he was happy to have made love with you.

Don’t think this means you’re getting away though. Baby or not, Dottore would have to be sane to let you go, and everyone knows he is quite the opposite.

WIP Rough Draft (Lumine As Placeholder) ; https://x.com/na_nsfw_/status/2051166189951570292?s=61

Link will be updated as it’s completed.