chronically unable to write anything but i do once in a blue moon so why not have a blog (˶˃⤙˂˶) i'm twenty, and mostly write gn!reader stuff with afab anatomy since that applies to me and i'm self indulgent. i crosspost on ao3 under the same name! I also have a twitter and am setting up a patreon for art comms...
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♱⊹ ࣪ ˖ MASTERLIST
⚘ leon s. kennedy x gn!reader - who's motorcycle is that? | 2.6k wrds
☔︎︎ sunday (hsr) - sunday and his wings | 0.5k wrds (very mild)
♡⚠︎ solivan brugmansia (tkatb) bedroom scene | art
after looking at the key you probably gathered i'm willing to write about certain dark/sensitive topics-- that doesn't mean i'm open to everything. a few hard lines i have is like age play and incest stuff, idm certain age gaps but not anything that crazy, sorry guys. also another hard line is daddy stuff ABSOLUTELY not. i'm also unwilling to write things with kinks pertaining to excrement. as i think of more things i am unwilling to write i'll update this but for now this is it.
tags.
#fauxinwriting - all of my fics
#lwellnyap - me musing to myself or ranting
#fauxsketch - fanart by me
meowmeowmeowmeow
ive low-key been getting into yan VNs lately and am a big fan of 14dwy and TKaTB… scouring for more. this isn’t rlly yan but also KillerChat was fun and i liked Ronin 😋
my finals r almost over (very worried abt bombing my presentation but i will work on it in the morning ❤️)
might make some art or fics over the summer if i feel inspired…. i’ll also be busy studying my second language and also working on a short film so we will see
Ren is very silly i like them, I also like Sol but ofc ofc hes a degenerate freak so sometimes i am not in the headspace to engage. but he’s still cute 🤗
The art in both is very beautifully colored. looooove the contrast in Sol’s pallet it’s very striking and wonderful.
ive low-key been getting into yan VNs lately and am a big fan of 14dwy and TKaTB… scouring for more. this isn’t rlly yan but also KillerChat was fun and i liked Ronin 😋
my finals r almost over (very worried abt bombing my presentation but i will work on it in the morning ❤️)
might make some art or fics over the summer if i feel inspired…. i’ll also be busy studying my second language and also working on a short film so we will see
Ren is very silly i like them, I also like Sol but ofc ofc hes a degenerate freak so sometimes i am not in the headspace to engage. but he’s still cute 🤗
The art in both is very beautifully colored. looooove the contrast in Sol’s pallet it’s very striking and wonderful.
♧ Pancake Madness
♧ I Need You
♧ Injured
♧ Flustered
♧ Ringing in the New Year
♧ Wreck Me Softly
♧ Reference Point
♧ Christmas Special
♧ An Unhealthy Obsession
♧ Digitized Hearts <3!
♧ Cheater
♧ There Was No Longer Any Place For Them In Heaven
♧ Another Unhealthy Obsession
♧ I Just Feel Like I Can Fall
♧ Cannibalism
♧ My Fake Boyfriend is a Serial Killer
♧ Valentines With the Devil
♧ Last Night's Mascara
♧ Darlin.
♧ Late Mornings
♧ Stained Hair
♧ A "Ritual"
♧ Omniscient Orbs
♧ Killer Queen
♧ Write Me Like You Love Me
♧ I Hate to Love You
♧ Rambling Reverie
♧ Murderous Ideology
♧ The Devil Tango
♧ The Devil that Reigns the Streets Part 2
♧ Proposal
♧ Dog Birthday
♧ Shot Wound
♧ Scared
♧ Biting
Synopsis: Since leaving Penacony and joining the Express, Sunday has struggled to sleep well at night and upon airing his troubles, you try your best to remedy them.
Notes: (Written pre-2.7) You thought I was joking when I said I only post once in a blue moon? It's been two years, bitches. In that this has been in my drafts for two years and the NSFW part 2 has yet to be completed. I'm never happy with anything I write but the whole point of this is to get over my neurotic perfectionism, right?
cw: SFW but we get a little heated near the end, AFAB!reader, love confession, touch starved bird boy, so much yearning, reader can be perceived as TB, cuddling? whatever.
Word Count: ~3.6k
You weren’t sure how this became a regular occurrence.
Sunday’s first few days onboard the Express were restless ones. This, you knew. Dark stamps under his eyes and a steadily increasing habit of losing focus mid-conversation were difficult things to ignore when you saw he was already struggling to connect with the rest of the crew. Worried as you were, with a bit of gentle prodding, Sunday had confided in you the night terrors he’d been experiencing since departing Penacony. Having grown so accustomed to delving himself into the fabricated reality of the Land of Dreams, you don’t find it hard to believe that the former head of the Oak family would have difficulty adjusting to a regular sleep cycle so far away from such high concentrations of memoria. He looked tired even then, and when he knocks upon your door one night with a hesitant request for company, the exhaustion rimming his eyes implores you to let him in.
However, what you had assumed to be a one-time petition gradually grew into a near nightly ritual over the months. Casual talks shared over soothing blends of tea and the soft shag carpet of your bedroom evolved to conversations in the same bed, curling up under the same sheets. You started letting Sunday sleep beside you when you noticed him lingering awkwardly in the middle of your doorway one night, after you were meant to have said your goodbyes. He had clearly been enjoying your discussions, fluttering wings and the shyest of pleasant smiles. So much so that when the hour struck, your departure felt about as sudden the droop of his wings. To retreat to the emptiness of his own quarters afterwards would feel... frigid. Pained. Like leaving the warmth of a blanket to sink into an ice bath. And in all honesty, you weren’t too keen on letting Sunday go either. It was nice, seeing him so pleased and content. Like he belonged. So, when he lingers, you offer to let him stay. You had to bite back a laugh with how suddenly he beamed, swearing that his halo radiated the softest glow in that moment.
A silent agreement of personal space was shared contently enough between the two of you every night except one. It was you who had broken it to pull him close when you woke to the sound of shuddering breaths and faint sobs, faced with the sight of tears budding in the corners of tightly shut eyes. Another nightmare. You only knew he was still asleep because he was muttering to himself. Words you couldn’t quite decipher but the tone carried with it a grief that laid heavy in your heart. In your defense, you tried first to loosen the knuckle-white grip he held on the sheets, looking like such a small thing curled into himself as he was. When that didn’t work, you reached for his face, brushing sweat-soaked bangs away, and calling his name to no avail. It’s only when you pulled him close, cradling his head to your chest and whispering quiet words of reassurance that he startles awake in a cold sweat. His grip moves from your sheets to your shirt on instinct, his entire frame shaking like a frightened fawn. You had looked upon him with concern, rubbing soothing circles into his back, your voice barely above a whisper. These nightmares were a common occurrence when you weren’t around, it would seem.
Every night, he expects to wake up back in Dewlight Pavilion, he’d told you that night. Standing before his desk, opulent oak wood and concentrated memoria. Penacony would still be under his control, a dark raven fluttering at the very edges of his periphery. His old plans would be set in motion, and the sweet dream would turn sour with the wails of the souls he’s shackled. It’s been a difficult habit to shake, the undue anxiety no doubt making it harder for Sunday to achieve a good night’s rest. You had allowed him to sob silently into your blouse without complaint, arms wrapped securely around him, muttering quiet reassurances and gentle hushes as your fingers ran through his hair. All the way until he fell back asleep. You weren’t sure what else to do.
Sunday… seemed a bit different after that.
Of course, he never admitted such a thing to you. He’d knock on your door once curfew was called, sit and chat over your nightly tea, and eventually climb into bed with you at a respectable distance. As he would any other night. Your personal kettle and assortment of sleep-aid teas has seen more use in the past few months than ever before. So much so that you’ve had to make a note to restock a little extra of Sunday’s preferences the next chance you got. You opt to make a mellower brew tonight in hopes it would relax him a bit and open him up to what’s clearly been bothering him. Sunday was skilled at schooling his emotions over years of diplomatic negotiations, you were sure, but something you’ve noticed over the months is that it’s harder for his wings to lie. Especially when he’s in a more comfortable environment.
He compliments whatever tea you give him, and your conversations usually start with discussing the notes of the blend you had picked before moving onward naturally. Talks of the latest mission and tonight’s choice of dinner go by in a comfortable lull. But ever the stubborn man, his troubles remain unspoken. The most you catch is a couple glances at your hands when they move. Tracing the rim of your cup in thought or wrapped comfortably around its handle. You could’ve sworn his gaze would linger on your lips after every sip of tea, and the grip on his own beverage seemed measured. His wings would flinch ever so slightly whenever he catches your gaze, but nothing more. Whatever bout of nerves he had dissolves as your conversation progresses, and you almost forget that he was ever troubled in the first place in favor of enjoying his company. It’s only when the two of you retire to your bed for the night that you’re reminded of the issue. He’s more restless than usual, as if sleep wasn’t calling to him tonight even after such a long discussion. You appreciate how he tries to be subtle about it, remaining as still as he can be at least until he knew you’d fallen asleep. But you can feel it in the dip of the bed, hear it in the rustle of the sheets, and your exhausted mind spurs you to speak up.
“Sunday.”
Your voice cuts through the silence of the room, and Sunday practically freezes like a deer in headlights. Caught. An awkward cough greets you. “Hah, my sincerest apologies,” he huffs through a nervous laugh, “I don’t mean to keep you awake.” There’s a strain to it that you can no longer ignore. You sigh, shifting closer yourself before he can try to push the issue aside. “You’ve been restless all night. Tell me what’s wrong,” you offer softly, turning over to meet his gaze and reaching a hand out to pat his gently. Politely. “Promise we’ll both sleep better for it.” That was the whole point of this, wasn’t it? That was the reason Sunday comes back to you every night. The comforting hum of the Express’ inner workings fills the silence in place of your companion’s response, remaining as quiet as the stars speckled outside your window. It’s only the two of you. No prying eyes or malicious eavesdroppers. Him, and the warmth of your hand squeezing his fingers. Sunday stares at the miniscule connection, the deepest recesses of his mind telling him it’s not… enough. He concedes, though not without a nervous swallow to which you innocently offer your silent encouragement.
“...Promise?” He whispers.
You nod. “Promise.”
You expected him to talk. Years of playing the Oak family mouthpiece no doubt attributed to Sunday’s eloquent way of speaking and formal courtesy. Of course, you were happy to help him ease his burdens every other night, but you couldn’t deny that you also took considerable enjoyment in your shared discussions. Without the pretense of bringing forth an entire planet’s eternal slumber, Sunday was a rather pleasant conversationalist. He was happy to listen and quick to empathize. Always knew what to say with an air of sincerity, and if you were lucky, you’d get to enjoy the spark of joy that returns to otherwise sorrowful eyes when he finds a niche topic to regale you about. Ever the know-it-all. You knew him more to be a speaker, so what he does next comes as a bit of a surprise.
Sunday… reaches out, and breaks your unspoken agreement for the second time. Slender arms slowly wrap themselves around your midriff, the cicatrix woven around his forearms brushing briefly past the exposed flesh of your waist. You suck in a breath, pulled much closer than usual to the halovian – until your stomachs were flushed together, and he could tuck himself within the crook of your neck. Despite the rather bold act, his movements are clearly uncertain. His hands shake as they secure themselves against your back, his wings flinching with the quiet sound that left you, and his knees only lightly brush with yours, as if unwilling to slot between them fully. The position is reminiscent of the first time you held him. Your body remembers before your mind, and your arms settle on instinct to where they once were.
“Apologies, it’s…” he starts, sounding uncharacteristically uneasy, “…difficult to describe.” One hand rests over the back of his head, carding through his hair, while the other rubs slow circles into his back. Knowing how particular Sunday could get about physical touch, you’re uncertain if this is the right move. You had... assumed that the shift in his behavior was the result of you holding him that night. That it had been the wrong thing to do when your agreement felt more for his sake than your own. You expected his visits to dwindle afterwards but if anything, they had increased in frequency despite his odd behavior. The way he melts into you is just enough to keep you where you are, becoming increasingly wary of your own deductions. “Lately, I’ve found myself… thinking of things I shouldn’t.” You’re thankful he can’t see the slight downward tug of your lips at the cryptic nature of his words. There’s an urge to correct him there, reassure him that no one on the Express was going to force him to think a certain way. That his opinion was always valued in discussions. But you bite back your words for a moment longer, coaxing Sunday to keep speaking. “When I’m with you… When you’re gone…” Another gentle squeeze to your middle makes you think he’s afraid the latter will come true. You’re not sure how to sooth it. “I think of when you held me. Like this. How soft you were. How safe you felt.” Ah. So this was about that night. Dull fingers press against your back, as if trying to push past the boundaries of your physical forms. An instinctual remnant of nearly shedding his own, perhaps, because you’re not entirely sure Sunday is aware he’s doing it.
“…I think of other things, too.”
“I fear that sleep now eludes me no longer because of these night terrors, but because I cannot stop thinking of you.” His wings twitch with an urge to curl within themselves – his entire body does. “I’ve never--”A shiver, far too difficult to ignore, travels through his body with your proximity. The warmth of a wavering breath fans gently across your open collar. Knees find the courage to slot between yours, curling against you. “You’ve already done more than enough to assist me. It should be enough.” His tone holds a harsh edge often reserved for himself, his grip wavering. “I should be back in my own quarters, yet…” There’s a heavy pause as he tries to regain himself. Or perhaps he was simply committing your form to memory one final time. Savoring your comfort. “I find myself… wanting.” Breathing in your scent, burying himself in the softness of your skin, hot shame twisting his stomach. In anticipation of your rejection, his next words waver against your neck.
“Tell me I have no right to seek more of you.”
The request spoken inherently searches for absolution, and Sunday seeks it from you. You, who has been at the center of his mind since all this began. Who let him in when he came to you for help, and who remains with him still in spite of his past transgressions, holding him close when his sins return to haunt him. Such things were precious to Sunday – more than you could ever know. But now… Guilt coils itself around his heart as your silence seems to stretch on for millennia, his mind all but solidifying the validity of his worst nightmares. He knows he should let you go. Give you the space to think over the weight of his confession and steel his heart for your subsequent request for distance, dreading returning to the hollow emptiness of his own quarters. But his body does not move. His arms do not loosen their hold, and his head cannot bring itself to pull away from the sanctity of your warmth. It was shameful.
Too weak to even separate himself from your embrace, Sunday braces for the inevitable cold that comes with the loss of your touch... but it never arrives. Instead, he feels the press of gentle lips against his temple, fingers slotting themselves between his silver locks, and it’s like his heart had burst from within his chest. “You-” It’s Sunday who pulls back first, eyes wide with bewilderment and wings quickly fluttering with a rush of excitement he fails to temper. You can’t help but smile at the sight, your gaze speckled with sympathy as you bring a hand to rest against his cheek. “That’s a bit unfair, don’t you think?” You reproach his contrite words with easy confidence, a dust of pink blooming under the press of your palm as Sunday briefly glances away, and his wings curl around your hand to hide the lower half of his face. “You are far too forgiving,” he mutters, though he can’t deny the way he melts into your hold regardless. “You indulge me more than I deserve.” Amber eyes flutter shut and downy feathers cradle the back of your hand as he turns to brush soft lips against your palm. “Sunday…” You sigh his name in a way that makes him want to scream, wings twitching minutely. The growing hunger within him seeks more of you the longer you remain by his side, and you weren’t doing a thing to deny him. His heart leaps against his own attempts to moderate his expectations, restraint turning to desire in that brief moment, and before he could think to do something about it, you take the initiative and roll the two of you over.
From your new perch over him, you enjoy the owlish stare Sunday gives you. It’s endearing, the way his face immediately bursts with heat and his wings flap uselessly beside him, far too aware of your soft thighs now bracketing his own, and the weight pressed against his lower half. Sunday stutters your name daftly, his hands having slipped from your back to suspend just above your thighs while his eyes frantically sought purchase somewhere more appropriate. “Maybe the indulgence is mutual,” you counter, ignoring his cute attempts at modesty. “Maybe… I think of things, too.” It’s immediate, how quickly Sunday’s attention snaps back to you, bewildered. “What-” A sharp intake of breath cuts off his sentence when you rest some of your weight on his hips, replaced with the whisper of a plea instead. “P-please. You don’t-...” You don’t know what you’re saying. Sunday gasps, strained, the hands suspended just above your thighs curling into tight fists. His discipline wears thin, your presence a feast before the eyes of a starved man who refuses to eat.
“…You can, if you want.” Your encouragement is gentle at the sight of his struggles, head tilted slightly to the side. Sunday swallows thickly, noticing how starlight bounces off the curve of your neck, and another ache washes over him. Unsure lips part in search of a response, yet he finds none, not daring to hope you mean what you say. Your hands come to rest over his own, guiding them to find purchase on your waist once more, and making your intentions known. “Seek more of me.” He’s trembling like a leaf beneath you. You looked heavenly above him, softly illuminated from behind by the numerous stars the two of you drifted amongst. Like a dream. But he could feel you beneath his palms, solid and tangible. Could follow the gentle back and forth of your thumbs along his knuckles, and see the vulnerability behind your invitation. How the pads of your fingers nudged between the spaces of his own and encouraged him to relax. Slowly, you feel his hands settle against the softness of your flesh. “Tell me what you want.” You lean close so only he can hear you – hushed and quiet, an offer just for him – shifting some of your weight to rest along his stomach and propping yourself on your elbows on either side of him, caging him in. Sunday sighs, awestruck, the last remnants of his restraint beginning to crumble. His hands squeeze you, feel you, memorize you, and finally he finds his words.
“You.” he breathes, reverent. “I want you.”
There’s a desperation in the way he holds you, pulls you, wanting more of you – closer, closer – until the void within him sates. He leans up to try and connect your lips only to fall just short, hesitant and flighty despite the weight of such a confession. A fragmented breath brushes your skin, amber eyes trained on the plushness of your lips. You don’t give him the chance to second guess himself, closing the remaining distance before he can shy away once more. Your lips slant against his own, and Sunday nearly groans from the contact alone. You felt so soft, so much softer than he could’ve ever imagined. Warm and pliable, he presses into you for more, inhibitions snuffed like a flame. His wings flutter vainly for leverage, and he swears he feels you smile when you meet his eagerness. It makes his heart leap. The swipe of a tongue along the seam of his flesh makes him gasp, the unfamiliar feel of your tongue sending a thrill down his spine he enjoys perhaps a bit too much. His own welcomes you in with fervor, aching to explore – to taste and savor you in turn. You taste heavenly. Mellow and sweet with the tea you both shared. He wanted to drink it all, devour you whole, throat bobbing with the accumulation of saliva that wets both your lips. Sunday never partook in addictive substances, but Aeons, he was convinced you must be equivalent such a thing. To want, and want, and want something that felt so sinfully indulgent regardless of how it may ruin you.
The floodgates have opened and Sunday dares to seek more. Tentative fingers begin to trail themselves across your skin, venturing further than just the curve of your hips. You feel them slip beneath the hem of your sleep shirt, one touch trailing after the other. Unsure hands – guided along the bend of your spine – trace every arch until they could wrap around your midriff and pull your body flush against his. The added pressure has him preening, and you can practically feel the subtle tremble of satisfaction that runs through him. He likes you close. Wants to feel every part of you he can, and you repay the sentiment in kind. Your own fingers slot on either side of his neck, tucking beneath his wings, and cradling the underside of his jaw to guide him closer, and he sighs as if you were drawing the very air from his lungs.
“Comfortable?” You ask innocently enough, and despite the visible bob of his throat against your palms, he nods – a little too eager to please beneath you. He’d kiss you until he saw stars if he could, tilting forward in search of your lips despite the uneven breaths that left him. It’s you who has to lean back so he could catch his breath, and even then, his eyes don’t leave you. “I-Is it... your intent to go no further this?” He pants, a notch in his brow giving way to the hesitance in his words. The thought seems to trouble him. “Hmm? Would you like this to go further?” You can’t help but tease, if not to see the way his wings fluster and flutter, leaning back to drink in the sight of him. Soft panting contributes to the rise and fall of his chest against your palms, and if you pressed just a little bit, you could feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath. “Sunday…” The sound of his name from your lips is intoxicating. He squirms beneath you helplessly, hips stuttering and feathers fluttering over his lips as if they could hide the hot shame rising to his cheeks.
“Please…” he whispers, throat bobbing with a heavy swallow, “Don’t stop…”
bleh the block is hitting so bad I WANNA write or smth but I am feeling TERRIBLE today, massive headache, homework due, feeling dizzy and weak, not a clue why 🤷
bleh the block is hitting so bad I WANNA write or smth but I am feeling TERRIBLE today, massive headache, homework due, feeling dizzy and weak, not a clue why 🤷
sundayyyyy isnt he cute (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) im getting way more familiar with him now. i havent been cranking out digital sketches this often EVER. my savior <3 hehe ꒰ঌ(˶ˆᗜˆ˵)໒꒱ the last time i got obsessed w a character and drew them all the time it was viktor from arcane-- it was badddddddd my friends made fun of me ≽(◉˕ ◉ ≼マ
hes so sillyyyyyy (˶>⩊<˶) the cutest ever! i'm much much happier with this drawing than i was w/ the last one ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) i used 2 be really good at drawing wings but i just havent drawn them in 5eva so... yikes (｡ᵕ ◞ _◟) it'll come back 2 me in no time!
tags. mild angst, obsessive behavior (feather plucking or fidgeting), over preening due to stress, unintentional self-inflicted "bad behavior" ??? (it's still just the feathers), but the ending looks up ₍^. .^₎Ⳋ
summary. sunday is sad and stupid and can't talk to other people about his feelings which i relate to so i have a deep attachment to him. just kinda an imagine?? not a real fic. it just so happens to be exactly 555 words according to google docs word count so that's a funny coincidence
masterlist | read it on ao3
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note. sighhh hes very relatable. I wish Honkai SR was a different kind of game so details about stuff like sunday's wings would get the attention they deserve. Ugh! Now I wanna go on a tangent about how much Hoyo pisses me off...
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I think about touching Sunday’s wings a little bit too much… they’re such a pretty and delicate feature. They're probably not quite like most bird wings since they aren’t intended for flight– maybe they’re there for emotional expression and bonding. I’d also guess that taking care of them is something reserved for people close to them, like how you wouldn’t let just anybody play with or brush your hair for you, but obviously with a few differences… (˶•̀᎑-˶) I’m just really fascinated by Sunday’s wings...
On the angsty side of things, I wouldn’t find it hard to imagine Sunday over preening his wings while he’s the head of the Oak Family. He’s incredibly stressed out and has a lot of responsibility on him all while he’s unable to express or vent any of his negative feelings in a healthy way. He has very high expectations of himself and others also expect a lot from him, so who can he really turn to for help? Not to mention how uncomfortable it would be for him to expose his anxieties to another person– it would be impossible to know whether that knowledge would compromise his carefully curated image in their mind, or if his vulnerability would come back to haunt him politically.
Long nights spent with a pen in one hand and his other fidgeting with his feathers. Pinching near the quill and dragging his fingers down the vane of each feather. Mindlessly pulling and tugging for hours before noticing how achy his wings feel, and possibly discovering a headache blooming in his temples. Or when he finds time to sleep, he might be alone in his bedroom laying flat on his back. Staring at the ceiling when he feels this tense restlessness in his hands that tenses his shoulders and crawls up the back of his neck. And instead of resting early like he told himself he would, his hands reach up to check and feel for imperfections in his wings. By the time his hands begin to cramp, the clock on his night stand reads well past midnight and his pillow is littered with fluff. He does it constantly, in every private, idle moment, but never allows himself to tug at his feathers in public. It would be inappropriate, just like adjusting your clothes in public. Take care of everything before you’re even out the door.
I think a while after he joins the astral express, his wings would start looking more full and fluffy– not that his wings looked sparse before, but he would look much healthier all around. Though it might get worse before it gets better. Having to process losing everything you ever knew would just make the fidgeting and buzzing anxiety worse, even if he still puts on a composed front.
But when he’s finally more relaxed, able to let go of intrusive worries about things he can’t truly control, his feathers would look so soft and airy and light. Full plumage that fluffs up when he gets a little surprised, or excited– emotions he’s beginning to learn how to express properly.
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note. i started running out of steam at the end here but!!!! that's also cause couldn't get back to sleep after i woke up, and i spilled my glass of water on my tiny mattress so... i LITERALLY couldn't go back 2 sleep either... UGH i feel so restless today and idrk why. blehhh classes start back up 4 me this mondayyyy sigh, my life is so difficult. (¬`‸´¬) i also noticed SOME grammar errors but idgaf
i dont really feel like it looks like him but sighhhh whateverrrrrr i just wanted to crank something out to feed the brainrot .·°՞(っ-ᯅ-ς)՞°·.
note. also just bleh me whining but i ALWAYS second guess my art skills when posting on tumblr and stufffffff cause i see all these beautiful things on here + pinterest and then im just like "ew....." BUT ik the only way to get better is to keep going... if im honest ive had really bad digital art block (and traditional) and havent finished a piece in years. i want to but i just always get so sick of what im drawing and its kinda upsetting seeing a hobby i used to love just make me doubt myself
sunday.......... im really behind in honkai starrail so i'm in the middle of the penacony arc but i looooooooove sunday way more than i thought i would... hes rotting my brain rn
tags. suggestive themes, implied sub!char, strangers, unsafe conduct on motorcycles, not quite smut, fluff?
summary. your stupid ass can barely keep your hands to yourself-- when it comes to shiny motorcycles and cute guys
masterlist | read it on ao3
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note. this is an old work from 2023 that i never published, and i decided to let it see the light of day after editing a few dated and uber cringe lines.......
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You were on a walk in the dark. Insomnia had been clawing at your mind all night, rendering you unable to sleep. You felt restless in your bed so you decided to spend that pesky energy on a quick stroll. Just down a mile or so down, passing the local park, a school, a few bars, the works. You saw your regular gas station, the one near the end of your route but something was different tonight. Something caught your eye. A motorcycle in the gas station parking lot.
You couldn’t help but approach the beauty.
It was so tempting to brush your fingers against the cool metal frame, or the textured handle bars. You managed to restrain yourself though. There was something fastened to the back of the seat, maybe spare gear? Why was this person at the edge of town? Were they hot? You were guessing that the owner of the bike was inside the minimart attached to the gas pump, and then tried to look for someone with a helmet inside the store. No luck.
Your mind didn’t linger on the person who owned the bike for long, opting instead to bring your attention back to the motorcycle itself. The black fuel tank shone with the reflection of cold lights illuminating the pavement. More lights reflected off the aluminum fenders, and good god the leather seat looked so smooth and high quality. You made your way around the bike and marveled at the curves and angles it had. Then you heard a voice behind you speak.
“Have you ever been on one before?” it asked. The voice startled you, and you whipped around to check what the voice looked like. It looked like a man, dressed completely in protective riding gear, face obscured by a polarized visor on his black helmet. Shit. When he saw your mortified expression he chuckled.
“Ah, no,” you say quickly, a hand clutching at your jacket collar in an effort to calm your suddenly racing heart. It doesn’t do anything other than make you look like a horrified grandmother, but it's a knee-jerk reaction at this point. You bury your face in your hand, mumbling out an apology. It definitely didn't help that you had a thing for… protective gear. You could just about die of embarrassment right then and there.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” The man laughed, taking off the face-covering. He quickly shook his short dark blonde hair out of his eyes, and you saw an amused smile playing on his lips. “But really? Never?” he questioned. Helmet in one hand as he tilted his head in confusion. “Are you just a fan of bikes then?” He asked. He definitely saw you ogling his bike, which just made your face burn more.
“Uh… you could say that,” You laughed awkwardly, “And no, I’ve been too intimidated to get on one before,” you confess, shifting your weight.
A spark of intrigue flashed in his grey-blue eyes. He set his helmet on the seat and leaned against his bike. “I could change that,” he offers boldly. If he was being honest he sort of liked the flustered expression you wore when he spoke.
The proposal was… tempting. But this was a complete stranger! Who you met in the middle of the night. At a gas station. You didn’t even know his name. Then again… this wasn't the sort of opportunity that just falls into someone’s lap often. And this was something you’ve been aching to do since your teen years.
He could see indecisiveness swirling behind your eyes. “Sorry, no pressure, you can totally say no,” he backpedals. He could see that it was a presumptuous ask and was beginning to feel embarrassed about his forwardness.
You snap out of it and look up at him, your eyes locked with his. You chew on your thoughts before giving in. You do only live once…
“I’d like that,” you decide. Hopefully, he doesn't wind up being a murderer.
He smiled, relieved. “Sounds good. I’m Leon, by the way,” he extends one of his gloved hands to you and you gingerly shake it, introducing yourself as well. The rough texture of his glove is an exhilarating feeling.
You both get to know each other a little bit, and you learn he’s not from the area, and staying in a hotel a few miles away. Leon had gone on a late-night ride to clear his head, and he stopped by the gas station to refuel. That’s when he noticed you staring at his bike in complete awe.
While you’re talking he removes the gas pump and then unfastens something hanging off the edge of the seat, revealing it to be an extra helmet. “I never really travel without extra gear,” he explains, whether it’s for an impromptu pillion passenger or because he damaged his other helmet.
Leon also hands you a pair of disposable earplugs before he shows you how to put the helmet on correctly, and points to a gear-like button on the side. He explains that it’s got an internal microphone so you can hear people while on the road. You were familiar with the idea but seeing it in the flesh was so much cooler than researching it online.
You carefully slide the helmet onto your head, taken aback by the heaviness. His voice crackles through the speaker, “You ready?” he asks. It catches you by surprise, but you take a deep breath and nod at him.
“Mhm.”
He smiles under the helmet before flicking down his visor. Leon swings his right leg over the bike and takes down the kickstand, all with a remarkable amount of grace, balancing the machine on his own before he gestures from you to... something on the back of his bike.
Leon's voice is low and staticky when he speaks again. “You see those foot pegs behind mine?” he demonstrates where they are, “Put your left foot on that, and your left hand on my shoulder. Then just copy how I swung over and put your other foot on the other peg,” he instructs. “Got it?”
His visor doesn't allow you to see his face, but he looks back, waiting for you. You swallow, and place your hand on his left shoulder. The blueish leather jacket he wore had a nice feel to it. You then gingerly place your foot on the peg, and swing yourself over. You aren’t nearly as graceful as Leon. You can tell by the way the bike's balance is thrown off slightly, but he stabilizes it with ease. You caught yourself on his other shoulder before you found the right foot peg.
You were on a goddamn motorcycle.
“Alright, you’re gonna have to get a little up close and personal in a second. I don't have grab handles on this ride,” Leon chuckles, and gosh, his voice sounds so close to your ear because of the speaker.
“What do you need me to do?” You ask him, adjusting slightly on the pillion seat. The engine hums in the background.
He takes your hands from his shoulders and rests them on his sides. “You can hold onto me like this,” he tells you. “Or…,” then he starts to slide your grip a little further around his waist. Having your arms wrap around him. “Like this.” His voice sounds slightly playful through the mic. Maybe he even sounded a little… flirty?
You blink back to reality when Leon clears his throat.
The short lived confidence is gone from his voice. “Try to stay centered while we ride, yeah? And when we turn, lean your head over my inside shoulder,” he says, hands back on the handlebars. “You ready?”
When you give him the go-ahead, the bike speeds off towards the empty road. The acceleration startles you and your hands tighten around his waist, pressing your front firmly to his back. You can feel a small laugh buzzing through his chest into yours.
Leon felt in his element, the wind rushing past him while the bike hummed underneath him. The sensation of someone wrapping their arms around his waist was new, but certainly not unwelcome. He did his best to keep his face neutral despite your inability to see his expression. He was also making sure to go at a controlled pace, an even 30 miles per hour.
You could feel the wind biting at slivers of your exposed skin, but the wind chill was nothing compared to the warmth from being pressed so close to him. It was seeping into you through his jacket and your shirt.
You aren’t the first passenger he’s had on his bike, but you're certainly the first that's made him feel so… flustered. He could feel your heartbeat and uneven breaths against his back, and if he was honest? It made him blush.
The two of you drove in silence for a while, you getting used to the feeling of being on a moving bike, and Leon making sure the ride went smoothly and without issue. Eventually you broke the silence.
“So, what is it that brought you around town?” you ask him. You feel the need to fidget with your hands, but resist due to the fact they were resting on his front. You didn’t really want him to think you were trying to feel him up out of nowhere.
“Business trip,” he answers vaguely. His back presses into you slightly, and the feeling is comfortable.
You take his shifting as a go ahead for you to adjust your hold on him. “What kind of business?” you ask.
You feel and hear him hum, thinking about his answer carefully. Debating what to say before he says it. “Government stuff,” he settles on obtusely. “I’m just here for some meetings to be honest.”
“Government?” you quip. “You’re not like a politician are you?” It’s a half joke, half question. He doesn't seem the type but you never know.
He laughs, and it sounds amazing. Even through the speaker. “No, no, not a politician.” His muscles seem to relax slightly. You hadn’t noticed he was tense. “...I have one of those jobs they don't really let me talk about.” He sighs heavily.
You don’t know exactly how to respond so you just tighten your arms around him and lean your head against his shoulder. “I see.”
“Does that… bother you?” he asks hesitantly. The mic barely picks up his voice so it’s difficult to hear, and his shoulders shift uncomfortably. He sounds nervous.
You pick your head back up and glance at his visor-obscured face through the rear view. He seemed to have some anxiety surrounding whatever his career was. But you didn’t feel like it was your place to ask why, or judge what he did for work.
“I don’t see why it should,” you murmur. You take a deep breath and Leon almost wishes he could feel it on the back of his neck. He can feel himself getting a little distracted from the road and snaps his attention back to the tree-lined streets.
He’s glad you don’t press further, and he relaxes once more. There’s a short awkward silence between you two, only filled by the engine and the faint sound of the wind. You definitely understand why Leon wore earplugs while riding.
While you were musing to yourself in the back, Leon was debating whether to make a move. Nothing crazy since he was still driving… but maybe something small? He worked up the courage to bring a hand from the handlebars to your right knee. He could still steer with one hand, and the route was clear.
The contact brings you out of your thoughts and you suppress a smile behind your visor. His nervousness from the touch is palpable. You decide to reciprocate, hands trailing up from his waist to press against his chest. His heart is racing and his breath hitches, making his chest shudder in a way that demands your attention.
“I like your laugh, by the way,” you hum to him.
His eyes flicked to the rear view, watching your fingers trail over his zipped up jacket. He noticed your fingernails were painted black. His eyes flicked back to the road. He could feel his cheeks burning.
“Thanks…,” he trails off. He knows you can feel the way his whole body is heating up, and the way his heart is pounding in his chest. He's never been more thankful for a smooth and clear road. Neither of you have seen a car pass in the last ten minutes.
A few less-than-decent thoughts crossed through his mind. Maybe imagining your hands slipping into his jacket, or onto his thighs… but he tried to shake them off as best he could. Trying to shake the feeling of his blood surging through his veins. He felt hesitant to enjoy this, but he couldn’t deny he was interested in you. He wouldn’t have offered you the ride if he didn’t want to get to know you. He just didn't know… what kind of knowing you he wanted.
You liked the way he was reacting, it was cute. But you also didn't want to cross any lines, especially since you two were practically strangers. So you spoke. “If you’re uncomfortable I can stop,” you say, your voice on the quieter side.
Leon’s back straightened and his attention jerked towards your words. “No! Sorry,” he scrambled for words. Gosh he was flustered. He tries to relax back into his previous position. “I’m not… I don't want you to stop.” He swallows thickly. Very embarrassed.
His response was eyebrow raising. But it also made a smile creep its way across your face. If you didn’t have a helmet on you’d probably start pressing slow kisses down his neck, but alas. That wasn’t an option.
So you did the next best thing.
His answer made you feel more bold. So bold, in fact, that your skillful fingers had meandered to the zipper on his blue jacket. You pulled on the metal tab enough for him to feel it. When he didn’t stop you, you unzipped it all the way and slipped your hands across his abdomen.
When he felt you fidget with the hem of his shirt his interest was piqued, and when you pressed your palms to his skin beneath the soft fabric his breath halted. You could feel his muscles flex before he forced himself to inhale. His skin was soft and warm, and your hands reached just under his chest before trailing back downwards.
You decided to trail your fingers from his stomach, to his hips, and down to brush his thighs. You relished his responses. A shift in his seat, faltering breaths, you felt his muscles twitch again when you touched his thigh. You decided to keep your hand at a safe distance, not too close to this inner thigh, nor too high up. But you wanted to get closer. So badly.
“Do you want me to keep going?” You murmur. The staticky words made his heart skip a beat.
He wanted so badly to say yes, to let you keep going. He was enjoying your hands wandering along his body a bit too much. However, he also really enjoyed not crashing his bike.
“I—I don’t know,” he stammered, “Were still driving and—”
“Do you wanna pull over?”
The question surprised both of you. Leon’s eyes went wide behind the visor and the bike lurched slightly, but he corrected it quickly. There was no answer for a few moments and you wondered if the suggestion was too bold. Before you could apologize though he let out an unsteady breath.
“Yes please,” he murmured shakily.
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note. LMAO yeah i remember giving up when i reached the actual smut cause like??? where do i even go from here.
I imagined it starting as a reach-around handjob but i didnt really have any ideas after that and like how awkward would it be jacking a guy off and then youre just...... there. on the freeway or some crap. i got really in my head about logistics
UGH i just was looking through my google docs on my fanfiction email and was HORRIFIED when i found this, but hey what the hell i'll post it. maybe its somebodys cup of tea. the doc wasnt even titled appropriately so i didnt know WHO this fic was about until i scrolled in search for a name. all i remembered was motorcycle..leon..sex
