Sivisek524

23 | I draw stuff,,, sometimes| ANTI-AI

[sivisek524]

i miss my cat, she would have loved nights like these. But she's not here anymore, my best friend in the whole wide world has died and I haven't been whole or same since and it's been months

[riricatria]

Greetings, greetings~

Funny that we have two Astral Express men in a row, the plots intertwine a tiny bit if you think about it. If it's the pre-AE Sunny profile you're looking for, that can be found here! Anyways COME GET YOUR FOOD SUNNY NATION RRRAAAAAAA (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:☀️･ﾟ✧☀️ ･: *ヽ(◕ヮ◕ヽ)

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CONTENT WARNINGS INCLUDE: Dark content (dead dove), cisfem!Reader, the general stuff that comes with yandere content (imprisonment, obsessiveness, possessiveness...), manipulation, mind control, forced non-schhhexual touching, (very) minor injury to reader, the AE gang is naturally there and enabling him, Dan Heng's character is quite prominently present and talked about (in a potentially romantic context), NONCON, penetration, kithhing, fingering, oral in the reader's direction, mind control, sensory deprivation, periods in a non-sexual context, (mildish) toys, mildish overstimulation, and some religious undertones due to his character. ⋆ Around 31,5k words. Minors, do not interact. ⋆ Genre: Fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, humble and honest horny content

Disclaimers can be found in my pinned post. The template is heavily inspired by @/cinnamonest!

S-FW

˗ˏˋ ★ 1. General look: How are they like? How do they behave around the darling? Are there any warning signs?

Oh, if you aren’t the most endearing thing he has ever seen. 

Sunday brings his hand to cover the lower half of his face. It’s an instinctual reaction more than anything, meant to conceal his expression even though he already habitually stifles the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. 

Having just entered the Parlor Car from the Party Car’s side, the door behind him clicks shut and reveals his presence with the noise. He thought he heard some commotion from the other van over, and as he takes in the view, he finds that he was correct about the matter. With his Halovian wings tensing up, he takes in the sight of you on your hands and knees on the floor next to one of the wine red armchairs that has now fallen over. Right beside you, March, with her mouth open and eyes wide, stands with her arms outstretched towards you as if attempting to catch you. Judging from how the scene has played out, she wasn’t very successful in the endeavour: With the way your foot is still lodged against one of the chair’s legs, combined with the alarmed look on your features, it isn’t hard to deduce what has gone down mere moments prior. 

Your gaze flicks from your leg to the chair, then to March, and finally to him, and only then do you start apologizing. ”I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to!” you babble and proceed to scramble yourself back onto your feet, only to have to bend over immediately, hissing out in apparent pain. With your teeth clenched together in a grimace, you reach down to peel up your pant leg to find that there’s an angry red abrasion over your patella. 

March is by your side in a split second, already flapping her hands all around you, going in to check the wound like it was a public exhibition. She mirrors your expression, pinching her lips together as you share a troubled glance with each other. For a while, it appears as if neither of you are paying any attention to him at all, but after you have smoothed your clothes back in place and lifted the chair back into standing position, you clear your throat and finally turn towards him. 

You introduce yourself in a slightly awkward manner. It’s endearing, almost; how you’re visibly chewing on the inside of your lower lip before once more apologizing for the disturbance with a tiny, nervous stutter in your voice. 

Ah, Mr. Yang did mention that someone would be boarding the Express for a short trip. 

You’re not quite what he expected. The fashion you carry yourself in and the way you dress don’t exactly scream interastral traveller to him. It’s not to say that you couldn’t be one — in his position, he couldn’t afford to ever pass that sort of judgment on anyone — but he has always been a bit of a critical person and would be lying if he said that his first impression of you isn’t a little on the… less capable side. 

But, you also happen to be incredibly lovely-looking to his eye — it’s something he can’t simply bypass. While he’s no stranger to attractive people — he saw his fair share of beauties from all over the star system when he was still the Oak Family head — there’s just an immediately noticeable, charming quality about you that has a little warmth creeping down the shells of his ears. He has to avert his gaze for a hot minute.

The seconds tick by as he processes his own reactions, and he waits one too long in silence before snapping back to reality and responding to your initiative. As politely as ever, he rests his hand over his chest, introduces himself to you with formal terms, and even attempts to give you a little smile to top.

He notices immediately after that the exchange must have appeared terribly contrived on his side. However, he ends up deeming the interaction a success when you answer him with a beam and a nod just as March jumps in and starts gushing about him to you, proceeding to praise his reliability and intellect to the heavens and back to you. 

He can’t help the way his wings flap a few times in a jittery manner as he listens to how the girl blabbers on and on, saying “Sunday is this and that”, all the while you follow her words with interest and what he wants to believe to be a gleam of admiration in your gaze. He hardly registers the fluttering feeling in his stomach. 

However, he doesn’t get to appreciate the sight of you for too long as the door behind him clicks open once more. He looks over his shoulder to see that Dan Heng has made his way into the Parlor Car.

Quirking his brow, the man scans over the room before inquiring about the ruckus. As always, it is March who perks up and explains to him what went down just moments prior. Clearly resisting the urge to go on a tangent or two, she manages to introduce you and point out the injury in one, long sentence. You simply nod along, letting the girl lead the tale and only butting in to once more apologize for the commotion. 

Sunday can almost see the gears turning in Dan Heng’s head as it takes a moment for the man to grasp the situation. However, as Dan Heng then briefly turns his attention to him, and the two men share a glance, Sunday can’t help but take note of a strange glint in his eyes. 

It’s not something he’s used to seeing: His companion is on the more stoic end of the personality spectrum — that much he has learned during his time with the Nameless — but he doesn’t have to wonder about the look’s meaning for longer than a few seconds as Dan Heng then decides to take the reins over the situation. 

”Let me see that”, Dan Heng briefly rests his hand on the stairs’ railing before making his way down and over to you. Though your eyes widen and you appear a little taken aback by the sudden suggestion, you quickly regain your composure and sit down on the chair you tripped over just moments ago. Silently, you allow the man to then kneel down before you and carefully roll the leg of your trousers all the way up to the end of your thigh. With one of his hands holding your calf, he inspects the raw mark on your knee, brushing his thumb over the side of the abrasion as March watches by his side. 

Then, after what feels like forever in Sunday’s books, Dan Heng finally stands up and tells you that he’s going to get some disinfectant and a bandage for the wound. You blink a few times before thanking the guy, and Sunday’s gaze fixates on your face just in time to catch the way you stifle an eminently giddy grin.  

He feels a twinge in his stomach. It takes him a moment to understand what the sensation stems from, but as he brushes shoulders with Dan Heng when he once more passes him by, it’s not difficult for him to name the emotion blooming in his chest. 

The sensation makes him uncomfortable. It’s red-hot and ice-cold all at the same time, spreading from his guts to the tips of his fingers, urging him to ball his hands into fists. He wants to look at you, to look at him, to shield his vision from the view entirely; to forget it ever happened, to remember every single detail. 

Nevertheless, he simply settles for taking a deep, elongated breath through his nose. He feels the air flow into his lungs, raising his chest before streaming out in a slow, steady exhale. Next, just as he has always done, he forces the unwanted feeling back into the small box where he keeps such notions, sealing the lid with a single sigh and a swallow. Briefly excusing himself, he decides to leave the room before Dan Heng comes back. 

He falls quickly, is what happens, essentially. He isn’t typically the sort to be swayed by his own impulses, much less romantic ones, but having grown past his former, much more rigid self, he’s able to admit to himself immediately that he has developed a flash crush, so to speak: He finds you bewitching, and not only is it about your looks but the way you move, speak, interact — within seconds, you have occupied his entire mindspace. At first, he wants to think it to be but an innocent fancy, the sort that simmers down after a day or two of actually getting to know you, yet as he comes to fear after the realization, the affection towards you ends up blooming much more rapidly than anything he has ever felt before. 

You are to share a room with March, is the plan for the next eight weeks or so. It’s not ideal for either participant, but due to the Express’ room situation being a little dire, it’s the best solution you could come up with. However, from what he has understood, you’re more than okay with the arrangement, and so is March: She gushes over the potential two-month sleepover like a kid, and after she has spread out a mattress for you and you have successfully settled into the train, you appear to be in high spirits about the voyage ahead. He lingers in the background and watches you as you gaze through the window and wave at the shrinking silhouette of your planet of origin with a wistfully twinkling smile on your features. 

He isn’t quite certain about your destination — it’s a small planet a few systems away of which he has only heard in passing — but nonetheless, as much as he wouldn’t like to admit to doing it, he literally counts the amount of hours he’s going to get to spend with you. He’s a bit abashed by even having the notion pop in his head: He doesn’t even actually know you yet, yet the impact you have left on him feels like it’s going to have his guts twisting right out of his abdomen. 

For perhaps the first time since the incident, he feels the creeping helplessness in the face of his own emotions tapping at his resolve. Still, as he has done countless times before, he reasons his way out of the difficult thoughts and adjures himself not to get ahead of his manners. At this point in time, the idea of his infatuation eventually growing into what it ends up as doesn’t even cross his mind. 

However, that changes in a mere week and a half after you have begun your short journey amongst the stars. Integrating into the Astral Express’ lifestyle doesn’t take you too long, and as a side effect of sharing the same living space, you get a little more familiar with the rest of the train’s inhabitants — including him. You greet him in the hallways, sit next to him when the crew has dinner together, inquire about him and his past. Although it doesn’t require much, you end up being the more talkative party between the two of you, and while he enjoys that, he has to put conscious effort into listening to what you’re saying due to being bombarded with you. You’re sitting a little too close to him — closer than he would allow anyone else to linger, anyway — and he’s free to observe every little detail of your being without any rush. The shape of your jaw, the colour of your eyes, the curving of your mouth when you sound consonants. If he had the time, he would happily take a while to count each individual lash on your eyes. 

He sees the vivid image of you in his head when he goes to sleep on the Parlor Car’s couches at night: He could probably recite the exact coordinates of that one tiny mole on the side of your face or draw the form of your nose from memory even if he was woken up in the middle of his rest to do so. 

So he continues to spiral, yet he entertains you regardless. Though he normally prefers to remain on a strictly polite level with new acquaintances, he responds to your questions. He tells you all sorts of things about himself, what he likes to do, about his unnamed sister whom he adores oh-so much, about the cheerless history of his family. You take all the information in with the sort of attentive curiosity that makes him want to share more and more, and so he does. 

You begin occupying a larger and larger space in his thoughts. He has always been the type that has found solace in spending time only with what his mind has to offer him, but now, it feels like he has company even when alone. He has a fairly creative soul (albeit he doesn’t often get to utilize it), and it’s simply in his nature to wallow in his daydreams every now and then, but when he catches himself having woven scenarios of you in various romantic-idyllic situations with him for the past fifteen minutes, he has to acknowledge the fact that something is definitely bubbling beneath the surface. 

At first, the realization puts him in an uneasy state. The so-called panic mode he gets himself into isn’t nearly as volatile as it could be for he has vast amounts of experience in sorting through his emotions, but he suddenly finds himself with a certain harrowing feeling. It’s difficult for him to put into words, but it’s the same sort of tight anxiety he recalls having when he wasn’t able to achieve sheer perfection in his past duties, or when he couldn’t be there for Robin when she was having a hard patch in her profession. Ultimately, it boils down to the idea of not doing enough, of nothing being enough — one that he has had to suffer through for more times than he can count — only this time, he isn’t sure if the disquiet will pass. 

The days go by. By now, you’ve been with the Express for little over a month. You’ve long since gotten accustomed to every habit of the rest of the crew, he has noted, and if he were an outsider himself, he wouldn’t be able to tell you apart from a regular member of the train. In the time he has spent with you, he has gotten to know you on a deeper level than any of his peers: He remembers all your family members’ names, your hobbies, your favourite colour, food, animal, all of it. Committing details about you to memory has become a nearly compulsive habit for him, and soon enough, he recognizes that the time of day he looks forward to overwhelmingly the most is when he can have a chat with you. The more time he spends with you, the more time he wants to spend with you. 

No matter how hard he tries to keep his notions to himself, he can tell that his companions aren’t completely oblivious to what’s going on. He gets weird, suggestive looks from the Trailblazer, and he has once overheard March ask you about “what the two of you are to each other”. You and him happen to share a dishwashing shift suspiciously often, too. Although he would’ve liked to keep anyone from interfering with his relatively obvious pursuit of getting closer to you, he can’t deny that the meddling has proven to be beneficial to his aim. 

But there’s another person you get to know better, too. March is someone you obviously spend quite a lot of time with — he understands the appeal of mingling with one’s own gender — but Dan Heng. 

At first, he thinks he’s just overly sensitive towards seeing you with who he subconsciously considers a rival, but as days pass by, a dreadful idea settles itself in his mind. He tries hard not to let it get to him, but the more he looks, the more alarming signs he finds: He thinks he sees a tinge of blush on your cheeks while you talk to the guy, you tend to twirl your hair while he’s around, and you always have this dreamy sort of a smile on your face after he has kept you company. 

It’s at this point where the chasm’s bottom begins to gain depth. The sensation is unbearable, almost: He knows that the hopes he has built for himself are of his own doing, and that there’s nobody else whom he can blame, but it still hurts all the same. He’s not even sure if what he’s seeing is real: For all he knows, he could be painting his own walls black, yet in the state he has spiralled to, he would be none the wiser. Nevertheless, the strings in his heart grow tauter and tauter. 

The perceived threat adds to the haste, whether he wants to admit it or not. For the first time in his life, though he still partially holds onto the same principles he did when he was the Oak Family head, he finds a singular question growing in his mind. 

What about him? He knows, envy is ugly, one shouldn’t desire what isn’t rightfully theirs, but what about Dan Heng is better than him? 

He holds two entirely contradictory world views at the same time: He’s not much, he might not be nothing at all, but still, he’s patient, he’s diligent, he’s kind, he’s meticulous, he’s a good listener… Sure, Dan Heng is an awful lot of things, too, and in his rational mind, he can see that very clearly. Gentle, calm, dependable, benevolent… He doesn’t hold any ill feelings towards the man — the complete contrary, even — but it has always been difficult for him not to compare. 

Moreover, he wants to be morally just, he tries not to think inflexibly, but in the end, those very qualities end up being the basis of his deviant sentiments. It’s simultaneously the notion of “I am evil, I am fundamentally evil and beyond repair” and the budding idea that “this, this is the only evil thing I’ll ever do in this lifetime. His brain feels like it’s twisting in on itself. 

And the time. With each day that passes, he knows he’s running out of time to coax you to him. Though, even calling what he’s doing as ”coaxing” leaves a sour taste in his mouth: Referring to his subtler than subtle attempts at courting you as trying to actually woo you has him cringing, yet the more he thinks about it, the clearer the truth becomes. He’s lucid enough to understand early on that he has somehow grown an obsession for a person that he only met a mere few weeks ago, and that if he can’t ensure the fact that you’re going to remain by his side, he knows that the hole in his chest is going to remain unfillable for what might be the rest of his life. 

He feels utterly and truly caged, much like that little Charmony Dove him and Robin found in their adoptive home, and as the circumstances are as they are, his desperation reaches its zenith. Eventually, after recalling the bird’s plight with nothing but bitterness, the only option he’s is not trying to flee the cage anymore but locking you into the cage with him. 

The warning signs are all there, and if you were the sort of a person who takes zero risks, the only obstacle in between you and altering the course of your less-than-preferable fate is the fact that you’re locked in space with him, but if you were to request it early enough, the Express could drop you off at a different destination. If you were to pick up on his unusual behaviour without delay, you could pack your bags and make it out, and you wouldn’t ever have to fear for him coming for you ever again, but if you only grasp the situation when the rest of the crew starts acting strange, you’re already too late. 

˗ˏˋ ★ 2. Securing: How will they abduct their darling? When, where and how?

Sunday doesn’t know whether you’re just that oblivious or if you’re playing a reverse version of his game and trying to save his feelings by acting like you don’t recognize his affection towards you, but either way, no matter how he tries not to have his thoughts steer in that direction, he starts considering the possibility. Not in any serious manner, but rather just wondering what would happen, realistically speaking. He could abduct-, no, the Express could-... Ah, but the Express would never aid him in such a task, of course. But, if the Express did, he would abduct you, and you would stay with him, and you would be-... You would be crying. You would be crying a lot, is what you would be doing, to be precise, but you would stay with him, and... maybe he could try to make you happy regardless, and…

His thoughts are so loud in his head. He can barely recall how he felt for the first weeks after meeting you: The sheer, warm sense of belonging and the innocent wish to have more, but now, all he can think is what if. He can’t focus on you anymore — the only thing filling his mind is the crawling dread of either having to let go of you or commit one of the most heinous crimes against the universe’s order. To do that to another person, to divest you of your freedom and happiness, is something so incomprehensibly cruel that he wonders why Xipe hasn’t yet shot him down from the Heavens. 

Yet, no matter how he tries to curb his thoughts, how much effort he puts into keeping his head straight, the image of you no longer looks the same. The shape of your jaw distorts to the curved bars of an aviary, the hue of your eyes darkens into a murky, pitless black, and the words coming out of your mouth morph into take me, have me, love me. He still chases the feeling he used to experience, he wants to look at you and sense the utter contentment he did when he first saw you, yet now, all he can feel is a sickening mix of overwhelming trepidation and raw, unfiltered obsession. 

The wheels finally set in motion when he gets an iota too careless with his behaviour. The more he daydreams about the chance of you not leaving — him not allowing you to leave — the more his meticulously constructed façade falters. The tightness in his jaw, the unusual tenseness with which he clutches the book on his waist, and the way his brows flatten whenever you walk by are all signs that someone with enough acuity regarding the matter would notice. Namely, Welt catches on to what’s going on. 

Sunday swears he nearly takes a premature trip to see the light at the end of the tunnel when Mr. Yang asks him to have a chat with him in private one day. The two sit down at the Party Car, Welt gets him a glass of water, and a silence which seems to last a millennium for both of them ensues. The man whom Sunday has never seen show any signs of strain now nervously bounces his foot and gazes at the grains on the wooden table, patiently waiting for Sunday to take a few sips of the drink which he frankly seems to more or less be choking on. Yet, right when Sunday thinks that his rapidly hammering heart is about to give out if the pressure persists any longer, the quiet is broken. 

”I understand how you feel”, are the words that come out of Welt’s mouth, and like cord had been cut, the tension in the room loosens in an instant. At first, Sunday doesn’t think he heard the man correctly, but as the floodgates suddenly open and Welt starts spilling out a lengthy story about his past, there isn’t much room for misunderstanding. Frankly speaking, Sunday isn’t even in a state of mind to internalize half of what the tale tells — something about someone who he fell madly in love with and who nearly drove him past insanity because of it — but the message still makes it through. 

”If you wish, we can arrange something”, Welt tells Sunday. 

And Sunday crumbles right then and there. He lets out each and every single thing he has been holding inside him ever since he laid his eyes on your form, and Welt listens intently. It’s the twisted sort of man-on-man talk: Though both of them still remain their composed selves, it’s plain that the nature of the interaction has shifted from a simple venting session to something that should never even have seen daylight. 

They talk and talk, the minutes stretch into an hour, two, and in that time, the base frame of it all has been figured out. Sunday goes to bed that night with the weight in his chest simultaneously as heavy as lead and lighter than ever. 

If there’s one thing he has always been good at, it’s lying to himself. Or, rather, it can’t even be called conscious deluding if he at one point begins to think of the matter as the truth. While he’s much too lucid to claim that abducting you would be an inherently good thing, he quickly forms a definite, simple pattern of thoughts that he starts consciously affirming. 

It’s not morally correct, you won’t be happy about it, BUT with the Express, you’ll be safer, he’s going to treat you impeccably, you’ll have all you need and won’t have to fear for basically anything, and thus, it is actually good for you. He plants the sequence in his brain, and each time a stab of guilt pricks his chest, he goes through the same process of reasoning, and in that manner, establishes the justification for his deranged logic. And, after such ratiocination has been formed, he’s able to move on to the next step that ends up being the final nail in your coffin. 

It’s the point where the plan blossoms to be. Considering the circumstances, it’s clear that the abduction doesn’t have to be a flashy one. After all, you’re already where you ”need” to be: As long as you never make it out of the Express, the undertaking is as good as carried through. Moreover, by the point in time when he finally makes up his mind, it’s only a few days before your planned departure, so the only thing he essentially has to do is prevent you from ever getting to step out. 

The preparations are taken care of quickly, but the knowledge of what is about to take place stays in between him and Welt only. In an ideal situation, the matter would be shared, but in a mutual agreement, the two decide not to let even Himeko know before the event has already gone down. March and the Trailblazer are obviously ones who shouldn’t be let in on the scheme, and Dan Heng is someone who Sunday fears might purposefully foil the arrangement if on track about it, but Himeko could as well swing towards either extreme. That being the case, it’s ultimately settled that only the two need to know about your planned abduction until it has already gone down. As they say, it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission. 

And, you, of course, will remain completely oblivious to his intentions until your very last moment of normalcy on the train. If there’s something he has always excelled at, it’s acting natural even under excruciating stress, and that’s precisely what he does for the last stretch of your planned stay. He talks to you like usual, entertains your questions, watches as you go about your day with no care in the world. Though, he can physically feel his stomach sink every time you bring up the topic of how you ”miss your family and your friends and how you can’t wait to meet them” after which you gush about how ”everyone has been so nice to you and you couldn’t thank the crew enough for being so welcoming”. At that point, he truly can’t help but wonder if this is what it means to jinx oneself, but despite how the guilt is just about to grow as deep as the giddiness of soon getting to have you all to himself, he keeps his cool. 

Until the zero hour strikes, that is. 

It’s the very last morning of your time on the train. Not only are you in high spirits, but the rest of the crew, similarly completely and blissfully unaware of what’s going to happen in a mere few hours, is helping you prepare for your egress. Sunday watches from the sidelines as March is helping you fix something with your hair while Dan Heng neatly stacks your luggage next to the exit. Himeko, having finally been released from the navigator’s duties for a little while, lingers by one of the tables. The Express isn’t docked yet, but the stirring anticipation of soon getting to step foot on your homeland emanates off of your form like rays of sunshine. The atmosphere seems to be enlivening everyone, save for him, for the only thing he wishes to do is take shade from all the gaiety around him. The tips of his fingers are icy cold, his mouth is dry, his entire body is awaiting for the moment which will shortly come to pass in the blink of an eye.

He watches you gaze out of the Parlor Car’s wide windows at the now nearing silhouette of a planet in the distance as March fiddles with your locks. You have a certain sort of a hopeful glint in your eye that he couldn’t ever have imagined a few days ago that he’s soon going to take away. 

The Express grows nearer and nearer to its planned destination. However, if one were to look closely, they would notice that the train’s course is a tiny bit off-centre when compared to the circular shape ahead. 

Welt gave him the liberty of pulling out at any moment if he suddenly found that he couldn’t go through with what he planned. Yet, as things are going now, though his very soul feels like it’s about to rip open, he doesn’t reach for his phone in his pocket. 

He shifts his attention to Himeko. It’s subtle, but he can tell from the woman’s expression that she has noticed the odd alteration in the train’s direction. Nearly identically as Welt predicted for her to, she promptly excuses herself into the other car over, most likely towards the locomotive’s cockpit. Dan Heng, catching on to the abrupt, uneasy energy in the room, sends a glance in your direction, then at Sunday’s. Both participants of the silent interaction are lucky that Dan Heng isn’t capable of reading others’ thoughts, for if he were, Sunday doesn’t think either of them would be the same after. 

Your home planet has now grown so close that one wouldn’t need a keen eye to find that the Express isn’t heading towards what it was originally supposed to. You seem to slowly grow aware of the same fact: Your brows furrow, and though he can’t quite hear you from where he’s standing, he can read the ”is that supposed to happen” off of your lips as you turn towards March. 

The round edges of the planet now entirely fill the view visible through the window — or would, if the train’s route wasn’t being led right past. Your unease is nearly palpable by this point, and the lustrous ebullience you emitted mere minutes ago has now been replaced by a chilling sense of foreboding. However, still managing to curb the soon-to-ensue chaos, March attempts to reassure you, saying that ”it’s unusual but it’s probably nothing to worry about” in response to your question. Convenient, he thinks to himself, albeit the naivety in the girl’s words twinges on his conscience. 

Dan Heng, growing equally concerned about the matter, makes his way to you to see the spectacle better. With an equally concerned expression, he glances at the door in the cockpit’s direction. Sunday watches him without a single trace of restlessness on his features.

If he wanted to back out, the last moment for it would be now. Yet, somehow, at that very second, any and all hesitation in him dissipates for good. 

He slowly walks over to where you and March have your attention glued to the view. He hardly pays mind to how his hand subconsciously reaches to hold the book on his waist as he joins the audience to witness the success of the abduction plan with his target right by his side. 

Together, all four of you watch as the Express flies right past your home planet. 

Your eyes are as wide as saucers and your mouth agape when you first whisk your face towards March, then Dan Heng, then finally him. Of course, you’re completely oblivious to the fact that he is the culprit behind the unfolding scene, yet be that as it may, you happen to ask a very fitting question nonetheless: ”Why?”

As expected, the one to finally let the torrent loose is March. However, just as he hears the telltale inhale that entails a loud inquiry or two, her jaw latches back shut as the power of his tuning takes over her mind in a split second. In a similar manner, right before you’re able to get a word out, a vibrant aura appears at the edges of your vision, and whatever thoughts you may have been holding dissipate into thin air. 

And, finally, he turns towards Dan Heng by his side, but instead of whatever he is expecting for his expression to look like — shock, betrayal, even fear — he finds that his companion’s countenance is entirely serene. It’s not to say that he doesn’t appear surprised: Rather, the look on his features translates closer to how one would seem after watching an unfortunate yet expected scene come to be. His hand isn’t gripping the Cloud-Piercer’s shaft, there are no hostile words — merely a tense, lingering silence. 

Without speaking, the two of them look at each other for a few moments, after which Sunday gives Dan Heng a final, acknowledging nod, gently takes you by the hand, and begins leading you towards the Passenger Cabin. 

Like discussed beforehand, he guides the mindless you into the other car over, past Dan Heng’s, March’s and Himeko’s rooms, before stopping at the final door. Out of habit, he holds the way open for you and has you walk through the frame and into Welt’s room. Slotting his hand in between your shoulder blades, he guides you to sit on the bed before he himself rests down on the sheets as well, pulling you to lie down next to him. Carefully, he manoeuvres your body so he can properly hold your head to his chest as he finally, finally gets to embrace you, to have his arms around you, and right there, he feels like he belongs; like he had just found something he had lost for a long time. 

He closes his eyes as he leans his cheek against the crown of your head and inhales your scent. Though you’re still under his spell and unable to voluntarily control a single muscle in your body, he can sense the distress radiating off of you. It’s small, but he’s able to hear the little part of your mind which he hasn’t occupied weeping, calling for help, confused and frightened. 

Sighing gently, he brings his hand for your face and moves a few stray strands of hair off of your forehead. ”It’s fine. You should rest for a while”, he tells you in a soft, quiet tone. Though he knows the words are but a hazy blur to you at the moment, he still repeats the consolation and caresses the length of your arm in a slow, soothing manner. Like that, he reposes with you and comforts you in your trance-bound state, patiently waiting for Welt to conclude the argument that must currently be taking place in the Express’ cockpit. 

˗ˏˋ ★ 3. Life: What is it like to live with them? How do they treat the darling?

The start of your new life would be a horrendous one even if you were to entirely skip over the fact that you’ve essentially been kidnapped and that Sunday now has a trembling, terrified, betrayed you in his hands. There are a few reasons for it: Firstly, you’ve freshly realized that the amount of people you thought you could trust have gone from six to zero in the span of a single day, and secondly, the fact that due to him lacking a room, for the time being, you’ll no longer be spending the nights beside March but with him in the Parlor Car’s couches. The first wave of shock isn’t even about the entire he-loves-you thing but the sense of being entirely unsure about what happens next. 

You’re scared stiff for the first few days. It’s hard for him to get through to you at all: You hardly eat or drink anything he offers you, you don’t talk to him or the other crew members aside from a ”yes” or a ”no” in response to important questions, and though you don’t dig your heels into the floor or anything, if possible, you seem to only want to stay in a specific corner of the van. Wide-eyed and hugging yourself, you either stare at the ground or have your gaze flicker between any and all moving objects in a panicked fashion. 

He sees your apparent discomfort and fright, and while he can’t say that it doesn’t affect him at all, he’s a forbearingperson. He allows you as much space as you want — at least for the first couple weeks or so — but he does make his best effort at connecting with you again. At first, it’s awkward for both you and him as he understands that he can’t just go ahead and talk to you like he used to, but for what it’s worth, he makes sure to ask you the same questions: ”How are you feeling?”, ”let him know if you need anything” and ”please don’t hesitate to talk to him” are what his topics of conversation can mostly be condensed to as he doesn’t believe he would be able to get anything more complicated out of you at the moment. As expected, you don’t really answer him aside from the occasional plea to ”let you go back home”. For the sake of both your and his sanity, he has decided not to pursue that conversation just yet. 

It takes a while, as in a few horridly uncomfortable nights on the couches, but it doesn’t end up requiring too much of the Express to answer the newfound need to free a room for you and Sunday to reside in the other car over. The space is small, barely sizeable enough to even be called a room at all, and the walls are lined with old boxes and whatnot from the Nameless’ earlier adventures, but as it’s enough to fit both of you in it, he’s satisfied. He can’t quite tell what’s going through your mind as you let your eyes travel over the dust lining the ceiling and the mattress that has been laid on the floor, but as you eventually step past him, take a seat by the bedroll and pull your knees to your chest, he supposes that the setting is at least acceptable. 

From that point onward, you won’t really ever be leaving his side aside from going to the bathroom or taking a shower. It’s not that he means to be overbearing or anything — it’s just that he wants to keep an eye on you, preferably at all hours of the day. It’s both for making sure that you don’t do anything stupid and seeing that you have everything you need, but aside from that, he doesn’t mind letting you go wherever you want on the Express as long as he’s with you. He basically becomes your shadow; or, the other way around if you take the dynamic into account. 

When it comes to your belongings, he lets you have all of it — even your phone. Though, he only allows you to use your electronic devices under his supervision, quite literally with him staring at the screen over your shoulder. He doesn’t even have to verbally let you know that he’s going to use the Harmony on you the second you open the messaging app — you’re smart enough to have figured out as much on your own — but if you just want to pass time by gaming, reading something, looking through your photos or scrolling the interastral equivalent of Instagram Reels, he’s ready to let you do that. The last thing he wants to do is to restrict you more than absolutely necessary: In his mind, it would be selfish of him to deny you from retaining at least a tiny sense of normalcy in the whirlpool you’ve been thrown into, and that being the case, you get to practice your hobbies and whatnot as best as you’re able with the resources available. 

Furthermore, he would vastly prefer it if you used your time doing something you enjoy, or at least have enjoyed. While he can’t promise to fulfil every request you might have — he has to balance in between trying to make you happy and taking care not to be a burden to the rest of the crew — if it’s something relatively small like books, art and crafts supplies or even an instrument that you’re missing, he’s going to do his best to get it for you. 

Then, you come to notice very early on that the guy sure likes his routines. He, as a person, is very orderly and particular about the structure of his day as far as he’s able to be in his living situation. For instance, he goes to bed at precisely the same time every night, and the hour before is always spent more or less the same. His habits extend to you too, of course: While he allows you to do your thing most of the time, you’re bound to fall into the same patterns as he does not too long after the start of your captivity. Before you notice it yourself, you have already begun waking up at the same time each day, chosen the same seat each morning at breakfast, sat on the same seat in the Parlor Car as you wait for him to be done with his duties. It’s perhaps best not to think about it if you wish to keep even a shred of your individuality.

When it comes to interacting with the rest of the crew, he allows you to have it whichever way you like. Of course, it would be ideal if you were to communicate with the others at least a bit: He knows that March misses your company terribly, and besides, he thinks that socializing could cheer you up a little, but ultimately, he won’t force you to. He’s empathetic enough to understand that you might not be feeling like talking to anyone for a long, long time. Still, he doesn’t really have any reservations in the other direction of the matter either, so if you wish to go talk his companions’ ears off, he’ll permit it — he’ll just linger within a touching distance of you the entire time. 

The closeness factor is no joke, seriously: It’s like you had a leash connected to him that forces him to go along with you wherever you decide to walk. You don’t really get what the point is as you basically never get a moment alone due to the other crew members in your general vicinity, but regardless, he appears to get a little anxious when you leave his sight. He has always had a nasty habit of wanting to control everything, and monitoring your activities is no different matter. 

Though he has his reasons for not being inclined to leave the Express much, he does his best to take you outside whenever he’s able to. His Halovian powers truly are a handy tool when it comes to leaving no eyewitnesses, and though it takes immense mental effort, it’s a hassle he’s willing to go through in favour of allowing you to get some fresh air. Obviously, he vastly prefers locations where there is no one around to see you and him, but taking the risk is worth the reward of getting a little more light in your eyes. If there’s any relatively remote spot you would like to visit, just say the word, and he might consider it. Though, don’t expect too much freedom, for you’re still going to have to bear his company the entire time: As long as you’re out of the train, your hand won’t ever leave his — the humble price for the privilege. 

However, despite the offered solutions, more often than not, you don’t really have to do anything during the days you spend with him. He doesn’t make you take care of any of the tasks that were your responsibilities on the Express before the circumstances unfolded as they did; he handles those for you. It’s a silent means of compensating for stealing your autonomy, almost: The last thing he wants you to think is that he — or the crew as a whole — were utilizing your presence as some sort of a slave. Though, if you expressed overwhelming excitement over getting to take the trash to the main bin, he wouldn’t exactly stop you.

The same goes for basically doing anything at all. If you’re clearly against it, generally speaking, he won’t force you to come out of the room even if it were for having dinner, for instance. Sure, if you’re not feeling like seeing anyone’s face, he can just bring the food there. Moreover, he has a hard time trying to compel you to take care of your well-being as a whole: He would much rather not use his powers to make you conduct basic living functions, but ifpush really comes to shove, he’s going to bite his lip and literally make you to eat, drink or sleep. That being said, going on a hunger strike or the sort isn’t really a good strategy with him. 

It’s not that often that he has to leave the train for a mission or the like, but when he does, you’re going to come along with him. The protocol is the same as with your outdoor walks in general: Hand in his, no talking to anyone, being complacent, and so on. If he’s feeling courageous enough, he might place his hand on the small of your back or further up your pine, treating you in a rather old-fashioned, gentlemanly way. It’s a remnant of how he was taught to treat the womenfolk when he was still in his former position, and old habits indeed do die hard. Though, he’ll quit it instantly if you point it out: Any bit of discomfort regarding physical contact is something he can’t help but be especially contrite about, so if you want his hands off of you, he will comply, save for the handholding. 

Lastly, regarding the previous point, if it’s something you’re distressed about, he doesn’t coerce you to let him cuddle you to sleep. Of course, he would like to — very few things in the world bring him the same sort of comfort as getting to hold your back against his chest while you lie under the covers — but at the same time, your comfort is a more important matter for him. Though the mattress you sleep on is quite narrow, and the room is a little chilly and the blanket thin, he would literally sleep on the floor and let you have the entire bedroll if you asked. 

Or, if he’s desperate enough, he might pull a sneaky one on you and wait until you fall asleep before he silently shuffles closer to you and gently rests his arm over your side. When you’re fast asleep, you don’t flinch away from his touch nor does your face contort in fright as he embraces you. He thinks that it might even offer you some sort of comfort in the dream realm: After all, when reposing, the human body isn’t really able to discriminate when it comes to pleasant physical sensations. 

Oh, and there's a relatively mundane but all the more sweet part about your morning routine that he rarely skips over. It’s only once in a blue moon that you open your eyes before him, and that being the case, he typically ends up rousing you from your sleep. He’s one of the straight-up psychopaths who begin stirring exactly five minutes before their alarm, regardless of the time, and that being the case, you get a bit of a gentler wake-up before one of Robin’s songs starts playing from his phone. 

He starts by calling out your name in a soft, hushed voice, bidding you a good morning and telling you the time, just to see if you happened to already be awake. When the only reaction he gets out of you is your face scrunching up the tiniest bit, he resorts to carefully setting his hand on the curve of your shoulder. That much is usually enough to pull you out of the sleep, and it usually takes you but a few seconds to recall where you are and eventually jolt away from his touch with a drowsy, stupefied expression on your features. 

˗ˏˋ ★ 4. Rules: What kind of rules do they enforce? How lenient are they? How do they keep their darling in check?

As uncomfortable as the thought makes him, Sunday starts sketching out the base of what to set as the rules early on, even before the actual abduction takes place. To avoid the sharpest edge of the chaos that is sure to follow when you begin trying to navigate the limits and freedoms of your new life, he takes care to have as little equivocality as possible in what he writes down. That way, he hopes that though not very remarkable of a comfort, you might be able to find some sort of solace in the clarity. 

Like most of his kind of yanderes are, he’s a little hesitant to restrict you with any sorts of regulations. Moreover, after the absolutely necessary ones like stating that you’re not allowed to start breaking stuff or hurting anyone, and that it would be ”most preferable” if you didn’t try to make your way into the outer space, he can’t think of many limitations that would actually be crucial. You can refuse to talk to him, you can insult him, you can yell at him, he doesn’t mind — under the condition that it doesn’t bother the rest of the Express, that is. 

In fact, the core of all his rules could be condensed into the latter. Under no circumstance are you to bother the crew’s normal living on the train if not strictly necessary. He himself still doesn’t quite feel like a proper member yet, even though he has been reassured of the fact time and time again, and the last thing he would like to do is stretch the privilege that has been granted to him by allowing you to be a nuisance to the others. He can stomach just about anything being thrown his way, but just... please, don’t bother others. Just don’t. 

Along such lines he makes the rules known to you. More likely than not, he writes the sparse list down and gives it to you just in case, much like his past self would have done, albeit he doesn’t have nearly as many points on the paper. For good measure, he finishes his speech by asking you to ”just be polite like you always have. You don’t have to do anything more”, after which he proceeds to stare at you in silence as you read through the sheet in a few seconds. Your eyes go from the list to him, then back to the list, blank and entirely uncertain what to think of any of it, yet all you do is swallow, fold the thing into a smaller square and drop it on the floor beside your luggage. The silence that ensues is the mutual understanding of the fact that neither of you want to ever see the list again. 

Then again, it’s really all there is to it, for the rest of what you might get up to is more or less prevented by the fact that he’s there with you at all times. It’s essentially what he does to keep you ”in check” — the weight of his gaze on the back of your head is enough to keep you from doing anything stupid. 

˗ˏˋ ★ 5. Consequences: What kind of punishments will the darling face? How do they punish different offences?

Sunday really can’t bring himself to punish you. There are a good few reasons behind his reluctance: First off, he couldn’t ever delude himself into thinking that taking even more away from you than he already has would be justified by almost anything you could do, and besides, he isn’t on a mission to make you like him less. 

That, and his upbringing and past endeavours haven’t exactly left him with an ordinary conception about actions and consequences. He was raised to be a highly self-exigent person, meaning that the first thing that comes to his mind when thinking about the term ”punishment” are things like physical discipline, harsh words and taking away basic privileges such as food and warmth and so on. Of course, none of the mentioned could ever even come into question as he now realizes in his post Penacony crisis clarity mind that they are completely disproportionate — he’s appalled at himself for even associating you with such things. Moreover, he’s not a violent person nor does he hold a single bit of malice towards you, so penalizing you for your misdeeds is something he struggles with. 

Though, sometimes, his indirect actions manage to serve as a punishment on their own. For example, he has an unfortunate habit of serving you half-unintentional silent treatment when you’ve crossed a line. As is fairly obvious, he already doesn’t really fit into the category of professional yappers, but if you pull off anything that’s past the limit of relatively minor according to his short set of rules, like deliberately breaking something, he goes entirely quiet. Instead of getting a response to whatever you might have asked him, you’re met with the sight of his drooping Halovian wings and a vaguely disappointed look without a single word spoken to you. Even yanking on his arm and yelling in his ear won’t get him to talk to you past a few words, and it’s only after he has had an hour or two to sort out his mind that he returns to normal again. As said, it’s only partly on purpose: He understands the effect his silence has on you, but he really just does need the time to get himself back in check. 

Then, another one of his underdeveloped discipline strategies is that if he has time, he might lock you in your shared room — with him in there with you, naturally. It doesn’t actually differ that much from your daily activities, and you occasionally don’t even notice that he’s attempting to punish you for your actions as he doesn’t behave too differently from his usual self, but the method proves a little annoying for you time to time as he doesn’t allow you to wander around the Express until he deems that the ”consequence” has run its course. 

Yet, his lack of drive to be any cruel towards you doesn’t mean that your wrongdoings don’t affect him greatly. No matter how inexpressive of a person he is, some things just pierce so deep under his skin that even his carefully crafted front cracks. 

It’s never preferable, but occasionally, there are instances where he has to leave you alone for a bit. Of course, ideally, there would be someone to keep an eye on you when he can’t, but he often can’t request that sort of dedication from his companions, and so, there are bound to be times when he resorts to hiding any and all things you could possibly think to use for escaping before cooping you up in your room for an hour or two. 

He has never once forgotten to lock the exit. He’s infuriatingly diligent and meticulous about everything he does with you, yet the one factor he has failed to consider in the equation is the true magnitude of just what you’re willing to do to get your freedom back. 

He has been gone for a mere ten minutes, but within that time, you’re certain that he and the elders of the crew have already made it to the other end of the train where he said they would have business at. Frankly speaking, you don’t have the faintest idea about what even is in the cars further down the spacefarer, but such matters couldn’t possibly interest you less at the moment as you focus every inch of your being on seeing your plan through. 

The door of the room is old and worn: Its hinges have rusted, and the varnish on the wooden frame is chipping off at the ends of the planks. Each time you take a few steps back and ram yourself shoulder first against the barrier, another layer of dust rains upon you from the ceiling. Despite the way the head of your humerus throbs and how purple blotches are surely already forming on the skin over it, you merely clench your teeth, force your tears back down, and go for another attempt. 

You don’t even actually know what you’re going to do. The Express isn’t docked, and there would be no way for you to simply walk out of the train. Still, you’re determined, your phone must be somewhere around, or there must be another means of communication available, there has to be a way for you to contact someone. 

You let out a yelp when you bash yourself against the door once more. You’re certain the endeavour is making copious amounts of noise even outside the general vicinity of your room, yet nobody has yet come to check on what’s going on. As far as you know, it was only Himeko, Welt and Sunday who left for whatever they did — Dan Heng, March and the Trailblazer you aren’t sure about, but with how much din you have caused, you’re fairly confident that they aren’t within earshot. At first, you loathed the fact that a van connector separates you from the rest of the crew — in normal circumstances, there’s nobody else to hear your cries for help but your captor — but now, the very same fact is proving crucial for the undertaking you’re occupied with. 

Breathing in the dust-laden air, you retreat towards the back of the room once more. You take a moment to will away the pain in your limb, raise your chin, turn your shoulder towards the exit, and charge towards the door. 

A deafening crack echoes throughout the vacant car. Splinters fall over you, nestling themselves in your hair and catching in your clothes as the lock finally lets in. Thrust forward by the momentum of the movement, you topple into the hallway along with what’s left of the ruined entryway. 

The impact of the fall has your head swimming. Your knees scrape against the stray pieces of wood as you scrabble around for a moment in an attempt to find your balance. A gross ripping sound echoes through the empty hallway as the sleeve of your top finally tears when you plant your hands on the debris-covered ground and rise on your feet. 

You’re well aware you have no time to waste. Without missing a beat, you rush into action. 

Making a quick scan at your surroundings, you find that there are three doors aside from the one you just broke to try in the car. Hardly even bothering to pat the loose chips of wood off of your clothes, you hurry towards the first handle. 

Locked. You run to the next one, yet the middle latch doesn’t budge either, no matter how you tear at it. The third, the third, you’re certain your luck couldn’t abandon you at a moment like this, but it’s no use. Locked, locked, locked. 

Tears are straining at your throat as your gaze darts all over the van, trying to find anything that could aid you in your cause. However, the only things left for you to try are the end gates of the car; one leading deeper into the Express and the other to the Passenger Cabin. With the sense of panic catching up to you, you run across the hallway and reach for the exit towards the tail of the train — the side on which your captor left in — but you know even before your hand makes contact with the handle that he wouldn’t be that careless. 

It’s like you can feel the hope slipping through your fingers and pouring down into a puddle at your feet. Still, fighting off the fear of what you might have to face after being found out, you take but a few seconds to gather yourself and bolt to the other end of the car. 

Anxiety chips away at your resolve with each stride you take towards the door — you know full well that what’s waiting for you on the other side is merely the Passenger Cabin. However, despite it all, you take hold of the latch, slide the double gates to the side as quietly as you’re able, and step into the next car over.

With a quick look around, you seriously start considering turning back on your heels and returning to your prison with your tail between your legs. Even from a distance away, you’re able to determine that the Databank room’s door is wide open, and for that to be the case, there has to be someone inside. 

Even though the adrenaline is dulling out the keenest edge of your rational thinking, you’re not stupid enough to think that you could ever hope to sneak past Dan Heng. 

Your hands ball into fists. The lump in your throat refuses to go down, you can practically hear the clock ticking in your head, measuring the time to when you’re inevitably going to be found out. 

You want to curl up into a ball on the floor, to curse the Aeons to the deepest pits of hell for maltreating you so, to shut down entirely, to just let the crew members find you in a pool of your own tears and do whatever they want with you. Finally, your desperation boils over. Yet, still, as you gaze at the sight of the empty hallway through the blurry sheen over your eyes, one last surge of resolve pushes you into action.

No longer paying any mind to how much noise you make when you take one step forward, two, three, you accelerate to a full-on sprint and head right towards the open Archives room door. 

Dan Heng sits in front of one of the smaller screens on the desk with his upper body already turned towards the intrusion. He seems to have heard you approach, to have expected someone, perhaps March, to pop by the entrance of his room, but as his eyes make contact with your wide, frantic ones, his typically expressionless face falls. 

He stands up from his seat just as you cross the threshold, reel across the floor, and stagger up the few stairs that lead to him. As always, he’s quick to react, to reach his arms out to catch you as if he feared you were going to fall over, yet you hardly give him any time to react before you seize hold of the lapels of his jacket. 

You don’t even know what you’re saying, really — the words just flow out on their own. Moreover, even the ever-reliable Dan Heng clearly takes a few seconds to comprehend what’s going on. He can barely make sense of half of the hysterical blur coming out of your mouth, but combined with how your knuckles are turning pale from squeezing his clothes, the message behind the ”please, please, please” is abundantly clear to him.

He doesn’t seem to know what to do. Although he isn’t usually one to react strongly to anything, he now appears completely frozen in place. You tear at his collar, you scream at him at the top of your voice, you beg him to help you — it’s hundredfold the most emotion he has ever seen you convey. A sheen of sweat rises onto his temples.

A noise from the exit’s direction causes him to briefly tear his gaze off of your form. You take note of the shift, but despite the frigid, soul-chilling shiver that tears across your spine and nearly strikes you off of your feet, you don’t turn around. Even as you hear the distinct sound of approaching footsteps, you don’t bother to lower the volume of your voice. 

”Help me, you need to help me”, you repeat to Dan Heng over and over again, entirely ignoring how your vision grows cloudy with yet another wave of tears spilling past your lashes. You block out the entirety of the world behind you — the sound, the sight, the feeling — and focus every inch of your being on the man whose jacket you’re clutching. You try to appeal to the soft side you know he has, to somehow get through to him, to connect with his very soul, to-

Someone rests their hand on your shoulder from behind. The grip isn’t all that tight, yet it feels just as icy cold and rigid as a metal shackle would. Dan Heng looks past you and at who stands at your back. 

Pure, unadulterated dolour washes all over your being as Sunday’s gloved hand comes into your field of vision, reaching past your arm and gently wrapping itself around one of your wrists. Soon, the other joins the effort, carefully attempting to pry your grip off of Dan Heng. You sense the impending doom, the callous touch of what you feel like is going to be the last thing you’ll ever know.

But, even then, you hold onto the last bits of your pertinacity, raise your gaze, and meet Dan Heng’s own. With an inhale that fills your lungs to the absolute brim, you muster up the pithiest, weightiest look you possibly could. For a moment, time slows down as you believe you have reached his very being. 

His expression is hard to read, but for once, you know that it’s not just indifference that hides behind his stony countenance. You see it in his irises, you feel the hesitation that emanates off of his form, you see it, you see it-

Dan Heng reaches for your hand clutching on his clothes. Your stomach lurches violently — in elation or in terror, you’re unable to figure out in the span of the fraction of a second — but as he carefully weaves his fingers in between yours and disconnects your grasp from his jacket, you lose it. 

You shriek out a noise so loud that whoever might be in the neighbouring cars of the Express surely hears it. Shaking yourself free of both Sunday’s and Dan Heng’s touch, you sink your nails into Dan Heng’s arm, stabbing into his skin and latching onto him for dear life. Your voice grows hoarse as you scream out ”you can’t do this to me, you can’t do this to me” over and over again in between your ragged breaths, you dig your claws into him, you cry and cry and cry. 

Still, despite the overwhelming commiseration you swear you see in his eyes, he merely clutches your hand and frees himself of your grip. 

Sunday slides one of his arms around your waist and begins dragging you backwards towards the door. You dig your heels into the ground, still repeating ”please, you can't do this to me, don’t do this to me, please don’t do this to me”, but it’s no use. You hyperventilate, you claw at your captor’s gloved hand like your life depended on it, you sound like you’re not getting enough air in your lungs. 

Then, your voice cuts off in the middle of your wails. In a heartbeat, a soothing, vibrant aura of colours appears at the edges of your vision. You suddenly remember nothing of how you surely must have felt mere milliseconds ago, and the only evidence that’s left of your rapidly burgeoning panic attack is the stinging sensation in your eyes. Your body falls backwards against Sunday’s own as your muscles grow entirely slack. 

It’s an odd sensation; to be completely under his mercy while simultaneously feeling nothing. It’s not necessarily something you could sort into positive or negative — it just is. You just are. As if you were observing your own point of view on a movie screen, you watch how the ends of your feet sway from side to side as you’re pulled across the hallway, back through the double gate separating the cars and over to where the remains of the door you broke through are still splayed on the floor. 

You feel drowsy. Even when you see yourself being dragged through the doorway to your room and carefully settled on your back on the mattress you share with him, you can’t bring yourself to react in any way. 

Only then, the fog over your mind disperses. The throbbing in your head is back, the all-consuming distress regains control over your being, the ache in your shoulder, the rapid breathing, the heartbeat hammering in your ears, the panic. Your darting gaze hardly manages to fixate on the silhouette looming at your feet as your chest jerks with each, much too short of a breath you force in. 

Yet, as quickly as you regained the sway over your lungs, they once more refuse to listen to your commands. You find yourself physically unable to breathe. For a hot second, you nearly pass out from terror as you think he’s attempting to suffocate you using your own mind, but after a moment, your midriff expands once again with a long, much more measured inhale. 

It’s the first time he has ever had to use his powers for a means like this. Looking at you now, he’s unable to find the words to describe how you appear to him: To see someone trying to overbreathe at the same time as he actively subdues that reflex is admittedly something he didn’t think he would ever have to witness in his lifetime. 

He watches as more tears draw their paths down your cheeks, he listens to your quieted sobs for help, his eyes stray to where your hands twitch in a futile attempt to free yourself from the song of Harmony, yet all you’re able to do is lie on the bedroll and suffer under the weight of your own heartbreak. 

He could bring you the worst pain you have ever experienced with a single, fine pitching of his powers. He could have you go through a hell you didn’t even know existed, he could inject such unfathomable amounts of anguish directly into your veins that you would never be the same again. It would be an easier effort than a snap of his fingers. His eyes grow glazed.

Still, though he knows his past self probably would have, he knows that he could never, ever bring himself to hurt you like that. He reads your state directly off of your thoughts, the most intimate part of your being, and he can sense just how terrified you are. It wounds him that you feel that way, it truly does, and as he watches your soul shatter into pieces, he feels his own doing the very same. 

Above all, the experience is psychologically scarring, for the lack of a better term to describe it. The sense of betrayal, both from your and his side, is something he doesn’t just expect you to get over with. He, as always, deals with his own emotions where you can’t see — it’s not something he would ever want to burden you with despite having grown past his stringent ways — but seeing your misery-drowned gaze doesn’t fail to sink him into the same hole for weeks on end. 

He might cry about it behind closed doors, too. It’s not a full-fledged breakdown by any means — he has always had the habit of managing without those — yet he still can’t help but shed a few tears when nobody’s there to see. He tries the same methods as always to console himself, trying to name the emotion, going through what went wrong in his mind and deciding what he’s going to do to prevent it from happening again, but this time, he simply can’t find a suitable word for the ache deep within him. He lingers in silence for a moment, recalling the image of your panic-stricken face, the purplish splotches on your contused shoulder, the way you held onto Dan Heng like it was the last thing you do. In the deafening quiet of the dark storage room he has hidden himself in, he slides his gloves off, sniffles, and collects the tears on his waterlines on the back of his finger. 

Thus, the worst punishment you can get out of him is the mental load of having to deal with both your own emotions and inadvertently his as well. He doesn’t intend to be seen that way, but though he’s gentle and calm, due to him lacking the same confidence that someone like Jing Yuan might have, the uncertainty about what will follow rubs off on you. He gets pensive, even more pensive than he already was, and having to linger in the atmosphere that’s constantly filled with gloom might just be as bad enough as a physical consequence. 

˗ˏˋ ★ 6. Emotions I: How do they show love? How do they attempt to make the darling love them?

Above all, Sunday shows his love and admiration silently. Though he actually is one that sometimes indulges in verbal means of expressing his affection, he believes that actions speak louder than words, and that being the case, he mostly leaves his sentiments to be read in between the lines. 

He likes the quiet in general. Not necessarily complete silence — he vastly enjoys listening to music, for example — but the sort of atmosphere where there aren’t any extra stimuli is where he thrives the best in. That being the case, most of the time, he just prefers to linger in your presence: It’s the soundless sort of closeness of having your hips be almost close enough to touch each other, yet still not quite so as to maintain the sense of safety and tranquillity in you. Of course, if you were to show any sign of willingness towards having his arm around your waist or such, he would come scampering to you like a lost finch, but due to his exceptionally advanced skill at reading the room, he most often lets you be. 

Though, when it comes to providing you with a pleasant sensory experience, he has a whole lot of subtle things he likes to do. At the beginning of your captivity, he strays away from touching you as he understands that it’s probably the last thing you would like at the moment, but after a while, he gets a little more daring about having his hands on you. 

It starts as very brief brushes here and there. He doesn’t want you to get startled by him or feel like he’s actively breaking your physical boundaries, so he carefully gauges your reactions to any and all things he does while doing his best to map out what you respond especially negatively to. He skims his hand over your shoulder when passing by, he grazes against your lower back when holding doors open for you, he settles down a piece of hair sticking out from the rest of your locks, that kind of thing. As said, he’s very cautious about pushing your limits, and if you jump, flinch or otherwise show aversion towards his actions, he stops right there and apologizes, even. However, his attempts continue, albeit on a milder level. 

Continuing in the same category, he, too, belongs in the group of yanderes who like doing your hair for you. It’s a serene practice, fairly intimate, and doesn’t evidently feel like that big of a violation to you. Robin has kept her hair long for as long as he can remember, and so, he has had plenty of opportunities to hone his skills in the area. He knows how to braid: Under, over, fishtail, twist, you name it, he can get it done with little to no fumbles. He’s also of the rare breed of non-tuggers when it comes to handling the strands — he weaves the tangles out of your hair like gliding his fingers through water. 

In a relatively similar way, he has a habit of bettering your appearance whenever he notices something off. It’s not an insult towards you by any means, he just notices little details here and there that could be fixed in a few seconds and discreetly goes for it. For instance, you might suddenly feel his gloves on the back of your neck as he briefly straightens your collar or slips the tag of your top back under the neckline, or he might pay note to a loose thread hanging off of your sleeve and promptly proceed to pluck it off. Though such things don’t really seem like anything special in your eyes, taking care of you in the mentioned manner is actually a quite important thing for him, so if that’s something you say no to, he does become a bit disheartened. 

More indulgent physical affection is something he strictly reserves for closed doors, and more specifically for when you’re not actively resisting it. As talked about earlier, he only ever cuddles you while sleeping when you’re, well, sleeping. His own gifts for resting happen to be relatively poor, and thus, he tends to take much longer than you to drift off, meaning that he has plenty of time to wait until he dares to put his hands on you. It’s always the same position: His chest loosely pressed against your back and one of his arms draped over your upper body while the other is awkwardly lodged beneath his head. Frankly, the theoretical ideal would be for him to get to sleep in a corpse position with all the mattress space for himself, but the urge to hold you overrides what’s practical. It’s not often that you actually catch him in the act as he appears to have a sixth sense to tell when you’re about to wake up — he pulls away from you before you do — but there are bound to be a few times when you’re yanked away from your dreams to find that the guy has surrendered to his cravings. 

Though, seldom, you find that his embrace unfortunately holds benefits as well. The room you share gets a little cold from time to time, and while he isn’t exactly a human radiator, having him close provides enough warmth for you to be comfortable. And, while it’s a somewhat shameful thing to admit, occasionally it’s nice to just... be held. It’s the sort of a half-asleep thing where you don’t have energy to fight for your agenda anymore and just decide to let it be. Plus, there’s nothing substandard about him when it comes to being a prime cuddle partner: He’s gentle, attentive, and he smells very nice. 

On the same topic: You’re unfortunately going to have a similar sleep-related problem as you would with Dan Heng — it’s difficult to get a good rest while sharing a bed with Sunday. It’s not because of his sleep schedule or anything similar, but the fact that he’s a very light sleeper. He has never quite found a fix for the issue, it’s just something he has accepted and dealt with for as long as he can recall. More often than not, he wakes up a few times during the night, he tosses and turns, he adjusts the blanket, and no matter how careful he tries to be, due to already being uneasy, you frequently end up stirring nonetheless. It’s infuriating to say the least — so much so that you frequently have to curb the urge to swat at him whenever he ends up disturbing you — but there’s really nothing either of you can do. The quality of your sleep more or less plummets, and in consequence, you end up being prone to napping during the day. 

He doesn’t mind you dozing one bit — he would be entirely hypocritical if he were to restrict you from trying to catch up on the sleep that he’s ruining for you during the night — but please, by all means, utilize him as a cushion. There are times when he has to take care of the Express business with the others, and while he doesn’t want to hinder you from getting more rest, he would rather not leave you locked in your room all alone. So, though you’re yawning, staring into space, and still shivering due to the fatigue creeping through your body, he tends to drag you out of bed and into the public cars, and as luck would have it, you’re immediately gravitating towards the couches. Weariness is a curious thing to some, he muses, for it doesn’t take but a few poorly rested nights for you to be surprisingly amenable to the idea of continuing your sleep on him. 

While he’s always a little embarrassed and apologetic about the matter, the rest of the crew quickly grows used to the sight of you laying your head on his lap, eyes closed and shoulders rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. He explains the affair to the others, telling them that ”you have been having a little trouble sleeping”, all the while he gently pets your hair and makes sure that your neck isn’t going to be sore when you wake up. The latter, especially, is something you won’t ever have to worry about: He could as well have a college degree as a professional pillow. Furthermore, feel free to nap as long as you would like — he’s nothing if patient, and your needs are what guide his daily plans to a degree, so you could rest for a few hours and he wouldn’t mind. 

Relating to his instinct to fix your clothes, if it’s his lap that you’re napping on, he might spend his time sort of grooming you. Since you don’t seem to mind the physical contact at the moment, he takes the liberty of fiddling with your hair. He either starts weaving through your locks, finding split ends, and picking them off, or he may scratch and pick tiny flakes of scurf off of your scalp. It could be likened to an idle fidget, almost: It’s just that you’re right there, his hands are entirely unoccupied, and whereas he’s normally quite content at just sitting still and doing nothing, you awaken a certain sort of nervousness in him that’s difficult for him to ignore. Still, as is with the previous points, if you express distaste towards his propensities, he will restrain himself. 

Then, aside from the physical aspect, it’s not like he doesn’t want to or occasionally won’t open his mouth about things — it’s just not very often. The biggest block he has regarding verbal affection and such is that he knows he has a certain, very articulated manner of speech which can make him appear a little spurious, so to speak. That being the case, he fears that you would misunderstand his words as not genuine. He was taught to be very mindful about how he communicates, and it usually takes him a moment to find the right things to say, contributing to a slightly impersonal impression. In a way, words are a somewhat sensitive matter for him.

When he praises you, he mostly focuses on simple and relatively palpable things like your appearance or your hobbies. For instance, if you’re busied with something such as arts or crafts or anything of the kind, he might take a measuring look at the results and speak out a soft yet unfeigned ”that looks wonderful”, or if it’s your looks, he brushes his fingers against your arm, your hair, something light, and simply says ”you look most beautiful”. He doesn’t see the need to embellish his words much beyond the truth he sees so clearly. 

Ah, and though he generally appears a little aloof, he has his more mirthful moments, too. He often holds himself back due to fearing that you might find his amusement towards you to be in bad faith, but every so often, you catch him enjoying the view when he perceives something you do as particularly endearing. He has this very distinct, gentle way of smiling that has an iota of cheekiness in it, even, and it also happens to be the sort that evokes a little self-consciousness in you; the kind that makes your brows flatten and have you glaring at him with a bashful ”what?” slipping out of your mouth. He doesn’t make it that way on purpose, obviously — he just has a teeny-tiny, innate, mischievous streak in him. 

Cheeky, precisely, is what he could be described as in his best moments. It’s not the brazen kind of sassiness by no means — he’s a polite person to the core — but occasionally, when he feels that the timing is appropriate, he might engage in a little raillery. It’s usually over entirely trivial matters, yet it’s still all the more flustering when he softly sighs, reaches to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear and tells you ”what a disorganized person you are”. What he says is all in good faith, of course, but Aeons, it would be impossible not to get discomposed when the gloved tips of his fingers brush against your temple while he tenderly smiles at you with his eyes filled with nothing but fondness. 

In a similar manner, he may get a little bolder if the jibing is coming from your direction. He’s nimble-tongued, to say the least, and sometimes, if it’s clear that you’re trying to push his buttons for the mere sake of it, he might clap back with a little banter. Insults directed at his manner, his words, anything, just might be met with a ”oh, but do look at yourself, please”, spoken with his brows raised and a tiny, impish curve on his lips. Naturally, when you get warm in the face and start stammering out a defensive remark, he quickly follows up with a closed-mouth laugh and a ”my apologies”, giving a gentle pat to the crown of your head. 

Obviously, he never gets teasy if it doesn’t appear that you’re in a mood where you could digest a bit of badinage: As mentioned, he has a good eye for the general atmosphere of an interaction, and that being the case, he takes care that you don’t ever actually end up offended by his words. 

Finally, as a bit of a side note, much like with his previous version, you do have an advantage if anything even remotely related to music is your thing. It could be singing, playing an instrument, a melody-involving field of sports or art, or even something like mixing — he doesn’t discriminate one bit. He himself plays the piano, and if you were to show even the slightest bit of interest in that, he would entertain you without a second thought. He considers music to be capable of reaching emotions which words never could, transcending space and time, and a very sweet yet all the more heart-rending thing he might do is play you a song from your home planet. He goes out of his way to find the sheets for the piece and perform it to you. It depends on the day whether the act makes you hopeful or has you break down in tears. 

Moreover, and if you ever were to want to learn the art from him, he would be over the moon. He’s not used to teaching anyone, but oh, if the image of you sitting beside him on the stool, thigh to thigh, while he guides your fingers on the keys doesn’t have him swooning. 

˗ˏˋ ★ 7. Emotions II: How do they deal with the darling’s emotions? How are outbursts handled? How do they attempt to comfort the darling?

Sunday, if anybody, has seen his fair share of all sorts of emotions. Listening to people’s woes used to be his job, and he has had to witness everything from inundating rage to soul-crushing grief, so whatever feelings you might direct towards him will largely settle comfortably on the spectrum he’s used to dealing with. 

As mentioned, he himself is one to suppress his emotions until the very end and even beyond if he’s able to. It’s something he learnt to do from a very young age as that was expected of him, and even now, the same habit persists. It doesn’t mean that he would have a particularly hard time understanding yours, though: Whether it’s anger or sadness that you throw his way, he’s prepared to face it all. 

Your wrath, namely, he finds, is the easier of the two to deal with. It’s more linear, he would say: With anger, there’s the trigger, the storm, and the abatement. You don’t tend to shout profanities or try to injure yourself, him, or the environment that often as he has made it clear to you that it’s the one thing you would see consequences for, but every now and then, the pressure gets just enough for you to lose your temper. 

He’s annoyingly unaffected by it. No matter what you yell at him, he weathers it all with a straight face and doesn’t even attempt to get a word in until you run out of breath. Though, it’s only for a little while since allowing you to bother the rest of the crew with the noise is entirely unacceptable, and if he senses that the furniture is going to start flying around soon, he puts a stop to the tantrum with his Halovian powers. He doesn’t even give you a verbal warning before the trance takes you over, and just as quickly as your outburst started, your mood mellows down into a dull, serene state where you’re forced to simply exist with your thoughts. With your mind in his careful grasp, he makes sure to have you lie down for a while while he lingers in your vicinity just to make sure that you’ll be alright when he lets you out of the haze.

Then, on the other hand, your sorrow is a little trickier for him to face. It’s not that he didn’t mentally prepare himself for having to witness you in such a state — the cause-and-effect is quite obvious — but at the same time, it’s a little difficult for him to decide on the best course of action. After all, there are a lot of ways to go about trying to comfort you, and sometimes he doesn’t exactly know what it is that you would need the most. 

Above all, he puts his utmost into trying to prevent the depressive side of you from taking over. He’s probably one of the best listeners in the entire cosmos, and if you’re up for it in any shape or form, he would love to lend an ear to you. Whatever it is that you would like to talk to him about, he is ready to take it all even if it means that he’s going to have to get bashed verbally. It’s more convenient that way, too: Being an outlet for your emotions also means that he gets to monitor the changes in your state of mind in real time, making it easier for him to adapt his behaviour accordingly. Allowing you to vent, namely, is the method he depends on the most, and it’s also something he wishes you will utilize to your heart’s content. 

But, of course, you do end up resorting to crying your misery out at times. At its core, it’s merely a part of the body’s stress response: Certain hormones are secreted along with the tears you shed, thus achieving the effect of often causing one to feel better afterwards. As is with other outward displays of feelings, he isn’t really one to cry, but seeing you do so strikes him all the same. 

You tend to avoid weeping in front of him. He has a few educated guesses on what the reason behind such behaviour could be — he need to retain the one bit of vulnerability all to yourself, the shame of having been broken down to where you can’t help but sob, and the fear of what sort of a reaction he would have to seeing you in such a condition are all plausible explanations — yet it all boils down to you not wanting him to get to watch the show of mental anguish. You try to do it discreetly, often literally picking a time for when you’re going to break down so you can avoid being seen by him, but every now and then, he happens to walk in on the display nonetheless.

Maybe he took a little less time in the shower than he originally thought, and you believed you could be quick enough to manage to relieve your anxiety in the 20 minutes he told you he would take. He enters your shared room just in time to catch you in the middle of your chary sobbing session, face in hands and snot running down your upper lip. You gain the look of a startled animal on your features: Your shoulders jump, your eyes widen, and your mouth drops slightly ajar as he catches your teary gaze with his own. On the contrary, with his hair still damp and a change of clothes in his arms, the only reaction the unexpected sight awakens in him is a phlegmatic stare and a subtle raise of his brows.

More often than not, you don’t even try to properly conceal the evidence of what’s going on once you have been found out. You’re aware that you couldn’t ever hope to hide such details from him, but nevertheless, you still turn your back to him, wipe your tears on the back of your sleeve, and rush right past him and out of the door like a teen drama heroine. It’s only a temporary solution, however, for he’s merely going to let you get a few steps away before he follows right after you. He won’t try to prevent you from attempting to get out of his sight, he can allow you that much, but like what you’re used to, he’ll remain within but a short distance away from you. That being said, you’re almost always going to have an audience for your weakest moments, whether you like it or not. 

He knows you’re a little sensitive like that. It’s nothing he would like to change about you — he himself is a sentimental person at heart — but he does wish you would rely on him when you feel down. He has done his best to make it clear to you that he’s there for you if you ever need him, yet the only instances you allow him to properly comfort you are those when you’re bordering a full-on breakdown. 

He usually finds you balled up in a dark space, and he knows even before actually seeing you that it’s probably going to be ugly. The sounds you make are the distinct, heart-wrenching sort of disconsolate sobs and wails that leave very little to one’s imagination. At such times, you don’t seem to care who hears or sees you — it all has simply become too much, and your psyche has found no other way to cope with the strain. 

He approaches the situation carefully, taking care not to have his footsteps be too loud to worsen your alarmed state while simultaneously making sure to make enough noise so that you won’t be caught off guard. Cautiously, he monitors your response to him nearing you, and it’s only when you don’t make a single effort to push him away that he dares to completely close the distance between the two of you. 

His efforts always start in a little awkward manner. He’s aware that he has got a moderate case of a deadpan face, and so, he doesn’t try to offer any eloquent gestures of empathy. Instead, he slowly settles himself beside you on the floor, almost hip-to-hip. Making sure not to have his fingers get caught in your hair, he slides his arm around your trembling shoulders and gently nudges your head to rest against the crook of his neck. By this point, you don’t do anything to resist him, instead simply continuing to bawl your eyes out. For once, he doesn’t encourage you to talk to him about what’s on your mind — he’s thoughtful enough not to start prodding that topic just yet — but he does still mutter out a near silent, feather-soft ”what’s wrong?” to you. Though worded like one, the words are not so much a question than they are an acknowledgment of the fact that he perceives you’re hurting. 

Hence, he doesn’t expect an answer. Rather, he focuses on attempting to ground you with his presence, making sure that the closeness he can offer is precisely solid enough not to overstep your boundaries but still sufficiently loose to allow you to pull away if you would like. 

Moreover, he has a certain way with his touch that’s hard to describe in words. The sentiment has never quite made sense to him for he wouldn’t consider himself to be the most at-ease person inside, yet that very trait is all that translates to you via his actions nonetheless. It’s as if his fingertips hold a sedative within them, and the moment his gloved hand starts stroking up and down your quivering arm, you’re already a little calmer. 

He’s only able to catch a few glimpses of your expression from behind your forearms with which you do your best to hide yourself from his gaze, but from what little he’s able to catch, he can see the sort of a difficult look in your puffy eyes. You’re breathing in a heavy, choppy manner, yet with each caress, your exhales grow a bit slower. 

After a while, when you’ve evidently gotten over the worst of it, he gathers the rest of his courage and slips his free hand underneath your bent knees. With a little effort, he hoists you over and in between his thighs where he settles you sideways so that you can properly rest against him. He wraps one arm around your upper body while setting the other so that he can stroke the back of your neck in round, measured patterns. At first, the feeling of his gloved palm making contact with one of your most vulnerable spots feels almost unbearable, but within seconds, you sink back into the comfort he’s actively coaxing you into. 

Repetitive movements is what makes it, he has noticed. Without a single hurry in the world, he softly rubs your nape, feeling the shape of your vertebrae underneath the skin. If the position allows him to, his Halovian wings might come to rest atop of your head in an almost protective manner while he continues soothing you to the best of his ability. 

Then, if he still feels you flinching and sniffling after some time, he might resort to using the last trick up his sleeve. It’s something he distantly remembers his own mother doing whenever he was sad as a child, and though he finds himself a little embarrassed about the notion, he ultimately gets over his hesitancy. 

You can hardly believe your ears when you first hear the quiet humming coming out of his mouth. He’s nowhere near as talented of a singer as his sister by any means, yet he still holds the pitch skilfully. It might be a classical piece that’s not meant to be sung at all, or perhaps it’s a song you’re familiar with — maybe even one of Robin’s — but regardless, it only lulls you deeper into the sense of tranquillity. His chest vibrates along with the soft melody he sings, the tune seeps into your very being, the notes full of warmth wrap you in their gentle embrace, and eventually, as if he had used his powers on you, you shift to properly lean against him. 

The two of you stay as you are for as long as it takes for the strain in your muscles to completely dissipate. He holds you through it all even if it means that he has to sit down on the cold floor for hours on end. 

Though his heart aches for the sight of you at your lowest, he finds some sort of solace in being able to console you as he does. The notion is a discordant one, yet he can’t help the warmth that spreads in his stomach as he looks down at the eventually drying streaks of tears that adorn your cheeks. 

Finally, a perhaps endearing detail about him doing his best to prevent you from falling apart is that each time you have a bad instance, he gets you a little gift the next day. At first, you suspect that the gesture might have briberous undertones to it, but as time goes by and he still hasn’t come to you expecting any favours, you find that his intentions are indeed genuine. The present isn’t anything remarkable: Usually, it’s a little snack he knows you like, or maybe something small related to your hobbies, but nevertheless, you understand it to be a token of goodwill of sorts. 

Oh, and if you ever were to get yourself in a mental state so bad that he has to wonder if your psyche can endure the harrowing much longer, he might resort to using his tuning once more. It’s a tough decision as he understands that you’re obviously expressing substantial anguish and that there’s a reason behind your behaviour, but at the same time, he just can’t. Seeing your tears, hearing your wails, practically being able to feel the torment radiating off of you crosses the line of being too much for him to bear, thus impelling him to use the one method that rarely has failed him. He understands that it’s an easy way out, that the unmistakably familiar manner in which your expression falls blank is purely artificially achieved, yet still, when all other options have been extinguished, it’s the very last tool left in his box. 

˗ˏˋ ★ 8. Things to exploit: What are the darling’s best chances at escaping? Are there things which the darling can use to their advantage? How can the darling make things easier for themselves?

As is foreseeable, trying to escape from Sunday holds more or less the same dangers and advantages as in Dan Heng’s case. The state of affairs is very similar, yet there are a few key differences. 

Of course, the basic factors persist: You’re in space, most often in the middle of nowhere with nothing but emptiness outside of the train’s walls. Thus, you only have a few windows to flee every now and then, and they’re hindered by the Halovian staring at the back of your head every passing second. Similarly, the rest of the crew has an eye on you, making the effort all the more difficult. 

Still, March, for starters, is the obvious weak point here as well. Though Sunday is even more careful than Dan Heng about letting you spend time with her, if you manage to be left alone with her for some time, you might get the chance of fishing some information out of her. You have to be especially careful, though, as Sunday is on high alert whenever it’s not just him who is keeping you company, but slipping in a few questions when he isn’t listening is an entirely possible feat to pull off with a bit of situational awareness.    

Secondly, Himeko and Welt are all no-gos, albeit the latter is a potential shoulder to lean on. Himeko is purely on your captor’s side for reasons you have a hard time understanding, but Welt, surprisingly enough, is someone who spends time with you every now and then. He’s one that your captor trusts (as he was the one to bring a concrete start to it all), and if need be, he plays the part of your therapist, almost. Anything that you’re too hurt, scared or uncomfortable to discuss with Sunday you can share with him if you feel like it, and although he won’t ever help you escape and will put a stop to your attempts if he bears witness to them, he is one whom you can make the mental aspect of your stay easier with. 

Then, Dan Heng doesn’t really engage as he wants to remain respectful of what he deems to be Sunday’s territory in a way, but since your day one on the Express, even before the whole fiasco went down, you have gotten the image that he must have at least a little bit of a soft spot for you. Though subtle, he occasionally seemingly tries to help you get a little break from Sunday’s presence by calling him for some Express related responsibilities that you’re not allowed to hear or such. He isn’t one to rely on when it comes to escaping, but similar to Welt, he’s another one you can lean on if need be. Though, it’s a little difficult to read his intentions as sometimes you feel like he appears to be deliberately beguiling you to him. 

Setting the problem of the rest of the crew being present aside, your best bet left is going through your captor himself. It’s fairly obvious that the physical threat of him isn’t very noteworthy — crudely put, he’s the textbook definition of a skinny white boy — and since that is the case, you technically have a chance at overpowering him with brawn. The only issue with it is that he has his halo on his side, and he needs but a blink of an eye to put you back in your place if you try to act up, but if you really decide to put your all into it, it’s manageable. Though, it’s good to remember that he’s pretty much the only one out of the crew, save for March, who you could pull such a thing with, so the joy would likely be short-lived. 

Lastly, there’s the fact that Sunday truly isn’t stone cold of a person. He’s candid and lucid in a way that he can still experience guilt, and it’s precisely the most important thing to take advantage of if you’re planning to make your escape. As you already know, he’s conscientious to a fault, meaning that no door will be left unlocked and no detail overlooked when it comes to keeping you captive, but if you make him feel culpable enough, it’s almost as if he starts being careless. Suddenly, he forgets to close the latch to your room when he goes to use the bathroom, or he doesn’t seem to mind you having a sharp item or two on hand. You don’t know whether it’s on purpose or merely genuine negligence towards what he used to be so particular about, but whatever the case, it appears as if his own subconscious is actively fighting against him to get you free. 

When it comes to making things easier for yourself, there isn’t that much you can do since the convenient sides of being a darling are practically handed to you on a silver plate. Frankly, Sunday isn’t a scary yandere by any means: You can just be your normal self, go on about your daily habits as best as you’re able and occasionally allow him to touch you here and there, and everything is the best it could be. 

˗ˏˋ ★ 9. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes? What unique qualities do they possess?

As does his past counterpart, as brushed upon, he likes cleanliness, order, harmony and so on. Growing up in the circumstances that he had, he never knew any worse, and though the room you’re in is quite dusty and filled with stacks of boxes that contain who-knows-what, he still makes do with what little cleaning he can conduct in the cramped space. 

He makes the bed each time you leave the room even though he knows that you’re going to be resting on it a few minutes later again, for example. Or, if you leave things lying on the floor, you can be certain that if they sit as they are for more than a short while, he’ll sort them back into their place or slide them into your bag and clean the bag itself out in the meantime, too. It’s just a force of habit: What little he can affect, he will. It’s not necessarily compulsive even though it occasionally appears like it, and it’s nothing that hinders you in any way, but you do, admittedly, sometimes feel a tiny bit belittled when he has to clean after you. 

He’s all about appearances in other areas as well. He’s used to being content with relatively little, but it’s still important for him to keep up a sort of dignified manner about himself, and that includes you. Essentially, he wants to give the rest of the crew the impression that you’re doing at least somewhat good, meaning that if you’re going to interact with the others, he’s going to have you dress up not to look like a walking shell of a human being. He brushes your hair down, uses a handkerchief to dab tear streaks off your face, makes sure that you don’t have any obvious signs of distress on you, and only then does he allow you to walk into the communal spaces of the Express. 

Moreover, having you socialize with his companions without him in your immediate vicinity is a bit of an iffy topic for him. As mentioned, you’re allowed to talk to the others when he’s within earshot, but leaving you alone with his certain companions rouses mixed feelings in him. On one hand, he has never been one to take the chances, but on the other, he understands that depriving you of talking to anyone else but him would be absolutely detrimental to your mental health, and that there really isn’t anything that bad that could come out of leaving you alone with someone like March. No matter how diligent he is, he would never be able to patch off every single escape route you could take regardless, and it’s a reality he finds himself having a difficult time facing. However, after a bit of pondering, he decides that if you ever wanted to, he would allow you to spend a little time with the others without him looming right behind you. 

He would even leave you alone with Dan Heng if you expressed any interest in that. Though, he can’t entirely erase the tiny bit of distaste he has towards the interaction: He would rather not use the word ”jealousy”, for in his mind, it implies a more intense kind of an emotion, but it is exactly that, albeit on a much lighter level. He’s used to swallowing down the more unsavoury of his feelings, and to some extent, he thinks it’s his responsibility not to allow himself to go through them. So, if spending a while tête-à-tête with Dan Heng is something that would get you in a better mood, he won’t refuse your request. He’s probably going to sulk for a while, though.

Oh, but the Trailblazer he will not leave you alone with, and it’s non-negotiable. It’s not that he doesn’t hold them dear or that he has to fear for your general well-being when they’re around, but the fact that for one, they seem to be very, very nosey. Sunny’s affairs appear to be something they’re incredibly interested in for no apparent reason, which, of course, includes you more often than he would like. There have been several times when they have barged into your room without knocking and cut a tranquil moment short in the most abrupt way possible. Managing to fluster someone like Sunday isn’t a feat a lot of people can pull off, but goodness fucking gracious, if the menace of a person doesn’t excel in it. It’s almost like they deliberately try to catch you and him at the most awkward moments: You could be napping peacefully with no concern in the world, and then you’re torn away from your dreams by a bang and a consequent adrenaline surge as the Trailblazer swings the door open and theatrically gasps at the sight of Sunday secretly cuddling you. ”Ha-ha, Sunny likes her” seems to be the core of the enjoyment they get out of their antics. 

Also, it’s not like anyone ever really sees you and Sunday apart very often. Quicker than you would like, the two of you become a package deal, almost: Where you are, he is, and vice versa. To your discomfort, you realise that you must more or less have begun to already lose your identity in the others’ eyes due to them always seeing you glued to his side. 

One day, when there’s an urgent matter to be discussed, you no longer get to hear your and his names shouted out separately. Instead, knocking on the door of your room, Himeko calls for the two of you at the same time with an amalgamate formed from each of your names’ syllables, finishing her words with a brief laugh as if she hadn’t just aired the most psychologically damaging sentence that could ever have hit your ears. And, it won’t be much longer until March and the Trailblazer adopt the same manner, too. 

You despise it, and he knows you hate it, too, but at the same time, trying to view the matter through the rest of the crew’s eyes, you can’t quite blame them — the ones that didn’t play a part in your undoing, anyway. It undoubtedly and objectively mirrors what he has become to you. Whenever something is wrong — actually and acutely wrong — you don’t go to Welt, you don’t go to Himeko, not Dan Heng or March or, Aeons bless, the Trailblazer; you go to Sunday. And, each time, no matter how dire the problem, he always does his utmost best to help you. Reliable is what he is to you, you realize, and no matter which angle you try to look at it from, it’s a fact you can’t simply gloss over. Unaware of it, you learned to depend on him, and while he doesn’t show it outwardly, it’s one of the top reasons he gets out of bed every day. 

Moreover, every now and then, you wake up to remember the fact that you’re alone. Not literally, of course, as the Express is home to the rest of the crew and you get to mingle with them on a daily basis if you would like, but at the same time, you know that not a single one of them has your back. Whatever it is that were to happen, not a single one would take your side. 

Though your rationale screams at you otherwise, in your weakest moments, you can’t help but start questioning your beliefs, your own feelings. It’s as if the concept of morals itself had twisted itself inside out, and you were the odd one out in the grand scheme of things. You don’t have anybody to turn to, not a soul to bleed your feelings out on that would understand and actually aid you. The sense of isolation is on an entirely different level. 

Although, it could be worse. He does sometimes wonder how things would have been like if it wasn’t the current him that found you and took a liking to you. Seldom, when he has trouble sleeping at night and is lying on the narrow bedroll beside you, not yet daring to touch you in case you were to wake up, he entertains the harrowing yet riveting thought of what if. What if he was still the rigorous and obdurate Oak Family head who would spiral if something didn’t go exactly as planned? He can almost form a picture in his mind of him in the white suit with you standing next to him with a taut look on your face. 

The notion makes him feel a distinct sort of dread. While he knows it’s something that will never happen, and that he would never do any of the things to you that his past self would have, it’s also something he has nightmares about every so often. He’s nothing if not a habitual overthinker, but fortunately, whenever the scenarios in his mind grow too wild, he just has to feel the shape of your shoulder, your head, the curve of your back beneath his palm, and it will all be alright again. 

Finally, something that’s simultaneously incredibly relieving and equally as horrifying as you learn about it is that although he very well could, he doesn’t read your thoughts unless strictly imperative. He would be lying if he said that he isn’t occasionally tempted — not necessarily in a I-know-you’re-hiding-something way (albeit sometimes that, too), but just in general. He wonders what might be going through your head when you smile at something, or what you’re thinking about when you’re gazing out of the Express’ windows with your eyes glazed over. If he wanted to, the answer to his questions would be just a single trick of his powers away, but from the very start, he promised himself to allow you that much privacy. After all, there couldn’t possibly be anything more invasive than probing the world in someone’s brain, and that being the case, unless he has an exceptionally pressing reason not to, he will leave your thoughts alone. 

NS-FW

˗ˏˋ ★ 10. General look: How does their sexuality manifest? What does sex mean to them? How horny are they?

As much as he doesn’t like to admit it, he does have his urges. Due to his nature and overall personality, he doesn’t enjoy open and honest expressions of anything sexual, and even the most surface-level, scientific conversation around the topic is enough to make him moderately uncomfortable. It’s just how he is: He thinks that private matters should be private, and the carnal certainly goes in that category.

Yet, he gets unbearably horny at times. It’s not very common for him, and before you came around, he could probably count the amount of meaningful hard-ons he has had in his time with the Express with two hands, but now, even very little visual stimulation is enough to get his pants straining. 

Though, you would never be able to tell because he’s ridiculously skilled at hiding it: His eyes never linger, he keeps his hands to himself, and if need be, he excuses himself for a moment in the least suspicious way possible. That being the case, you can’t ever really tell what’s going on in his head regarding his more lustful desires, but he does get embarrassed about them nonetheless. Naturally, as was for his former self, the sight of your bare ankle is probably still too much for him to bear on occasion. 

Yet, he remains most respectful. His touches are always tasteful in nature, and though he sometimes steals glances at your figure, he makes sure that it’s not making you uneasy and that nobody else sees what he’s doing. In a way, he feels that desiring you makes him weak, and that he should be able to completely extinguish the urges he has towards you, but alas, the task proves impossible. He treats having the thoughts as a punishable offence, almost: The more desperate he becomes, the less he allows himself to touch you, but such practice only throws him deeper in the loop. At a certain point, he simply has to admit that there are limits to his strength of mind, and while that vexes him to no end, it doesn’t take him too long to come up with the thought that maybe, just maybe, there are alternative ways he could handle the matter with. 

Oh, and he has wild dreams. He’s very adept at controlling his thoughts in the waking world, but when his subconscious takes the reins, it’s a different story entirely. No matter how many times he promises himself that that night, he isn’t going to have anything explicit happen in his dreams, he needs but a single whiff of your scent in his half-asleep state, and he falls right into the same pattern. More than anything, waking up with a painfully rigid morning wood exasperates himself the most rather than you as he usually wills the problem away way before you start stirring, but the more frequent the occasion, the further his understanding of the fact that he can’t go on like this solidifies. 

˗ˏˋ ★ 11. Limit: How long does it take for them to have the darling? What is the first time like? Do they care about the darling’s willingness?

For Sunday to reach a point where he will take you, a whole lot of mental gymnastics has to be performed. 

In the first weeks of your captivity, he’s convinced that he’s going to be able to live without ever getting to touch you beyond the surface level, and he’s actually quite content with that. He doesn’t need much, and in a way, he feels like he doesn’t really deserve much either, but glossing over the implication, you get to enjoy your bodily autonomy for quite a long time compared to a few other, unnamed candidates. Truthfully speaking, if he didn’t ever happen to have a certain conversation with none other than Dan Heng, he would probably never get to the point where he starts considering taking you, but alas, very few secrets on the Express only stay with one person. 

The two don’t even converse with each other that often — unfortunately even less now that you’re in the picture — but one time, as Sunday has allowed you a while alone for once, they happen to stop for a chat. At first, it’s not about anything in particular: It’s the typical how are you, the Express’ next destination, what’s going to be had for dinner, all sorts of mundane stuff, but then, the talk starts steering in a much more sensitive direction. 

You, as a topic, aren’t really something Sunday wants to talk about all that much. It’s not to say that he wouldn’t have an infinite list of things he would like to gush about if he got the chance, but in a way, he feels like it would be a breach of your privacy if he were to. However, something about the interaction has him lower his guard enough for him to start sharing a few details. 

You’re on your period. That much is obvious to anyone who has two functioning eyes — or something is going on, at least. You’re constantly in and out of the bathroom with him naturally following you there and back, you’re sleeping a considerable lot more, you sit curled up into a ball, there’s a shadow of fatigue on your face. That, and Dan Heng, namely, doesn’t even have to look for such signs as he can quite literally smell the hormonal changes either way. It’s not anything he’s the least bit bothered about — he has had to share his living space with women for a long time now — but for one reason or another, he decides to bring the matter up with Sunday. 

The conversation isn’t a very in-depth one, of course. It’s more along the lines of Dan Heng suggesting a few things: ”If she needs any, there are painkillers in the Party Car”, ”March probably has a rice pad she could borrow”, and ”it’s probably best if she gets to sleep a little more than usual” — all quite innocent pieces of advice, all things considered. 

That is, until he decides to drop one last recommendation to go. ”And if you were to-, or if she were to... you know. That can be helpful for some. Both for the mood and the cramps”, Dan Heng makes a slight, circular gesture with his wrist to fill out the unspoken part of the sentence. He doesn’t present the idea in a suggestive way at all, simply stating what he knows and what might work, or perhaps insinuating that Sunday should give you a little more time alone. The answer he gets is a mindful nod and a few tasteful words of gratitude, but little does he know that the idea has already begun simmering in Sunday’s brain. 

It could be beneficial, is what pushes the boulder to roll down the slippery slope. If he was being frank with himself, Sunday would recognize that even before the chat, he was already subconsciously looking for just about any justification for getting to have more of you; he was just a tad bit too prim to admit it to himself. He’s both exceedingly selfless and horribly egocentric at the same time — the sort of contradicting juxtaposition he once was so deathly afraid of — yet now, the word that eventually comes out of his soul-searching is acceptance. It’s a rabbit hole he immediately dives into, and he dives deep. Suddenly, all he can think about is how taking you could potentially end up as a favourable thing in the long run after all, how maybe, things could end up being better. In the back of his warped mind, he recognizes that he’s wandering uncomfortably close to the extremist views he used to hold again, but ultimately, he decides that sometimes, true to the spirit of Trailblaze, choices just have to be made without looking back.

It’s not during your period when he initiates it — nowhere near, in fact. It’s not the time of the month itself that’s the hindering factor, inherently (albeit he would truthfully like to avoid anything... messy like that), but rather the fact that it takes him a long time to come to terms with what he intends to do. He lasts for weeks on end, even coming close to committing to the aim a good few times before chickening out at the last second, but eventually, he gathers himself and finally steps over the threshold. 

He’s skilled, so terrifyingly talented at masking his intentions that you truly don’t have any idea what is going to happen to you before the latch on the door to your room is already clicked shut. Even then, though he almost never locks the exit for the night, the first thought in your mind is a rational explanation for the unusual act. Maybe it’s because you’ve been acting up, or maybe he’s just feeling anxious, maybe he’s-, maybe he’s...

But it’s all written in his body language. Not the fact that he’s nervous or jittery in any way, but the fact that he’s not. He’s so eerily calm, so expressionless that the alarm bells in your head go off without you having the faintest idea about what they’re picking up. Wordlessly, sitting on the bedroll a few meters away, you look over at where he stands by the entrance. Instinctively, you drop whatever you’re doing, if anything, and focus your full attention on his form. Your heart rate picks up, and the lurching, icy cold sensation of dread settles itself in the depths of your stomach as your eyes lock with his. 

For a good moment, he can’t find the words. He planned ahead, of course, he thought about what he should say, but now that the situation is actually at hand, he just can’t get his voice out. The eye contact, stretching for seconds on end, pulls the atmosphere as taut as a violin string. He doesn’t have to utilize his powers to sense the trepidation practically radiating off of you, and though he doesn’t show it, he’s just as anxious; he can’t believe he’s doing this. 

However, just as he has done for his entire life, he pushes the feeling down, takes in a deep breath through his nose, and speaks out the damning words. ”I have been... thinking”, he begins, his voice rather quiet but as placid as ever. ”I believe it is time I should... we should perhaps be intim-”

In a fraction of a second, your eyes go as wide as saucers, you raise your arm in front of you, and his sentence is cut off in the middle by the sound of a sharp inhale preceding what would most likely have been an ear-piercing scream. However, just as your vocal cords are about to catch the breath, once more, the Harmony reaches you. Like a flame had been doused, the panic dissolves from your features without a second’s delay, and nothing but an odd, distantly perturbed look remains on your face. 

You can see, hear and feel it all, though. Through the colourful haze at the edges of your vision, you can see how he proceeds to close the distance in between you, then crouch in front of you, and rest his hand over your arm. With his mouth a tiny bit ajar, he observes your countenance for a moment. You swear your heart leaves a few beats out. 

”You’re going to be fine”, he says to you as he reaches around your shoulders. 

Gently, he rests you to lie down on the bedroll. The words spoken sound entirely foreign coming out of his mouth: It’s not like him to make promises, much less ones both you and him know he won’t be able to keep. 

Nevertheless, even as your blank eyes flood with tears, he can’t bring himself to stop. Letting out an inaudible sigh, he merely proceeds to withdraw a little in favour of ridding himself of his overcoat and his boots. Carefully, he folds the piece of clothing over his arm before laying it down beside the mattress, after which he works his gloves off. He performs the task almost mechanically, as if there wasn’t a single drop of emotional charge in the air. He keeps his gaze low, not once searching for yours. 

Truth to be told, he’s ashamed: Exerting control over you like this is the most cowardly, most heartless thing he could possibly do, yet wrestling you down isn’t something he could bear to commit to at a moment like this. Furthermore, no matter how harrowing the experience must be for you, he keeps the extent of his powers to a minimum, only restricting your bodily flailing and your voice. He makes sure you can still move your eyes, and after brief contemplation, he retracts more of his sway in favour of allowing you to shift the tiniest bit. 

Immediately, your face contorts to a distraught expression, albeit still faintly repressed by his tuning. Once more, you attempt to speak, to wail, perhaps, but nothing but a soundless, shaky gasp comes out. The amount of tears now running down the sides of your face looks almost disproportionate to how feeble everything else about you appears at the moment: It’s as if droplets of water had been mottled over your face to make it seem as if you were crying your eyes out. However, he knows it’s the very tears that are the only candid indication of your current state. 

He’s not certain whether he should try to talk you through it or if it would be more favourable for him to keep his mouth shut. Even now, he has to concentrate on keeping his own presence in check. Ignoring the sickening, gnawing feeling of guilt in his chest is taking a good chunk of his focus, and the rest is directed towards fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Within a moment that takes all too long, he strips himself of his garments one by one until only his trousers remain, and only then does he turn his attention back towards you. 

With heedfully slow movements, he settles his knees on either side of your thighs, climbing over you. Silently, he observes the way your shoulders twitch along with your suppressed sobs, how your hands are fighting but not quite managing to clench into fists, how you close your eyes and desperately try to turn your head to the side not to have to meet his gaze. Looking down at you, once more, he wonders if he should just call it quits again, to save the bigger fright for another day when he has had the chance to process his feelings better, but at the same time, he realizes that you, nor him for that matter, will ever truly be ready for the leap ahead. Thus, he bites the inside of his lower lip and carries on. 

Carefully, as gently as he ever could, he sets his palm over your waist, slides his fingers beneath the fabric of your top, then realizes his hands are practically freezing, and immediately pulls away. A mean twinge of abashment causes his phlegm to waver as he promptly proceeds to rub his palms together for a while, after which he returns to the task. Slowly, he peels the hem of your shirt back all the way to the junction of your shoulders where he lets go of the article of clothing in favour of bending your arms up. Then, taking care not to rip anything, he slides the top past your elbows, your forearms, your hands. 

He’s faced with the sight of your bra. Slipping his touch beneath the curve of your back, he searches around for a moment before locating the clasp. The sense of red-hot shame almost catches up with him as he’s unable to fiddle the hooks open with one hand only, but after bringing the other to help in the task, he successfully manages to rid you of the garment. 

For a second, his head completely empties itself when your chest is bared to his eyes. For once, he stares, he truly stares without measuring the seconds that pass by as he takes in the view, completely and utterly speechless. It’s like his thoughts were jammed in place, like time itself had stopped for a moment. His eyes travel over the round shapes, the untouched skin, the goosebumps, all with a level of focus he himself didn’t know he was capable of. 

However, another gasp is what breaks him out of his thoughts. Glancing at your face, he is once more reminded of the weight of the situation, and thus, he promptly continues where he left off. With as much tenderness as he’s possibly able to muster, he lays one of his palms over your breast, then the other, and gently moulds the two around in a circular motion. He hardly even registers the throbbing in his pants as he repeats the action.

But you look so miserable. He’s not deep enough in the fantasy to forget about it — he could never be. Still, as if he could somehow hope to remedy the situation, he leans down to the side of your face and presses his lips against your temple. As soft as the melody keeping you docile, he plants kisses over your cheek, your jaw, down your neck, along your collarbone and shoulder, after which he settles for tipping your chin back the tiniest bit to be able to connect his mouth with the thin skin over your larynx. It’s in a worshipping manner, almost; with the sort of devotion believers dedicate to their respective Aeons. The taste of your tears lingers on his tongue, the sound of your toneless sobs grate his ears, yet he can think of nothing but the sheer rapture of finally getting to connect with you in the most primitive way. 

Soon, your bottoms follow the rest of your clothes. You can only watch your lower half be revealed to his gaze in a single, smooth motion as his fingers drag along your hips, your thighs, your legs. You can barely make sense of the image you see through the blurry sheen over your eyes, yet the unmistakable, lovesick glint in his own couldn’t possibly be missed.  

Silently, he stops to gaze down at what he’s working with. For the entire time, he has the same mantra on a loop in his head: It’s good for you, it’s good for you, it’s good for you. Each time his thoughts are about to stray towards the distraught, toneless sniffles and silent pleads that flow out of your mouth, he returns to the same notion. It’s good for you, it’s good for you, it’s good for you...

He planned a pattern for the act, and it’s what he follows meticulously. Before any sort of penetration takes place, you must be sufficiently wet down there, he recites his own instructions in his head, and if possible, entirely relaxed. Once more, he rubs his hands together to warm them up before telling you ”I’m going to be careful”, after which you feel something prodding at your bits. 

You would cry out if you were able to. It’s a strange feeling; to have your vocal cords constrict to form the sound but be entirely unable to let it out. You feel utterly, wholly violated, defiled. His touch, despite gentler than it has ever been, seems to sear your skin and corrode your very soul. The tears just won’t stop coming. 

Carefully, his gloveless middle finger slides in between your labia, glides past your clit, and stops at the slit of your entrance. His brows rise the tiniest bit, and his Halovian wings make a brief, fluttering movement. 

There’s not a single bit of dampness, he notes to himself as he draws his digits back to confirm the finding. Disheartenment pricks at his chest as he realizes that he failed to prepare any supplies to help ease the slide, but after a mere moment of deliberation, he decides that he has come a little too far to stop now. 

After gazing at his own fingers for a moment, he promptly brings them to his lips and dips them into his mouth. 

You close your eyes. Instead of subjecting yourself to the horror of having to watch him coat his appendages with his own saliva, you try to force your mind to hang onto anything but him. You focus on the feeling of the mattress underneath you, the distantly musty smell of the room, the hum of the Express’ engines, yet none of it is strong enough to block out the feeling of him once more brushing against your inner thighs. 

”It would be best if you didn’t clench”, you hear him say as two of his fingers push past your opening, gently prying your walls apart. 

You wish you had something to hold onto, something to bite on, anything to take away from the sensation of him invading you, but ultimately, there’s nothing left for you to do other than feel yourself be breached. The misery gets stuck in your throat. 

His free hand strokes along the length of your outer thigh as he drags his digits in and out of you at a slow pace, making sure not to prod against anything sensitive. He keeps everything calm, not building haste even when he momentarily slips his fingers out to draw a few measured shapes over your clit, sending warm, tingly constrictions up your stomach. 

For once, he almost falls victim to his desire to encroach on your thoughts. He’s curious, so terribly curious about how it all might feel to you. It’s not painful — that much he’s certain of — but he wishes to know just exactly how your most sensitive parts react to his caresses, how the light stretch at your canal gradually relaxes your insides, how each sensation on your delicate bits pushes you further down the path he has dragged you on. A rosy heat dances along his cheeks as he takes in the sight of your face. 

Despite every last fiber of your being having sunk into the inescapable depths of misery, tangible, mellow pleasure ripples in your abdomen. The feeling grows quickly, uncontrollably. How much of it is his doing, you’re not certain — if any at all — yet it’s simultaneously all you can focus on and so far out of your reach that you’re not even sure if it’s real. The pads of his digits press up against the malleable front wall of your insides, his thumb swirls over your clit every few moments, you can feel his laboured breaths against the side of your face as he leans down yet again, and it all builds up to the inescapable, tightening sensation in your stomach. 

It doesn’t take long for you to finish; so much so that he himself appears a little dazed when he feels the convulsions around his fingers. The trance-like state the room has fallen into shifts to disperse and make way to tender lassitude as the soft quivers rake your entire lower half. He watches you come down from the high, slowing down his movements in the same pace he believes the knot is coming undone in. 

His member throbs. The feeling is unlike anything he has ever experienced. The dreams he has had, the fantasies he has entertained — none of it comes nowhere close to what he’s contending with at the moment. 

At the start of the night, he surmised that just getting this little bit of you would suffice for the time being, but now, as his eyes rest on the view of your trembling, nude body, his resolution wavers. 

Like in a haze, his hands move down to his trousers where he rids himself of the last bit of clothing. Wordlessly, he folds his pants over to the side of the bedroll, takes a deep breath, and properly settles himself in between your thighs, climbing above your shivering form once more. 

He sets his elbows on either side of your head, careful not to tangle them in your splayed hair as he finds his balance. Tenderly, so harrowingly frailly that your heart could shrivel up right then and there, he cups your face with both of his hands and leans down to plant a weightless kiss on your ajar lips. You let out a toneless gasp in response, and though you’re unable to pull away, you still make a meagre attempt to reject the gesture. He closes his eyes for a moment. 

”It’s not going to hurt”, he vows to you in a voice no louder than a whisper. I believe, he wants to follow the words with, but as he watches the dimples beneath your collar bones deepen when you once more tense up and attempt to cry out loud, he decides that perhaps this once, it’s better to be economical with the truth.

He reaches down. Carefully, while his other hand caresses your cheek, he wraps his fingers around his member and guides its head to your entrance. He feels the way you constrict around the tip, he sees how you squeeze your eyes shut, how your entire body fights to tauten, but ultimately, he glides in without a single bit of true effort. 

It doesn’t hurt — you merely feel penetrated. You can feel the pressure of the intrusion, the warmth of him inside of you, yet the last bist of your dignity being ripped away from you is more excruciating than any physical pain could possibly be. 

Once more, he brings his hands up to cradle your face. His wings, feathery soft, come to rest on each side of your head, wrapping you in their tender embrace. 

”Please don’t cry”, he says, yet the words aren’t spoken with a plea — he’s asking, advising you not to shed more tears, as if the matter made no difference to him whatsoever. You crack your eyes open to see his own inches away from yours. His pupils have dilated, his mouth hangs slightly open, a heavy blush covers his features in a way that looks almost unnatural on him. ”Please don’t cry”, he repeats.

There’s no pain with him, no rough edges, no sudden movements or physical strain you should fear, but as he begins thrusting into you at a deep, measured pace, the reverberations of the act end up being all the same. 

˗ˏˋ ★ 12. Preferences: What is sex with them like? What sort of stuff are they into? What kind of kinks do they have?

Sunday, for one, doesn’t prefer to experiment much. Though he’s still a little uncertain at the start, he has a vague picture in his mind of how he thinks he would enjoy the act of sex — how he ought to enjoy it — and it’s what he uses to navigate the sexual realm. 

First and foremost, he seeks connection rather than the pleasure itself. With what happened in Penacony, he begrudgingly (albeit now fain) let go of his compulsive need for control, and he no longer wishes to impose any sort of power dynamic over the two of you as far as possible. Then again, he would be lying if he said that the thought isn’t at least a tiny bit intriguing, but as things are, bringing any sort of pain on you is entirely out of the question. Hence, you’re in for a relatively calm yet a little more vulnerable time, so to speak.  

- Very soft, very demure, very mindful

He's a yearner, through and through.

It’s just how he likes it. It’s the sort of intercourse that’s described in the mushy romance literature that people read, and though he understands that the fiction part of it is precisely what makes it so attractive, he can’t help but be drawn towards it. It’s the closeness, the experience of ”becoming one” that appears so holy to him, and that is what he pursues.

He never gets rough. It’s like he was physically unable to use any more than a little strength with you, and it’s also the reason behind why he uses Harmony and not his hands when he has to hold you down. It’s not that he wouldn’t be able to manage the latter — albeit lithe, he’s a man, and that in itself comes with a few physical advantages — but he just really would rather not bring any more strain into the situation. Of course, in an ideal world, he wouldn’t have to restrict you at all, but more often than not, as in always, you tend to disagree with his actions. So, after giving you a good few warnings that if you continue struggling, he’s going to have to-, and as your hand flies up to him to try to land a death grip on one of his wings, he decides that maybe from then on, a single admonition will suffice. 

When it comes to the act itself, everything he does is hasteless in nature. He takes his time undressing both of you, he puts effort into setting the mood with the correct kind of touch, words, actions, caressing your skin with measured brushes and kissing the most sensitive spots along your body. His favourite points to lay his lips on end up being ones where he can kind of hide himself: Underneath your jaw, on your inner thighs, and the bony spot right beneath your ear. The last of the three, especially, is one he’s fond of, and it’s also the place he gravitates towards when he reaches a stable rhythm for the act. No matter how many times you’ve gone through it, the way you can quite literally hear the way his mouth moulds against your skin never fails to have shivers tingling down the entire length of your neck and back. Each time, you know it’s coming, but the sensitivity and vulnerability of it all is still something you won’t ever properly get used to. 

He likes to kiss you quite a lot in general, the traditional way. Yes, it’s a little difficult with how you’re usually barely able to move your own lips, but it’s also a necessarily evil as he would prefer not to have his tongue bitten off in the middle of the deed. He’s not exactly one for the sort of kisses that are just a fancy synonym for exchanging a deciliter of saliva or seeing what the back of your throat tastes like — it’s more on the side of light brushes with pauses in between as he’s typically focused on other parts of your body at the same time, too. 

He’s also one for the sort of gestures that simultaneously have your stomach lurching while almost having you finish from a single touch. With him, the more dreadful part about the ordeal isn’t the actual things done to you but the emotional responses they evoke in you: Quite often, he starts the night by rendering your nude form motionless before gently picking up your foot and slowly kissing up the length of the limb. You can feel each brush of his lips against your shivering skin, the wet feeling the contact leaves behind, the soft breaths through his nose. It’s the kind of sensation that has your chest tightening with warmth, tears pricking at your eyes and strange places on your body suddenly tautening, yet all you can do is lie still and let him make his way all the way up to your hip before he picks up your other leg and repeats the same process. You don’t think even he himself understands how stupidly peerless he is at manipulating your nerve endings. 

And, of course, he does his best to reassure you throughout. After a few times of going through the same rigmarole, the sight of your tears doesn’t produce as big of a stress spike in him anymore, and he’s able to properly concentrate on trying to calm you down as best as possible. He isn’t all that vocal during, and the few words he tends to say are usually along the lines of ”it is going to be fine”, ”you’re in good hands” and an outright ”there is no need to cry”. It depends on the day whether or not his words have the intended effect, and sometimes, he has to resort to taking a moment to wrap you in a proper embrace before continuing the act. 

- Unintentional service dom

I made up an entirely new term for this purpose only: PSD, standing for pathetic service dom. There’s very little that’s truly dominant about his attitude, yet at the same time, some of his actions speak the language of someone who wants nothing more than to exercise their power over you in the most primitively humiliating way possible. It’s an odd equation. 

Nevertheless, his ultimate goal for the deed is to make sure that you’re ”being taken care of”. It’s a bit of an ambiguous objective, but to him, it means granting you ample amounts of gratification via bodily closeness and making it so that you fall right on the line of not having been pushed over the limit while not having to ask for more. You don’t ever have to beg or plead — he’s going to give it to you without any obligation to bind you. In his humble opinion and experience, you’re the most agreeable when you have been looked after both psychologically and physically. 

He learns the ins and outs of your body fast. Though it’s largely a trial-and-error process, and there are times when he prods at the wrong spot, he ends up getting the gist of it with only a mere few mistakes. His technique is simple and to-the-point while preserving the sense of quietude at the same time, and the result is basically a recipe for your undoing. 

He’s prone to focusing more on other things aside from penetration. Foreplay, namely, feels like it lasts forever with him. If possible, he would prefer not to use lube as he wouldn’t like to make the cleaning afterwards more of a hassle than it already is, so making sure that you’re adequately prepared is a top priority of his. Usually, he takes you through at least one climax before proceeding to push his member into you, whether that be with his hand, his mouth, or both at the same time. And, half of the time, he doesn’t even end up going inside at all. 

Fingering is a common act that he indulges in. The hand is the part of the body with the most precise motoric control, so it only makes sense that his digits would be the most practical pick for the task. Moreover, the rumour about pianists’ fingers seems to have truth to it: He’s precise, meticulous and oh-so gentle. 

After making sure that you’re basically spilling down there, it’s plain sailing for him to slide his appendages in. First one, then another, and then he starts sliding the two in and out while softly nudging against the front wall with just enough pressure. If his other hand isn’t already busy with your breasts, he might start circling your clit with his thumb just to ease the process even more. He takes it slow, carefully observing your reaction to each thing he does, making sure to keep his tempo stable and leisurely — as stated, there’s no rush for anything with him. 

The handy part about using his digits, namely, is the fact that the position isn’t as limited as it would be with any other body part. You can lie down on your back (which you most often do), on your stomach, or you could be resting on his lap with his chin on your shoulder. He doesn’t like to get that innovative with how you’re situated, but if you were to express any sort of opinion on the matter, he would be willing to listen. 

Then, using his mouth is also very much on the table, no matter which body part it’s latched on. Aside from the kissing part, he’s also particularly fond of spending time softly sucking your nipples while his hand is busy between your legs. At first, it’s something he’s a little hesitant to do as he fears that it could be a bit too intense of a sensation, but he caves into his urges before long. 

Naturally, oral is something he gladly partakes in. It’s not as often as it tends to require a bit more patience from both parties, but every few sessions or so, he eats you out. If there’s one thing he does that discomfits you the most, it’s the terribly probing way he goes about it. He settles down in between your thighs and leans down towards your privates, seemingly paying no mind to the way you’re clearly doing your utmost to fight the bindings of his song, evidently to no avail. Then, as carefully as if he was parting the pages of a book, he slides the pads of his thumbs in between your labia and reveals your vulva to his sight. 

With his face as blank as ever, he admires the view for a moment, taking mental note of where everything is. You can feel the gentle breeze of his breaths against your bits, the weight of his gaze is unbearable and leaves a fresh layer of tears stinging at your lashlines, but the moment doesn’t last for long as it only takes a mere few seconds for him to dive in. 

Lastly, as the cornerstone of all he does, he’s quite cautious with your climaxes. He has a decent understanding of how an orgasm is for the female body — he’s not clueless — but he would still rather be overly careful than end up going too far and overstimulating you. With a little practice, he’s able to find the sweet spot of continuing just long enough to bring you down from the climax smoothly, but every now and then, if you were to pay attention to it, you could find that he’s a tad bit too heedful with his ministrations. 

- Toys (in moderation)

At first, he’s appalled by the idea. What he would like to say he thinks is that bringing something as brutish as those into the bedroom would not only be counter-intuitive to getting you to not be scared and uncomfortable when he engages in his bodily desires, but it would also be something that would require him to steer away from his fixed views on sex to try. However, his own mind is much more complicated than that, he has to come to realize, and he simply can’t deny the intrigue he has towards what other means of bringing you pleasure could offer. 

Still, he would never entertain anything as... questionable as some others would. Anything that relates to the depiction of sex being something taboo and against the rules is off the table, and that being the case, he doesn’t want rough edges, obscenely shaped or aesthetically disagreeable items anywhere near him, you, or the bed. The chains and whips do not excite him — or, they perhaps would have in the past, he begrudgingly admits to himself, but he no longer harbours the same sort of compulsive need for control as he did back in the day. 

But, as he mulls the topic over for a little, he begins reconsidering his earlier, austere attitude towards the matter. You know, toys — they don’t necessarily have to be indelicate or unsophisticated in nature, he comes to see. Though he’s still horribly embarrassed when he begins looking into it, he can’t deny that his interest has been piqued. It takes him quite a while to mull over all the infinite options the wondrous world of the paraphernalia has to offer: Obviously, he knows which one is which — he wasn’t that shielded nor did he entirely lack curiosity before, but he still has to take breaks every five minutes due to being so mortified with himself. 

And that’s not all. Since he’s basically a fugitive, he can’t really go buy anything himself, and ordering something like that to the Express would be a hassle in the league of its own. So, the only method left for him to try is to conduct the most diabolical, soul-shattering walk of shame to Welt and inform him that ”the next time the Express lands, he would like for something to be bought”. After a quick, horribly awkward conversation, Welt agrees to fulfil the request, and in a week or two, Sunday has a nice, tastefully shaped, vibrating wand in his hand. 

At first, it’s tricky for him to figure out how to integrate the toy into the bedroom. Thoughtful as he is, his first instinct would be to ask you, but he’s quick-witted enough to figure out what your answer would be. Therefore, he finds that his best bet is to just pull the thing out whenever he decides to next indulge in your body. 

You’re not at all pleased about the revelation, of course. Lying beneath him on the bedroll with one of his hands at your sternum, pressed down and not under his tuning for once, already in a sensitive and vulnerable state, the reaction you grant him when he presents you with the pale blue anathema is a wide-eyed stare, a shaky gasp, and then a thin, plaintive ”please, I don’t want that”. He does pity you a little, and for a moment, he considers if he should just let you off with a scare and instead leave the trial run for the next time, but ultimately, he decides that it’s best not to have you dreading. 

Even though he pre-tested the device a few hours prior, he still flinches right along with you when the toy whirs to life at the push of the power button. He’s quick to turn the intensity down to the lowest setting, but you still recoil and meekly struggle against his hold as he edges the thing towards you. Truth to be told, he’s almost equally as lost as you are — he can’t say he has ever used one of these before — yet though you swallow thickly and whisper out more demurs, he proceeds with the act. Bringing the vibrating head of the toy to hover millimetres away from the side of your hip — so close that you can already feel the hum on your skin — he moves the hand on your chest to your shoulder. There, he gives the curve of your upper arm a few, reassuring caresses. ”It doesn’t feel painful, does it?” he states the rather obvious as he softly presses the toy against your outer thigh. ”Please stay still for a moment”, he adds, after which he slides the vibrator towards your nethers.

Your breath hitches in what he can only assume to be mental discomfort as the head of the wand tickles the area over your pubic bone. He doesn’t even need to use his powers to figure out that your hands which rest on either side of your head must be a single bad sensation away from lunging at his face, yet you appear to have understood that being free of his Harmony is an earned comfort: Despite shaky, you remain still. He sends you a brief, impassive smile before releasing your arm and instead moving his hand down to your bits. 

He’s most careful when he uses his index and middle finger to part your folds to reveal your clit to him. Then, as gently as he’s able to, he presses the head of the wand directly against the bud. 

Your entire pelvis jolts off of the mattress as you shriek when the all too intense, violently tickling sensation registers in your brain. Immediately, he pulls the toy back, glancing at you with slightly widened eyes and board-stiff wings, but it ends up taking him but a few seconds to figure out the error. ”I’m sorry”, he mumbles out an apology as he briefly inspects the intricacies of your cunt one more time, after which he proceeds to close in on you with the device yet again. 

This time, he settles for holding its head over the hood of your clit. Quite daringly, he makes an attempt to move the toy in gentle, circular motions, trying his best to utilize the knowledge of what he has learned about your body so far. As soon as he believes he has found a good spot, the fingers spreading your labia leave their place and instead settle for stroking along your navel in a consoling manner. 

It’s both a learning curve and a jump towards the unknown for him, but for you, it’s merely another way you have to weather his need to bring you physical rapture. From that point onwards, the vibrator makes an appearance periodically, especially during times when you’re having a hard time getting into what he refers to as the ”receptive state”. Though the implication of not being enough by himself does wound his pride a little bit, he takes comfort in the fact that it’s still technically him giving you the pleasure, and that ultimately, it’s a tad bit easier to get you to finish with suitable tools. 

Oh, but penetrative implements are not something he will ever dabble in. He considers them, sure, but in the end, the idea of using anything other than his own member to probe you is quite unpleasant to him. He wants to keep at least that much of the act in his perceived sacred category, and besides, he’s a tiny bit afraid that he would hurt you if he started prodding something like a dildo, he shudders, inside of you. 

- Sensory deprivation

Again, it’s not out of malice or the desire to dominate you — or so he claims, at least. Rather, there are a few benefits that come with restricting your senses: Namely, he doesn’t have to think about how he looks or sounds like, you don’t have to spend your time focusing on stimuli that don’t serve the purpose of the session, and consequently, there’s nothing else for you to concentrate on than him. 

He first gets the idea when he happens to bring his hand over your eyes one time when he’s getting it on with you. It’s not necessarily his intention to bring anything about with it — it’s just something he does from time to time when the heat of the moment gets a tiny bit too much on his nerves — but when he realizes that you get a little more reactive towards his touch when you’re not acutely observing what’s going on, he begins wondering if he should pursue the idea further. 

It’s either with his powers or with actual accoutrements; both will do. The latter, albeit, is something he won’t try to use on anything other than your vision as doesn’t find the image of earplugs very... tasteful in the context, but regardless, every now and then, he ties a sash over your eyes. In his experience, you appear to react to physical aids a little better than to when he relies on Harmony: His guess is that it has something to do with the fact that the human brain doesn’t respond very well to a mismatch of perceptions. Not something he could ever properly resonate with — Halovian as he is — but for what it’s worth, he prefers to use a blindfold or his hand most of the time. 

Naturally, he does experiment with abilities from time to time too. Looking at the matter from the practical viewpoint, simply taking your hearing and your vision away from you without the need for a single tangible item is far easier. In the blink of an eye, you no longer see or hear anything, and all that alerts you of his presence is reduced to his scent that lingers all around you and the way his fingertips slide along the length of your thigh. Suddenly, there’s nothing but him left in the room with you, and the only thing you can use to navigate the experience is his touch. 

It’s what he finds enjoyment in as well. When you’re in such a defenceless state, there’s nothing else for you to depend on other than the trust that he’s not going to hurt you, that he’s going to be gentle and merciful with you, that he’s going to take care of you — which he very much does. It makes him feel useful, trusted, reliable, and ah, the sheer joy of being able to convey so much with something as simple as a caress brings him such peace of mind that he can’t believe delight like this could exist. Of course, he still consoles you through it all, mouthing words he knows you can’t hear against your skin while stroking his hand up and down your arm, but nevertheless, though the physical sensation he chases is yours, the pleasure is all his. 

˗ˏˋ ★ 13. Punishment: What do their sexual punishments look like? What methods do they prefer?

Surprise, surprise, it’s not something Sunday does. In his eyes, turning the sexual into something inherently uncomfortable in favour of proving a point that could as well be put across with a few carefully selected words and a little tuning utilization would be beyond foolish. He doesn’t want you to associate sex with pain or any sort of discomfort as far as he’s able to control it. And, furthermore, he’s not one to lose his cool in almost any situation, meaning that you won’t have to fear for the sporadic sort of violent bursts that someone like Phainon would be guilty of. Overall, humiliation, pain, or anything of the sort are not the goal, so you’re free to do as you want without the fear of getting dicked down as a consequence. 

Though, it could be said that a few of his habits could go into the category. They’re not for the means of punishment, necessarily — just a manifestation of the frustration he feels when you behave difficult. 

For the most part, it’s just mild overstimulation and a little sullenness you’ll have to bear. Moreover, the occurrence is seldom enough that you don’t usually know what’s going to go down until he has dragged you to your room and already has you splayed on the bedroll. 

He gets a tiny bit more insistent whenever he’s irritated. Essentially, paying mind to your mental comfort becomes a secondary matter, and his goal shifts from ensuring that you’re as okay as possible during the act to just getting you to finish. Orgasms make you more agreeable and more pliant, is his thought process, and that being said, you’re going to have to endure a few rounds in a row. 

When it comes to the overstimulation part of it, it’s not the flat-out torture sort, but the ticklish tenderness is still present and notable. To his credit, he does give you a half a minute or so worth of a break in between out of courtesy, but after that, he continues without much of a regard towards the discomfort. It’s usually his fingers or mouth that he delivers it to you with, and on average, it’s three or four in succession that you’ll have to bear. The wand makes an appearance on occasion, too, and those are the times you get to witness what is essentially the worst he can offer you in the physical realm, which is not anything compared to what certain others could carry out, but uncomfortable nonetheless.

He gets a little pouty, almost: Though he’s exploiting the act of sex for purely practical purposes in this case, it’s still as intimate of a matter as ever to him. You could look up at where his face is hovering above yours to see that his lips are pressed together and his brows are flat in an expression you rarely see on him. He’s clearly concentrating on the task at hand, but at the same time, he looks a little annoyed. By the same token, he doesn’t really entertain any sort of verbal communication beyond a few one-word answers or commands here and there. 

His tuning trigger, so to speak, is also especially sensitive during such instances. He doesn’t really like using his powers on you as a means to make a point, but if you get exasperating enough, he might choose not to deal with your antics by quite literally just shutting you up with his fingers still halfway inside your bits. It’s also one of the few times he doesn’t see the need to explain himself regarding the usage. You may try to appeal to his softer side, to give him the most convincing, tearful glare you could ever have mustered up — he’s just going to respond to the look with a little but not enough sympathy in his eyes. 

And, the worst thing about it all is that it does work. Even though you wish you had the guts to give him an earful or tear a few plumes off of his stupid flappers, your mean spirit quickly simmers down: The body’s natural response to not being able to move is to slow everything down, and that combined with his fingers working to unravel you, there’s not much you can do aside from rest under or against him until the tight feeling in your abdomen gives way to the release. And, you get a little drowsy afterwards, too, taking a while to just lie on the bed with your chest heaving up and down even when he has already released you from his control. He deems the job well done before getting ready for the tears soon to follow. 

˗ˏˋ ★ 14. Aftermath: What does their aftercare look like? Is there any?

As is with his past counterpart, Sunday’s methods for the aftercare are thorough and very step-by-step, but the difference is that in the present, he’s exceedingly delicate with how he handles you. He listens, he observes, he pays attention to the details and puts significant effort into trying to help you through the myriad of emotions which rake your mind and body alike in the aftermath of it all. 

Peculiarly enough, he doesn’t prefer to linger in the afterglow for that long. Or, he perhaps would if you were in any state resemblant to serenity, but as the reality is what it is, he would feel terribly selfish if he were to prolong the torment for you in that way. Naturally, he lets you come down from your climax without a hurry in the world, taking care to slow the pace of whatever it is that he’s doing before halting his ministrations entirely and carefully pulling out of you. As mentioned before, he’s very mindful about not overstimulating you, and he tends to be so cautious with his movements that you don’t occasionally even notice that the intrusion has left you until you actually see him withdrawing. 

The first thing he opens his mouth for is to ask if you’re in pain anywhere, and it’s usually also the point where the scale tips and the relatively tranquil atmosphere in the room starts shifting towards desolation. It’s a question he hates asking: He’s unable to find the words to express it in a way that doesn’t sound dismissive of what you must be feeling, but at the same time, he needs to know. Furthermore, he seldom gets the answer straight as even if he were to phrase the question as an even simpler yes-or-no — “Does it hurt here? Or here?” — you’re in no state to do anything but go mute on him. It takes him a considerable verbal and physical effort to get a response out of you, but it’s also an effort he sees through every single time. No matter how he has to work to quell his own anxiety during, he goes one thing at a time, vowing that ”nothing further is going to happen tonight” to you while he holds each of your arms, and eventually, you end up sucking in a choppy gasp of air and giving him a tiny, weepy ”no” as an answer to his question. It’s only after that that he can properly move on to taking care of the mental side of things. 

You seldom end up not crying after he has concluded the session. It’s a habitual response more than anything, he thinks, and in a way, he’s glad that you do: The tears themselves are liquid distress that you’re discharging, and even if it’s only a fraction of the tension that releases in such a way, he often even encourages the reaction. By the time you’re done, there’s a great possibility that you’re already sniffling, but in case you’re still holding onto the last bits of your cracking poise, he needs but to give you a tiny push. Gently taking hold of your face with both hands, he brushes his thumbs over your cheeks a few times and speaks in such a tender voice that it doesn’t take longer than a moment for the flood barrier to break. ”It’s perhaps best to let it out”, he whispers, cradling your jaw while looking you in the eye despite being unable to entirely mask his own unease. However, as the first sob jerks your chest, his shoulders fall in relief, and a soundless gasp followed by a quiet sigh breaks past his lips. In any other situation, seeing you in such a condition would cause his heart to ache, but currently, finding that you’re emotionally responsive is an easing sight to him. 

He ends up embracing you for a couple of minutes. The pose is a little stiff — you’re on your back while he hugs you and has to hold his own weight up at the same time — but he aims to give you a bit of psychological first aid, so to speak. He attempts to talk you through the evidently growing panic by cradling you a little more firmly and reminding you to breathe in a gentle, even voice. Though, it’s a bit difficult to be convinced by his composed act as even in the midst of your rapidly swelling malaise, you can hear how he swallows periodically and how rapidly his own heart is beating. Each and every time, you have to wonder how either of you could be posed as a winner in the situation. 

Then, after he releases you from his hold after a while, if he could have his way, you would be in a state where he could give you a bit of a check-up. It’s not like he would find anything, really — he’s much too gentle with his touches to leave any sort of marks or the kind on you — but it would still manage to calm the slightly neurotic part of him. Alas, it’s also something that he most often ends up omitting as judging from your trembling lower lip and the glistening sheen over your eyes, any further prodding would do much more harm to your mental state than it would manage to placate his.

However, what isn’t negotiable is washing. He almost wishes he didn’t care as much as he does — that the sheen of sweat and whatever other bodily fluids have been discharged didn’t start bothering him the second his arousal subsided — but the idea of going to bed dirty is rather nauseating to him. That being the case, no matter how uncomfortable the situation might get because of it, he starts softly urging you to ”not fall asleep just yet”, wrapping a duvet around your nude form and helping you up. At these instances, he wishes for more than anything that he was sturdy enough to carry you all the way to the bathroom as having to make you walk through the hallway with only the blanket to cover your form and himself only half-dressed never fails to make him cringe, but unfortunately, it’s the only way he will get you there. 

There’s nothing sexual about the bath itself. He gets it over with quickly, washing both himself and you in record time. He doesn’t really talk while he’s at it — at most, quietly asks you to lift your arm or lean forward — and even when he has to dip his hand over to your chest’s side or in your private parts, he makes sure not to linger even a second longer than necessary. You tend to fall into a sort of a catatonic daze, both out of fatigue and the load of stress, he guesses, and you don’t really react to his touch in any way anymore, but every now and then, you’re still awake enough to want to do the washing yourself. In such cases, he won’t stop you, but more often than not, he’s the one to take care of it all. 

He pats your hair dry with a towel, helps you get your nightwear on, gives you another long hug for good measure as he reassures you (and himself) that ”it’s going to be alright” which you’re much too tired to challenge. Subsequently, he promptly takes you back to your room, sits you down on the floor for the couple of minutes it takes him to change the sheets, and finally, settles you and then himself under the covers. 

Sometimes you take but a moment to fall asleep, and other days you go through a further fit of crying — he’s prepared for both. Though his own nervous system is still wound up as well, he takes care not to let it show, making sure that he’s breathing in a measured, even pattern and that his hand isn’t trembling as he caresses the length of your back. He doesn’t talk, either: Even if you yourself were to initiate a conversation, the most you would get out of him are a few words and the silent cue that he would rather not entertain a chat at the moment. 

He’s going to wait for you to fall asleep, no matter how long that takes, before he closes his own eyes. Even if he didn’t feel like he was obligated to make sure you’re resting either way, he just wouldn’t be able to get a single glimpse of sleep before being certain that you have already drifted off. Other people’s emotions reach him quite effectively, and it’s only when you’ve laid still for a good while that he dares to join you in the dream realm. 

˗ˏˋ ★ 15. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes sex-wise? Are there any unique aspects to them?

It’s no wonder that his upbringing and the consequent fall from grace are what play perhaps the biggest part in his attitudes towards sex. For the lack of a better word, he’s quite demure which is mirrored in a few of his more peculiar habits. 

Firstly, he only gets racy in the dark. He will quite literally refuse to partake in any sort of obscenities if the room is well-lit; like, he actually can’t bear the idea. Maybe it has something to do with his own insecurities, or maybe it’s just such a blaring disconnect from the rest of the ambience — he’s not really entirely sure himself, either — but without fail, the lights stay off, preferably completely. 

Moreover, even after the first few times have been crossed over, and he has attained some sort of a routine towards the deed, he still gets a little discomfited when penetration takes place. He considers the act sacred in a way, and partaking in it, he feels like he isn’t quite deserving of it even now. Of course, your reaction towards it all is also something that affects the experience for him, but even if you were to be all smiles, which he quite frankly can’t even begin to imagine, he would still get a little timid about it. In his eyes, it’s the apogee of the deed, mentally speaking, and it’s something he doesn’t want to mess up. 

A specific thing he refuses to do is take you in any other way than with the two of you face to face. Of course, some variegation is possible — although he would be entirely content with going for missionary for the rest of his life — but the thought of taking you from behind has him shuddering. It’s another thing that ties to his beliefs on the topic: He’s of the opinion that such a position is quite degrading towards you, and that sort of a message is the furthest from the one he wants to send to you via sex. That being said, it’s best to get used to the sight of his countenance. 

Making sure that you don’t feel like he’s trying to rob you of your dignity is important to him. However, it’s an aim he finds he has been unsuccessful in reaching — as much is evident in the aftermath of the act, both immediate and in the long run. More often than not, you appear to feel almost desecrated whenever he concludes the intercourse: You’re still holding back tears hours after, you’re subconsciously trying to cover yourself from his sight, and you don’t really hold eye contact with him. It’s something he mourns, in a way, and going further down the same train of thought, he starts feeling filthy; like he has tainted you, tarnished you. It’s one of the reasons that contribute to him not needing to have you all that often: He understands the importance of giving you time to think, to process, to grieve the loss of your bodily autonomy in peace. 

Alas, the influence of his world view doesn’t end there, either. The noise that’s made during the act is another factor that he attempts to curb to the best of his ability, as much as he would like not to. The little whimpers coming out of your mouth are a melody he could listen to forever and ever — if only there wasn’t a chance of there being other pairs of ears the song could reach. He’s very, very mindful about not wanting to bother the rest of the crew, and he can hardly think of anything more embarrassing than them knowing what he’s up to. So, whenever your wails, curses, cries and whatnot get a little too loud for his taste, he tends to cover your mouth. 

Obviously, he’s very gentle about it and makes sure that you can breathe fine and so on, but at the same time, it’s also a quite distinct non-verbal shut-the-fuck-up. He doesn’t intend for it to be that way, of course, which he attempts to convey with the  ”please, a little quieter” he phrases the sentiment as, but more often than not, you’re not very keen on abiding by his request. It’s a huge contributor to the amount of times he ends up restricting you with his tuning, unfortunately, but in the end, he prefers for his more private matters not to be heard outside of the room. 

Then, a very particular detail about him in sexual regard is that the act must always end in your climax, not his. That isn’t to say that you and him finishing together wouldn’t be the absolute ideal, but it’s also something that’s quite difficult to achieve. He can hold his own orgasm back relatively well, hence making the feat possible, but occasionally, he ends up coming prematurely. Nevertheless, no matter how drowsy his orgasm makes him, he always insists on bringing you to your peak as well, whether that be with his fingers, mouth, or another round.

Moreover, he actually doesn’t care all that much if he himself gets his fill or not. Naturally, there are also times when you end up climaxing before him, and since overstimulating you isn’t something he really enjoys doing, he can’t exactly just continue thrusting into you. Though getting to finish himself would have been the nicer outcome, he’s actually quite content with ending the act right there in favour of giving you a more pleasant experience. Yes, he’s practically edging himself, but for someone like him, postponing a simple dopamine high isn’t a very big deal, and besides, he already got what he sought out of the bout: The sense of attachment. 

Finally, an undeniable merit you get to have as his darling is that if you’re genuinely feeling under the weather, he won’t force you to do anything. Before everything else, he wants you to be in a position where you would be able to enjoy sexual acts, and such a thing naturally isn’t possible if your head is throbbing or if your stomach is acting up. He tends to make the notion clear whenever he’s initiating intimacy, hence granting you the possibility of bailing out early if there’s something wrong. Though, be aware that it’s not a card that you can use in just any situation as he unfortunately has the ability to fact-check you immediately. Proceed with caution. 

A/N

Wouldn't you like to know, weather bo-, I MEAN

No, but good guess, I didn't even consider that it could be interpreted as Phainon but it's lowkey the more reasonable conclusion for you to come to now that I think about it. I need to up my riddler game. But yeah, it is SUNNY-Sunny-Sunny, for a delicious character deserves two whole profiles ദ്ദി ˉ꒳ˉ )✧ I know this one was also asked back in like summer 2025, but better late than never, plus he's is finally relevant again. I've been a fan of his ever since I we first saw his freakass in-game, musically talented men have always been my weak spot, I'm afraid.

Gahhhh another long profile, oops. It's funny that both of the two most recent yanderes are ones that I would call "slower", and that's what I think is the cause behind the length, too. With someone like Phainon, everything was go-go-go, but with Sunny and Dandan, there's no rush in the world. I do enjoy setting the tone of each of the profiles in that way. Also, if I had a nickel for every time Dan Heng recommends for a darling to jerk off, I'd have two nickels.

Not related to the topic in the slightest bit, but is anyone of you also being plagued by the reels of the Lithuanian guy forgetting the lyrics to Sorry by Justin Bieber and hitting sick moves on a live show or is it just me. I need to know

Aaaand taglist (this time fixed up!), bling blong lovelies! Check the post in my pinned to be added (ʃƪ ˘ ³˘)♥(˘ ε˘ʃƪ)

@dyingsweetmackerel @walnutofthedead @salty-pigeon @loserworld @lem-hhn @anemochiii @chocoismasochist @sivisek524 @myjawsworld @mydeilver @celestialgirl777 @universallycupcakebanana @favv-sassy @darkpurplewind @leveyani @rinki-tinki @warmandkozi @magnificentkidclamclod @donthitmeillcry @nuriicata @bugzrcute @soutar @goldandlyre

[sivisek524]

Starshine girlies

what's up, my dudes, my life's a shitshow currently, my kitty has died, my grandma had been in the hospital (she's good now, thank fuck) and general mental health stuff have this I hate staring at this, take care in the big ol 26

[mesooph]

watching over

[catarcass]

[sivisek524]

Den co den, Krásně zní, Písně, touhy mých přání

[sivisek524]

Mental conditions and drawing really don't go hand in hand

[blumery]

Why can’t I see all the colours that you see?

[sivisek524]

SLAAAAAAAAAAAY, Echo my BELOVED

[catarcass]

[catarcass]

The Ringmaster/Abraham Showtime timeline!

transcript cause my handwriting is horrendous:

•𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐓𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲.

•𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝟐.𝟎 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝟏.𝟎.

𝐅𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐨𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐨. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥-𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐫.

•𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝟑.𝟎 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐭𝐡.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝟑.𝟎 𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐀.𝐒., 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡, 𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠-𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲.

•𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧, 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐫𝐞-𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐲 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝.

[catarcass]

this was funnier when i was full of mimosas

[catarcass]

there's close to no teddy ruxpin fanart on the internet and if there is, it's like from the year 2000 so it's my duty and honor to fix it.

[catarcass]

im flopping so im giving tumblr another shot

[sivisek524]

THEM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! go support them!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[become-potatoes]

i swear to god people need to learn the difference between ai generated voice and vocal synth. mastering the art of a vocal synth is hard. you have to tune that shit yourself. you have to edit the vocals and do it all yourself. it takes hours to get a synth to sing a song well. when people make covers of songs with miku they are not just imputing a song and boom she sings it. not like how people do with ai. also, vocal synths were created specifically to assist musicians who struggle with finding vocalists (hiring a vocalist is fucking expensive) or cant provide vocals on their own. vocal synths are instruments and tools that one needs to learn and master, and they get their voice providers from people who 100% consented to having their vocals used. hatsune miku is not ai. using vocaloid or synthv or utau is not anything like lazily ai generating a voice at all. grow the fuck up.

[kurogxrix]

me when the READER in the X READER has a name:

like babe the fic ate but i do NOT look like an Aurora🙁

[yanderu-deredere]

Hi there, I'm new here, and love your work sm. My silly little Czech ass got positively jumpscared at the Fiala name, and then I discover he's got Czech/Polish ancestry. AND THAT HE KNOWS THE LANGUAGE? I AM SHOOK. The fact that he could speak to me in my native language is so cool. Like you have NO idea how excited the fact makes me.

a/n: I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS SO MUCH! it's honestly why i love writing ocs with different backgrounds becos i want to jumpscare people like this!

casimir fiala ★ profile

Hell yeah he'd speak to you in Polish or in Czech! He's had a lot of practice speaking with his grandparents so the words flow smoothly off his tongue. In fact, when he speaks English, there's a bit of an accent there that makes it seem that he's been speaking Polish his whole life. He might even call you cute endearing nicknames in Czech, especially if it catches you off-guard every single time or if makes you a bit flustered.

But you know the best part? He literally inherited both his grandparents' recipes so you know he makes the best Czech food. When you're sick, he makes the warmest and most comforting soup. And then fried cheese or potato pancakes for snacks? Always! And whenever you're craving a good warm kolache, he'll have one ready for you immediately.

He loves his heritage because his grandparents have raised him with love and he has good memories with it. So he literally incorporates it daily in his life and there's no way he wouldn't love sharing all of that with you too

[sivisek524]

Hi, it's me! The "silly little Czech ass" and I like this post a moderate amount:)))))) I am normal about this:))) do not look at tags idk what you're talking about

[hippieanarchist]

y'all this took me like 12+ hours I am begging you to look at it

this is Coin, he's the prettiest man who ever lived please love him

[hippieanarchist]

so I got into The Mandela Catalogue...

I'm absolutely fascinated with this man. also drawing pretty men is fun