Characters: (Lee) Sunday, (Ler) Kafka
a/n: this is based off of the Idea that Sunday joined the Stellaron Hunters. I have not done the most recent quest yet - only partially proofread, and my first fic, so do not make fun of it, please. But constructive criticism is encouraged
words: 1,5k
Sunday has had a headache all day today, and his eyes felt sore.
It was no doubt the fault of him staying up for most of the night tearfully, but he was sure that these people played a part in it.
They are unfamiliar; they hardly know him and he hardly knows them. And yet, here they are behaving as if he’d always been a part of the “family”. Arms slung over his shoulders, going out to places as well… Aren’t they meant to be an elite group, the feared and despised Stellaron Hunters? No doubt powerful, and yet, they had so much time on their hands to still be silly.
It is safe to say he is not used to such treatment. Relaxing, sitting back and doing nothing, having fun - yet he is neither relaxed or having fun. The thought of his sister laid heavy in his mind - the way she looked so tired on the television, and it tugged at his big brother instincts to sometimes see her wings not preened.
Sunday sighed quietly, his face buried in gloved hands as he leaned back against the sofa he sat on. He regrets now not bringing any of his books, or his journal; then again, he had to leave in such a rush, there simply was no time.
A tiny breeze fluttered the feathers of his left wing, and it twitched. He ignored it, groaning as he burdened himself with thoughts of his sister. What if she’s not feeding herself properly? What if she’s spending her nights crying?
Another breeze, another twitch.
Maybe she hates him. No- Robin would never, yet he found himself wishing she would. He hates himself so much, and he’s just pulling her down with him.
“...day.. Sunday.-” Something delicately traced down his wing, and Sunday would forever deny the startled, squeaky “eep!” He had let out. He whipped around, golden eyes wide, meeting the even and somewhat curious gaze of Kafka.
She was smirking; he felt his cheeks heat up at his own embarrassing reaction - and his damned wings were now curling around his cheeks too, as if he were some shy child hiding his face.
Clearing his throat, Sunday spoke, “..Good afternoon, Miss Kafka,” A polite greeting, choosing to move past what had just happened.
“Hey, angel,” she replied, that stupid smirk never leaving, and he felt his skin prick from the nickname. Angel? Audacious to call him anything other than his own name - yet, he held no power here, so he may as well accept it.
Kafka continued to speak casually, “I’ve been calling your name for a while. D’you wanna have dinner with us later?”
Sunday huffed quietly at the thought alone. Dinner with that barbaric swordsman, the moving suit of armor, a literal cat, and the girl who can’t put her phone down? Forget it. The most normally behaving person there would be Kafka, and that’s saying a lot.
“No.” Sunday grumbled, before clearing his throat once more and fixing himself, “...No, thank you. I will get my own.”
Kafka merely shrugged one shoulder, propping up her face on a hand as she observed him. When had she sat down beside him? Sunday met her gaze for a couple of seconds before glancing away, feathers puffing up. What does she still want?
“No problem. You seem tense,” the woman commented offhandedly, and he looked back out of politeness.
“How could I not be?” Sunday replied, tone cool and curt. Kafka shrugged again, raising one eyebrow as she observed him a moment longer.
“Fair point. But no one’s coming after you here, y’know?” She pointed out, and he huffed; of course he knew that. They’re in the middle of Xipe-Knows-What, in Xipe-Knows-Where.
“I appreciate the concern, but I’m more worried about the company here than anybody looking for me.” Sunday watched reproachfully as Kafka’s expression turned into one of amusement, as well as a mischievousness which had him tensing up further.
“Ah? How come? We’re a loving family here.” She replied, and they could both tell that she was just messing around now. They both knew why.
Sunday sighed, “Well, I don’t feel the slightest bit safe with that swordsman - constantly looking as though he'd strike me down if he had the chance. And that girl is a nuisance. It feels as though her entire personality is just, “Games this,” And “Hacking that,”.” He snorted out - and he felt himself lighten a bit at Kafka’s huffed out laugh.
“...Sam is most likely the most tolerable person,” Her smirk never left for the entire conversation - does this woman even know any other facial expressions..?
“And you are… Hm.” She looked even more smug than usual for a moment at his hesitance, and he grumbled out, “..Mysterious, I suppose. I dislike how unpredictable you get.”
Kafka was silent for a good long moment, just staring at him, before she chuckled, “Might I remind you, Birdie, that you are not so normal for yourself.”
She reached out again, while he was looking elsewhere, and dragged a finger down one of his wings lazily.
Sunday yelped.
His wing flapped, and he whipped around to face her again, cheeks on fire. “Would you please stop that?” He politely snapped, eyebrows furrowing.
She observed, he shifted, trying to cool down his cheeks.
“You’re ticklish,” Kafka finally mused out, tone thoughtful. Sunday sputtered, cheeks ablaze, a huge difference from his usually stoic, cool demeanor.
“What? No. What-? I was just caught of guard.” He replied, shifting away from her on the sofa. Perhaps he should try to respectfully make his leave-
“You laughed a little bit,” Kafka hummed, her eyes narrowing, a nearly predatory look behind them.
“I did not,” Sunday denied, frowning.
“You did.” Kafka’s already smirking lips began curving upwards even further.
“I am not ticklish. Where did you even get that from? Your claim makes little to no se–”
“Alright. Let’s prove it.” Kafka said, and before his brain could even process her words, two hands were firmly gripping his sides, fingertips digging into the flesh.
Sunday let out a surprised, “Aah-ha!” Falling back onto the sofa and attempting to squirm away. It did not tickle so terribly - yet single nerve felt as though it was on fire, and his embarrassment worsened with every little squeak which escaped his lips. He hated his laugh, and he was now sure he hated this damned woman, and her damned smirk, and her damned hands.
“Wait- Wait! Wahahait!” He cursed himself, giggles slipping into his words. His body was jumping, hands reaching down to try and push her’s away, but to no avail. She easily dodged all of his attempts, hands squishing at the sides of his stomach now, only worsening the sensations.
“Gah! Ahahaa! Wahait!” Kafka was smirking, watching the usually uptight Halovian fall apart just from a few touches. His body spasmed when she got closer to his belly, and she chuckled.
“So much for not ticklish, hm?” She hummed out, that predatory glint still in her eyes. He was blushing hard, his laugh a bit awkward - probably from not being genuinely used in so long - and his smaller pair of wings were busy trying to cover up his face.
What an adorable sight.
Her hands teased his belly for a few moments longer, before lowering down on it. Sunday squealed, blushing a dark red now as he lowered his hands to block his sensitive stomach, panting. He heard Kafka click her tongue.
“K-Kafka, thahat’s–!” Suddenly, her hands were in his underarms, those horrid nails scratching at the exposed skin.
“AAah! Kahafka!” He cried out loudly, tone becoming more and more high pitched the longer this went on. His arms slammed down, trying to fruitlessly guard his vulnerable underarms, but that just pushed her hands in deeper, digging into the centers.
His wings were quivering, both sets, and he bucked up wildly. His hair was becoming a mess and his clothing ruffled. Mirthful tears sprung up in his eyes, threatening to fall down his red cheeks, and his chest heaved.
Kafka scratched in his underarms a moment longer before removing her hands altogether, recognizing his limit. She was still smirking, and he breathlessly glared at her.
“...Ruhude.” He panted out, titters still escaping every here and there.
Kafka only smirked, “You had many chances to say stop. You didn’t.”
His cheeks lit up again - Great Xipe, he’d never get over this embarrassment. What’s worse is that she is absolutely correct.
Sitting up, Sunday muttered a quick, “Be quiet..” as he tried to smooth down his clothes. He felt much lighter now, he realized. Not so tense anymore - yet despite that, he still glared at Kafka before moving off of the sofa.
Well. Now he has to go hide in the bathroom for a couple of hours. And possibly die from the embarrassment.
“Excuse me,” he grunted out, and hid his tiny smile in his wing as he left. Kafka replied casually, as if she hadn’t just tickled him senseless, “Seeya.”
Weird - his headache is gone too.