I am hit with cramps. Could you make a gn!reader combating with some form of pain? Kafka and anyone else! (Like a comfort fic being pampered in some form)
I shared your writing to my friends who love Kafka and they loved your interpretation! Haha, they were simping so hard on the lap request
Sanctuary in Suffering
Tags: Kafka x Reader, Blade x Reader, Feixiao x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Established Relationship, Emotional Support, Soft Moments, Light Domesticity, Protective Partner, Reader in Pain and has Cramps, Subtle Affection, Healing Themes.
Warnings: Mentions of physical pain (cramps), Mild angst, Emotional vulnerability, Implied past trauma (Blade, Sunday), Mental health themes (Sunday), Slight mention of violence (Feixiao, Blade, non-graphic), Light swearing (?), Reader experiencing fatigue or discomfort.
A/N: AHAHA, I'm glad your friend enjoyed my interpretation on Kafka and loved the lap request! 🤭💖 (I decided to do Reader having periods/cramps in this fic because I haven't done for these characters in my previous period reqs.)
Pain bloomed in your stomach like an invisible storm, twisting and pulling until you were forced to curl into yourself on the couch. You tried to play it off when Kafka walked in, her heels clicking softly against the floor, the faint scent of her perfume trailing behind.
“Oh?” Her voice, as always, was dipped in velvet. “You're hiding from me. That’s unlike you.”
“I'm not hiding,” you muttered, a sharp inhale betraying you as another cramp struck. “Just… lying here. Trying not to die.”
Kafka chuckled, setting her gloves aside with deliberate care. “Dramatic. But I suppose even a masterpiece needs downtime.”
Before you could respond, she sat on the edge of the couch beside you, her fingers brushing your forehead. “You’re warm. Cramping?”
You nodded, eyes fluttering closed at the gentle way her thumb swept along your cheekbone.
“I could mix you something,” she murmured, her tone toeing the line between sincere concern and playful seduction. “Or, you could let me talk you into relaxing while I take care of you. I do have a voice that compels obedience, remember?”
“You’re going to use your Spirit Whisper on me because I have cramps?”
“Darling,” she leaned closer, lips grazing your temple, “I’d burn planets for you. Hypnosis is just the appetizer.”
She guided your hand to her lap, coaxing you to lie down. You didn’t argue.
And in the low hush of her voice—woven between lullabies, idle musings, and whispered indulgences—the pain dulled, and your heartbeat aligned with the rhythm of her breath.
You didn’t even realize Blade had noticed until his shadow passed over you. One moment you were gripping the sink, stomach twisted and eyes unfocused—the next, a calloused hand was on your shoulder.
“Sit,” he ordered softly. There was no edge to it. Just quiet intensity.
“I’m fine, really. It’s just—”
“You’re not fine,” he interrupted, helping you ease down onto the bed. “Your pulse is uneven. You flinched when you moved.”
The blanket rustled as he knelt in front of you, eyes narrowing at the tight set of your jaw. “Is it pain?”
“…Yeah. Cramps.”
Blade didn’t say anything for a while. He simply sat in silence, then reached out to pull the blanket tighter around your waist. “The body is weak. It bleeds. It breaks. It hurts.”
You blinked. “…Comforting.”
But there was no judgment in his gaze. Only understanding—the kind that came from someone who knew pain like an old friend.
“Lie back.” He moved behind you on the bed, arms gently encircling your waist. “Your warmth will return faster this way. I’ll hold it in place.”
You rested against him, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. His touch wasn’t gentle like others—it was grounding, like a sheath drawn over a sword to keep it from rattling.
“You endure too much in silence,” he said against your neck.
“So do you.”
“That’s why I recognize it.”
You didn’t expect Feixiao to notice your discomfort, much less act on it. She was always in motion—graceful, powerful, larger than life. But the moment your gait faltered during training, her eyes snapped to yours.
“Stop.”
“But I—”
“Stop,” she repeated, tone firm but not unkind. “You’re not well.”
Later, you lay in her quarters, curled up with a heating patch she conjured out of nowhere (bless Xianzhou technology), and Feixiao sat beside you, inspecting your face like you were a puzzle.
“I used to think this kind of pain was weakness,” she admitted, gently brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “Then I realized—resisting it doesn’t make you strong. Letting someone help you? That’s strength.”
Her hand moved to your abdomen, hovering just above. You felt a strange, soothing warmth pulse there—Moon-borne energy turned gentle.
“You’re soothing me with Moon Rage?” you teased faintly.
She grinned. “I’m not always raging, you know. I can also pamper.”
When you gave her a dubious look, she leaned over and kissed your forehead. “Don’t look so surprised. I like you.”
You melted under her touch. Her fierce exterior was just that—an armor. The core? It was all tenderness and loyalty.
Pain swelled like fog behind your eyes as you sat on the Astral Express, curled up in Sunday’s quarters with a blanket pulled to your chest. You didn’t expect him to be back so soon, but when the door opened and his halo lit the room, you tried to sit up.
“Shh.” Sunday was by your side in moments, his presence calm and cool as moonlight. “There’s no need to rise for me. The world can wait.”
He knelt beside you, brushing his fingers along your wrist. “Cramps?”
You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek.
He tilted his head, eyes softening with something almost mournful. “Would that I could draw the pain into myself and bear it for you. But I can only do this—” He touched your temple. The warmth of his voice enveloped you. “—help you find stillness in the storm.”
You let your body sink back into the cushions as he began humming—something delicate, a song from Halovian skies—and his wings brushed the air, fanning soft gusts across your skin.
“Let yourself dream, just for a while,” he whispered. “There’s no suffering there.”
And even as your pain lingered, your heart felt light—because Sunday stayed by your side, his scarf draped over your shoulder, his voice weaving something more powerful than sleep.
hi! could i get maybe some adult ciel phantomhive x reader preferences? like some of the tiny little blurbs/sentences of how they met, when he started to like reader, first kiss, engagement, etc. you don’t have to do those specifically you can choose what/how many you do :) thank you <3
❝ ADULT Ciel Phantomhive x READER ❞
⸻
❝ HOW YOU MET ❞
ᴛʀᴀɴꜱᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʀᴜꜱᴛ.
You meet him as the Earl, not the boy. By then, he is colder, sharper, and far less forgiving. You are brought into his world through usefulness. An informant, a specialist, someone competent enough to earn his time.
The moment he notices you is not dramatic. It is small. You do not bow immediately. You do not fumble your words. You speak to him like he is a person before he is a title.
He says nothing about it.
But from that point on, you are remembered.
⸻
❝ WHEN INTEREST TURNS INTO SOMETHING MORE ❞
ɪʀʀɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ. ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪᴛ ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ.
Ciel does not recognize his feelings immediately. They manifest as preference. You are chosen for tasks more often. Kept closer during discussions. Trusted with details others are not.
Then comes the shift.
Someone else speaks to you too casually. Too comfortably.
And something in him tightens.
He cuts the conversation short without thinking. Redirects you. Dismisses the other person.
Only afterward does he pause.
Only afterward does he realize.
⸻
❝ HOW HE TREATS YOU ❞
ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴋɪɴᴅ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ.
You are not treated like the others.
You stand beside him, not behind. You speak without permission, and he allows it. You question him, and instead of punishment, you receive answers.
There are no grand displays of affection.
But there are allowances.
And with Ciel Phantomhive, that means everything.
⸻
❝ THE FIRST REAL MOMENT ❞
ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴏʟᴜᴛɪᴏɴꜱ.
It happens late at night.
The manor is quiet, and the weight of his responsibilities sits visibly on him. Papers abandoned. Composure slipping just enough to notice.
You do not ask what is wrong.
You sit beside him.
That is all.
No questions. No comfort. No attempt to fix what cannot be fixed.
He does not tell you to leave.
And that is the moment you cross into something deeper.
⸻
❝ FIRST KISS ❞
ɪᴍᴘᴜʟꜱᴇ, ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴛ.
It comes after tension has stretched too far to ignore.
A sharp exchange. A disagreement that lingers just a second too long. You stand too close. Neither of you steps back.
There is a pause.
Then he closes the distance.
The kiss is firm, controlled, and brief. More claim than confession. More decision than emotion.
When he pulls away, his expression is unreadable.
He does not apologize.
He does not explain.
But things are no longer the same.
⸻
❝ HOW HE LOVES ❞
ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ɪꜱ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.
Ciel does not love in softness.
He loves in precision.
You are protected without being sheltered. Included in decisions others are kept from. Given information because he trusts you to use it correctly.
Your safety is planned for. Your presence is accounted for. Your absence is noticed immediately.
He does not say “I love you” often.
But everything he does is built around the fact that he does.
⸻
❝ JEALOUSY ❞
ǫᴜɪᴇᴛ. ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛ. ᴇꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ.
He will never name it.
But it shows.
A glance that lingers too long. A conversation cut short. A subtle repositioning that brings you back to his side without making a scene.
Late evening. Work still spread across his desk. The world not pausing for something as personal as this.
He looks at you for a long moment.
Then speaks.
“Stay.”
A pause.
Then, more clearly.
“Marry me.”
There is no performance in it. No uncertainty in his tone.
But beneath it, there is something rare.
Something almost fragile.
Because this is the one outcome he cannot control.
⸻
❝ MARRIED LIFE ❞
ɴᴏᴛ ʜɪᴅᴅᴇɴ. ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ. ʙᴜᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟ.
You are not kept in the background.
You are known. Seen. Acknowledged as part of the Phantomhive name.
You sit beside him in meetings. Walk beside him through halls that once belonged only to him. Stand with him in a world that would crumble weaker people.
And in private, when no one is watching, he allows himself to loosen his grip just slightly.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But enough for you.
⸻
❝ FINAL NOTE ❞
ʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ.
Ciel Phantomhive does not give his heart easily.
When he does, it is not soft or simple. It is something guarded, sharpened by everything he has endured.
I love the idea that Zuala wouldn't know if open affection is appreciated in front of M9 but after seeing their Canonical Cuddle Piles™ she just goes for it
zuala doesn't even have to wait for the cuddle piles, jester hugs her and yasha right when she sees them and zuala takes that as cuddling free real estate
Summary: After an abyss attack destroys your home, Kinich, who values independence and self-reliance, offers you a place to stay. Though he presents it as purely practical, his actions reveal a quiet, genuine care. Over time, you settle into a peaceful routine together, finding comfort in his reserved kindness and the small gestures of care he provides, learning that beneath his cold exterior, Kinich has his own way of showing affection.
Warnings: Implied Loss Due To An Abyss Attack, Mild Angst.
The aftermath of the abyss attack was devastating. Your home, once a place of safety and comfort, had been reduced to rubble, its walls shattered and roof torn asunder. The shock of losing everything you had worked for in an instant left you feeling hollow, adrift in a world that had suddenly turned cold and uncertain.
But amid the chaos, there was an unexpected offer. Kinich, with his usual stoic expression, had come to you with a quiet proposal. “You can stay at my place while your house is being repaired.” he said, his tone as dry as ever, yet beneath it was something softer, something genuine.
You were hesitant at first—Kinich was a private person, and you knew his past hadn’t been easy. Still, the practicality of the offer, and the simple fact that you needed somewhere safe to stay, won out. You nodded, grateful but unsure of what to expect.
The day you moved into Kinich’s house, you couldn’t help but be surprised by how… normal it was. The inside was modest, a far cry from the grandeur of the mansions you’d seen in the past. But it had a warmth to it, an unspoken coziness. The walls were lined with handmade furniture, small knick-knacks that spoke of a life lived with care and attention, even if it wasn’t a life of luxury.
Kinich showed you around, his gestures efficient but not unkind. “This is the kitchen,” he said, pointing to a simple stove and a small table. “If you need anything, just ask. And, uh… don’t go near the shed out back. I keep some of my… tools there.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Tools?”
His lips twitched in what might have been a smile, though it was hard to say. “I’ve got a lot of things to fix. You’ll see.”
You followed him to the living room, where a modest fireplace crackled. The scent of wood and something faintly herbal hung in the air, and Kinich, ever the practical one, was already setting up a small cot by the wall for you.
“Don’t make a fuss about it,” he said as he smoothed out the blanket. “It’s not much, but it’ll do for now.”
You couldn’t help but feel touched. For someone who valued independence so much, Kinich was surprisingly attentive in his own way. You sat down on the cot, still a bit unsure of what to do next.
Kinich cleared his throat and turned toward the kitchen. “I’m making dinner. It’ll be ready in about an hour. You can relax until then.”
As he worked, you took a moment to look around the room. It wasn’t much, but it was his—his space, his home. The absence of his usual sharpness, the subtle kindness of his gestures, made you feel a little less alone. Even if he didn’t show it often, Kinich had a way of making you feel like you mattered.
Dinner was simple, a warm stew that smelled of fresh herbs and hearty vegetables. Kinich placed a bowl in front of you, his expression as unreadable as ever, but there was something softer in his eyes, a flicker of something more than just duty.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you said, quietly breaking the silence. “Let me help with something.”
Kinich paused for a moment, his hand still on the pot as he glanced over at you. “It’s fine,” he said with a shrug. “I’m not doing it for you. Just… don’t let the food go to waste.”
You chuckled softly, nodding. Kinich’s words were as blunt as always, but the care in his actions was something you couldn’t overlook. As you sat together at the table, eating in comfortable silence, you couldn’t help but think that, despite everything, you had found a place here—a place where, for the time being, you could heal
Over the next few days, life at Kinich’s house settled into a quiet routine. You’d help with the small tasks around the house—cleaning up, organizing things—and in return, Kinich would share bits and pieces of his life with you, small snippets of knowledge or skills that he’d learned over the years.
One evening, as the sun began to set, you found Kinich in the garden, tending to some plants in the fading light. You hadn’t realized how peaceful the house could feel when it was just the two of you, sharing this simple life together.
“Need help?” you asked, walking over to him.
Kinich glanced up, his face softening slightly. “If you want. I could always use another pair of hands around here.”
You knelt beside him, taking a small gardening trowel and gently digging into the soil. There was a strange comfort in working alongside him, the silence between you both not awkward but companionable, as if you were partners in something greater than just survival.
“Why do you do it?” you asked, looking up at him. “Tending to all this, I mean. I would’ve thought you’d want to leave it all behind.”
Kinich paused, the question catching him off guard. His eyes flickered briefly, almost hesitant, before he answered. “Because it’s mine. It’s the one thing in this world I can rely on. People… they come and go. But this? It’s real. It stays.”
You smiled at his answer, understanding him a little more than you had before. Kinich didn’t offer grand gestures or flowery words, but in the little things—like the way he cared for his home, or the way he offered you a place to stay when you needed it most—you saw his quiet strength.
And, despite his belief in self-sufficiency, you couldn’t help but wonder if, maybe, for just a moment, you could be the one thing he’d allow himself to rely on, too.
That night, as you both sat by the fire, Kinich spoke again, his voice quieter than usual.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.” he said, not looking directly at you but still offering the words with sincerity.
You nodded, your heart swelling with gratitude. “Thanks, Kinich. I… I really appreciate it.”
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “It’s not charity. It’s just… practical.”
But the warmth in his eyes told you everything you needed to know.
Hi hi! I stumbled upon your profile not so long ago and I really love your writing 🥹
May I request a scenario with Aventurine where the reader is scared of eating in front of people? Like, they are afraid of being judged (are they eating too much? too little? they shouldn't be eating that, etc.).
He takes the reader to a fancy event as his plus one, and there's a big dinner where they have to sit at the tablw with the other guests, and he notices they're uncomfortable as soon as the food arrives. How would he react?
Thank you very much for your time!!
Eat, Drink, and Take the Gamble
Summary: At a grand banquet, Aventurine notices that you’re hesitating to eat, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of being watched. Understanding your silent struggle, he takes the spotlight onto himself, using his signature flair and theatrics to divert attention. With his smooth words and playful charm, he subtly reassures you—reminding you that in his company, there’s no need to fear judgment.
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Comfort, Fluff, Established Relationship (or Mutual Understanding), Social Anxiety, Protective Aventurine, Subtle Affection.
Warnings: Mentions of social anxiety and fear of judgment, Brief references to manipulation, Light teasing.
A/N: Thank you so much!! 🥺💖
The grand banquet hall shimmered in gold and emerald light, the chandeliers casting a warm glow over the sprawling dining table laden with the finest delicacies. The air buzzed with laughter and idle chatter, a symphony of calculated social plays. At the head of it all, Aventurine lounged in his seat with practiced ease, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair as he smirked at the evening’s players.
But his sharp gaze wasn’t on the financiers swapping pleasantries or the executives making thinly veiled threats beneath their polished smiles. No, he was watching you.
You sat beside him, shoulders tense, your fingers barely grazing the polished silverware in front of you. The extravagant spread—truffle-infused hors d’oeuvres, glistening meat draped in velvety sauces, desserts that looked almost too delicate to touch—remained untouched on your plate. Your posture was composed, your expression neutral, but Aventurine knew how to read people. It was his job. And right now, he could see the quiet battle waging inside you.
“Not hungry?” His voice was smooth, a lazy drawl meant only for your ears.
You flinched ever so slightly, but kept your gaze fixed on your plate. “I… I’ll eat later.”
Ah. He recognized this game. The way your eyes flickered to the others at the table, subtly observing their movements, their portions, their reactions. A hesitation before reaching for a fork, only to withdraw your hand as if reconsidering.
It was a dance he knew well—one of silent scrutiny, of measured restraint. The fear of invisible judges lurking in every glance. He had spent years playing different games of perception, wearing smiles that weren’t quite real, masking wounds with extravagance and bravado. But this… this wasn’t a game you should have to play.
With a flick of his wrist, he plucked a golden fork from his place setting and spun it between his fingers, drawing the attention of those around him. A showman’s flourish, deliberate and exaggerated.
“Ah, but what a tragedy!” Aventurine announced dramatically, his smirk deepening as the table’s chatter faltered, heads turning toward him. “To be surrounded by such exquisite cuisine, and yet—some among us hesitate to indulge!”
Your stomach clenched. He wouldn’t—
Oh, but he would.
Before you could shrink further into your seat, Aventurine leaned in, close enough that his lips nearly brushed your ear, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial murmur. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ll handle the audience.”
Then, with a wicked glint in his eyes, he straightened and flourished his fork toward his own plate. “Let me set a precedent, then. If we’re to feast, we feast properly.”
And with theatrical exaggeration, he carved into his dish, spearing a bite of the most decadent, absurdly expensive cut of meat on the table. He took his time with it, savoring the taste, sighing as if he had just experienced nirvana itself.
It worked. The room rippled with soft chuckles, tension shifting as others followed suit, resuming their meals. The focus had shifted—from you to him, from quiet scrutiny to entertained indulgence.
Only when the table’s gaze had finally drifted away did Aventurine glance back at you, one brow arched. “Now then,” he mused, nudging your plate slightly closer with the back of his knuckles. “Shall we?”
Your fingers curled around the utensils hesitantly. The suffocating weight of expectation, of invisible judgment, had lessened. Just enough.
Carefully, you took a bite.
Aventurine’s smirk softened, ever so slightly. A private victory.
“There you go,” he murmured, swirling the wine in his glass. “See? No one worth your time cares how you eat. And anyone who does? Well…” He tilted his head, his grin sharpening. “Let’s just say they wouldn’t want to place bets against me.”
The unspoken promise lingered between you. A silent reassurance wrapped in velvet and mischief. You weren’t alone at this table—not while Aventurine was sitting beside you.
You extend your hand, your thumb and index finger positioned like an invitation. A soft smile graces your lips as you wait for Jiaoqiu’s response. His gaze flickers from your fingers to your eyes, a fleeting moment of curiosity crossing his thoughtful features.
"Are you trying to… pet me?" he asks, his voice gentle, though there’s a trace of teasing beneath the calm exterior. His eyes flicker with mischief, but there's a momentary hesitation as he considers the gesture. His fox ears flick slightly, betraying his contemplation.
A beat of silence passes. Then, with a quiet chuckle, he places his chin delicately between your thumb and finger. The contact is light, almost hesitant, but there’s a warmth in his expression—a rare, soft side to him that he rarely reveals.
"You always have these little gestures," he murmurs, his voice low, "Don’t think I don’t notice." He leans in just a little closer, his eyes flicking down to your hand. "I’ll admit, I can’t quite resist sometimes."
He stays there for a moment longer than you expected, his expression unreadable for a second before he gives you a slight, knowing smile. "But be careful," he continues, his tone now serious, "You might just get me used to this kind of attention."
Your thumb and index finger come together, an invitation for Dan Heng to place his chin gently in your grasp. You notice him stiffen, the air around him becoming just a little more charged with uncertainty. His stoic expression doesn’t change, but his usual calm seems slightly disrupted.
He looks down at your hand, then up at you, and there’s a subtle flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. He’s not one for overt gestures of affection or vulnerability, and yet, there’s an undeniable curiosity in the way his gaze lingers on your fingers.
For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then, as if he’s carefully calculating his response, he slowly lowers his chin into the space you've created. His breath is even, almost as though he's trying not to show how he feels about this rare moment of closeness.
"Is this how you... show trust?" he asks, his voice quiet, his tone neutral, though there’s a hint of softness there. His hands are still at his sides, betraying no rush to reciprocate, but the slight tilt of his head shows a shift in his stance. He doesn’t pull away immediately, as if the gesture means more than just a simple action.
There’s something about this moment, subtle and almost imperceptible, that brings a quiet sense of relief to him. He doesn’t pull away, but neither does he embrace it fully, leaving a delicate balance between them.
The air between you and Aventurine is thick with the weight of unspoken tension. You hold out your hand, your thumb and index finger coming together in the most unassuming of gestures. Aventurine’s eyes twinkle with a mixture of amusement and wariness. His lips curl into that signature, confident smile, though there’s something more dangerous hidden behind it.
“Well, well, what is this?” he asks, his voice smooth and teasing. He steps closer, his movements fluid and almost theatrical, as if the whole scene is a game to him. “Are you trying to get me to lower my guard, darling?”
His gaze flickers down to your fingers, but instead of obeying the silent command, he gently takes your hand in his, guiding your fingers to the side before placing his own chin against the palm of your hand with a flourish. His eyes meet yours with a challenge, as though daring you to make the next move.
"You think you can simply get me to do whatever you want?" he asks, the sly grin never leaving his face. “I must warn you, darling, you might have just opened a very interesting game. It’s not as easy as it seems.”
He lingers there, his face dangerously close to yours, the weight of his presence settling between the two of you. "Consider this a game of chance," he murmurs, his lips curling into a knowing smile. “But don’t be surprised if the rules change along the way.”
Even as he plays with your hand, his touch is deliberate, as if testing just how much you’re willing to let him manipulate the situation. You can't help but feel that you've just unwittingly stepped into a gamble of his design—one that promises a thrilling outcome, no matter how it ends.
Warnings: Emotional trauma (guilt, grief), Existential themes (memory, mortality, identity), Religious trauma (implied), Melancholy and soft angst, Abstract discussion of death and impermanence, Introspective and emotionally heavy subject matter.
First Meeting: A Memory Preserved in Silence
The first time Sunday meets you, you aren’t truly there. You're a disguised traveler in the Garden of Recollection’s web — a Memokeeper, cloaked as an archivist aboard the Astral Express. Your task: observe, collect, and preserve the ephemeral.
He notices you immediately—not for your presence, but for your stillness. There's a deliberateness to your every motion, a patience he's only seen in those who’ve given up the rush of living in favor of watching it unfold.
“You... listen like the past still breathes,” he says, eyes catching yours. You offer only a smile. He suspects you're more than you appear — and he finds that strangely comforting.
Your conversations begin sparsely but meaningfully. Sunday doesn’t pry. He recognizes the burden of carrying stories, perhaps too well. You talk about memory like it’s currency; he speaks of dreams like they’re prisons.
Yet, you both mourn the same thing: ephemeral beauty.
Crush: Memories That Were Never Theirs
Sunday starts noticing how you linger after someone laughs, like you're capturing the sound. You look at people as if committing them to eternity. When you speak, it's with reverence for moments others overlook.
“To remember is to love, isn't it?” you muse one evening, watching the stars with him from the Astral Express observation deck.
He doesn't answer at first. His halo tilts ever so slightly — as though listening rather than glowing. “Then I've spent my life trying to love a world that keeps forgetting itself.”
Sunday realizes he's falling for you not because you're kind — but because you're proof. You prove that even if the world forgets what he did, someone still holds it — the joy, the mistakes, the yearning.
He finds your presence unsettling. You're incorporeal in a way he once tried to become — a ghost living on through memories, just as he once dreamed Sweetdream Paradise could be.
You sense his distance and understand it. Memokeepers know the signs of someone grieving their former self. You do not push. You simply stay.
Dating: A Slow, Gentle Undoing
When Sunday finally confesses, it's less a declaration and more a surrender.
“You saw me when I had become my own myth… and you remembered the boy beneath it.”
You respond not with words, but by reaching out — your fingers brushing against the feathered wings behind his ear. It's the first time you touch him without an illusion. It’s also the first time he doesn’t flinch.
Dating Sunday is like watching the ocean under moonlight — quiet, reflective, immeasurably deep. He offers you fragmented truths about himself. Not all at once. Only in metaphors.
He finds himself drawn to the way you immortalize the small things: the way he hums in his sleep, how his scarf flutters when he walks, the trembling of his wings when his voice breaks.
For the first time, Sunday is seen in the after. Not for who he was as a leader or protector, but for who he is in stolen moments: a man who loves softly, with reverence and fear.
Sometimes you whisper lost memories into his halo — preserved fragments from those who once believed in him. At first, it breaks him. Later, he begins to smile.
You teach Sunday that Remembrance is not stagnation — it’s transformation. You do not ask him to forget his guilt, only to share it.
Together, you build something delicate and eternal — a sanctuary where dreams do not lie, and memories do not fade.
Bonus: Quiet Moments & Symbolism
He gives you one of his gold wing studs. You preserve it in a folded petal of memory-glass — a keepsake not just of him, but of the part of him that dared to love again.
Sunday once asks, quietly, “When I’m gone… will you remember me or the version you fell for?”
You answer, “Both. Because the act of remembering makes them the same.”
You two don’t say “I love you.” Instead, Sunday says:
“Even if time folds over itself — I want to be your memory.”
