The aventurine bodyguard works got me thinking who else in the HSR universe would be likely to be followed around by guards and the halovian sibling immediately came to mind.
How would Robin and Sunday react to a body guard who's all serious and shi in public but lax and playful when it's just them and their employer?
And if you're interested how would either of the siblings react if said guard ever got seriously injured? (Hospitalized type, not death type 💀)
Just an idea, you don't have to write this if you'd prefer not to, just had to share it. Love you stuff and hope ya stay safe in these trying times.
Between Harmony and Order
Tags: Robin x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Platonic, Bodyguard!Reader, Public Stoicism Private Playfulness, Found Family Vibes, Emotional Bonding, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Themes, Subtle Humor.
In public, you are stone-faced. Your posture is rigid, eyes always scanning the crowd for threats, shoulders squared like a soldier carved from marble. It’s the kind of demeanor that discourages unwanted attention — precisely what a bodyguard should aim for when guarding someone as luminous as Robin. The Charmony Festival swarms with admirers, each one eager to press closer, to glimpse her radiance, to hear her voice. Your hand hovers discreetly near the concealed holster at your hip, but your expression never wavers. To most, you’re a silent wall. An unblinking guardian.
Robin never calls you out on it. She never tells you to soften your presence or smile for appearances’ sake. She only glances at you from time to time, with those calm eyes, a faint flicker of reassurance in them — as though you are the one who needs to be comforted, not her.
But the instant the doors close, the crowd is gone, and you are alone with her in the quiet of her dressing room? The marble mask crumbles. You stretch your shoulders, groan about how loud the crowd was, and sling yourself into a chair with all the grace of a cat that has finally found its sunny patch. You tease Robin about the rhinestones by her eye — “Don’t those ever fall off? What if one pops into your tea?” — or challenge her to silly games to pass the time before rehearsal.
Robin always laughs softly, shaking her head at your antics, though never in annoyance. “You’re remarkable,” she says once, adjusting her gloves before going onstage. “The world sees you as unyielding as granite, yet I know you’re more like… a harp string. Relaxed until it’s time to resonate.”
You shrug, smirking. “Guess that makes you the one plucking the string.”
Her smile is the kind that glows gently, never ostentatious. “If so, I hope the music we make together is harmonious.”
Between rehearsals, you and Robin often talk in quiet corners of the festival grounds. She likes to ask you philosophical questions she’s been pondering — the meaning of resonance, the role of a singer in times of turmoil, why humans dream the way they do. You don’t always have answers, but you banter back with a casual wit that makes her giggle.
“Why do we sing?” she asked once, seated by a window overlooking Penacony’s dreamscape lights.
You leaned against the sill, arms crossed. “Because humming’s too lazy, and whistling doesn’t sell records.”
Her laughter was soft but genuine, and when it faded, she gazed out at the stars. “You make me feel… safe enough to ask these things without fear of being dismissed. Thank you.”
There’s a gentleness in her gratitude that always disarms you. You’ve guarded dignitaries, politicians, and even a few notorious crime lords before — all of them saw you as a tool, a shield, a weapon. Robin? Robin treats you like a person.
Sometimes, when she’s rehearsing and you’re off-duty, she sings just for you. Not a grand ballad or festival piece, but small, wordless melodies — echoes of the lullaby her mother once sang. You never say it aloud, but those private songs mean more to you than any of her cosmic chart-toppers.
In public, however, it’s all business. Your gaze sweeps the festival audience for signs of aggression. Your stance is immovable, a reminder that Robin’s well-being is not to be trifled with. Admirers whisper about the “stone-faced sentinel” at her side, some even writing fan posts about your stoicism online.
Robin never undermines your professionalism. If anything, she leans into it, carrying herself with poise that complements your severity. Onstage, she looks like a celestial priestess, halo gleaming. Beside her, you’re the silent knight. Together, you are an unshakable tableau.
But when she steps offstage and catches your eye, her lips twitch, as if suppressing a smile only you would understand. And sometimes, when no one else is watching, she whispers teasingly, “Relax, or your jaw will lock up one day.”
You grunt in reply, but your eyes soften. Just for her.
It happens one night after rehearsal. A dissenter — someone disillusioned with The Family’s influence — sneaks past security. You intercept the assailant before they can reach Robin, but in the scuffle, a blade finds your side. You neutralize the threat, but by the time other guards rush in, your vision is swimming.
You wake up in a sterile hospital ward, body aching, the scent of antiseptic clogging the air. For a moment, you expect to be alone — but Robin is there, seated at your bedside. Not in her performance dress, but in something simple, her long lilac hair draped like starlight over her shoulders.
She doesn’t notice you’re awake at first. She’s humming, softly, as if weaving a protective cocoon around you. When your eyes flutter open, she gasps — then smiles, relief flooding her features.
“You’re awake… thank the stars.”
You groan, trying to sit up, but she places a gentle hand on your arm. “Don’t move. The doctors said you’ll recover, but you mustn’t strain yourself.”
“Better me than you,” you rasp, forcing a smirk despite the pain. “That guy had bad aim.”
Robin’s eyes shimmer, though no tears fall. She’s too composed for that, but you can hear the tremor in her voice. “You always put yourself between me and danger. But to see you like this… it hurts. I wish I could shield you the way you shield me.”
You try to lighten the mood, chuckling weakly. “Guess that makes us even, then. You sing the bad dreams away, I punch the bad guys. Division of labor.”
Her laugh is quiet, but tinged with something heavier. She brushes a strand of hair from your forehead, as tenderly as one might touch a sacred relic. “Please… promise me you’ll be more careful. Your life is more precious than you believe.”
For once, you can’t find a joke. You nod, meeting her luminous eyes. And in that silence, you realize the truth: to Robin, you’re not just a bodyguard. You’re a resonance — one who keeps her tethered to hope.
Guarding Sunday is… different. Sunday sees you as a piece of order — part of the carefully structured world he cultivates. In public, you match his dignified poise. Your serious demeanor blends seamlessly with his calm authority, creating a united front. To the crowds of Penacony, you are the unwavering sentinel to his benevolent leader.
And Sunday is not amused by playful banter in front of others. He never tells you to soften, never suggests you smile. He expects that stoicism. It aligns with his philosophy: humanity is fragile, and order must protect it. Your cold, calculating professionalism is exactly what he needs at his side.
But when the crowd disperses, when the speeches end and the opulent halls of the Oak Family estate are empty save for the two of you? That’s when you loosen your tie, kick your boots against the wall, and quip, “You know, you talk so much about eternal peace, but you should try napping once in a while. Works wonders.”
Sunday exhales through his nose, the faintest trace of amusement flickering in his golden eyes. “You have an unorthodox way of showing respect.”
You grin, stretching. “Respect’s there. Just wrapped in sarcasm. Keeps things interesting.”
At first, he would only shake his head at your irreverence. But over time, he grew accustomed to it. Perhaps even reliant on it. In a life so carefully curated, where every word he speaks carries the weight of philosophy, your casual humor is… grounding.
Once, after a long day of festival organization, you flopped into a chair across from him. “Do you ever think you’re wound too tight? Like, one more speech and your halo’s gonna crack?”
To your surprise, he chuckled. It was a low, rare sound. “And if it does, you’ll mock me for it, won’t you?”
“Obviously.”
His gaze softened, contemplative. “I find… I do not mind the idea as much as I once would have.”
In front of The Family and the citizens of Penacony, Sunday is the beacon of order. His speeches about Sweetdream Paradise resonate with hope, cloaked in benevolence. You stand behind him, hands clasped, eyes ever-vigilant. No one doubts your loyalty. You are a reflection of his ideal: composed, unyielding, devoted.
Yet, in private, your playful side sometimes sneaks through even in small gestures — a dramatic eye-roll when he waxes poetic for too long, a muttered joke under your breath that only he can hear. To your surprise, Sunday never reprimands you for these breaches of protocol. Instead, there’s a flicker in his gaze, as though your irreverence reminds him that he is still human.
It happens during the festival’s final night. Protestors attempt to disrupt the proceedings, and in the ensuing chaos, one manages to fire a weapon toward the stage. You intercept the shot, but the bullet finds your shoulder. Pain sears through you, but you manage to drag the assailant down before collapsing.
You regain consciousness in a hospital bed, your body heavy with painkillers. The first thing you see is Sunday, seated in the chair beside you. His usually immaculate coat is loosened, gloves removed, as though he rushed to your side before tending to appearances.
“You are awake,” he says quietly, eyes sharp yet softened by something you rarely glimpse in him — worry.
You grin despite the throbbing pain. “Guess I ruined the perfect image, huh? Stone-faced bodyguard takes a bullet, kinda ruins the symmetry of your speech.”
But Sunday doesn’t smile. His gaze lingers on the bandages at your shoulder. “Do not jest. You could have died.”
“That’s kinda the job description,” you reply. “Better me than you.”
His hands tighten on the armrest, knuckles white. “You treat your life as expendable. It is not. Do you not understand? Without you, my world grows emptier. You… tether me. Remind me of what is real, beyond ideals and philosophy.”
The weight in his words silences you. For a man who preaches escape from reality, to hear him value you as an anchor is startling.
“Sunday…”
He exhales slowly, regaining composure. “I will not forbid you from your duty. But I ask you — selfishly — to survive it. To live. For my sake, if not your own.”
You blink, caught off guard. In the end, you simply nod. “Fine. But only because you asked nicely.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile. Almost. “Then I will hold you to that promise.”
And though he returns to his usual composure soon after, you catch it — the subtle warmth in his gaze. A warmth that says, though he may preach eternal slumber to the world, to him, you are proof that reality is worth enduring.
Under a bright coastal sky, Santa Claus trades snow for sand, standing barefoot beside a sun-warmed vintage woody wagon with a surfboard tucked under his arm. His familiar red coat hangs loose and weathered, softened by sea air and sunlight, while a loyal dog sits watchfully at his side. A sack of wrapped gifts rests in the sand, hinting that generosity follows him wherever he roams. Palm trees sway in the background, blending holiday tradition with laid-back beach culture. The scene captures a playful yet nostalgic reimagining of Santa—where Christmas spirit meets ocean breeze, and even the busiest man of the season pauses between waves.
Greeting Cards By Bob Kramer https://artist.greetingcarduniverse.com/bobkramer Art By Bob Kramer https://fineartamerica.com/profiles/3-bob-kramer Art By Bob Kramer https://www.zazzle.com/artbybobkramer Art By Bob Kramer https://www.redbubble.com/people/BobKramer1/shop?asc=u Rat Rod Studios https://www.cafepress.com/ratrodstudios/1735062
(Hopefully by this point you’ve finished Season 1 of ‘Dollface’, the kind of person who isn’t bothered by spoilers, or are just deciding if you still want to keep watching.)
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I had not read anything about the show and just went through the motions (ready to rate it at the most a 4/10) and was surprised how good the jokes were.
Not only that, I was surprised by the actual content. Looks like I’ve found another MA show that I can add to my list!
PS; I’m undecided on what sub-genre to use. It’s basically 70% real...and 30% fantasy. But could the fantasy be happening only in Jules’ mind?
(But in episode 10...Izzy could see Cat Lady!)
PPS: So...are the friends...Older Millenials? Vulture puts them as 30-somethings.
(I was also confused that Goran Visnjic was playing a 45-year-old...in his 50′s...but....then after I checked his IMDB profile...he actually was 47 when Season 1 was released! What!? He was in his 30′s when he finished up ER!?
Yes! It’s actually Maura Tierney who is older! By 7-years!)
PPPS: Now I think I kind of like the reasoning of ‘Girls going to the toilet in groups’ --- there’s a serious safety concern if they don’t.
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HIGHLIGHT:
INT. MKUNDU LAUNCH PARTY - NIGHT
STELLA and JULES are sipping their drinks. MADISON is standing in between them. STELLA puts hers down.
STELLA
I'm gonna run to the bathroom.
MADISON
Of course.
MADISON starts to follow STELLA, but stops after she notices JULES isn't heading to the same direction.
MADISON
What are you doing? We have to go with Stella.
JULES
Oh, I don't have to pee.
MADISON
What does needing to pee have to do with going to the bathroom?
JULES
Is this a riddle?
MADISON
Girls are supposed to go to the bathroom together.
She pauses and stares at her friend. Capiche?
JULES
Well, yeah, but isn't that rule kind of stupid?
MADISON
You're right, Jules. No, it's stupid. And cliques are stupid and loyalty is stupid...and bein there for your friends is stupid. Thank God you're too good for all that.
JULES
Madison, I mean, come on, this---What do you think this whole night was about? This is for you.
MADISON scruitinises her friend.
MADISON
Just forget it.
JULES stands there as her friend walks off and heads to the toilet.
JULES
Madison, wait.
INT. CLUB (HALLWAY TO TOILETS) - NIGHT
JULES arrives just in time to see MADISON rushing out from the women's toilet.
JULES
Hey.
MADISON
She's not in the bathroom.
The reverse shot reveals that IZZY is now standing next to JULES.
JULES
Really?
IZZY
Hey.
MADISON AND JULES
Whoa!
IZZY
If you guys are looking for your friend Stella, I think I saw her get into a van with a weird older guy.
MADISON
Wait, a weird guy with a van?
MADISON throws a look at JULES. Extremely concerned. We know what 'guy in white van' means....right?
IZZY
Yes, but she seemed totally fine. I mean, she wasn't wearing shoes, but...
JULES
Excuse us.
JULES and MADISON head to the exit.
EXT. CLUB (ENTRANCE) - NIGHT
JULES and MADISON arrive just in time to see a white van peel off.
JULES AND MADISON
(shouts)
Stella!
MADISON throws her hands up and turns to JULES.
MADISON
You see what happens when we don't go to the bathroom together?
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My verdict of the episode: 6/10
Timestamp Commentary: None (One to be published only by request)
My Formal review about the show: None (a piece for 'Comedy To Watch’ coming soon!)
Ahem. Ahem. Attention please! My beloved has opened her requests once more, n’ I will take this opportunity to slip in.
V Now get this, right? V
Imagine a scenario where the MC reads the room incorrectly; the boys lean in close for something else entirely besides a kiss but the MC is left anticipating for one. Would they leave them embarrassed? Or take the opportunity to grant themselves what they never realized they truly wanted with our MC?
(Sunday / Aventurine )
The Price of Bliss
Tags: Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Fluff, Slow Burn, Misunderstanding, Gentle Romance, Subtle Humor, Emotional Tension, Vulnerability, Soft Kisses.
Warnings: Light Embarrassment, Misleading Anticipation, Internal Conflict, Minor Emotional Discomfort, Slow Development of Feelings.
The soft hum of the Astral Express filled the space as Sunday stood beside you, eyes tracing the stars that zipped by in the endless expanse of space. His scarf swayed gently with the motion of the train, its golden underside catching the faint light. The air between you carried an unspoken tension, born not of conflict but of something deeper, something unspoken.
"Could you hold still for a moment?" Sunday asked, his voice calm and airy as always, though there was an undertone of something you couldn't quite place. His hair shimmered in the light, the halo behind his head casting faint shadows on the wall.
You froze, nodding quickly. "O-of course," you stammered, wondering if you were imagining the sudden proximity between you two. He stepped closer, his feathered wings fluttering slightly—something you had come to recognize as a sign of his focus or unease.
Sunday leaned in, his gaze locked onto yours. His gloved hand reached out, and your breath caught. Was this... happening? Your heart raced, and you felt the heat rush to your cheeks. Surely, this closeness, this tension meant—
"Hold still," he repeated gently, his lips now dangerously close to your ear.
You squeezed your eyes shut, anticipation building, only to feel his fingers brush your cheek—not to cup your face, but to pluck a stray piece of fluff from your hair. He stepped back, holding the offending fluff between his fingers like a triumphant victor. "There," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That was bothering me."
Your embarrassment was immediate, and you avoided his gaze, mentally kicking yourself for jumping to conclusions. But before you could recover, Sunday tilted his head, his wings fluttering once more. "You look flustered," he observed, his tone tinged with curiosity. "Did you think I was going to...?"
You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words caught in your throat. The smile on his face deepened, not mocking but intrigued. "Hmm," he murmured, stepping closer once more. This time, there was no mistaking the shift in the air. "I hadn’t thought about it before, but..."
His hand moved to your chin, tilting your face up as his own leaned down. The moment stretched, the stars outside forgotten as he closed the distance—deliberately this time. The kiss was soft, tentative, and when he pulled away, his gaze held a warmth that hadn’t been there before.
"Interesting," he said, a faint trace of his characteristic melancholy lingering in his tone. "I think I’d like to explore this more." He stepped back, his expression returning to its usual serenity, but the faint blush on his cheeks betrayed him. "Shall we discuss it over tea?"
The lights of the casino shimmered, casting iridescent reflections across Aventurine's tailored coat. You stood with him at the edge of a high-stakes table, watching as he manipulated the crowd with his usual charm. His earring swung slightly as he turned to you, a sly grin playing on his lips.
"You’re a terrible liar," he said suddenly, stepping closer. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and the slight tilt of his hat gave him an even more devil-may-care look. "And even worse at hiding your tells."
You blinked, taken aback. "I didn’t—what are you talking about?"
He chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "Oh, come now," he murmured, leaning down so his face was mere inches from yours. "You’re blushing. You’ve been blushing all evening. Is it the thrill of the game, or..." His eyes flicked to yours, and your breath hitched.
This was it. This was the moment. The playful banter, the closeness—it all pointed to something more. You tilted your face up slightly, your lips parting in anticipation.
And then Aventurine reached behind you, his hand darting past your shoulder. He straightened with a triumphant smirk, holding up a chip that had somehow gotten caught on your collar. "Got it," he said, tossing it up and catching it with ease.
You stared at him, heat rushing to your cheeks. "I—I thought—"
"Oh, you thought I was going to kiss you, didn’t you?" Aventurine cut in, his grin widening. He stepped back, placing the chip on the table before turning back to you with a smirk that bordered on teasing. "Not everything’s a gamble, darling."
Your embarrassment was palpable, but before you could stammer out a response, Aventurine’s expression shifted. The playfulness gave way to something softer, something genuine. "But then again," he said, stepping back into your space, "I’ve always enjoyed a risky bet."
Before you could fully process his words, his lips brushed against yours—confident, deliberate, and leaving no room for misinterpretation. When he pulled back, the grin returned, but his voice was quieter this time, almost reverent.
You would think them doing the interview together would constitute a spoiler!
(Well....if you hadn't seen the film....and had a glance at the Wiki page of the film....then definitely it would be a spoiler!)
It's nice how all those body language studies confirm how open Daniel and Lashana are with each other. This makes me wonder if when they did 'The Graham Norton Show'...they were all quite tired.
The proximity. Both have their bodies turned towards each other (Daniel's right leg is pointing towards Lashana's direction). I haven't people watched in awhile...but this one is inspiration to take a bit of time to do that.
When Lashana quietly corrected Daniel about her age...I thought that she was serious! Turns out she just wanted to be younger. Which I believed! I did! Instead of thinking: "21!? No way she's 21!!!"
I thought: "So...what's the right age?"
Then looked it up. It's neither. According to Lashana's IMDB page...she was born in 1987.
PS: You can watch the interview here (complete with captions!!!). :D
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Highlight:
Daniel: How 'blank' is Lash-is Lash-I feel like Terry Wogan.
[Lashana cracks up.]
Lashana: How?
Daniel: How 'blank' is Lashana Lynch?
Lashana: Uh oh.
[They both look closely as Daniel reveals what's behind the 'blank'.]
Daniel: How...Oh God.
[Daniel looks at us. Horrified. He looks off camera]
