In The Outskirts Of The City Lies A Rundown Apartment Building Filled With Eccentric Residents... Doesn’t

Itoshi Brothers 🫶

thoughts on brant trailer??:3

lemons — brant

summary. what kind of sailor gets seasick? fortunately for you, captian brant has all the homemade remedies available.

note. nvuy back for 1 day and then will go on another indefinite hiatus. i got brant. if you can’t tell. i also liked the trailer.

warnings. gets a bit steamy at the end, ur both a bit tipsy, brant has a massive fucking crush on you, he calls you beautiful, mentions of vomit & nausea.

“You’re a riot, y’know?”

You glance up weakly from the edge of the ship with blurred vision. The wind kisses the salt staining your cheeks, and it almost burns your flesh. You make a lousy attempt at scrubbing your eyes, but that only makes them sting even more.

Captain Brant sways unsteadily before he kneels beside you. He’s holding a lemon in one hand, and a towel in the other. It’s soaked with cold water, and he presses it against one of your cheeks to wipe away the filth before you take it gingerly and bury your nose into the cold.

There’s the shifting of feet from somewhere behind. There’s a few of the Troupe singing and laughing, and they dance around a small fire crafted in the centre. They had to watch it carefully less Lario grew frightened, but it seemed the Echo was content for the moment.

There’s brandy and other liquor littering the floor, and the spillages will be a pain to scrub off the decking tomorrow. The Troupe seem to be getting along just fine. Typically, they’re all fighting and arguing, but you suppose they’ve decided to play nice for once.

It also helps that everyone is completely smashed.

You haven’t gotten to that point considering it was making you feel sick, but you most definitely were not thinking straight.

It is Tina’s birthday tonight, after all, and the crew threw together a small surprise party. She’d been upset initially having to be stuck out at sea for her special day, but the crew had made sure to accomodate. Leo and Mosi seem to be arguing over egg and milk pricing.

You know that because you can’t ignore how loud they’re talking.

He whistles along to tune playing in the background while he brandishes a small knife and slowly cuts at the skin of the fruit. He seems distant for a moment, his eyes transfixed on the waves for far to long before he realises his blade is cutting too close to pressing into his palm.

He pulls away from his thoughts with a snicker. “I mean… what kind of sailor gets seasick?”

You pull the towel away from your face and try your best to ignore the churning in your stomach. You hold your breath, though it only provides temporary relief before you instinctively lean over towards the railing again. You breathe through your teeth, sucking in sharp passes of air as you try to steady the pain.

The captain hums worriedly. “It’s not even rocky tonight.” He reaches forward to rest the back of his palm against your forehead. “I’ve told Lario to slow down… We can bank tomorrow morning so you can get some fresh air on solid ground, if you’d like?”

Guilt stirs in your stomachs.

You shake your head. “I can…” You attempt to move away from the railing, and Brant’s hands slide beneath your arms to steady you. “I can do it.”

As soon as you attempt to move, your fingers tense around the bars and you feel saliva filling your mouth. You drop the towel and he catches it before it flies off into the sea. There’s a strike of fear that zips up your spine, and Brant’s hands fly to pull your hair away from your face. He makes sure to brush aside strands that stick to your skin with the cold sweat clinging harshly beneath your clothes.

Lario—poor thing—makes an agitated nose from just ahead. You really don’t want to traumatise the poor creature anymore than you already had. For that, your heart heaves with worry and your eyes fill with tears again.

After a moment of panicked breathing, your stomach settles. Brant presses the cold towel on the nape of your neck. It’s soothing enough for your dizziness, but it does little to quell the nausea in your stomach.

“Uh, no.” He presents you with a thin lemon slice in his palm. “Suck on it.”

You blink at the fruit. Your teeth grit after a moment. The thought of trying to eat anything made you dizzy.

“It’ll help your stomach,” he explains. He then cuts another slice. “Here, I’ll do it, too.” He pops the entire thing, skin and all, into his mouth.

He chews it for a moment and nods. His lips pull to the left as if he’s considering the flavour. “Not bad, actually.”

“Yeah?” you ask weakly.

“Y–” His face scrunches up. He reels back and fans at his lips as if it will solve the problem before he covers his mouth with the back of his palm. His eyes squeeze shut as he struggles for a moment before he draws his hand away and blinks. His mouth opens and he sucks his lips through his teeth.

You sit back away from the railing. “Nice?”

Brant muffles a hiccup and points to the slice he handed to you. “You should try.”

Your stomach turns as you stare down at it. Your bottom lip trembles before you suck in a sharp breath and pop the entire slice into your mouth. You don’t move your tongue for a moment, letting it sit there as it creeps quickly over the tastebuds, and your mouth instantly twists at the sourness that floods your mouth.

Brant laughs when you finally recover and muster the strength to lie back on the deck. Your hands move to clasp over your stomach. He sidles up next to you on his side with his cheek resting on his knuckles.

You’re used to the stars by now. You’ve been out at sea for so long the days blur together in some long winded tale you’ll tell the children when you’re old and senile—if you even make it to that stage.

Captain Brant, however, has consistently kept you awake some nights by knocking at your door incessantly until you begrudgingly join him on the crow’s nest. He’s made it his mission to try and teach you the constellations that recur in a loop, and so far, no luck. You’ve been too tired to bother remembering what he says.

Still, he hasn’t stopped trying.

You’re not sure why.

Nonetheless, if some Tacet Discord doesn't kill you in the next ten years, your lack of sleep will certainly catch up to you.

“So…”

You glance to the side.

“If you’re feeling up to it anytime soon…” he starts smoothly, and his other arm crawls forward to mimic two legs strutting on the wooden flooring. “Would you… want to dance? Maybe?”

“Oh.” There a twinge of a bitter scent on the wind, and your nose twitches. You swallow as best you can. “I don’t, uh…” You glance back up at the night sky. “I don’t dance.”

He sits up. “What?!” The scent is stronger now that he leans over you. He’s practically bouncing up and down with excitement. “Everyone dances!”

“Well, not me,” you try awkwardly.

“Yes, you!”

Oh.

He’s drunk. Bad.

He sways on his feet and giggles as he stares back at the crowd. He pulls himself up onto his knees before his hands clasp yours gently.

And then, he all but tugs you onto your feet. It’s a whip of wind and a curl of your stomach that has you stumbling face first into him. Your nose squashes against his neck and you heave.

Your feet stumble over each other before stamping on his own in an attempt to steady yourself. You make some sort of noise of protest, but it’s quickly covered by your lips snapping shut. Your stomach twists as you straighten up.

“See?”

Your arms grasp shakily at his sleeves and your legs tremble. “I think I’m going to–”

“It’s easy!”

And then he tosses you.

He quite literally twirls you around before launching you towards the circle in the middle. You trample and almost knock the wind out of Rossini who topples over. He giggles stupidly before you’re whisked away quickly by the birthday girl herself.

You let out some embarrassing bleat as she drags your feet.

She’s still beautiful despite the sun being hard on her skin, and the permanent lines around her lips crease as she grins at you. “Havin’ fun?”

“I–” You’re certain your skin must be green. There's a hot flush banking up your neck.

She notices.

“Oh, darling, you don’t look too hot.”

You pull away from her only seconds later. In her drunken stupor, she immediately forgets about you as Leo spins her into the ring with bare feet.

You beeline to the hull where it’s quieter and you can vomit over the edge in peace.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

You are then grabbed by the collar and dragged back. This time, you almost do hurl onto the floor, but you manage to hold back.

It’s Captain Brant. Again.

You are trembling by this point with your fists clutched at your stomach to try and soothe the pain. There are tears prickling your eyelids as you try to fight from his hold.

You skid and trip around his feet for a moment before his grip loosens enough for you to pull away. You frantically shake your head when he tries to pull you back by your shirt.

It’s as if his brain shifts back to normal in that split second, for he lets out a frantic, “oh!” before he escorts you towards the edge of the ship.

“Fuck you,” you slur, leaning over the rail.

Brant doesn’t seem to hear you. His hand pets your hair while the other keeps a firm grip on your shirt less the ship jumps and you flip overboard.

“Sorry, beautiful.”

“Eat shit,” you spit back.

You do forgive him, though.

Your stomach settles after a while. Maybe it's because of the lemon slice.

You think he’s aware of this, because he squishes his cheek next to yours. “How about we take you to bed?”

“But it's Tina’s birthday,” you try.

“I think she’ll understand if you’re not feeling well,” he tells you softly. “C’mon. I’ll carry you.”

“No, thank you.”

Brant has already peeled you away from the edge of the ship and peers left and right to find where the birthday girl is. He ushers you gingerly towards one of the doors leading beneath the hull to the sleeping quarters.

He seems to spot her at some point, for he waves dramatically to catch her attention.

She waves back after spotting him.

He cups his mouth with his hand so she can hear him over the music before he practically yells above the crew.

“I’m taking off!” He holds you tight with one hand to keep you standing while he points at your head. “Gotta get this one to bed.”

She turns with a swish of her skirt and a hand on her hip. Somebody else who picks up on the conversation whistles. “Don’t have too much fun.”

You weakly limp towards the door and do your best to open it. Brant comes from behind to pull it the rest of the way. You mumble your gratitude before slinking through. The hall is tiny; definitely not wide enough for two people to descend the steps together, so Brant keeps a steady hand on your back as you slowly make your way down.

You hold the handrail tight and try to steady your breathing. You stop a few times, both of which you try not to keel over, and Brant keeps a steady hold on your shirt. His other hand moves to your shoulder and instinctively, your fingers search for his.

“Hey, I appreciate it, beautiful,” he whispers close. “But hold onto the rail. I’m still drunk.” You smell the liquor waft behind your ear.

Eventually, you make it down. You make an effort to steer left towards your room, but Brant pulls you right, further away.

You assume he’s taking you to the medical wing to lay down there as it’s typically cooler and has supplies, but you’re guided past the room and towards the Captain’s Quarters.

You make a noise of confusion, as he reaches behind you and opens the door before ushering you inside and shutting it behind him gently.

His quarters are better than the rooms the rest of the crew is provided with, but that’s to be expected. It’s not much bigger in terms of space, but the bed is double the size of yours, and he has a small private bathroom tucked away in the corner.

“I figured it would be easier for you if you had a more accessible toilet,” he murmurs. He’s already leaning over the bed and shucking off his boots. He kicks them into a corner before he sits on the bed and covers his eyes and groans.

You hobble over and sit next to him.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

He hums an acknowledgement before wiping at his face and patting his lap. You offer him a puzzled look before he sighs and sweeps under your ankle and pulls your leg up to rest on his thighs.

Then, sluggishly, he unlaces your boots. You mutter some sort of protest, but it’s garbled and weak. He waves you off before repeating the shaky and slow gesture on your other shoe. You’re too embarrassed to let him slip them off your feet, so you do that yourself. You set them down neatly close to his which are jumbled and upside down.

“I don’t have any clothes that’ll fit you. What a shame! But you’re welcome to sleep naked,” he slurs. There’s a cheeky smile playing at his lips as he stands from the bed. He teeters for a moment as the ship rocks, and your stomach churns.

You lay back on the covers in an attempt to steel your nausea.

Brant drunkenly crawls on top of you and you sigh.

“That wasn’t an invitation,” you tell him while scrubbing at your burning eyes. When he doesn’t answer, you clear your throat. “You… okay?”

“Mhm,” he grins. He’s too busy ogling to elaborate, and his pupils dilate. His head tilts as he teases, “just admiring.”

You blink sluggishly and his grin softens. “You’re drunk.”

“Just a little.”

He leans down and presses his lips to the side of your nose and he lingers there for a moment. Maybe too long, as he feels your face heating up against his, but he’s too wasted to register it. Instead, his mouth drags to your cheekbone, and his top lip brushes against the bottom lid of your eye.

Dizziness surges as he decides sinking his teeth into the side of your neck is the best thing to do. He’s quick to move his head and latch onto your skin with his canines, and you bark out a yelp of his name.

Your neck burns as the blood rushes to your face, and you try your damndest to push him off. His teeth sink, and his lips kiss anywhere they can touch. One, two, three times, four— and it is so quick you are sure if you were standing up you would’ve fallen over on buckled knees.

Do you get it yet?

“Captain,” you warn as he gently unlaces the front of your shirt and inches the cotton down over your left shoulder. You’re not sure if it’s nausea or anxiety that flits in your stomach. Your heart kicks hard against your chest, and he can very well feel it pulsing with his hand beneath your throat.

He hums curiously.

He’s left another mark before his lips wander upwards towards your throat and his tongue presses into your pulse.

Brant leaves a final lingering kiss to your other cheek, and it takes him a long while to finally crawl off you.

There’s a frown on his face despite how pink his skin has tinged. He hunches over for a moment.

You sit up, flustered. Your breathing remains laboured.

“I need to puke,” he buzzes quietly.

“Oh…” Right. You do your best to steady your heart.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked if you need it,” he utters as he stumbles towards the small room. “If you need it…” He lets out a strangled guffaw as he pulls off his top. “We can have a romantic mutual puking session.”

You glance to the left as he bumps into the doorframe. “Gross.”

“You love me,” he reminds before he blows you a kiss and closes the door behind him.

To his credit, you did not hear it lock.

To his credit as well, you also consider taking off your top. He’s already done half of the work for you, anyway.

diagnosed with obsessive loving of asl brothers

Not exactly a badge of honor.

Reference and speedpaint:

song: Éric Satie - Gnossienne No.1

reference image Found here

Need help?

so… about that drink you ordered — boothill

summary. boothill has a pity party at a bar and notices a familiar face that he wants to smash into two.

notes. sort of requested official unofficial sequel sort of to hijacked. you can read this stand alone. not saying you should, though. teehee. this is so uninspired. i just like this concept a lot. i also just like rivals to lovers. i’m also riding on the coattails of the “boothill is largely illiterate.” whether it’s actually canon or not who knows. let me be. he’s still not released LMAOOOO.

warnings. the usual banter, little bit of threatening, but nothing major.

Boothill was at a loss. The mission was a bust, there was no response from La Mancha, and the dreamscape was beginning to grind his gears. So many loud noises, the poster signs were following him around, and this so-called SoulGlad was not as good as it was advertised to be.

This bar sucked, too. The bartender had been giving him the stink eye for the better half of an hour now. It probably wasn’t appropriate to sick him right in the face for it, break his nose, and give him a beating.

The bartender wasn’t scrawny, though. Some big bulk of meat with tired eyes, scruff and mousy brown hair. His chest looked like it was about to pop the buttons of his vest. Dude looks absolutely repressed. Probably works minimum wage.

The bartender abandons a blue inky pen and his notebook that Boothill snoops in. Nothing interesting. Just pages of tabs and tabs of people he doesn’t know, nor care about.

There’s music from the stereos in the corners, though surprisingly, considering it’s not a club—that one is next door. It’s a conjoined building. The only thing seperating the bar and the VIP private rooms of the club is a wall and a locked door. Comforting—and Boothill would have lost his mind already.

It’s also dark. Granted, it’s two in the morning, but the low lights can’t be good for normal people. Not to mention the group of women in the corner that have been hoarding the few slot machines for about thirty minutes now.

Every so often, a chime will go off, and one of them will start busting into tears.

He’s here alone. Not for any particular reason. He’s waiting for a response from somebody, and what better way to pass the time than people watch and pretend he’s not nosy.

Also he feels super important sitting at the counter of the bar.

He almost jumps at a whisper in his ear.

A reddish drink in a ribbed coupe glass is gently dropped onto the counter space beside him. There’s a cucumber slice on the rim, and it also looks like it’s been dusted with sugar.

Boothill turns his nose up. Gross.

The bartender glances at the figure who slots into the seat next to the ranger. “Can I get you something else?”

“Hard whiskey.”

Huh. His eyes snapped to the right. Very familiar. Almost unnervingly so. Just in case, he scoots himself away by an inch, sitting closer to the edge of the barstool.

The bartender blinks, unsure as he pulls a tumbler from the rack. “For you?”

A finger prods the Ranger’s cheek. “For him.”

There’s a zap from the finger, like a small electric shock. Like static charged from the friction of the weird material of the barstools.

“Thanks, Gal.”

“No amount of flirting is gonna make me clear your tab,” Gallagher warned before sliding the whiskey over to the Ranger. Boothill had barely moved, now acutely aware of his own face plastered on a wanted poster behind the bartender’s head. “Try not showin’ up here frequently. Bad for my image if I keep serving crooks.” He points to the Ranger, and then to you. “Both of you.”

The bartender then is called over by a group of women who are giggling at a booth in the corner.

Boothill was sure he was going to lean forward and scrap with you over the counter. He could already feel the terse skin of your neck in his hands.

“You followin’ me?”

“You followed me first,” you say harshly.

The ranger let out a laugh before picking up his drink. “It was only a job. If you got offended, that’s your problem.” He then holds the glass close. “You g’nna do that thing again?”

“‘Thing?’” you repeated.

There was a smug grin on your face. You rested the chin in the palm of your hand.

Oh. He was so going to throw you over the counter and smash a bottle over your head. “Y’know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Don’t play stupid.”

You took a sip of your drink.

“Boop.”

Your finger pressed to his chest. You snickered when he stared down at the brief flashing of yellow beneath his joints.

Then, you flit your finger upwards and flick his nose.

He grabs your hand with the intent of pulling it from its socket.

“Now, that’s a dangerous game to play,” you remind him. “I’ve got you in my hands, remember?” Your free hand lets go of your glass, and there’s a small flash of yellow light on the pads of the gloves on your hands. A flicker is all it takes to showcase his entire makeup in your palm. You spin it slowly for good measure.

Then, the image disappears and you snatch your wrist from his hand.

“What do you want?” Boothill mutters. He’s absentmindedly staring into his drink while swishing it around. The ice cubes softly tap against the glass.

“Insight. You’re a Galaxy Ranger, right?” He can’t lie to you anyway. You pretty much know everything about him. Your main profession is definitely stalking and being a thorn in his side. Your fingers held his chin up softly. “Tell me about it.”

He blinks, dazed. “That’s it?”

“No.”

He removes your hand from his chin. He holds his glass protectively. “Then quit pullin’ my leg. Cut to the good bit.”

You sigh. “You’re no fun. Do you come to bars just to mope?” You pull a dramatic frown for good measure.

“Do you come to bars to piss everyone off?” he shoots back. Despite his tone, his fingers are gentle around the glass. Any more firm a hold, and the drink would shatter and spill all over the counter.

You grin.

You tap his nose again. “Just you.” Then, you shake your head. “I’m here ‘cause I got a bar crush.” You then point to a table behind Boothill’s head in the corner. “Blondie with the nice eyes and the rings.”

After a moment's hesitation, the ranger turns and follows your finger.

Sure enough, you’re not convincing him to spin around so you can shove your hand into his sockets. There is a blond man at a table dressed in green, winking at an opponent over a game of… poker? Is that poker? The game with the chips and stuff. And dice, too. They’re thrown over a board, and there’s a couple of people who have tuned in to watch the entire thing unfold.

“His name is Aventurine. Or, that’s a code name, I think. He’s Sigonian. Works for the IPC, incredibly insecure, has a gambling addiction, needs to eat lead…” You stopped short, counting on your fingers as Boothill turns back to you. “Isn’t he dreamy?”

Boothill narrows his eyes at you. “Do you know everything about everyone?”

You shrug. “Pretty much, yeah.” Then, you make a noise. “Eh, I’m lying. Lots of people are boring. I only know the basics ‘bout most of ‘em. It’s the higher ups I’m interested in. Case in point–” You gestured to the blond man again, now scanning over his cards. “–Mister Big Shot. And all his loser coworkers. I don’t like the IPC.”

Boothill quietly sips his drink.

At least you can both agree on something.

He wants to yawn. He doesn’t have the function to do that anymore.

You talk too much.

He cuts you off, and fiddles with a few buttons on his arm. “What can you tell me–” A small image of a woman projects into view from a small lens near his wrist. “–About her?”

You lean closer to the image. Pretty.

She has lovely purple hair and eyes to match. It’s an unassuming photo. She’s not even looking at the camera, not even close to it. She’s standing next to a little boy with sparkling eyes and a uniform that starkly resembles the hotel staff in the waking world of Penacony—oh, the bellboy. You forgot his name.

You hum. “What’s her name?”

“Acheron.” He spits it nastily, as if tasting vitriol on his tongue.

You lean back against the counter. “I’d have to dig deeper. Can’t say I’ve seen her around before.”

“Well, that’s disappointin’,” he huffs before the image shrinks and disappears back into the lens. “Thought you were better than that.”

Your brows knit together.

“Are you trying to rile me up?” It was working. Curse you and your hot-head. It would get you killed one day.

Boothill grins.

Then, he raises his glass to you. “Yep.”

You wanted to pull him apart right there, like a doll.

Instead, you whisper, “tell me about La Mancha.”

Boothill casually sips the whiskey. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll dig up whatever I can find about that Acheron girl.”

Boothill then lets out a small giggle. “I already know who she is.” He wasn’t lying either. You could tell by how he grinned. “I was testin’ ya.”

Oh, great. He’s figured you out again. Not that there’s much to decode beneath the layer of self-doubt and hostility.

You could feel your face burning.

He grabs your cheeks before you can turn away.

“You ain’t here ‘cause you got some ‘puppy crush,’” he accused playfully, squishing your skin like it’s clay. “You already told me ya know everything about blondie. Who’re you really here for?”

He’s not stupid.

He’s also twirling a lock of his hair around his finger.

God damnit.

Your fingers curled tightly around the rim of your glass. The cucumber slice has since fallen into the cosmopolitan, and it’s giving the entire drink a strange watery taste.

The bar carries on. There’s a hoot from the table with blondie, who’s now, since the last time you stared daggers into the side of his head, collected some more of his poor opponent’s chips.

You pull your face from his grip. “Nobody.”

“Not even me?” Boothill presses. “You seem to love followin’ me around. In and out the dreamscape.”

You grit your teeth.

“The bartender,” you mutter finally. “I’m here for the bartender.” Currently, Gallagher is half asleep on the other side of the counter, trying to negotiate with some drunkard over the pricing of a scotch.

You eye him warily for a moment.

“There it is.” He pats your head like a dog. “Knew you’d come ‘round, pumpkin.”

You’re trembling with rage. “Kiss my ass, you cyborg scum.” You were considering throwing a punch at his perfect face.

“Rude.” Boothill flicks your nose back and you grunt. “I’m tryin’ to be nice wit’ you. You followed me here.”

You wanted to leave now. He sucks when he knows he has the upper hand, even if he’s well aware you can make his arms tear his own head off.

But you’re not going to do that. You need him. You made that clear.

The sound of a slot machine goes off somewhere to the right. There's cheering from a bunch of women.

You turn back and stare at the wall of liquor behind the bar. Maybe you should just knock yourself out. Whether by downing an entire bottle of bourbon or smashing it over your head. It was a hard choice to make.

You watch him through your peripherals, noticing he’s pinched a napkin from the pile on the counter.

“Lookin’ very pretty tonight, by the way. Hard to keep my eyes off ya.” He was writing something down with the pen from before. “If you were anyone else, I woulda had to take ya home. ‘Specially after ya bought me a drink.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Then, you pause. “Excuse me?”

Boothill folds the napkin into a square and holds it to your lips. “Open.”

“You are not–”

Too late. He’s pushed it to your teeth, and you instinctively clamp down on it.

Oh, this sucks. This sucks bad.

He knows it, too, from the way he’s grinning at you like a shark and snickering.

He presses his warm lips to your cheek. The scent of whiskey faintly wafts in the air.

You stupidly freeze, hands curled around his wrists when his cold hands tilt your head so the tip of his tongue can press to the corner of your lips. You could stop him. You could.

You didn’t.

You smell like strawberry, the same as that other night. You look just as good, too. Shame you haven’t put anything on your lips. He would’ve loved to be stained a nice pink again.

He slides his whiskey next to you.

Then, he finishes what’s left of your drink. Dickhead. “I’ll be ‘round if ya need me.” He taps your nose and stands up. “You know where to find me.”

With a tilt of his hat, he leaves.

You pull the napkin from your teeth. Are you serious?

Face burning with humiliation, you hastily unfold the tissue, fingers shaking around the glass of whiskey. It’s heavy on your tongue; disgusting, bitter, everything you’d use to describe that stupid cowboy and his abomination of a body.

Scrawled in blue ink is a line of numbers. It looked suspiciously like a phone number.

Below it in blocky letters are the words: Keep In touc H. ♡

There’s a crudely drawn horse with a hat in the corner.

i would like a full breakdown of why nearly every single outfit in obey me is ugly. its not even moderately ugly, If i were to be in public with them, i would be embarrassed. i look at their sprites and am immediately filled with rage.

━━ to walk amongst the living .

Jade's last words continue to haunt Sunday as he is cast from the heaven of Penacony and goes from a Family Head to a mere traveler. On his journey to fully understand the struggles of mortals, he ends up becoming companions with you, a fellow wanderer.

sunday x gn!reader

contains: post 2.3, written before 2.7, sunday is hinted to have asthma, sunday is trying his best but bro hasn't touched grass in years so he's struggling, hardcore yearning from sunday

word count: 3.1k

a/n: SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL BARKSI RIYGHGUGHU if hyv doesnt give us any crumbs on what he was doing before he runs into us again. EXPLODES

taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo , @moineauz

“Achoo!“

The cold was starting to get annoying.

Sunday sighed, biting back his frustration as he wiped his nose with a handkerchief and tugged his scarf to better shield his face. It was a good thing he’d decided to bundle up before leaving Penacony; otherwise, he would’ve already died of pneumonia.

The Planet of Dreams and Festivities was the very definition of a paradise. Everything, from the colors, the sounds, and the temperature was carefully maintained to never be too much or too little.

Sunday did not have such privileges here.

He didn’t remember when the last time he saw snow was. Back home, the closest he’d seen to a natural landscape was the Moment of Oasis, where tourists lounged about on the spectacular beaches - and even then, Sunday hadn’t exactly had time to indulge in such luxuries.

His nose was no doubt red from the cold, and his thighs burned from the long hike he’d decided to torture himself with. Wind battered his hood against his face, occasionally blocking his vision or smacking him. Sunday’s wings instinctively shielded him from the incoming snow that somehow made its way past his hood. He grimaced at the feeling of the ice catching and melting on his feathers, already dreading having to clean them out.

Upon reaching a somewhat flat piece of terrain, he gave himself mercy and allowed himself to stop for a break. His halo, his main weapon against frostbite, glowed gently with a heat not unlike a fireplace as he surveyed just how far he’d traveled.

Mountains upon mountains greeted his gaze, all jagged and covered with the same multi-colored snow that was the staple of this planet. He stood among fallen aurora, and down below, he spied a cluster of bright, warm lights that stood apart from the greens, blues, and purples of the snow: the cities, where he’d first arrived here.

Zastrugi was a planet infamous for its harsh conditions, rivaled only by the recently reintroduced Jarilo-VI. Even so, the people here prided themselves on their resilience, and gladly welcomed those seeking a challenge or a death-defying thrill.

In other words, it was a cemetery of the arrogant and the ambitious, and a perfect fit for Sunday’s current goals. After all, what better way to live a mortal’s life than to endure their struggles?

Sunday looked down at himself. His legs were weak, shaking and trembling from the hike, and no doubt were only kept standing due to adrenaline. His chest burned from haggard breaths, cut again and again from each frosty inhale. His head felt light. He wanted to die.

If this wasn’t suffering, he didn’t know what was.

It was invigorating.

Never before had he felt more alive, with the frost biting at his cheeks and the pain that ransacked his body. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, fighting yet strong and resilient and surviving. A soft smile graced his pale lips as his breath fogged in the air.

How strange, he mused. To find such joy in his own suffering… Was he always this twisted?

“I was wondering when you’d catch up.”

Sunday turned to see you sitting on a rock nearby, snow brushed off of stone so that you could sit without wetting your pants. One of your legs is propped up as you look out at the view, your bored expression proof enough that you’d been sitting there for a while.

You were a fellow traveler he’d met sometime on his travels. Sunday still groaned whenever he remembered your first encounter; he’d gotten swept up in a sudden storm and remembered too late that 1.) he didn’t know how to swim and 2.) his wings were not waterproof. Had you not dove into the raging tide and pulled him out, he would’ve drowned for sure.

Ever since then, you’d accompanied him on his travels - or, rather, he accompanied you on yours. Sunday, with what little he knew of the world outside of Penacony, knew not what his destination was, nor where he should head off to. Your goal was a little more simple - you wanted to see all that was beautiful in the universe.

Even if that meant climbing to the tops of unreasonably steep mountains or camping out in unbearingly hot deserts.

Thankfully, you weren’t opposed to his offer (begging) to join you - on the contrary, you were thankful that he had been the one to say it because in your words, you didn’t know if he would survive if you left him alone by his lonesome.

He still didn’t know what to make of that. For his own pride, he chose to ignore it for the time being.

“Were you waiting long?” he asked, gloved fingers holding the edge of his hood as to keep both it and the snow out of his face. You shook your head, your own hooded cloak flapping in the wind as you looked back out at the view.

“Not as long as I might’ve in the past,” you joked lightly. Sunday breathed a laugh.

Back when he’d first walked alongside you, he’d fought a long and hard battle with his own stamina. It was embarrassing when he thought back on it, how many times he’d have to ask you to stop for a break or even had to be carried by you to the nearest rest stop. Sometimes he wondered why you kept him around, but of course, he never asked.

But he’d grown stronger and more resilient since then, at least, he hoped he did - if not for you, then for his pride.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Your voice was rather wistful as you spoke, a little breathless and hushed, yet clear in the crisp, scarce air. “What do you think? Was it worth it?”

“I’m not so sure,” Sunday tried for a joke of his own - although, he wasn’t all joking. No matter how much he traveled, he could never get used to the feeling of his own breath scraping against his lungs as he heaved for air.

You, intuitive as ever, sighed knowingly. “Sit down. You look as if you’re going to pass out.”

Brushing aside some snow on the rock, you shifted over to make room for him. Gratefully, Sunday fought demons in order to stop his trembling legs from collapsing in from under him as he lowered himself onto the rock. That would’ve been mortifying.

His breath fogged in the air as he sighed, thankful for some rest. Around him, the snowfall was gentle and slow, and as the moonlight from Zastrugi’s two moons caught on each individual flake, ribbons of light came and passed like wisps of smoke.

An echoing click of metal caught his attention. He looked to his side and was greeted with a cloud of steam warming his face. In your hand was a small metal thermos that held what he assumed is either tea or hot water. You gestured for him to take it.

“Drink; you need to warm up before we continue. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you died of hypothermia.”

Sunday breathed his gratitude as he took the thermos. Your fingers brushed slightly, but with the cold, he registered it only after it was gone, and by then it was too late to respond. Still, his heart skipped regardless, and he turned away before he dwaddled too long, thankful for the cold that had already reddened his cheeks.

He blew gently on the liquid within, and took small, carefuly sips as to not burn his tongue (it’d happened before, and it was humiliating). He was delightfully surprised with the subtle floral tastes of white tea, his favorite. It was obvious that it had been sweetened, and the honey added was just enough so that it satisfied his cravings.

But, as Sunday drank away, the tea warming him from the inside, he never told you he liked white tea specifically, nor did he ever tell you how much sugar he preferred. How did you know?

Had you, every time you’d taken him to a local cafe or restaurant, watched and observed? Had you remembered, from the few times you’d seen him order or make a drink for himself?

His hold on the thermos faltered as fire rushed to his cheeks. In his chest, under all those layers of cloth and cloaks, a dance unfolded, his heart tip-tapping away, a steady rhythm that was both nerve-wrecking and comforting.

Sunday inhaled deeply, wings fluttering ever-so slightly, and pushed his thoughts away to focus on the tea, nearly burning his tongue in the process. You only raised a brow before returning your sight to the distant city. A comfortable silence enveloped the two of you.

As Sunday gazed down upon the scene, a sharp ache in his sides and a stiffness in his legs, he wondered - was this how Robin felt, when she performed from that grand stage of hers. Sure, the aurora couldn’t compare to the lightshow that accompanied his sister’s concerts, but still - there must be some similarities. Here, at the top of this world, he felt light, as if nothing could ever touch him.

“O chosen one, who dared to exceed his bounds. Sever your wings, descend to the mortal realm, and walk their lands. See what this world is truly like.”

Lady Bonajade’s words rang in his head. Instantly a scowl twisted his features.

He’d never liked the IPC, and he wasn’t going to start now - especially not with a snake like her. He could still hear her taunting voice, that indifferent condescention presented as good-natured pity dampening his mood. There wasn’t much that could truly anger him, but it only seemed natural that it was yet another IPC Stoneheart that managed the feat.

But still, she had been right… much to his chagrin. As much as he hated to admit it, he had flown too high from the people he wished to protect. Even the Astral Express - whom he respected far more than Jade - had made it clear: Know your people before you decide what was right for them.

“What’s on your mind?”

Sunday flinched. You peered at him from behind your hood, face gentle yet your brows were furrowed ever so slightly.

“Ah, I apologize.” He lowered the thermos to his lap. “I was… thinking.”

“I know,” you replied. Shifting slightly so that you could lean back on your hands, you stretched your legs out into the snow. “You do that a lot.”

With a kick, you sent the snow flying into an arch off the cliffside, creating another ripple in the aurora.

“Thinking too much in a place like this… seems like a waste, doesn’t it? Try and take a break from your brain, and just- see. Look at where you are.”

Sunday raised an abdominal wing to block the multi-colored snow from falling into his thermos. Shaking the snow off the twilight feathers, he sighed, staring into what remains of the tea.

You clicked your tongue. Snow crunched, and cloth shuffled, before the cap of the thermos blocked his view. Screwing it closed, you took the thermos from him, a twinge of annoyance tugging at Sunday as he mourned the last bits of tea still left in there.

Before Sunday could complain, however, you beat him to it.

“Don’t give me that look,” you teased lightly. “We’re almost to the top - you can finish your tea there.”

The beginnings of a pout tugged his lip, but with a reluctant sigh, Sunday abided. Pushing off of his knees, he brushed himself off.

“Very well,” he relented, but not without fixing you with a flat stare first. If you saw it, you didn’t say anything, for you had already begun your trek to the mountain’s peak.

The higher you climbed, the harsher the snow became. No matter how beautiful something was, Sunday found that he didn’t care if it was pelting him in the face with as much punch as a bullet. His hood became his shield, and he hurried to keep in pace with you.

Because unlike him, who specialized in Imaginary and Quantum manipulation, you were a master of fire. Your footprints lasted longer than his for the mere fact that you seemed to melt through the snow, and as long as Sunday kept close to you, he wouldn’t be at risk into becoming a popsicle.

But that was easier said than done. Again, you were far more traveled than he was, and as such you moved at a much faster pace despite the melting snow’s attempts at slowing you down. Sunday was already dreading the next morning - he’d have to do a full-body stretch for at least half an hour after this was all done if he wanted his legs to be functionable tomorrow.

Every now and then, you would glance back at him, as if making sure he hadn’t been swept up in an avalanche - which, if it weren’t unfortunately a valid concern, would’ve damaged his already ruined ego. And each time, Sunday would meet your gaze, and offer the tiniest of smiles before returning to his suffering.

By the time you had reached the summit, Sunday was well about to pass out. The air was thinner up here, making it hard to breathe, and his exhaustion did not make things easier. But he had done it, and surprisingly, he had kept in pace with you.

He breathed as much as he could, swallowing what little oxygen he could grasp from the top of the world. A wheeze or two ripped through his lungs. Wordlessly, you pressed his inhaler into his hand, a pat on his back to congratulate him. Sunday nodded his thanks.

Once his medication had done its magic and he no longer had to focus on the struggles of breathing properly, he realized that the world had gone silent. Snow no longer pelted at his face, and the aurora had gone dark.

And then he swept his gaze, and saw the clouds below him. Somehow, without noticing, he’d passed through them, and entered an entirely different plane of Zastrugi. Here, there was nothing but sky, and the stars - real, actual stars, not the false ones created by the snow, danced in nebulae above him.

And there was you, your cloak flapping in the wind as you gazed up at the cosmos. With so little light, he could only see your silhouette, but he has the impression that your back is turned towards him.

You are silent, as you always are when you see new sights. In moments like these, it was as if your breath had been stolen, and it is all you could do to absorb the picturesque scene before you, engraving it into your mind to store for all eternity.

Once, Sunday had expected you to take photos of your journeys, as a memento. But you never did. No, rather, you would stand there, memorizing every little detail, and then return to your temporary home to paint it instead.

And he swore, those paintings were almost always more magnificent than the places they were based on.

Sunday took one last look towards the everlasting cosmos before coming up to your side. Rather than the sky, the image he drank in was you. Your expression was soft, yet awe-struck, much like a child seeing the world for the first time. There was always a sort of melancholy in your eyes, but also a love for everything that he could drown in if you allowed him to.

You loved the world, and it was that love that he adored.

You turned to him, noticing his gaze, and for a moment, it was if time itself had stopped. His breath caught in his throat, and words died on his tongue. All he could do was look into your star-speckled gaze, all the colors of the universe casting their light onto the two of you.

What expression was he wearing, he wondered? A smile, or perhaps… something else?

But then you raised your hand, brushing it against his cheek ever so slightly, and all of those thoughts disappeared.

A smile wove onto your lips. “You had some snow left on you.”

Sunday tried not to miss your hand as it left him. His fingers trace what you had left, his gaze becoming lidded.

“Ah,” he breathed.

The corner of yours eyes crinkle, and you turned to the cliffside. Leaning over slightly, you peered over the edge, the clouds obscuring the true height of the fall. Sunday blinked.

“What are you planning…” he sighed, crossing his arms. You chuckled, turning slightly to meet his eyes.

“One way or another, we have to get down,” you pointed out. Sunday’s expression fell flat.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Your feet toed the edge, sending rocks and snow tumbling down. “You said you wanted to experience life as a mortal to the fullest, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t aware that included throwing oneself off a mountain.”

You shook your head, a grin surfacing. “You’re no fun, Sunday. Don’t you have those wings of yours? What do you have to worry about?”

Sunday’s answer was immediate. “You.”

“How sweet of you,” you commented as he came to besides you. “Well, then, you’ll just have to catch me, won’t you?”

Sunday squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “[Name], I swear upon all that is good in this world-”

He opened his eyes. You were already gone.

Sunday swore.

Midnight unfolded behind his back, clashing with his white cloak. Without so much as a second thought, he dove into the clouds headfirst, shooting through the sky like a meteor as he searched for you.

The second the fog of the clouds leave, however, he was thrust into a world of color. He fell alongside the snow, and unlike when he was on the mountain itself, he became a part of the aurora. The colors nearly blinded him, if not for the fact that he had his sights set on one thing - your falling figure, so close yet so far.

He tucked his wings as to fall faster. The second he reached you, he grabbed you, arms locking around your waist and pulling you into him, where it was safe.

“You’re a fool,” he scolded as your chest met his. You laughed, throwing your head back to return to the aurora.

“And yet, you saved me all the less.”

Sunday rolled his eyes as your legs wrapped around his waist. His wings returned to their full wingspan, catching the wind and ensuring that your fall didn’t end in a tragedy. He swerved and turned and glided, dodging peaks and keeping his sights on the city.

And all the same, you laughed, nothing short of pure glee in your voice.

And he sighed, fondness squeezing him regardless.

Yes, you were a fool.

But you were a fool he couldn’t help but love.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

Ive drawn so many asl hugs. But not these two before. Because. They make me sad.

HOWEVER ☝️

I am a completionist.

So here we are.

Close up pics 👇