#Tuning

[radracer]

Datsun 240z s30

@matt.dsperformance

[tomohirosibuyahappyanimals]

Car Tuning

[taino-ti]

wait do y'all know about Dusty Springfield's Panamanian-Filipina ex-GF who wrote a shit ton of her songs or do I need to put yall on.

[aventurineswife]

Hello! You may ignore my request if you've already written something similar, but I would like to ask for (platonic) AE! Sunday using Tuning (I hope I remember how's it called correctly) on reader (either with consent given after asking if that's alright, or with reader being the one who approaches him for help first), who is currently mentally really unwell because of thinking of bad and/or traumatic past experiences, memories which makes reader really sad, anxious, maybe even guilty? I hope it is not too vague of a description, if it is, you may imply reader having to flee from their home planet, though for a reason not like Sunday had; for example. Have a nice day, I really enjoy your writing! :3

A Gentle Requiem

Summary: Struggling with overwhelming memories and emotional turmoil, you find solace in the quiet presence of Sunday aboard the Astral Express. When he offers to use Tuning to ease your mind, you hesitate—but ultimately, you trust him. Through his gentle guidance, the weight of your past becomes just a little lighter, allowing you to breathe once more.

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Platonic, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Support, Tuning, Healing, Introspection, Found Family, Soft Sunday, Safe Space, Mindfulness, Trauma Recovery.

Warnings: Mental Health Struggles (anxiety, guilt, trauma), Mentions of Past Hardships, Emotional Vulnerability, Memory-Related Distress, Comfort with Consent.

A/N: Awww, thank you!! 🥺💖

The quiet hum of the Astral Express provided a soothing backdrop, the rhythmic vibrations beneath your feet a gentle reminder that, for now, you were safe. But safety didn’t quiet the storm in your mind. The weight of memories—shattered moments of loss, echoes of voices you could no longer hear—coiled tightly around your chest.

You had been fine. Or at least, you told yourself that. But it was getting harder to ignore the way your thoughts sank into old wounds, replaying the past with cruel precision. You had been avoiding everyone, isolating yourself in the dim corridors of the Express, hoping the silence would be kind.

It wasn’t.

That was how Sunday found you—tucked away in one of the less-frequented observation rooms, the vastness of space stretched out beyond the window. He approached with his usual quiet grace, wings shifting slightly as he stepped closer. The golden glow of his halo flickered, as if sensing the turbulence within you.

"You've been carrying something heavy," he observed, his voice soft but certain.

You swallowed, unsure how to respond. There was no point in denying it, not to him. Sunday had a way of seeing through masks, peeling back layers of pretense with a mere glance.

After a long silence, you admitted, "I... can't stop thinking about it. About everything. It’s like I’m trapped in it—no matter where I go, it follows."

Sunday nodded, as if he understood exactly what you meant. "Memories are stubborn things," he murmured. "They root themselves deep, especially the painful ones." He settled beside you, his presence oddly grounding. "Would you like me to help?"

You turned to him, uncertain. "...Help how?"

There was no judgment in his golden gaze, only patient understanding. "Tuning," he answered simply. "I can guide your mind—ease the strain, soften the echoes. It won’t erase anything, nor would I wish to. But I can help you breathe again, even if only for a little while."

The idea was tempting. Your thoughts had become a relentless tide, pulling you under, and you were so, so tired of drowning.

"...Will it hurt?"

Sunday shook his head. "No. But I will need your trust."

You hesitated, but in the end, trust came easier than expected. You nodded.

"Alright."

Sunday raised a gloved hand, hovering just near your temple, waiting for a final confirmation. When you gave the smallest nod, he closed the distance. The touch was light, but the effect was immediate.

A gentle warmth unfurled through your mind, like the first rays of dawn cutting through an endless night. The storm of your thoughts quieted—not silenced, but softened. The jagged edges of pain dulled, the suffocating grip of guilt loosened. Sunday’s presence wove through the memories like a careful hand unwinding tangled threads, not removing them, but allowing you to see them without being consumed.

"You are not your past," his voice echoed through the calm. "Nor are you the weight of what has happened to you."

Tears pricked at your eyes, not from pain, but from the sheer relief of being able to breathe.

Slowly, Sunday withdrew his hand, and the connection faded. The storm was not gone, but it was no longer all-consuming. For the first time in what felt like forever, your mind was your own again.

You exhaled shakily. "Thank you."

Sunday offered a small, knowing smile. "You don't have to carry everything alone."

And for the first time, you believed him.

[its-where-the-wild-things-are]

[yesisgreat]

[wallpapers4screen]

[artstationable]

Fernando Correa

Illustrator- Available for work

artstation

More from «Artstation» here

[thelastdrop007]

[komplexefotographie]

[radracer]

Datsun 280z s30

[blogwelberfotos-blog]

PORSCHE TUNING OU TUNER

[palm-txt]

[its-where-the-wild-things-are]

[mrs-trophy-wife]

If you can imagine what you please, and if the forms of Your thoughts are as vivid as the forms of nature, you are by virtue of the power of your imagination master of your fate.

—Neville Goddard