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generalsdiary · 4 months ago

Text

he's a keeper, he's a believer (he's on the ground on his knees in a theater)

Sunday x Aeon!gn!reader

word count: 8.5k

description: Aeon reader inserted in Sunday's life story, soulmate au, fluff/angst, hurt/comfort, with a suggestive ending

a/n: this has been a long time coming and I finally wrote it out, big thank you to my beta readers: mochi, ricecake, and citrus!

The day he became aware of an Aeon of humanity, Sunday prayed to them every evening.

Those prayers became more frequent the older he got; more frequent with the rise of his awareness of all the pain in the world.

And at a certain, older age, those prayers subsided. He'd only pray when he was pleading for those around him.

Becoming enveloped in the Order and the... wrongdoings of the one who was supposed to be his caretaker, made those prayers stop fully.

However, on some odd days—an extra day of the month which comes by every few years. Or the one of a blue moon. Sunday would gaze up at the artificial stars of the Dreamscape with a longing look in his eyes, not daring to even think a prayer. It proved meaningless. Yet it still, be it habit or the need for comfort, brought him solace, to whisper in his head, your name. Your name itself, as a prayer.

You showed up in his dreams. Of course you did. Which other way could you do it without scaring... scarring... or even killing the poor Halovian. This was the one thing Sunday was sure he was delusional about. You must have been a fragment of his imagination. As for a reason why he remembered every dream so clearly, he did not have one.

Lush green gardens, pearly white beaches, blood red wines. You only took him to the prettiest of landscapes. Or perhaps he had control over that. The nature of the dream’s background never matched what you two talked about. Or rather, never matched what Sunday spoke of. Complaining about the universe, laws, the authorities, the will to change things, and the hopelessness in his wish to help everyone.

That hopelessness reminded you of another human. The yearning to reach everyone and heal a sickness called idiocy.Except, Sunday is much more sensitive, and felt true physical pain over this conundrum.

Why did you decide to come into his dreams? Into his mind? What could persuade an Aeon? What could ever draw an Aeon close? Questions to which you did not have answers to.

It is of no matter. You are here now. You are deciding to let those questions go.

“I am me.”

“It would be foolish of me to trust someone in my dreams.”

“The level of thinking you're capable of right now matches the one of the waking world. No ordinary dream would be able to do that.”

You mean to guide him with your words, purposefully sounding soft within the boundaries of his subconsciously created dream.

“I'm certain you can understand my doubts, no?” The gentle smile, one would assume he’d have on at this moment, is not present. Within the compounds of his dream, he doesn’t force that mask on. Letting the pure judgment, the slight narrowing of his eyes, and the tilt of his head be clear indicators of his inner thoughts.

“If you can reassure me that you'll be safe and collected, I can visit you.”

Sunday pauses, the sharpness of his eyes falling for a moment, “...visit?”

You nod, a graceful smile dancing on your lips. “Visit.”

The dream dissipates.

Meeting him in reality resulted in everything you expected it to. His golden eyes flashed shock, delight, surprise, sadness, and finally, anger. Words of blame and accusatory statements were thrown at you; how can you sit idly as people suffer, do you not have any sympathy for your own people, why would you not do anything as the Aeon of humanity? And so on.

Finding the eternal patience within you, you explained that it isn't that easy, nor was it your place to meddle. From that point forward, any physical meetings turned to Sunday complaining and mourning all the injustice.

The man who listened to everyone's confessions and complaints turned to you to confess. To seek solace.

Green leaves begin inside a vernation; they grow big and sway in the wind on the tree branches throughout summer, and in the fall they turn brown, dry, and crisp, falling down to kiss the dark soil from which they came. Your mutual interest and adoration grew, while the internal harboring hatred towards you festered. Sunday understood your reasons, alas, he was unable to choke out any blame for your lack of action. Luckily, you had noticed how your feelings and care for the Halovian grew and blossomed, and therefore you came to visit him much less. Drifting apart, for different reasons.

Perhaps the slight clench of a jaw escaped your eyes, and the smile that grew rotten out of the blame that he refused to speak up on again. A shiny red apple of love, that seemed to be growing, poisoned with your fear of the attention you were giving him, and his internal battle.

Push and pull. A game of tug-of-war and unspoken words. A flower that grew in your chest told you enough: you had fallen in love. Slowly, over time. Sunday drew you in like a bee to the blossom that he is.

There are rules against this; defenses, this isn’t a possibility. Therefore, you distanced yourself from the beautiful feelings he filled you with, the kind eyes that felt like a hug, the melodic voice that caressed your ears. A feather that caressed your forearm, leaving in its wake goosebumps along your skin. Imagining how it would feel to touch his hand, brush your fingertips against his wings—you had to stop.

Space was overdue to be created between you two. He didn’t speak your name and you didn’t show up in reality nor in his dreams. Days turned into months, and eventually into years.

The communication was lacking. Your words were colder. His prayers turned to something he’d dare utter in absolute privacy, in moments of weakness. At times, he hoped no one was looking at him or listening, no Aeon’s gaze on him or any bird that might’ve been eavesdropping.

A dark figure appears before him, a voice that he can hear only in his mind. Your voice. “You keep speaking my name in the late night.”

He didn't feel frightened by the sudden appearance, maybe just irritated at you for interrupting his time alone. “Ah… hello, Aeon.” Sunday’s eyes didn’t raise from the notebook in his lap, refusing to provide you the grace of acknowledging your presence in front of him.

“Is there something that urges you to preach my name like a lustful lover in the deaf hours of the night, Sunday?” Your voice revealed a certain sharpness to it. A silver knife that shines with the reflection of light falling upon it, with which you do not need to test to check if it will cut.

Sunday ignored you, dismissively gesturing with his hand. Pretending to be uncaring and unbothered by your presence. Acted like he didn’t call upon you while he was alone… away from the eyes of the Order. “I have work to do.” He entertains you with an uninterested tone, sending the message that you’re boring him.

“Then stop pleading my name.”

“I was doing something.” Sunday exhaled, placing his pen on the notebook and letting his hands rest. His expression turned to a tired annoyance when his eyes finally raised to look at your figure.

“Yes, indeed you were. Praying, complaining, begging, moaning,” you accuse him. You were blessed and cursed to hear him uttering words of prayer, his cusses of complaint, his pleading for help, and his moaning of pleasure.

“That’s not the whole story.” Sunday slowly stood up, getting himself ready to depart, giving the illusion that he wasn’t in the mood to argue or fight. A desperate man who rarely ever dares to call your name because of the mess that he is in right now. You know damn well that the powers of Order surround him. … It is not your place, nor your right to meddle with it. The fear in his eyes tells you stories that would break a human’s heart if they ever heard it. The smallest tremble of his hand, only visible for a mere second, is another confirmation. Not that you needed any, given how he still steals moments away from the eye of the Order to speak to you.

You smiled at his words and took a step forward, “You forget who I am, Sunday. I know the whole story. Your prayer wouldn’t let me sleep. Pleading, praying, bargaining, and offering… the climax of your… alone time as a gift. An offering—”

“Stop.”

There it was. The acting. You remembered his panting and whimpers of your name very clearly. What an interesting way to pray, or rather, what an interesting way to make an offering. To offer one’s pleasure.

It brought a small smirk to your face, to think that his façade was slowly crumbling. The Order could go kindly fuck themselves and leave this precious Halovian alone. You felt your protectiveness flare up, but it shouldn’t. You treat everyone equally. Just what is this feeling?

“You didn’t hear right,” Sunday protested calmly.

“Shall I replay my memories for you then?”

“…No” With flushed cheeks, he shook his head, and his wings fluttered. He knew he had no chance to win, not from an Aeon, so he didn’t continue arguing. And he definitely didn’t need to see his… alone time from your memories.

“Exactly.”

“Just leave me alone, please.” Sunday fidgeted with the pen in his hand, subtly glancing around. There’s a bigger, bad wolf in the forest of his mind, and it isn’t you.

“Nonetheless, you pleaded for me,” you try once more. Helping mortals isn’t something you can do. You’re not an actual god. A concept of one, sure, but you are an Aeon. Meddling isn’t within the rules or your nature. You wanted to help him, yet it isn’t within your power. This one’s fate had been sealed a long time ago. It was written as so. Anyone else, and perhaps it could have been within your hands to try and aid. Not him though. Not Sunday. He was out of your hands and out of your reach.

Moreover, he would need to say it out loud. That he wanted saving, needed your help.

“Shut up,” Sunday whispered.

“So, you do not need me? Very well then, stop praying when I’m trying to rest.” Shadows in the garden started pooling around your legs as you began to depart.

It was rather peculiar. Anyone else’s prayers—although people do not pray much or if at all to Aeons—you were always able to tune out, or silence them for peace of mind. His, on the other hand, never. It felt like he was whispering directly into your ear, sending shivers down your spine, a feeling you have never felt before. Unescapable.

The fact that his voice was always soft, smooth, and gentle made it seem like a lullaby, you found yourself wishing to hear more of it, wishing for this little bird to sing for you.

“That’s not the case.” Sunday said quietly, before his thoughts caught up with him—before he could deny it. He does need you… in more ways than one.

“Cease your prayer if you talk to me with such disrespect.” The shadows around your form got thicker. Sunday paused, slightly surprised by how quick you were to change your temper. Rainbows and cotton candy aside, you were still an Aeon. He shall respect you as such… despite the extremely special treatment he gets from you.

A light broke apart the shadows and you were gone.

Sunday decided to pray to you less. Invoking your wrath wasn’t something he wished upon himself.

Sunday’s prayers became fewer in number over the years. The grand plan for Penacony was bubbling under wraps and keeping him busy. But his fascination with you didn’t end. As the one and only hobby he had, he spent hours upon hours researching about you, about your Path, about how in some other universe, you were viewed as a God. A God who is prayed to properly, worshipped, with temples in your favor, written work and art made in your image. Perhaps in those universes, you had more power to help your people, he hoped.

Sunday found himself dragging his fingers over the digital screen portraying an art piece meant to represent you. It looked nothing like you. That did not matter to him, if he hadn’t known any better he would have assumed someone used the power of Harmony on him. Sunday felt drawn to you, enamored by any word that was written about you, overwhelmed with emotions he could not explain, silenced with secrets of the heart he would not dare utter.

Sheets rustled against his restless body. Sleep proved to be a distant friend, and insomnia a familiar foe. He glanced towards the clock beside his bed, it only showed the hours which had passed since he had laid his weary head down on the soft pillow. Sunday spent the next hour staring at the ceiling, tired golden eyes getting sore. There was an internal fight inside him between calling upon you, and not daring to do such a thing, which made him feel numb. Only by lying even to himself did he manage to get up and go to the balcony. By telling himself that he wanted fresh air. Even his thoughts were not safe from… well, anything. Hence, he didn’t have the privilege to think it through, to prepare. He could only fool himself in the hopes of dealing with one of the two things that trouble his mind.

Sunday stepped out into the cold night air of the reality part of Penacony. He looked toward the sky above him. As he closed his eyes, he felt himself shiver a little as a chilly gust of night wind went by. He looked down towards the railing, where he placed his hands. They quickly lost their warmth, only to be replaced with an aching chill as his thoughts drowned out his mind again. At that moment, he dared to whisper your name.

You, on the other hand, were asleep, and once more he awoke you. You sent thunder through the sky the moment after his pleading and nothing more.

Sunday spoke the words that simmered below the surface: below the blame of your inactions, his guilt of not doing more, his worry about the Order’s plans, his worry for his sister. They spilled out like water from a dam, finally running free, unprepared, messy, and uncontrolled. Letting them fly out as free doves. “I can’t sleep. All I think about is you. I know I said I was going to pray less…” He bit back the thought in his head which called him needy; reminding him this is an Aeon he is talking to and continues, “I’m sorry.” He muttered. Uncertain if he was saying it to himself or you. He stayed as such for a while, unsure of what to do, feeling cold and a little stupid.

As more minutes passed, he knew it was dumb to keep trying, but he couldn’t help it. He stopped holding it in. He opened the dam, and there was no closing it back. “I can’t stop thinking about you. You consume my very existence, and I don’t even understand it.” Sunday dryly chuckled, “Please, come to me again. I’m begging you. I… I need you.” Sunday felt his heart sink as no response was given. The wind that blew past him stopped. He wasn’t the first to beg an Aeon. Apathy. He stood there for another moment as a feeling of disappointment rushed over him. He felt selfish and outright crazy for being this way and acting like a desperate man. Sunday whispered your name once more along with, “Please… I’m begging…”

“Begging for what?” You spoke into his mind. Frankly, you couldn’t sleep. But if you were actually being honest with yourself… you couldn’t stay away. This Halovian felt like a magnet, something you couldn’t control or run away from.

“For you,” Sunday answered; he was being selfish. So selfish. “I just want you to be here for me. To listen to me, to… comfort me. Just please tell me that everything is going to be alright…” He lowered his head, he sounded desperate. He was desperate. His soft grey hair brushed his cheeks, hiding his face, wings fluttering as he exhaled.

“That is not how it works. I am not your lover, Sunday.” You rejected any and all thoughts of comfort he pleaded for, and shook your head. Why would you? Of course you wouldn’t, despite the feeling in your abdomen which urged you to do all of that. You were above such a feeling, and would not succumb to it.

“I know…” Sunday looked back up to the thundering sky, his eyes slightly watering, “Then what am I supposed to do? You consume me. I am stuck praising another one—following their Path—“

His voice breaks, out of fear of saying too much and the pain of his life right now. His reality. “It isn’t even about following a path, I just want you. I cannot find the words to explain when I don’t even understand it myself.”

“Obsessed with your religion,” you commented on his thoughts, despite your own not differing as much from his. How hypocritical.

“I am.” Sunday confirmed. It was the truth after all, or rather, a form of the truth. “I do not know what I can do… to please you. Or hold your attention, much less catch it in the first place.” Tears started to stream down his face. How long has it been since he’d cried? Sunday closed his eyes, unable to look at the night sky that seemed to mock him.

“Don’t cry.” You have seen humans cry before, however it never made your chest ache. It never forced your hand.

“I’ll try,” he sniffed. A weak attempt to get himself together, thinking it was pathetic to appear like this in front of you. The shadows appeared in a blink of an eye and surprisingly warm hands cup his cheeks and wipe the tears away. You couldn’t help yourself, could you?

“You kept begging and woke me up. Again,” you said harshly in a quiet voice, clashing with your feelings of worry. Feelings? … That is a new one for you. This has all been growing more and more precarious with every passing day.

Sunday looked down, embarrassed by the fact that he made an Aeon come to him, not to mention the many times he had bothered you already. At the same time, he felt happy that you were him, your presence gave him a sense of comfort. “I apologize, I was selfish. Just so, so selfish. And undeserving…”

“What do you beg for, Sunday?” Your words brushed against his lips, mingled with his breath.

“I just want you to comfort me. To say something. To help the thoughts in my head quiet down so I can get some rest.”

The fact you showed up in the physical realm, in reality, for the first time in front of him didn’t seem to faze him at all. If anything, his eyes softened like he was seeing an old friend after many years had passed. His requests were unclear even to him. He didn’t know how to express what he was feeling. “I am not your lover, mortal.” You kept your voice soft with the words that were meant to sting and remind him (and you) of his place.

“I know that. And yet… it still doesn’t stop me from craving your attention. It doesn’t stop me from needing you… yearning for you.”

With a sigh, you shook your head, “You don’t know the first thing about me, Sunday.”

“Tell me about yourself, then.” Sunday looked up towards you, a hint of bitterness in his voice. He felt like he knew plenty about you, but he wanted to know more. He wanted you to keep talking. He wanted to drown everything out, but the thoughts in his head just kept getting louder and harder to ignore. The plans of the Order continued consuming his mind.

“This isn’t a date underneath the starry sky. I am not like you.”

“We are different, I know that.” Sunday looked away for a moment, closing his eyes as he tried to compose himself once more. He felt himself shiver from the cold night wind. Sunday looked down towards the tile floor of the balcony, trying to find something else to focus on, to no avail.

“What worries you, Halovian?” Your warm hands left his cheeks. He seemed unsurprised by your physical appearance, that which he had seen in his dream before. Perhaps he already came to a conclusion that, of course, the Aeon of humanity would have the form of a human in reality. Or, that your Aeon form would be too much for any mortal’s eyes.

“The fact that, how I feel now, I can only describe with the words: I am in love with you.” Sunday puts it plainly out on the table. Granted, he is clever enough to draw that conclusion.

“Well, dear Sunday, that is not possible. A mortal cannot fall in love with an Aeon. There are protections for such things,” you say, shaking your head. Under any circumstances, it is simply impossible.

“Why do I still feel this way? Why can’t I get you out of my mind?” Sunday asked, seeking answers. He needed them, he needed something to make sense.

He looked back at you. You were frowning. None of it made sense.

“You cannot… You—It isn’t possible. So, it isn’t true.” You were quick to deny it once more.

“Then why… Why is it so hard to move on? I want to, I really do. But every time I try to, you’re there! Filling all my senses, shushing my every thought so there can only be you…” Sunday’s voice filled with frustration while his last words turned into a whisper. It was impossible, however; his eyes looked at you like you were the sun itself, and he were but a mere sunflower gazing into you with adoration.

That left only one thought in your mind. An idea. More like an idea wrapped up in indulgence, but an idea nonetheless. “I can find out.”

“You can…?” There was a hint of relief in his voice and a hope in his eyes.

“I can look into you, into your… life.” The words you meant to say died on your tongue; your timeline.

“Yes, please!” Sunday pleaded once more. “Anything. Just please, do it.”

You nodded to yourself. Here goes nothing. A hint of, what humans would call butterflies fluttered in your stomach and you stepped closer to him. In the next moment, your lips were on his. It was genuinely a way to find an answer. Sadly, you couldn’t enjoy the kiss, like the small voice inside you begged you to, and the answer to your shared questions came too quickly.

Upon seeing his future, you pulled away. Your eyes showed surprise which you couldn’t possibly hide at that moment. Feeling rushed, you spoke on instinct, “Oh. We… We shall meet again. I know why.” In the next moment, you were gone in a poof of dark shadows.

By disappearing so quickly, you missed out on the rosy cheeks your kiss caused, the small gasp that left his lips when you pulled away, and his blown-out pupils. Sunday was too confused and dazed by the kiss to even comprehend what you said. Your disappearance left an emptiness behind, a hole which he was too well aware of. Whispers of the Harmony, the powers of which he neglects, whispered to him that this one was final, in spite of what you said.

The following years made him more numb, focused only on the plan for the revival of Ena, on the eternal dream – where he will live outside of it as the ultimate sacrifice. Sunday would never make his sister take that spot, no matter what lies he had told that he would.

Your name vanished from his mind like the memory of a deceased loved one that becomes grey over time, with the sound of their voice turning fuzzy until it is unrecognizable. The first few months, he’d mumble your name with warm water running down his body, across the tears that ran down his face, concealed by the shower stream.

A whisper, a prayer, an utter, until he would speak it no more. His hobby of researching you also ended. His entire personality became the grand act of playing the Head of the Oak family, with him as the lead actor and only performer.

The curtain shall never fall, the theater will never close.

Even when the Astral Express had come, he begged them to argue against him, to prove him wrong, to do anything to show him that there is another way. The Nameless couldn’t understand him, nor the points he was making. Unknowingly to him, he had incapacitated the only man who would be willing to argue him and approach it as a debate or a conversation, Welt Yang. Possibly the only one who would have heard him out and openly debated him with an objective approach.

The artificial wind of the dream blew against his back in his slow fall from the mech he built. Ena was almost revived. Sunday almost ascended to Aeonhood. The embrace of his sister was the only moment he had felt something other than pure focus on the goal. Something other than the shell of a Halovian he became with the goal of being more humane.

Sunday didn’t learn actual love, nor how it feels to be loved. His sister is the one and only expectation, along with the love he has for his mother when he visits her grave with fresh flowers.

Comfort isn’t Sunday’s thing. He is like a match, he needs to burn and burn out till the wooden wick turns black and ashen.

The head of the Oak family… Former head of the Oak family. “What a joke…” he chuckles dryly. His wrists and ankles are marked red from the shackles and chains they held him in. The cold metal against his soft skin is still fresh in his mind, chaining a Halovian… An angel in chains—so much like the archangel Lucifer—except Lucifer was never a bad guy, and nor is Sunday. That's what he believes at least. Or, perhaps Sunday is more like Icarus; he got too close to the sun—touched the hand of a god, of an Aeon.

This ‘freedom’, if he can even call it that, given by madam Jade—it will surely be short-lived, like a firefly in the summer, burning out his life. What deal did Robin make with that woman? The worry for his sister made him feel powerless—he should be the one saving her and making sure she is happy, not the other way around. Sunday should find her. He needs to see his sister to make sure she is okay.

Behind his heavy eyelids, Sunday recalls how she caught him, held him… Silently murmured prayers to the Harmony fall from his lips in hopes that she is alright. He would forsake anyone, anything, even himself, his pride, and his beliefs, and fall on the ground to pray to any Aeon if it meant his sister would be safe.

Sunday’s steps are heavy, silenced by the carpet in the empty hotel room. The door clicks as it closes, and he chuckles once again, a self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve failed. At… everything. I couldn’t protect her, I couldn’t give everyone a happy life in the dreamworld—I couldn’t—” Sunday’s words get stuck in his throat and he chokes on them, feeling the flower petals bloom inside his throat, constricting his breathing and making his mouth dry. His gaze raises to the ceiling. Is he seeking a remnant of Ena? No… Sunday is regretting his failure. “I was never enough. I didn’t do well... enough.”

Gold, sun-like eyes fill with hot tears that slowly tread down his cheeks and he falls to his knees. He softly shakes his head and stands back up. “No… no.”

Sunday, even in his fall from the sky, doesn’t allow himself to tread so lowly that he’d weep on the floor. Instead, he walks further into the room which, in his gaze, looks distorted, in the same way the world looks when one’s eyes are full of tears threatening to overflow.

Sunday’s eyes are now dry, his hands calm without a tremor as he slowly takes off his jacket, and another one… and his shirt. The wings usually wrapped around his waist relax and sit behind him, long, light, never seen by another. The gloves come off his hands and he continues stripping down until he stands without any restrictions. Troubled mind with troubled eyes focused on the clothes laid out on the bed. Why are his clothes the only thing he can control right now? Sunday turns his back to the bed, frustration washing over his body.

“What’s next… What is it that I can do next? Where… where would I even go?” Sunday’s voice turns to soft mumbles while his back remains straight and shoulders square. Even after everything, he holds himself up high, elegant, and firm, as if he is always being observed by a silent shadow of his past that judges his every move.

With heavy steps, he walks into the bathroom and towards the bathtub. A sour sight; the wound’s still fresh. Sunday sits in the normal bathtub—unlike the Dreamscape’s entrance. Water fills it slowly, his head hanging over the edge. Sunday sighs, the match has burnt out and the hot water brings him no comfort. Sunday’s mind takes a short pause, a mere breather full of regret and knives pressing against the hill of his throat, as he struggles to swallow the mistakes, the failures, and thoughts of what he could have done differently.

Mere moments later, his head raises again, the vulnerability in his eyes gone, the tundra cold inside once more while he organizes the information in his head and creates a new plan for moving forward.

It is all chaos, his mind an image of books that fell off the shelves, shredded paper flying around with crossed out writing on them, furniture thrown, flipped over; a complete mess. Sunday made this mess and now he must sit in it. He, a previous follower of the Order.

His overconfidence lasts only so long as he comes to the conclusion he cannot stay the same. He has to change and heal… and leave.

Once he’s dressed in new, different clothing, he realizes the hopelessness of his situation once more. In his loneliness, his wants and needs which have been ignored for years, his wishes and desires had been stomped on and left in the dust, and the pain of this realization hurt. The pain envelopes him. Sunday desperately searches his mind for the last time he was himself: not under the effects of the Order, or any man, or any plan. Just him.

Your name resurfaces in his mind, and with the flutter of butterfly wings, it blossoms like a lotus flower, its petals opening up with a soothing scent. The memory of your hands holding his face, your warmth, your lips, your words, a melody he wishes to hear more of. It all calms him down, holding him, the memories caressing him like the autumn sun against his skin.

There is nothing here. No one of ulterior motives, only him and you in his mind. So he, once more, after years of silence, utters the name of the Aeon he used to pray to, the Aeon he loves in inexplicable ways, yearning to see them. At a time when he just needs comfort while hiding in a hotel room, away from the authorities trying to punish him for his wrongdoings in Penacony, despite the years of no answer… the Aeon appears in front of him once more.

His failure to ascend to Aeonhood echoed through the universe… your universe. You couldn’t peel your eyes away, actual physical pain filled your body every time that train crashed into him. His one mumble was enough to make you appear.

Finally free of his shackles, you get to come to him. You have the opportunity and you jump on it. How could you not?

The moment his eyes fall on you he steps forward. Despite all these years, you are still you, and he is, finally, once more, him.

“Please,” he uttered in a broken voice. The droplets of tears looked like diamonds as they threatened to drop. There had never been a man who looked more beautiful crying than him. No one who has looked more ethereal. It took the air out of your lungs. Like a living painting, a moving statue. Moving towards you with big sad eyes, the stars reflecting in his tears and the last glimmer of hope—the very last. The one to be held by you. To be comforted. Hold him. Please.

Your voice sounded as cold as ever, unable to help the pretense for a few moments. “Sunday.”

Too many years have passed, are you even allowed to touch him anymore? To approach him? To talk to him as you usually did? Did you not lose that right after you left without a word?

As a clear tear overflows and falls down his cheek, you can barely hold your body back from holding him.

“Sunday.” You manage to repeat in a softer tone. Alas, he offers no response. Stuck in the paused stance, waiting for a clear yes or no.

You manage to barely nod. He steps forward and so do you—and then you’re embracing him, holding him, and the air once more flows through your lungs. It felt like you weren’t fully inhaling air for years after leaving. This is how it feels when a planet starts rotating again. A crisp, refreshing, winter air. It awakens you.

Hot tears wet your shirt and the same fabric muffles his sobs. Sunday breaks down like shattered icicles that children throw on the ground. Be careful to not get cut on the shards. Something inside you makes you doubt his sides are that sharp. In your arms, falling apart, he feels as soft as a marshmallow, but you hold him like he is a glass figurine; careful yet tight. Fearing he will fracture.

“I’m here,” you whisper into his hair, your free hand pressing the back of his head into you.

You can only imagine how he feels. How it feels to escape the control of the Order, to give up powers of the Order and the Harmony. To fail at his one goal for which he was willing to sacrifice his whole life, wishes, and wants for the good of others. To fall and live as a mortal. He was mortal beforehand and brushed the precipice of Aeonhood, yet now he claims he will walk among mortals to learn what that truly means for him. Sunday lost everything he was. Everything he is. Hence, you can only imagine how it must feel to not know who you are, what you will do, how to talk, interact, and how to walk down the street.

His arms wrap around you, hands scrunching your shirt into his fists, afraid you’ll disappear. Or perhaps hanging on to you as to not drown, to not sink beneath the waves.

“You’re here,” Sunday mumbles between sobs, hanging more onto you, clutching your body in his arms – terrified you’ll vanish into thin air.

“I won’t go this time. I promise,” you whisper into his hair; not even a war between Aeons couldn’t pull you away from him now.

What more could you say to the one who believed the ends justify the means? The one who was willing to use himself as the ultimate sacrifice so that everyone could be happy? For who would not wish to live in eternal paradise…?

Days passed with him in your embrace. You couldn’t bear to leave his side. And now, you didn’t have to force yourself to on the basis of him being a Halovian and you being an Aeon. It was time for him to learn the truth you found out the day you kissed him. No guilty whispers in your consciousness saying that you had to leave him, that this is improper and forbidden and against every law and border and anyone and anything who might say something. Nothing. In your head, there was only silence.

You listened to his sobs and soothed his regrets. During quiet moments, resting in your arms, he’d come to the conclusion of needing to change by himself. You needn’t intrude. Only after he came to, felt like the man that he never got to know, and dressed in new attire, did he question you about the day you left.

“Did you figure out why?”

“I think so. I think I figured out why I feel the way I do… towards you.” Sunday’s eyes fell onto you, portraying the softness of the most fragile flower. His heart was pounding, and a level of nervousness was still there.

“You… almost ascended to Aeonhood. In your attempts, you failed to do so and that is why you were able—you are able to feel these things towards me.” In simple words, you begin to explain. As Sunday stepped towards you, he felt somewhat regretful of his actions, with a small rock in his shoe being his failure to ascend.

“I care. You claimed it wasn’t possible…” He held back the urge to hug you, fearing your next words.

“An Aeon can only love one ever and forever. And it is always matched. When I kissed you, years ago, I confirmed why you could care for me. I saw you failing to reach Aeonhood, but almost succeeding in it. That explains why you were able to feel obsessed even beforehand. It isn't like mortal love. It isn't linear. You bent the rules of the universe and fell in love with me. Aeons’ love is predetermined.” You reached out to brush his cheek as you spoke, the velvet skin under your fingertips grounded you in this moment with him.

“Only one. But who?” Sunday got lost in your words, scared of unrequited love, terrified of your rejection, and blinded by his feelings to truly hear what you were saying.

“Which part confuses you?” You smile, willing to take all the time in the universe to explain it to him.

“Who is your… only one?” Sunday whispered. His bottom lip trembled for a moment, and his wings shook—if asked, he’d probably blame it on the wind blowing from the open balcony doors.

“The only one that it could be.” You nod with a soft smile.

Sunday gazed at you. Suspicion and worry flashed in his narrowed eyes as he took the time to scan your body language.

“Only in pairs. I’m your pair, Sunday. Yes, you may have failed to reach Aeonhood, but you almost succeeded. And the ability to love an Aeon bled through the cracks and spilled over your lifetime, making you love me earlier than it was physically possible, taking a toll on your mortal body, and ending up with you feeling obsessed.” Sunday stepped closer, and he gently took off one of his gloves and hovered his hand above your cheek.

“You’re mine? You… care for me?”

“I always have. I rejected it because I deemed it impossible. I no longer reject it. I am… I look forward to eternity with you, my beloved.”

Sunday’s wings fluttered and both of you blushed, him out of shyness, you out of happiness. Finally, you are able to be frank with him, after years.

“Well then, my love. Shall I make a joke?” You attempt to ease the air, so as to not pressure him into anything too suddenly.

Sunday smiled, his left wing twitching at the sound of you calling him such a sweet word. “Yes… please.”

Here goes your attempt to mimic actual human humor—the bad kind. “What did the sushi say to the bee?”

“Hm, what?”

“Wasabi.”

Silence. Sunday’s nose scrunched and he cringed slightly, “That was…bad. Really bad.” He softly laughed.

“Then I have achieved what I wished. I never said it would be good.” Both of you laughed warmly and let go of the weight on your shoulders.

Sunday’s mind ran away and worried in the background. What if all of this was a dream and he’d wake up having to face the harsh cold reality?

“I wouldn’t mind spending an eternity with you.”

“Good. You’re doomed to spend it with me.”

“That’s fine by me,” Sunday replied in a light tone. He felt giddy about the whole situation.

“Couples formed by Aeons are the only ones that will stay alive and never fall. Currently, there’s only us.”

Sunday let the information sink in, it felt overwhelming. “So it’s just us, until the end of time?”

With a nod you confirm, “And neither of us have a choice.”

“Even if we did, I still would have chosen you. I’ll always choose you.” The tension has fallen and he finally cups your cheek with his bare hand. It brings a smile to your face. “You’re pretty when you smile.”

“You’re flirty,” you answer with an even bigger smile. “I want to kiss you more.”

For a moment, Sunday felt unlike his usual self, perhaps leftovers of Wonweek which pushed him to tease, “I thought Aeons didn’t stoop that low.”

“You’re tied to me until the end of time. I’ll be whatever I wish.” You raise your chin and smirk.

The scenery around the two of you changed with every touch of your lips. The heat of the summer sun, the salt of the sea, the cinnamon scent of tiger lilies, violins playing a waltz. You couldn’t get enough of it, of him.

The closeness of the two of you expanded over the following years.

You were pacing around your now shared home. Sunday never had a home, not really. And you grew up mortal, so a house, a home was something you both wished for. Especially with his wishes to travel and stay within the mortal realm. Hence, you two live together.

A weak mumble of your name made you practically teleport by the side of your bed. Sunday sat there, face in his hands, flushed, crying. You sat beside him and cupped his face. “My precious, why are you crying?”

Sunday felt pathetic. He tried to speak, his voice but a whimper of sobs that he tried to settle down before saying, “I—I had a nightmare.” His chin trembled from the effort of holding back his tears. He leaned further into your touch, somewhat ashamed of his state, “I’m sorry I—“ A sob that escaped his lips cut him off.

“I curse the lord of the dreams for sending you a nightmare,” you utter, wiping his tears away. You moved to sit on the floor in front of him. “My treasure…” Sunday was in awe of your display of devotion. Despite feeling unworthy of your love, your actions spoke loudly and it was all he needed to ground himself.

“Deep breaths. It will pass. Only a nightmare.” You kept your voice mellow and soft.

Sunday focused on his breathing, feeling himself slowly start to calm down. The lump in his throat dissipated and he could breathe easily again, “It was just a nightmare…” he whispers, still somewhat anxious from the stress of his mind.

“Shall I hold you, my sun?” you offer, resting your hands on his legs.

Sunday nodded and you held him. You embraced him as you always do, pulling him up against your body on the bed. Rubbing his side, leaving fluttering kisses along his wings.

“It was only a nightmare. It will not happen again, I will make sure of it,” you whispered in a threatening voice. Sunday felt a sense of comfort and security from your words, reassurance that you will always be there for him. His eyelids felt heavy as he relaxed in your arms, slowly drifting off to sleep. “I love you…”

“I love you too.” You spent the duration of his sleep laying kisses on his temple and cheek, lacing blessed words, making sure a nightmare never occurs again. Sunday slept soundly for the following hours, dreaming of only the most pleasant memories.

Sunday still kept his goal of wanting to create a paradise for everyone. The first thing on his to-do list is to see other claims of such a paradise. Thus, the two of you traveled and spent months, years at a time, wherever you wished. There was no rush to leave a planet too soon. Sunday made notes, gave arguments, and expressed his thoughts to you, in which you indulged him and discussed anything he wished, amusing his whims and desires. Unlike him, you wished to only look at your loved one at these gorgeous locations. The ones you showed him in his dreams. Time is but a thread both of you weaved in your favor. A sword with which it can be cut has not been invented yet. Eternity, only a fidget toy at your fingertips. And your beautiful, wonderful, significant other.

It was on one of these remarkable planets that you were now staying at: Amphoreus. Problematic, yet breathtaking in its sights. An area of war and pain, however, the people in Okhema lived as if nothing was going on. It intrigued him. Your room was vast, with a private balcony, dark blue curtains, a bed softer than a cloud, and even a personal bath. It looked more like a pond to you than a bath but to each their own. You concealed your identity with the utmost care. No Aeons resided here. You ought to be careful and only play the role of visitors, tourists. While you pondered whether you had covered all your tracks, your train of thought was interrupted.

A soft hand pressed behind your thigh, pushed into the soft flesh, making you gasp in surprise. You draw your gaze away from the notebook in your hand, and before you can even fully grasp the situation, you feel lips press in the middle of your thigh and then you see Sunday kneeling in front of you.

“Sunday, love, why are you kneeling?”

“Are you not meant to be worshipped like this?” he says with a small smile, obviously flirting, looking up at you.

“Well, technically—“ Your words get interrupted by Sunday clarifying, “Am I not allowed to worship you the way you deserve?”

The sight alone, of him naked on his knees, freshly showered, is an intimate one, to say the least. You reached down to brush his damp hair, “My precious, you may, but I worry for your knees…” As you asked your question, he continued laying kisses along your thigh while maintaining eye contact.

“I assure you, I do not mind,” he muses and starts leaving kisses in which he also darts his tongue out a bit.

“Sunday!” you scold him, nudging him subtly to get up.

“My everything, allow me this much,” Sunday pleads and you cannot say no to those pretty eyes. A sigh escapes you and you nod.

He continues kissing along your leg, moving towards your hip, where he stops to nibble a bit, along to the softness of your tummy, the hills of your ribs, the crook of your collarbone, licks and small bites following the column of your neck until he passionately meets your lips. Pulling you near him, making you fall on top of him on the bed. Your hand tangles in his hair, brushing past his wings, getting high on his taste.

Your other hand follows the trail of his spine, sprawling out across the plains of his back and moving to trail the soft valley of his stomach, brushing against his nipples and making his lips stutter in the kiss. Having a lover so sensitive to your touch excites you. Of course he’d be sensitive to any touch, with how he barely ever has any skin visible when you two walk around.

You part from his lips to leave open-mouthed, hot kisses along his jaw, nibbling a bit, teasing him until you actually decide to bite down and leave plum-colored marks in your wake. His melodic moans and whimpers only urge you to move lower and tease him more. Taking a nipple into your mouth, flicking it with your tongue, he lets out a choked noise, making you smile against his skin.

“My everything, do not part from me for too long,” Sunday breathlessly uttered.

“I am enjoying…”—with small pecks, you trail your way back up—“…my lover. And there’s more to you than just your lips” You smile, hovering above his face.

“You… are making me feel needy.” Sunday exhales, meeting your eyes.

“Good. I plan to fulfill those needs.” You meet his lips once more as a distraction before moving back down his torso, where he interrupted you.

His halo shines brightly every time you make him see the stars he loves oh so much. His whimpers of your name echo in your head like a prayer he moans them as. The gold in his eyes melts, occasionally crying from sheer pleasure. It is easy to say you are good at making him see the heaven he wishes to create. Taking your sweet time with every touch, worshipping him the way he loves worshipping you.

You dare claim he moves even slower than you in his worship. Unlike him, you’re not as sensitive and therefore can enjoy his slow pace of kissing every part of you and looking at you with eyes low.

Although it isn’t always that slow. The times when he gets really into showing you his love, to the point he makes lustful noises, lost in the pleasure he is giving you, drunk on your taste on his lips, that is when you lose your patience—tugging his hair and crashing your lips against his in a needy manner. His confidence is evident in his smirk against your lips. Despite being a gentle lover, with a preference for making love, sometimes he does want the heat and the rush, your thirst and your possessiveness over your significant other.

Wherever the two of you seek the heaven of your own founding, you leave beds of flowers blossoming around the building. No matter the planet’s season or concrete, stone ground. Flowers will bloom between the cracks and piles of snow, leaving the locals in awe, unaware of your own power.

Sunday’s whispers are only the sweetest things in bed, they make you dizzy with love. “I should have worshipped you sooner.”

“Worship in the bedroom—” you utter with rose-dusted cheeks.

“Only if you command it. Even then, I’d disobey, only to worship the ground you walk on, and then you may judge me for my sins, my everything…”

The only heaven I’ll be sent to is when I’m alone with you.

a/n: the title is a song lyric from Hot Gum by Sofia Isella and the last line is from Take me to Chruch by Hozier (and the inspiration for the last 3 lines)

divider cr: @milklemondrop

#sunday x aeon!reader #sunday x gn reader #honkai star rail #fluff #angst #hurt/comfort #suggestive theme #soulmate au #welt yang #robin #gopher wood #kids' mother #hsr #divider cr: milklemondrop #oneshot #fic

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