#react event system

[star-anise]

I really wonder if trauma theorists who say things like "Humans are the only animal that will be in a fright state when physically safe" or "the rest of the animal kingdom doesn't get PTSD" have ever, like

Do you think they've actually ever met an animal?

[starburst-selfship]

Do you guys ever imagine a really specific scenario with your f/o. Like doing something together at a certain place you love to go, or doing something you love to do? How your f/os would react and weave themself into this situation, if they’d be having fun, or if they’d be frustrated for whatever reason.

I don’t know how to describe it really? But I find them to be rather intimate and personal.

[deus-ex-mona]

no thoughts, just the way the narumi sisters are so different yet fundamentally similar at the same time yk?

[nei-ning]

Had to redo therapy navigator online since my psychologist recommended it so that we can follow my situation / if there's improvement. Well, don't know how much improvement had happened but here's current results: Depression Inquiry (PHQ-9): 27p / 27p. Severe. Anxiety Inquiry (GAD-7): 20p / 21p. Severe. Social Anxiety Inquiry (SPIN-FIN): 67p / 68p. Severe. Panic attacks disorder (PDSS-SR): 25p / 28p. Severe. Compulsive Disorder (OCI-R): 26p / 72p. Clinically significant.

Left rest out since they were just few "yes and no" questions (about using alcohol & drugs which I don't use). But yeah, I'm still severe case. Tho, this all also could be because of ADHD / Autism or both since they cause similar effects as well.

[ookaookaooka]

i was just thinking the other day about how fucked up plant pheromone signaling is. like we talk about it like “oh, plant A is getting eaten so it holds up a sign saying PREPARE THYSELF and plants B, C, and D see that and go oh shit we better start making a chemical that makes us taste bitter so we don’t get eaten” but it’s more like. if the sweat we produced while running away from something that’s trying to eat us contained aerosolized cocaine, which makes anyone who smells it start running away as fast as they can in whatever direction they happen to be pointing, which hopefully is in the opposite direction of whatever’s trying to eat us

[navree]

i tonya is always a movie i'm gonna be annoyed exists, not cuz i dislike it (it's fine, its' not great but it's adequate and it has its moments) but because i have a vision in my head of a movie about that whole mess that is never gonna come to fruition because there's already been a major motion picture about it

[eternalcyclicality]

damn if the affordable care act existed before walter's diagnosis he never would have started cooking meth

It's not sensible media analysis, since every story needs an inciting action, but it's still funny to look at the smoldering aftermath of some turbo-tragedy series and be like, "damn if he just hadn't gone out for cigarettes in episode 1 then the world wouldn't have ended."

[sweetteaanddragons]

I have been thinking lately about a universe where Bruce Wayne killed the Joker.

I want to be clear here, since there are so many longstanding debates on this topic: I do not think Bruce Wayne should kill the Joker. I have just been wondering what would happen if the circumstances aligned in such a way that he did.

And to be clear on a related, yet slightly different topic: when I say I have been wondering about what if Bruce Wayne killed the Joker, I do not mean as the Batman. I mean Bruce "Brucie" Wayne.

Maybe it's kind of an accident? Like, he definitely did intend to hit the Joker, but he's Brucie right now, so he's trying not to look like he knows what he's doing while still doing enough damage to keep the Joker from killing someone, and meanwhile the Joker makes just the wrong move and -

And here we are. Brucie just killed the Joker.

Bruce's reaction here is one thing; he has his one rule for a reason, he's just broken it, he's determined to turn himself in -

His family's reaction is a whole different story. How does Cass feel about this?

How does Jason? Bruce has killed the Joker, just like he wanted, but it wasn't for him, not really, and -

And meanwhile, this happens in front of, say, a gala full of people, so now all of Gotham gets to react to it too.

Average Gothamite, seeing the words BRUCE WAYNE, JOKER, and KILLED in the same headline: OH, NO.

Average Gothamite, once they've processed the order those words are actually in: . . . I did not have that on this year's bingo card.

The city's most famous mass murderer has just been publicly killed by the city's biggest employer/philanthropist/source of tabloid harmless nonsense! Three days before Brucie was making tabloid headlines by tripping into a fountain and somehow losing his shirt in the process! Two weeks before, the newspaper was running a retrospective on the Wayne murders and what donation Brucie was making to help the families of victims this year! The article mentioned how one of his adopted sons had also tragically become a murder victim!

Now this has happened, and Bruce is having a breakdown over breaking his one rule, and the rest of Gotham just assumes that this is because poor Brucie thinks this somehow makes him like the man who killed his parents. They send a huge outpouring of support his way. This in no way helps Bruce's actual breakdown.

Ninety percent of Gotham is sure Brucie didn't actually mean to kill the Joker, and pretty much a hundred percent of them support him whether he meant to do it or not. No one wants to have anything to do with prosecuting this mess. Bruce is trying to make it as clear as possible that he will fully cooperate with the justice system and meanwhile an entire gala full of people is suddenly acting like they could in no way have possibly witnessed events that took place ten feet in front of their faces. Did Bruce kill the Joker? Is the officer sure? That doesn't seem like him. Maybe the Joker just tripped on his own. Marble floors, you know. Very slippery.

[our-inspire-verse]

"oh no, I'm not sure how much I'll get done today! Maybe a thousand or so words i don't know."

Me after finalizing and publishing a fic preciously unfinished and then slamming out over 2k on a seperate one: i am the powerful one. Control of my OWNE destiney

[wiitchkins]

Main fields of mistria takeaway so far is I think.... More so than maybe any other farm-sim/harvestmoon-like since like early early harvest moon- this game places a lot of love and care on its characters & their relationships. It's a town that genuinely feels like a community, the npcs all have their own interpersonal relationships completely unrelated to you.

Repeat dialogue has been so minimal & in fact i keep getting surprised by the townies like. Talking to me about things I've done like hitting certain points in the mine, delivering certain mini-quest items to other npcs, dialogue hinting to/leading up to holidays/special events. Like reacting to my presence in the town.

Like. Even the bachelors/bachelorette have such thoroughly established friendships/relationships already that even if there was a rival system, I'd really have to rack my brain about who'd be paired with who because it could go so many ways because they all act like they know eachother for real! They're not always all in the same exact friend group either like the DnD group is different from who talks in crowds together at festivals (which is also different each festival!) or who hangs out in the evenings at someone's house or who drinks together at the inn or who etc etc!! It varies day by day! Ah! I could not even begin to figure out set schedules for these character because it does genuinely seem to vary day by day so much AND evolved as you go through the year/hit new story points... my god...

[thebibliosphere]

Hello! I hope you don't mind me asking, but do you have any thoughts on Howard Schubiner's Unlearn Your Pain, Mind Body Syndrome, treating neuroplastic symptoms, etc.? I was just referred to a pain management group that centers around these concepts, and I'm having some Feelings about the whole thing.

Just wondering if you've had any experiences with this type of treatment, or thoughts about its effectiveness. Thanks!

Okay, so this is going to be long, and I'm going to need you to stick with me through the tangent. I promise it's relevant.

I haven't read Howard Schubiner's work directly, but his colleague Alan Gordon was a key speaker at the Migraine World Summit this year. I found his talk interesting enough to buy his book and do some more research on my own, and I found it worthwhile pursuing on my own.

I know enough from my mast cell disorder to know that the body develops 'bad habits' around pain.

In the case of anxiety, stress, or panic, mast cells become more reactive, and this can make pain worse. This is true for everyone*; it's just those of us with MCAS or some other type of mast cell disorder who have more alarming symptoms like idiopathic anaphylaxis.

So, unfortunately, if I, as someone with MCAS, experience an acute pain from an injury or illness, the inherent stress response of the pain and the out-of-balance response from my nervous system can make my mast cells degranulate. They're little fuckers like that.

Mast cells can also put your body on an inflammatory cycle that is counterproductive to healing. They can literally get trained to anticipate reactions and pre-emptively react, because again, they are little fuckers.

To give you an example of this for me: my major migraines, the ones that land me in the hospital, occur on the dot every ten days. There are no hormonal factors to this that can be found or other consistent triggers or stressors, but I was unknowingly being exposed to an MCAS trigger roughly every ten days for a while. When I realized, I removed the trigger, obviously. Problem solved, right? Unfortunatley no. By then, my mast cells had trained themselves into a new pattern, and the migraine now is both the response and the trigger. It's some bastard thing called Innate Immune Memory. But it's also, partly, my subconscious anticipating the event and priming my body for a reaction, which I am susceptible to because of my MCAS and dysautonomia, which is a type of nervous system disorder.

And this is where the neuroplasticity comes in.

I'm currently in the process of trying to unlearn this response and better regulate my nervous system, which unfortunately makes me sound like a TikTok girly with a link in bio to sell you cortisol healing tea, but I promise you the only thing I'm interesting in shilling is my smutty vampire books. (And this post will be how some people learn I write books)

Anyway, why am I bothering to explain mast cell dysfunction like this in relation to neuroplasticity?

Because, yeah, if a pain doctor handed me a leaflet about 'unlearning pain' and I didn't understand how my body is routinely sabotaging itself on a cellular level in response to acute and neuroplastic pain, I'd also be rolling my eyes and feeling like I've just been handed a bottle of snake oil in the market.

God knows I've been handed 'mindfullness' leaflets by enough shitty doctors who don't actually understand what it means when we say "stress affects the nervous system" and just assume the patient is inventing symptoms to be annoying.

Thankfully, that is not what this is. At least I am hoping the doctor sending you there doesn't think you are causing your own pain. What they are hopefully trying to do is introduce you to something that a lot of chronic pain patients are reporting helps them feel more in control of their lives after many years of feeling at the mercy of their pain.

I don't attend the sessions at my brain injury clinic (yet), but I do know they use neuroplasticity therapy to help amputees with the phantom pain they experience from missing limbs. My physical therapist spent an entire session singing its virtues to me while I was fighting for my life on a balance board. Which is also why I decided to look into it after I heard Gordon talking at the Migraine World Summit.

So, do I think Schubiner's methods are hokum?

No, I think there's a lot of merit to the things he talks about and explains, but I also know the only reason I think that is because of the insight I have into the brain-body bundle through the experiences of my mast cell disease that has taught me there is nothing the brain is incapable of fucking up.

Do I think targeting neuroplastic pain will work well for everyone?

No. I think you need to try it and see if it's a good fit for you.

Some people who attended the World Migraine Summit think it's snake oil/just another way for pain doctors to foist us off into the realm of mental health care. Conversely, other people won't shut up about how learning to break the cycle of fear and panic around their pain has been life-altering for them.

For me, it's been more subtle and is part of a broader spectrum of therapies and medical treatment I use to keep my nervous system in check. It certainly hasn't done me any harm. If anything, I found it quite validating to hear someone say, "Oh, the pain is in your head? Of course it is. Let's try to fix that," and then gave me actionable coping methods. They might not work profoundly in the long term. I'm still a sick bitch with multiple acute causes of my pain. But it's also not harming me the way mindfulness was (many chronic pain patients can find it traumatizing).

I will say, I am concerned that some doctors will use the treatment of neuroplastic pain to dismiss treating acute pain with physical causes.

Just like how mindfulness has been abused by an overworked, underfunded medical system not equipped to handle chronic patients, there's also the risk of neuroplastic therapy being tossed over the fence in a similar fashion as a last ditch Hail Mary to treat patients they don't have time for. But I don't think it's widespread enough yet for that to be the case.

I dunno. Give it a try. If it's not for you, it's not for you.

Personally, I hate anything that revolves around group therapy, but I did find the book "The Way Out" by Alan Gordon insightful in helping me figure some things out. Maybe see if your local library has it before you drop money on any sessions?

_ _ _

*There has also been more compelling evidence recently that suggests that chronic pain conditions like fibromyalgia are also affected by wonky mast cells. Also arthritis.

[sunderwight]

I think one of the more fascinating options for a transmigration reveal in SV fics is Luo Binghe getting isekai'd himself at some point after the plot concludes.

The situation isn't as dire as it could be. He's technically "dead" but between his body's regenerative abilities and Shen Qingqiu's refusal to accept that Luo Binghe Has Died, odds are good that Binghe will be snapping back to a usable body just as soon as the system lets him. If anything he'd probably be dealing with a situation where instead of being threatened with a return to a cold corpse as incentive, the prospect of going back gets dangled like a carrot in front of him.

And at first Binghe is just like, ah yes, yet another weird and frustrating set of circumstances has separated me from my beloved, I hate this but I've been dealing with such bullshit since the IAC, I'll figure it out. Just focus on getting back to Shizun.

But then he starts to observe more about his situation. Particularly the System. How it constrains his behavior, how people react to the person who died of a fever and whose life he's subsequently taken command of, how he has to navigate the System's insistence on key events transpiring, how it threatens and punishes him over failures, and so on.

Luo Binghe's sharp. More than sharp enough to start putting the clues together.

I dunno how things go from there, but I suspect it ends with Luo Binghe returning home to his husband with a lot of stories, some cool loot, possibly one or two new extradimensional disciples, and a trophy made from the ruined remains of the System.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Keith Edwards at No Lies Detected:

Donald Trump has been in office for one week, but it feels like a year’s worth of events have been crammed into those seven days. That of course is by design. Trump thrives on overwhelming our capacity to react, flooding the zone with chaos until we are too exhausted to resist. He wants you to feel powerless. He wants you to surrender. But this is not about resistance; it is about reclamation. Resisting implies he is in control, and we are simply pushing back. Reclaiming puts us in the driver’s seat, taking back what was always ours to begin with. Today, I’m going to write about how not to give up, how to take back your voice in your own future, so that when a year actually has passed, you’ll be able to look back not with exhaustion and despair, but with the satisfaction of knowing you fought back. 

Give Yourself a Break – But Do Not Break

You do not have to be a political warrior every waking moment. If following every outrage sends you spiraling, turn it off. If breaking news alerts drain your energy, silence them. Stop following doomer influencers or left-wing media outlets that profit from outrage-mongering.  To borrow an exhausted but accurate phrase: this is a marathon, not a sprint. Take the time to process your anger, to feel the betrayal, to curse the failures that got us here. Be furious at the Democratic Party’s fecklessness. Be enraged at the indifference of Republican enablers. Allow yourself to mourn the election loss. But do not wallow. Do not linger in the abyss. Feel your anger, harness it, and then use it. Because we never truly processed the trauma of the first Trump presidency – like with COVID, we let it taper off without closure. Whatever you need to do to process the fact that Trump is in power again, do it, because...

Accept That This Is All Going to Suck

There will be worse weeks than this one in the next four years. Many will seek refuge in denial, pretending that the worst-case scenario is mere hyperbole. Do not indulge them. Reality, however grim, is better faced than avoided. When I lost my sister, I found that I actually felt better when I accepted that she was not coming back. I found that the alternative – resisting reality and trapping myself in an endless cycle of grief – actually caused more suffering. Once we embrace the truth, however, we can begin the path toward something new. This applies here, too: America will not be the same, nor is it lost. If we accept the darkness ahead, we can begin carving out the light. The only way through this is forward. This is going to be bad. And the sooner you accept that, the better you are prepared to fight.

Get Involved

Fighting doesn’t have to feel big. Start small. Do something that reminds you that you have agency, that you are not a passive observer of history but an active participant. 

​​When Trump was first elected, I refused to wallow in misery. I joined my local Democratic club, handed out ballot proposals, and took an active role in shaping my community. That decision put me on the path to becoming a Democratic strategist and creating a successful YouTube channel. Starting locally is the most satisfying way to get involved, because politics are most responsive when they are local. Federal politics are sluggish and hard to break into without experience, but local activism can be swift and potent. Attend a city council meeting. Get involved in your local Democratic Party. Knock on doors for a local candidate or ballot initiative. Don’t just vent your frustration into the digital void – channel it into tangible change. 

[...] Do not let Donald Trump eat your hope. He is not a king. The courts have already blocked his blatantly unconstitutional rollback of birthright citizenship. State governors are taking advantage of our federal system to prevent the rollback of rights and protections. Federal employees are pushing back against sweeping policy changes. We are only in week one, but this gives me hope.  

Keith Edwards wrote in No Lies Detected on how to survive Tyrant Trump’s 2nd reign: don’t give up.

[iamthatonefangirl]

miss possessive part 2 - congressman bucky barnes

thank you all so much for the love on part 1 of this. i love you all so much you are literally my motivation to keep writing. i hope part 2 does you all justice!

part 1

part 3

~~~

after the crash, Bucky was pissed off, to say the least. entirely at himself. 

Bucky should have sat on the passenger side, not you. he would have been completely unharmed. maybe if he’d reacted quicker, used his enhancements to pay more attention to his surroundings, then maybe you wouldn’t be in this position. 

he felt his heart drop to his stomach when he saw the blood dripping down your face after the crash. you were right next to him, within his reach all night, but he had to remind himself this wasn’t something he could have protected you from. it almost broke him. 

you were in an ambulance pretty soon after. your head hurt like a bitch; you were a little too focused on the searing pain to make out the words Bucky was saying to the first responders, telling them they had to let him ride with you in the ambulance. he was your husband, after all. 

wait, what? 

did you hear that correctly?

through the burning pain, you tried to keep a level head. it made sense that Bucky lied; it was the only way for him to come with you. but hell if it wasn’t embarrassing riding in this ambulance with him just staring at you the whole time. 

the paramedic was asking him a million questions that he didn't know the answers to. of course he didn't, he wasn't actually your husband.

you answer them.

yes, you had alcohol in your system. you’d just come from an event. how much? uncertain. 

yes, you were on medications. which ones? great, now Bucky gets to hear. 

no, no chance you’re pregnant. you’re sure. yes, you’re sure. 

“Bucky…” you mumble. 

“yes? what’s wrong?” 

“Bucky?” you repeat. okay, wow, suddenly you feel a lot worse.

the world goes dark.

~~~

to put it bluntly, this was insanely embarrassing.

the hospital staff think he's your husband, so he's allowed to stay. when you ask him to leave, he refuses to go anywhere.

hours later, after some stitches and a million scans of your head, you're left alone in the hospital bed. with Bucky still staring at you.

"you can go, you know," you tell him. "it's been a long fucking night. no reason to stay."

he grumbles under his breath, "not goin' anywhere."

you wish he would. watching him, sitting here with you in such a vulnerable state hurts your soul. he's here out of obligation. of course he cares. he would be heartless not to, and Bucky Barnes is anything but heartless.

but he doesn't care in the way you wish he would.

you wish he'd be the guy that looks for you, only you, all night at the gala. you wish he'd refuse to leave your side, never letting you out of his sight. you wish he would look at you all the time, not just when another man is taking you upstairs, not just when you've had your skull cracked.

you wish he'd be the one to whisk you away at the end of the night. you wish he had told you how pretty you looked tonight, because he's the only man you'd gotten all dolled up for.

tears spring to your eyes at the thought, so you turn back to face the ceiling and shut them before they can fall.

but he's still staring at you. he sees the change in your demeanor.

"what is it? what's wrong?" he asks, jumping to his feet to stand next to your bed.

you shake your head and lie through your teeth. "head hurts."

it's not a lie entirely, but. mostly.

you open your eyes to look at him, and he actually looks pained, as though he's the one in the hospital bed, not you. you backtrack, reassuring him that you're completely fine, it's fine, you're used to it. you're used to the pain.

suddenly, he looks confused. fuck, why are you the one complaining about your own issues? don't you remember the shit he's been through?

he's been through worse than you could ever imagine. stop fucking complaining.

"I'm fine, Mr. Barnes. go home."

he shakes his head in exasperation. you're so fucking stubborn, you know that? why won't you just let him do this for you?

he wonders a million different things. you got hurt while working for him, and he knows this isn't your ideal job, that it's only temporary. when he gets elected, he'll get a new assistant, and if he doesn't, then he won't need one anymore. he won’t need you anymore. 

of course he’ll always need you.

that was the deal that was agreed upon, but he can't fathom never seeing you again. especially not after he let you get hurt on his watch.

he wonders if you blame him for not doing enough, for not being enough to protect you from what happened. 

he knows you don't. doesn't help ease the feeling.

"stop calling me that," he says. he says it with a faint smile on his face, trying to maintain his composure. trying to bring a smile to your face.

he sees you roll your eyes at him, and how the action clearly disturbs the headache you have as you recoil from it.

he has to press. he has to do something, anything–

"I know you know my name. you said it in the ambulance," he begins to tease, smirking. 

it doesn't have the intended effect. he wanted to see you smile, see you laugh, but instead? instead, he's made you cry. 

you bring your hands to your face as you wipe the tears away. why can't he see how difficult this is for you? he has to know that you're stupidly in love with him, it's not that hard to recognize the longing in your eyes.

so no, you won't call him Bucky, because that makes it too real. it's way too close to home and you have to remind yourself that this is not and never will be anything more than a working relationship.

"please don't cry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," he says, taking your hand in both of his. you look down to where he's touching you.

you're done for. your mind short circuits. you don't know if you should pull your hand away, or if you're going to cry, or what. your mouth speaks before you consciously make a decision.

"can you do me a favor?" you ask him, wiping your face with your free hand. "can you bring me my stuff?" you request, indicating to the large plastic bag in the corner of the room.

he releases your hand and steps away to grab it. you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. 

you pull your dress out of the bag and begin to inspect it.

a black, velvet, off-the-shoulder dress. sleek and classy for a professional event, but it still made you feel confident and desirable. you bought it specifically for tonight.

you bought it specifically with Bucky in mind.

god, you really are fucking pathetic, aren't you? you just wanted him to look at you and think you looked stunning. but that's stupid, and childish, and impossible.

you inspect the neckline of the dress where your blood spilled onto it. you try to rub out the spots covered in dust from the crash, and almost cry again at seeing all the snags in the fabric.

oh my god. somehow, the thought completely slipped your mind.

you look back up to Bucky and see your blood staining the crisp white fabric of his shirt. you recall now how he pulled you in after the initial crash that caused your injury. you ruined his shirt. 

"fuck, your suit, I'm so fucking sorry," you tell him, looking up to meet his gaze.

when you do, you see the same look in his eyes that you had seen before the crash. that look. why can't you place it?

you can't tear your eyes away from him. not now. no car crash can make you. because you feel like he can actually see you, like he doesn't see you as the mess of broken pieces that you are. like he genuinely sees you.

you're shocked when he looks away and sits on the side of the bed, facing you.

you're even more shocked when he reaches for the fabric of your dress and runs his fingers over it. you watch his lips part, as though to speak, before biting his tongue. it confuses you.

he tries again,

"I don't think I told you this, but you looked beautiful tonight."

no.

no, no, no. it's too much. what is he saying? is he trying to make you feel better after everything that's happened? or–

it's the elevator all over again, the limo all over again. is he seriously still on this? you'd completely forgotten about what that dipshit said about you, when suddenly he brings it up again, reigniting the pain and shame that came with Bucky having witnessed it.

"I don't care about what that man said in the elevator, okay? I thought I asked you to drop it," you bite. 

at first, he looks confused and almost hurt by your words, but pretty quickly he understands.

"no, that's not– I'm serious."

you shake your head at him, aggravating your headache all the same, but you don't care anymore. you can't deal with this anymore.

"stop-" you begin, but he cuts you off, standing from the bed and raising his voice.

"no! you stop. stop brushing me off. yes, I meant what I said, that you shouldn't listen to that asshole or any other idiot who can't see how perfect you are. but forget about that. right now, I'm trying to tell you something, and you're not listening."

that shuts you up for once.

with a much calmer tone and quieter voice, he continues, "I'm just trying to tell you that you looked beautiful tonight."

"yeah, and it doesn't fucking matter because–"

you pause, remembering you can't say it doesn't matter because he doesn't love you.

"–because I'm sitting in a hospital bed now, and I'm going to have a fucking scar on my forehead for the rest of my life, and no man in their right mind will think I'm beautiful then!"

"then maybe I'm not in my right mind," he says quietly. "because I will still think you're beautiful then."

the impact of his words are worse than the car crash. you're truly at a loss. he can't do this to you, he can't hurt you like this.

is it a game? is he messing with your emotions because he knows you're in love with him?

you want to believe it's not.

"even now, in this hospital bed, you're beautiful."

you can't help but let yourself believe him, because it's all you wanted to hear from him all night. so you do something rash. 

you reach for the collar of his shirt, pull him in close, and kiss him.

~~~

he was not expecting that. 

he wants to hold onto you with all his might, hold you to his chest for the rest of both of your lives. he wants to kiss you until you both forget where you're at, until you forget anyone else exists.

when he pulls back from you, you're prepared to get reprimanded and fired. you're ready for whatever it is that he's about to tell you. you force yourself to watch the look on his face, expecting the impending horror that's going to appear in his expression.

he looks between your eyes, scanning for any sense of pain or hesitation you may be feeling.

he kisses you again, and you let yourself melt into him. without breaking away, he moves onto the bed, laying next to you.

it's like a fever dream. you feel like you're on cloud nine, the happiest you've ever been in your entire life. this is all you've ever wanted.

you eventually have to pull back. this whole time, you've been letting your emotions run rampant, and you've conveniently forgotten about how shitty you feel, how tired you are.

you run your mouth before he can say anything.

"fuck, Bucky, I don't want to stop, but my head fucking hurts. I'm so tired," you say, shutting your eyes and letting your head relax into the pillow.

he runs his hand through your hair, careful not to disturb the bandaged cut on your hairline.

"want me to go?" he whispers.

you mutter out a 'no' and lean into his arm that wraps around you as your weariness takes over.

~~~

he holds you gently as you sleep. he may not be able to protect you from everything, but right here, right now? he can be here for you as you rest.

a nurse eventually comes in the room, and he begins to remove himself from your bed.

"don't worry about it, sir. just adding notes to her chart."

he sighs in relief.

"you're a good husband. a lot of the husbands I see around here... not so much."

husband. sure, it was a lie he told them so he could stay with you, to make sure he knew what was going on. that you were going to be okay. 

after everything, he never thought such a life would be in the cards for him. all those dreams and hopes were left in the century before. could he be a good husband? would you even have him, if he asked?

woah, okay, too early to be proposing, he reminds himself.

~~~

eventually, you come to, and the first thing you sense is the weight in the bed with you.

holy shit, you weren't dreaming? this wasn't just a concussion-induced hallucination?

you blink your eyes open, and there he is, staring at you like always.

"hi," you whisper.

"hi." he whispers back.

and then the searing pain shoots through your head, causing you to cry out in pain, clutching your face in your hands.

he almost freaks. seeing you in this kind of pain? you didn't deserve this. it should've been him, he's experienced it, dealt with it before. why couldn't it be him and not you?

he runs for a nurse.

thirty minutes later, the opioids kick in, and you feel light as a feather.

"Bucky?" you begin. he's seated in a chair immediately next to your bed.

"yes, sweetheart?"

your heart pounds in your chest. you're high on the drugs you've been given, and you can't help it when you smile and giggle at the pet name.

"call me that again," you whine, to which he chuckles.

"sweetheart? you like that?" he asks.

"like anything you do," you whisper. "so perfect."

the drugs put you back to sleep real quick.

~~~

it's been another day, and you're being discharged. Bucky still hasn't left your side once, and yet you haven't talked. you can’t let yourself talk about it, because you know that none of it was real. how could it be real? you were hurt, and he was trying to be there for you. 

you crossed the line by kissing him, and it was time for you to let go of your desperation. you had to let it go, and move on. move on from the job and him entirely. 

you anticipate his overbearingness in terms of ensuring you get in the door safely when you arrive home. you don't anticipate him telling you that he intends to stay.

"Mr. Barnes, it's okay, I can take care of myself," you assure him.

you see the annoyance on his face.

"aren't we past this by now?" he asks you.

he sits down on the couch next to you, very closely, right up against you. he brings a hand to your face to turn you to look at him.

you lick your lips. "Bucky."

you watch him for a second, and you wish the look in his eyes was real. 

“Bucky, I quit,” you whisper. he clearly was not expecting you to say that, because he pulls away from you. you mourn the loss of his touch on your skin, the heat of his body near yours. but you're doing what needs to be done. 

“you can’t quit. I’m not– it’s not–”

“I have to quit, Bucky,” you explain to him. “I can’t do this. not anymore, it’s too much.” 

he begins to plead with you, “what? what is too much?”

“you,” you admit to him.

he doesn't understand.

"fuck, I just can't do this. because I love you, and I just can't..."

"I love you."

you're stunned into silence. no, of course he doesn’t…

he moves closer to you. 

“don’t quit because you think this was a fluke, or because you think I was just trying to make you feel better while you were in the hospital. I meant all of it. you are perfect, and beautiful.”

he puts his hands back on your face, gently, rubbing a thumb over the carefully stitched cut near your hairline. 

“please,” he whispers, and you can’t believe that he’s sitting with you, in your apartment, telling you all the words you’ve ever wanted him to say. “I love you. please.”  

you nod, and all the pain goes away as he pulls you in close and kisses you. 

~~~

“didn’t like seeing that idiot putting his hands on you in the elevator,” he whispers into your ear later that night. 

you lean back into his arms wrapped around your waist as you lay in bed.

“oh, please. you had that woman all over you, just begging you to fuck her,” you retort. 

“jealous, sweetheart?” he teases. 

“oh, please, you started it,” you laugh. 

“don’t worry about her. could only ever want my girl.” 

~~~

i really want to write smut for them or like another part so lmk if i should

part 1

part 3

masterlist

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tagged:

@starfly-nicole @avengersfan25 @thewiselionessss @ijustwantcomfypjs @hextech-bros @a-book-lover-things @ruexj283 @moncherriis @clavedelune

[heliosunny]

Hello!! hello! i love all your works!!! and how much you post per day???? pls take breaks between writing if you can!

i read the streamer!jing yuan one...

if requests are open can i request sunday with the same scenario?

i imagine he'd never play any otome games on his own so robin would have to coerce him into playing the game. i also see him to be the type of player who'd clear every route and have things down to a T ...

but what if there was one route he never finished? the hardest route to trigger and the one with the most bad endings cause the favourability bar is super fickle?

but the payoff is worth it once he somehow???? manages to trigger a yandere event hehe

Yandere!Streamer Sunday x Reader

Game Loading… Welcome Back.

Sunday leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms before settling in for another long night. He still couldn’t believe he was doing this.

When Robin had first forced him to play, he’d scoffed at the idea. Him? A dating game? No way. But somewhere along the way—after countless hours, multiple endings, and way too much money spent on DLC—he’d become obsessed. His competitive streak wouldn’t let him quit until he had 100% completion.

And yet, one route remained unfinished.

Yours.

You were the hardest love interest to win over, your favorability bar more unstable than any other. No matter what he did, one wrong move could send it plummeting. He had watched others fail, seen forums filled with players begging for hints. No one had a clear guide. No one had reached the true ending.

Tonight, that would change.

“Alright, chat” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “I don’t care how long it takes—I’m finishing Y/N’s route tonight.”

“Sunday, you’re too deep in, bro.” “At this point, Y/N is your real partner.” “No way you’re getting the true ending. It’s cursed.” “Watch him fumble and lose favorability in five minutes.”

He exhaled, ignoring the teasing comments as the title screen faded, and the game resumed where he left off.

This was it.

Carefully, he selected his next dialogue option, choosing words with precision. Your sprite appeared, and for the first time in all his failed attempts, the favorability bar twitched upward.

[Favorability +5]

“That’s new” he muttered, brows furrowing. Chat exploded with excitement, theories flying in real-time. He leaned in, hyper-focused. The background music softened, replaced by an eerie silence.

Then, the screen flickered.

“What the-?”

Your expression on screen shifted. Subtle, almost imperceptible. The soft smile you usually wore seemed… off. Before he could react, a new dialogue box popped up.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“?????” “This isn’t in the script, bro.” “GOT THE SECRET ROUTE?!” “ABORT. ABORT.”

Before he could click anything, the screen distorted. Pixels warped, the background dissolving into a mess of static. A sudden high-pitched ringing filled his headphones.

Then—darkness.

Sunday had always been good at games. He could grind through any RPG, master mechanics, and break down any system with enough time and effort. But Ethereal Reverie: Fated Bonds was different.

When he stumbled upon your route, he had been hooked.

You were different from other love interests. You're the ultimate challenge. And Sunday loves that.

In the world of Ethereal Reverie, you were the kingdom’s renowned scholar and strategist, sought after by nobles and rulers alike. Your mind was your greatest weapon, and you wielded it with precision. Unlike the other characters—who were knights, royals, and adventurers—you had no need for physical prowess. Instead, you navigated court politics, warfare, and intrigue, always three steps ahead of everyone else.

Most players never even got past your acquaintance phase. Your favorability was infamously fickle—one wrong move and you'd cut ties with the protagonist entirely, locking them out of your story. It was said that only a handful of players had even managed to trigger a romance flag, and none had reached the true ending.

Sunday was determined to be the first.

But now, as he stared up at you—no longer a 2D sprite but a living, breathing person—he realized he had made a grave mistake.

“Sunday.”

His breath caught in his throat. You knew his name. That wasn’t possible. His in-game avatar had a preset name—Caius—the default protagonist. But you weren’t looking at Caius. You were looking at him.

Sunday barely had time to process what was happening before another voice called out from behind you.

“Lord Sunday, you’ve finally arrived.”

What?

It wasn’t just you.

He turned his head sharply, eyes darting around. The grand stone courtyard he had landed in was familiar—ornate fountains, banners bearing the royal crest, and intricate marble pillars. This was the capital’s royal palace, the heart of the kingdom.

He knew this place. He had seen it countless times in the game.

But this wasn’t the protagonist’s usual starting point.

And then the pieces clicked.

His ornate outfit, the way the NPCs were addressing him, the "Lord" title—

This wasn’t his usual avatar.

The game hadn’t just dragged him into the world. It had assigned him a new role.

A dangerous one.

There was only one person in Ethereal Reverie who was constantly at odds with you. One person who stood as your rival in the court’s deadly political game. The one strategist whose name was whispered with both admiration and fear—

Lord Sunday, the Grand Strategist of the Northern Territories.

He had become your greatest enemy.

Why the hell did the game slot me into the villain’s role?

“Lord Sunday. I hope you’re ready. We have much to discuss.”

He had spent a month obsessing over you, trying to understand your thought process, learning every intricate detail of your route. He knew how dangerous you could be.

And now, he was trapped inside the game—forced to be your rival.

The tension in the grand hall was suffocating.

Sunday sat at the long, polished table, hands clenched into fists against his lap as his brain scrambled to keep up. Across from him, you stood poised, arms crossed, your expression carefully neutral—yet he could see the sharpness in your gaze, the unmistakable glint of contempt.

You hated him.

Which was funny, considering he had spent weeks trying to get you to like him.

“This is reckless” you said coldly, turning away from him to address the gathered nobles and military officers. “If we march our forces north under such a thinly-veiled deception, we risk stretching our supply lines too far. It’s a fool’s errand.”

Sunday barely heard the murmurs of agreement that followed. His mind was still caught on the fact that you were speaking to him like he was an actual person. Not a scripted character, but as though he had always been here—as though this world had been real from the start.

And worst of all?

His name, his role in this world, had come with pre-existing relationships—and every single one of them pointed to you absolutely despising him.

He could feel the weight of the stares on him, waiting for his rebuttal. He had no choice but to play along.

“Stretching our supply lines?” he scoffed, leaning back into his chair, “What, do you think my forces can’t handle a simple flanking maneuver? Or do you just enjoy opposing me on principle?”

A flicker of irritation crossed your face. “I oppose stupid ideas on principle.”

There it is.

You had always been like this in the game—blunt, tactical, calculating. You didn’t suffer fools, and apparently, he was a fool in your eyes.

Fine. If that’s how this world saw him, he’d use it to his advantage.

“The southern front is already stabilizing” he continued smoothly, gesturing to the map. “If we strike before the enemy fully regroups, we force them into a defensive position and eliminate their supply routes. You can’t tell me you don’t see the logic in that.”

You narrowed your eyes, and for a moment, Sunday swore he saw something flicker across your expression.

Then, your lips curled into a humorless smile.

“Oh, I see the logic. I also see the arrogance of a man who plays at war like a gambler throwing dice.”

A collective oof rippled through the court. Even Sunday felt that one.

The tension between the two of you was so thick it could be cut with a blade.

“Tell me, Lord Sunday” you continued, “when was the last time one of your little schemes didn’t end in absolute disaster?”

That was a loaded question.

And one he definitely didn’t know the answer to.

Because he had no idea what his past self had actually done in this world.

What the hell did my predecessor do to make you hate me this much?!

Sunday knew when to back down. He had spent the past month failing your route over and over again, watching his choices backfire, and seeing your favorability bar plummet to zero in an instant. Pushing you wouldn’t work.

So, he changed tactics.

For the next few weeks, Sunday did what he did best—he studied you.

Not in the obsessive, love-struck way he had before. No, this time, he played the role the game had given him—your rival. A nuisance at court, a persistent thorn in your side, someone you could never quite get rid of.

But somewhere along the way, he started slipping into your life.

When you left the palace on a diplomatic mission, your caravan mysteriously found safe passage through bandit territory—unaware that Sunday had bribed the local mercenaries to keep them away.

When you spent long nights buried in military reports, a second set of documents would appear on your desk—already summarized with the most critical information highlighted.

When an assassination attempt nearly succeeded in the dead of night, your would-be killer was found dead in an alley the next morning. The guards claimed they had no idea who had done it.

And your favorability bar?

It didn’t move.

No matter how many times Sunday secretly lent a hand, no matter how much effort he put in, you remained completely indifferent to him.

It was infuriating.

It was addicting.

But then, Kristiana betrayed you.

And Sunday knew—this was it. This was where he had to step in.

Kristiana—your most trusted friend, the one person you had allowed yourself to rely on—had sold you out.

For what?

Power. Influence. A higher seat at the table.

Sunday had seen the signs before you did.

But even he hadn’t expected it to be this cruel.

By the time you realized, it was too late.

The palace was in an uproar, whispers spreading like wildfire. You had been accused of treason. Fabricated evidence, falsified reports—all of it meticulously crafted to erase you from power.

And it would have worked.

If Sunday hadn’t stepped in.

When you were dragged into the throne room, stripped of your titles and power, the nobles stood like vultures, watching your downfall with thinly veiled amusement. Kristiana stood at the front, her expression unreadable.

And then—

Sunday spoke.

“...What an interesting turn of events.”

His voice was lazy, amused, and every single person in the room stiffened. Because Sunday never spoke at these gatherings unless he had something dangerous to say.

You turned to him, eyes narrowing. “What are you playing at?”

He ignored you.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but are we really accusing the kingdom’s greatest strategist of treason?” He chuckled. “How convenient. And Kristiana, of all people, is the one bringing it forward?”

Kristiana lifted her chin. “The evidence is irrefutable.”

Sunday tilted his head. “Is it?”

Then, before anyone could react, he threw a stack of papers onto the table.

“What—” Kristiana’s eyes widened.

Sunday grinned. “Because I have evidence too. And mine says you’re the traitor.”

Kristiana paled.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” he said, “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

He turned to look at you “I told you, didn’t I?” His voice was quieter now, softer, just for you. “You don’t have to fight alone.”

And for the first time since you met him, since he arrived in this world, your favorability bar moved.

All eyes were on Sunday. It was infuriating how effortlessly he controlled the room.

He had just turned your execution trial into his own personal stage.

Kristiana’s hands trembled as she stared at the documents he had thrown onto the table. Papers filled with her secret dealings, her correspondence with enemy factions—detailed proof that she had orchestrated everything.

You didn’t know whether to feel furious or relieved.

Kristiana quickly schooled her expression, regaining her composure. “This is absurd” she said sharply, eyes flicking between Sunday and the king. “Lord Sunday has always opposed Y/N. He has no reason to support them now unless—”

Her gaze snapped to you, then back to Sunday.

“…Unless he’s playing a game of his own.”

She was right. Sunday was known for strategy, deception, manipulation. He wasn’t a savior. He was your rival. You thought.

This wasn’t kindness—this was tactics.

Kristiana latched onto that, her voice rising. “Your Majesty, can’t you see? This is just another one of his ploys! He—he’s aligning with them to further his own agenda!”

Sunday let out a low chuckle.

“Now, now, Kristiana.” His tone was almost mocking. “If that were true, wouldn’t it make you the fool for not realizing it sooner?”

Kristiana’s face burned red with rage.

And you didn’t know what to believe.

Sunday’s interference had saved you. But why?

You weren’t friends. You weren’t allies. You were enemies.

“Your Majesty” Sunday finally said, turning to the king with that same, insufferable confidence. “With all due respect, I think it’s clear who the real traitor is.”

The king’s gaze flickered between you and Kristiana. The weight of the court’s murmurs filled the air.

“Guards” the king ordered. “…Take Kristiana into custody.”

“Wait—!”

The guards moved instantly, seizing her arms before she could react. She thrashed against them, screaming your name—screaming that you would regret this. That Sunday would betray you, too.

And maybe she was right.

You didn’t even notice how tightly your hands had curled into fists until you felt the sting of your own nails against your palms.

The moment the doors slammed shut behind Kristiana’s struggling form, the tension in the room finally snapped.

“What do you want?” you asked him, voice carefully neutral.

Sunday smiled.

“I’m resigning from my position as Grand Strategist.”

The room erupted.

“You—”

Sunday’s smirk didn’t waver as he turned his back on them all. “Figure the rest out yourselves. I’m done.”

And with that, he walked away.

Sunday had abandoned his entire career.

For what?

You didn’t know.

And that was the most dangerous part of all.

The tavern was dimly lit, the scent of alcohol and warm food hanging in the air. It was quieter than usual—most of the patrons had already retreated to their rooms or stumbled home.

Sunday sat alone in the corner, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass of dark liquor. He wasn’t drunk, but there was a sluggishness to his movements.

His fingers tapped idly against the table as he swirled the drink in his hand. Resigning had been necessary. The position was a leash, binding him to forces he had no control over. And if he wanted to truly be close to you— if he wanted to get everything he desired—

He had to start over.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

His eyes snapped open.

You stood at the entrance of the tavern. Unlike in the palace, where your every movement was calculated, here, in the dim light of the inn, there was something… different about you.

Sunday leaned back in his chair, “What, no gloating? I thought you’d be thrilled to see me jobless and miserable.”

You sighed, stepping forward. “I don’t have time for your dramatics.”

You pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, elbows resting on the worn wooden table.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Kristiana was a problem,” he said simply. “I dealt with it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

For a moment, he considered telling you the truth. That you were the reason. That, in another life, he had spent weeks chasing after you, memorizing every dialogue choice, failing and failing just to see you look at him with something other than cold indifference.

That this was all a game to him once—but now?

Now, it was his reality.

“Would you believe me if I said I was just tired of playing the role they wanted me to?”

Your brows furrowed, caught off guard by his sincerity.

“I should just let you waste away here, but…”

You hesitated. Then, with a sigh, you reached into your coat and slid a folded letter across the table.

“…I need a strategist.”

His fingers brushed over the letter as he picked it up, unfolding it with careful precision. His eyes scanned the contents—an official contract, under your seal. The offer was clear: a position within your faction, under your personal command.

He had to bite back the grin threatening to form.

Staying in the palace as Grand Strategist kept him shackled to the court’s politics, unable to act freely. But working under you?

That gave him access to everything.

To you.

“Does this mean we’re friends now?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I accept.”

And just like that—

He had slipped right back into your life.

The first few days of having Sunday around were... strange.

You weren’t used to having someone constantly at your side. At first, you thought giving him a position as your personal servant was just a way to keep him under control—make sure he wasn’t scheming something behind your back. After all, he was your enemy.

Or at least, he used to be.

Now, he was everywhere.

You barely had a moment to breathe without Sunday inserting himself into your routine. If you so much as reached for a teapot, he was already pouring your tea. If you sighed after a long day of dealing with incompetent nobles, he was magically at your side, hands on your shoulders, pressing into the knots of tension like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Why are you still here?” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Sunday, standing beside your desk, completely unbothered, merely hummed as he flipped through the reports you had been working on. “Making sure you don’t overwork yourself.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Mm. Clearly.” He held up a document, tilting his head. “Like this mistake right here?”

You snatched the paper from his hand, scanning it quickly—only to freeze when you spotted the minor miscalculation. Your grip on the paper tightened.

Sunday smirked. “You’re welcome.”

You exhaled sharply, setting the document down before rubbing your temples. “I should fire you.”

“But you won’t.”

With a sigh, you leaned back in your chair, exhaustion settling in. You had been working since morning, and the strain was finally catching up to you.

Without a word, Sunday moved behind you.

Before you could react, his hands were on your shoulders, fingers pressing into the knots of tension with practiced ease.

“…You’re tense”

You gritted your teeth. “Maybe because someone keeps breathing down my neck.”

He chuckled, his fingers working at the tension with slow, deliberate pressure. It felt annoyingly good. You hated to admit it, but he was good at this.

“You know” he said, “I think I’m growing on you.”

Your eyes snapped open.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

And yet, he didn’t stop.

---

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅. Secret route triggered. Remaining lives: 4

Sunday gasped as his consciousness was yanked back into existence. One moment, there was nothing—just the cold, suffocating embrace of death. And then, suddenly—He was back.

He jolted upright, hand instinctively clutching his chest. He could still feel it. The sharp pain. The blood. The sheer betrayal.

You had killed him.

Not out of hatred. Not out of revenge.

But because you thought he was scheming against you.

The memory was blurry. He remembered standing in your office, your cold, empty gaze, the guards stepping forward—your blade piercing through him.

This was new. The system had never interfered like this before. He had suspected that this world wasn’t entirely real, but for it to suddenly have rules about death?

The message had been clear:

If he died four more times, he was gone for good.

And there was only one way to stop that from happening.

He had to figure out why you had killed him.

-2nd life-

This time, Sunday was careful.

He stayed out of sight. He watched. He listened. He took note of everything—the way the guards moved, the shifts in your behavior, the whispers among the servants.

And yet, despite all his caution, he still died.

A dagger in the dark.

Slipping through his ribs as he passed through the halls alone.

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅. Remaining lives: 3

-3rd life-

He wasn’t alone this time.

He stuck by your side closer than ever, watching you, watching your people. And still— The moment he took a sip of wine, his throat locked up. His vision blurred. Poison. As his body collapsed to the floor, he saw the wide-eyed horror on your face, the way you rushed to his side.

The way you whispered, "Who did this?"

But the system was already pulling him back.

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅. Remaining lives: 2

---

When he came back again, Sunday finally had enough pieces.

He had overheard the murmurs between the palace servants. How they whispered in dark corners, how they spoke of him as if he was a threat. How someone had been spreading lies about him to you.

You had always been calculating. If you believed he was plotting something, then that meant you were given evidence.

Fabricated evidence.

And just like that—he knew.

Someone in your inner circle wanted him dead.

And if he didn’t fix it soon,

he would die for real.

Sunday had two lives left.

This time, he didn’t act recklessly. He smiled at the servants. Charmed the guards. Pretended he didn’t know that any of them had already been responsible for his previous deaths.

And most importantly?

He stayed close to you.

It didn’t take long for him to confirm his suspicions.

The whispers in the halls, the stolen glances between certain attendants, the way they avoided his gaze whenever he passed. Someone had been feeding you lies about him.

Twisting the truth. Painting him as a traitor.

And the final piece clicked into place when he overheard a conversation outside the grand hall.

“Has the master grown suspicious?”

“Not yet. But if that man continues to cling to them, we’ll have to push harder. The evidence is nearly ready.”

Evidence.

They think they can manipulate me?

They have no idea who they’re dealing with.

He had to move carefully.

But even knowing what he knew, he still miscalculated.

Sunday had been following the movements of one of the suspicious attendants, gathering clues, trying to find solid proof before he confronted you—

When he felt the cold press of a blade against his throat.

“You should have stayed in your place.”

The blade sliced.

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅.

-Last chance-

Sunday woke up shaking.

This was it. One life left.

The moment he was revived, he went straight to you.

He didn’t wait for the lies to spread again. Didn’t wait for another chance to be stabbed in the dark.

He had to make you listen. So when he found you in your private study, brow furrowed over a new report, Sunday did something he had never done before.

He dropped to his knees.

“What are you—?”

“Someone has been feeding you false information about me.”

“What?”

“I don’t know who exactly is behind it, but I have proof that some of the palace attendants have been manipulating you,” he said, voice low and urgent. “I’ve overheard them talking. The whispers in the halls. The fabricated ‘evidence’ against me.”

“Tell me,” he said, “what did they show you?”

You hesitated.

Your fingers tightened over the report in your hands.

Sunday saw the conflict in your eyes, the way your mind worked behind that carefully unreadable expression.

For weeks, he had been watching you—learning you. Every minute change in your stance, the flicker of your gaze when something unsettled you. And now?

You were unsettled.

Good.

That meant he was getting somewhere.

“Tell me, then.” Your voice was composed, but he could hear the tension beneath it. “What do you think I saw?”

“Something that made me look like a traitor.”

He pressed on.

“Documents with my forged signature? Secret meetings I never attended?” His voice lowered. “Maybe even an intercepted message—words twisted just enough to convince you that I had been plotting against you all along.”

Sunday exhaled slowly. “You didn’t question it because it made sense, didn’t it?” He tilted his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. “Because I’ve always been your biggest obstacle. Because I’ve always been the one who stood against you.”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t deny it, either.

He needed to tread carefully. One wrong move, and you could still see him as a threat.

“But even after all that… you let me stay by your side.” He tilted his head, watching your reaction. “Why?”

“You were useful.”

“Liar”

Sunday sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look. You don’t trust me. Fine. But at least trust yourself.” His voice softened. “Think about it, really think about it—was there ever a time I actually betrayed you?”

Sunday leaned back slightly, voice steady as he gave his final push. “If you still want to kill me after thinking it through, then do it.”

You stared at him.

Seconds passed.

Then, your fingers loosened over the report in your hands.

You set it down.

“…Who?”

“Let me find out.”

And this time, he wouldn’t die before getting his answer.

For the first time in weeks, Sunday wasn’t lurking in the shadows or biting his tongue. No, this time, he moved freely.

You hadn’t explicitly told him to investigate, but by not ordering him to stop, you had given him permission.

And he would take full advantage of that.

Sunday wasn’t stupid. The moment he started looking too closely, his enemies would know.

So he laid a trap. He spread a rumor. A whisper in the halls, planted through a careless slip to an eavesdropping maid:

“The master is growing suspicious.”

It took less than a day for the rats to scurry.

Late into the night, Sunday followed a group of attendants as they snuck through the palace corridors, slipping into a secluded study.

He pressed against the wall, listening.

“The fool is still alive.”

Kristiana.

Your former best friend.

“No matter. The next attempt will not fail” she continued. “Their trust in him is wavering, but it is not broken. We must strike before it is too late.”

A second voice—one of your high-ranking advisors—spoke up. “Then we must act now. The documents are already prepared. A few words from our informant and the master will be forced to execute him. This time, there will be no hesitation.”

So that’s how they did it.

Forcing your hand. Setting you up so that killing him was the only logical choice.

He stepped into the dimly lit room, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows.

“Do you take me for a fool?”

The room fell silent.

Kristiana’s eyes widened before narrowing. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He let out a soft chuckle. “I shouldn’t be alive either, and yet, here I am.” His gaze flicked over the forged documents on the table, then back to her. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

The advisor paled. “You have no proof—”

“I don’t need proof, because you’re going to confess.”

Kristiana scoffed. “And why would we do that?”

“Because,” he murmured, taking a slow step forward, “I am still standing here.”

“And that means I know exactly what you’ve done.”

Sunday let the silence stretch before delivering the final blow:

“I wonder what will happen when I tell the master.”

Kristiana was a skilled manipulator, but even the most cunning fox could be outplayed. Still, Kristiana wasn’t the type to surrender without a fight.

“You assume Y/N will believe you.”

“I don’t assume. I know.”

Kristiana clicked her tongue, fingers twitching toward the hidden dagger at her belt.

“Let me guess. This is the part where you try to silence me?”

He didn’t give her the chance.

Before her blade could even leave its sheath, guards swarmed the room.

Her face twisted in shock as soldiers restrained her, yanking the weapon from her grasp.

Sunday turned, finally meeting your gaze as you stepped into the room.

You weren’t looking at him, though.

You were looking at Kristiana.

“…Why?”

Kristiana let out a breathless laugh. “You still don’t get it?” Her smile was sharp. “I was never going to let you win.”

“Take her away.”

[Favorability +20]

For the first time since entering this world, Sunday saw the notification appear.

All this time, he had been serving you, watching you, following you. He had given you his loyalty, his time, even his own life. And yet, only now, after clearing out the people who poisoned your ears, did the game decide to acknowledge his efforts?

Still, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he watched you.

You had been silent since Kristiana was taken away. You stood there, alone in the now-empty study, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“…You were right”

Sunday blinked. “What?”

“About Kristiana. About the lies.” Your jaw clenched. “About me being too blind to see it.”

“…You trusted her,” he said simply. “It wasn’t stupid.”

“It was careless.”

“No. It was human.”

[Favorability +10]

This time, he really did laugh.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

For the first time since Sunday entered this world, things were peaceful.

Kristiana was gone. The whispers had died down.

And you stopped looking at him with suspicion.

You still didn’t fully trust him, but that was fine.

Because you let him stay.

He continued to serve you, just like before.

When you were tired, you didn’t push him away when he set down a cup of tea beside you.

When he disappeared for a few hours, you caught yourself wondering where he had gone.

[Favorabiliy +5]

It was slow.

But it was happening.

Of course, he knew this peace wouldn’t last forever.

Kristiana might be gone, but her knowing smile haunted the back of his mind.

Something else was coming. The true storm. And Sunday would be ready.

The palace halls were silent.

The mourning drapes hung heavy over the grand windows, blocking out the golden light of dawn. Even the servants moved quietly, their usual whispers and hurried footsteps replaced by a solemn stillness.

Your father was gone.

The weight of it pressed down on you like an iron chain.

He had held on as long as he could. Even in his final hours, he had smiled at you—his tired eyes filled with warmth, his hand resting weakly over yours.

“You will be alright.”

His last words echoed in your mind.

But you weren’t.

You could barely eat. Barely drink. Barely breathe.

The world around you blurred. People came and went, offering condolences, yet their voices were distant, as if muffled by water.

And through it all—

Sunday remained.

----

You didn’t see it. Didn’t notice the way Sunday silently turned away envoys, nobles, and officials, intercepting their letters before they could reach your hands. Marriage proposals. Political alliances disguised as heartfelt offers. Opportunists circling like vultures, waiting for the moment your grief would make you vulnerable.

Sunday burned them all.

Every request. Every demand. Every veiled attempt at stealing you away.

They didn’t deserve you.

And if anyone thought they could force your hand—

Well.

They would have to go through him.

-----

The night was cold.

You sat by your father’s desk, the candlelight flickering against the tear-stained letters before you.

You hadn’t touched the meal that had been left for you.

“You need to eat.”

You didn’t respond.

He stepped closer. Gently, he placed a cup of warm broth beside you, the steam curling into the air.

Still, you didn’t move.

“…He wouldn’t want you to waste away like this.”

For a moment, Sunday thought you would ignore him again.

But then, slowly, you reached for the cup. The broth sat warm in your hands, but you barely tasted it. It was just something to do. A distraction. A meaningless action to appease Sunday so he wouldn’t pester you further.

You had expected him to leave once you took a sip.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Sunday crouched beside you, plucking a small piece of softened bread from the untouched plate.

“Here.”

“I can feed myself.”

He didn’t argue. He simply held the bread near your lips, gaze steady.

“You’ve barely eaten in days.”

Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned forward and took a small bite.

The moment the food hit your tongue, you realized how hungry you truly were.

You had been so caught up in grief, in the crushing weight of loss, that you had ignored your own needs. But now, your body reminded you—loud and clear—that it was starving.

Sunday didn’t say anything as he picked up another piece and lifted it toward you.

And without thinking, you let him feed you.

The warmth of his fingertips, the way he wordlessly knew when to offer you water, the way his gaze never once wavered from yours.

For the first time, you actually looked at him.

He had always been there, hadn’t he? Lingering in the background, watching over you, handling things before you even had to ask.

And now, up close like this, he wasn’t that annoying.

Actually… he was— Handsome.

The thought struck you so suddenly that you nearly choked on your next bite.

Sunday blinked, brows furrowing slightly. “Careful.”

You coughed, hastily grabbing the cup of water he handed you. Heat crept up your neck, but whether it was from embarrassment or something else, you weren’t sure.

“What’s wrong? Finally realizing how charming I am?”

You shot him a glare. “Don’t push it.”

But he only chuckled, satisfied.

[Favorability +5]

You didn’t see it. The tiny, nearly imperceptible shimmer in the air—like a system notification only meant for him.

“What?” he said. “Did I get more handsome just now, or are you finally acknowledging that I’ve been devastatingly attractive this entire time?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You’re seriously fishing for compliments while feeding me?”

“Multi-tasking is an important skill.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he plucked another piece of bread from the plate and held it up, smirking, “you’re still letting me feed you.”

You froze, only just realizing it.

You could argue, push him away, reclaim some of your dignity… but you were still hungry. And honestly, this was the first real conversation you’d had since your father passed.

…It was nice.

So instead of answering, you simply huffed and took another bite, avoiding his gaze.

“You know, if I had known all it took was feeding you to make you behave, I would’ve done this ages ago.”

“I take it back. You’re annoying.”

“Too late. You already let me in.”

-----

Sunday should have been pleased.

You were recovering. You were finally eating, standing tall once more, resuming the duties your father left behind. He had worked for this. Stayed by your side through the worst of it. Protected you, fed you, shielded you from the opportunistic nobles who sought to take advantage of your grief.

And now?

Now you were back to work.

And he hated it.

Not because he wanted you to remain weak—no, he would never wish that on you. But because now, he had less control. Before, when you were withdrawn in your chambers, he was the one managing things. The one turning away suitors, handling your food, ensuring your safety without question.

But now?

Now you were surrounded by people. Officials, nobles, potential threats.

And worst of all—

You were talking to them. Laughing with them. Standing too close to them.

Sunday’s fingers twitched as he watched from the shadows of the court hall.

He couldn’t stand this.

His jaw clenched as he watched you tilt your head toward one of your advisors, listening intently to whatever nonsense they were feeding you.

You weren’t even aware of it, were you? How vulnerable you were in moments like these.

What if someone whispered poison into your ear? What if they sought to turn you against him?

His mind spun with all the possibilities—his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface—

And then, a soft chime.

A faint glow only he could see.

𝑺𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒔: 𝑼𝒏𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅

Favorability: 40%

40%. It had never been this high before.

But if he had learned anything from playing this game before—

40% wasn’t enough.

Sunday’s mind was already calculating his next move when another chime echoed in his ears.

[System Assistance Available]

His eyes widened slightly. Since when?

Before, the system only interfered when he died. It never offered him anything—no guidance, no tools, nothing. But now?

He focused on the faint glow only he could see, willing the system to respond.

[Query Registered: Assistance Requested]

A loading screen flickered in his vision before a new window appeared.

[Available Items – Secret Route]

Whispering Veil – Conceals the user’s actions from others for a limited time. (1 use)

Falsified Letters – Alters the contents of incoming messages before they reach the recipient. (3 uses)

Echo Crystal – Records and replays conversations to the user. (1 use)

Subtle Influence – Temporarily shifts favorability by +5% in a critical moment. (1 use)

Locking Key – Prevents an individual from leaving a designated area for 12 hours. (1 use)

These were cheats. This world had been working against him for so long, making every step toward you a battle. But now?

Now he had weapons.

The Falsified Letters were already useful. How many proposals had he secretly turned down for you? With these, he wouldn’t have to intercept them—he could alter them entirely.

The Echo Crystal was perfect. He would find out exactly what these scheming nobles were saying to you behind his back.

But the Subtle Influence?

Sunday’s fingers twitched.

A guaranteed +5%?

It took him months to raise your favorability even this much. He could get closer right now.

…But no.

Not yet.

[Item Acquired: Echo Crystal]

Let’s see what these people were really saying.

Sunday gripped the Echo Crystal in his palm, feeling the faint warmth of its magic pulse against his skin.

Slipping out of sight, he activated the crystal. A shimmer of light pulsed from its surface before fading, leaving only a soft hum in his ears.

“We need to act soon.”

Sunday’s eyes narrowed.

The voice was familiar—one of the noble councilmen, Lord Arventis. A well-spoken official who had spent the past weeks pretending to be loyal to you.

Another voice joined in, one that sent a sharp chill through his spine.

Kristiana.

“Y/n's regaining their strength” she murmured. “If we don’t secure their hand in marriage or weaken their standing, soon they'll become untouchable.”

Sunday’s fingers curled tight around the crystal.

These leeches. These pathetic, scheming rats.

They weren’t just trying to manipulate you anymore.

They were planning to seize control.

Sunday exhaled, slipping the crystal into his sleeve as he stepped out from the shadows.

He needed a plan.

And this time?

He wasn’t playing fair.

It took two days.

Two days of watching, listening, gathering proof.

Every word spoken behind your back, every noble secretly conspiring against you—Sunday had it all.

And now?

Now, it was time to remove the pieces from the board.

One by one, carefully, subtly.

The Falsified Letters were the first to be used.

Kristiana? Lord Arventis? The others who sought to control you?

Every letter they sent—every request for a private meeting, every false plea of loyalty—was altered.

You never saw their real words.

Instead, what you received were poorly veiled insults. Demands. Mockery disguised as diplomacy.

Your anger was immediate.

Within hours, you had your court questioning their intentions.

Within a day, Lord Arventis had lost your favor.

And Kristiana?

Her carefully woven web of deception began to unravel.

Sunday watched it all unfold with quiet satisfaction.

When you looked at him that evening, your gaze lingering just a little too long—

Sunday saw it.

That flicker of realization.

That first, fragile crack in your walls. He didn’t need the system to tell him this time. You were finally seeing him.

Sunday had been waiting for the right moment.

The Locking Key wasn’t something to use carelessly. It was a tool meant for control, for ensuring that no one could interfere with what was about to happen.

It happened without warning. The door, which had been perfectly fine just moments ago, let out a soft click.

You frowned, standing up to test the handle, only for it to remain firmly shut. “…Strange.”

Sunday, who had been silently refilling your tea, glanced up in feigned curiosity. “Something wrong?”

You jiggled the handle again. “The door isn’t opening.”

His lips parted in mock surprise. “Oh?”

You turned to face him, your exhaustion making you more irritable than usual. “Did you do something?”

He blinked at you, the perfect picture of innocence. “Why would I lock us in?”

“Then what, the palace just decided to trap me here?”

He hummed in thought. “Maybe it’s fate.”

You shot him a glare, but deep down, you knew there was no use fighting it. You were tired—too tired—and the energy to argue with him simply wasn’t there.

The weight of the past few days had finally caught up to you. The grief, the stress, the endless work… it was pressing down on your chest, your body begging for rest.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you brought them to your temple.

Sunday noticed immediately.

“Sit” he murmured.

You resisted. “I’m fine.”

“You can barely stand.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could, something shifted. A strange warmth settled in your mind—a pull, a quiet lure, almost like… magic. It was subtle, like a whisper, telling you that you should just listen to him. That for once, you could stop fighting.

Your legs moved before you could think.

You collapsed into the nearest seat, but the hard wooden chair was uncomfortable, your body aching as you tried to relax.

Sunday sighed. “You’ll never rest like that.”

He moved forward, taking the empty space beside you—no, not beside. Right behind.

Before you could react, his hands were on your arms, guiding you gently but insistently. “Come here.”

Your breath hitched. “What—”

He pulled you onto his lap.

You should’ve moved. But your exhaustion made you weak, and your body—traitorous, selfish—sank into him instead.

His warmth seeped into your skin, his steady breathing oddly calming as your head rested against his shoulder. His fingers brushed against your wrist before settling at your back in a silent reassurance.

“…Better?” he asked softly.

You hesitated, then—reluctantly—nodded.

“You’re finally listening to me.”

You hated the way your face warmed.

[Favorability +30]

Sunday felt the chime before he saw the number.

Thirty. Thirty?

That was insane.

Nothing he’d done before—no silent loyalty, no favors, no devotion—had ever made your favorability jump this high.

He had expected a modest increase, maybe five or ten points at most. But this?

This was a breakthrough.

His mind raced, replaying every second leading up to this moment. The exhaustion, the quiet lure of his voice, the way you had naturally leaned into him without fighting.

And then it clicked.

You liked skinship.

Or rather, you found comfort in it.

Not that you’d ever admit it, of course. You were still too stubborn, too prideful to say it out loud. But your body?

Your body didn’t lie.

It was something subconscious, something deeply ingrained in you that even you didn’t seem aware of.

All this time, he had been carefully balancing between too much and too little, afraid of pushing his luck. And yet, the answer had been right in front of him—literal physical closeness.

Of course, he couldn’t abuse it recklessly. You were quick to irritation, your temper flaring if someone overstepped.

But if he did it right…

If he played this carefully…

Then he had just unlocked his greatest weapon.

His arms tightened around you slightly, as if testing the waters, but he didn’t push further. For now, he let you rest against him, let you trust him.

And when your breathing evened out, when the tension in your muscles melted completely, Sunday only smiled to himself.

Checkmate.

----

The next morning, when you drowsily shuffled into the dining hall, he was already there, waiting. He handed you a steaming cup of tea, but instead of simply setting it down, he took your hand in his, guiding your fingers around the cup.

[Favorability +5]

A test—and a success.

You barely reacted, too groggy to care. But it worked.

At midday, when you were busy drafting letters and reviewing reports, he appeared by your side with an ink-stained cloth.

Without a word, he took your hand and gently wiped the smudge off your fingers.

You stiffened for a second but didn’t pull away.

[Favorability +7]

And so, the pattern continued.

Each day, a small touch here, a silent act there. Never enough to raise suspicion, never enough to cross a line, but just enough to nudge you closer.

[Favorability +2]

At 84%, you had stopped questioning him.

At 87%, you had stopped fighting it.

And now?

90%.

The notification chimed in his ears.

You still didn’t notice.

But he did.

And now, the only thing left to do…

Was push you past the threshold.

---

Sunday had been playing the game well. He had spent days getting closer, learning your preferences, adjusting his every move to keep you comfortable while steadily increasing your favorability.

But what he didn’t know—what he never could have anticipated—was that the more you grew attached to him…

The more possessive you became.

It wasn’t obvious at first. A lingering glance here, an oddly fixated stare there.

Then it got worse.

And today?

Today, you were seething.

You stared at Sunday across the dining table, your fingers gripping the silverware a little too tightly as you cut into your meal.

He was being too calm.

Like he had nothing to be guilty for.

“So.”

Sunday barely looked up from his plate. “So?”

“I heard you were with the maid today.”

He paused for a fraction of a second before responding. “…I was.”

That made your grip tighten.

You placed your utensils down with a little too much force. “You were seen with her at the market.”

His brows furrowed slightly, but his expression remained composed. “She was just getting supplies. I needed to ask about—”

“Flowers?” you cut in, your tone sharp.

His lips parted in realization. “…You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” you lied. “I’m simply asking why my personal servant was out shopping for flowers with another woman.”

Sunday stared at you, and for the first time in a long time, you saw the faintest flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.

You weren’t supposed to be like this.

You weren’t supposed to care.

But you did.

Because the way you felt at that moment—the way your blood boiled at the idea of him entertaining someone else, at the thought of him being kind to someone that wasn’t you—it was irrational. Terrifyingly so.

“…You think I was flirting?”

“Wasn’t it?”

Something flickered in his gaze before he let out a small breath. Then, he placed his utensils down and leaned forward.

“Look at me.”

“If I wanted to flirt, don’t you think you’d be the first to know?”

You should have let it go.

You should have brushed it off, laughed, changed the subject.

But instead, you found yourself gripping the edge of the table, voice quiet but trembling with something unfamiliar. “…Then don’t do it.”

Sunday’s smirk faltered.

For the first time, he saw it.

The hint of something deeper in your eyes.

This wasn’t just a favorability boost anymore.

This was dangerous.

And for the first time…

He wasn’t sure who was hunting who.

[Favorability: 96%] → [Favorability: 94%]

Why?

He had been so careful, every action calculated, every touch measured. You were supposed to be getting closer, not slipping away.

Just as he was about to summon the system, a knock echoed through his room, followed by the soft creak of the door opening.

“Who were you talking to?”

For a split second, panic clawed at his chest, but he forced himself to relax, plastering on his usual lazy smirk.

“Talking? I was just thinking out loud.” He leaned back, stretching as if nothing was wrong. “Why? Miss me already?”

Your eyes didn’t waver.

“…Let’s go for a walk.”

Sunday blinked. “…A walk?”

You nodded, stepping further inside. “You’ve been inside all day, haven’t you? A change of atmosphere would be good.”

His mind raced. He needed answers from the system—but with you watching him like a hawk, there was no way he could summon it now.

“…Fine.” He stood, brushing himself off. “But if this is some elaborate scheme to make me carry all your shopping bags, I’ll protest.”

You scoffed. “As if I’d waste your time with something so trivial.”

(But if it meant keeping you outside longer, he wouldn’t have minded.)

The air was cool, a soft breeze brushing against the streets as you and Sunday wandered through the bustling town. You had led him to a small ice cream stand, insisting that since it was his first time out in a while, he should try something sweet.

Sunday wasn’t really one for desserts, but the moment he saw the way your eyes lit up as you tasted yours, he found himself taking a bite of his own without complaint.

“What do you think?”

Sunday tapped his chin, pretending to ponder. “Hmm… tastes better than I expected.”

You rolled your eyes. “You could just say you like it, you know.”

“And give you the satisfaction of being right?” He smirked. “Never.”

You huffed, taking another bite of your own, and he had to force himself to look away before he stared too long.

Then, it happened.

You took a step forward—and slipped.

Sunday’s body reacted before he could think.

In an instant, his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you against him just before you could hit the ground.

The ice cream you had been holding slipped from your grip, landing pathetically on the pavement, but neither of you reacted to it.

Because at that moment, you were way too close.

Your face was inches from his, your breath warm against his skin.

Your hands had instinctively grabbed onto his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric. You weren’t moving away.

[Favorability +3]

“…You okay?”

Sunday swallowed, forcing himself to breathe.

He was the one who caught you—so why did it feel like he was the one about to fall?

Sunday wasn’t sure how long he held you like that.

Seconds? Minutes?

It didn’t matter.

Because all he could focus on was the warmth of your body against his, the way your breath hitched slightly as you realized how close you were.

Your hands were still resting against his chest, fingers lightly curled into the fabric of his clothes. His arm, firm and unmoving, remained around your waist, securing you in place.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

“…Are you going to let me go?”

“Do you want me to?”

Your lips parted slightly, your gaze flickering down to where his fingers pressed into your side, then back up to his eyes.

You didn’t answer.

And he didn’t need you to.

His other hand lifted instinctively, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face.

Sunday had spent so long trying to read you, to predict your reactions, to find ways to win you over. But right now?

You were looking at him like you were the one figuring him out.

Slowly, your hand slid up from his chest to rest lightly against his collarbone. The touch was hesitant but intentional.

You weren’t pushing him away.

If anything, you were leaning in.

His grip around you tightened slightly as his gaze flickered to your lips. He could kiss you right now.

And then—

“Ah! Your Grace!”

Both of you froze.

Sunday barely had time to react before someone practically materialized beside you, bowing so quickly they almost fell over.

“It’s an honor to see you again! Thank you for your generosity the other day—our village has been thriving because of your kindness!”

Your entire body went rigid.

Sunday could feel the way your muscles tensed, your hands jerking away from him like you had just realized what was happening.

The warmth disappeared.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

You coughed, taking an awkward step back. “Ah, yes. Of course. I’m…glad to hear that.”

Sunday clenched his jaw, forcing himself to exhale slowly.

He turned his head slightly—only to see you blushing.

Not just a small, embarrassed flush—a full-on, heated, flustered mess.

Sunday blinked.

You? Blushing? Over him?

His heart nearly stopped.

And that was before he felt the warmth creeping up his own neck.

His ears burned.

You glanced at him briefly, eyes darting away almost immediately when you realized he was already looking at you.

Sunday almost cursed out loud. Instead, he cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from grabbing you again. “…We should keep walking.”

You nodded way too fast. “Y-Yeah. Let’s go.”

The villager beamed, bowing once more before stepping aside.

And as the two of you walked off—still visibly flustered, still awkwardly avoiding each other’s gaze—Sunday let out a small breath.

Maybe that damn favorability bar was a nightmare to raise.

But right now?

He didn’t even need to check it to know that something between you had changed.

Sunday woke up with an immediate sense of wrongness.

For one—his arms didn’t move.

For two—his legs didn’t move.

For three—you were straddling him.

He blinked, slowly coming to terms with his predicament. His wrists were tied to the bedposts. His ankles were similarly restrained. And above him, sitting comfortably atop his waist, you were smirking down at him.

“…I must still be dreaming”

You chuckled. “Oh, you’re awake? That’s good. I was starting to think you were just pretending.”

Sunday squinted at you. “Why. Am I. Tied up.”

You shrugged, tilting your head in mock innocence. “I thought I’d do something different today. Y’know, entertain you.”

His lips parted, a dumbfounded expression flickering over his face.

Entertain him.

He was seconds away from losing his mind.

Your fingers drummed along his chest, your weight warm and solid against him. “You seem awfully close with the maids these days. I thought perhaps… I should remind you where your loyalties lie.”

Sunday stared.

“Excuse me?”

You smiled, leaning in slightly.

The warmth of your breath tickled his cheek. “You’ve been talking a lot with them, haven’t you?”

You were jealous.

The realization slammed into him like a freight train.

The hours he had spent gathering information—asking the maids about your favorite foods, your daily habits, your preferences—had backfired spectacularly.

And now here you were, pinning him to his own damn bed.

Sunday had never, in all his life, imagined the ‘Impossible Route’ would turn out like this.

You leaned in even closer, lips dangerously near his ear. “…You should be more careful. People might think you’re plotting something.”

His jaw clenched.

His heartbeat thundered.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

And you were enjoying every second of it.

Sunday inhaled deeply, forcing himself to remain calm. “Alright. You’ve had your fun. Now untie me.”

You hummed in thought, fingers lazily tracing the outline of his collarbone. “Mmm… I don’t know. I think I like you like this.”

Sunday's patience snapped.

In one swift motion, he flexed his wrists and ripped free of the bindings.

Before you could react, Sunday flipped you over, pinning you beneath him.

Your back hit the mattress, your wrists caught in his grip. The tables had turned.

“My turn.”

You barely had time to blink before he leaned down—and stole your lips.

Your mind went blank.

Sunday pulled back just enough to see the dazed look in your eyes, his lips still hovering over yours.

“Next time you try to trap me” he murmured, “make sure I can’t escape.”

And then—

The door swung open.

“…Oh.”

Sunday didn’t move.

You didn’t move.

The servant froze in place.

A long, suffocating silence filled the room.

“…Should I come back later?”

You shoved Sunday off of you so hard he nearly fell off the bed.

“GET OUT.”

The servant practically tripped over themselves trying to flee.

The door slammed shut.

You and Sunday sat there for a moment, staring at each other.

Your face? Completely red.

Sunday, meanwhile, simply grinned.

“You��re cute when you’re flustered.”

“SHUT UP.”

You avoided him for the rest of the day.

Which, really, was adorable.

Every time Sunday entered a room, you’d suddenly be very interested in a random document or an irrelevant piece of decor. The moment his eyes met yours? Immediate retreat. He’d never seen you so utterly defeated before—it was addicting.

And that blush? That frustrated, completely flustered look?

He wanted to see more of it.

You tried to act like nothing had happened the next morning. You sat at your usual spot, drinking tea as if the past twenty-four hours hadn’t completely obliterated your composure.

Sunday casually poured himself a cup and sat across from you, resting his chin in his palm.

“So.” He smirked. “That was quite the reaction yesterday.”

You choked on your tea.

Coughing violently, you shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

“You’re not denying it?”

Finally, you set your cup down with a soft clink and exhaled sharply.

“…Fine.” You looked at him, shoulders squared, lips pressed into a thin line. “I admit it. I lost that round.”

“Round?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb.”

His grin widened. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “…You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here I am. Still by your side.”

You faltered. Your fingers curled slightly, as if hesitant to say what you were thinking. Sunday watched as you took a slow breath, steadying yourself.

Then, with clear reluctance, you muttered—

“…I suppose I don’t mind.”

He almost forgot how to breathe.

You weren’t looking at him, too focused on the way your tea swirled in your cup. But Sunday could see it—the faintest hint of a smile on your lips. The soft flush still lingering on your ears.

[Favorability: 100%]

His heart skipped a beat.

You finally looked back at him, eyebrow raised. “Why are you staring?”

Sunday blinked. He schooled his expression just in time, lips curling into his usual smirk.

“…No reason.”

But inside?

Inside, he knew.

He had won.

And he would never let you go.