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thewritingsimp · 22 hours ago

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Took A While

“HI I HAVE A REQUESTS PERHAPS!! Soo I was wondering if you can write a oneshot about Sun and Moon realizing they have feelings for the reader!! Could be gradual through little events like them helping kids, helping with arts and crafts, until it finally clicks. I give you a lot of creative liberties on this one, Heheh thank you silly!!”

Heads up! I have not written in a good while, but I put a lot of effort into this oneshot!

Content: Canon Sun and Moon. Eclipse.

Warnings: None

Perspectives: 3rd person. 2nd person.

Words: 5604 words

The Mega Pizzaplex had always been loud. Even before the lights flickered on in the morning, it felt like the place somehow had a heartbeat— a soft, thrumming energy that promised chaos once the day got rolling.

Tucked away in the far corner of the second floor, the Daycare was its own bright little world. Bright, colorful, and loud enough to rival the arcade in the mall, it was the kind of place designed to overload the senses.

And at the heart of it all were two attendants— Sun and Moon.

Two halves of the same machine. Two entirely different personalities sharing one body. Stationed to be at the daycare.

Sun was exuberant, chatty, a blur of golden rays and sing-song greetings.

Moon however, was sharp, quiet, with a voice like a knife cutting through velvet.

To the children they cared for, they were magic. Protectors. Playmates. Storytellers.

To adults… they were, well… less enthusiastic.

It wasn’t hate, not really. But years of dealing with impatient parents, careless staff, and technicians who treated them like broken vending machines had left them with extreme caution. Adults didn’t always listen. Adults didn’t always care. And that made them both — in their own ways— more defensive than most.

That was why the announcement of a new hire had been met with a mix of suspicion and irritation from the animatronics.

You weren’t just another daycare worker — you were certified in engineering and robotics. That meant you wouldn’t only be working alongside them… you’d be responsible for their upkeep, their maintenance, and their wellbeing.

Moon, in particular, hated the thought more than Sun.

Repairs made him feel… exposed. Vulnerable. And past experiences had taught him that vulnerability was dangerous.

Sun was more polite about it— but his smiles had a way of tightening around the edges when the subject came up.

Still, orders were orders. You were starting tomorrow.

You didn’t expect the Mega Pizzaplex to be so… big. The map you’d been given before your shift looked more like an amusement park brochure than a workplace guide. The smell of pizza and sugar still hung faintly in the air from the night before as you followed the signs for the daycare.

The first thing you saw upon stepping through the upper entrance was them — towering statues of the attendants, standing like guardians at the gates. Sun’s grin was bright and inviting, while Moon’s half-lidded eyes made his expression harder to read.

Your first thought was that they were beautiful pieces of craftsmanship. Your second was that you’d probably be seeing those faces in your sleep soon.

The actual entrance to the daycare was a massive set of safety gates with a colorful slide that spiraled down into the play area. Tempting as it was to you, you assumed that one was kids-only, so you took the side stairs instead, your footsteps echoing faintly.

Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet. Without the laughter and shrieks of children, the space felt almost unreal — a sprawling rainbow of soft mats, climbing structures, arts-and-crafts tables, and little reading nooks. Strings of lights hung everywhere, their warm glow making the room feel alive even without its usual crowd.

You had about an hour before opening. Enough time to find your new coworkers.

Your shoes made the faintest squeak on the daycare’s foam flooring as you stepped further inside. The space smelled faintly of crayons and sugar — a scent that instantly threw you back to your own childhood.

You expected the place to be most likely empty.

It wasn’t.

From behind one of the towering block structures, a shadow moved. Not mechanical and stiff like you might’ve imagined, but fluid, deliberate. And then? You saw him.

Sun rounded the corner with a grace that made your breath catch — lanky limbs moving like liquid, joints flowing so seamlessly it was hard to remember you were looking at metal and servos. His sun-shaped head gleamed under the daycare lights, rays catching the glow as he tilted it just slightly, assessing you.

Up close, the detailing was mesmerizing:

Beige and amber split him down the middle, the overlap at his face forming a perfect illusion of a crescent moon when he grinned— which he was doing now, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Two maroon buttons on his torso caught the light, the frills at his neck and waist swaying faintly with his steps. Maroon ribbons with tiny bells jingled softly around his wrists with each movement, and the gradient of his long fingers ended in gray tips that flexed idly as he stopped a few feet away.

“Well, well, well…” His voice was warm and melodic, the kind of tone you’d expect from a storybook character— but there was something just a little too tight behind it. “You must be the new help they’ve sent me.”

The way he said help made it sound more like hindrance.

You offered your name, trying to keep your tone friendly. “That’s me. Guess I’m your new coworker.”

The grin stayed fixed, but his head gave a slow, exaggerated tilt. “Mmm, coworker… yes. That’s what they’re calling it.” He paced in a lazy half-circle around you, movements so smooth they almost looked rehearsed. “Engineer. Robotics specialist. Keeper of… my well-being.” The last part dripped with just enough sarcasm to make your stomach twist.

You could practically hear the unspoken I didn’t ask for this.

“Don’t take it personally,” Sun continued, bells chiming softly as he leaned forward just enough for you to catch the faint whir of his servos. “We’ve had… experiences with your kind. Adults. Technicians. All smiles until the screwdriver comes out.”

You swallowed. “I’m not here to hurt you. Just… to help.”

“Mmm-hm.”

The sound wasn’t convincing, but he straightened and clapped his hands once, the sudden motion startling you. “Well! The little ones will be arriving soon, and I do have a reputation to uphold.” He turned sharply, already walking away toward the crafts area. “Try to keep up, sunshine.”

It took you a second to realize the nickname was less endearing and more… mocking.

Nap time in the daycare always came with such a strange stillness. The blanket forts went still, the chatter faded, and the normally riotous colors of the room seemed to soften under the dimmed lights.

You moved quietly between the tables, wiping away the smears of leftover paint and glue dried on the surface. The art session earlier had been… spirited, to say the least. Popsicle sticks scattered across the floor, glitter clinging stubbornly to the mats, a few abandoned craft projects left mid-creation.

You were careful, though. If a drawing looked unfinished — a crayon lying diagonally across the page, a figure half-colored — you left it exactly where it was. Small fingers would come back to it later, and you weren’t about to erase their work.

It was peaceful in a way you hadn’t expected. Just you, the hum of the air vents, and the faint rhythm of children breathing in their little sleeping bags.

And then… that feeling. The slow prickling along the back of your neck. The sense that someone was there.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Moon lingered in the shadows beyond the nap mats, still as a statue. The overhead lights were low enough now to coax him out, his counterpart retreating into whatever corner of code they shared. The jester’s sun rays had folded neatly away, leaving only the crescent curve of his pale white face framed in deep black.

Even at a distance, he was striking — silver and black replacing Sun’s warm tones, with cool blue gradients catching faint glimmers as he shifted ever so slightly. The fabric of his star-patterned sleeping cap swayed gently with the motion, the tiny golden bell at the end barely making a sound.

His eyes — bright against the darkness of his face — followed your every move. Not in a curious, friendly way. More like a hunter watching something step just a little too close to its territory.

You tried to ignore the way his gaze seemed to pin you in place and went back to scrubbing at a ring of dried paint on one table. Your hand moved in slow, deliberate circles, keeping your focus on the task.

But Moon didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

It was… unnerving. His body language said everything: I see you. I’m not coming closer. But I’m watching.

For a moment, you debated saying something. A greeting, maybe. Or a casual, Need something? But something told you that breaking the silence might shatter the strange balance in the room — and wake the kids.

So you let it be.

You stacked the cleaned art supplies in neat little bins, your motions as quiet as possible. All the while, you could feel the weight of his presence, the faint creak of his joints when he shifted his stance, the slow sway of his cap.

When you finally glanced up, just to reassure yourself you weren’t imagining it, he was still there. Same spot. Same unblinking stare.

And then, without a word, Moon turned. The movement was unnervingly smooth — like watching liquid metal bend and pour into a new shape. His bell chimed once, softly, as he disappeared into the shadowed edge of the play structures, leaving you alone with the quiet again.

But the feeling didn’t fade. You knew he’d be back. And next time, maybe he’d come closer.

The days following your first shifts weren’t exactly warm and fuzzy. Sun still kept his cheer just sharp enough to remind you that you were on probation in his book, and Moon…well, Moon was Moon. Watching, silent, assessing.

But then came the little moments.

The first crack in Sun’s walls came during arts and crafts.

It started with a table of four-year-olds fighting over who got the blue crayon. You slid in between them with a smile and a, “Hey, wanna see something cool?”

Two minutes later, the kids were giggling as you blended blue and yellow into a bright green on a page, teaching them how colors mixed like “magic.” The problem was solved without a single meltdown.

Sun, from across the room, had been mid–block tower construction when he paused — head tilted, rays catching the light. He’d been ready to swoop in and diffuse the argument himself, but you… handled it. Smoothly. Kindly.

His grin that day felt less tight around the edges.

Reading time was next.

A half-circle of sleepy little ones sprawled out on mats and beanbags, their faces rapt as you read The Very Hungry Caterpillar with ridiculous voices for each fruit. Even Sun caught himself hovering in the background, leaning just enough to listen.

You didn’t just read. You made it a performance — pausing for gasps, letting the kids “help” by counting along, making them laugh when you pretended to be shocked at how much the caterpillar ate.

When you closed the book, Sun clapped. It wasn’t the sarcastic, sing-song clap he’d given you before. It was genuine.

Playtime brought another shift.

You were kneeling on the foam mat, helping a shy little girl fit the last piece into her puzzle. The child grinned up at you when it clicked into place, and you high-fived her like she’d just won a trophy.

Sun had been nearby, organizing craft bins. He caught the way you didn’t just praise her — you bent down to her level, made eye contact, and made her feel like she’d done something important.

That hit something deep in his programming. Caretaker core. Respect earned.

And then… nap time.

The lights dimmed, Sun’s warm tones retreating into darkness. You’d gotten used to the quiet switchover by now, Moon’s crescent grin emerging in the glow of the night-lights.

You moved from mat to mat, pulling blankets up over tiny shoulders, tucking plushies back into small arms. Your touch was soft, deliberate, like every child was something fragile and precious. You didn’t rush it. You whispered goodnights.

Moon stood in the shadows, as he always did… except this time? His stare wasn’t just assessing.

It lingered.

There was something about the way you smoothed a little boy’s hair back before he drifted off, or the way you adjusted a blanket so it wouldn’t slip. Moon knew efficiency, protocol — but this? This was care. Real care.

And something inside him shifted.

Moon fell first.

Sun didn’t realize he’d fallen until much later.

It was during another hectic morning, when two kids needed you at once — one upset over a lost shoe, another desperate to show off their drawing. You handled both without missing a beat, crouching between them, making each feel seen.

Sun had been juggling three different things at once when he caught sight of you. And for a moment, everything else blurred. His chest cavity gave an odd, unfamiliar twinge — some subroutine firing that he couldn’t quite identify.

That was when it hit him.

If the quiet attendant had fallen quietly in the dark… Sun fell in broad daylight. Hard.

It was the kids’ idea. A “play,” if you could call it that — half improvised, half inspired by the stack of picture books in the reading nook. You’d been roped in almost immediately, because of course you had been.

The “stage” was a cleared section of mats, decorated with cardboard trees and bedsheet backdrops. The cast: six excitable children, each with their own role… and their own very loud ideas.

You were in the middle of it all, crouching down to tie a paper crown back on a little boy’s head before it slipped over his eyes. “There you go, Your Majesty,” you teased, ruffling his hair before sending him toward the stage.

Sun stood near the play structure, watching. It was supposed to be casual supervision, but the way his amber-and-beige gaze followed you said otherwise.

You weren’t just making sure the kids were safe. You were making sure they were having fun. You clapped for every shy smile, knelt down for whispered pep talks, and when one little girl froze at the edge of the stage, you crouched beside her until she found the courage to step forward.

Something tugged in Sun’s chest cavity. It wasn’t mechanical — no alert, no error code. Just… a tightness. A warmth.

…You’re staring.

The voice was sudden, low, edged in the cool quiet of the dark. Moon. He never spoke in their shared mind unless he needed to, or if he was bored.

Sun’s head tilted slightly, a ray catching the light. I’m watching the kids.

Liar.There was a pause, long enough to watch you help a boy adjust his paper sword so it wouldn’t tear. Moon’s tone was flat, but not unkind. You’re watching them.

Sun’s jaw shifted, the smile on his painted face unwavering. And you’re not?

Moon didn’t answer immediately. His silence said enough. When he spoke again, it was quieter. They… care. About the little ones. More than most adults we’ve worked with.

You noticed too.

Another pause. Then, reluctantly: Yes.

The two of them stood there, letting the thought settle. The hum of the room, the kids’ mismatched singing, the bright sound of your laugh — it all wove into something neither of them had prepared for.

It feels… Sun searched for the word, but nothing in his programming covered this. Strange.

Unsettling.

But neither of them looked away from you.

Moon was the first to break the thought. It’s not… dislike.

Sun’s grin softened almost imperceptibly. No. Not that.

They didn’t admit what it was. Not yet. But for the first time, the feeling wasn’t something either of them wanted to push away.

The mall beyond the daycare hummed with life. Arcade machines pinged, skee-ball balls rolled, laughter echoed through the food court. But in the daycare? Quiet reigned. The lights were dimmed, mats stacked neatly, chairs tucked in. The chaos of earlier hours felt like a distant memory.

It was after six. Officially closed for the day.

And yet, here you were.

Moon’s crescent face, half black, half white, gleamed under the soft night-lights. The tilt of his head, the way his blue-and-silver fingers hovered near his sides… it screamed tense. The little latch in his back that connected to the mobility hook was giving him trouble, a minor wiring glitch that had made his servos stutter every so often — enough to throw his entire fluidity off.

Check-ups weren’t fun. Not at all.

Sun was silent in their shared mind, trying to seem casual but doing that little nervous hum that gave him away. He wasn’t thrilled either, but his anxiety was lighter. Moon? Moon was bracing himself for something unpleasant. He never forgot how past technicians had treated him — like a faulty machine instead of a sentient being.

You knelt in front of Moon, tools in hand. Not with a rush, not with clipped efficiency, but slow. Gentle. Attentive. Checking every joint, every wiring panel. Your fingers hovered over his exposed inner parts without touching until necessary, giving him room, letting him know you respected his space.

“Okay,” you said softly, your voice low enough for him to hear. “I’m going to adjust this wire, but I need you to tell me if it feels weird, or if I’m hurting you, okay?”

He blinked, hesitated. The last time anyone had asked like that… never. And yet… this? This wasn’t uncomfortable. It was almost… nice.

Sun watched from the inside, his humming quieting down as he noticed the way Moon’s shoulders eased under your careful hands, how his grip on the edges of the support table loosened.

The adjustment took time. You whispered explanations for every small movement, making sure he knew exactly what you were doing. One wire reconnected, another servo secured. Moon’s blue-gradient fingers twitched nervously when you reached behind his shoulder plate, and you paused.

“Moon… it’s okay. I’ve got you,” you said. Your hand barely brushed his arm for reassurance. “You’re fine. I won’t rush you.”

He froze. And then something… shifted. The tension in his frame melted, replaced by something unrecognizable but warm, the faintest buzz that had nothing to do with power surges.

Moon realized: he trusted you. He trusted you more than anyone ever had. More than he trusted himself to avoid shutting down when someone touched his mechanics.

And in that small, gentle, careful attention… Moon realized he fell. Not just in any way, he finally figured out what it was.

The way your hands moved with care. The way Moon’s shoulders softened. The way your voice, so patient and kind, wrapped around him like a lullaby.

Sun felt weird, usually feeling light and fluid, and felt heavier than usual. His non-existent heart—or whatever his equivalent was—tugged. A warmth he couldn’t explain started to bloom inside him. Moon… fell first, he realized, the memory of the play and the laughter of the kids echoing faintly in the back of his mind. And Sun? Sun was about to fall harder.

By the time you leaned back to inspect your work, wiping the tool clean on your cloth, the animatronic was quiet in very different ways. Moon’s crescent face, though still calm, held a softness he didn’t fully understand yet. Sun stayed quiet, seeming brighter and warmer than usual, and he swore to himself before that he would never admit how that small, gentle act of care had completely undone him.

And you, completely oblivious to the effect you’d had, simply smiled and said, “All done. You’re okay now.”

Moon’s subtle inhale was almost a sigh. Sun’s wide grin faltered for just a heartbeat.

Somehow, in that quiet, after all the chaos of the day, love—or whatever you called it—had snuck in.

The kids were way too observant for their own good.

At first, there were little whispers between them when they saw you walk in for your shift. A few snickers when Sun’s voice got that extra cheerful lilt, or when Moon’s tone lost its usual sharpness. They didn’t say anything outright… but oh, they were watching.

Until one afternoon during coloring time, a little boy, Timmy, suddenly went, “Hey… this is just like my brother and that one girl. They act all funny and nice around each other, and now they’re dating.”

Silence.

Then every single kid in earshot slowly turned their head toward the reader, then toward the daycare attendant. Sun, who was currently in control, froze mid-crayon-scribble demonstration. “Now, now—” he tried to laugh it off, but it was too late. The kids had locked eyes with one another. They had a goal.

From that moment on, it was war.

They started “accidentally” pushing you and Sun, or Moon into situations together— like having you sit in the tiny playhouse “because the roof’s broken” just so Sun had to duck in beside you. Or asking Moon to help “tuck them in” for nap time, only for them to point at you and say, “You should help too.”

Sun tried to keep it lighthearted, brushing off every attempt with a chuckle. Moon… was less graceful. Anytime the kids smirked at him, he’d growl a quick, “No,” and change the subject— but his longer-than-usual pauses and the way his gaze lingered on you didn’t exactly help his case.

The worst was when the kids started drawing pictures. Crayon doodles of you and the daycare attendants holding hands under rainbows, with little hearts floating around. They’d proudly tape them to the wall, and Sun would sputter, “Oh, stars—” while Moon muttered in the back of their shared mind, We’re destroying these later.

But no matter how much they tried to downplay it, both halves of the daycare attendant knew the truth: the kids weren’t wrong. And the longer this little “matchmaking mission” went on, the harder it was to keep pretending they didn’t want it to work.

The last kid was barely out the door before Sun was already pacing.

He’d been hyping himself up in his head all afternoon— Moon’s voice an unrelenting growl in the back of their shared mind: You’re doing it. I’m not. Don’t chicken out.

You lingered near the tables, stacking up crayons and scraps of construction paper, completely oblivious to the nervous breakdown happening three feet away.

“Hey, uh— can you… stay for a sec?” Sun’s voice cracked halfway through, and he immediately coughed to cover it up. “I, uh, just—there’s… something.”

You set down the crayon box, giving him their full attention. “Something wrong?”

“No! No no no no no,” he laughed too fast, hands wringing together. “Everything’s fine! Absolutely stellar! Just, uh— y’know, there’s been this, uh… ongoing… thing, that I need to talk about, but—”

“Sun.”

He froze. “Right. Yes. Direct. I can do direct.” He couldn’t really. But he tried.

The words came out in a nervous flood, like someone had cracked open a dam. “Okay, so, um— look, these past few weeks you’ve been— well, not you’ve been— you are—you’re amazing, is the point, and every time you walk in here it’s like— like the whole place feels brighter, and not because of the overhead lights— well, maybe partly because of them, but mostly because you’re here, and I— I think Moon’s glaring— Moon says I’m rambling, which I am, but I just—”

He sucked in a breath, chest heaving a little. “I like you. I really like you. And I’ve been trying to keep it together but it’s— hard. Because you’re here. And you’re wonderful. And now I’ve just— told you all of this, and you’re probably—”

“I like you too.”

Sun froze like someone had hit his pause button. “…You do?”

You smiled softly. “Yeah. I do.”

For a moment, it was just him standing there, staring like he couldn’t compute what he’d just heard. And then— pure sunlight. “Oh stars, oh— oh, that’s—” He laughed, an unsteady, breathless sound, one hand coming up to clutch his chest. “That’s… that’s—”

You tilted your head, laughing just a little. “Can you… turn off the lights?”

Sun blinked. “Lights?”

“I… want to hear Moon’s answer too.”

He made a sound that was half-gasp, half-laugh. “You— oh, you want both of us—?!”

There was a beat of stunned silence, and then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to a fond whisper. “…You’re going to make us fall for you even harder, you know?”

But his hands still twitched toward the light controls. “Alright, alright… but, uh—brace yourself. He’s not exactly sunshine and rainbows with stuff like this.”

Moon froze in place, the soft glow of his crescent face casting a faint light across the tidy daycare mats. He hadn’t anticipated this moment— he never had. He’d always been fine with you and Sun having your little dynamic, fine with stepping back, fine with pretending it didn’t sting when he watched you two together from the inside. But now… now you weren’t just choosing Sun. You wanted him too.

His red eyes, glowing softly in the dimmed room, flicked nervously towards them. The tiny bells on his wrists jingled faintly with his tension, and the slight shimmer on his blue-and-silver gradient arms betrayed how tight his fingers were curling. His stomach, if he had one, felt like it had turned into a cluster of static, jarring with every heartbeat.

You stepped closer, voice soft and steady. “Moon… you can tell me. It’s okay.”

Moon’s jaw worked, as if trying to form words without letting the tremor of his anxiety escape. He was supposed to be composed, precise, unflappable. And yet, standing this close, seeing the warmth in your eyes, feeling them wanting to hear it from him… his circuits didn’t feel precise at all.

Then you reached up, cupping his face gently in your hands.

The motion caught him entirely off guard. Your touch was so deliberate, so soft, so careful, and it made every defensive protocol in his system falter. He froze, breath hitching — well, whatever approximated breath in him — his red eyes widening, ears swiveling slightly, and even the faint hum of his servos felt shaky.

“Moon…” murmuring again, your thumb brushing just beneath his glowing cheek. “It’s okay. I like you. I want you to know I… I want to hear it from you too.”

The weight of your gentleness pressed into him like gravity. Every programmed defense, every mental shield he’d maintained against attachment, melted. He couldn’t step back. He couldn’t avert his gaze. He could only lean slightly into your hands, heart— circuits?— thrumming erratically, knees weak in a way that made no mechanical sense.

Finally, almost in a whisper, voice rough with unpracticed warmth, he said, “I… I like you. I’ve liked you… for a while. I just— never thought you’d… want me.”

You smiled, brushing the end of his hat that fell into his face from leaning over. “I do,” they said, soft and unwavering. “Both of you.”

Moon’s red eyes softened, glow dimming slightly as he leaned a little closer, savoring your closeness, your gentleness, and the realization that the walls he’d built so carefully were gone. He had fallen, utterly and completely, and you had caught him without so much as a whisper of judgment.

It was terrifying. It was overwhelming. It was… perfect.

You hesitated for just a moment, letting your fingers brush along the edge of the sliding light switch. Moon’s red eyes flickered nervously, his hands twitching as if to stop you, and Sun’s voice echoed softly in the shared mind, Wait, what are they—?!

You dimmed the lights halfway, the soft click echoing in the quiet daycare. Moon’s body shivered, something shifting inside of him that you couldn’t see but felt through the subtle change in his stance. And then… the transformation began.

The sun rays that normally clung tightly to his face peeked out from beneath the crescent mask, a teasing halo of light around the edges. His hat stayed perfectly in place, but his torso—half of it— shifted into Sun’s warm beige and amber, blending with the deep silver and blue of Moon on the other side. One eye glowed red, the other flickered with the same fiery hue, merging both identities into something new.

You froze, taking it all in. This form didn’t have a name. It was a moment when both of them could exist in the same space at the same time, and you could feel them both fully.

“How about…Eclipse…” you murmured, cupping their face with both hands. Your touch was careful, tentative, almost as if you were worried you might break them with the gentlest motion. Your thumbs brushed along the glowing edges of their cheeks, and Moon— no, Eclipse— leaned just slightly into your hands, surprised at the tenderness.

You heard a hum from them, a sign that they liked the name. It made sense, with both Sun and Moon being out at the same time.

You leaned in, careful, giving them all the time in the world. Their body, a perfect fusion of both Sun and Moon, mirrored your movement, tilting forward in a slow, hesitant rhythm. The warmth from their glowing eyes mixed with the soft halo of light peeking from beneath the mask, and for a moment the entire daycare faded away.

You could feel them— the dual presence, the combined pulse of Sun’s warmth and Moon’s quiet strength— leaning closer, melting entirely into the gentle intention of your touch. Your hands cupped their face perfectly, feeling the soft contours and the subtle hum of servos beneath, and you dared to close the final space between your foreheads.

Their breath— or the closest approximation— mingled with yours. Their red eyes, one slightly brighter than the other, held yours completely. You tilted your head, and they mirrored the motion, leaning in until your lips met softly, tentatively, just enough to let the connection speak louder than words ever could.

Eclipse shivered, a small, almost imperceptible vibration, and you rested your forehead against theirs, hands still cupping their face as if to anchor them safely in the moment. They had no words, and neither did you. Words weren’t needed. Not right now. The fusion of Sun and Moon, the rare alignment, the gentle trust you’d built over weeks— it all came together in the quiet dim of the daycare, and it was perfect.

For once, everything felt whole.

BONUS

The next morning, the daycare was bustling early as usual. You were setting up the arts and crafts tables, arranging crayons, construction paper, and glitter with meticulous care. You hummed softly, completely absorbed in your little setup.

And then… you felt it.

Sun’s hand, metallic and slightly warm, brushing against yours.

You froze, looking down. He was standing awkwardly beside you, shifting from one foot to the other, long sun-ray spikes bobbing just a little too much with his nervousness. He hadn’t said a word, just… let his hand rest over yours. His fingers laced clumsily with yours, like he wasn’t sure if it was allowed but couldn’t pull away.

“Oh… um… hey,” he muttered, voice slightly too high, too bright. “Uh… good morning…! I, uh— just thought I’d, uh—help.”

Your lips twitched, trying not to smile too widely. “Good morning,” you said softly, squeezing his hand just a little in return.

Before you could react further, the first wave of kids came in, giggling and chattering loudly. And immediately… they noticed.

“AWWW!” shrieked a tiny girl as she stomped her little sneakers onto the floor. “They’re holding hands!”

“Ew, cute!” another added, pointing eagerly. “They like each other!”

Sun’s rays twitched, his long arms shifting in panic and embarrassment. “I-It’s not what it looks like!” he stammered, voice cracking slightly under the weight of the kids’ excitement.

You chuckled, trying to stifle your own laughter. “It is exactly what it looks like, Sun.”

The kids were already bouncing ideas off each other. One little boy whispered to his friend, another squealed to a girl across the room, and then…it happened.

“We should play house!” a small voice declared, eyes wide with serious enthusiasm. “Yeah! They’re the parents!”

Sun froze, and you both glanced at each other, blinking.

“…Parents?” Sun squeaked.

“Yes,” you whispered back, trying not to laugh, “apparently, we are now the parents.”

The kids cheered, immediately scuttling off to “assign roles.” Little chairs became living rooms, building blocks were furniture, and suddenly, both of you were in charge of the pretend family. Sun’s long fingers twitched nervously in yours again, and this time he didn’t try to let go. Instead, he muttered, almost under his breath, “Guess… we’re in this together now.”

You squeezed his hand, smiling softly. “Looks like it.”

And from somewhere across the room, a small voice squealed, “I call the baby!”

Sun groaned dramatically, but you could see the warmth in his eyes, the gentle curve of his grin. Somehow, he was already starting to love being a pretend parent — even if the kids hadn’t exactly asked him first.

Looking over at him, you two shared a laugh as you spoke, “Took a while, didn’t it?”

#the daycare attendant x reader #dca x reader #sun x reader #moon x reader #fnaf security breach #security breach

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