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// ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

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// i...cant type rn. Hold on....

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"You just need to fix it." Kaveh, the express' engineer, motions to the machine that seems to have gained the unfortunate luck of breaking down for the halovian. "Like this...and this...." A few touches and the machine is back to normal. "There we go. See, no need to fret."

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 .-> still open

ഒ﴾while Sunday isn't technologically challenged, technology still challenges him daily. This time, a heretical telescope sits in the arms of a believer. Wings flaps with annoyance as he bends over the lens, unable to discern which layer of the magnifying glass refuses to manipulate the sky. He just wants to discern what astrologers are most fascinated by. He wants to touch the untouchable, which he promised to deliver to Robin. This is a gift for her upcoming tour. She will be back in the embrace of the sweetest Dream in no time, and Sunday wishes to offer something real. A reminder of a belonging beyond the clutches of nightmares.

He knows it won't be long enough for the Family to catch on to his deviance. He feels guilty for such betrayal, but the knowledge he holds weighs heavily upon him. This is an apology and perhaps the first gift to her freedom, which, as an older brother, he is far too protective of. He does not want to send Robin away to the stars without, at least, approving of her far journey first. Hence, he employs Kaveh, a foreign engineer who knows far more about the intricacies of technological advancements than Sunday. The man dressed in a white suit is better at fixing people's minds, not their broken toasters.

He regards Kaveh's work with a stern face, but a gentle nod delivers his satisfaction. He bends down to access the peephole of the colossal looking glass. He catches a glimpse of a star and, like a man scorched by fire, he shoves himself away. "Excellent," he hiccups, furrowing his eyebrows. "I am deeply grateful for your service. I was growing worried." He offers Kaveh a strained smile. "You will be provided payment promptly. May I offer you a meal, perhaps a drink? It takes a moment to convert currencies."

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His hold is uncharacteristically light, the most honest Gallagher(?) has ever held anyone. "Just do it already, we've waited long enough."

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 .-> still open

ഒ﴾the thrashing bird offers a pouting glare, evading the insistent breath of the HOUND. It is too much for the bound wings that flutter under the weight of expensive piercings. Sunday inhaled air greedily. Gallagher's embrace, although weightless, feels bone-crushing. His pale face flares up from the inside. It feels like a fire oozing from the contracting muscles of his complicated expression. He wants to shout at him, to tell him to back away and know his place. To touch such flesh as if to taint it! The head of the Oak Family is astonished by the bemused whisper next to his pink ear. He groans, pushing delicate musician's hands against a broad chest. Even through his leather gloves, he feels the inferno lifting from Gallagher's chest.

"Impudent man!" He exclaims and grips Gallagher's unkempt tie, worsening its wrinkles while pulling on it like a leash. He brings the man closer, smelling of liquor that wafts like expensive cologne. Sunday's wings shudder from recognizing something shocking familiar before he crashes his lips against the irritable stubble. He told him to shave. He told him to start looking after himself! Sunday's lips linger like discarded pillow feathers. A single breeze, and they are gone. He plucks his mouth away, shoving again at Gallagher's chest.

"You've waited." His voice cracks at the edges as he speaks. "I've delivered. Now, let me go."

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[Celestial Body]

saturn.

being a hard worker is, well, hard. but you manage it with an air of effortlessness that others admire, though sometimes you wonder if there's more to life than contributing meaningfully to society in the form of labor. you probably don't sleep much. you take pride in everything you do, and when you take on a task you do it to the best of your ability, never half-finished. you were/are probably described as mature for your age, and have had to take on heavy responsibilities as a child. you persevere despite all odds-- and even if others aren't proud of you, i am. however, deep inside you know you are tired, always too exhausted for meaningful relationships and connections with personal hobbies. my advice? take a break. you are deserving of rest. you have done more than enough

Tagged by: @the-bitter-truth, thanks. Tagging: @killdevil ; @wildresonances; @diivineray; @fortuniis; @reversescale; @herotheism; @visvivae; and whoever else.

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// I am here (church bells toll, wings flutter, a seraph is beat boxing.

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once you play god

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i know we'll reunite one day, up there in the clouds

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like for a blessed starter, comment for a confessionary plotting

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// recently became a parent. so this weekend, my replies are gonna be kindaaaa slow. baby pic below

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✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 . ( a collection of dialogue prompts based on varying types of demands &. requests . adjust phrasing as necessary . this prompt WILL likely be updated in the future . )

don't say a word .

don't leave me here .

meet me at our spot tonight .

follow me and stay close .

don't beg , it's pathetic .

can you ( tie / zip ) this for me ?

stop lying to me . tell me what you did .

put that down , you don't know what it ( is / does ) .

get out of my sight .

stop pretending you know what's going on .

find a first-aid kit . quickly !

don't get yourself killed .

leave them to me , just go .

just admit that you love me .

just admit that you hate me .

come here , let me look at you .

( name ) , don't make me do this .

drop your ( weapon ) .

stay here and wait for my signal .

don't just sit there , move .

take this and run , don't let anyone have it .

pretend you're my ( partner / girlfriend / boyfriend ) .

don't look , you'll give us away .

don't say another word .

stop pretending like you care .

go make sure the coast is clear .

take this with you . it's a good luck charm .

don't tell anyone about this .

if anybody asks about today , lie .

stop looking at me like that .

tell me you love me .

just kiss me , already .

keep your eyes on the road .

stop crying and calm down .

come with me . there's so much we could do .

wear the ( dress / tie / item ) i gave you tonight .

show me how you like to be touched .

hold my hand .

kiss me , make it look real .

look at me . how many fingers am i holding up ?

will you marry me ?

just slow down for a minute . what's going on ?

take a deep breath , you need to calm down .

get out of here , ( name ) !

draw your weapon .

go rest . i'm not asking .

take a step back .

give me a straight answer .

be polite to our guests .

look me in the eye and say that again .

put your feelings aside for a moment .

keep close to me .

here , let me see that .

look up at the sky .

get out of here , i don't want to see you right now .

stand up , this isn't over yet .

close your eyes and count to ten .

smile for the camera !

keep your head down .

( name ) , let me past .

listen carefully to what i'm about to say .

don't just stare , come in .

stop laughing , this isn't funny .

take this and hide it .

don't make a sound .

put your hands up .

quit causing problems everywhere you go .

just admit that you don't know what you're doing .

stop right there , i mean it .

don't say that name aloud .

just trust me , okay ?

stop acting so childish .

call the police . now .

tell me you love me , even if it's not real .

take a good hard look .

stop the car , ( name ) .

don't make eye contact .

stay out of trouble .

just do it already , we've waited long enough .

hold me tight , and never let me go .

finish what you started .

tell me what you know .

just stay away from me .

turn around . slowly .

don't be scared .

put it down before somebody gets hurt .

stop pretending , i'm tired of the pretending .

grab me my ( item ) , will you ?

don't make assumptions .

put this over it to stop the bleeding .

get to safety !

wipe that look off your face .

secure the area .

keep an eye on them .

look at yourself in the mirror .

run . run and don't stop .

eat . you haven't touched your food in days .

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ഒ﴾a poster-child insult earns the Bloodhound and extended, silent gaze that borders a scorching glare. Sunday is among his people, and the chatting gasps and greeting sighs remind him that Gallagher cannot earn a scolding. Dramatics are for the gamblers sitting among buzzing machines. Children, asleep in the bellies of conches, play in the forming puddles, distracting their parents from the mundane intoxication. Despite Sunday's growing suspicion over Gallagher's business, this establishment is one of the most important landmarks in Penacony.

This resort, this DREAMSCAPE, is an embodiment of safety. Each time a patron dances from their endless victory, addicted to happiness, Sunday feels the tug of his heart. He feels connected to them all, except, of course, Gallagher. There is an abyssal tear between them and Sunday does not wish to build a bridge. He sits, the seas of company around him part, not out of fear, but adoration. Sunday's lips form a knowing smile.

"I have a free minute. I would like to see how our guests fare. Am I not to check in with business in case there is trouble?" Sunday's suggestion carries a warning. He is not to be ridiculed. He is the head of the Oak Family, and it is not an arrogant statement. It is a reality of the entire Dream. Tonight, the world tugs with melancholy. What is it that hangs in the air? People reminisce about something. Sunday cannot access the tuning just yet. Gallagher distracts him with cunningly crafted words that irk Sunday's faithful ego. He hums, casting a glance at the poured drink.

"I prefer not to visit often. I am busy." He reminds the bartender, lacing his gloved fingers in front of him. Sunday looks out of place, and this is for a reason. His Halovian nature, for one, is an enigmatic reminder that Sunday is, and has always been, one of a kind. Eye candy to the foreign guests who think a handcrafted rug is exotic, and to the regulars who still believe he is the most beautiful. Sunday does not like those compliments. It is a sin to be a show-off. Not a crease out of sight, he is the embodiment of professionalism; he wishes to teach people like Gallagher.

Under his breath, keeping his tone straight, Sunday clears his throat as he delivers: "Fix your tie-" to his counterpart, and in the same breath, he continues without missing a beat:

"I will have a drink -(because saying 'I do not drink' while voluntarily entering a bar is an unscripted deviation)- not too strong, please." Sunday's polite smile stretches but his eyes remain devoid of warmth, burrowing into Gallagher's face.

The rain, as is every synthetic brick within Penacony, exists as a muddled child of each dreamer. Some droplets graze a child's cheek like a kiss and others drench the undone suits of drunkards to relive caged miseries, imparting feeble colds to those who seek petty flagellation.

True of its waking counterpart is the tide of patrons that trickle into one of the Reverie's lower-floor bars, each dreamer reciting as a poet would on how the pitter-patter adds a note of sentiment to their flashy cocktails. Even in a realm idealized are those who cannot think they deserve it. They fill the gaps of romantics and take comfort in a familiar scene, each melancholic sigh followed with a glass of something bitter and strong. Bar chatter introduces the head of the Oak family before the dove himself speaks a word.

"I wasn't aware you favored this particular bar among all others, or have the generous Oak family decided to delegate their poster-boy new responsibilities?"

Along the polished barstools only a seat from Sunday is a man with a hung head. He speaks of misery but his breaths come sweet and slow, drifting akin to torch smoke. Gallagher understands enough, serving a pink liquor in a whiskey glass to a man that mumbles thanks and leaves with his drink held precariously in one hand. Ceramic ornament atop a plastic tree, the refined visitor shifts with a back impossibly straight when no chair back enforced him. It's a welcome sight, the first act in a play that escalates in scathing stares and harsh words. How he ever meant to impose a threat is a mystery, adjusting with his brilliant halo and champagne jewelry on the most proletariat of furniture.

"It's not every day you visit." Usually it's every other, thinks Gallagher, slovenly smile bridging the momentary silence. "Why not have a drink?"

- @unfxithful

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OUT OF ANYONE ROBIN KNOWS, SUNDAY WAS SOMEONE WHO SHE HELD IN THE HIGHEST - ESTEEM. that no matter the differences in their philosophies, the songstress could only hold fondness in her heart for the boy who held the charmony dove within cradled hands.

❛ to fly amongst the stars, brother, isn't that what you've always dreamed .ᐣ

perhaps, once upon a time, he would've gently admonished her, reminded her, that while she had the LUXURY of flying beyond the cage bars of penacony, he had duty to gopher wood, to the oak family, as its head. but with the aftermath of his attempt to resurrect THE ORDER to create an everlasting paradise and his subsequent defeat, he was [ ... ] softer, if that was the correct word to use.

soft like a freshly - opened wound, soft like midnight tears tended to be, soft in the way being broken could be.

but she was thankful that he had decided to board the astral express, which is why the express had landed at one of the planets that her tour was going to play at, she reaches out for them to share coffee at a discrete cafe.

when sunday arrives, robin had already occupied a table underneath an open umbrella, donning shades and a silken scarf with her hair tucked underneath to provide some degree of anonymity. raising one elegantly - gloved hand, the halovian waves cheerfully, ❝ brother, brother .ᐟ over here, i saved us a spot .ᐟ ❞ as her brother nears, robin, as always, fretsㅤ──ㅤfeeling that WORRY in her heart dissipate at the sight of sunday.

he looked [ ... ] better. quiet and thoughtful, yet no longer as brittle like stained glass, prepared to shatter at divinity's calling. she SMILES, pulling her sunglasses off and setting them aside, ❝ is there something in particular you wanted to eat .ᐣ we should order first before catching up .ᐟ ❞

ഒ﴾his first nightmare seizes him in a borrowed bed. Among the stars tainted by the exploration of machinery, Sunday's imagination retired into lingering boredom after being told to wait. There are better days as a Nameless. Today is the worst.

His paralyzed fingers flex, seeking the covers underneath him to clutch to no avail. His body does not listen, and as his eyes dart around his tiny quarters, a glint of danger pierces through the darkness. A pair of gilded pupils shrinks at him, ogling Sunday from the corner of the room where shadows coat a silhouette. The Harmony-fearing man cannot see this PRESENCE, yet it bleeds a certain familiarity that spreads terror in Sunday's head. Lilac waves blur his vision as he chokes on his spit. His throat bubbles to release a plea for forgiveness, and the golden-eyed shadow erupts into an echoing cackle before vanishing. When Sunday regains the feeling in his limbs, he knows it is useless to ask the rest of the Express if they heard haunting laughter. He knows it is all in his head.

That morning, Sunday thinks of his sister as he stands before a tiny window overlooking the passing eternity. There are so many stars he wants to explore. This is a fantasy he often extinguished by burying himself in work in Penacony's saccharine dream. But now? With a belated wish granted, Sunday doubles over from nauseating homesickness. No one hears his melodic scream as the Astral Express comes to a screeching halt. Voice fills the hallways, and a knock announces Sunday's turn to bestow his devoted presence to his rescuers.

Mr. Yang says he has a pleasant surprise, and Sunday moves his dim eyes over his face. A question comes over the man's shoulder, concerned for his grim look. Sunday shakes his head, mutters that the turbulence is something that he has to get used to.

The new planet is clad in jewels of aristocracy. Sunday calls it gaudy under his breath, shielding the side of his face with his lifted wing as the sun stings his peripherals. He follows the company through the streets, noting that they look comfortable chasing an unknown destination. And then, he suddenly discovers that he walks among strangers. Turning, Sunday searches for Welt's broad-shouldered march, but none meander about him. The blessed musician furrows his eyebrows and then-

-a voice that cures the most chronic of melancholies. Whipping his head, Sunday's widened eyes behold a face he would recognize blind. With a terrified expression, Sunday considers this another nightmare, afraid to move lest Robin vanishes like a cruel mirage. And yet, she waves. She waves! Beckons for him to join her. An elated sensation fills Sunday's chest and purifies his stormy mood. At once, he walks to her, keeping his steps measured to avoid suspicion. In truth, Sunday wants to rush to her, gather her into his arms, and plead for her forgiveness. He left without a proper goodbye, perhaps betraying her trust; it is something Sunday still struggles to realize, and this guilt torments him nightly. He withholds these feelings from showing on his visage as he finally joins her. Instead, he gifts his sister a smile and nods his head in a measured greeting of a philosopher lost in thought.

"I see, this is the pleasant surprise they told me about." Sunday chimes, taking a seat. He glances at the laquered menu in front of him and fears that they may not have time to catch up. A voice scratches him from the depths of the darkness he failed to execute on the Eighth day of his departure. "To be honest, I am unfamiliar with this territory. Perhaps, a suggestion from the locals?" His habits tell him to worry, to interrogate Robin about her troubles. And then, Sunday sighs, exhaling the last of his nerves. With a new breath comes reasurrence. Robin has always been the best of them all.

"I may have become somewhat of a...coffee snob -(March 7 called him so once when Sunday fussed about an aftertaste of burnt beans) -, I think. So, how about we start with that? I'd like to study the menu a bit longer." He says with intrigue as he picks up the booklet, flipping a page. "It is so good to see you. Are you here for long?"

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Sunday

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❝ worship does not come cheap. ❞

✎ . . . 𝑪𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑴𝑬 𝑨 𝑺𝑰𝑵𝑵𝑬𝑹.

ഒ﴾and on the sixth day came the HOUND, maw agape, bloodied saliva dripping, and toxic breath scorching the flesh of innocents. Sunday repeats the prayer to himself like an obsessive believer, swallowing a dry knot stuck in the back of his throat as he leans back in his cushioned, leather chair, avoiding Gallagher's breath. The BEAST is too close, cornering the LAMB in his library, away from the Family's eyes. Suddenly, the man feels utterly alone. The wings framing his face flap irritably. His jaw is set as his molars grind.

"I am not asking for your charity, Gallagher. I asked a favor of you, why must you answer every word of mine with a threat? Stand aside."

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❝ call me a sinner. ❞

✎ . . . 𝑪𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑴𝑬 𝑨 𝑺𝑰𝑵𝑵𝑬𝑹.

ഒ﴾ tormented by the peculiar display of an emboldened confession, Sunday allows himself a humble slant of his head. His confusion isn't meant to insult the speaker; rather, the ENLIGHTENED wishes to convey his worry. A claim of sin troubles him. The weightless wings cradle Sunday's cheeks as if to comfort the man. Plumes twitch as he parts his scowling lips to speak. His excellent oration skills dissipate like morning fog, and Sunday's voice comes quiet like a gentle breeze after a tearing storm.

"What sins have you committed to judge yourself, my friend? Are you tormented by guilt?"