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The soft sound of birds singing behind the windows, the smell of clean linen wafting through the air, mixed with the characteristic tang of books.
Both siblings sat in quiet harmony within the grand library of their home. Sunday, ever so diplomatic, poured all his attention into reading the book his father mentioned a few days ago.
Unlike her brother, Robin lounged on the spacious windowsill, glancing at the outside world through invisible bars, her shoulder touching the cold glass. She observed the wildlife beyond, a deer, followed by a pair of cats basking in the sun, yet her attention mostly centered around birds, and the way their iridescent wings fluttered in the air. They looked exactly how they were supposed to, with no shackles, diving through the skies.
At first, neither sibling stirred, unaware of the figure who had entered the room—one of the maids, moving with the quiet grace of someone long accustomed to silence. She paused at a respectful distance before speaking softly, informing them that their father, Gopher Wood, the current head of the Oak Family, had requested their presence in the main hall.
The siblings looked at each other, curious.
"I wonder what's happening.. Father usually doesn't call us in the middle of the day.. especially when there's nothing to be done." Robin remarked softly, looking at her older brother with a curious expression.
"Let's find out," Sunday replied calmly, closing his book and setting it aside on the table for later before dusting off his casual clothes.
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Spacious room, perfectly polished floor with a light pattern, the feeling of grandeur and emptiness. A place that felt more like business than home.
Their father stood in the middle, trying to coax someone to step out from behind him. His posture was slightly bent as he whispered soft words of encouragement to whoever hid behind his legs. The sibling slowly approached.
"Hm? What's that all about.." Sunday whispered to Robin, glancing at her before looking back at his father.. Robin only shrugged her shoulders softly.
"Ah.. children.." Gopher's voice bummed softly through the space.. "Meet the newest addition to our Family."
Just then, the siblings finally noticed a person hiding behind their father's back.
Peeking out timidly from behind Gopher's leg, your wide eyes darted between the siblings, taking in their imposing figures. Your frame trembled slightly, and you clutched at the hem of your simple dress, fingers digging into the fabric, trying to keep your composure (You were rather bad at it). When Gopher beckoned you forward and you remained rooted to the spot, he placed a firm hand upon your back—gentle, yet insistent—and urged you toward Sunday and Robin, his silent gesture leaving little room for refusal. With a gentle prod from behind, you took a hesitant step, then another, until you stood awkwardly in front of the sibling, hands clasped by your sides.
"H-Hello," You managed to whisper, your voice barely audible over the echoing silence of the hall. Your gaze kept flicking between Sunday and Robin, unsure how to address these new, intimidating family members. Eventually, her eyes settled on the floor, too shy to look up.
Sunday tilted his head to the side, curious and observing, he took in every little detail about the little girl who just appeared before them. From the way she was trembling to her bitten, reddened lip, the way she clutched her small hands together. He watched, silently,
However, Robin was much more expressive, a wide, friendly, kind smile plastered to her face as she knelt to your eye level, her pale teal eyes bright.
"Hey, kiddo! Don't worry, we don't bite." Her voice was melodic, her words playful.
With a gentle, reassuring smile, Sunday took a step closer, his tall frame looming over your petite form. His golden eyes with hints of purple seemed to glow warmly as he gazed down at you.
"Welcome home, little one. There's no need to be frightened." His rich, honeyed voice washed over you like a soothing balm. "I'm Sunday, your new big brother. And this is my- our- sister Robin." He gestured gracefully to Robin, who still knelt in front of you with a smile.
"T-thank you, Sunday..." you murmured in response, your voice barely above a whisper.
"It's nice to meet you both..." You glanced shyly at Robin, offering a tiny, hesitant smile in return before your gaze dropped back to the floor, unable to hold eye contact for long. You looked small and delicate, like a trembling woodland creature lost far from shelter.
Sunday smiled, ever so politely, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. He tilted his head, studying you as one might a moth too lovely not to catch. He wondered... what would happen if he crushed your tail beneath his heel—would you shriek? He imagined pinching your wing between gloved fingers, slow and careful, the way one might examine a dying butterfly. He imagined the sound of ripping. Would you scream if he tore off your wings, feather by feather? He almost hoped you would—to see if you’d twitch like a wounded bird, or if you'd crack open and bleed fear like something worth breaking.
How easily you might snap, he mused to himself internally. A twitch of the wrist, a single decisive motion—how delicate your bones must be.
"I hope I won't be a bother..." You said quietly, the sound of your voice catching Sunday off guard, he momentarily stops imagining, but before anyone can notice the confusion on his face, he quickly covers it with his smile. There was no kindness in it. Only the cold, glittering interest of something that liked to see what made the delicate things scream.
"Oh no, sweetie, you could never be a bother. We're delighted to have you join our family." His voice was low and soothing, almost hypnotic in its gentleness. "This is your home now, and we want you to feel safe and loved here."
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Time slipped by like soft wind through a half-open window.
You had started to call Sunday your brother, and Robin your sister. The words felt delicate, like spun glass—beautiful, but too easy to break. You whispered them more than spoke them, unsure if they truly belonged to you yet, it was like trying on someone else’s clothes. You were quiet, tucked into corners, always watching but rarely seen, or so you thought, because no matter how much you tried, a pair of golden eyes seemed to know your every move. You were shy—quiet as a shadow, rarely leaving your room unless you had to. Whenever strangers visited, you stayed away, lingering at the edges, hidden behind half-closed doors. You watched, but never joined. The only time you felt safe was when it was just your new “family.”
Half-open windows, the soft sound of birds singing, the smell of clean linen, the tang of books.
The grand library of your new home. Spacious, daunting, with its high shelves and shadowed corners. You sat, small and timid, on a plush sofa, your figure hunched over a book you lacked the spirit to read. An unfamiliar chill crept through the room despite the sunlit day. Your eyes flickered nervously around the space, the silence pressing against your ears like a held breath.
You didn’t hear the door open—just felt the shift in the room. The change in pressure. Like something old had stirred.
Sunday had a way of arriving like that. Without footsteps. Without breath.
"Ah, my little sister," he said softly, startling you with the suddenness of his voice. His tone was smooth, polished, like a well-loved heirloom. "All alone.. As always. I knew I’d find you here.”
He smiled—warm, lovely, and cold beneath the surface. A museum smile. Preserved. Practiced.
“You always retreat to the same places,” he murmured.
“Y-yeah.. I guess. The library is pretty.. it has so many good books.” You responded quietly with a soft smile on your face.
He sat beside her, uninvited, and the couch groaned. He didn’t touch her—not yet. Just leaned, as if the heat of her silence warmed him.
“..I-Is everything okay, Big brother?” You then asked, tilting your head a little.
Sunday was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant, as if he were counting something invisible in the air. "It is now," he said finally. "I just wanted to see you." He let the words hang there, watching to see what you’d do with them.
You pulled your knees up, curling in on yourself. The book slipped from your grasp and thudded gently onto the rug. "I’m not used to people wanting to see me," you sighed.
Sunday’s smile sharpened, the briefest flash of teeth before returning to his usual polite one. "You’ll learn. Some people can’t help but watch the things they care about."
Then his hand rose, fingertips brushing a strand of hair from her face. Careful. Delicate.
Slowly, as if approaching a cat on the street, his hand travelled towards your cheek before dipping under your chin and lifting your facp. When he kissed you, it was slow, like a prayer said wrong. Not hungry—but claiming. You couldn’t move, not because he held you, but because something in you had gone very, very still. The kiss lingered, not in affection, but in possession.
Your cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink as he slowly pulled back from the kiss. You hadn’t returned it, of course, you didn’t know how, but it filled you with this weird sensation in your belly. You peeked up at Sunday through your lashes, a tentative smile on your lips. “Does your family do it normally? It felt.. right..”
Sunday's chest swelled with pride and affection at your innocent admission, your sweet words stroking his ego. He cupped your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your flushed cheeks as he leaned in. “Family members do much more,” he explained softly, knowing his words were nothing but a lie, his breath mingling with yours.
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A few days had passed, and the house had sunk into its usual hush—like it was holding its breath again.. Though your bond with Sunday seemed to deepen, you were freer around him.
With Robin gone, the house felt larger than it should, each room echoing a little too long, each hallway dim even in daylight. She was just travelling out of the town, but the atmosphere changed completely, you wondered if it felt similar to them when you haven’t arrived yet..
You’d baked that morning, just to fill the silence—sugar, butter, and a bit of cinnamon clinging to your sleeves like comfort.
Now you stood before Sunday’s door, plate in hand, the warmth of the cookies barely reaching your fingertips.
The gentle scratch of a pen. A rhythm as steady as a heartbeat, and just as alive.
You knocked.
“Brother?” Your voice was soft, unsure, but hopeful. “May I come in…?”
A pause. Then his voice, low and pleasant: “Yes.”
You opened the door.
His room was dim but golden, firelight brushing against mahogany shelves and casting dancing shadows along the walls. The curtains were half-drawn, and the scent of ink and old pages met the sweetness on your tray in a strange harmony.
Sunday was seated at his desk, sleeves rolled, posture impeccable. His pen hovered mid-sentence, paused just for you.
You smiled shyly, stepping in. “I brought cookies. I thought… maybe you’d like some.”
Sunday looked up from his papers, a hint of surprise flickering across his features at the sight of you holding out a plate of freshly baked cookies. He set aside his quill and inkwell, rising from his chair to greet you.
“Ah, it’s you, darling sister, how lovely!” he exclaimed, his voice warm with appreciation. “Come in, come in. I didn't expect such a delightful surprise.”
As you entered, Sunday circled to take the plate from your hands, his fingers grazing yours briefly. He inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet aroma of the cookies.
“These smell heavenly. You're too kind, dear sister.” He guided you deeper into the room near his desk, his presence both calming and reassuring.
“Now, tell me, what inspired these tasty treats? Was it simply a gesture of goodwill, or perhaps...a desire to please your big brother?”
Avoiding direct eye contact, you spoke in a soft, hesitant tone.
"I-I just thought you might like some cookies, Brother... They're a simple thing, but I hoped they would put a smile on your face.”
Your gaze drifted to the stack of papers on Sunday's desk, noticing the intricate script and formal language used. Your curiosity got the better of you, and you couldn't help but ask.
“What are you working on, Sunday? Is it important clan business?” Your teeth grazed your lower lip—an unconscious, near-ritualistic gesture that occasionally left behind a crimson trace. You hoped, in your quiet inquiry, you had not trespassed upon confidences better left undisturbed.
Sunday chuckled warmly, finding your shyness endearing. He reached out to gently tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.
“There's no need to be embarrassed. It's natural to want to please those we care about. And trust me, these cookies will certainly bring a smile to my face...and many other pleasant sensations.”
His golden eyes glinted with unspoken intent, hinting at desires yet to be unveiled.
At your inquiry about his work, Sunday's expression turned serious, though not unkind. He sat back, folding his arms across his chest.
“This is indeed important clan business, Sister. As the future leader of the Oak Clan, it falls upon me to ensure our continued prosperity and stability within Sweetdream Paradise.”
Your eyes widened as you listened to Sunday's explanation, a sense of awe and respect washing over you. You had always known your brother was destined for great things, but hearing him speak so confidently about his duties and responsibilities left you in a state of reverence.
“Oh, Sunday...” You breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. “You take on so much weight on your shoulders. I don't know how you manage it all.” Your gaze lingered on Sunday's face, admiring the strength and wisdom etched in every line.
Sunday's lips curled into a small, self-deprecating smile at your praise—humble in appearance, but pride flickered beneath like a slow-burning flame. He reached out, fingers cool and precise, tucking a stray lock behind your ear. His touch lingered—too soft to be innocent.
"It's a heavy burden, to be sure, but one I'm willing to bear for the sake of our clan and the people I care about.” His voice took on a softer tone, filled with affection. “And having siblings like you and Robin makes it all worthwhile. Your love and support mean everything to me.”
Sunday's eyes wandered back to the plate of cookies, his brows furrowing slightly as he considered them. He reached out and carefully picked up a chocolate chip cookie, turning it over in his hand as if weighing its worth. Slowly, he brought it to his lips and nibbled off a corner, his expression pensive as he savored the taste.
You watched Sunday's reaction to the cookie, a pleased smile spreading across your face as she saw how much he enjoyed it. You felt a warmth blossom in your chest, happy to have been able to bring a moment of pleasure to your brother.
“I'm glad you like them, Sunday." You said softly, “Perhaps...perhaps I could make more sometime? If it would be acceptable to the future leader of the Oak Clan, that is.” You giggled lightly, a rare sound from your usually reserved demeanor.
"More than acceptable, dear sister. I insist upon it.” His tone held a playful edge, a rarity for him. “Your culinary skills are a treasure, and I'd be remiss not to indulge in them regularly.”
Leaning back in his chair, Sunday steepled his fingers together, regarding you thoughtfully.
“However, I do have another request. One that may seem unconventional, but hear me out. As the leader of the Oak Clan, I must project an air of dignity and gravitas at all times. But in private moments such as these, surrounded by loved ones...” He paused, choosing his words carefully. Sunday rose with eerie grace, his movement so fluid you barely registered it.
“I long for something simpler. Something... indulgent.”
He stepped closer, his voice lowering into a velvet hush. “In moments like this, I don’t need titles or reverence. What I crave—” he leaned in, his breath brushing your ear, “—is softness. Sincerity. I want to be looked at not as a leader, but as a man.”
His fingers grazed your wrist, featherlight and cold. “Let me have that, just here, just now. Let me borrow your gaze, your warmth, your trust... pretend, if only for a moment, that I am something worthy of it.”
Somewhere in the lull of his voice, you had drifted, now leaning against his desk without realizing it. You still looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes... and he watched you like a wolf does a lamb, patient and already certain of the outcome.
“Will it be like another kiss?” You asked innocently, smiling widely. The idea of family members sharing kisses that Sunday is planted in your mind, as if it’s normal.
A soft chuckle rumbled in Sunday's chest at your question, his gaze warm with fondness. He reached up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your petal-soft skin in a soothing rhythm. He wondered if your skin was this soft all over your body.
"Perhaps...but also so much more.” His voice was a husky whisper, sending shivers down your spine. Sunday's other hand found its way to your waist, drawing you closer until your bodies touched from shoulder to hip. He leaned in, his lips brushing the delicate shell of her ear as he murmured. “Allow yourself to surrender to me, my darling sister. Trust in my love for you.”
The hand on your cheek travelled lower to be on the other side of your waist. You felt the shift before you understood it—his grip firm, the earth no longer beneath you, and then, you felt yourself being placed on top of his wooden desk, papers scattered around you, yet he placed you so that you wouldn’t crumple any of them. Your gaze travelled around, an instinct, you looked at him, then at yourself, to the left, to the right, but as you instinctively began to glance downward, his hand moved—swift and firm—tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.
“Eyes on me,” he murmured, low and commanding. “You don’t need to see what comes next.”
“H-hm..? Why not…?” you asked, your voice soft, confused, your eyes wide with innocence as you searched his face.
His smile was subtle, but something darker flickered behind it, something patient and deliberate. “Because, my sweet sister, what I plan to do requires your complete trust and focus on me alone.”
Sunday's eyes were liquid gold, pooling with an intensity that bordered on possessiveness. His fingers wove through your hair, gentle but insistent, pulling you into him with a gravity you couldn't escape. He kissed you, slow and deep, like a secret shared between breaths. The taste of cookies lingered on his lips, sweet and deceptive.
You shivered under the weight of his attention, a small noise escaping the back of your throat as the world narrowed to the circle of his arms, the press of his body against yours. He seemed to swallow the sound, drawing it into himself as if it were sustenance.
Sunday shifted, his hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks. He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you—your eyes large and dark with confusion and something that might have been longing. "That's it," he murmured, voice a velvet caress. "Just like that. Only me."
Slowly, his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. You flinched—but didn’t pull away. You trusted him.
The fabric slid down, cool air brushing sensitive skin. A faint shiver passed through you, but your eyes never left his—you didn’t dare look anywhere else.
“I-is this normal…?” you whispered, voice small, uncertain. “I feel… strange down there.”
His smile deepened, unreadable. “It’s perfectly normal,” he murmured, brushing his thumb gently along your jaw. “Just trust me.”
The quiet rasp of a zipper being drawn open broke the silence, its metallic teeth parting smoothly as the sound filled the air.
You haven’t looked down, just as promised. Before you can ask what he’s about to do, you feel something thick and rounded at the tip prodding between your legs, slicked up with something you can’t quite identify, “Huh,” and then it is breaching your entrance and pushing inside.
You whimper, the burn is sharp at first; your entire focus pinched into a single point, his arms the only anchor you have to the reality of this moment. He swallows your noises with another kiss, wet and greedy.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs, even as your nails dig crescent moons into his sleeves. “You can take it. My sweet girl, you can.”
The rhythm begins slowly, measured. The way he speaks to you—gentle, instructive, never wavering—coaxes your body to obey, to soften and bloom beneath his weight. Underneath, you are trembling.
He presses his face to your neck, breathing you in. “You’re perfect,” he says, voice thick.
"Ahh!...it hurts..." You whimpered, your voice cracking as tears threatened to spill from the corners of your eyes. You clenched tightly around the overwhelming intrusion, a sensation so intense it felt like your entire world was being stretched beyond its limits. As Sunday pressed even deeper, the pain twisted into something even more profound, searing through you. You suddenly let out a desperate wail, an instinctual urge rising within to glance down, to push him away, to do anything to alleviate the intensity. But the moment you attempted to move, Sunday wrapped around you with an unyielding embrace, pulling you into an even deeper connection.
"Shh, shhh... It’s alright, it’s alright," he cooed, low, his voice honeyed, as he rocked you through it, his hand tender on the back of your head, fingers stroking gently behind your ear. Your legs kicked uselessly once, twice, then stilled as his rhythm withdrew and pressed back, carving a steady heat through the splitting ache between your thighs.
You clung to the front of his shirt, the taste of your tears in your mouth, your breath coming in little hiccuping gasps as you tried to make sense of the world through a kaleidoscope of pain and heat.
His forehead pressed to yours, fingers stroking your hair and your back in slow, shushing motions. “Breathe,” he whispered, “It’s always hardest the first time.”
You weren't sure if you believed him, but you tried, mouth working open and closed, whimpering, “I-I can’t— it’s too much—” but his words tangled you, soft and relentless.
He keeps talking through the entire thing, hoping to distract you from the pain until he hears the sweet sounds of your soft moans. He pulled back ever so slightly to look at your face, your flushed cheeks, slightly reddened and puffy eyes, his wings came to rest against your temples, as if caging you in.
His pace is slow as always, his hips rolling forward, pulling back, rolling again, each drag carving away at the ache, sandpapering your insides until—slowly, reluctantly—your muscles began to unclench, how to bear the steady, unrelenting pressure. Sunday’s voice never stopped, the cadence of it as hypnotic as a spell: “You’re doing so well, so brave—there’s my clever girl, my precious sister—”
Between words, between the hot press of his skin and the way he clamped one hand around your waist, pinning you so you couldn’t flee even if you wanted..
—You started to lose track of where your pain ended and his touch began. At first, you squeezed your eyes shut, but when you managed to peek at him through a haze of wet lashes, you found him watching you with a ravenous kind of softness, teeth biting down gently on his own lower lip.
You didn’t know what to do, so your hands fisted in his shirt, clinging to him as the slow, relentless movement battered you into a strange, trembling pliancy. You couldn’t speak, not really—that part of your brain felt washed away, glutted with sensation. All you could do was whimper, little shuddering cries, your entire body shivering each time Sunday rocked into you.
He was careful, almost—never letting you go, even when your legs tried to drift away.
“I’m close,” he breathed, and his forehead pressed to the dip of your shoulder, his arms coming up to press you against his body, they tighten around your back, one of his hands coming up to tangle in your hair. “Keep staying still,l m-my dear s-sister.. I love you, I really, really love you —“
He came with a sound of a mix between moan and a sigh, not bothering to pull out. You were too young to get pregnant.
The quiet was torn by a sound, immediate, too close—like a gasp that had been held for days. Neither of you had heard the door creak open, had seen the figure standing there. Robin’s silhouette cut sharply against the dim light, her eyes wide, her mouth parted around a scream that hadn’t yet found its voice.
Robin stood there, breathless, a bag still slung over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, stunned. She took in the scene before her: Sunday with his arms locked around you, your face buried in his chest, the intimacy of the moment undeniable.
Her voice was a whisper, a broken thing. “What... what is this?”
You flinched, the sound of her voice slicing through the fog in your mind. Panic shot through you, though you didn’t know why.. Was what Sunday did to you bad for her to react like that?
“Robin—” Sunday started, but she cut him off, her expression fracturing..
How would he possibly explain himself to their father.. again..
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