#arise sun

[valtsv]

absolutely love telling people who are only starting to get into silt verses that episode titles creat a poem

and the poem fucks hard

[thegoodmorningman]

YOU CAN BE SO IMPRESSIVE!!!

[scopositic]

Found old art, somewhere between 2022.

Also, this is kind of an art comparison.

Done in 2024

Very different art styles, haha

[exporius]

Favoritism and uncomfortable choices

Pt 1 of a moon x reader x sun

"So... who's your favorite?"

The question made you snap your head to look at moon, your brows furrowing as if you didn't hear him.

"What?" The blanket you were folding gets put down on your lap, forgotten as your focus shifts to the animatronic beside you. He doesnt respond for a second, doesnt even look at you as he stares into the blanket he himself was folding.

"Who's your favorite?" Moon asks again in a sterner tone, red pupils flashing up to look at you. "Sunny or me?"

"Oh!" Your posture straightens and your gaze on moon falters. "I dont have a favorite, yknow? I like you bo-"

"Both equally, i know." As he finishes your sentence, he goes back to folding, a frown on his plastic face, as if the answer he was given wasnt the one he wanted to hear.

This, obviously, doesn't make you feel happy. You always hated that question, always hated picking sides. Sun and moon had their own sets of ups and downs, but you've liked them equally, loved them even. Youd never say that part though.

A deep sigh escapes your lips and you turn your whole body to face moon, making him go rigid as he begins to regret breaking the silence in the first place.

"Who's your favorite?" Moon pauses, looking up at you as his faceplate tilts ever so slightly to the side. If it weren't for the loud metalic clicking and the glow of his eyes, you wouldn't have seen the action done in such darkness.

"What?" It was now his turn to be confused. "My favorite?"

"Yes, your favorite." A smile creeps upon your face and you finish folding the blanket before discarding it into the ever growing pile beside you and moon. "Sunny or me?" You echoed his previous queries, making him chuckle a little at how silly this all was.

"You." He grins as he answers bluntly, earning a flustered hesitance in your smile. The answer came so quickly you almost missed it.

"Me? Really?" Theres a look of disbelief on your face and moon takes it in like a reward, snickering at your confusion. "But you and sun have always been hip to hip. Lovers in arms or something like that." You earn another sharp snicker.

"Still, you're our-" moon pauses and looks away, the back of his faceplate facing you. "My favorite." He finishes, quieter, shyer. The sound of his internal cooling systems shifting to full power makes you smile as you too look away, giggling with a red face.

The both of you just sit there for a moment, marinating in the shared embarrassment as moon finishes folding the last of the blankets. Then, he turns to you, an unreadable smile that makes your skin crawl.

"You should decide soon," his voicebox rumbles out in an ominous tone, limbs clicking as he begins to stand up, taking all the folded blankets in his arms as he turns his back to you. "Sunny expects a real answer."

And with that, a long wire rope descends from the ceiling and attaches onto the metal hook on moons back. He glances back at you for a second with a smile, then gets lifted into the darkness above.

You sit on the foam floor of the daycare with an uncomfortable silence surrounding you, confusion stewing in your chest along with another feeling.

[greensaplinggrace]

the darkling needs to soak up sunlight like a black cat every once in a while or the state of his mental health literally devolves

[thanatologie]

@anecdotist / zevran - "You know," Zevran starts, lengthening his lean against Emmrich's desk. His shirt is open despite the cool air, his legs crossed and stretched ahead of him--no match for Emmrich's, true, but well muscled and clad in tight-fitting pants. "Davrin has agreed to watch Assan and Manfred for a few hours. We could..." Zevran tipped his head up, looking up at Emmrich through his eyelashes, his golden gaze warm as honey. "...go shopping? There's a new book seller in Treviso." unprompted asks / always accepting

-only necessitates axial precession if-  No, not this one.  The book is reshelved, and he scans a moment before pulling another down, flipping through with the practice of someone who's read it cover to cover more than once, a finger trailing down the page he finally stops on.  Etheric apoapsis is only relevant in the event-

That book is also shut with a resounding snap, before it's returned to its home among the others.  He knows the prescribed method of diurnal flow entanglement exists in a tome he, personally, has in his possession, as while it's been a fascinating theory he sharply remembers chuckling to himself over the matter, as when would anyone need to do that, unless the entire Veil threatened to come down?

Well.

He feels it, that sinking sensation, the realization that the particular volume he needs still resides on a shelf in his apartments back home, and they've left it in such an untidy disarray when preparing to depart for the Lighthouse.  He starts to make one more pass over this set of shelves, to see if he's perhaps overlooked what he searches for, belatedly realizing - much to his chagrin - he's being spoken to.  And in that, that Manfred has mysteriously disappeared, when not two seconds ago, he'd almost tripped over him in his scouring of the shelves-

“I'm sorry, darling, I'm afraid my thoughts wandered.  What were you-”  He glances up then, pulling his attention away from the vexing certainty that the book he seeks lies elsewhere, and for a moment both thought and spoken word trail off into nothingness, snatched by the currents of the Fade around them to be delivered to parts unknown.  

The late afternoon sunlight that is ever-present in their little corner of the Fade is no more actual sunlight than the air they breathe is air.  It's a concept others have found a bit unnerving, as it is, in its own way, something like raw magic that keeps them sustained.  But knowing that as he does,  understanding the concepts that make it so and only guessing at many more he does not, the light that does filter through from above - mostly unnoticed when one is flat-footed in the main part of the room - manages to find its way to that particular spot when the buildings floating around them navigate in their ever-shifting orbits.  He doesn't think, necessarily, it's entirely by chance Zevran's found his way there, not with how enticingly he's positioned himself, and certainly not with finding himself captured with little more than a look.

But there is more to this than the tantalization of the way the light frames this feature, dips another in shadow, the softness of the not-light reverent in the way it touches.  Sparks of idle desire are a thing he's familiar with, of course, but easily rebuffed, when one longs for more.  This isn't that, or at least not entirely.  No, there's a softness there, a hopeful, bright little bubble under his ribs, pressed tight to the heart - a riotous little collection of emotions all hand in hand, akin to a daisy chain of his greatest and most secret wishes and hopes.  There's desire, of course, but therein next to it sits a sort of contentment, at Zevran here, in his space.  Joining them is a trembling spark of hope, diaphanous as a skeleton flower, that he dare not look at directly.  Encircling them all an adoration that threads through every thought.  It presses with such fervor it leaves him dizzy.

Bookseller, the part of his brain not distracted helpfully offers, some part of him having at least been subconsciously listening while the bulk of his attention had been locked on finding a book that simply isn't here.  In Treviso.

He manages to cleave his tongue from the roof of his mouth and leans with his forearms upon the railing of the staircase, firmly putting the ineffectual collection of knowledge behind him.  Preoccupation of a warmer, decidedly more wondrous kind awaits.  

“Dinner after?”  Idle time for such explorations have been light on the ground as of late, and Zevran's company is that which he cherishes above all; after being asked so enticingly - even if only half-heard - he doesn't think he has it within him to say no, and no reason to, besides.  “I'm sure Davrin can be convinced to keep a watchful eye over Manfred for a little longer with the right recompense.”

[usyrps]

the high fantasy lover in me imagined aegon's armour / court attire in the book to have these vibes...

[darkcrowprincess]

Team Jacob thoughts:

Jacob is the Juliet, and Bella is the Romeo trying to get over the Rosaline Edward.

Jacob is constantly compared to the sun. He is warmth. Home and sunlight. And I constantly think of this quote:

Romeo: But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,Who is already sick and pale with grief,That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.

Jacob is Bellas warm sun. While Edward is her cold cruel moon. If only Jacob could have killed the envious moon Bella would have been free.

[crinkle-eyed-boo]

Tuesday Snippet

I was tagged last week by @disgruntledkittenface to share a snippet. I've been recovering from pulling my back out pretty horrendously, so it's been hard to write, but I DO have a little something to share now from the new chapter of Arise Fair Sun. Enjoy!

Harry wrinkles his nose and burrows into his pillow, valiantly trying to hold on to those final moments of sleep. He knows it’s a lost cause though; his internal clock clearly doesn’t give a fuck that he didn’t go to sleep until three in the morning or that Louis Tomlinson is in his bed, warm, naked, and clinging to him like a koala. Admitting defeat, Harry blinks his eyes open, squinting at the bright sunlight streaming in through the slats in his blinds, somehow feeling rested and a bit disoriented at the same time. He fumbles around for his phone on the nightstand, biting back a laugh at the way Louis grunts in protest, his hold around Harry’s middle tightening as he attempts to pull away.  He never expected that Louis would be such a cuddly sleeper.  Harry finally grabs his phone, holding it up to his face to wake it up. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees the time. He never sets an alarm on his days off but even with that he can’t remember the last time he was able to sleep past 8:30. At the latest.  Maybe his internal clock does give a fuck that he didn’t go to sleep until three and he’s got a warm, naked Louis Tomlinson in his bed clinging to him like a koala. “Time is it?” “10:47,” Harry answers, unable to stop himself from smiling at the sound of Louis’ sleepy rasp.  Louis hums in acknowledgment, making no move to get up, his fingers gently tracing circles on Harry’s abs. Harry puts his phone back down on the nightstand and tangles his fingers with  Louis’ as he snuggles right back into his embrace, sighing contently. He needs to pick up his laundry and go get groceries for the week later, but other than that, making up with Louis was the only thing on his agenda for today. With that more than accomplished last night, Harry figures he deserves a lazy morning in bed.

Tagging @indiaalphawhiskey @myfineline @kingsofeverything @louandhazaf @allwaswell16 @absoloutenonsense and @uhoh-but-yeah-alright if they want to share anything!

[abyssalpriest]

Damnit lev lmfao. I was thinking about Shiva wearing corpse ash being resonant for other reasons, something about his relationship with the Bright Skinned Ones and death and whatever. No, no. More fucking importantly: Oh I wonder why Shiva is known for. you know. wearing bodies. his appearance is a mass of bodies joined together. yeah

[beyondbinaries]

❝ Sun starter for @ervaurem ❞ ♡ ೃ༄

༶♡༶ Sun knew very well that Mana was the glue that held their family together. Her and Law didn't have much in common and she was well a Renan.. That wasn't to say she didn't want to spend time with him, it was just hard for her to find a topic for them to discuss.

༶♡༶❝Sis isn't home, but did you want to maybe have lunch with me?❞

[thegoodmorningman]

Good Morning!!! Shut your mouth and stare at that beautiful Sunrise!!!

[scopositic]

There's nothing like chilling and seeing this.

Seeing 1 notification. Nice.

Checking to see who and just:

What

Hi??

Too fearful to tag👍

Did this take me a day to do for some reason? Maybe.

[clood]

the way fifth gear is just the littlest guy imaginable… luffy you are the sun and sometimes you shine so brightly that i must look away!!!!

[pigeonclaw]

Some face practice with important TBC cats.

[thanatologie]

@wittyrogue - Zevran slid a box across the table. Inside is a carefully extracted human heart, still surprisingly fresh. "For obvious reasons, this must be a metaphor, but it is safe to say--you have my heart at your disposal."

There were gifts, of course; trinkets and baubles, flowers, “romantic twaddle” he'd been accused of innumerable times.  Trite, it had been said.  Mawkishly cloying and insipid performative nonsense, dewy-eyed to the point of naivety.  And, perhaps on the grander scale, they were, but given genuinely, from one's heart, chosen for the qualities one wished to underline - after all, there were times sentiments could be shared all the more elegantly with flowers, chosen with care, than any word ever define and illustrate - he supposed it added a bit of tenderness in a world that all too often lacked it.

But those were gifts, with a small g.  The effort one put into their fidelity to a meaning made up for any banality they held.

Then there were Gifts.  Gifts were part of a realm that spoke to the darker corners of the soul, the very nature of which were given with the intention of the recipient being seen.  Of being known.  It was not unlike finding one's self as a specimen for examination and study, perfectly pinned with such aching care, in such a way that things one would rather conceal were exposed for viewing.  For rumination.  Acceptance or denial.

Gifts-small-g were pleasant little things.  Things meant to evoke certain emotions, to soften another's heart, or to express the appreciation and affection one felt for another.  Gifts were far more primal in their intent.  They, too, pulled emotions from the recipient, but rather than the soft flutterings of a moth's wings against the heart, they were claws, digging into the living, beating muscle of it, demanding raw and unfiltered acknowledgement for the way they slipped past the ribs, squeezed the heart with greedy, insistent fingers, to milk if of every drop of untempered emotion.

It wasn't often that he was struck truly speechless.  Caught off guard, he liked to think he rallied rather quickly enough, covered any pause, any awkward gawking, with a smile, and soon righted things with a rejoinder.

He had no rejoinder to offer here.

Altogether gruesome, perhaps, to the outside observer, the organ in all its pinks and greys of cardiac fiber, artery, and vein lay in the box, as cleanly exposed as any Watcher worth their oaths could offer, fresh enough, he supposed, it almost appeared as though it could be on the cusp of resuming a steady rhythm at any moment.  Without truly thinking - and there were variables there that required thought, such as where the Gift had been collected - he reached in to lift it out.  Roughly the size of a fist, it settled there in the cradle of his palms like a macabre offering, cold to the touch, but pliant.  Malleable.  Healthy - or would have been, were it still attached in a way that its function hadn't been impeded.

It, too, was a beautiful specimen, raw in its intent, carefully chosen for its meaning and exposed in ways it never intended itself to be.

“Dearest,” he began, slowly, as though carefully picking though a catalogue of emotions and sentiments, rifling through metaphorical boxes and drawers for spare syntax, to find exactly what he wished to say, as he gently lowered the heart back into the box from whence it came, nestling it once more carefully inside.  There was something sacrilegious, to a point, in holding Zevran's metaphor, as he had so coyly phrased it, knowing it had once belonged to someone as living and breathing as either of them.  A macabre joke, perhaps:  Your heart in my hands.  The answer given in the care with which he placed it within the safe confines it had arrived in.

It was, speaking plainly, terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“You truly choose the most curious avenues of expressing a sentiment.”  He wanted to inquire - a truly ghoulish impulse - who Zevran had chosen as his representative, however…While curiosity was a powerful driving force, trust, he thought, and intention, were the more poignant and salient moorings, a bower for the overwhelm the gesture imparted.

He reached over, his touch almost feather-light as he cupped Zevran's chin a moment, to better observe the play of light across his face, to memorize his expression, as such moments demand of the truly and ardently enamored.  “I'm afraid I have nothing of equal value to repay such a generous and humbling gift that you don't already claim as your own.”