#like truth about the radiance

[maddyshome]

gojo is the moon but geto is not the sun. geto is the star. it is yuuji who is the sun.

sukuna is also the moon and yuuji is still the sun here too.

why? because yuuji's belief is a direct contrast to gojo and sukuna's. the sun and the moon need to be two opposing beings. like ying and yang.

to satosugu fans, stop living in a delusion. your otp is not the sun-moon pair. its more like the moon-star pair. so just go with that.

[faaun]

today was ok good great bad 😭 rant in tags lets try to be normal abt this

[wonryllis]

daddy issues, my little girl (m) | park jongseong.

﹙ 🎬 ﹚ ぃ ────𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹,

preview. you had always had daddy issues, for as long as you could remember. so when jay came along with his caring nature, how could you possibly keep your feelings at bay? not to forget, your roses of love have wilted long before you even knew what love meant but jay, he’s here at your doorstep with a watering can. will you be able to refuse?

or where, new neighbor dr jay park is asked to babysit you over the week. ironically the only man you have ever had a crush on. you are so determined to put aside the feelings but jay makes things so much harder. he is way too sweet and caring and you are way too pessimistic and insecure. how is it going to work with you gravitating towards him in inadvertence and jay welcoming your presence with candor radiance? especially with all of your buried issues coming to life more than ever. false hopes and reserved secrets, reluctant truths and feelings that linger deep. he is right there, two doors away to reach. so why is it that love still feels so far?

meet the cast. daddy park jongseong(jay) with his doll fem!reader

genre. neighbour to lovers, age gap (like 7 years), romance, SMUT MDNI!!, comfort angst, fluff, happy ending, doctor(might change that)!jay with his precious girl. jay literally always at his girl's beck and call, he cares about you a lottttt trope. the "i know you can do it, but let me do it for you" trope. kinda ddlg concept idk? he's like your pillar, comfort person and just everything you have ever needed. practically your dream man come to life. subject to additions later on.

word count. 18-19k so far, est around 35k revamp + second installment.

warnings. DARK THEMES: hints of: daddy issues, attachment anxiety, inferiority complex, abandonment issues, depression, childhood emotional neglect, philophobia, insomnia, social anxiety, hints at emotional/psychological abuse, gaslighting, hints at being suicidal, people pleaser syndrome, mommy issues, thantophobia, atelophobia, atychiphobia, pistanthrophobia, avoidant personality disorder, body dysmorphia. more could be added on release and nsfw warnings will be mentioned in full fic.

theme song. daddy issues by the neighborhood and future by red velvet. on the side you can listen to: love letter by bolbbalgan4, adore you by harry styles, pacify her by melanie martinez, cool kids by echosmith, your existence by wonstein, teenage dreams by katy perry ..

RELEASING. TBD, progress ! 57%

"i’m home!” slipping off your converse, you put the pair inside the shoe cabinet near the entrance and close the wooden door in a sigh before trudging in. the lights in the living room are dimmed, something your parents would never do. it catches you a tad bit off guard but nevertheless you try not to think too much. considering the silence surrounding you they most definitely are out for work and as usual forgot to turn off the lights. with cautious steps you walk futher inside, with all intention to sneak in a pack of chips from the kitchen like a thief even though at this point you’ve practically come to the conclusion you’re home alone, but one can never be too careful.

a cat like shriek leaves you when your eyes land on the back of a figure sitting on the couch, your phone almost slipping through the grasp of your fingers as your eyes widen in shock. startled, your heart more or less stopping in a screeching brake for a split second.

the man visibly flinches at the sound of your voice,“who are you?!-” standing up and turning around to face you,“jay?”

“god y/n, you’re gonna make me deaf,” he complains, face contorting into a tender, teasing expression; a small smile gracing his lips as he walks around the couch and leans against the top of the backrest. you watch as he looks at you, so softly that it makes you wonder, has anyone ever in your entire life looked at you like that? a look radiating such gentleness. maybe not, not until now that is.

“you got home early today, i thought you’d be out for two more hours?” his brows raise in a questioning manner as his gaze shifts to go over the time showing on your living room clock.

“uh, well i was working on a project the last few days but i finished it yesterday so,” you speak unsure if you should even be telling him this instead of asking what he’s doing in here.

“oh okay, that’s good,” taking off his overcoat he walks into the kitchen, folding up his dress shirt’s sleeves on the way,“what do you want for lunch then? do you want to eat takeout? or should i cook you something? you must be hungry,” he takes out a bottle of cold water from the fridge and pours in a glass for you, sliding the cup on the countertop towards you as you approach the space in hesitant and confused steps.

his questions dumbfound you, leaving your brain at a loss, still dazed from his presence before you,“what? why are you asking me that? and what are you doing in my house?” you ask, looking completely clueless when jay turns to look at you expecting it to be some kind of a sarcastic remark. but the lost look in your eyes has him surrendering even if it does turn out to be some joke.

“taking care of you,” jay smiles, straightening his posture in an upright position and moving closer to the counter across which you stand,“technically, babysitting,”

“babysitting? me? but,” it baffles you, is this some prank or are you supposed to know something you don’t? your mind’s mechanical gears slow down, friction arising in between them. you don’t remember anything regarding or relating to the term babysitting. there’s no way he’s serious.. right?

“doll, didn’t your parents tell you they’re gonna be out on a business trip for a week? they asked me to look after you while they’re gone,” what.

yes these past few days when you couldn’t catch a hidden, one-sided glimpse of him in the elevator you did feel weird. and you definitely did subconsciously wish to run across him again, even though you were on a mission to avoid him, but this; this is not what you would’ve liked, this is not what you wanted. this is far from what you can handle, what your messed up self can accept.

“no?” the look on your face has jay almost spilling a laugh, the way your features contort to a whiny crying expression. how cute. he thinks.

“that’s okay, now you know,” trying to imitate you, he scrushes up his nose in a slight pout, reaching out to pat your head twice. and there goes your heart. you never thought you’d like head pats this much, you only remember getting them twice from your father but it felt different. it used to annoy you because he would mess up your hair but the way jay caressed your head it felt you had accomplished something, so gentle and careful yet still close to a ruffle.

taglist ( open. ) @s00buwu @lilyuwon @pockyyasii @nctislifue @lheebra @boyfhee @defnotfertilizedtoesw @brownsugarbaybee @skylaly @sparklovespink @luvyouchuu @ming-h0e @cha0thicpisces @butterflywonie @kgneptun @haechansbbg @m3chigo @wonsbaer @woncine @eneiyri @siyen @wonyoungsvirus @heesquared @enhafim22 @velvtcherie @ineedsomezzz @simjyunnie @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @wonkifangirl @sweetwonieee @luvnicho @fakeuwus @sunpov @notevenheretbh1 @kaykay11sworld @saurxcream @shawnyle @monstaxdirtywonk @wannieepisod @woozixo @sophi-ee @rikiwaify-blog @fluerz @iselltulips @belowbun @yunjinsbbg @enhasnuggles @enhaswirlds @enhastolemyheart @jooniesbears-blog

[ghostlyferrettarot]

◆Pick a Picture:📀🌌🧊Current gossip about you🧊🌌📀

•Pile 1 •Pile 2 •Pile 3

❗️This is a collective reading, take what resonates and leave the rest❗️

✨️Paid Services ✨️ (Natal charts and tarot readings) Open!

🧊If you like my work you can support me through Ko-fi. Thank you!🧊

🌌Masterlist🌌

📀Pile 1: 8 of Swords, King of Swords and Temperance.

Hi pile 1! People are probably commenting on your accomplishments. I feel like you've recently achieved something significant that you've been chasing for a while now. Many underestimated you, thinking you were just playing around, but you've done it. Now they wonder how you manage to make it all seem so easy and how relaxed you look while working on your goals. Some may even be a little envious of your ability to move forward with clarity and determination, which can intimidate those around you.

The way you attract success seems almost magical to others, but the truth is that they don't see the effort and dedication you put in every day. I feel that many may even be envious of you in these aspects, you are an abundant person with clear objectives, this makes others feel intimidated. The obsidian stone can be a valuable tool to protect you from those negative energies.

Continue to pursue your goals with the same passion and determination you have so far. You are on the right path; don't let other people's opinions take you away from your path; what matters is your own journey and the effort you put into it. Success will come to you soon ;).

📀Song:

📀Pile 2: The Star, Queen of Wands and 6 of Wands.

Hi pile 2! People are talking about your great change in general. It's like you're in a stage of personal radiance, where everything you've experienced has taken you to a new level. Even though you've faced difficult times recently, you've managed to get up and start shining with your own light. People around you can notice that positive energy you emanate now, and many have noticed how good you look. It's natural that some are curious about your drastic change. They wonder what you've done to achieve this transformation, they wonder How have you managed to change your style, your way of being and your attitude towards life? The truth is that you have worked hard to get here, and that dedication has not gone unnoticed! People are intrigued by the decisions you have made to improve your life.

Don't forget that your strength is what has allowed you to overcome obstacles and move forward. If you have managed to get ahead, it is thanks to your effort and the courage you have shown every step of the way. Be proud of what you have achieved and the good things that are yet to come. You deserve it, and this is just the beginning of a journey full of opportunities and achievements! Lucky you pile 2!

📀Song:

📀Pile 3: Queen of Wands, Ace of Swords and 5 of Wands.

Hi pile 3! People are talking a lot about your talents lately. I think you are an extremely creative person, who knows how to express their ideas in a unique and special way. It is evident that others notice it too.

I feel that the gossip about you comes mainly from your work or school environment; Many may admire the way you carry yourself, your confidence and how naturally talented you are at what you do. Many may be envious of your work, I feel that someone may be spreading false gossip about you; but do not worry, I feel that you are very protected by your guides and that your environment knows that you are someone very genuine.

Keep showing the world your art and your talents, as you are destined to go far and inspire others with your knowledge. Trust in yourself and your potential! You can go very high if you continue to focus on your goals!

📀Song:

📀🧊Thanks for reading and tell me if it resonated🧊📀

[adviceformefromme]

8 TIPS FOR A WHOLESOME SUMMER

1] PRIORITISING SLEEP. You’re sleeping with your mouth closed, because you’ve learnt how open mouth breathing affects your jaw, posture and overall health. You’ve got those little sticky mouth strips from Amazon to help support with keeping your mouth shut during the night and as a result sleeping like a baby. 

3] YOU ARE IN YOUR ‘NO’ ERA. Saying no to absolutely anything that doesn’t align with your truth. No to the boozy party because you’ve quit drinking, no to the consuming voice notes and calls with your ‘still’ friends (still broke, still complaining, still getting no where). The more you say no, the more you are creating space for what is meant for you. 

4] ENJOYING HOBBIES. You start pouring more into activities that fill you up. The yoga workshops, dance classes, painting, cycling, running, making fermented foods. You're becoming more wholesome, and its from a place of truth and love. 

5] LOOKING AND FEELING YOUR BEST. You’re not worried about dropping a little cash on some key items for your summer wardrobe, because you know looking good will only amplify your radiance. This starts at home, sleeping in your best night dresses, wearing the kimono robe around the house. Ensuring your nails toes are clean and groomed, even if this is a weekly at home job. You prioritise looking and feeling your best even if this means waking up a little earlier to get ready.

6] LISTENING TO MUSIC THAT LIFTS YOU UP. Not the songs that keep you in the trap of overthinking him. Spiritual songs, songs of praise, affirmation songs, music with soul. As result you feel more connected to God, your truth, and grounded.

7] MAKING ACTUAL PLANS FOR THE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO THIS SUMMER. That means booking the flights, the train tickets, the restaurant you’ve been wanting to try. Pull out your diary and make the plans. Go live your life. Even if you do this alone, the most important thing is you don’t let this summer pass you by. You live it, you breathe it, you make it as fulfilling and exciting as possible. 

8] READING. Having a physical book to read, to travel with, to have close to your heart is the perfect way to expand your mind and take a much needed screen break…Fiction, or Non-fiction, go to the bookstore or library and enjoy the feel of the recycled paper on your finger tips as you indulge in something of interest. 

9] REDUCE SCREEN TIME. Whatever your current screen time, the goal is to reduce it by 50%, so if you’re currently on 4hrs per day, get it down to 2hrs. The less time on your phone, the more time in the real world, you’ll find you become more present, and enjoying life instead of being a slave to your device. 

[watevermelon]

A Beautiful Cage | Sunday x Reader

✧ Summary: You woke up in this beautiful dream, memories lost with a handsome man claiming to be your husband.

➳ Spoilers for the 2.2 Penacony update! ➳ Warnings: Dark!Sunday x Amnesiac Reader; Yandere writing liberties :) ➳ Navigation

“My beautiful Sparrow, welcome back.”

You stared at the man, blinking twice without words as his affection for you shined like the halo upon his head. The grip he had on your hand fell with each beat of your prolonged silence, a new sort of desperation growing at the corners of his lips. Your heart broke at the sight, despite not even knowing his name.

“I’m sorry. Do I… know you?” You asked back, sitting up in the bed and only now noticing your surroundings.

The sterile smell and beeping monitors confirmed the worst. Beside you sat someone whom you felt an inexplicable connection to, a pull in your heart that stirred up warning bells, yet their face brought no specific memories.

Everything about him exuded importance, from the fine fabric and intricate details of his clothes to the matching halo and ethereal wings. He almost looked like an angel, a being of celestial grace and authority.

The man in question grimaced, but continued. “My name is Sunday. Do you remember my face?”

Sunday, like the last day of the week.

The day of rest.

“I’m sorry, no.” Your forehead creased in strain, as if the physical action could bring it all back. A worse revelation crossed your mind, “I don’t even remember my own name.”

“Then I will help you remember, my dear Sparrow.” He spoke gently, repeating the term of endearment as he lifted your hand to his lips. A silent warning bell in your subconscious screamed at you to pull away, but you ignored it to instead stare into his handsome, golden eyes.

“Please, stop me if this becomes overwhelming for you.” Sunday warned before explaining further, “You are my wife. And because of my position in this world, you are often put in danger. And unfortunately, I was not able to protect you from an attack.”

You stayed silent as Sunday continued on, describing in small detail the life you shared together. 

Your name and the world you chose to stay in, Penacony.

A dreamlike world where many partied their days away, celebrities and the affluent from around the universe sharing in one lavish adventure.

And Sunday, the head of the Oak family.

You could hardly believe his words, a world where people were able to freely pursue their dreams. 

The hesitation must have been seen on your face, since the kind stranger had countered with a simple phrase. “Let me show you.”

Gold lined the streets as far as the eye could see, casting a radiant glow across the entire cityscape. Fantastical roads floated in the sky above, while buildings were illuminated in a dazzling golden radiance.

Golden Hour, the name for the area, was aptly so. 

You stared dumbly in different directions, taking in the fantastical view and the lively bustle of people moving from store to store. Street performers graced nearly every corner, their music blending into a harmonious soundtrack that filled the vibrant, diverse heart of the city.

Sunday lifted an open palm towards you, the corners of his lips curling into a soft smile as if inviting your touch. As you placed your hand over his, you felt the gentle pressure of his grip matching your own tenderness. His hand felt cold and unfamiliar, but you brushed aside the discomfort, chalking it up to your amnesia.

“It’s Mr. Sunday!” A child yelled in excitement, jumping up and down as his company of other children turned at his words.

Suddenly there was a crowd of children, all surrounding your supposed husband and asking for his autograph. A weight on your heart felt lighter, seeing strangers confirm the words of the one person who was influencing your entire outlook on your new life. 

Sunday was essentially a stranger, but now the only person you could rely on.

You needed truths and as the crowd grew larger, you could confirm that this man was honest in his words earlier.

“Are you alright, Miss?” One of the children turned and asked you.

Another joined in on the conversation, “Mr. Sunday said you were hurt! Are you okay?”

“Yes, I am. Thank you for asking.” You kept your response kind, but short.

Sunday weaved his way through the short crowd, back to your side. "Please excuse us as we must depart promptly. My sincere apologies, but my dear wife has endured considerable challenges."

“Awww, he loves you!” A squeal broke out from the back, making you unconsciously blush.

Sunday simply smiled, before waving goodbye and leading you on your way.

Sunday resided in a grand estate, passing libraries adorning the walls as he guided you to your shared bedroom. You admired the opulent furniture, once again accented with gold. As Sunday removed his outer layers, you seized the opportunity to survey the room. Framed pictures — your wedding, a festival, and one with a third person who looked much like Sunday —moments that, regrettably, eluded your recognition.

Your husband emerged from the other room silently, regarding you with that same small smile as he drew closer.

“I’m sorry I don’t remember.” You spoke first, genuinely frustrated that your memories were taken from you. “It’s alright.” He reassured you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Can I try something to help you?”

You nodded in quiet affirmation, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips as Sunday leaned closer. His breath mingled with yours, warm and comforting, as he pressed a soft kiss against the tip of your nose before gently lowering his lips to meet yours. The kiss was tender, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings, delicate and fleeting, as if both of you were hesitant to disrupt the tranquility of the moment.

But as the warmth of the embrace enveloped you, a surge of emotion ignited within, fueling the kiss with a newfound intensity. Your lips moved in perfect harmony, a dance of passion and longing, as Sunday's hand found its way to the back of your neck, his touch both gentle and possessive. With each brush of his lips against yours, the world around you faded into insignificance, leaving only the two of you locked in a timeless embrace.

But it was not enough.

“I love you, my Sparrow.” He murmured against your lips. “Whatever you come to need, I will provide it. Lest it be my time, my affection, or even if you perhaps… need space.”

A pang of bittersweet ache tugged at your heart as you processed those last words. It was undeniable how much Sunday loved you, his actions speaking volumes and allowing you the space and freedom if that was what you wanted. It was a sacrifice born out of love, a silent vow to stand by your side no matter the outcome, even as your heart yearned for the completeness that only the restoration of your memories could bring.

But a life without him… did not feel right?

“No, please. I want you by my side.” 

It was a small concession, but the radiant smile that blossomed across Sunday's face filled even you with an infectious joy. He leaned in, pressing a series of gentle kisses along the side of your cheek, each one eliciting a soft laugh from your lips as you savored the delightful sensation. In that fleeting moment, surrounded by the warmth of his affection, all worries and uncertainties melted away, leaving behind only the sweet embrace of shared laughter and unspoken love.

You snuggled into his arms at night, the sensation unfamiliar but not unwelcome. As you closed your eyes and drifted into slumber, a relentless melody began to crescendo, growing louder and more insistent until it engulfed your consciousness, becoming the sole sound echoing through the corridors of your dreams.

A woman's voice, light and airy, infused with hope, danced through the recesses of your mind, casting a shimmering veil over your thoughts.

Who was that woman?

And why was she the only memory your mind could recall?

You devoured every book available on Penacony and its rich history, spending countless days ensconced within the walls of your private library. Sunday had even offered recommendations, guiding you towards enlightening reads detailing the intricate tapestry of the Oak family and the other prominent families that shaped the fabric of Penacony's past.

A dream, tantalizing in its promise, offering individuals the chance to manifest and fulfill their deepest desires, but with a caveat—access granted solely through the family's invitation.

But there was nothing of note regarding your situation.

Instead, you found yourself falling into rhythm into Sunday’s life.

You slotted into his life easily, either accompanying Sunday for work or even venturing out on your own. Some days, you would visit his office as he tirelessly worked and meticulously planned for the upcoming Charmony festival. Or, on easier days, strolled through the familiar streets of Penacony as he encouraged you to immerse yourself in the surroundings in hopes of triggering memories.

In each interaction, it was evident the deep love and devotion Sunday held for his people and his beloved city of Penacony. He listened attentively to even the most mundane complaints from others, offering genuine empathy and understanding. His concern and unwavering commitment to his people were palpable, leaving a heartwarming impression on all who encountered him.

It seemed like he was perfect in every way possible.

Life with Sunday was sweet, easy even.

And yet, there was an insistent hammering in your heart, a relentless pulse that sent waves of unease through your entire being.

Every night without fail, you continued to hear that insistent melody, a haunting refrain that seemed to echo from the depths of your past. You couldn't fathom why your mind clung to this particular fragment of memory and it nearly drove you to anger. You had lived an entire life, rich with experiences and emotions, yet it was a single song that your memory chose to preserve. Why not Sunday, or the life you had shared together? 

What was the importance of this song?

You found yourself unconsciously humming along to this song even as you traversed Penacony. It was another day with Sunday off attending to business, leaving you to your own devices. You appreciated his willingness to let you explore Penacony independently; it allowed you to experience the city's vibrancy through your own eyes, unfiltered by anyone’s perceptions and unburdened by expectations. The freedom to form your own impressions was a gift, even as the familiar tune haunted your every step.

How could you possibly be suspicious of your husband when he was giving you all this freedom?

Your eyes swept appreciatively across the cityscape until they paused in one direction. You halted immediately, a small tendril of suspicion blossoming into body-wide panic as you recognized the woman standing before you.

In your heart of hearts, you remembered her name.

Robin.

Instantly, an unrelenting pain seared through your brain, but you resisted the urge to duck down, clutching your head as you stared at the woman. She locked eyes with you, surprise flashing across her face before she began running in your direction.

“Robin?” Your voice was barely a whisper, but the woman wrapped her arms around your middle.

Her hug felt deeply familiar, like the comforting embrace of home after a long, perilous journey. It was as if her arms wrapped not just around your body, but around your weary soul, offering solace and a sense of belonging that you had desperately missed.

You continued. “Robin, I… Lost all my memories. You are the only person I’ve recognized so far.”

Robin's face contorted in pain, worry deepening with every word you spoke. She looked you over, inspecting every inch to ensure you were unhurt. Satisfied, she hugged you again tightly before gently patting your heart.

“Robin?” You asked again, but the woman only looked at you and tilted her head in question.

“Are you… unable to speak?”

Yes.

She nodded her head, making you take a deep breath to calm your beating heart. “Is it because of me?”

No.

“I… We should tell Sunday!” You attempted to look for a solution, but she frowned and kept nodding her head no. “Does he already know?

Yes.

“... Will you come back home with me? I don’t remember you fully, but in my heart it feels like I’ve missed you.”

She nodded eagerly, making you a bit more suspicious of her intentions.

You walked side-by-side, making your way back to your shared abode with Sunday, enveloped in a familiar atmosphere. In the absence of her voice, you took it upon yourself to fill the air with conversation, enough for the both of you. You recounted how you had awoken without a single memory, with Sunday faithfully by your side. You described his love and devotion, his unwavering care for your every need.

This felt familiar, being with Robin. However, why now? 

Why hadn’t she visited you before?

A part of your mind stuttered, hesitating to confide in Robin about the ominous feeling gnawing at your heart regarding everything that was happening. What if she took her brother's side? Perhaps it was wiser to keep silent, hesitant to disclose your apprehensions, especially considering the possibility that she might be collaborating with him.

You walked into the foyer with Robin and she led you further into the home, into a library with a large desk that had a model of all of Golden Hour.

It was evident that she was on a mission, striding purposefully forward without the slightest hint of hesitation as she surveyed the towering bookcases that lined the walls of the library. Sensing her focused energy, you allowed her to proceed in silence, observing her with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

Recognition flashed behind her eyes and she grabbed something resting on the shelf, a rectangular object, before quickly thrusting it at you.

“What do you want me to do with this?” You asked with confusion, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Silent yet urgent, she swiftly took charge and reached to open the flap of your jacket, deftly slipping the object into the pocket before pressing a single pointer finger against her lips, signaling for you to maintain absolute silence.

You shook your head in confusion, near begging for more information. “Silent from who?”

From Sunday?

Or from someone else in Penacony?

But a now familiar voice was heard at the door frame.

“My dear sister, I didn’t know you’d be visiting our home today. Not that I’m not grateful, but I would have stayed home to greet you upon your arrival.” Sunday greeted you both with his customary kind smile, a warm familiarity washing over you. He approached, embracing his sister first in a lingering hug before turning to your side, where he offered you a greeting kiss on the forehead.

“My offer to stay in this home still stands, dear sister.”

Their relationship appeared to be fine, even close. Perhaps Robin hadn’t intended to keep the matter silent from Sunday? However, as Robin bid you both goodbye and you found yourselves alone, you made the conscious decision to remain quiet about the object, keeping it tucked away in your pocket like a silent reminder.

The following day, you ventured out of the mansion and found yourself in a cafe. Uncertain about the object nestled in your pocket, you hesitated to even retrieve it, opting instead to keep your hand inside, fingers lightly brushing against its surface as you inspected it solely through touch.

Nothing about it seemed special, just a rectangular object shrouded in mystery.

Dumbfounded, you exited the cafe, pondering the possibility of researching the object. Was there a library somewhere in Penacony that might hold more information? A tendril of apprehension tightened in your heart as you recalled that the only library you had encountered thus far was the one within your own home.

“Ah, his little songbird.” A voice, unfamiliar, broke you out of your reverie.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” You asked back genuinely.

“Perhaps in another lifetime.” The woman continued, looking you up and down with a smirk on her face.

She was beautiful, even enough to make you feel self conscious. The woman stood tall with porcelain skin contrasting the lavender hues that cascaded down her back. Her gaze nearly matched her hair, a captivating blend of colors with red striking you like the flames of a hypnotic fire.

“My name is Black Swan.” She stated simply, inspecting your eyes as if to see if there was any recognition behind them.

But instead, you blinked twice, uncertainty clouding your thoughts as you awaited her next words, unsure of where she was leading the conversation.

“That’s unfortunate.” She commented on your eyes, once vibrant when she last saw you. “But I believe you have a souvenir of mine.”

Your hand clenched around the rectangular object, a surge of apprehension coursing through you. The thought of broaching the subject with Sunday seemed fraught with risk. Why would you entertain the idea of confiding in a stranger?

“I know you don’t trust me. But would it help if I told you a fellow songbird and I gave it to you?”

Robin.

You paused, looking left and right before stepping closer. 

“Hold on.” She spoke softly, her words accompanied by a gentle hand on your wrist, guiding you away from the bustling streets of Golden Hour. Through winding paths and intricate puzzles, she led you, each twist and turn revealing new secrets and hidden passages.

“It isn’t safe here either, but at least now we’re away from the eyes of the bloodhounds.”

Huh?

Though you couldn’t quite comprehend it, with each passing moment in the company of this stranger, you found yourself inexplicably at ease. There was a sense of trust that seemed to grow between you, as if she were a steadfast ally in this labyrinthine journey. You held up the rectangular object in your palms, and she made no move to take it from your grasp, respecting your agency and the significance of the item to you.

She put her hand over the object, “This is an empty light cone. Light cones hold memories, moments in time that were long forgotten even by the user.”

Your eyes shot up in interest, but you did not interrupt her.

“Tell me, do you enjoy this dream?” She asked, seemingly out of nowhere. “Be honest with me, songbird.”

You paused, given the first true opportunity to speak your mind. “I enjoy being here, but something doesn't feel complete.”

“Have you noticed something strange since you first awoke here?”

“Like what? 

“Remember. A major flaw in the story you have experienced.”

Your frustration grew, “I can only recall the last few weeks, I can’t go back any further.”

Black Swan fixed her gaze upon you, her eyes locking onto yours with an unwavering intensity as she spoke. “Think back to what you know. Where did you start this story?”

“I was in a hospital, here in Penacony.”

In response, she arched a single eyebrow, a silent indication that there was more to your statement than met the eye.

“And a death in Penacony means what?” She asked slowly.

You strained to recall the answer to that question, your mind rifling through the wealth of knowledge gleaned from the books you had devoured upon awakening. In this dream realm, death held no sway, its specter banished from the bounds of this surreal reality. Your heart quickened with anticipation as the answer began to crystallize in your mind.

“It means returning back to reality.”

If your injuries were indeed severe enough to land you in a hospital bed, on the edge of your life and stripped of your memories, why hadn't you simply returned to reality?

Or rather, why hadn’t Sunday brought you back to reality?

“Wake up, songbird. Break free from this eternal dream.”

Your consciousness plunged beneath the surface instantly, submerged in the depths of an endless ocean. With each stroke, you struggled against the weight of the water, yearning for the surface just out of reach. Yet, propelled by an unseen force, your mind surged forward, propelled by the current of your subconscious.

.

.

.

You coughed up air, gasping for breath as you struggled to fill your lungs, a mixture of surprise and uncertainty washing over you in waves. 

Where the hell were you?

You found yourself seated in a pool of water within the confines of a colossal oyster, a fleeting memory flickering in your mind—a recollection of this being the entrance to the Dreamscape.

You were back in reality.

The room was tastefully decorated, with screens displaying a serene beachside view and lush green plants adorning the corners. A cozy fireplace added warmth and ambiance to one wall. It became evident that this was your personal space, as stacks of books adorned every available surface.

As you meticulously combed through the books, your fingers trembled with anticipation, a sense of dread beginning to gnaw at the edges of your consciousness. Each page turned revealed nothing but mundane details, no hint of Sunday's potential duplicity. Yet, the oppressive silence of the room seemed to press in on you, suffocating and thick with apprehension.

Nobody should have knowledge of your clandestine presence, save for Black Swan, yet the hollow echo of a knock shattered the stillness, reverberating through the room like a harbinger of doom. Each rap upon the door sent shivers racing down your spine, your heartbeat thundering like a drumbeat of impending dread.

Was it Sunday?

Was he going to force you back into the Dreamscape?

Hesitation rooted you on the spot, hand trembling as it hovered over the doorknob. Fear coiled in your chest like a venomous serpent, paralyzing your every movement. But the relentless knocking persisted, growing louder and more insistent with each passing second, until it felt as though the very walls themselves were closing in.

“Sparrow, are you alright?”

Sunday.

And yet he sounded… concerned?

His genuinely distressed tone had a disarming effect, causing your guard to falter. With a hesitant hand, you reached for the doorknob, feeling it's cool metal beneath your fingertips. 

Even with your slow movements, Sunday hadn’t rushed to open the rest of the door. His voice was gentle, “My love, were you attacked again?”

What?

Did you awaken here the last time you were attacked?

You met Sunday's gaze, but the expression etched upon his face was unlike anything you had ever seen. His eyes, typically ablaze with a golden warmth, now held a chilling intensity, their once vibrant hue dimmed to a somber shade. In their depths, a glimmer of suspicion flickered, casting an ominous pall over his countenance. His stare bore into you with a laser-like focus, each line etched upon his features to show the gravity of his scrutiny. 

“No… I was with…”

Your mind stuttered once more, faltering in its attempt to grasp onto the memory of the woman you had just encountered. The image of her beautiful lavender hair and the melodic cadence of her voice began to fade, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. It was as if the memories were elusive phantoms, slipping away from your grasp, leaving behind only fragments of a conversation and a sense of disorientation in their wake.

Sunday remained silent, his gaze unwavering as he observed your inner turmoil with a focused intensity. In a fleeting instant, the tension dissolved from his features, replaced by a tender expression as he lifted a hand to caress your cheek. Leaning in, he gently pressed his forehead against yours, a silent gesture of reassurance.

“Let me take care of you, Songbird.”

“Where… Where are we going?”

“Let’s forgo the Dreamscape tonight. The dinner menu in the lounge sounded particularly appetizing.”

As your mind grappled with the swirling chaos of conflicting memories, one thought remained steadfast: the yearning to return to reality and leave the Dreamscape. Yet, Sunday stood before you, extending an invitation to remain in reality with him. His gentle encouragement, coupled with the suggestion of sharing a meal together, created a tug-of-war within your soul - if he was truly suspicious, wouldn’t he want to return to the Dream?

“Something wrong, my dear?” Sunday asked, his trademark gentle smile once again gracing his features.

A pang of guilt gnawed at a corner of your mind, for you had harbored suspicions of Sunday throughout your time in the Dreamscape. Yet, here he stood, seemingly without fault, extending an open invitation to spend time with him outside the confines of the dream.

“No, let’s.. Let’s get dinner.” You spoke softly, slipping your hand into his and surprising him with your initiative, taking the lead for once.

“Of course, my love.”

You traversed the halls in silence, lost in a labyrinth of thoughts as you pondered the origins of your suspicion towards Sunday. He had been your rock, your unwavering support, proving his loyalty and love over the years of your marriage. It was probably the amnesia that made you wary, but you felt somewhat guilty that you held suspicions over the one person who may not have deserved it. 

Lost in contemplation, you scarcely noticed the world around you until you chanced upon a young boy, his striking white hair and azure garments catching your attention in the otherwise familiar surroundings.

“Welcome back to the Reverie! If you need any assistance, feel free to let me know.” He greeted you by name, making you smile at his sunny disposition. 

“Thank you, we’re headed down to the VIP lounge now for dinner.” Sunday responded, pausing to reply to the bellboy.

“I’m sorry, I had an accident and I don’t remember your name. Can you tell me yours?”

“No problem, my name is Misha.”

.

.

.

“A pleasure to meet you Misha.” You replied before waving goodbye, smiling as you went with Sunday by your side.

Perhaps you were wrong to be suspicious of Sunday. But no matter, you had an entire lifetime to make it up to your darling husband. He had been so kind to you these last few weeks, you resolved to make amends and shower your darling husband with the love and trust he deserved. Recollections of his tender gestures flooded your mind—the soft kisses, the gentle caresses—that had brought warmth and comfort to your heart over the past weeks. With a smile playing at your lips, you embraced the idea of spending a lifetime cherishing him.

You leaned up on your toes, gently kissing the side of his cheek as you walked through the halls.

Perhaps things were as they should be.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Despite what Robin claimed, Sunday loved you, truly.

Even when you threatened to leave his side for good.

When Robin returned back from her journey on death’s door, Sunday had not simply presented the idea of keeping her here on Penacony.

He enforced it.

In the tender heart of Sunday resided his beloved sister, a cherished soul intertwined with his very essence—his own lifeblood. Why, then, would he ever allow her to return to the perilous realms from whence she came? 

Society was too cold, too dangerous. 

Robin vocalized her discontent, lamenting the confines of the gilded cage that Penacony had become for her. Yet it was a cage adorned not with mere bars but with the allure of gold and the promise of boundless dreams. She could do anything, be anything. In fact, she was already a renowned celebrity who had the love of her last remaining family member. 

Why return to danger when here she prospered?

“It is still a cage.” She would counter, frustration dripping from her words.

And how much more did it break his heart when you took her side?

��Sunday, my love.” As if any endearments would affix his shattered heart. “Robin has a message that she must continue spreading. Keeping her confined here, what about the people she needs to reach?”

No.

He refused to accept their words.

Sunday’s sacrifices were grains of sand slipping through an hourglass, bearing the weight of his every aspiration, relinquished one by one until they formed a towering edifice, precarious yet resolute. At its peak stood the pinnacle of his being — his own life — offered willingly to maintain this dreamlike world even until the very last breath of eternity.

How much more was he willing to give-up?

Or rather, what was he allowed to be selfish for?

His dear sister.

And certainly, you.

As the Stellaron continued to leak Asdana’s memoria into the material world, Sunday felt his final dreams come to fruition. The Dreamscape was blending with reality, making even reality itself an illusion. 

He told himself repeatedly that this was for the good of humanity, a paradise where every individual was able to indulge in their delightful dreams and live their own personal happily ever after.

And what of yours?

Sunday granted you the freedom to roam Penacony at will, affording you the opportunity to reach for the stars even in his physical absence. But your frustration mounted, you knew he was watching from a distance anyway, a million eyes at his beck and call in this so-called Dream. You continued to voice your discontent, arguing that freedom within the confines of a cage was not truly freedom.

Why did you insist on leaving this eternal dream?

Would you leave his side and return to being an abandoned orphan, tossed aside somewhere in the old Penacony?

No, he would not allow it.

Even if he had to rewrite your memories along the way.

[angelesca]

w.c. 3.4k💀so much words for this crap / sunday x truckdriver!gnreader (dafuqq is this dynamic), small stories, 99% of the penacony cast are impressed by you(they should be), robin is a cutie pie, sunday is a closeted robin fan, you and sunday squabble daily, sunday your wonweek is showing💗, wrote this in the tumblr drafts vro🔥part crack a/n: farted this out bc i got inspired by this otome isekai manhwa i was reading [truck knight taekbae] + aesthetics inspired by [who made me a princess]

darkness monopolised your vision ever since you got here; day time never graced you. the insulated walls do their job well—only the vibrations, the frayed edges of sound, can be heard. 

chains grip your wrists, the metal twisting into your skin, wringing it like cloth. ouch. what now? maybe if you fart consecutively, and hard enough, you can blow your way out?

"brother... why…?" vibrations again. 

"don’t… monitor… danger."

the iron door creaks. light shines a single ray though the gap, and like the sun, the radiance blinds you. you squint your eyes, tracing the outline of two silhouettes.

the taller one approaches, each stride covering an equal, set amount of distance without a lost beat. "i have one question," their tone dashes against the whetstone, pointing a sharpened blade at you. "who are you?"

their eyes did not welcome any light, no reflection of you in them, as if you were only a whisper of the air. you feel the cracks in your throat. "me? i’m just a truck driver."

you are having tea with sunday.

after the less-than-ideal introductions, the picture cleared: you, a truck driver, are isekai’d into penacony via truck inception(?).

"i apologise for my manners," sunday sips his cup. "when you... suspisciously appeared in my bathroom, unresponding, there was no room to be courteous."

"sorry about that," you play with the rim of your cup awkwardly. "i'm not sure what happened either." the honest truth.

sunday shakes his head. he's majestic. "so, you said that you were…" he taps his chin.

"a truck driver."

"a criminal?"

"... truck driver."

“an assassin?”

"..." you almost turned into one.

little did you know, your lone walk was accompanied by a slithering shadow. except... it was no shadow. it was a dazzling spotlight that had fans and reporters following her repslendent glow, as expected of penacony's halovian songstress: robin.

"you mentioned you were a truck driver," finally, someone knows what a truck driver is. "will you allow me to see it?"

yes, your truck teleported into the dreamscape too. how could you live without them? they sit by a pavement on penacony's streets, hoarding the stares of confused citizens.

you watch an infinite cosmos flare in robin's incandescent eyes. your truck is just that impressive. "wow...! it's so beautiful!"

"what a curious machine," a blue and blonde-haired pair are analysing. "a vehicle that inefficiently operates on wheels? rather old-fashioned."

"what in the ever-lovin' fudge? my great-great-great-great-great gramps had one of those!"

"a sight of blissful beauty blooms before my eyes. amazing!"

“where am i?” 

“acheron, it hasnt even been a minute yet and you’re confused.”

people's eager stomping tremble the earth and sky. it's just that impressive. in the distance, an extra pair of wary eyes observe you.

"i admit, i am still suspiscious of you," sunday crosses one leg over the other. "robin sang nothing but praises. however, i'm afraid i'll need you under my surveillance to prove your trustworthiness."

urk. possessive much? "why are there knives, swords, and rocket launchers on the table?" sunday cocks an eyebrow at you, expecting you to make a move. "... i'm really not an assassin, sunday." but you do know his entire life story, so you're actually his stalker.

suddenly. the room blurs. an annoying static repeats, plucking the sensory wires from your circuit. is he... is he using his thingamajig powers?

"you may not be one... for now." he looks out a large window. you follow his gaze. wait a minute. what are they doing to-

“MY TRUUUUCK!!!” your passion transcends boundaries, past the lower-case and forcing the caps lock. lunging, you rush outside the mansion. "HEy!"

"aaaaa!! run!"

"eeek!"

"nyaa~!" who the hell was that?

"what the..." you are stunned. how dare they vandalise your truck! "was this your order?" you turn to sunday, infuriated.

"what will you do now?" a corner of his lips lifts, provoking.

you clench your fist. no one messes with you, the best truck driver, and only truck driver, in penacony.

hypothetically, if you got hit by a truck and ended up here, could you, a truck driver, hit a penaconian and isekai them over to your world?

"hey, robin?"

"hm?" her smile is innocent, gazing at you with a prospering kindness deserving of its own halo.

you smack your head. a dozen times over. then a few more.

"hey, aventurine?"

"hi hi~"

you shake your head. wouldn't his luck interfere? if anything, you'd be the one to get run over again.

"hey, acheron?"

"who are you?"

doesn't even know who you are despite telling her a minute ago. if she ended up in your world, she'd be asking the same question anyway: "where am i?"

you pick your nose. she'd slice you in half. period.

"hey, rappa."

"dazzling ninja rappa at your service!"

"as am i, the dimension-trespassing truck driving ninja!"

unfortunately, ninja roleplay with rappa is too fun. every friday, you play dnd together and you can't miss it this week.

there's only one person left.

"hey sun-"

"don't."

you stare blankly. "i didn't say anything?"

sunday glares back. "if you are going to speak to me, do it in front of me, and not while starting the engine of your truck."

"tch... damn."

"could i use your truck as a stage prop for my next concert?"

"oh, what if it suddenly rains?"

"what if i accidentally trip?"

you notice a gap in robin's behaviour. "how come you're so nervous today?"

robin looks at you, mouth on the verge of speaking. she looks down at her shoes. "hmm..." she tilts her head, lips mumbling. she hesitates, unready to spill her heart.

there's one thing you do best. you suggest, "why don't we go for a ride in my truck?"

robin's hunched back quickly reshapens itself. it's been some time since you've had a passenger, but with the way robin swiftly adjusts herself in the seats, excited, you don't worry about the mess in the truck. you start the vehicle, ready to stroll penacony's streets.

you hand her a piece of unexpired candy from a compartment, and she accepts the gesture. it doesn't take long before robin settles herself afterwards. she sighs. "... it's my brother, he'll be attending a show for the first time. i'm a bit nervous."

"why would he not be supportive?" you question.

robin shakes her head. "it may be because my brother is a perfectionist. i can't help but believe that he'll be expecting a flawless performance."

halovian songstress robin, a nation-wide icon, for her, expectations continually rise without rest. but for now, she sits next to you as robin herself, without the embellishments and performing. a breath of fresh air.

words of reassurance may be able to tend her heart. "make as many mistakes as you want," you comfort, "you are robin yourself before you are a singer, a civilian, and a sister."

the candy in her palm is scrunched. her heart, opens. robin herself, smiles. not because she is expected to, not because she is told to, but because she wants to. "thank you."

on the eighth day, grant... sunday getting down on one knee for you. wasn't this a bit fast?

your mouth opens. "are you proposing right now?"

"what are you on about?" sunday looks up at you, eyebrows scrunched. in his hands, a riiiiiiiiiiing- no, he's just cleaning his shoes with a cloth. better luck next time.

robin suggested to use your truck like a cabbie. that way, you can still keep your pride as a truck driver, and provide ears for wary hearts:

a student struggling with academics.

someone who doesn't know which direction to take.

the ramblings of a doctor whose words are spoken with precision, slicing his words into the victim's flesh. but behind the gloves are trembling hands that only wishes to sew tight the rotting wounds of a poor gambler, if only he would let him.

a galaxy ranger who witnessed the brevity of lives in the isolated expanse of the universe, walked along the shore of nihility. she departs with you her true name so that when she returns, your heart can accompany her solitude once more.

a young girl who cannot tell if the blood on her hands are someone else's, or her own. every allude to life reminded her of a deathly fate. however, as your passenger, she is reminded that she can forge a life of her own, undecided by destiny. penance and redemption, then, in the end, she hopes to regain her humanity.

you've listened to them all. unlocked each of their hearts, always gave back the key if they ever wanted to return again. turns out, the people of penacony are not much different from those in your world.

robin would pass out if she saw this.

from what you remember, there were 88 doors in the oak family's residence (you're a dedicated fan). you've explored each one, door 86, 87, 88... 89?

a secluded door that can only be seen with eagle eyes. the mystery kindles sparks in your chest, flaming curious fires. you slowly open the door. 86, 87, 88, 89... robins? (one for every door?) they all stare at you within their enclosures, as either posters, figurines, or books cover. in the middle sat a familiar head of grey hair, lowered, back turned towards you.

"sunday?"

the head moves up. gradually, it creaks. never in your life, did you expect to see a robin-crazed hidden room, nor a red-faced sunday. oh robin, the brother you were so worried about, is actually your no.1 fan. sunday's halovian wings flap furiously, doing nothing to cool his face down. his expression seems annoyed to have been caught in the act. "... what?"

"is this your robin shrine?" this is it. this will be your revenge, and the beginning tastes sweet. "so, you're the real criminal out of the two of us."

one can imagine the fumes blowing out of his ears. his eyes glisten, on the verge of tears. oops, he's really embarrassed.

you turn your face away, allowing sunday as much privacy as possible within his very private room. or rather, you are avoiding his eyes to suppress laughter. "you're coming to robin's concert, right?"

"you coming?" you gesture towards your majestic truck. it's a beautiful night for a truck ride.

sunday, your victim, is reluctant, of course. he probably still believes that you are an assassin who will run him over. "i won't die, will i?"

you huff. "i'm just a truck driver. what's the worse i could do? kidnap you?" sunday stares at you, frightened. it does not take much for him to believe in your potential for evil. "it's a joke... i'm not a criminal. or an assassin."

"just for a few minutes," he resigns. score. you open the door for sunday, who eventually sits down. you start the engine.

"welcome." sunday is in your truck. what an achievement. heh. you place your foot on the pedal.

it is silent apart from the engine's buzzing. you hand sunday an unexpired bag of chips from the compartment. he receives it, inspecting the packaging. his eyes trail to the window, studying how the sunset paints penacony with autumn's palette, but beyond it, he is watching the dots of people. you watch the melancholic sunday.

"what's on your mind?" you ask.

"nothing significant."

"well, the whole point of my trucking service is to listen to passengers." you turn the wheel. honestly, you don't know where you're going, and neither does sunday. the moon guides you tonight, two lost souls. "say anything."

sunday fiddles with the bag of chips. "...maintaining the oak family status, work, the people," he finally speaks, "it balances on my shoulders."

you hum, signalling him to continue.

"wouldn't a utopia free from suffering solve everything?"

quite a hard-hitting question for a truck driver, sunday. you nod. "of course. the only problem is that it is not real - everyone is forced into the current reality. it is harsh and cruel..." you blink. "but we are not powerless to it."

"how do you suggest we solve it?"

it is quiet for a moment before your mind wanders to every passenger you've had. they all had one thing in common. "i guess, a lot of people want a shoulder to lean on, an ear to open for them, and a voice to validate their feelings. we can do that."

all those passengers seemed to shine brighter at the end of the ride, ready to chase a dream. you may not be saving the world - you are no hero, just a truck driver - but you help tend the invisible wounds of people: the blood that drips from sharp words, the bruises that sting from deprecation, the headaches.

isn't it fine to take it slow? navigate the dark, little-by-little, and by the end, there will be an even brighter light.

"... i see." sunday watches your hands manoeuvre the truck's mechanics. the flick in your eyes that turn to him, to which he shies away from. then, he rests his eyes. as the truck drives, a silence hangs, one of quiet understanding. bit-by-bit, you gaze into sunday's heart.

it's been some time since you got run over.

adjusting to penacony was difficult at first. you had to adapt to life at the family's mansion, and the daily customs. however, the burden was eased slightly, all partly thanks to a special helper.

every morning, a cup of coffee or freshly-squeezed juice presents itself in the kitchen. every afternoon, your favourite bookshop always happens to have the book you wanted, already reserved for you. every night, your bedroom door slowly opens, quietly. your blanket, moves up to cover your torso. the mess in your room, rearranged and picked up. the back of a hand, feathers over your cheek. and nothing more happens. your little helper is easily satisfied at the sight of a peaceful you.

"does robin know about this room?" you are flipping through an ancient truck magazine.

sunday is wiping the display cabinets. his wings are flapping again, turning to you. "you didn't mention it to her, did you?"

"no, but she's going on tour soon after," you play with the corner of a page. "why don't you send her your encouragement?”

"what do you suggest?" he asks.

you look at the ceiling. it's full of robin's pictures. "a heartfelt letter? personally, i would buy her a truck but i don't think she needs that."

a small laugh escapes sunday's lips. you did not expect that. "that would be nice." he moves over to a desk, and from a drawer he pulls out a page adorned with blue flowers, and a pen.

you walk over to his desk. "you're into stationary?"

"i don't see why not," sunday says, "my work requires mostly writing, after all."

he begins from the top: 'dear sister,'. from there, sunday is a bit clumsy and awkward, asks her how the weather is and if she had breakfast. "... i've never done this before," is what he said. but gradually, the pen picks up, and the words flow. now, there was too much left unspoken when sunday reaches the final line, and had to cross out the sentence he was writing. a total of four pages, both sides filled, with more words waiting to be said - those would be left for when the siblings reunite.

"maybe we can have the people of penacony sign it too." you smile, imagining robin's elation when she reads it.

sunday nods. he scratches his signature and hands the paper to you. "here."

you take the pen, hesitant. "what's this for?"

sunday raises an eyebrow. "you're a citizen of penacony, are you not?"

... oh. were you? your throat dries. when did you become a part of penacony? weren't you... just a truck driver?

sunday watches you contemplate. a silence drawls. suddenly, he wraps his hand around yours, holding the pen still. "why are you hesitating?" nib meets page. ribbon by ribbon, the ink dances. "you belong here, don't you?"

your chest grows warm. you weren't expecting that either. full of surprises, aren't we? the same person that chained your hands and observed you, coldly answered to you, is offering his warmth. his hand is resolute, unwilling to let go. it reassure your doubts. you smile.

the pen lifts:

'from, your loving brother and, your dear friend.'

surprisingly, sunday has gotten comfortable with your presence in his forbidden robin cove. as you have with his in your magnificent truck.

yet, as much as you've driven closer, the gap is bottomless. sunday doesn't appreciate you looking at him, yet, he's allowed to drill holes in you when you're not aware?

you've asked robin, but she answered cryptically with a smile. "he used to watch over me as well, overprotective as always, but i'm sure that's his way of expressing himself when words fail him."

you reccount the passing moments.

a person more of action, lesser of words. for his people, he worked endlessly without their validation. for robin, he hid in the shadows of his much brighter devotion and support. for you, he let you slowly seep into his life, and you absorbed him into yours. a truck driver and an overqualified partner-in-crime.

quiet devotion is a tender song. without the beating of his loud commands, penacony would be left unprotected. without the instrumental scratching of his pen, there would be no light on the streets. without the percussive clicking of his shoes, the citizens would not be able to dance and celebrate.

this was sunday's song; no one else heard it, but it hums beneath the surface, invisible. those who press their ears against it can sense its vibrations. a silence that speaks louder than words or lyrics. and now, you can't mistake it, your heart beats to the silent song.

it is the night of robin's last stage in penacony. you and sunday stand on a balcony, watching over her. the final song sways along the night-caressed breeze, setting free the wings of hopeful listeners and dreamchasers.

though for a certain someone, he was using more of his eyes than ears. when you meet his golden pair, they turn away as usual.

"what's with you?" you lean against the railing.

his hands hide behind his back. "nothing significant."

"hey, i thought we were past that already. i told you i'm a truck driver who listen to their passengers."

silence hangs. a few more spoken words, "and? have you told your story?"

"me?"

his eyes find yours, but they don't turn away anymore. behind his role as penacony's figure and as a brother, it is sunday who is talking to you. in his gaze, it doesn't judge, impartial, waiting to listen, asking if it is okay for you to lend him your key.

he's come a long way into this journey. now, he awaits at your doorstep. the words catch in your throat. "i'm... just a truck driver..." you close your eyes. "a truck driver who got lost here."

sunday shakes his head. "i’m not asking about one miniscule part of your life. behind that is you who experienced a reality that built the person in front of me," his voice is shaky. an unsteady hand opens and closes, hopes to reach out for yours, but is uncertain. "i'm... asking for permission to learn all of you."

"..." robin's song is about to come to an end.

you look at the mirror. a mirror that always reflected only you, now fits one more person in the frame. that is your answer.

the you who is listening, reading, watching, all your past versions converge into this quiet meeting. usually, the mirror rejected, criticised, and distorted. but today, it finally listens. the mirror holds your reflection to be true. before you got to penacony, before you stood in the middle of a road, before you became a truck driver, you were...

"speak to me. i'm here to listen as you have for others." and keep that key to his heart, for it remains open unconditionally, always a place for you in there.

two losts souls, under the moon, found a home in each other.

a person closes the novel they were reading. they pick up their phone and start typing:

“-4.2/5 rating, absolute horror. where was robin at the end? i was waiting for her! and what’s with all the mirrors and life lessons? preeeeetty criiiinge. i'm reading a fantasy novel, not a lecture. why is mc even a truck driver anyways? also, not enough hand holding, and definitely not enough kissing. zero points!” this random nobody criticises, slamming fingers on the screen. they pause. “i wonder when the next volume will be released…”

a/n: great use of my holiday tbh, get everything out b4 i'm busy again💖i hate drawing hoyo charas they're so detailed, applause to all the hoyo artists u guys r goated fr i thought itd be cute to turn this into a series. i have some deleted ideas since i only wanted this to be a short piece (i got carried away smh). but tbh this fic ended off nicely, i dont think it needs continuing. idk. i like pistachio ice cream thanks for reading!!😲

[venussaidso]

Ketu is like if Mars were on so much steroids that he turned to smoke. But look, Ketuvians to me are also like Solar natives. Ketu and Sun nakshatras deal with self-realization, self-isolation, self-empowerment, cutting away the falsehood (in Sun's case, it's shining light ridding of darkness and ignorance) and non-duality, but all in different ways. Ketu is more dissociative and radical about these themes. Sun is more about an inward alignment associated with boundlessness, following a higher path which translates to more inner abundance. That's where their differences turn them into complete opposites, as the Sun represents the highest form of truth, and has to remain stable and continuously burn away negativity. Ketu is a Shadow planet, where disillusionment could lead to chaos, even more illusions and confusion.

Sun comes in already boundless, believing anyone can make anything for themselves and do as one likes so long as they follow their own internal compass. There's an inherent sense of royalty in all Sun nakshatras, and the boundlessness is evident in their lack of attachment to outer things, not needing them to define their inner kingliness.

Ketu nakshatras, in these old money/royalty themes, are literally held down by their roots. Which is why they can become more troubled, radical or dissociative because of their restrictive background. Their royal background and roots play a bigger role, compared to the boundlessness of Sun nakshatras and the inner king we see in them. I made a post showing the patterns in King Arthur to Magha and its trine nakshatras. Magha is in the Leo rashi (ruled by the Sun), and it is symbolized by the throne; the deities of Ashwini nakshatra are the princes who are sons of the Sun god (notice the paintings of them have a Solar radiance or the literal Sun following them (symbolizing their roots, and their natural solar radiance)). This could explain why I see similarities with Sun and Ketu nakshatras, and how their themes could parallel to a certain extent.

I'm currently busy with my Sun Dominant Themes post. It's not anything special since it does speak of literally... what I just said here lmao.

Also, Pierce Brosnan and Sean Connery are both Solar natives who portray the character James Bond. While Daniel Craig's James Bond is darker, as he is as a Ketu native.

Even in these gifs, you could tell the difference between the Sun and Ketu naks. The Sun manifests into one being more effortless and even arrogant, while Ketu could make one more broody and intense.

[sandsorghum]

Clouds & Curtains

husband!Nanami x wife!reader

wc. 1.3k

summary. Perhaps Nanami's approach to...rousing you in the mornings has changed over the years.

tags. Established relationship, Domestic bliss | Romance | Smut | Body (& Soul)Worship | Mentions of Nanami wanting to be a father

a/n: Super soft, super indulgent piece. Have your cake and eat it nanami girlies. Sometimes i just need to write him a love letter ok

Prologue

Back when you'd just begun to be intimate with each other, Nanami tended to be a little embarrassed about his subconscious (but hardly subtle) desires for you. He would rather suffer his internal, infernal dilemma than disrupt your rest. But he couldn't quite control his urges, squirming between decency and depravity, not when you'd rub up against him, so innocuous and merciless.

It was a hard habit to shake; how Nanami felt he ought to earn your every quiver against him, every whimper, however much he yearned to feel you tremble at his moans at any given moment. It was codified in him, there was a time and a place and patterns to follow, before he could permit himself the pursuit of your shared pleasures.

Of course, you'd unveil him in the evenings, the privilege of your touch stripping bare the prerogatives of his flesh. You unraveled him, his reticence, his reasoning, his very capacity for speech, by braiding your breath and fingers with his, in the friction-begetting-friction tangle of your lips and limbs together.

Yet he still thinks of these mornings, that find the two of you entwined, as an undeserved luxury. So Nanami would do his best instead to focus on your face, how sweet your peaceful expression was. It would be wicked of him not to cherish this, he'd chastise himself for wanting more, for wanting to drown in your adoring gaze, for wanting to return it with his own hungry one, body and spirit beggared by the night, by the hours not spent beheld by you.

Nanami assumed the beauty and tenderness of your countenance would quell, or could sate his appetites, would tame the primal stirrings in his belly. But nothing could be further from the truth, in fact they had the opposite, compounding effect; a lump in his throat would rise, and his desperation would thicken till he could only helplessly rut his hips against you.

And then your eyelids would flutter open, and in the crease of your knowing smile, all his definitions, his distinctions, all that distance between need and greed would collapse with a single kiss.

Years later, and your husband is so absolutely shameless about his...early head starts to the day. He pulls you into him, snug against the cleft of your ass cheeks, content to let your scent and radiance seep through the thin fabric and warm him in a way the sun, in its reluctance behind the clouds and curtains, can never hope to.

He stares at the petulance drooping off the petals of your lips, rose bud coiled tight before daybreak can coax it to unfurl for strobes of gold. Nanami is a patient man, too patient you've often thought, yet you feel his phantom touch, a tender sweep of your mouth, a zephyr whispering in the wings, billowing brocade and swelling muslin, ghost pulling you through the gauze of sleep.

You shift against Nanami to hear him sigh your name, soft and distant, thick with slumber and affection and it's this which rouses you more, not merely his growing rigidity pressed to the curves of you. Although, it helps, feeling every inch of his hunger like this, in a slow swirl and pinch at your waist, the gentlest rocking as your breasts are cradled in his palms, familiar persuasion pebbling your areola. You know he dreams of them swollen with milk, that all your memories of his teeth are girded by the desire for them to be suckled by the most innocent of mouths, baring only gums and tiny wails. Your nubs stiffen and a small smile stretches across your face at the thought that with his wish to grow a family fulfilled, he might find also a small regret, of his monopoly of your mounds contested by another, to whom he owes the genesis of your body's generosity, that sweet fullness dribbling, stolen, into your husband's mouth, enticing in its envy.

This prospect of hypocrisy is to be savoured for another day, far down the road. This morning brings neither hesitation nor urgency, all syrupy light and his maple gaze, the languor of his limbs splayed around you to be treasured just as much as the gradual grind of his cock. There's a certain smugness in its slowness, as with the self-assuredness of his thumb circling a bare sliver of your skin.

A familiar motion that stirs a memory, fuchsia-tinted for the both of you. You remember your then boyfriend stammering and scarlet-tipped, matched to the rosy tips of his ears, excuses lost in the shuffle of sheets and stutter of hips.

"I-it's just-just the t-temp-ah-temperatuur," he'd slurred, the excuse as thin and transparent as the sticky film he laved across your throat, dangerously growing gossamer and feebler with every twitch and each strong buck against your body.

"Mmhmm," you'd hum, carnal ache turning you conciliatory. Such complacency. You had been the one to smirk back then, canines gleaming coy, as you offered ruin in the guise of reprieve.

"Want me to warm you up, darling?" Hands already reaching for him, mind already marveling before your fingers could be reacquainted with their hubris, his girth.

"P-please, anythin-nghing" he'd panted, all wide-eyed desperation to be devoured, sweet thing.

You'd been such a fool.

To not know not greed was a two-way street, this ravenous osmosis, this vicious ouroborous.

You think perhaps, in fact, you got the worse end of the deal, trembling against your spouse now, thighs clamped together.

"My dear," Nanami hums, a teasing timbre dripping honey as he sinks his fingers in, "always so ready for me."

You squirm, eyes screwed shut and fisting the sheets, trying to grasp the pale image of the boy who'd once writhed and blushed beneath you, a spectre all but vanquished. You miss him, sometimes.

You arch your back into Nanami, the way you know he's addicted to, just to hear him groan your name, ragged with the dregs of self-restraint or slumber, you're not sure which, but it's a close enough echo to send pleasure juddering through you, the recollection churning hot in your gut, of when he was wrapped around your finger, instead of your cunt around his.

"Sweetheart."

The tenderness of his tone pries your lids open. He doesn't have to ask, doesn't have to say anything but he does, because he knows you are too stubborn to ask for what you need to hear.

"My love."

He claims your gasp, in the crush and curl of his mouth, in the crook of his fingers.

"My girl."

Another smattering of kisses, chasing the flutters of your belly down, down, down to your creases weeping nectar. He licks a whine from you, pitching high into the air, his husky moan vibrating within you.

"My wife."

You feel the hot gust of Nanami's breath over your clit, as he pauses.

"My wife."

There's a reverence as he repeats himself, pathetic attempts to vanquish his disbelief, wonder glistening in his gold-flecked irises, staring at you in awe, searching for proof this isn't some frenzied fever dream of his.Of course, he finds it in your own unwavering eyes.

You've been such a fool.

There, in the locked gaze your shared history glimmers, that shy boy paralyzed by his worship of you, prostrate as the man before your parted legs now, offering his soul, his past, his future.

You reach for him, and he surges upwards. The collision is wave returning and rising from oceans, over and over, is starburst, is incandescence, is the fission of atoms never, ever meant to be split.

It burns away all notions of him as your acolyte or priest, any concept of deity and devotee.

"My life," he breathes into you, and you feel the throb in your ribs, the furnace of his lungs.

"My life," you repeat to your husband.

Adam. Prometheus. Kento.

This morning and many after, he lavishes you with irreverence, a ravishing of irrelevance; his goddess, his woman, his joy -all that matters is that you are his and he is yours; Together, you forge a paradise that exists for as long as the melding of your souls persist, boundless as horizons and sure as sunrises.

@houseofsolisoccasum

[noiriarti]

The Winner Takes it All: Anakin Skywalker x Reader (Enemies-to-Lovers Modern AU) | Chapter 3

NSFW! Minors DNI!!! Summary: The moment the thesis competition was announced, you knew your biggest threat. Anakin Skywalker, golden boy of the engineering department. He's the only other person smart enough to beat you, and the only other person insane enough to stay in the lab until midnight every night. He's also an asshole, but you're starting to think maybe he's not as bad as you thought he was... Pairing: Anakin Skywalker x Fem!Reader CW: p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), praise kink? WC: 6.7k AN: y'all i am SO proud of this chapter!! i'm so so so excited for you all to read it, i loved writing it so much. thank you all so so so much for the love you have been giving this fic, it means the absolute world to me. requests and asks open, as always!

Ch. 1, Ch. 2, [Ch. 3], Ch. 4, Ch. 5, Ch. 6

Chapter 3: Bonding

In the morning, you woke up slowly, with the taste of night-old beer and regret in your mouth. And also a splitting headache. But your bed was really warm, much warmer than usual, and you snuggled into the covers for another minute. Just one more. And then you realized that it wasn't the covers you were snuggling into, but a person. A person who had their arms wrapped around you. The memories surged back--Anakin, the loud music, truth or dare, kissing him, straddling him, his body against yours. You patted his arm a few times, suddenly completely awake. He let out a low noise of annoyance, but you kept tapping him.

"Five more minutes," he groaned, deeper and gruffer than usual. In that voice, you could hardly refuse him. Five more minutes, fine. With his nearness, warm and stable against you, your heart was beating at a thousand miles an hour. You thought back to the night before, how hard he was for you and how smooth and warm his skin had been under your fingers when you teased below his shirt. Those thoughts would have made you horny beyond belief--fuck you right then and there, maybe--but you had the joy of a massive headache that blocked all of those fun thoughts. The light was too bright to close your eyes and drift off, so all you could do was turn around, awkwardly shifting underneath his arm, to look at him.

Anakin had little freckles on his cheekbones, you realized when you looked at him up close. When his face was completely relaxed like this, he had a kind of ethereal serenity about him. You feared that, if you didn't hold him tightly enough, he'd run away and jump into the sea like a selkie, never to be seen again. He was almost inhuman in that moment, all sharp angles and full lips. The morning light kissed his skin like it came from some radiance within him. He wasn't just handsome in the college-jock kind of way, he was truly and deeply beautiful, you realized.

Calling this Anakin a dumbass, an asshole, or a motherfucker felt just wrong. It would be like calling the stars in the sky boring. Laughably silly. With his jaw slack from sleep, he was a marvel, a gift from nature itself, molded and crafted into a careful, wonderous machine of blood, feelings, and thoughts. And he was laying there with you. If this Anakin wanted the prize, the money, the job, whatever, you would give it over in a heartbeat. All of that just didn't matter in this moment. And that was terrifying.

As quickly as you could, you tried to ground yourself in what was really important to you. Creating something meaningful. Winning. You reminded yourself all the times Anakin called your work amateurish, or the way he still denied damaging Barriss's bot. The way he'd raise his hand to argue that your answer was wrong in lecture during second year. Other images flashed in, unbidden. Anakin's kind eyes when he realized you were upset, before your first kiss. Anakin's sweet voice last night, full of respect for you. The way his teammates obviously respected him. You willed your mind to go back to his smug smile and the way he hogged the soldering station.

Anakin shifted a bit, then opened his bleary eyes to the morning light. It wasn't that late, you knew based on the fact that Ahsoka hadn't pounded down your door, but it was a Sunday, so maybe she didn't intend to. You reached for your phone on your nightstand, which was mercifully alive but hanging on for dear life at 3%. There was a text message from Ahsoka.

Slept over at TKD on the couch, heard u got home safe! ;) Go get some!

Ah. So she clearly thought you and Anakin had fucked. Not that you minded, really. Even if he was an asshole, or if you felt however you did about him, he was still hot. You definitely intended to screw his brains out as soon as you felt better. You tapped him again.

"Mmm, good morning," he mumbled out, "what time is it?" You clicked on your phone.

"11:55," you told him. He bolted upright.

"Shit, we slept through breakfast," he said. He was right, you had. Not that you got breakfast much. You shrugged. Anakin's eyes passed over you, catching your mussed hair, the smudges of mascara surrounding your eyes, and last night's now disheveled dress, then appeared to realize that he was, indeed, pantsless in your bed.

"How are you feeling?" His voice was hushed, tentative. He wasn't saying it outright, but you both knew the question was actually do you regret last night? You took a moment before answering him, trying to find the most correct phrasing for how you felt about it. About him.

"Honestly, I--" you started. His eyes widened, and he read into your hesitation a bit too much. Anakin got out of bed instantly, a gesture that would have been more dignified if he didn't have to shimmy out of the comforter and then hop over you to do so. The lack of his warm weight behind you made you feel oddly empty.

"I knew it, I'm so sorry. I'll leave now, I just--" Anakin said as he grabbed his jeans and started putting them on. Were you imagining it, or was he flushed red in embarrassment? It was kind of cute.

"God, you're stupid. Get back here," you said, motioning for him to come back. Anakin paused, his jeans pulled halfway up, then caught your eye. Based on your annoyance, he sensed that this probably wasn't a get-away-from-me type of conversation, so he finished putting his jeans on and buttoning them, then sat down on the edge of your bed. He was still tentative, like if he said or did the wrong thing, this moment would disappear. Anakin perched carefully on the edge of your bed, as far from you as mathematically possible. He probably had run calculations in his head, you thought.

"I was just saying that I'm too hungover, but we should still… Just not right now. My head is killing me." As you spoke, a smile grew on his face, but then he tried to hide it by pressing his lips together, an effect you would have thought worked better if he wasn't so horrible at it.

"Oh," he said, still obviously elated, but then his expression turned to concern, and he scooched an inch closer to you. "Do you have any Tylenol, or, like, electrolytes here?" You shook your head, and he rolled his eyes. "Of course not." He didn't seem to think you capable of planning in advance, which flared annoyance inside you, but you decided to tamp it down. For now.

"Nah, I think I just need water and food. I'm gonna head down to lunch once I get dressed, then the lab," you told him through a yawn.

"Already? You practically live there," he laughed. Nerd, his tone cried.

"Big words from someone who is always there before me," you said reflexively. The retort had come out of your mouth as easily as breathing, and you hoped he didn't hate you for it.

"Touche," he said, though there wasn't any annoyance in it, just a smile. A silence fell between the two of you, and, unlike most times, it was comfortable. You weren't fuming, which was definitely a new one. Anakin looked down at his hands resting on his thighs, then seemed to work up the courage to say something.

"Look, before you go downstairs, can we talk? Actually talk?" What on Earth did that mean?

"You go first," you said. What did he want to talk about? As far as you were concerned, your positions were clear. Maybe you'd fuck tonight, maybe not, and then he'd be out of your system. You could get back to work. Something twinged in your chest, but it was from your hangover.

"Okay, so, um. I think you know that, even though you're literally the worst, I am… attracted to you. Somehow. And that I'd like to, y'know. Do stuff. I just feel weird about it because of the competition," Anakin said. His confession that he was attracted to you stirred something inside you, but you ignored it.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, like, I don't know about you, but if we… did things. I think I'd feel more upset if you won. Not that you will, to be clear, but if someone sabotaged my project and cut off my hands, you might have a shot." You snorted, then smacked his shoulder. He held up his hands, defensively, but he was grinning from ear to ear.

"But, I think I'd also feel weird when I win. You've been really helpful. At staying late so that I can use machines, to be clear. So I've been thinking, we're engineers, right? And, most of what we do is optimize. So why don't we optimize this competition? Maybe we could split the prize money. Because if I don't win, you do, and I need that money. Like, really need. And I'd rather get something than nothing at all if you win, and, for that insurance, I'm willing to let you have some of my prize money. And, in exchange, we help each other as much as possible to make sure that the two of us get first and second place."

Initially, you bristled. Giving away some of your hard-earned prize? That motherfucker was trying to take away from your victory. But, then again, with the way your tests were going now, there was no certainty that you'd be able to produce a working prototype by March. And, if you didn't, he'd probably win. Souring his win just a little would probably feel really good, you reasoned, given how full of himself he was now. The idea wasn't horrible, you thought. You decided to be honest, even though it almost killed you.

"You'll only hear me say this once--and don't you dare tell fucking anyone--but I don't know if I'll win. It's probably rigged in your favor, anyway." You ignored the indignant "hey!" Anakin let out, and continued. "So sure. That works for me."

You held out your right hand for him to shake. The sight was probably hilarious, given that you were still in bed with last night's dress and last night's makeup, but you were deadly serious. Anakin shook your hand, still smiling, and then pulled you up.

"C'mon, get dressed. Don't wanna miss lunch, too, or else we'll never see the lab in the daytime!"

Two hours later, you found yourself on the shuttle to the engineering building. You'd probably walk back long after the shuttle system stopped running, so you wanted to spare yourself one walk in the biting cold. Anakin was sitting next to you--the two of you and Ahsoka had eaten together, and you had spent most of the time getting questioning glances from her. His thigh was warm against yours in the cramped shuttle seats, and you caught him smiling at you once, which made your heart flutter.

You were not alone in the lab. You decided not to question why that was disappointing. On the upside, you got to see Barriss, who was in the corner of the lab, tapping something out on her phone. When she saw you, she came up to you and asked you about how you were doing, and you answered honestly. Tired.

Asajj was on the other side of the room and shot you a glance, but you ignored it. She wasn't your favorite member of the engineering department, but she was an environmental engineer. Not your circus. In the few classes you'd shared, she was kind of a bitch, actually. Barely acknowledged you. She narrowed her eyes at Anakin when he followed you into the lab.

You kept chatting with Barriss for a while, catching up. You felt like you hadn't seen her in ages, especially since she got a job working as an admin assistant for the department. She told you about her new idea for a thesis, some sort of collapsible electric bicycle, and how she was trying to make a better replacement for electric scooters. She pulled up her chair to sit next to your lab bench while you tinkered with your prototype, peppering in some questions about it. You lied through your teeth. It was going great, actually. You were more than on track. You had passed your initial tests with flying colors. Right as she was about to leave, you had worked up the nerve to say the truth, that you were terrified of how it was going. She would be the only person you'd ever admit that to--God knows you wouldn't tell Anakin.

Well, actually, now that you were in your agreement, maybe you could. The idea made you feel scared, honestly. What if he sent you on a wild goose chase? While you were thinking, Barriss said goodbye and rushed off to go get a late lunch, leaving just you, Anakin, and Asajj in the lab.

Now that Barriss was gone, you let yourself deflate. Pretending to do something productive while she watched killed you a little bit, and you found yourself not wanting to do anything else today. Maybe eat some pasta and sleep. Anakin came up to your bench a few times, checking to see how stuff was going, but you weren't really feeling up to engaging with him. You fended off his questions for several hours as you agonized over your failed test, checking the software's code over and over. It still worked on all the test cases other than the one where it really mattered, the one that took it from being a model on your computer to a device that looked at real, physical eyes. Sometime right before dinner, Anakin came up to your desk again, looking frustrated.

"Hey," his voice was low, so that Asajj couldn't hear. "Why won't you tell me what's wrong?"

"Why do you want me to?" You couldn't help it. You were being defensive, and you felt guilty the moment the words left your lips. His eyebrows furrowed.

"Because…" he trailed off, expression inscrutable, then continued after a moment, "We promised to help each other. I just want to help, honest." You studied his completely earnest face, so open. You faltered, for a moment. Even though you'd had that nice conversation earlier, you couldn't help but still see his face biting out a mean comment, or his sweet smile when he told you the circuit design you had drawn in freshman year for your final project looked fine, even though it had glaring errors. You could handle this on your own. Maybe, just maybe, if you got desperate, you could ask him. But not right now.

"I--It's fine. I think I just need to work on it a bit more." That seemed to placate him, all the way until you told him that you were going to go back home, to have dinner and study, then call it a night. He gave you that same inscrutable expression, which was kind of starting to annoy you, and wished you luck.

You, in fact, did have dinner, but you couldn't study. The equations swam in front of your eyes, all of them turning into questions of focal distance and refraction. You tried for two hours, and it was nine already, so you decided to switch tasks. Maybe now you would make some progress on your thesis.

And, so, the minutes ticked past as you sat alone in your bedroom, flipping through pages and googling random things like "refraction of printer paper." Ahsoka was studying for some exam she had tomorrow, and she said she'd be out late at the library, so you had room to spread out. You found yourself pouring cups of tea in the kitchen more often than was technically productive, and, more than a couple of times, you wanted to throw your prototype against a wall.

It was 11 when you caved and texted Anakin for help. It had been almost a week since you had this issue, and you were really getting to be behind, so this qualified as desperate. And if he was going to make fun of you, so be it. You cringed a bit when you saw that his contact name was still Asshole, a change made in anger in junior year when he called your group project idea the most boring thing he'd ever heard.

You: U up?

Asshole: bffr did you actually just send me a u up text Asshole: yes i am up

You: Can you come over? You: To help with an optics question

Asshole: yes Asshole: be there in 10

You: Thank you

Asshole: course

You changed his contact name back to Anakin. He deserved that much, at least. And, in the ten minutes before he came, you changed into some kind of lacy set of lingerie you'd bought the last time you went clubbing. Just in case. When you were with Anakin, there was always a chance things would go there, even if you called him over for a math issue. You threw your favorite comfortable pair of shorts back on, along with a loose Coruscant U shirt.

When he arrived, looking upsettingly hot in the bomber jacket, white t-shirt, and jeans he was wearing, you led him to your room, trying not to imagine the other reasons you might bring him there at night. Once he understood what your project was trying to do, his fingers scrolled the code you had written. He asked the right questions about various modules you'd used, then turned his attention to the hardware. He re-ran the tests, then grabbed your prototype and moved your detector around the room a bit.

Twenty minutes later, he had a diagnosis.

"I'm afraid the reason your machine doesn't work is that… you're stupid."

"What?" If you didn't need his help so badly, you would have smacked him.

"Yeah, look. First of all, you're getting a false negative from the fact that your code says to output a 'no glaucoma' response whenever it doesn't see glaucoma. So you could point it at the wall and it'd tell you that it doesn't have glaucoma, because, technically, it doesn't. And it's not reading either of these images accurately because, look, when you hold the paper like this," he lifted it up at a diagonal, "you can see that there's some reflection of light off the ink you used to print it. There isn't that in the training images you showed it, so it doesn't read it right. I bet if you did this whole thing on an actual eye with glaucoma, not a printed picture, you'd be fine," he said. "You've spent so much time hooking up the camera that you didn't spend enough time on making a good test, that's all. And, also, you need to make sure there's a way for the program to recognize whether something is an eye or not. That would also be helpful."

A certain calm took over him when he started explaining, like you saw in him when he was doing something particularly difficult. Those were the moments you found him most attractive, and, right now, the first time he was helping you for no other reason than that you asked, you thought this might be the most attractive you've seen him. His hands, gesturing. His eyes, sparkling. I want to kiss him. The thought propelled you to stand up, so that you were closer to his height.

"Thank you, Anakin. I mean it. As much as it hurts to admit… you're probably right," you said. After a beat, you continued, your voice lower than before. "And I'm really glad you came tonight." The confession slipped out of your lips like a secret, quick and quiet. Anakin's body was so close to you, you could have pressed yourself against him if you just leaned forward.

"You're welcome," he said in the same husky tone, his gaze flitting from your eyes to your lips. The air was charged with something, some kind of magnetic pull between the two of you. His softness toward you was new, exciting. Your hand reached out, brushing his wrist before finding his hand. When his eyes widened and he shuddered out a breath, it was like a jolt of lightning. He wanted you, badly. So badly even you could tell. The previous times you had done this, it'd been the heat of the moment driving you. Now, you weren't sure how to get from here to making him horny. This was soft, almost romantic, not angry and sexy and intense. What could you say?

"So, um. Wanna watch something?" Your suggestion was a little bit stupid, but Anakin's lips pressed together as he tried to subdue giggles. He failed, and started full-on cackling. You felt your whole face get warm from embarrassment. Well, damn. There goes that.

"Did you really actually for real just ask me to Netflix and chill with a straight face?" He was almost wiping away tears, apparently. Jesus Christ, you were just trying to break the ice. You smacked his upsettingly hard chest in annoyance.

"Stop laughing! Or else I'll--" you were trying to find some threat, something to say that would actually get him to shut up, when he jumped in.

"You'll what? What are you gonna do about it?" Something in his voice morphed, mocking, and though he was smiling, it reminded you more of the expression an animal makes before catching its prey. Self-satisfied. Smug. So, so fucking handsome.

You didn't need another second before you slammed into him, kissing him with a kind of fever you had only imagined. He'd been riling you up for days, weeks, months at this point, and you were finally going to get him inside you. Your hands found their way into his hair while he pulled you to him by your lower back. When you gently tugged, he let out a little noise deep in his throat and started nudging you toward the bed. The effect you had on him was overpowering, addicting. And, if you were being honest, he was riling you up just as much. His thumbs were playing with the skin that was directly under your tank top, sending little fires to your core.

You finally reached the bed, still kissing sloppily, and then he pushed you down onto it before connecting your lips again and climbing over you. Though he was hovering over you, supported by his arms, Anakin kept his hips just out of reach. You horribly, horribly wanted to feel that hardness pressing against you again. You trailed your hands down his chest, all the way until you reached the button of his jeans. You ghosted your hand over his length, trapped against him in his jeans, and he let out a hiss of air.

"Be patient," he said, going back down to kiss you. He notably didn't remove your hand, but you decided there was something else you'd like to explore first, anyway. As he slipped his tongue into your mouth, you moved your hand up his shirt, running your fingers everywhere they could reach. He was taut and warm, so smooth as you felt the divots of his stomach and the clenched muscles in his chest. You knew he was an athlete, but he was properly built in a lean and strong sort of way. You could have sworn you felt abs under your hand, which was only confirmed when he quickly pulled away from you, then shrugged off his shirt. Anakin could have been carved from marble. Even though you were drunk on him, a piece of you recognized the same otherworldly sense from that morning. Like a statue of Apollo had broken out of stone and stepped into your life, still above you and staring down with such intensity that it made you shiver.

His hands came up under your tank top, sliding up your stomach before they reached your bra. Tentative, warm fingers slipped under the wire and grazed the bottom of your breasts. A positively embarrassing moan slipped out of you. He chuckled against your neck and brought his hands further up until his fingertips traced your nipples. The moan that followed was even needier, and you didn't even care.

"Stop teasing me, Anakin, please take it off," you whined, pressing your chest up into his hands and lifting your arms above your head. He didn't need to be asked twice, and slipped one hand behind your back to unclip your bra--with some ease, which surprised you. Everyone you'd been with before had struggled at least a bit, but apparently Anakin was a natural. You briefly wondered how many other people he'd slept with, but you abandoned the thought when jealousy flared in you. Anakin then brought his hands back down to the hem of your tank top before pulling it off above you, then gently guiding the straps of your bra down, finally exposing you. His eyes over you, hungry, starving.

"Fuck, you're so pretty. You have no idea what you do to me," he groaned before leaning down to your collarbone and trailing wet kisses down until he reached your nipple. His wet, warm tongue darted out to circle your sensitive skin. His right hand came up to play with the other, pinching and pulling and twisting until you were mewling. Then, he let his mouth trail even lower, kissing down until he was right above the drawstring of your shorts.

"Can I take these off, baby?" He was looking up at you with that smirk, the one that meant he knew you wouldn't say no. Of course you wouldn't. You nodded feverishly, and he undid your shorts and drew them down your legs. As he did so, the word stuck in your head. Baby. Did he mean that? Either way, you weren't going to question the way it slicked your pussy. Your shorts landed somewhere at the foot of the bed, but you didn't care. You were too busy watching Anakin take in the lacy underwear you had on.

"Damn. Do you have someone else coming over, or was this all for me?" His tone was light, but he was looking at your pussy like a man possessed. He was practically drooling.

"Shut up, Skywalker, and just take them off." He did so, happily, hooking his fingers under the waistband and drawing them down your legs until they were all the way off. If you thought he was staring before, he was practically glued to you now. One of his hands came up to rub your upper thigh before he drew it closer, inward. By the time he got close your pussy, you were thrusting up and trying to get him to touch you, rub you, finger you, whatever. As long as he put his hand on you, you'd stop feeling so sensitive and needy. But then his finger trailed up to your other knee, perfectly skipping your pussy. That motherfucker. You groaned, and you swore you could hear him chuckle. Asshole.

"Look how soaked you are. Is this all for me?" He was sin itself, a demon sent from hell to tempt you. Well, it was working. You nodded. There wasn't any shame or anger left, just a desperate need to be touched where you wanted it. Needed it.

He trailed one finger to your clit, then ran it down the rest of your slit, letting it linger right on the opening of your pussy. He tapped it once, twice, and it made a wet slapping sound that would have made you a little embarrassed had you been less turned on. But this was Anakin, and he was clearly enjoying this as much as you were, if the rock-hard outline in his jeans was any indication.

Anakin slid the finger inside you and groaned at the feeling of your pussy clenching down on him as he curled it upward. His thumb came to play with your clit, and you blurted out his name. His eyes shot to you as he took in a ragged breath. So he liked it when you said his name, got it.

And then he lowered his mouth onto your clit, and his name came out of you immediately. When his tongue started moving, fast and warm, rubbing little circles into your clit, you started chanting his name like a prayer. He added another finger inside you, stimulating you everywhere. Your hands tangled into his hair. This had to be the best head you'd ever gotten, you realized. The last person to go down on you was probably your boyfriend in junior year, and he was sloppy and got tired quickly. It almost felt like he couldn't wait for it to stop. Anakin, on the other hand, ate you like it was worship. You could tell he was reading you, then changing what he was doing when he saw a good reaction he wanted to repeat. If there was a movement you liked, he would find it and do it again and again until your legs shook.

Words spilled out of you. Telling him how good it felt, how much you wanted him. Things you would never say, only think, if he wasn't destroying you. You thanked your lucky stars Ahsoka was out, because not even three walls between you would be able to muffle your moans. You grabbed his hair particularly viciously as you were getting close, and he groaned against you before somehow getting even faster with his tongue, finally bringing you over the edge. Pleasure washed over you, and the world was still for a moment before the first wave of your orgasm hit. And, when it hit, you let out a moan so loud you were sure the neighbors could hear. You didn't even try to hide it from Anakin, who could definitely feel you twitching and clenching around his fingers.

"Fuuuuuuck, baby. You look so pretty when you cum," he said as he pulled away a bit, before pressing a kiss against your inner thigh while your legs shook around him. You caught your breath, but your pussy was still hungry. Demanding. Anakin got up from between your legs, still panting, his chin covered in a combination of spit and pussy juice. You took a mental snapshot for later reference. His eyes were so wild, and you knew you were about to get fucked like never before. Anakin was back over you, and you reached out your hand to the hard flesh that was practically bursting out of his jeans. As soon as you grazed it, he grunted, looking you straight in the eyes.

"You want it?" You nodded as fast as you can. Anakin smirked in that way that usually pissed you off, but now it just made you wetter. "Tell me how bad," he commanded. You didn't know where the words came from, but, once they started, they didn't stop.

"Fuck me, please Anakin. Please. I've waited so long and--I, Fuck. I need you inside me, more than anything in the whole fucking world, please," you begged. His jaw clenched as he smiled, obviously satisfied by your answer. He popped open the button of his jeans before undoing the fly and pulling both them and his boxers off in one go.

His cock almost made you drool, and you vowed to have it in your mouth next time. You'd had this one boyfriend, and you had sworn to all your friends that he was the biggest you'd ever had, seven inches. Anakin blew him out of the water. He was at least eight, if not more, and girthy enough that you wondered if you could even wrap your lips around him. The light skin of his shaft had purple and blue veins that snaked upward, and you longed to taste them. He was leaking a bead of precum, which he smeared across his head with his thumb.

Anakin turned around and pulled a condom out of his jeans. Had he planned this? Did he come here, knowing, hoping that you two would finally fuck? He obviously caught your weird look, and looked at you with knowing eyes.

"What, did you think I didn't know exactly why you wanted me here tonight?" Anakin chuckled, and you had the good decency to look a little bit embarrassed, but he rejoined you on the bed quickly enough that it didn't really matter.

"Damn, you look fucking amazing like this," he breathed, a little bit wonderous as he looked down at you, your legs spread for him. He situated himself between your legs, then wasted no time teasing you before he thrust into you with a loud moan. You let out a strangled sound, finally full to the brim with his cock, which was hitting parts of you that your fingers never could. And then he moved, and every nerve in your body was on fire. Your jaw opened, slack, as he pressed his forehead to yours and drilled into you. You were so wet from his spit that everything was sliding just right.

"Shit, you feel so fucking good. I'm not gonna last at this rate," he grunted out as he sped up.

"I don't care, Anakin, just fuck me," you moaned out. His hips slammed into yours, finally giving you what you'd been fantasizing about when you were alone. You relished the way his eyes squeezed shut, the hot breaths he huffed out, trying to stave off his release. He was fast and efficient, but listened to your reactions as he fucked you, adjusting angles until you were making the loudest noises you had that night. It felt like he was stretching you out, filling you up until there was no more air left in your body. Then, suddenly, he pulled out, leaving you empty and wanting.

"Ride me," he growled. You scrambled to sit up, and he sat himself up against your headboard so that you were in his lap. Using your tired thighs, you lifted yourself up just enough for him to slip back in, which he did with ease as you both let out moans. You started raising and lowering your hips on him, working your way slowly so that he was fully inside you. From this angle, he was even deeper, if that was possible. Anakin's hands came up to grab your ass, squeezing it and occasionally giving it a gentle smack. You sped up, and words started tumbling out of his lips.

"Fuck, you don't know how much I wanted to do this at that stupid fucking party. You looked so fuckin' hot, I almost came when you sat on me," he confessed before letting out a particularly loud moan. You thought back to the way he was looking at you at the party, and it was the same glare he was casting you now. Like he'd give anything to be with you, like he was desperate for you. And he was. He kept repeating your name and how good he felt as you bounced on him.

"Shit, baby, I'm close," he gritted out. You could see it in the way his eyes squeezed, his brow furrowed, and his arms clenched around you. Your thighs burned, but you got faster. You were going to make him cum as hard as you possibly could. Soon enough, his breathing got faster, louder, letting moans fall from his lips freely. Then, he came so powerfully you swore you could feel it too. His hips twitched and jerked up into you as spurt after spurt shot out of him and into the condom. He threw his head back against your headboard, scrunching his eyes shut and moaning out your name. You could feel every twitch of his cock, every jump of his muscles under you. It was joy itself.

Once he finished cumming, you lifted yourself up and let his cock slide out of you. He was still panting, flushed and sweaty, but he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you to him. Your head was resting against his chest, his left arm around you, as he pulled off the condom and tied it off, tossing it into your bedside trash. Both of you were a little bit more recovered, but your voice was still hoarse when you spoke.

"Fuck, that was amazing," you said. And it was. It really, truly was the best sex you had ever had. Anakin seemed equally as happy when he looked down at you with that soft, tender look in his eye.

"Really?" You gave him a little mhmm before he continued, "I feel bad I came so early. It's just, it's been a while for me." The confession came quickly. Like he almost wasn't sure whether to say it, but you were glad he did. You felt the same way.

"Me too, like six months. You?" The hand on his chest traced patterns across his stomach.

"Two years," he answered, like it was nothing.

"What?!" You expected him to say a month or two, maybe three at maximum. How could a guy who fucked that well stay celibate for that long? There was no way this was his first time back after so long. It was just impossible. He obviously saw the shock on your face, then elaborated.

"Yeah, since I broke up with my ex, I just… haven't found someone I wanted to do it with." Anakin was gazing at you with such affection that, for just a second, you thought it might be love.

"Until me." You didn't know where the words came from, but he didn't seem to mind. Part of you just wanted to hear him confirm it.

"Until you," he added as he gave your forehead a kiss. You lay there, your legs entwined and your hand rubbing patterns on his stomach while his pet your hair, in a happy, contented silence. The minutes passed, and his breathing slowed back to normal, but the look he was giving you didn't change. It was terrifying. You found yourself saying something to cut off the thought.

"Hey, you wanna know something funny?" You asked. Anakin, entangled in you, cast you a questioning look.

"What?"

"Check the pocket of my pants," you said. He pulled his arm out from under you, then got out of the bed and found your shorts behind your chair. From their right pocket, he pulled out a condom, and then burst out laughing. You joined him, and, in the moment, you felt like you were on the same team, the two of you against the world. The feeling only intensified when he kissed your forehead, still smiling.

"I'm gonna go get us something to clean up. Be back in a second," he said as he pulled on his boxers and pants again, before leaving the room to go find your bathroom.

He returned a few minutes later with a towel, soft and warm under his fingers. One of your washcloths, which he'd run under warm water to keep it comfortable. As he cleaned you up, then waited for you to use the bathroom, you wondered when he became so caring. So considerate and sweet. But maybe he had been that way the whole time, you thought as he put his arm around you in the bed. His skin against yours felt amazing, even better than it did during sex. For the first time, as you drifted off with your head against his chest, you wondered if being with him like this could happen more often. Maybe all the time. And then the words slipped from your mind, like footprints in sand on a beach, before you finally fell asleep.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Tag List (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @skywalkercinema @throughparisallthroughrome @anak1ns-wife @radiantvader @eloquenceinpurple @rosekillerdaughter @doblasftcisco @rhiannonhippiegirl @mistress-amidala @mortalheartache @xorilixx @sunnytotheend @olivia091108 @aniiuv @sotal3rsa @springnaiad @bettysgardenswift @ursogorgeous13 @avalovesjoe1 @anibeaar @anisluvrgirl @johnbassplayercutie @mcdonaldshelppage @usuck

[starless-nightz]

May I request nico di angelo with a younger sister whoes a lot like percy, leo, and or jason?? (maybe bianca too)

Nico with a younger sister! reader whos a lot like Percy, Jason and Leo

note -> Nico is literally my brother yall!

warnings -> none.

content includes -> fluff, slight angst(?), protective! Nico, idk what else to add here sorry.

Nico is fiercely protective of you from the moment he realizes just how much you remind him of the friends he's lost. Your mix of Percy's bravery, Jason's leadership and Leo's humour stirs up a great amount of emotion in him, and he gets this deep-seated urge to keep you safe, even if you can more than handle your own.

You are the radiance which brings so much light into Nico's life. You are full of life and optimism, a complete opposite of Nico's really serious and withdrawn nature, something which he finds refreshing yet at times overpowering. You're one of those people who would drag him out of his dark mood into participating in activities within Camp Half-Blood, even when he's all stingy about it.

Nico can't help but see glimpses of Bianca in you, particularly in the manner you show concern for him. Your kind nature and the fact that you try to put others before yourself remind him so much of his lost sister, and that makes him both so protective and a little scared of losing you, too. Sometimes he will be just watching you from a distance, with eyes soft in a wistful stare that usually flies right past you.

You share a lot of Percy's daring and recklessness. Be it charging into a dangerous situation or telling a joke to lighten the mood when all is truly serious, you have a knack for lightening up the mood. Nico does scold you time and again for being too reckless, yet in your ears, there's always a hint of fondness with which he does that. He constantly worries about you, even when he knows you're capable.

Your humor reminds him of Leo so much-your constant jokes, trying to coax a smile from him whenever you can. It's one of the few ways you actually break through the stoic exterior he often wears. Even as he rolls his eyes or acts like he's annoyed by it, he silently enjoys how you bring laughs into his life-something he has missed sorely.

Nico is in awe of your bravery. You're as responsible as Jason and have innate leadership qualities that he does, as well. You're one of these kinds of people that has always got to step forward when the going gets tough-even if it puts you in harm's way. That's something Nico really looks up to you for, even though he often wishes you'd take a little more care.

You both balance each other out perfectly. Where he is quite a lot more internal and brooding, you're the one who encourages him to be a little more social-whether it be joining you in conversations with other campers or joining in activities that Nico would usually steer clear of. He helps to keep your feet on the ground and reminds you that sometimes things need to be taken seriously, and when you need it, he's there in support-albeit quiet support.

You both watch each other's backs on quests. While you are perfectly capable of holding your own in a fight, Nico's always watching your back in case things get too intense. Tease him as you will that he is overprotective, but you know the truth-it's because he lost people before and doesn't want to lose you too.

You make it a point to check in on Nico, that he's eating proper, sleeping enough, and isn't shutting himself away from the world too much. He's not great at talking through feelings, but he is grateful you worry about him. It reassures him he's not alone; someone still values his well-being. Grumbles at times, but to him, it means more than he's able to express.

Nico has a soft spot for the more serious moments of yours. When you drop the jokes, the playful attitude- it brings out a caring side in him reminiscent of Bianca. And he's caught off guard by it every time. He sees the compassionate and deep thoughtfulness that's a side of you, and it reminds him you are not just a mirror of his past friends but your own person.

Your relationship with Nico is one of understanding. You're both really different, but in a way, that underlying bond that siblings do have runs deep. You understand the loss he faces, and he realizes that behind the light-hearted mask you wear, you too bear the load of being a demigod. This mutual understanding of each other's case makes your sibling bond quite unbreakable; it's a source of strength for both of you.

You're one of those few who can actually make Nico laugh. An endangered species, perhaps, but when it finally does happen, when you do get one real laugh out of him, it's some sort of minor victory. You treasure these moments, knowing well how much they mean. And Nico-never to say so, of course-loves in secret how you can lighten up even the bleakest of days, just that little bit.

[tenebris-lux]

OOF.

- chapter 22, Words of Radiance

Something I like about the chapters in The Stormlight Archive is the theming. I noticed in The Way of Kings that if a topic or situation turned up in one chapter, the following chapter featuring someone else would sometimes have a similar topic.

For example, Shallan got a practical philosophy lesson in chapter 36, and it ended with her having to navigate some problems without clear-cut answers about what was right and wrong. She just witnessed her mentor bait and murder a bunch of people, but the circumstances surrounding it make it difficult to pass judgment on her. And, fueled by anger, Shallan finally stole from the woman—the task she was set to do to save her family.

The chapter following that is a Kaladin flashback involving a meeting between his father and Roshone, who’d been deliberately sabotaging the family’s livelihoods out of pettiness and greed for the spheres Lirin had been given by the previous lord.

Except … he hadn’t been given them. He’d taken them.

Like Shallan, Kaladin just saw a shocking side to his guardian whom he admired, one not entirely kosher, and it raised difficult questions on judgment.

That was a tangent, but that kind of thing shows up a lot in The Way of Kings. My point, though, is that Words of Radiance has minor themes in chapters, sometimes ones that are more easily picked up on rereads. In chapter 22, Kaladin gets hit with an uncomfortable truth about “Shen’s” place in Bridge 4. And he realizes some of the truth of it, but he won’t bend the class rules that much, even though it bothers him. And this is ironic, because this just happened 2-3 pages ago:

Infuriating, isn’t it?

We’re getting the chapter from Kaladin’s perspective, so he’s not picking up that Dalinar thinks it’s a situation he has to investigate carefully because of the status involved. And we’re kind of with Kaladin on this—he deserves justice and we’re very unsure of Dalinar will help; if so—doesn’t feel like it, but if so—it’s not going to happen any time soon.

Following that, he gets confronted by Rlain and feels like he can’t afford to make a change for this one guy.

Rlain is roughly in Kaladin’s place, and Kaladin is roughly in Dalinar’s.

That’s not a perfect metaphor at all, but I do believe the rough similarity was intentional.

[nadas-dirthalen]

I've been thinking about how the bg3 wiki lists this as Gortash's singular spell as a boss.

Dazzling Ray, y'all. A bright beam of radiant light. Supremely sun-coded.

And I'm thinking about how even though I've seen that mid-transformation, Gortash's new Avatar of Bane has green eyes with black sclera (very Bane-coded!), his full transformation has these, sourced from this Twitter post.

Not to mention how there is LESS Bane iconography on his Avatar Of Bane form than his jacket, previously. That it is more gold than black, and that its curves (while reminiscent of Steel Watchers) are all knight- or paladin-coded, not tyrant-coded.

Because is that not the way of him? Always designing things to look heroic. Always playing at being a just ruler, but never able to enact that in truth.

But still shining radiant light at people. Still. Still.

And I am thinking how Raphael, like Viconia - personally motivated against Gortash, like Viconia was to Shadowheart - also has Punish Divinity as a passive ability.

And I am thinking about a boy who was sun-coded from the moment he was named. An artificer, yes - whose magical attacks are coded with the same radiance as his earliest youth. Whose eyes burn gold like the sun, after changing to green with black sclera. The gold overtakes them. But why not a dark glow? Why not something dark and inky like the half-illithid transformation?

And why, pray tell... why is the crest over his heart white, and inscribed not with Bane, but with what looks like radiant lines?

My conclusion: Enver Gortash might be an artificer, but he's living out the arc of an Oathbeaker paladin to an evil god. Where, all along, even his Avatar of Bane suggests that there is something light at his core, contrasting the dark swallowing the rest of him.

[mediumgayitalian]

In his head he is brave enough to say it: gods, you are beautiful in the moonlight. He is. He has made Nico weak in the knees since they were fifteen and new and fragile as spun glass, and he does now. In the moonlight his radiance is much subtler; he is opal and pearl and quartz, he is shining and multifaceted.

Instead he traces the bob of Will’s throat, his long, freckly neck, cratered with burn scars and cupped with a raised white scar from years of endless picking; follows the wild winding wisps of his hair, barely held back by his old sunglasses, compressed in coils around his head like a pen spring squished to the size of its threads, creaking with the weight of its own potential energy, brimming with the imagined burst of its future; memorizes the fluttering flap of his feathering eyelashes, the delicate dips of his deepened Cupid’s bow, the roughened raze of his wide rowdy hands. All of him is in motion, always, but now especially, hands twitching on the wheel, head thrown back, mouth wide and shaking along with his shoulders.

“I really like your laugh,” and it’s quick, vowels tumbling over each other and tripping the consonants, a queue of clumsy hopefuls scrambling over shoulders and clasping hands. The pretty laughter fades and arched eyebrows replace it, poorly hidden surprise, twitching smile lines, and Nico looks deliberately forward, mortification cackling along each of his wire-tense muscles, dancing along the shimmering heat of his face. “It’s. Wide.”

“Wide?” asks Will carefully, craning his neck to glance in his blind spot, whispering chuckles dancing along to the beat of the blinker.

“Wide,” Nico confirms, flicking out his hands. His fingers are not nearly as long, nor as wiry or corded, but the scarring is mirrored. Nicks and scratches and burn marks and calluses, topographic maps of time spent.

Will’s turn is successful — the strawberry baskets dip dangerously from their precarious perch on backseats, but don’t fall, shifting over and around each other to burst tiny globules of stretched taut flesh, rubbing against rough reed ribbons. Nico inhales deeply, and the sweet is almost nauseating, summer fruit twisting in the air along with lavender body wash and Blistex and Texas summer sun.

“You take up space.”

“My laugh?”

Laughter in his words in his hands in his skin, in his eyes, in the coils of his hair, in his grass-stained heels, in the bends of his scar-bleached knees. In the dancing dots of his face arms chest legs. In the dip of his bottom lip, crater under his too-big front teeth. In the jut of his crooked spine and wide hips.

“What about my laugh?”

It is in his words more often than not and in Nico’s dreams even more so. It curls around the blurry edges of his dreams and weaves into daisy-strong chains, dangling from the too-high ceilings of his nightmares, coiling around his arms and chest and back and yanking with the force of breaking ribs, the force of bellows, the force of clasped bloodless hands. Dragging him across trench gouged ground to bright light and clear air and the distant memory of summer rain.

“That you like, I mean.”

“It’s snorting,” Nico confesses. Will reddens, and Nico smiles, under the heat of it grows sunflower and dandelion and tinted brown-eyes Susans. “Um. Loud.”

“Geez,” Will grumbles, “tell a guy the truth, why don’t you.”

Nico has never seen gold under silver nightlight and it fascinates him, how Will sparks and shimmers, how when the sun sets it does not fade away. How the tiny specks of precious metal weave through him like tinsel and glow in veins of sweet summer memory; how the warm night billows and blows around him lovingly, how the breeze from the open window greets him like a precious grandchild, a beloved nephew. Seedchild; beloved of the earth and sun, performer under the moon, the stars.

Will’s wide hands inch across the dash, brushing over the ancient radio dials and dipping over the skipping cassette, pausing by the base of the gearshift and resting, limply, palm open, fingers cracked and spread. Knuckles popping and chittering amongst themselves, hiding in the bent hoods of wrinkled skin. Nico lowers his heavy hands on the heated hopeful hesitance, curling his cool fingers around much longer ones, and squeezing, once, twice, thrice.

“I like your laugh,” he repeats. He rolls his shoulders, hands flexing, twitching, pulling.

Will’s hand tightens. The road opens up and the Atlantic glimmers beside them, moon whispering to its rippling waves, and he smiles, grins, wider than before, and he is laughing, again, and it is wider even this time, as wide as the sparkling silver water.

“I hear you.”

He squeezes.

You are beautiful in the moonlight. You are beautiful all the time.

Nico squeezes back.

[wordslikesilver]

I love what this DLC redefined about Melina. I never took to the gloam eyed queen theories, and now we learned about two incredible things in the DLC. The Minor Erdtree incantation finally explains in truth what the concept of Unalloyed Gold is, it is kindness without Order. I take this to refer to one’s love for a specific reason I’ll elaborate on in a moment. This explains several things. First, the flaw Marika discovered in the golden order was its compassion, its love and kindness. No matter what you think of the golden order as a regime, it still had that value of kindness deep down inside and that’s the flaw that goldmask identifies. The flaw within Marika herself that leaves her doomed by the narrative. It couldn’t be the Order that was the flaw, because that’s what failed Miquella when he tried to cure his sister of the rot. Miquella’s entire platform was kindness and acceptance of all. That’s the unalloyed gold that healed Malenia. Marika needed the Radagon aspect of herself to convince her Order was worth it all. And then she’d reached her limit and could take no more of it all. Enough. No more of this golden order. No more Erdtree. No more Elden Ring or greater Will or fingers pulling strings. Enough. And surely there was only one way in all the world she’d cope with the pain of losing Godwyn, of possibly even arranging his death so that the plan could be set in motion.

This is where the most beautiful tragedy of the DLC comes in. Miquella and saint Trina. He severs his love from his existence so that he could become a god. We learn that a demigod/god can sever parts of themselves that become living entities. This is how Radagon came to exist. But more importantly, this is how Melina came to exist. Melina, who fights with the grace of a black knife Numen woman, who keeps destined death sealed within her eye, who dreams of fire. Melina, who is kind and gentle and soft spoken. The girl who knows deep in her heart that no matter how grim it all may feel, there is hope and love in this world. The girl who can cast the ultimate healing incantation, minor Erdtree, and a version of it that we the players can’t even match in size and radiance. The kindness of gold, without order. Melina is Marika’s unalloyed gold, shriven clean from her body and given life. Her love, her kindness and all her weakness, turned into a young maiden who wants nothing more in all the world than to save her own mother from her suffering. Just like St Trina begs us to save Miquella from godhood, Melina begs us to help her free her mother from the prison of the Erdtree and godhood itself.

I love that this DLC recontextualizes Melina’s entire existence as Marika saying “If my love and my kindness are a flaw, then I will use them to burn this fucking place to the ground.”

Put on your tinfoil hat on for this last part but it’s too good not to think about, Melina fights like a black knife and carries destined death within her. Imagine if she was there that night to kill Godwyn. His mother’s love and kindness being the one to kill her most beloved child. Lower his guard, maybe. It’s so fucking raw imagining that and I lose my mind picturing the scene.

[thyras]

→ in the beginning

PAIRING → mairon | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 4.8k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → light stalking (sauron follows reader for a little while but it's more out of protection), love at first sight, longing, soulmates, reader has a name given to her, but otherwise there is no defining qualities mentioned.

SUMMARY → since the breaking of the first silence mairon has carried a great yearning, one he knows not why he is burden with, but the very song of his fëa longs to sing with his harmony.

AUTHORS NOTE → hi yes, remember how i said i was taking a break? welp i got inspiration to rewrite my dark!reader series. I'm so sorry for luminary fans but that behemoth of a final part is taking me longer than expected. i know the original was well liked but after my most recent reread of the silmarillion and morgoth's ring (hubby got me a really nice complete set for christmas) i have felt the need to rewrite the series, i hope you all enjoy this rollercoaster i am about to pull y'all on.

PARTS → two // three // four

In the earliest songs of creation, he stirred into being—a spark of light, pure and untainted, untouched by shadow or sorrow. He knew nothing of darkness, nor did he suspect its existence, for his fëa was alight with a yearning he could not name. A silent ache dwelled within him, an unformed desire, as if a fragment of his purpose waited to be discovered in the vast expanse of eternity. He could not say what it was, but he knew, with quiet certainty, that when it appeared, he would know it with the fullness of his being.

In the golden age after his awakening, he labored with devotion at the side of his master, Aulë the Great Smith. Together, they forged marvels that sang of beauty and purpose, his hands guided by the wisdom of the Vala. The craft was a joy to him, and in it, he learned to shape the raw, untamed matter of the world into works of perfection. Yet, in the still hours of twilight, when Aulë set down his tools or answered Manwë’s call to counsel, the Maia would remain in quiet solitude.

It was in those hours, under the silver gleam of the Great Lamps, that his hands turned to a secret labor. From silver of the purest ore, he shaped a ring of singular grace, its polished surface gleaming like starlight captured in a circle. He worked with a reverence as if the very act were a hymn, though he could not say to whom it was offered. With meticulous care, he inscribed the band with words he did not fully understand—delicate scripture that seemed to flow from the depths of his fëa, unbidden yet perfect.

This ring was not a trinket of vanity nor a gift for his master. No, it was meant for another—a being he had not yet met but whom his fëa somehow awaited. For though his fëa was yet unknowing, it whispered to him a single truth: one day, he would find the one who was worthy of it. And on that day, he would understand the longing that had lived in his fëa since the first song was sung.

When the first Quendi awoke, their voices rose in songs so wondrous that even the mightiest of the Valar paused to listen, captivated by their beauty. Mairon felt it then—a pull, deep and relentless, that resonated with the yearning he had carried for uncounted ages. It drew him to the light of Arda, a beacon that pierced the veils of eternity. Though he served his new master with steadfast devotion, he could not quell the melody that had been woven into his fëa before the first notes of creation were sung.

The darkness he bore now clung to him, muting the trees’ radiance and silencing the birds’ songs as he wandered the wide plains. Yet, even amidst shadow, the ancient call remained, a quiet fire within that neither time nor allegiance could extinguish.

Centuries ebbed and flowed as Mairon moved through the world, a silent watcher. Beneath the guise of vigilance, he observed the Quendi as they journeyed across Arda, their path illuminated by Oromë’s guiding light. Some tarried to build cities, their hearts content in the lands they shaped, while others chose the long road to Aman. Among these children of Ilúvatar, the Teleri caught his gaze. He marveled at their love for all living things and their pursuit of harmony and order, their craftsmanship a reflection of his own heart’s longings.

Yet it was the Nandor who stirred something deeper in him. They, who lingered in the wild places, untouched by the pull of Aman, kindled an ache within his fëa that he could neither name nor silence. Their bond with the earth and their quiet wisdom spoke to a part of him that his master’s will could never claim. Still, Mairon turned northward, his steps heavy as he crossed the vast lands to answer the summons of his lord and receive his next command.

The yearning remained, an unbroken thread binding him to the Quendi, whispering that the song of his fëa was not yet finished.

As your kin journeyed over Ered Luin into the lands of Beleriand, you chose not to follow them to the white shores of the Blessed Realm. While many of your kin heeded Finwë’s call and sought the light of Aman, you lingered by the River Gelion, enchanted by the beauty of Yavanna’s handiwork. The forests and streams became your sanctuary, and there you dwelt with a small gathering of your kindred, content in the splendor of Arda.

Your radiance became a legend, drawing elves alike from far and wide, each seeking your favor and offering you their devotion. Yet no hand offered nor heart professed ever stirred the longing within you, for the yearning in your fëa could not be quenched. It was bound to another, though you knew not whom.

As years turned to centuries, and the shadow of Elwë’s disappearance weighed heavy upon your people, your own heart grew burdened. When Olwë rose as lord and led your kin to the Blessed Realm, you remained behind, unwilling to forsake the lands that had become your solace. You wandered through the deep woods of Beleriand, each step driven by the quiet ache within, your fëa ever searching for that which it lacked.

And then, at last, the yearning stilled. In the shadowed glades of Beleriand, your fëa found its missing piece, and the song of your heart was made whole.

You found solace among a small gathering of your kin who welcomed you warmly into their town. There, you embraced the sacred art of nurturing and caring for expectant mothers and their newborn babes—a calling that resonated deeply within you. To bring a child into the beauty of this world was, to your kin, the highest honor, and it became your joy to guide others through that miraculous journey.

Beyond this cherished role, you devoted yourself to the teaching of the youngest among your kin. You filled their eager minds with the stories of old, tales woven with the wisdom you had gathered during your years by the River Gelion. With gentle care, you shared your knowledge of the beasts that roamed the wilds, the flowers that bloomed in secret places, and the songs of the birds that graced the skies. You saw it as your duty to nurture their minds as you did their spirits, ensuring that the mastery of your kin’s crafts and the love of Yavanna’s creations would live on through them.

His gaze never strayed far from you, his thoughts and fëa ensnared by emotions he could scarcely comprehend. Never before had he felt such a powerful pull toward another, and the depth of it both awed and unsettled him. One of Eru’s own creations had captivated him, and the long-unanswered melody within his fëa resonated with a new and unrelenting harmony. It was a song he had carried through all the ages of his immortality, now awakened by your presence.

From the shadows, he often watched as you wandered the glades, the smallest children trailing behind you like ducklings to their mother. You moved with a grace that seemed born of the stars themselves, your radiant beauty rivaling even that of Varda. Your hair, shimmering like woven light, danced and swayed in the gentle breezes of Arda. Your laughter rang like a melody, and the tales you wove for the children brought smiles and joy as boundless as the heavens above.

Though your face bore no trace of time, Mairon knew you had walked Arda for an age. He saw it in the way your spirit seemed to entwine with the land itself, your heart tethered to the soil beneath your feet. It was the same song, the same resonance that thrummed deep within the earth and called to him, a reflection of the unspoken bond between you.

Freed now from Melkor’s shadow, if only for a time, Mairon felt the pull of destiny. This was his chance, perhaps his only chance, to step forward and fulfill the yearning that had bound his fëa to yours since the first notes of creation. The time had come to give voice to the song that had sustained him through all his wandering.

He seized his moment when your little ducklings had scampered off, their joyous laughter fading into the distance as their mothers called them home for noontime meals. You lingered, as you often did, among the glades, speaking softly to Yavanna’s creations as if they were your oldest and dearest companions. You moved without fear in these woods, unlike some of your kin who shied from the shadows of the trees. You trusted the earth and its guardians to keep you safe. Yet even so, the tales of those who had vanished into the wilds, never to return, lingered in the corners of your mind, stirring unease in your heart.

Mairon’s watchful eyes followed your every motion as you settled amidst a patch of soft, pillowy moss. From your satchel, you pulled a small, well-worn book, its pages delicate with age. Gently, you tucked a strand of your shimmering hair behind a pointed ear, the sunlight catching its brilliance like woven silver. You appeared utterly at peace as you opened the book and began to read, your fingers tracing the lines of text with reverence.

He waited, silent and still, savoring the moment before finally stepping out from behind the tree where he had concealed himself. His movement was fluid and deliberate, each step a careful approach.

Your head jerked up at the sight of him, your book slipping from your fingers to the mossy ground as your breath caught in alarm. Mairon raised his hands in a gesture of peace, his expression warm and reassuring. He had no desire to frighten you, the being who had ensnared his fëa so entirely.

Your throat tightened as you gazed upon him, your bewilderment plain. He stood before you, radiant and otherworldly, his long fiery locks cascading over his shoulders like molten copper, his pale skin gleaming as if lit from within. His eyes, the greenest you had ever seen, glimmered with a depth that seemed to pierce through to your very soul. Every part of him seemed crafted for beauty, a vision to stir the heart.

Mairon hoped you found him pleasing, though he dared not speak it aloud. But the wonder and delight in your gaze was unmistakable, and in that instant, he knew he had not misstepped.

His presence sent a tremor of alarm through your mind, yet your heart stirred with the song that had been woven into your fëa since the moment of your creation. As your gaze met his, that ancient melody swelled, harmonizing with the light that radiated from him. He was unlike any you had ever seen, his very being seeming to illuminate the glade, driving back even the faintest trace of shadow.

The silence between you grew heavy, as if the very air waited for one of you to break it. At last, a smile touched his pillowy lips, gentle and warm, as if it had been meant for you alone.

“My apologies, my lady. I did not mean to startle you,” he said, his silvery voice like a melody that resonated deep within your chest. Though he kept his distance, his words pulled at something deep within you—a quiet yearning that longed for him to draw nearer, for you to step into the warmth of his radiant glow.

“A maiden such as you should not be wandering these glades alone,” he continued, his tone soft but tinged with something protective. A smile tugged at your lips, unbidden, and a soft sound, almost laughter, escaped you.

“I am hardly alone, stranger,” you replied, your voice steady but laced with quiet mirth. He took a deliberate step closer, his movements fluid yet restrained, and you fought the instinct to retreat. Despite the alluring glow that surrounded him, a subtle discord whispered beneath the melody in your fëa, a warning buried deep within the ancient song. He may have looked like kin, but there was something about him that set him apart, something just beyond your grasp.

“Then do tell, how is it that you are not alone?” he asked, his voice laced with curiosity, though his emerald gaze betrayed a knowing depth. “As I see it, you seem—”

You lifted your hand, palm outward, silencing him with the simplest of gestures.

“I am among great companions,” you replied, your voice steady with conviction. “Ones that a being such as you could scarcely comprehend.” Yet, as you looked into his eyes, you caught a flicker of understanding there, as though he did indeed know. Knew of Yavanna’s creations—the trees that stood watchful and wise, the beasts that roamed these glades, and the unseen spirits that hummed in harmony with the world.

You rose to your feet, closing the distance between you to meet his gaze head-on. “I appreciate your concern, stranger, but I am well taken care of.”

As you bent to retrieve your fallen book, he moved faster than you anticipated, his long fingers brushing against yours as he reached it first. The moment of contact sent a jolt through you, like the touch of fire upon brittle wood. The spark raced across your skin, igniting the song within you with a sudden, brilliant intensity.

You looked up, drawn once more to his piercing emerald eyes. They shimmered in the light of Arda, so vivid and captivating they seemed like one of Aulë’s finest works, forged to perfection. You felt yourself being pulled into his presence, the warmth of his aura enveloping you, making it impossible to step away. In that moment, the melody of your fëa harmonized with his, singing a truth you were only beginning to understand.

Mairon held your fallen book to his chest, his fingers curling around it as though it were a relic of immeasurable worth. He made no move to return it, prolonging the moment between you, savoring the connection that lingered like the fading notes of a song. His gaze roved over you, taking in every detail of the ethereal Moriquendi before him, as some of your kin might label you. But to him, such a term was a diminishment, a shadow of your true nature. You were no simple Moriquendi. You were something far more luminous, as though Varda herself had crafted you and set you apart from all others.

Your kin would never see it, he thought bitterly. They would never glimpse the depth of your spirit as he did. Where they saw simplicity, he saw the radiance of Eru’s design—pure, untouched, and untainted. You were the embodiment of the beauty his master so envied and sought to corrupt, the very perfection that Melkor had long desired to unmake. And though Mairon had once stood steadfastly in service of that will, here and now, he felt another destiny stirring within him.

You belonged to no Valar, no higher authority that could save you from the song that bound you both. Not Yavanna’s protective hand nor Oromë’s guidance could shield you, for you had been sung into the world in harmony with him. You, like Mairon, were forged with a brilliance that called to the shadow within his fëa, a duality that neither of you could deny.

His darkness ached to touch you, to weave itself into your being and make you truly his—a dark elven maiden of exquisite power and grace, unmatched in all of Arda. He could see it already: you walking in elegant glory, adorned by the subtle touch of his shadow, a reflection of the force that burned within him. And he, ever the craftsman, would follow you, a devoted silhouette in your light, bound to you as a shadow is to the earth. You would be his, as he was already yours, though you did not yet know it.

Or did you?

“I would like to be on my way,” your voice broke through the reverie that had ensnared him, pulling Mairon back to the present. You reached out for the book, your movements calm but insistent, yet he did not relinquish it. Instead, he held it firm, his gaze fixed on you as though he were trying to etch every detail of this moment into his memory.

Your frustration flickered to life, a soft huff escaping your lips as you glared up at him. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, unbidden, as the light of Arda seemed to amplify your radiance—the shimmering cascade of your hair, the sparkle in your eyes. Mairon’s thoughts wandered to forbidden places, to what it might feel like to touch the warmth of your skin, to trace the lines of beauty that seemed almost otherworldly. Yet he held himself back, unwilling to frighten you further. He wanted you near, not driven away.

With a quiet sigh and no small measure of reluctance, he loosened his grip and extended the book to you. His voice was low and smooth as he said, “My apologies, my love.”

You froze for a moment, your hand hovering near the book, your expression shifting into one of slight astonishment. Your brow arched, betraying your surprise at his choice of words. 

Mairon met your gaze steadily, his lips curving into a subtle, almost mischievous smile. “May I at least walk you back?” he asked, his tone softer now, almost deferential. “Let us grant the spirits of this glade their rest, unburdened by your watchful protection.”

You hesitated, your eyes searching his face, weighing his intent. The moment stretched between you like the silence before the first notes of a song. Finally, with a slow nod, you gestured for him to follow.

Mairon stepped in beside you, his movements unhurried, his presence watchful and steady. Though your posture remained wary, his heart swelled with satisfaction. The rhythm of your steps aligned, and as you walked together, he remained ever aware of the fragile connection that tethered him to your side, each moment more precious than the last.

The stranger’s company was unexpectedly pleasant, his words weaving an effortless balance between tales of substance and light conversation. He spoke of far-off lands, recounting adventures in the East where your kin had long traveled, and the forbidding horrors of the Northern realms, where no elf dared tread for fear of the consuming shadow that lingered there. His voice carried a melody that comforted you, even when the stories themselves were grim.

As the edge of your town came into view, you placed your hand lightly on his upper arm, halting his steps. A wave of sadness crept into your heart at the thought of parting with this stranger. His presence, though new, had brought you a sense of ease and intrigue that you hadn’t felt in many ages. He turned at your touch, his emerald eyes drifting down to where your hand rested. That warm, inexplicable tingle coursed up your arm like the gentle flow of a spring river. You felt heat rush to your cheeks as you realized your impropriety, quickly withdrawing your hand and letting it fall to your side.

But then, to your surprise, he caught your retreating fingers in his. Slowly, he brought them to his lips, his touch impossibly warm and reverent. The brush of his soft, pillowy lips sent your heart into a frenzy, and your face flushed deeper as embarrassment and an unspoken thrill warred within you.

“Before we part ways, may I ask the fair maiden’s name?” His voice was smooth, almost hesitant, as though he feared breaking the fragile moment between you.

You told him your birth name, and his lips curved into a smile that seemed to hold boundless reverence for the way your voice caressed the syllables. But then, you hesitated, your gaze flickering downward as you added softly, “Though my kin here have given me the name Mornelótë.”

His eyes brightened, their green depths gleaming with curiosity and appreciation. “Dark flower,” he murmured, the words escaping his lips like liquid silver, carrying a weight of awe. “Such a foreboding name for such an ethereal beauty. May I ask how you came to earn it?” The mention of your beauty to him once again caused your cheeks to flame, as your heart burned with a new found desire to know how this being above you felt under your fingertips.

Though it was short lived as your heart clenched at his question, and for a moment, you turned your face away, the old ache stirring within you. “I am a Moriquendi,” you said, your voice tinged with sorrow, as if the very word carried a heavy burden. It did—for though you had long accepted your path, the label still carried its sting.

“My kin are the Nandor,” you continued, glancing back at him to find his gaze locked onto you, unwavering and intent. “We turned away from the call of the Blessed Realm, choosing instead to remain in the glades and rivers of the Gelion. When our Lord disappeared, another rose in his place—a great ally of the Noldor—and many of my kin chose to follow him westward. But I did not.”

You hesitated, your fingers fidgeting with the delicate stitching of your gown as you gathered your thoughts. His silence encouraged you, his posture unshifting, as though every word you spoke was the most wonderous thing in all of Arda.

“I wandered the woods alone for a time, until I came upon the Vanyar. They were waiting for kin—kin lost to the shadow. I arrived on the very day they received news of their loss. They gave me the name Mornelótë, for they saw me as a dark omen. Some believed I was a spy for the shadow of the North.”

Your voice faltered briefly, the memory still sharp, before you lifted your gaze to meet his once more. “But time has passed, and they have come to see me as I am. I have earned their love and acceptance despite the weight of my name.”

The stranger watched you intently, his expression soft but alight with something you could not name. In his gaze, there was no judgment, no pity—only awe and something deeper, as though your story had sung directly to his fëa. It left you breathless, and you wondered, just for a moment, what it was that he saw when he looked at you so.

“It is only fair that I have shared my names. May I know yours?” you asked, your voice soft but steady as you held his gaze.

He inclined his head slightly, a faint smile brushing his lips. “Fair indeed,” he replied at last, his voice low and thoughtful. “I have borne many names, but the one I wish for you to know me by is…” He hesitated, a flicker of something crossing his expression—like shadows retreating before the light. When he spoke again, it was with a renewed clarity. “Mairon.”

You repeated it softly, testing the name on your lips. His eyes flicked to your mouth as you spoke, as though he were capturing the sound and holding it close. “The Admirable,” you continued, watching the way his expression shifted—first with pride, and then with something quieter, more solemn. “To earn such a name, you must surely be beloved by the spirits of this realm.”

“Hardly,” he murmured, and his voice carried a weight that made your brow furrow. There was something shadowed in his mood now, as if a great burden pressed upon him, one he had no wish to share.

“I am sorry if I have upset you,” you said quickly, but before the words could hang too long between you, he reached for your hand, his touch light but grounding. His thumb brushed over your fingers in reassurance.

“You have not,” he said gently, his voice firm yet kind. “There is nothing you could say that would upset me. For you speak as though you have walked among the glades and meadows of the Blessed Realm, as though you have gazed upon the light of the Trees and carried their warmth within your heart.”

He paused, his hand lifting slightly toward your face, but he hesitated, his movements slow, giving you the choice to accept or turn away. Yet something within you—something undeniable and ancient—compelled you to allow it. The harmony that sang between your two fëar was a melody you could not deny, your hearts now aligned in a rhythm as old as Arda itself.

As his hand finally touched your cheek, warmth spread across your skin, filling you with a sense of comfort and connection unlike any you had ever known. His touch was impossibly soft, like the finest silk woven by your kin’s hands. His scent, too, was distinct and intoxicating—a blend of burning forge, coal, and soot. It was raw and untamed, a match to the fiery aura that surrounded him, and yet there was a gentleness within him that made you yearn to draw closer.

This was what you had waited for, across endless ages—the moment Eru had sung into your fëa’s melody, the one that now bound you to him, the one that had finally come to fruition. It was beautiful, it was magical, and it was inevitable.

“You have a silvery tongue, my lord,” you said, your voice light with teasing as his thumb brushed gently across your cheekbone. A smile graced his lips, soft and knowing, as though he reveled in the playful accusation. “One I am certain has gotten you into no small amount of trouble with others.”

A low chuckle escaped him, the sound rich and intoxicating, lingering in the air between you. It was a melody that set your heart racing, and you wished to commit it to memory, fearing this might be the last time you would ever hear it.

Mairon’s fingers moved with a practiced grace as he tucked a stray strand of your shimmering hair behind your ear. The tips of his fingers grazed the sensitive point of your ear, and you shuddered at the unexpected sensation, a ripple of warmth cascading through you. Your eyes fluttered closed, and you fought against the sigh that threatened to escape your lips.

“Only with you shall my silvery tongue lead me into mischief, my dear Mornelótë,” he murmured, the words sliding from his lips with a charm that made your toes curl within your shoes. The sound of your name on his tongue was like a forbidden melody, and it brought with it a flood of thoughts that made your cheeks flush with heat.

You found yourself unwilling to end this moment, the question that hung between you both unspoken but palpable. Neither of you wished to voice it, to risk the rejection that might follow. Instead, you chose another path, one that might prolong his presence by your side.

“Our town has great need of a new smith,” you began, your voice hesitant yet steady, “after our last vanished some time ago.” You bit down on your bottom lip, your gaze locking with his, and the spark you had seen in his emerald eyes before flared anew. “Or,” you ventured, softer now, “if you wish, I could make you a meal before you continue on your journey?”

His thumb grazed your bottom lip, his touch lingering as he offered you another of those intoxicating smiles. It was a smile that sent your pulse fluttering, your very fëa seeming to hum in harmony with his presence.

“I have journeyed long,” he said, his voice deep and resonant, “and perhaps it is the will of the Valar that I settle among your people and take up my craft once more.” He leaned closer, his fiery aura brushing against you as his face neared yours. His hand lifted your chin gently, his touch warm and firm, his breath scented with spice and embers as it ghosted across your skin.

“If you will have me?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, his lips only inches from yours.

Your heart pounded furiously, your breath catching at the weight of his words. Of course, you would have him—how could you not? The thought of him remaining, of your fëar intertwining, filled you with a warmth so profound it nearly overwhelmed you. The possibility of one day binding yourselves to one another, of knowing the comfort of his eternal presence and the shared joy of a life together, was irresistible.

Mairon was your match, the harmony to your melody, the fire to your light. He was your beginning, your bonding element, and, perhaps, Eru’s true design for you.