aventurineswife

[aventurineswife]

Ok soooo…this request idea bloomed after I read some of Anaxa’s character lore (namely about his experiments) and I decided to add a couple of others for said request :3c

Could I get an Anaxa/Aventurine/Sunday x Doctor!Reader where the mentioned gentlemen wake up in the hospital and soon learn that the reader (who they know is rather shy but a skilled medic, and is currently fast asleep in a chair next to them) had found them unconscious/bleeding out and saved them from dying?

The only cause I could think of for Anaxa to wind up in said situation was one of his failed alchemical experiments that nearly killed him, but as for the other two, that’s up to you ^^

Stitched Back to Light

Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Injury Recovery, Soft Moments, Emotional Intimacy, Mutual Pining, Unspoken Feelings, Doctor!Reader, Medical Care, Sleep-Deprived Tenderness, Touch-Starved (?), Slow Burn Potential.

Warnings: Mild blood/Injury (non-graphic), Hospital/Medical setting, Implied traumatic incidents (e.g., explosions, psychic collapse), Emotional vulnerability, Burnout/Exhaustion, Magical injury/Side effects.

The first thing Anaxa feels is weight.

Not pain, not awareness, not even breath—just the heavy sensation of being dragged back. Mind stitched together by reluctant threads, vision swimming with flashes of failed equations and arcane symbols.

The alchemical experiment had been promising. Unstable, yes, but what truth worth knowing was not volatile? His last memory was the explosion of golden mist, and then—

He groans.

Then, nothing.

Anaxa blinks against the sterile lights. He recognizes none of the intricate wooden arches or chirping alchemical monitors.

Hospital.

His left eye throbs under the eyepatch. Residual magic pulses in his veins, wild and untamed. He shifts—and stops, startled.

Someone is asleep beside his bed.

Curled into an uncomfortable chair, wrapped in a spare blanket, sits you. The quiet doctor from the infirmary wing. Reserved. Awkward. Talented. He recalls your hesitant voice during a seminar on soul harmonics, trembling yet firm as you corrected a senior cleric.

His eye narrow in thought.

You had found him. You had saved him.

You stir as if sensing his gaze, mumbling in your sleep. A clipboard rests against your chest.

Anaxagoras watches you for a long moment. Something twists behind his ribs. Not discomfort. Not guilt.

Gratitude.

"So, you've become my savior," he murmurs, voice ragged. "Take care, Doctor. That is how legends begin."

And he doesn't wake you.

His first conscious breath is followed by a groan of annoyance.

Not dead. Dammit.

Aventurine blinks against the warm lighting. His body aches. Something tells him this isn't a suite at the Reverie Hotel.

He remembers Penacony. A negotiation gone wrong. A rigged trap. The clatter of dice replaced by the hiss of explosives.

His coat had caught fire.

Someone had dragged him out, medical records later said. You.

You, the reclusive medic with wide eyes and stammering speech. The one who took extra care to disinfect wounds, who treated even IPC executives like glass.

And here you are.

Fast asleep in a chair pulled close to his bed, glasses slightly askew, your hand still gripping a monitor readout. The tension in your brow hasn’t faded.

Aventurine stares.

He could wake you. Crack a joke. Thank you in his usual offhand way. Instead, he slowly, quietly moves his left hand from under the blanket and lets it fall over yours.

You don't stir, but your fingers shift instinctively, curling into his.

For once, the gambler doesn’t grin.

"Looks like I owe you, Doc," he whispers. "And I don't take those debts lightly."

The first thing Sunday notices is the scent of chamomile.

The Dreamscape had shattered around him. He'd pushed too far while protecting a fragmenting dream-cluster, letting too many illusions collapse at once. A psychic feedback loop had knocked him out. Or perhaps... he allowed it to.

He breathes.

The sheets are soft. The light is gentle. Something warm anchors him to this side of reality.

Your presence.

You're sleeping beside the bed, arms crossed on the blanket, head tilted sideways in uneasy rest. Your uniform is wrinkled, and there’s a faint smear of dried blood at your collar—his blood.

Sunday's heart stirs.

You had found him, dragged him from that unstable collapse. You, the quiet medic who barely spoke above a whisper unless the matter was life or death.

You.

His halo glows faintly behind his head. His wings twitch. He gently touches your shoulder.

You flinch awake, startled—and he catches your wrist before you can rise.

"...Thank you," he says, voice a soft breath. "I had almost forgotten what waking felt like."

Your cheeks redden.

"I-I just... did what any doctor would—"

"No. You did more."

He doesn’t let go. And for the first time in days, his inner voices go quiet.

They simply listen to the rhythm of your pulse beneath his fingertips.

[aventurineswife]

Hello! How's your day going?

Can I ask for Aventurine with a bodyguard reader? Like reader is most of the time just internally crashing out but outwardly being the epitome of calm. But for once they actually express worry and concerned anger when Aventurine is taking on a particularly risky gamble? They don't like that he's constantly putting himself in danger with risky bets. It's unexpected but the poor reader is on their last thread of patience with our resident peacock man. And then later they try to deny it like "I'd get fired if you got hurt so...".

Please take care of yourself btw! Drink water and have some snacks <3

Guarded Hearts and Loaded Dice

Summary: As Aventurine dives headfirst into another high-stakes gamble—risking not just IPC assets, but potentially his own life—his ever-composed bodyguard (you) finally cracks. After months of silent vigilance, your frustration and buried concern boil over, surprising even the cunning strategist himself. But when emotions surface between calculated risks and sharp smiles, who’s really bluffing? And what happens when the bodyguard starts gambling with their heart?

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Bodyguard!Reader, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Emotional Suppression, Angst with Comfort, Subtle Vulnerability, Protective Dynamics, Found Family Undertones, Emotional Walls Cracking, Hidden Feelings, Pre-Relationship (?), Flirty Tension.

Warnings: Implied past trauma (slavery, violence), Emotional suppression/Guarded behavior, Light psychological themes (survivor's guilt, intimacy issues), Mild language, Power dynamics (professional hierarchy), Brief mention of manipulation/betrayal.

You’ve guarded many dangerous men before.

But none like him.

Aventurine moves like a roulette spin mid-twist—bright, loud, unpredictable. You trail three steps behind him, a silent shadow in polished boots, absorbing the numbers, the players, the risks—doing the math he pretends not to care about.

Another meeting ends. Another plan teetering on the edge of lunacy. He’s just wagered a not-insignificant portion of IPC assets into a Penaconian debt sinkhole and now hums, content, as if he’s merely placed a bet on a casual poker night.

You’re not a numbers person. You’re a death-avoidance person. And he’s flirting with both bankruptcy and a bullet to the skull with the same grin.

That grin flashes now as he stops mid-corridor, turning to you as if you’d spoken.

"You’ve been unusually stiff today," he purrs, tilting those ridiculous glasses down his nose to catch your eyes with his stare. "Is it the suit? You hate the golden-brown tie, don’t you."

He’s deflecting. You know he knows.

You clench your jaw. “It’s the billion-credit gamble you just made on a failing sector.”

"Oh?" He raises a brow, folding one arm across his chest, resting his other elbow atop it, fingers curling under his chin. A peacock posing mid-fight. “But darling, you know I always win, eventually.”

You snap.

No explosions. No raised voice.

Just the rare, dangerous edge of emotion leaking into your otherwise impassive tone.

“Eventually doesn’t matter if you're dead before you collect.”

The corridor goes silent. Even Aventurine stills, his eyes narrowing—barely. He studies you like he would a losing hand he hadn’t expected.

Your hands are clenched behind your back, shoulders squared, jaw tight. It’s not protocol. You’ve broken it—cracked your mask. You never speak like this.

He’s heard rage before. This isn’t that.

This is concern—raw and bleeding, barely concealed beneath professionalism.

“You—” His lips part, but then curl again into something unreadable. Not amusement. Something else. “My, my. I didn’t know my bodyguard had such a poetic side. Tell me,” he leans in slightly, “are you worried about the asset, or the man holding it?”

Your eyes narrow.

You take a breath. Then another.

“I’d get fired if you got hurt.”

A lie.

Or rather—your last line of defense.

He knows it. Smiles as if he doesn’t.

Still, he falls quiet.

There’s something about the way you’re holding yourself, the way your fingers twitch slightly behind your back, as if resisting the urge to reach out. It’s not fear of failure.

It’s fear of loss.

His smile softens—not fades, but shifts. From spectacle to intimacy.

A private expression.

“I’ll keep the next gamble smaller,” he says, half-teasing. “Only half a billion credits and a minor skirmish.”

Your nostrils flare. You don’t reply.

But when he brushes past you again, his voice drops, almost too soft to catch:

“...Thank you.”

He’s sitting with his overcoat tossed carelessly over the couch arm, shirt still pristine but his tie askew. The lights are low. He spins a chip between two fingers absently, eye catching in the glow.

You stand near the door, arms crossed.

Silence.

Until—

“You lied.”

He doesn’t look up. Just keeps spinning the chip.

“You’re not scared of losing your job,” he murmurs. “You’re scared of losing me.”

You say nothing.

But your hand tightens around your wrist.

He finally looks up. Eyes sharper now. No pretense.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says, voice quieter. Not mocking. Not baiting. Honest, in that rare way he rarely lets slip. “Everyone bets something in this game. You’ve already placed yours.”

He tosses the chip.

It lands between you with a soft click.

“Now,” he smirks again—lighter, warmer, “what do you want to wager next?”

[aventurineswife]

HELLO HELLO RONNIE! HOPE YOU'RE DOING WELL! HOPE COLLEGE HAS TREATED YOU BETTER THAN THE CURRENT HSR QUEST 😌💕

Btw just fyi, that anaxa continuation fic has not left my head yet. It is just so delicious. So juicy. I love every second spent reading it. I'd like to kiss the hands that breathed life into the story ლ(◉❥◉ლ)

My life will never be the same, and that is a good thing (⁠◡⁠⁠ω⁠⁠◡⁠)

Okok onto my fic request! Mydei and a reader who gets awfully flustered, distant, and evasive around him bc they're partially intimidated by him, but more than anything, they are very shy around this fine gentleman. It's one thing to linger near someone beautiful, but for them to be half-naked??? Scandalous. Heart attack inducing, I'd say. They're able to hold conversations with him, but they would be all skittish, fidgety, and just overall restless. Idk I think this is a cute concept (and self projection bc I'm already awkward around guys, but handsome guys? 🏃‍♀️💨)

Ofc no pressure to write this! I practically become an omnivore when it comes to your writing XP

Thank you and have an awesome day! ✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧

Dangerously Divine

Summary: You’ve always known Mydei—to be a figure of awe: the Last Prince of Kremnos, a battle-scarred demigod with golden eyes and the strength of a legend. But nothing prepared you for seeing him shirtless (as usual) during a routine visit to the training yard. You're just trying to take inventory (really!), but between his regal charm, deadly elegance, and the way he seems intent on flustering you into a coma, holding a conversation without spontaneously combusting proves... difficult. As he confronts your evasiveness with surprising gentleness and a touch of curiosity, you begin to realize that maybe, just maybe, this immortal warrior feels just as unsteady around you.

Tags: Mydei x Reader, Fluff, Shy Reader, Mutual Pining, Shirtless Tension (idk, don't ask me), Gentle Teasing, Slow Burn Undertones, Found Family, Light Humor, Blushing and Banter.

Warnings: Romantic Tension, Flustered Reader Behavior, Intense Eye Contact, Mild Sensuality (Shirtless Mydei), Mentions Of War and Prophecy, Secondhand Embarrassment, Overwhelming Attractiveness.

A/N: HELLOOO you absolute gem 😭💕 Thank you so much—this made me grin like an idiot!! I’m so glad the Anaxa fic stuck with you 🫶 That kind of love means everything. I hope we really do get the "heartwarming" ending. 😔🙏

The forge clanged from across the training yard, ringing like some dire omen to your already fraying nerves.

You were supposed to be here for a supply inventory. You told yourself that several times. You even brought a scroll. Ink pot. Everything. But none of that could compete with the divine chaos currently stretching in the sun-drenched courtyard ahead.

Mydei.

Not just shirtless.

Gloriously shirtless.

You didn’t mean to stare—but gods, who wouldn’t? The tribal markings on his chest and arms looked carved by flame itself. Every muscle tensed like a battle hymn in motion, golden gauntlets flashing as he twisted through a sequence of strikes. His long, fire-touched hair trailed behind him like smoke from some sacred forge.

He was the kind of beautiful that wasn’t fair. Or legal. Or safe.

And he’d definitely caught you watching.

Again.

“Are you taking inventory of my form, little rabbit?” came that voice—low, smooth, and oh-so-amused. “Or do the supplies now come with commentary?”

You flinched like you’d been shot with an arrow. “I—I was just checking the… uh… balance of the supply crates. One of them leaned. Slightly. It leaned.”

He stepped closer, bare chest absolutely not helping. His cape swung as he approached, black and red, regal and dramatic, because of course it did. Of course he did.

“And that requires looking at me like I’ve stolen the stars from the sky?”

“I wasn’t looking at you like that!” you blurted, nearly dropping your scroll. “I was—I was thinking about balance! Center of gravity! You—you’re distracting, that’s all!”

He cocked his head. “Am I?”

“Yes. And I mean that in the most respectful way possible. Like a hazard. A beautiful hazard. Dangerous. Like... a very sharp chandelier.”

Mydei blinked once, then actually laughed. It was warm, rough around the edges, like a sound he rarely allowed himself. “A sharp chandelier,” he repeated, voice touched with wonder. “That is the first time I’ve ever been compared to home decor.”

You made a noise akin to a dying kettle. “Please forget I said that.”

“Impossible,” he said, stepping just close enough that the sun hit the gold of his necklace. “You’re very... memorable.”

Oh no.

You took a full step back, nearly tripping over your own feet, and he had the audacity to smile with a softness that only made everything worse. You were overheating. Flustered. There was probably steam coming out of your ears.

He studied you carefully, not mocking, but curious—like you were a puzzle he didn’t know he wanted to solve.

“Why do you always retreat when I come near?” he asked, gentler now.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re... overwhelming.”

“In a bad way?”

“In a half-naked warrior prince with fire eyes and a destiny to save the world kind of way.”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then, quietly: “You don’t need to run from me.”

“I’m not running. I’m strategically avoiding cardiac arrest.”

That made him laugh again—quieter, this time. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. You forgot to breathe.

“You’re not like the others,” he said, almost more to himself. “They either fear me for what I’ve done, or worship what I might become. But you—” his golden eyes locked with yours, “—you look like you feel something.”

“I’m feeling a lot of things,” you said helplessly.

“Fear?”

“...Butterflies.”

He smiled then, real and unguarded. “Then we’re even.”

You blinked. “You have butterflies?”

“I’ve faced gods, monsters, traitors... but you, little rabbit—blushing like dawn just because I breathe near you? That unnerves me.”

You couldn’t form words. Not coherent ones, anyway.

So instead, you stared up at him, still very shirtless, very close, and entirely too beautiful for your poor heart. And when his fingers brushed your hand—barely there, barely real—you let them stay.

[aventurineswife]

The night was black glass, broken only by the sputtering lamp on Isolde’s skiff. The Astral Express crew huddled near the prow as she worked the winch, the thick cable groaning under some heavy catch. Rain pattered cold and ceaseless onto the deck.

Isolde’s sunken eyes glistened with reflected light. She worked the crank with slow, deliberate force, arms wiry but tough from years of this. The sonar at her feet gave a warped, static-laden shriek every few seconds.

Dan Heng stood ready, spear braced. Welt adjusted his glasses, studying the readout. March 7th kept glancing at the water, muttering “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this—”

Finally the catch broke the surface. Water cascaded off it in sheets, steaming in the cold air.

It wasn’t a fish.

It hit the deck with a wet, organic slap. Metal clanged, bone cracked. The shape was enormous, barely contained by the boat’s narrow width. Rusted plating jutted from rotting meat. A tangle of thick cables pulsed like blood vessels, leaking oily fluid that steamed where it touched the boards.

Worse, it twitched.

March gagged and turned away. Dan Heng’s grip on his spear whitened.

The creature’s skull—if you could call it that—was split down the middle, exposing fibrous gray matter fused with electronics that crackled in sickly blue arcs. Mechanical eyes flickered erratically in ruined sockets. Its mouth gaped, splitting further as necrotic tissue tore, revealing interlocking steel teeth caked in barnacles.

Something in its throat whirred.

Isolde stepped forward, impassive. She planted a boot on the thing’s side, forcing it still. The meat squished, exhaling a gout of foul vapor.

“Don’t move,” she rasped.

She unsheathed a long, corroded hook-blade and stabbed it into a seam in the plating. It shrieked—an unholy mix of machine error and organic agony. The sound burrowed into the skull, making March clamp her hands over her ears.

Welt took a single, horrified step closer. “Isolde. What is it?”

She grunted, prying open the shell. Steam hissed out, carrying the reek of hot rot and brine. Within lay a mass of blackened organs entangled with circuitry—living, pulsing, flickering with coded signals.

“War garbage,” she said flatly. “Some automated drone picked up corpses. Assimilated them. Didn’t know how to die.”

She reached in with bare hands, slick with gore. She wrenched out a humming power cell enmeshed in meat, the light within flickering like a dying star.

“Still good,” she added.

March stared, pale and shaking. “You’re going to use that?”

Isolde didn’t answer. She tossed the organ-tech hybrid into a sack with a wet thud. The boat rocked as the half-dismembered creature shuddered one last time, then fell silent.

A hush fell. Only the ocean wind and the patter of rain remained.

Isolde wiped her hands on her torn trousers, smearing black blood. She turned her bleak blue gaze on the crew.

“Next haul’s worse,” she said, voice like grave-dirt. “If you’re staying, you’ll help.”

No one spoke for a long moment.

Then the sonar screamed again.

---

The sonar’s last scream faded to static. The boat rocked on the black water, its wake sloshing against half-submerged wreckage. Lightning forked across the cloud-choked sky, throwing everyone’s faces into stark relief.

Welt steadied himself, glasses reflecting the pale glow of Isolde’s lantern. He looked at the sack where she’d stuffed the humming, gore-slick power cell.

“This kind of corruption,” he said quietly. “It fuses metal and flesh, overrides machine logic with biological instinct. It’s too... deliberate. Are you sure there isn’t a Stellaron involved?”

Isolde snorted at that, one hand on the corroded wheel as she steered them away from the village lights dwindling behind them.

“Stellaron?” She spit over the side, the glob vanishing into black water. “You outsiders always think it’s a Stellaron. Not this time.”

She worked the throttle with her boot, engine coughing up oily smoke.

March, still green-faced, found her voice. “Then what is it? Why is all this... down there?”

Isolde didn’t look at them. Her sunken blue eyes stayed on the horizon.

“A star fell,” she said. Her voice had gone low, ragged. “During a war that wasn’t ours. Lit up the sky. We saw it fall into the sea. Broke the crust open. Boiled the waters.”

She tapped a finger against the rusting depth gauge, which rattled in its housing.

“Happened hundreds of years back. My grandmother’s grandmother told the story. Wasn’t a Stellaron. Stellaron leaves you destiny-sick. This? This leaves you hollow.”

The gauge needle twitched, ticking lower. Isolde paused, watching it with a haunted intensity.

“It was a god,” she whispered. “It still lives. Buried under leagues of salt water. Dreaming. Angry. Everything it touches turns to this.” She jerked her chin at the twitching, half-dissected horror at their feet.

Welt’s brow furrowed. “A fallen Aeon?”

Isolde didn’t answer.

The comm at Welt’s belt crackled to life, Himeko’s voice cutting through with static:

“Welt, status? Your signal’s degrading. We’re getting worrying readings from orbit.”

Welt pressed the receiver, glancing at Isolde.

She gave a joyless, cracked laugh. “Tell your captain to run diagnostics. You’re getting interference from it.”

Himeko’s voice crackled again, strained but clear:

“Interference consistent with a gravimetric anomaly. Welt, be careful. That’s... that’s not natural.”

Isolde shrugged. “No. It’s a god’s grave. And it’s still hungry.”

She turned the wheel sharply, guiding them toward deeper water. The wind howled through the rigging, the sonar’s crackle and hiss growing more frantic. Below, something massive shifted, stirring the entire sea like a giant turning in its sleep.

Isolde’s pale eyes never blinked.

Isolde's a bit unhinged but I love her

Holy shit.

Isolde’s the kinda character who looks like she hasn't slept since the war and would bite a corrupted drone just to prove a point. She’s running on spite, rot, and half a pack of salt-drenched cigarettes.

Like—

“Not a Stellaron. Stellaron leaves you destiny-sick. This? This leaves you hollow.”

Fucking haunting. That line hits like a punch in the lungs.

And that whole “god’s grave” bit?? That’s perfect. You didn’t go for the usual “it's evil and must be killed,” you made it unfathomable, like something that doesn't care if it wrecks your mind—it just exists in the deep and everything it touches warps and rots. It dreams and the sea listens.

Also, the vibe of pulling wet, twitching war-meat out of the ocean and calling it “still good”? That’s some absolutely deranged salvage-logic and I love it.

“Next haul’s worse.”

How is that not already a goddamn book title???

[aventurineswife]

A while ago, I realized that there wasn’t any Voracity characters or factions, so I made one! (And yes I know that THEY tend to eat their sapient followers leaving the beasts but whatever.)

This character’s planet was under attack by the Swarm in the Swarm Disaster and seeing as how they can duplicate with just about anything, to reduce their numbers the best they could, the people would gather the bodies of their dead warriors and civilians.

Now this character guarded a whole sector of these bodies and by their calculations, if the swarm reached it, their civilization would be doomed and with little to no tools and the idea of “It’s more respectful this way.” They undertook the “ultimate sin” and began to eat the bodies. This got them noticed by the Voracity.

However his civilization fell anyway and once the swarm reached him, he just…began to “eat” then instead. And like how their respectful Aeons “fought” none could kill the other for good until the character left. Though, he now never feels full, he is always hungry and so far the only things that can satisfy him is he siphons of a star or if he somehow manages to latch on a Emanator with regular Pathstriders being compared to snacks. Strangely enough he doesn’t truly eat the flesh of those two though he can, he seems to feed on the Path energy itself, and like Nihility/Acheron can temporarily disrupt it.

I’m thinking of calling him “Val’kraan” based off one of my DnD characters.

Didn’t know whether to make him just a pathstrider or an Emanator because not only would be a LOTTA bodies to eat but I suppose the urgency, the stress, the idea that he MUST eat, that he must RIP, TEAR, and DEVOUR to save his species? I think that would be enough to get him noticed by Oroboros.

As for story idea’s? Well I have a couple. Perhaps during the Wardance before Hoolay escaped, reports of a strange vessel landed on the Xianzhou Luofu. And once Hoolay actually escaped?

Everything went wrong. Hoolay seemed to just disappear. Some Borisin seemed to have chunks taken off them, others seemed to be just too weak to get up. Investigations lead to one part of the city and then…they found him.

Chains that look more like fleshy sinew was wrapped around Hoolay, seeming absorbing energy and due to the blessing of the Abundance it wasn’t stopping, they found him, just…watching, a somewhat satisfied look on his face as he “consumed” Hoolay’s pathenergy.

Also I know I said I have more scenarios but I’m lethargic so I’ll probably send more later. (Also yes I did somewhat base him off of Arkveld from Monster)

Bro.

BRO.

Val'kraan is fucking terrifying and I am so here for it.

Like. We got Nihility? Erasure. Destruction? Raw obliteration. Abundance? Endless rebirth. But Voracity?? That’s primal hunger. That’s the deep, throat-screaming, black-hole level craving that never ends. And you didn’t just touch that idea, you gnawed it to the bone and spat out something eldritch.

"To save his people, he started eating the dead."

Man, that’s already heavy. That’s some real desperation—like yeah, Oroboros would absolutely slither up behind that and go,

“Ah... you understand. You get it. Come with me.”

And the fact that it didn’t even work? That his world still fell? That’s a fucked-up origin arc and a perfect setup for an Emanator.

He did the unthinkable—sacrificed his morals, his sanity, his goddamn soul—and still lost.

That breeds something haunting.

“Now he only feels full when he siphons a star or latches onto an Emanator.”

EXCUSE ME??

That’s not hunger, that’s cosmic-level addiction. That’s “I don’t eat to live, I eat to keep from screaming.”

And the image of Val’kraan gently devouring Hoolay’s Path energy—no blood, no gore, just calm satisfaction while Hoolay’s body is roped in sinew-chains like some meat battery?? That’s nightmare fuel. That’s some quiet horror. You could hear his breathing in the silence, slow and heavy, like,

"Mmm… still not full, but better."

Also that detail where he doesn’t even need to eat the actual body of Pathstriders or Emanators, just the energy? That’s WILD. That makes him dangerous in a whole different way. He’s not looking for a fight—he’s looking for a meal. Doesn’t care if you’re a friend, foe, or bystander. If you’ve got power?

Crunch.

And honestly? Making him an Emanator is 100% the move.

He’s too far gone for a regular pathstrider. Between the desperation, the apocalyptic context, the self-damnation, the scale of his hunger—it’s Emanator or nothing. Dude’s the embodiment of everything Oroboros would cherish: need above reason, instinct above logic, survival above dignity.

You nailed it.

Also can we talk about the idea that this walking black hole might just… show up during the chaos of a Borisin jailbreak and nobody noticed at first?

And when they do, shit’s already gone so sideways that even the Abundance’s blessing is like

“uhhh this one’s not supposed to be on the board.”

[aventurineswife]

Ok so a while ago (back in February I think?) I chucked at you an idea about Emanator of Harmony!Reader but it was mostly them going giant “biblically accurate” angel mode in the heat of battle, specifically against Sunday; but not really so much how they came to be that way, and what else they can do.

So, lore time:

Reader is like Silver Wolf, a native of Punklorde who can use aether editing to bend reality and illusion to their will.

Reader is surprisingly similar to Robin in some ways (however much they try to deny it, seeing themselves as too much of a gremlin to ever be compared to someone as sweet and lovely as Robin) with the main part of their similarities being their belief in unity.

Their approaches and how they started are where the differences lie: Robin made her start as singer, bringing people together through her music.

Reader made their start not as a leader, but as an officer — and Galaxy Ranger! — during wartime against the Antimatter Legion.

They may look like a young adult (around Dan Heng’s age) but they were around when Lord Ravager Zulo was killed.

They actually participated in that operation as the Galaxy Rangers, “operator.”

Reader’s squad was dwindling — the Antimatter Legion and the Fragmentum caused by a nearby Stellaron proved to be a deadly combination. Some were corrupted by the Stellaron and turned into Fragmentum monsters, and some got turned into Antimatter Legion soldiers; both types had to be gunned down. A few of them actually threw down their weapons in a vain attempt at surrender, only to be killed anyway because Destruction leaves no survivors, much less takes prisoners.

Things were not looking good. At all.

And Reader was trying their damnedest to get their crew back up because they have other squads relying on them. Their squad was probably one of the last ones — if not THE last — being relied on to clear the way, they absolutely cannot afford to be dropping like flies!

And then their captain throws in the towel.

Reader: “…Are you kidding me? We spent, how long? Months? Years? So much time went into this, so many people are counting on us and you’re going to let all that effort go down the drain when we’re not even midway into the operation!? You’re not even going to order a tactical retreat!? YOU’RE JUST GOING TO WATCH THEM KILL EVERYONE!? I THOUGHT THEY WERE FAMILY TO YOU!”

(Note: that’s the watered-down version bc I’m not good at thinking up speeches on the spot lol)

It works. Their squad is getting back up, and with Reader’s navigation they manage to hit the enemies’ weak points, clearing the road for backup to finally arrive.

And when things start looking tight for other waves, Reader goes out of their way to direct them into turning the tables.

Up until they finally reach the Lord Ravager being targeted in the operation.

The first wave ends terribly.

The second wave also ends terribly, and Reader has to resort to bending some laws of reality and nature to buff their remaining allies so they can all scrape by and survive.

The third wave is when Reader outright breaks and rewrites those laws to give everyone power-ups.

That third wave is what draws Xipe’s attention.

THEY see Reader.

THEY see their efforts to do whatever it takes to rally everyone alive and keep them all alive to defeat the monster in front of them.

THEY decide that THEY really like Reader.

The next thing anyone knows, Reader somehow manages to “hack” into the Antimatter Legion’s soldiers and Fragmentum monsters, turning a good majority of them against Zulo.

Reader wasn’t the main cause of Zulo’s defeat and death, but they certainly played a major part in the event.

Fast forward several years later, and while Reader isn’t as active during their time as a Nameless, in no way does that mean they have retired as a Galaxy Ranger.

Their participation in the fight against Sunday proves that. They pull out all the stops: expanding the range of Tiernan’s relic when Boothill fires it to reach as many nearby Rangers as possible, amplifying Robin’s power as a Harmony Pathstrider in connection with the power of the Trailblaze, and boosting everyone’s own strengths.

Sunday didn’t stand a chance.

And now with Amphoreus confirmed to have traces and activities originating from the Destruction? And Screwllum passing along that some “Lygus” is attempting to create a Lord Ravager?

Well, this definitely isn’t Reader’s first rodeo.

Okay but—HOLY SHIT.

Reader being this gremlin-coded, chaos-infused Harmony Emanator who started out as a literal wartime Galaxy Ranger?? Using aether editing to bend reality for their squad mid-battle? Rallying demoralized troops with rage, desperation, and pure ride-or-die energy?? You absolutely nailed that.

“YOU’RE JUST GONNA WATCH THEM KILL EVERYONE!?”

That’s a war cry. That’s a battle anthem. Reader wasn’t just fighting the enemy—they were keeping the damn backbone of the operation from snapping in half.

And then Xipe showing up like

“Oh hello~ You’re interesting. 😍”

The way you described Reader rewriting the rules on wave three? Turning Fragmentum corruption against the Legion?? That’s not Harmony, that’s divine defiance. That’s, “If no one else can hold the line, I’ll build the damn line myself.”

Then fast forward, and they’re still pulling strings in the present day like a living war asset.

Expanding relics?

Boosting Robin’s melody mid-battle?

Turning a group fight into a full-on war chorus??

Sunday never had a chance. Bro showed up to a concert and accidentally got drafted.

And now we got Lygus stirring up shit? Trying to create a Lord Ravager??

Reader’s probably cracking their knuckles like,

“Tch. Again? Alright then. Let’s clean this up.”

I love how this whole arc quietly sets them up as the field general of Harmony. Not just the singer. Not just the cheerleader. They command unity.

And if you don’t fall in line?

You get overwritten.

[aventurineswife]

Was reading that ask with eldritch cecaelia Reader and when Trailblazer walked into the room with a bucket hat and a fishing rod I immediately heard the Wellerman.

And you know what, I can kind of see TB putting on some sea shanties for some bgm while they try (fruitlessly) to fish up the Stellaron.

“There once was a ship that put to sea

The name of the ship was the Billy O’ Tea

The winds blew up,

Her bow dipped down,

O blow, my bully boys, blow~!”

And Dan Heng rolls his eyes in exasperation — but he doesn’t turn off the music, because he’s just as much of a gremlin as the rest of them. 🤭

STOP THAT IMAGERY IS KILLING ME LMAOOO 😭😭

Trailblazer in a bucket hat, sleeves rolled up, just vibing on a rock somewhere near Eldritch!Reader like,

“C’mon baby, gimme that juicy Stellaron…”

Meanwhile "Wellerman" is blasting from their speaker like they’re in some post-apocalyptic pirate anime arc.

Dan Heng’s in the background, arms crossed, all “this is so dumb…”

…but he’s tapping his foot to the beat. He’s into it, don’t let him lie.

Reader, a whole terrifying oceanic horror, just watching like:

“Do they think they can fish up a cosmic anomaly with... bait?”

Trailblazer: “I got a gummy worm on the hook. This’ll work.”

[aventurineswife]

Thinking about a Reader who gets such a strong case of cuteness aggression when they meet Phainon for the very first time that they literally slam their forehead against a wall to snap out of it.

Smth smth Phainon confronts Reader the same way he confronted Dan Heng and Trailblazer, except Reader immediately stops and drops their weapon like he tells them to—

Phainon: *thinking* (Well, at least this is going a lot smoother than last time…)

Reader: *thinking* (…Fuck me, he looks like a Samoyed puppy.)

Phainon: *turns to lead the way to Tribbie*

Reader: *turns around to slam their head against the wall*

SFX: CRACK‼️

Phainon: 🤯😱 “Wha— Wh— What happened!?”

Reader: *now bleeding from their head* “Sorry, I had a headache…”

Phainon: 😭 “So your solution was to bash your head against the bloody wall!?”

And now Reader has a white gauze bandage smack in the middle of their forehead and they just look so silly.

Dan Heng: “…Let me guess, they slammed their head against the wall?”

Phainon: 😰 “Yes…?”

Dan Heng: 😮‍💨 “Wouldn’t be the first time they’ve done that.”

OH MY GOD THIS IS PEAK IDIOTIC BEHAVIOR I LOVE IT SO MUCH 😭😭

Like—Reader’s standing there, heart in full-on kawaii overload seizure mode, staring at this literal walking simulation planet like:

“This man could murder me in 0.3 seconds flat... and I want to scratch behind his ears.”

Phainon, all business and dead serious with his whole, “Drop your weapon, now.”

And Reader? Immediately just yeets their gear to the floor like it’s a goddamn hot potato.

He’s thinking, “Okay, cool, we’re not doing round two of whatever Dan Heng and Trailblazer were on. This one listens.”

Meanwhile Reader’s just:

“Don’t call him fluffy. Don’t call him fluffy. Don’t fucking call him—”

And then SNAP—mental containment breach. They full body pivot into the wall like they’re doing a dramatic anime self-discipline arc.

CRACK.

Now there’s blood. 😭

Phainon’s frozen in horror, like:

“HELLO??? ARE YOU OKAY??? WHAT THE HELL KIND OF COPING MECHANISM IS WALL HEADBUTTING!?”

Reader, dabbing their face with the sleeve:

“Mmm, just a lil’ tension. It’s fine.”

Trailblazer shows up with Dan Heng, sees the gauze like it’s a Tuesday occurrence.

“Ah. The bonk method. Classic.”

Phainon, completely disoriented:

“You’re telling me this is a recurring thing!?”

Dan Heng just sighs and mutters:

“You should’ve seen them when they met Blade. They tried to smolder and then panicked and ran into a signpost.”

And now Phainon’s rethinking everything.

Reader’s walking next to him, totally unbothered, still bleeding a little, while internally losing their damn mind like:

“He’s so FLUFFY I WANNA CRADLE HIS FACE—” (real.)

[aventurineswife]

Maaaaaaaay or may not be inspired by recent irl events—

We back with Idol! Reader lesgooooo—

Except it’s not as sugary and whimsical this time.

Reader, like Cyrene (and Black Swan, I think), often dabbles in divination using tarot cards.

And the reason they don’t like doing it often (unless it’s for silly things like winning a lottery or the 50/50 in a gacha) is because, sure, sometimes they get really good readings and they can expect a lovely surprise.

But when they get negative readings?

Especially if related to incidents and scandals?

Oh boy.

Their readings can be so accurate it’s actually terrifying.

It’s to the point where when someone Reader is acquainted with is investigating something fishy but they have no other leads left (or any leads at all) and are wondering if they should continue pursuing their suspicions, they often go to Reader for “extra advice.”

Thus far, Reader has managed to predict:

Cocolia’s death.

Tingyun’s survival (despite Phantylia’s attempts to kill and take over her life).

Duke Inferno’s death at Acheron’s hands.

Sunday’s downfall as the head of the Oak Family.

Borisin Warhead Hoolay breaking free, and Preceptor Taoran’s downfall and arrest (and, indirectly, Dan Heng finally getting some justice).

Luocha is starting to doubt if the plan he and Jingliu are proposing (to use the Propagation and the Destruction and kill the Abundance) will actually go well.

Aventurine’s luck has haunted him throughout his life, he fully believes (and is sweating buckets) at Reader’s prediction from months ago about a war of Aeon proportions breaking out.

Fu Xuan is pulling her hair out trying to understand how tf Reader manages to get such accurate readings. Even the Xianzhou’s Divination Commission relies on calculations and extrapolations! Yes, some of it relies on Nous’s power as the Aeon of Erudition but they’re still calculations!!!

Jing Yuan: 😅 “Is no one going to discuss how even the numbers on the cards match?”

Everyone stops and goes back to check.

The numbers on the cards do indeed match.

Everyone is losing their minds—

And not too long ago, Reader also predicted Phainon accidentally throwing his efforts (to fight Lygus’s plan and stop Irontomb’s birth) under the bridge (when he tried to solo Nanook only to get stonewalled by Zephyros, and leaving only a scratch on Nanook’s face).

Reader: 🥶 “Uhhhhhhhhhhhh I’m not gonna have lawsuits thrown at me for allegedly ruining peoples lives through tarot readings, right…?”

WAKE UP BESTIES, IDOL!READER AU GOT A NEW PART! 🗣️‼️

Idol!Reader already being a huge name with fans screaming over their performances, but backstage? They've got that one creepy-ass velvet tarot pouch, and the minute the deck comes out, everyone in the room goes silent like someone just pulled a gun. Because they know—Reader doesn’t pull unless shit’s about to get real.

And like, yeah, Reader plays it cool most of the time.

“Pfft, it’s just cards. Look, I got the Lovers and the Wheel of Fortune—gimme that 50/50 banner!”

But the second they pull a fucking Tower + Five of Swords + Death combo, the entire room starts sweating. Luocha’s in the corner staring at the cards like they just personally insulted his medical license. Fu Xuan’s running the math seventeen different ways and none of it adds up.

And don’t even get me STARTED on how unhinged it is that the card numbers match real-world shit. Jing Yuan pointing that out like:

“Uh. The Duke died on the 13th… and that was the XIII card.”

Reader, already pale: “…Shit, I thought that was just dramatic flair—”

Meanwhile, Phainon is just sitting in a corner trying to meditate through the psychic embarrassment of fulfilling a “Don’t fuck around and find out” prophecy that Reader warned him about MONTHS ago.

Like: Reader: “So uh, this card combo here? It’s giving… ‘You will try something stupid and cosmic, and it will blow up in your face.’”

Phainon: “Pfft, I’m built different.”

Also Phainon, two weeks later: "I am built wrong. Very wrong. I have made mistakes."

And the kicker? Reader is just desperately trying to be chill about it like:

“Please… PLEASE don’t make this my brand. I’m just an idol who likes shiny cards and sparkly eyeliner. I don’t want to end up on an intergalactic true crime docuseries called ‘The Pop Star Who Predicted Armageddon.’”

But nope. Too late. Word’s already out. Fu Xuan’s eye is twitching. Luocha’s praying. Aventurine is triple-locking his doors.

And someone, somewhere, is already editing a "[Name] predicted it" compilation to creepy music.

[aventurineswife]

I’m absolutely obsessed with Boothill from Honkai: Star Rail! I had this idea of pairing him with a reader who's a mechanic ( Gender Neutral Reader or Female Reader) , someone super hands-on and a little chaotic in their love. Like, full blown love bombing energy.

Examples In what I mean by full-blown love bombing :

“Oh, you like this meal? Great, I made a hundred servings!” “You got hurt?! Forget everything else, I’m dropping everything to take care of you!” “I’ve got a cut? Eh, it’s nothing.” But if Boothill has even a scratch “OMG STAY STILL I’M BRINGING A THOUSAND MED KITS!!”

That kind of over the top affection but in the most wholesome, dramatic way possible!

Now, just to spice things up a bit... What if Boothill was also a yandere?

+ But the reader? Totally oblivious. They just think, “Aw, he’s being sweet!” completely missing the red flags waving in their face. They either don’t notice, or they’ve convinced themselves it’s just how love works even though it’s anything but normal.

Oh hell yeah, this is a pairing that would be unhinged in the most delightful way. Like, these two shouldn’t work, but somehow they do, and it’s beautiful, messy, and probably terrifying to everyone else watching from the sidelines.

Boothill, with that dusty cowboy flair and obsessive ride-or-die energy, paired with a Mechanic!Reader who shows love by building an entire armory of affection? 😭🙏 oh my heart. Reader’s like, “Oh, you liked that custom revolver I made? Cool, here’s five more. And I also made one that launches tiny heart-shaped smoke bombs. You’re welcome.”

Meanwhile, Boothill’s in the corner polishing his gun like, “Ain’t nobody gettin’ near you, sugar. Not while I’m still breathin’.”

And Reader’s just nodding along like, “Aw, he really cares. He’s so passionate.”

The yandere angle makes it even better. Boothill isn’t the subtle, cold kind—nah, he’s the loud, violent, shoot-a-man-for-looking-too-long kind of yandere. He’s still got that charm, sure, but underneath? Straight-up deranged. Would 100% hold someone at gunpoint and still be smiling, like,

“Now partner, don’t take it personal—but you breathed too close to my sunshine.”

And Reader? Fully oblivious. They walk in mid-threat and go:

“Aww, baby, are you makin’ friends?”

Reader's love-bombing only feeds his obsession too. Patch up a scratch on his hand with seventeen different bandages and a handmade balm? He’ll decide right then and there you’re the only one who’s ever truly loved him. And gods help anyone who even teases you for being “too much”—Boothill’s already drawing his gun like,

“Say that again. I forkin’ dare you.”

Everyone on the Express is just like, “Oh no, it's the lovebirds. Somebody hide the tools and sharp objects.”

[aventurineswife]

Omg this was so sweet and thoughtful comment!! 🥹💖 You totally get the vibe of each piece and I love how you broke it all down (even i didn't think that much lmao).

Ugh, I love the breakdowns for each character like; Anaxa’s chaos + hidden care. And Mydei being lowkey but so soft?? Also the way you caught how Sunday’s bit flips the trope??

Thanks for sharing your thoughts, I loved reading all of it! 🫶🥺💖

I enjoy seeing your writings pop-up in the character tags. I also especially like how much fun you have with some of the prompts.

I saw requests are open, so I have an interesting request for you. The HSR Universe is ripe for suggestions and weird things, so why not?

I couldn't decide on who to pick for this prompt. So for maybe like 3 HSR characters of your choice, can I ask for a reader that decides to take an experimental drink, thinking nothing of it, but it ends up leaving reader reader with a temporary heart mark on their skin that turns colors based on their emotions? (I.e. A mood ring type of situation?)

“Feelings Are Just Colors in Disguise”

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Slow-Burn Hints, Emotional Connection, Magical Realism, Light Mystery/Speculative Magic, Emotion-Based Magic, Slight Introspection and Internal Conflict, Light Banter (Especially with Anaxa), Gentle Warmth and Comfort (Mydei and Sunday), Themes Of Identity And Vulnerability.

Warnings: Minor Injury Mentions (No Graphic Violence), Emotional Vulnerability And Exploration Of Complex Feelings, Mild Existential Themes and Philosophical Reflection (Anaxa, Sunday), Brief References To Past Trauma Or Loss (Handled Sensitively), Experimental Magic and Body Markings.

A/N: I'm glad you enjoy them! <33

The battlefield was quiet for once.

You sat near the campfire, a little tent away from the rest of Mydei’s soldiers. Your fingers curled around a strange flask handed to you earlier by one of the alchemists from Okhema. “Experimental drink,” they’d said. “For fortification.” You barely listened—tired, thirsty, and desperate for anything that didn't taste like boiled roots and despair.

The liquid was sweet and strange—like pomegranate but effervescent and tinged with cheese. Oddly comforting.

Within minutes, a sharp warmth bloomed across your collarbone. You looked down and gasped.

A glowing heart-shaped mark pulsed there, tinted gold-orange.

“What in the—?”

“...You’ve been marked,” came a voice behind you, low and steady.

You turned to see Mydei, the Guardian of Amphoreus himself, crouching beside you. His eyes narrowed at the glowing heart. “I’ve seen marks of magic, but not this.” His gaze was calculating but not unkind.

“It changes color,” you muttered, pressing your hand over the glowing skin. “Based on emotion, I think.”

“It’s orange now,” he murmured. “Hopeful. Curious.”

You swallowed. “Is that...good?”

Mydei’s fingers brushed yours away gently. His gauntleted hand hovered near the mark, not touching—but close enough that you felt the heat between you.

“You should rest,” he said. But he lingered. “I’ll stay. To make sure it doesn’t...spread.”

You caught a flicker of red in the heart.

He noticed too. A rare smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Red. You fear me?”

“I—No!” you stammered. “That was—surprise. Not fear.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head, hair catching the firelight. “We’ll see.”

The mark flickered again—a warm, soft pink.

He didn’t tease. He didn’t gloat. Just leaned in closer and whispered, “Then you have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Drink this,” Anaxa said, sliding a shimmering vial your way across the cluttered workshop bench.

You frowned. “Last time you said that, I couldn’t stop quoting dead philosophers in rhyme for three hours.”

“Consider that a success,” he grinned, wild-eyed and amused. “This one’s subtler. Stimulates emotional resonance. I hypothesize it’ll project your internal state to the surface.”

You rolled your eyes—but downed it anyway. It was teal and fizzled like starlight.

And then it happened. A searing sensation just over your heart. You yanked your shirt aside, revealing a vivid heart symbol on your skin—magenta.

“Fascinating!” Anaxa clapped. “Magenta—emotional intensity. Possibly love. Or embarrassment. Maybe a repressed desire to throttle me. Which would be fair.”

You stared, horrified. “It glows!”

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “So does truth. Most people just spend their lives hiding from it.”

The heart flickered bright red.

“Ah—anger now. Excellent emotional range. You're practically a living thesis.”

You stood up. “This is humiliating!”

He didn’t stop you—just followed you out into the moonlight, curious.

Silence stretched. You wrapped your arms around yourself, heart glowing violet now.

He studied the color. “Fear and mystery,” he said softly. “But not of me.”

“No,” you admitted, voice small. “Just...of what this means. Of being seen.”

Anaxa was quiet a moment. Then, to your surprise, he took off his glove, revealing a crimson sigil glowing faintly on his palm. “Then let me be seen too,” he said, placing his hand just inches from your heart.

The mark shifted to silver-blue.

Clarity. Vulnerability. A chance.

It happened during the layover at a celestial observatory.

You wandered through the festival bazaar, eyes catching on a Halovian vendor’s glittering elixirs. You asked for something new. Something unique.

They gave you a gentle drink, honey-smooth with lavender undertones. The moment it touched your lips, you felt warmth settle over your chest. Then—the mark appeared.

A faint heart, right above your sternum. At first, it shimmered pale blue.

You found Sunday sitting on the edge of a terrace, eyes watching the cosmos.

When he saw you, his wings fluttered gently. “You’ve changed,” he said, and your breath hitched.

You explained quickly, nervously—about the mark, about the drink.

He studied it silently. Then: “It’s...beautiful.”

You blinked. “It’s revealing.”

“Most beauty is.”

The heart glowed peach, soft and warm. Sunday’s eyes flicked to the color.

“I wonder,” he murmured. “What would I see if I bore such a mark? Guilt? Longing? Maybe...hope.”

You sat beside him. “Try,” you said, lifting his hand and placing it near your heart.

The heart turned a deep gold.

For a moment, Sunday said nothing. But his halo glowed softly, and a breeze stirred his scarf.

“That’s new,” he said. “It means you feel...safe. Around me.”

You looked at him, truly looked—and saw the flicker of conflict behind his serene mask.

“Maybe you could try,” you whispered. “Letting someone in.”

His fingers curled around yours.

And the heart turned white.

Peace. Maybe fleeting—but real.

[aventurineswife]

hi hi!

(this is my first time requesting, so i'm sorry if i'm doing it incorrectly in some way dkdksksj)

i don't have a very specific scenario in mind so you have total creative freedom, but i would really like to request some romantic x reader headcanons or oneshots with sampo, aventurine and sunday (all individually). especially sampo though... i love him a lot and there aren't that many fics of him lately. i absolutely love your writing so i know it'll be amazing! thank you and take care <3

What a Dangerous Thing, to Be Loved So Softly

Tags: Sampo x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Romance, Fluff, Angst, Emotional Intimacy, Slow Burn, Found Family, Moral Grayness, Subtle Manipulation, Symbolic Gestures, Emotional Vulnerability, Bittersweet Tension, Psychological Depth.

Warnings: Emotional Manipulation, Trust Issues, Past Trauma, Survivor’s Guilt, Moral Ambiguity, Power Imbalance, Existential Themes, Deception, Unspoken Feelings, Subtle Possessiveness, Religious Trauma, Self-Isolation, Mentions Of Oppression.

A/N: Thank you for your kind words! I hope you like these silly and random hcs for these men. 🙏

Sampo calls you every term under the sun except your name: “darling,” “starshine,” “investor of my affections.” It’s unclear if it’s affection or a long con, until he slips and says your name during a moment of real fear.

His teasing is relentless—but only you ever get to see the guilt behind his jokes. When you're hurt or sad, he falters, his mask slipping just enough to reveal genuine concern… before backpedaling into “Well, I mean, I can’t have my best customer dying on me, right?”

Sampo is terrified of commitment, but even more terrified of losing the one person who sees him, not the performance.

He won’t say "I love you" outright. He shows it by giving you the real version of a story—the one without embellishment. He trades honesty like it’s a rare currency, and you're the only one rich enough to afford it.

Pillow talk with him is a chaotic blend of gossip, half-truths, and existential vulnerability. One minute he’s recounting a wild escape from the Silvermane Guards, the next he’s softly asking, “Would you still love me if I wasn’t funny?”

He has trouble sleeping, so he lays on your chest and counts your heartbeat like it's the only real thing in his world.

One day, he gifts you a trinket—a cheap thing by anyone else’s standard, but it’s his lucky charm, the one he swore he’d never part with. He plays it off: “Well, I figured it’s safer with you than me.”

You later catch him reaching for it during a dangerous moment, only to stop himself, remembering he gave it to you. His expression falters. “Guess I’m not used to trusting someone else with my luck.”

He’s used to seduction as strategy—smirking over cards, “accidentally” brushing your hand. But when you flirt back, it catches him off-guard. He stumbles, and it’s the most sincere thing you’ve ever seen.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, darling,” he says, voice low. “And you’re winning.”

He shares his real name, Kakavasha, only once. The moment is quiet, devoid of flair. He doesn’t explain why—he just says it and waits. If you say it back, his breath catches.

His left hand always hides behind his back during high-stakes moments. But when he holds your hand—left hand—he never lets go. It’s wordless trust.

He spoils you in calculated ways. Custom clothing, rare wines, antique books—always things that show he’s been watching, listening.

Yet he’s startled by your small gestures: you make him tea after a long day; you adjust his choker when it sits wrong. Those little things undo him far more than any grand gesture.

After a mission that goes sideways, you find him staring at his own reflection, drenched in blood, laughter long gone. When you touch his shoulder, he flinches—then leans in, forehead against yours. “If I lose you,” he whispers, “there’s no game left worth playing.”

Sunday approaches romance like a sacred thing, delicate and painful. He watches you with reverence, often lost in thought mid-conversation as if memorizing every expression.

You’ll catch his wings flutter when you surprise him with kindness. It’s a silent confession: you matter.

His idea of a date is philosophical. You’ll find yourselves walking under starlight discussing the nature of joy and sorrow, your hands brushing, his halo faintly pulsing behind him.

He speaks softly when he’s vulnerable. “Is it selfish,” he asks one night, “to want a future with you in it?”

He has terrible dreams—half-memory, half prophecy. When he wakes, shaking, he clutches your pillow, grounding himself.

One night, you find him in the observatory, wings drooping, eyes dim. “You remind me that I’m still alive,” he says. “That I’m not just... what the Order made me.”

Sunday struggles to believe he deserves love. But he lets you trace the symbols on his halo, kiss the feathers behind his ear, and hold him during those hollow moments.

He cries, silently, the first time you tell him you love him. And then, with a trembling voice: “I think I’ve been dreaming of you since before I even knew what hope felt like.”

[aventurineswife]

hey so can I have scenario with Jiaoqui where he makes his usual spicy food which is too hot for everybody and they’re like “put coriander in it” and he’s like “no! Begone demon!” And his crush is like “if not coriander, you ever thought about putting flannel, cinnamon, cumin or ginger in it, instead?”

Taste and Be Still

Summary: In the bustling healing pavilion of the Xianzhou Yaoqing, Jiaoqiu’s notoriously spicy cooking tests the limits of every soldier’s palate—until you offer an unexpected suggestion: add cinnamon, cumin, or ginger instead of the cursed coriander. Surprised by your insight and intrigued by your presence, Jiaoqiu finds himself rethinking not just his cauldron’s balance, but the fire in his own heart. Amid gentle teasing and shared warmth, something deeper begins to simmer between the two of you.

Tags: Jiaoqiu x Reader, Fluff, Humor, Food Bonding, Mild Angst, Emotional Healing, Slow Burn Romance, Supportive Reader.

Warnings: Mild Mentions of War Trauma, Emotional Fatigue, Light Spice Humor, Subtle Allusions to Past Heartbreak.

The pavilion smelled like suffering and Sichuan peppercorn.

The soldiers—brave enough to stand in the face of mara—had long since retreated to the far corners of the camp, clutching their half-scorched tongues like war wounds. Even the birds avoided the cauldron today, as Jiaoqiu gently stirred his infamous "Phoenix-Flame Congee," its crimson broth bubbling with foreboding.

"By the stars—!" a young lieutenant sputtered, face redder than a sunset. "Can’t you just—gods forgive me—put coriander in it or something?!"

A hush fell. Several heads turned in slow horror to the speaker.

Jiaoqiu’s eyes flickered open for the first time in hours, the slits of his pupils narrowing like drawn blades.

"Coriander?" His voice, as ever, was polite—soothing, even—but laced with such chilling authority that even the wind paused to listen.

"Begone, demon."

The lieutenant flinched and fled. Another casualty of flavor-induced hubris.

You watched the scene unfold from the corner of the tent, hand cupped to your mouth to hide the grin curling at your lips. Jiaoqiu—ever the picture of calm catastrophe—returned to his stirring, tail swaying behind him like a metronome of judgment.

You padded over, eyes on the concoction. The aroma was enough to clear sinuses, scorch lungs, and perhaps summon forgotten gods. But still… you could taste the care in it. There was love in this chaos. Intention. Wounds were meant to be cleansed, and Jiaoqiu seemed to believe the same held true for the tongue.

"You could try softening the edge," you said casually, taking a seat nearby. "Not coriander—perish the thought—but... maybe something with a rounder base?"

Jiaoqiu tilted his head at you, curious. His eyes were only half-open now, their burnt-sunset hues glowing softly in the congee’s steam.

"Do go on," he murmured, voice threaded with amusement. "I suppose you have a remedy for my blistering sins?"

You smiled. “Flannel root. Maybe a touch of ginger. Cinnamon or cumin if you’re bold. They wouldn’t ruin the heat, just... redirect it. You ever thought about that?”

There was a pause. His fox ears twitched once. Then, slowly, genuinely, he considered.

"Redirecting the fire..." he repeated. “Like reshaping a wound’s edge to promote healing... without removing the flame altogether.”

A soft laugh escaped your lips. “You always talk like you’re performing surgery. Even with soup.”

“Everything I do is surgery,” he replied. “Only the blade changes.”

He stared down into the broth a moment longer. Then, to everyone’s shock—though only you were close enough to hear the whisper of decision—he reached into his alchemical pouch and withdrew a curled brown shard of cassia bark. With gentle reverence, he dropped it into the cauldron. One swirl. Two. The bubbling eased.

“I can still taste the fire,” you said, after a cautious spoonful. “But now it warms instead of... annihilates.”

Jiaoqiu looked at you with something unreadable in his gaze. Tender, perhaps. A little sad. His hand, still holding the stirring ladle, trembled just slightly.

"Is that not what I’ve always longed for?" he murmured. “To burn... but not destroy?”

He turned back to the pot before you could answer, voice growing more playful, even as something deeper lingered beneath the surface.

"Though you do realize... if this concoction becomes beloved, I will blame you for corrupting my culinary legacy.”

You leaned in, shoulder brushing his sleeve. “Gladly. If it means fewer melted tongues and fewer soldiers cursing your name.”

Jiaoqiu chuckled, soft and rare, a sound like warm wind rustling silk.

“And if I said I’ll need your assistance tomorrow, to perfect this gentle inferno...?”

You met his gaze, unwavering. “Then I’ll bring the ginger.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the scent of spice and the subtle thrum of something unspoken, Jiaoqiu allowed himself a quiet peace.

Not everything that burned needed to be a battlefield.

[aventurineswife]

can I please request emotionless teen reader (who's apart of the nameless) basically killing all of the borisin on the lawfu and giving all their heads to fei xaoi like a dog giving it's owner treats

A Gift of Blood and Loyalty

Summary: On the bloodstained paths of the Xianzhou Luofu, a stoic, emotionless Nameless teen brings grisly offerings to Feixiao, slaughtering Borisin in cold precision. With silent devotion, the teen presents their trophies—severed heads—as if delivering treasured gifts to the one figure they’ve come to idolize. Feixiao, burdened by her own violent past and inner affliction, sees too much of herself in the quiet shadow at her heels. In a bond forged through blood, silence, and unspoken loyalty, the two walk the edge of purpose—and something deeper.

Tags: Feixiao x Reader, Emotionless!Teen!Reader, Nameless!Reader, Devotion, Dark Themes, Soft Angst, Violence, Gore, Found Family Dynamic (Implied), Unspoken Affection (Platonic), Mutual Understanding, Subtle Hurt/Comfort.

Warnings: Graphic violence, Gore (severed heads, blood), PTSD themes (Implied), Mentions of war crimes and child soldiers, Power imbalance, Emotional detachment, Trauma, Mentions of berserker affliction (“Moon Rage”).

Feixiao stood alone in the training courtyard of the Yaoqing’s eastern wing, her coat dancing lightly in the wind. The scent of scorched metal and faint ozone still lingered from the morning’s drills. For the first time that day, her weapons were silent, her stance unguarded. She allowed herself a breath. Not a sigh. Never a sigh.

The moment didn’t last.

Boots padded against the stone, soft but deliberate. She didn’t need to turn around. She knew the presence well now—still, silent as a shadow, yet heavier than most soldiers twice their size. One of the Nameless. And still just a teen.

You.

You came to a stop beside her, the faint clatter of something wet and heavy drawing her gaze downward. A sack—coarse, bloodied, bulging.

She arched an eyebrow.

You knelt—never ceremonially, never theatrically. Just with that same deadpan detachment you wore in all things—and untied the sack with meticulous fingers.

Out rolled heads.

Borisin. Every last one of them.

Their blood matted their fur, and their eyes stared into nothing, mouths twisted in rage or terror—never peace. Twenty-three of them. She counted without meaning to.

You didn’t speak. You never did unless necessary. You simply looked at her with the same lifeless gaze you always had. Like a hound waiting for praise.

Feixiao’s fingers twitched. Not for her sword—but for something else she hadn’t yet named.

“…You tracked all of them.” Her voice was low, testing. “Alone.”

You gave a slow blink. A nod.

Feixiao crouched beside the nearest head, brushing her fingers along the bloodied fur, recognition flickering in her eyes. High-ranking. Some of them had escaped justice after the last border raid. Some she’d marked herself.

“You brought them to me like… trophies.”

You tilted your head. “I thought you’d want them.”

She exhaled slowly through her nose. Not out of disgust. Not out of shock. Just something akin to… conflicted awe.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” you said plainly. “You hate them. I remember.”

That was true. She did hate the Borisin for what they were. For what they’d done. For what she’d been forced to become among them. But this—this wasn’t simple vengeance. This was… devotion.

Silent. Brutal. Pure.

“You killed them like a machine,” she murmured, standing up again.

“I am good at it.”

A beat.

Feixiao studied you, her eyes softer than she ever showed anyone else. You were young. Too young. Yet your hands bore more scars than most veterans. And your eyes—empty in a way hers hadn’t been since the Moon Rage first took root—were always watching her. Not the stars. Not the world. Just her.

“You shouldn’t throw your life away for my ghosts,” she said, stepping closer. “What I carry… no one should try to share it.”

“I don’t care,” you replied flatly. “If you fall, no one else can carry what you do. So I’ll keep cutting down the things that chase you. Until there’s nothing left.”

Feixiao inhaled sharply.

In that moment, she saw herself reflected in you. The same silence, the same purpose. But not the same rage. No. You weren’t consumed.

You were empty—and you’d chosen to be filled with her instead.

Something ached in her chest. The kind of ache she feared more than battle. She looked away, teeth clenching, hands curling at her sides.

“You’re too young to be this cruel,” she said quietly.

You shrugged. “I learned from watching you.”

That drew a short, bitter laugh from her throat.

And yet, as the sun dipped behind the spires of the Yaoqing, Feixiao reached out and touched your head—brief, but not unkind.

“Then I’ll take your offering,” she said, voice steady again. “But next time…”

You looked up.

“…Next time, come back without blood on your clothes. I don’t like seeing it on you.”

You didn’t smile. But you nodded.

Feixiao didn’t know if it was mercy or madness she saw in you. But she knew, with painful clarity, that you’d already chosen her as your north star.

And that made you dangerous.

To others. And maybe, eventually, to her.

But for now, she let you follow. Let you kneel.

Let you protect the last shard of her that hadn't yet shattered.

[aventurineswife]

I'M CRYING AT THE FACT THAT YOU TURNED INTO A SEAL MID-READ AND STARTED CLAPPING LIKE ONE, LIKE BYE!!! 😭🦭 (THE IMAGERY IN MIND IS TOO FUNNY but thank you for clapping your little flippers in support 😭💙)

But, you get it—you caught every layer of Ratio's emotional spiral! 🥹👏

No amount of words can express how much I wanna squish this man 🤏😔

Can I request Anaxa, Jiaoqiu, Jing Yuan, and Ratio with a reader who is able to boost other people's powers and abilities by letting them basically use their energy in addition to the characters' own (like a living battery almost), but is unable to use any kind of powers or abilities themself? If the healers are running out of juice, they will immediately offer themselves up as a power source. Their own limitations are not even considered. There are people hurt and they want to help however they can.

To Burn and Be Bright

Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Power Sharing, Self-Sacrificial Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Angst, Fluff with Emotional Depth, Mutual Respect, Protective, Existential Themes, Slow Burn Elements, Emotional Intimacy.

Warnings: Burnout From Overexertion, Non-Graphic Self-Harm (Magic Exhaustion), Battlefield Trauma, Mentions of Death and War, Medical Distress, Emotional Vulnerability, Power Imbalance (Non-Abusive), Philosophical Themes, Mild Romantic Implications.

Anaxa slammed a scorched tome closed, its golden filigree burning beneath his fingertips.

"The soul-thread is too weak."

Blood dripped from his lip where he'd bitten it, frustration overwhelming calculation. Around you, wounded scholars writhed in agony, their essence destabilized after his reckless experiment to siphon divinity.

“I can help,” you said.

He didn't look at you. “No.”

“But I—”

“No.” His voice was sharper now, cracking like ice across old stone. “Your body wasn't made for this. Your energy isn't refined. You'd burn out.”

You stepped closer, kneeling beside the blood-drenched cipher altar. “And what? Let them die?”

He finally turned, and for a moment—just a moment—his eye glowed behind the gold-etched eyepatch.

“You think I haven’t run the probability? You think I haven’t seen the consequences?” His voice dropped, bitter and fractured. “You're not a tool, damn it.”

You reached out and placed your hand over his.

“I’m not a tool. I’m a choice. Let me choose.”

Anaxa closed his eyes.

Seconds later, the room pulsed with arcane light. His voice chanted in forbidden tongue as your body trembled beside him, energy rushing into his system like a star being born inside his veins.

You blacked out halfway through the ritual.

When you woke up hours later, his coat was draped over your body. His gloved hand clutched yours tightly. His voice, just barely above a whisper:

“Don’t ever call yourself powerless again. Without you… there is no proof. There is no me.”

The tent reeked of blood and ash, and the healing grid was already flickering.

Jiaoqiu’s hand trembled as he stirred the alchemical cauldron, nine distinct broths bubbling in a complex pattern. He was running out of energy—his tail low, ears pinned back, chest rising with every restrained breath.

“I’m here,” you whispered.

His eyes opened—painful, cracked—and though he normally kept them closed, he held your gaze.

“You always come when I’m weakest.”

You smiled. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“No,” he murmured, setting down his fan. “The point was to protect you from this. Every time I let you give me your strength, a part of me worries you’ll burn out. Like a candle for everyone else’s fire.”

You didn’t hesitate. You sat beside the cauldron and reached for him.

“I’d rather flicker than watch you break.”

With a solemn sigh, he intertwined your fingers with his, guiding your energy into his own. The broth glowed brighter. Soldiers outside stopped groaning. The battlefield quieted.

His voice trembled, even as his wounds healed. “One day, I want to heal you too. Not just your body. But the part of you that thinks it’s only useful when it's giving.”

You leaned into his shoulder as your strength faded, smiling.

“Then we’ll keep going until you do.”

“General, the formation’s collapsing!”

Jing Yuan stood at the edge of the shattered ridge, blood dripping from his blade, cloak shredded in the wind. A dozen injured Cloud Knights groaned behind him. He had minutes. Less.

Then he felt it—warmth against his back. Familiar. Steady.

You.

“Don’t,” he said immediately, voice like rumbling thunder. “You’ve given too much today.”

“I can give more.”

He turned, his eyes tired. Not from battle—but from worry.

“You’ll collapse.”

“Better me than them.”

His fist clenched, and he looked away. “You do this every time. You rush into my shadow and light it with your soul.”

You touched his arm gently. “Because I believe in you. And because you’ve never once let that light go to waste.”

He didn’t respond for a long moment. Then he gently placed his hand over your heart.

“Promise me something.”

You blinked. “What?”

“When all this is over… when there’s peace… let me carry your burden for once.”

Your lips curved faintly as your energy surged into his form. The storm around him reignited with luminous force.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, before the light overtook you both.

“You are reckless.”

His voice echoed down the marble corridors of the ruined observatory, each word a jagged verdict.

“Don’t start,” you muttered, stumbling from exhaustion. “They needed power. I had it. You would’ve done the same.”

“I wouldn’t have nearly died doing it four times in a row,” he snapped, for once not hiding behind metaphor or philosophy. He pulled you into a chair, unwrapping your burned palms with maddening precision.

“You always say knowledge must be used, Veritas.”

“Yes. By minds capable of wielding it rationally. Not by idealists burning themselves like inefficient fuel rods!”

Your laughter was faint. “You sound scared.”

“I am,” he hissed. “You are the one equation I cannot balance. The one constant I cannot afford to lose.”

You softened.

“I don’t want to be an equation,” you whispered. “I want to be your choice.”

He paused. Then, for the first time, removed the alabaster mask himself.

“I’m not good at emotion,” he said simply. “But if I could rewrite this universe’s formula…”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You’d be the center of it.”

You passed out moments later, spent.

But when you awoke, his coat was around your shoulders, a steaming cup of nutrient broth on the table—and a newly published thesis titled:

“On the Strength of a Soul that Gives Without Asking: A Dedication.”

[aventurineswife]

I just saw your ' Porcelain Divinity ' post and I NEED MORE. Could I request some headcanons with Amphoreous guys with the same kind of reader. If possible can you also make it fluff, since I've seen nothing but angst today.

BTW I LOVE YOUR WRITING

Glass Soul, Golden Heart

Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Mydeimos x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Halovian!Reader, Psychic Powers, Found Family, Protective Instincts, Slow Burn Romance, Soft Moments Amidst War, Mutual Pining, Emotional Vulnerability, Banter, Hurt/Comfort, Battlefield Tenderness, Power Couple Energy, Reader is Fragile But Powerful, Soulbond Vibes, Post-Battle Fluff, Gentle Affection, “I’ll Protect You” Energy.

Warnings: Minor Injury/Blood Mentions (cuts, burns, psychic exhaustion), Emotional Distress (grief, fear of loss, coping with trauma), Fragile Body Horror (Light), Protectiveness that borders on overbearing (done lovingly), Mentions of War/Death (No graphic detail), Unhealthy coping mechanisms (grief repression, fear-driven overprotection), Reader is physically fragile despite immense power, Mild romantic tension & confessions veiled in banter.

A/N: THANK YOU!! <33

[Part 1]

He refers to you as ‘an anomaly in silk,’ usually when you do something absurd like floating two feet off the ground while arguing about soup temperature.

He refuses to call your halo a “halo.” He insists it’s “a luminous etheric ring of cognitive resonance.”

You call it your ‘glowy crown thing’ just to annoy him.

When you fall asleep in the library, he will absolutely drape his personal cloak over you and adjust your wings so they aren’t bent at uncomfortable angles. He says it’s “to prevent feather misalignment and dream static interference,” but you catch him brushing a lock of hair from your forehead far too gently for it to be clinical.

Your psychic power fascinates him and makes him paranoid. He installs sigil wards in your tea mug to detect spiritual fatigue, lectures you for using your telepathy too often, and glares at people who talk to you while your aura flickers.

“You're not a theory I can solve,” he mutters once, while you're curled on a bench beside him under starlight. “You’re just…you. And I think that’s what scares me most.”

He says he despises nicknames, but if you call him “Professor,” he doesn’t correct you. He just clears his throat and looks vaguely stunned for the next five minutes.

He tucks your wings in. No warning, no fuss. Mid-conversation. Mid-fight, even. If your feathers are crooked or ruffled, he’ll gently smooth them back into place with an absentminded warrior’s touch.

He calls you “songbird” in that low, exhausted post-battle voice he only uses when his armor's cracked and his heart's heavier than usual. And he says it like it’s a prayer.

If you so much as cough, he's already handing you a fur-lined cloak, a warm drink, and a “no, you’re not going out today” glare that has made Titans hesitate.

He likes hearing your voice when you talk about the stars, because he says it sounds like “you remember a sky I haven’t seen since I was a boy.”

Once, you healed him psychically and fainted afterward. He cradled you like a holy relic, whispering old lullabies in Kremnoan—ones no one else knows he still remembers.

He doesn’t understand your fragility, not really. But he respects it with the same reverence he holds for old swords and lost kings. Precious things. Irreplaceable things.

“I will walk ahead of you,” he says once. “Not to shield you from the world, but to give you time to choose what parts of it you want to touch.”

He is your number one hypeman and official wing inspector. He has a designated “wing-fixing” routine involving warm hands, soft murmurs, and absolutely zero chill.

“You have actual wings and a halo, and you’re dating me? I’m still trying to figure out how I didn’t hallucinate you into existence.”

Every time you show a new psychic ability, he gasps like a child seeing fireworks for the first time. Even if you just levitate a spoon. “You’re so cool. You’re literally magic. Wait—does your halo glow brighter when you blush? Oh my gods, it does.”

He reads books about Halovians to understand your biology, and tries to invent padded armor for your shoulders so your wings don’t strain. It looks ridiculous. You wear it anyway.

One time you overexerted your psychic abilities and passed out mid-flight. He caught you before you hit the ground and sobbed for a full ten minutes after confirming you were okay. You woke up to him hugging you and whispering, “You scared the stars out of me, featherbrain…”

He makes up dumb little songs about you when you’re resting. “♫ Haloooovian baby, too shiny to break ♫” (He thinks you’re asleep. You are not.)

“You’re not a burden,” he says during one quiet night, tucking your wing under a blanket. “You’re just made of light. And maybe light wasn’t meant to carry heavy things. That’s my job.”

[aventurineswife]

Hcs for Sunday with a Memokeeper s/o? First meet to crush to dating

“To Remember Is To Love, Isn't It?”

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Memokeeper!Reader, Slow Burn, Emotional Intimacy, Philosophical Themes, Melancholic Fluff, Found Family, Repressed Emotions, Symbolism & Allegory, Redemption Arc, Ethereal Romance, Identity & Self-Perception, Soft Angst, Feathered Touches, Gentle Love, Memory Preservation, Subtle Affection.

Warnings: Emotional trauma (guilt, grief), Existential themes (memory, mortality, identity), Religious trauma (implied), Melancholy and soft angst, Abstract discussion of death and impermanence, Introspective and emotionally heavy subject matter.

First Meeting: A Memory Preserved in Silence

The first time Sunday meets you, you aren’t truly there. You're a disguised traveler in the Garden of Recollection’s web — a Memokeeper, cloaked as an archivist aboard the Astral Express. Your task: observe, collect, and preserve the ephemeral.

He notices you immediately—not for your presence, but for your stillness. There's a deliberateness to your every motion, a patience he's only seen in those who’ve given up the rush of living in favor of watching it unfold.

“You... listen like the past still breathes,” he says, eyes catching yours. You offer only a smile. He suspects you're more than you appear — and he finds that strangely comforting.

Your conversations begin sparsely but meaningfully. Sunday doesn’t pry. He recognizes the burden of carrying stories, perhaps too well. You talk about memory like it’s currency; he speaks of dreams like they’re prisons.

Yet, you both mourn the same thing: ephemeral beauty.

Crush: Memories That Were Never Theirs

Sunday starts noticing how you linger after someone laughs, like you're capturing the sound. You look at people as if committing them to eternity. When you speak, it's with reverence for moments others overlook.

“To remember is to love, isn't it?” you muse one evening, watching the stars with him from the Astral Express observation deck.

He doesn't answer at first. His halo tilts ever so slightly — as though listening rather than glowing. “Then I've spent my life trying to love a world that keeps forgetting itself.”

Sunday realizes he's falling for you not because you're kind — but because you're proof. You prove that even if the world forgets what he did, someone still holds it — the joy, the mistakes, the yearning.

He finds your presence unsettling. You're incorporeal in a way he once tried to become — a ghost living on through memories, just as he once dreamed Sweetdream Paradise could be.

You sense his distance and understand it. Memokeepers know the signs of someone grieving their former self. You do not push. You simply stay.

Dating: A Slow, Gentle Undoing

When Sunday finally confesses, it's less a declaration and more a surrender.

“You saw me when I had become my own myth… and you remembered the boy beneath it.”

You respond not with words, but by reaching out — your fingers brushing against the feathered wings behind his ear. It's the first time you touch him without an illusion. It’s also the first time he doesn’t flinch.

Dating Sunday is like watching the ocean under moonlight — quiet, reflective, immeasurably deep. He offers you fragmented truths about himself. Not all at once. Only in metaphors.

He finds himself drawn to the way you immortalize the small things: the way he hums in his sleep, how his scarf flutters when he walks, the trembling of his wings when his voice breaks.

For the first time, Sunday is seen in the after. Not for who he was as a leader or protector, but for who he is in stolen moments: a man who loves softly, with reverence and fear.

Sometimes you whisper lost memories into his halo — preserved fragments from those who once believed in him. At first, it breaks him. Later, he begins to smile.

You teach Sunday that Remembrance is not stagnation — it’s transformation. You do not ask him to forget his guilt, only to share it.

Together, you build something delicate and eternal — a sanctuary where dreams do not lie, and memories do not fade.

Bonus: Quiet Moments & Symbolism

He gives you one of his gold wing studs. You preserve it in a folded petal of memory-glass — a keepsake not just of him, but of the part of him that dared to love again.

Sunday once asks, quietly, “When I’m gone… will you remember me or the version you fell for?”

You answer, “Both. Because the act of remembering makes them the same.”

You two don’t say “I love you.” Instead, Sunday says:

“Even if time folds over itself — I want to be your memory.”

And you respond:

“You already are.”