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Glad to hear your studies and finals went well! May prep for your next year go well too!

Speakin of ouroboros, read that recently and oooooh that was so good! (I think that and inamorata have been my favorite fics to have read lately in general rhjdhj again though, i adore how you write for the characters you've done, very *chefs kiss*🤌)

Absolutely love a good slow burn lol thank you for the bits of plot expansion, i love the idea of being friends with Robin and Sunday just, miffed over mc jdjdhkdj eating this up *runs off with a suspiciously post shaped lump in my mouth* -🦡

thank you so much anon 😭😭 and I'm very glad you enjoyed two works that I personally found technically challenging to write (honestly, this submission absolutely made my day)

slowburn's in the top ten genres tbh, can never resist including it when I write (and honestly, neither can I resist writing in friendships with peak characters *cough* kafka, robin)

Sunday 🤝 emotional turbulence

thanks for your submission once again badger anon!!

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ok so I was meant to post this like right before exams but then it just marinated in my drafts (number of drafts: 1) so posting it now while I work on the fic lmao

yk when I pull out the red it's about to get WICKED

ok I forgot that this is the first day boss line thing of our glorious king and I was searching them up to use for the fic... and oh my word what a glorious and ironic coincidence (for reference the title was picked before I looked up the lines)

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Hi, I was just looking through and my attention got caught on the theology student/roommate sunday lil synapses from a poll and I'm just, intrigued (I absolutely adore how you write all these different lil guys, very in character for them tbh ✨️)

Anyway, I hope your studies are going well/have gone well and that youre taking some time to take care of yourself too! -🦡 (I'm feelin badger lately so imma tag as that I guess)

ok so first of all dearest badger anon I am unbelievably ecstatic you brought this up like I would have absolutely went ham into the slowburn had it been voted number one but alas (I'm not complaining though ouroboros was so fun to write), and thank you for the well wishes about my studies (finals went stupendously amazing but I'm now stuck slowly preparing for next year </3)

secondly I'd just read nerd project at the time and was struck with divine inspiration... kind of since I would've written both sunday and reader as nerds.

anyways to give you more expansion on the plot (figuratively and literally lmao):

this is set in the same university AU as the blade roommate/dan heng bandmate universe (blade roommate), but an AU of that AU if that makes sense. It's the same tense situation with your previous roommate, but you're mostly staying over at your gf's apartment

to give a rough timeline, the Blade roommate AU occurs in second year when you've already established yourself into the Trailblazers, while the Dan Heng prequel happens in first year - so this sunday student au also happens in your first year as a physics student, but it involves the music society more than any collaboration with departments (no academic rivalry 💔💔)

Music society throws quite a few events - including house parties like the one shown in the dan heng fic, but also some more formal concerts that are difficult to get into even for members, hence there's a sort of raffle system for entry if you aren't a paying member of the public. You win several times, much to your surprise, and just go for the fun of it, with formal wear that's seen better days, though nobody's paying enough attention to you to actually see the fine wrinkles, the loosened tie around your neck, the wildly inappropriate socks that just about peek from the bottom of your trousers. No one cares - not with the entrancing medley of classical pieces conducted by a grey-haired man filling the space, nor with the beguiling opera that coils through the air from your friend Robin (actually, she may have been the very reason you had such luck in the raffle)

You are a chronic backstage loiterer, with a small strawberry cake in your hand for the star of the show. On the third instance of loitering, it's where you pass by the conductor, and he takes you in. Eyes critically assessing the way you've folded your tie, the scuff marks on your shoes, even the way your glaring socks are sliding down. He's made his judgement. His mouth presses into a thin line, and though his expression is perfectly neutral, you can sense someone's abject disappointment burrowing into your back.

You forget about it as soon as you spot your friend, a wide smile on your face as you bring forth the cake. Sunday doesn't - that annoyance is enough to seep into his long-term memory, buried deep until something reminds him of it.

"Something" being the particularly poor soundproofing between two of the practice rooms. The piano accompaniment he's improvising is being infiltrated by the wild, spiraling chords from next door: harsh twang of electric guitar bleeding into the fluting notes from the piano, poisoning the calm smile on his face into something far darker, far more annoyed. There are no other rooms left. His only option is knocking on his neighbour's door and hoping that they're reasonable enough to "keep it down, please."

His eye twitches as the door swings open and he comes face to face with you, of all people. You're much more polite than he anticipated, and just as messy with your appearance as he expected: band shirt so worn there's thin holes starting to appear, belt covering one of the loops of your pants, same scuffed shoes you wore to the concert (on further inspection, they appear to be trainers).

"Sorry, man," you say cheerfully, and he privately wonders how you can appear so blithely incognizant of others. You turn the amp down, but his day is nonetheless headed towards ruin.

Actually, I lied. Joint philosophy class you took as one of your additional credit classes, alongside some ancient language and programming. For some reason, you've been feeling on edge lately - your girlfriend has been laying out some pressed shirts for you to wear, and you've caught her staring at the worn clothes you can't bring yourself to wear. A fifth disdain, the rest an emotion you can't quite place. She gets you some high-end perfume. You've smelled it somewhere before.

You're late to that philosophy class, searching for some old cargos stashed deep inside the drawer you keep your clothes when you stay over - and the only seat left is next to the conductor, too intimidating for anyone else to squeeze behind. You let out a groan mentally - he seems like he fucking hates you, after all - but as you're setting your stuff down, you freeze.

It's the same perfume. Must be a coincidence, you think, all while Sunday's observing you in turn, wondering how someone can be so guileless about philosophy. Is this a filler class for you? Must be. He'd feel more pity for you, if you weren't scribbling crude comics in the back of your notebook. Is this what you do in whatever you major in, too? He could almost sneer.

You glance at him, and he looks away. Pressed shirt, chinos in the same shade that your girlfriend bought you - coincidentally. There's a growing pit in your stomach - borne from the orchestral ticket that went missing at her house after you told her about it, claiming she hadn't seen it.

It's a messy breakup, filled with an even messier follow-up as you return to your dorm, only to find your roommate problem worse than ever before, tears threatening to well as you explain yourself to the rooms officer who allocates you to the only person without a roommate on the other side of campus.

Of course it's the fucking guy your girlfriend had a crush on. You stand like an idiot in the doorway as he eyes you disdainfully (just like she did), the smile freezing in horror on your face as you meet his eyes. His pressed shirt seems to judge you as well, while the wings on either side of his head move backwards, as if in distaste.

"Let's get along?" Some form of those tentative words stretch into the awkward silence, but you already know it's a lost cause. Avoiding him would be the best solution to your problem; putting your head right down and working to maintain your stellar grades in physics.

Except, he seems to be everywhere you are. In the library while you put your headphones on max and bang out waves and optics, knocking on the practice room door when your slot is up and instantly developing a frown when you open it, pouring himself tea while you caramelise onions for your food, getting paired up with you for a stupid philosophy project in a class that you would've dropped if you could.

It's only when you fall asleep on the couch, partial differential equation sheets slipping from your grasp, laptop open on your chest, one tab on a surprisingly well-done powerpoint on analysing Plato's Forms, the other on an email from a supervisor with a link that he accidentally clicks while moving the laptop to the low coffee table next to you. It's an article, with your name emblazoned across the top. Scholarship student wins prestigious physics award - and he thinks, surely it must be a mistake. He shuts the laptop and searches the article up, scrolling through details of pristine grades and a short interview pasted under a photo of you with the award. His brow furrows, as he belatedly realises that, despite the stupid drawings coating your philosophy notebook, you never walked away from an exam with a frown or a downcast expression like many other classmates did.

It's a mistake. It's a mistake that he looked up your name, a mistake that he wakes up at night in a cold sweat to find your bed rumpled and the door ajar, a mistake that despite all reason, he stumbles awake and follows the lingering scent of your detergent down the accommodation stairs, a mistake that he leaves the keys in the dorm as it closes silently behind him, a mistake that he witnesses an argument in the foyer he has no business witnessing. A woman is pleading with a man with his back to the grey-haired Halovian, holding a box filled with clothes and textbooks that he recognises as the same ones you grimly ordered new a few weeks ago when you first moved in, staring blankly at the package when it came.

"What's going on here?" he asks coldly, only for her to immediately go silent as she notices him, face turning an ugly shade of puce, lips opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. The man turns, and he realises it's you, realises that your normally cheerful expression has turned bitterly emotionless.

"Nothing," you say, and that's what your frigid tone also indicates. "She's leaving."

"Mr Sunday! I apologise for the commotion," she starts, syrupy sweet. It's cloying. "But I had to talk to my boyfriend-"

Sunday feels a strange bout of annoyance - a fresh wave following the one that came with waking up at such an ungodly hour.

"Don't call me that anymore," you interrupt. It's the first time he's ever heard your voice sound so resolute, so disgusted. "Don't call me, don't text me, don't waste my breath by arguing-"

For the first time since like ever, his hand finds your shoulder, and he can feel the feverish heat of adrenaline pulsing through you. You startle, surprised, but you only give him a cursory glance back before you turn to her.

"Let's go," he tells you quietly.

"How do you know him?" she asks you suddenly, as though she has any right to. He vaguely remembers her sitting next to him in a divinity lecture, asking about the brands of what he wore, and he begins piecing things together. The emotions radiating from her rankle him.

"Get out before I call security," Sunday replies in your stead, and it seems this is what finally pushes her to the edge - tossing the box with your stuff at your feet while you stare blankly at the floor. It's not until the door slams shut that he finally notices the tears rolling down your cheeks, the hollow look you sport as you crouch to pick up the clothes spilling out past the cardboard. He doesn't know what to say to you. In fact, he doesn't know why he's still here, but despite his better judgement, he crouches down and picks up a worn copy of Sears and Zemansky's University Physics, carefully placing it amongst the pile of shirts that smell just like you. You don't thank him, you don't say anything, and neither does he - two people crouched on the foyer floor at the absolute arse crack of dawn, two idiots-

"Shit," he swears, patting himself down. He never swears, but tonight he can feel everything going wrong. It's then that you look at him, bewildered. "I forgot to bring keys."

Bizarrely, you laugh - half in shock, half in mania, and he gazes at you as though you lost your damn mind. The rooms officer is out, it's pitch black outside, and the two of you are still dressed in pyjamas - you in a particularly heinous ensemble.

"Library," you finally say after composing yourself, and it's not like he's got any other choice but to follow you, but he faintly remembers that it's... well... also closed at this time of night. You take a route to a small door at the back of the building that miraculously, swing open, and he glances at you in surprise: a strange feeling settling in his stomach as you rummage through your belongings to find an old wallet, grabbing two protein bars from the small vending machine and tossing it to him.

There's a question burning on his tongue as he follows you in between the rows of books, sitting down opposite you as you place your head in the crook of your elbow. It's silent, with only the sound of your breathing as he finally asks. "Isn't this against regulations?"

Your voice is muffled when you reply. "I fell asleep in here once after getting locked in, and the librarian's left a side door open since. We'll just leave close to dawn."

When he glances at the digital clock glowing bright green in the darkness, he inwardly curses - 3 AM. The two of you are due to present at 9 AM, and he can't afford to simply get a few meagre hours of sleep from dawn onwards.

He copies you, wearily placing his head on his forearm, but he finds he can't sleep - not with a looming deadline, not when he's rushed out full of adrenaline and annoyance. He glances up when he hears rustling, only to see you with a thick book cracked open, protein bar peeled open and half-eaten. "Can't sleep?"

The question startles him, as if he couldn't be anymore surprised. "I don't think I've ever had my sleep disturbed like this."

You turn the page. "I understand."

"Are you used to this?"

You glance at him, appearing to be contemplating your words. "Yes. I can handle the speaking tomorrow."

"Today," he corrects, but it feels less hostile than it might've had it been a different night. "What are you reading?"

It's... small talk - something that should've occurred when you first moved in, but now represents the most miniscule of thaws.

"Sci-fi." Another page turns.

"To poke fun?"

"Yeah," you look up, surprised - and it's clear that it comes from assuming he didn't know anything about you. "How'd you know?"

"Your assignments," he mumbles sheepishly into his sleeve, as if he hadn't read a whole article about you.

"Ah, yes, the joys of differentials. You know, the mode of transport they're using is labelled superluminal, but that..."

He's never realised it, but in the hazy green light filtering through the cold air, your voice is pretty relaxing - and before he knows it, he's drifted to sleep, your name resting faintly on his lips.

anyways was meant to be a lot shorter but I just went ham tbh, hope you like the expanded plot anon

also anon if you saw the notification and wondered where the post went I do apologise since I posted this when it was still half-finished and had to private it until I completed it </3

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I have failed my mission 😔 no Sunday as pope unfortunately -a very sad papal conclave infiltrator anon

honestly the new pope seems pretty chill so it wasn't a failure my dearest papal conclave infiltrator anon 🫶

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I dont usually read hsr fics but holy shit,, that argenti fic was PEAK

yooo thank you so much 🫶🫶 I had tonnes of inspiration after I watched interview with the vampire (highly recommend honestly)

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guess who's finally free

I'm back guys and itching to write

(I'll be responding to the lovely inbox I unfortunately neglected throughout exam season tomorrow😓I would today but I'm on the verge of falling asleep 💔)

I missed yall 🫶🫶

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yk when I pull out the red it's about to get WICKED

ok I forgot that this is the first day boss line thing of our glorious king and I was searching them up to use for the fic... and oh my word what a glorious and ironic coincidence (for reference the title was picked before I looked up the lines)

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me when im fueled by enough isekai toxic yaoi to last me an entire week RAHHHHHHH omg the interview with a lamp was such a cool idea!!! i love the perspective of each light source and the characterization of the two ITS SO GOOD!!!

🐈‍⬛ anon

twins I got through my physics exam by thinking of those two silly goobers 🙏 also if you've ever read veil, the inanimate object povs were where I got inspiration from !!

it's also about to get even more toxic lmao

(sunday when he's manipulative but also a loser)

(me when I've got some incredibly tense scenes tentatively thought out)

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OHH THE LAMP FIC ngl at first I was ???huh??? but I was a fool to ever doubt. As always it was such a good read!! It really brought a fresh perspective which is also fun

And the kinda absurd comedy of Lamp PV really clashed with the Serious Very Tense situation in a genuinely good way

We ❤️ more experimental fics!!!!

- Subday truther

(also your reply to my rofan complaints? 11/10 no notes it's so nice to have someone sharing my views lol and Finally I'm not the only yapper. Would be willing to read 10000 words just of that)

LMAOO if you've ever read veil then the inanimate object povs within are what I was inspired by when writing this 😭😭

ah yes... absurdity before the Big Showdown (currently in the planning stages). My favourite lamp was the last wall sconce tbh it was perfectly cynical, and it doesn't get more lighthearted from here I fear..

I agree we 💞experimental fics speak the truth subday anon

(lmao I was so locked in that I made some coffee and typed away for a good hour or so... humans truly reach the pinnacle of focus when hating fr. sorry for the late reply I was hella busy with revision)

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MORE ISEKAI READER AND SUNDAY WHEEEEEEE ty for the food,,, i will sit here very patiently for that

🐈‍⬛ anon

interviewed some lamps with even more haste because of this 🫡

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INTERVIEW WITH A LAMP ✦ . 　⁺ SUNDAY

Testing... testing... is this thing picking up sound? On this fine day in the middle of Argonian summer, a rather unlikely interview subject has been selected by the author to provide impartial evidence of the existence, or rather, the impossibility, of an even more unlikely relationship. wanted to play about with a more unconventional way of writing and had the honour of interviewing several agreeable light fixtures thanks guys art creds: ahriii7 on x (sunday), kotteri (teacup/candle sconce) pairing: sunday + male reader warnings: none except they're not friendly to each other whatsoever and I mean this sincerely wc: 1.7k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

There exists a certain lamp that illuminates the way between the doorway to the left and the doorway to the right. A small thing: bronze, affixed to the wall (a sconce, really, yet it insists on being a lamp). If one were to ask it what leads in either direction, it would not know—and if it did, it would not be able to tell. “I cannot see where my light does not reach,” it might insist, eager to be helpful, but it is far too foolish to read between lines and form a cogent explanation. 

The lamp is better suited for sharing observations—shedding light on matters, so to speak. 

For example, who passes along this corridor each day?

The lamp thinks. 

A man with imposing footsteps. He has a cheerful voice—humming the tunes that occasionally slip out of the door to the left, announcing his presence to the one named after a bird. Sometimes, the light catches on the food he brings: sweet, small little cakes; a tray of tea and sandwiches; and maybe a few flaky pastries. More often, he brings out an empty plate. The lamp has no idea how he does it—it counts and counts, but it seems the food has simply appeared in that room at the end more often than he brings it in, and he’s merely taking the residue out. 

Who else?

There’s a shorter one, clad in the softest of greys that incandesce so gently when it’s evening and only the lamp shines dimly. His steps are softer, too: partly due to the difference in shoe choices between the two, partly due to the more regal way he carries himself. 

And what do you hear?

They’re definitely not friends. 

“Carry yourself with more decorum,” the soft-grey one says. His amber eyes should be warm—like the hushed blaze of the small lamp—but they’re staring at the other man with such coldness that the bronze cladding of its metallic body almost shivers. 

“Yes, Your Holiness,”  the other replies, sing-song. 

It wasn’t always like this. The lamp has been observing for a long time, and it recalls the man who holds the sweets used to be more reticent when following behind the grey one: hands folded behind his back, walking as neatly as a soldier. 

Now—now, it’s an easy dislike between the two.  The lamp cannot see the other man’s face, but he imagines it—a false smile shrouding an unhappy heart, and both of them know it. 

The lamp thinks it changed after the two got covered in (hastily patched-up) scrapes—and that quiet fear that clung to the man like smoke simply dissolved in the air, replaced with something the lamp cannot quite place. Arrogance? No, perhaps not. Contempt? Maybe. 

What else do you hear?

“I don’t appreciate you shirking your duties in favour of disturbing others fulfilling their own.”

“Oh, you heard about me helping the chefs?” His easy tone is meant to distract—like two hands placed firmly on somebody’s shoulders to turn them towards a predetermined conclusion. “Did you enjoy today’s lunch?”

The grey man presses his lips together. The lamp has seen enough of his expressions to gauge approximately the incredulous irritation that seeks to spill from his mouth—held back only by the tight seam that forms its distinct line on his face.

“It was far too acerbic.” 

“Odd,” the other murmurs. “Plate came back clean.”

“I don’t waste food,”  he snaps. “I wasn’t talking about that, regardless.”

“The knights? You always do seem to drag me away by the scruff of my neck whenever you see me rolling around with them—”

“Such vulgar language,” he clicks his tongue. “You instill bad habits into them.”

“What, survival? Your Holiness, the swordwork of the temple may be beautiful, but it is inflexible in…”

The words trail off suddenly, punctuated by the distant closing of the door. 

What do you notice?

He likes to argue. 

Which one?

The one who brings the food. He speaks informally, without an ounce of shame. 

The lamp thinks hard. 

There was once a voice, drifting in from the ajar door in the distance. Her words floated through the crevice—just about in reach of the rays of light after the lamp’s oil was topped up. It doesn’t remember much of the conversation, only that she mentioned friendship briefly. 

Maybe this is his idea of ‘friendship’. 

And if one were to ask its cousins—the Temple of Order, naturally, needs its light—then, what would they say?

Is this friendship?

The sconce by the offices would say yes. In the steady stream of people who walk by, the one with small wings aflutter and the one with a sword resting on his hip always act cordial with each other. 

“How far has the Entreaty been translated?” 

“Far.”

“Far? It was supposed to be finished by now.”

“I’m so—rry,” the one who looks like a guard drags his syllables out, clearly genuine. 

The winged one looks stern, but perhaps it’s all a joke between friends. 

The sconce in the office would disagree. 

Oh? What do you think about the situation?

There’s hatred between the two—vitriol, disguised as normal chatter, invades each conversation. Only when both are buried in a mountain of paperwork does the office of the one dressed in fancy robes quieten down: filling it with the sound of pens scratching against parchment, and the soft crinkle of pages turning. 

Just not today. 

“Why were you absent from the grounds?” 

The man cornered against a desk glances at the sword haplessly leant against the wall behind his chair, as if it could save him, as if it could offer him answers for the uncharacteristic way the other is acting. 

“I was told to stand down for what should’ve been my duty at the Synod,” he replies bitterly, but the sconce notices that he doesn’t quite answer the question. 

“And you went out gallivanting with the Northern Duke?”

“I’d like to remind Your Holiness of my ranking as a viscount. Should I needlessly irritate the sword of the King?”

The feathered man’s lips press together—a grim line, like the kind of flame when the oil is sputtering and the fire in the lamps can’t muster up the energy to flow warm and fat and lazy. 

“You have no problem irritating me,” he says, quietly, and his gloved hands creak as they dig into the wood of the desk either side of the aide: almost crushing the poor thing. Look, it’s practically shaking at the tense silence between the two—at the nerve steeling the aide’s spine as he boldly stares back at the other, at the warmth being leached out of the room, even with the blazing fireplace. They’re so close that the sconce can almost feel their atoms mingling—and briefly, the aide looks at the sconce as if he can hear it. “You don’t mind acting insolently when it comes to me.”

He swallows, and the sconce is sure that his superior feels his throat vibrate; despite his valiant efforts, the aide is human like the rest of them, cowed in the face of someone with more power. 

“You forgive the insolent,” he breathes. The sconce didn’t think it was possible, but he approaches—closer, yet not quite touching, as if a veil were separating the two of them, just barely tickling against their bodies and rippling in on itself. “Transcendental, omnibenevolent—everyone you interact with seems to be a misguided, pitiful lamb to your omniscient eyes, Your Holiness. You forgive them. Each sinner is allocated a special type of patience.”

The flames crackling in the fireplace shift, and the feathered man’s face is shrouded in shadow. In turn, the sconce glows more insistently, yet it still can’t make out his expression. Bitter anger? Incredulity?

“Where’s your patience for me? Go on, tell me to repent. My sin was leaving to aid the blade of the king in exterminating three wyverns near the Holy Grottos—tell me, Your Holiness, what should my penance be?”

He grins, but it is not a friendly thing. Snarled, caustic—the sconce can tell the enshadowed man is approaching the end of his wick. Trembling hands, so politely wrapped in dove-grey gloves, itch to move—to grab the man in front of him, shake him down, breaching the invisible boundaries between them. 

Are you curious about what’s happening?

Does his breath taste like the blood speckling his freshly ironed coat? When he leans towards the feathered one, is he radiating the heat of adrenaline, or does one feel a chill as he approaches? They’re almost nose-to-nose now, touching as one would with a priceless piece of art—which is to say, not at all, or with the faintest of touches disguised in the most delicate gloves. 

“Leave,” he replies, finally, and the sconce doesn’t know whether the word is in tangent to the other’s question, or if it’s completely disjointed from the conversation—a full stop to end the overstrung atmosphere (like a tightrope carrying far too many people, braced in limbo against the inevitable snap of overworked fibres).

Ironically, these are the only times where the dissident obeys, just barely grazing the other’s body—and the man who had the last word falters. He doesn't turn back, doesn't even stop to collect the sword behind his desk. His coat flutters behind him, and those gloved hands reach out: fingers not quite kissing the hem, receding back to his side as though he burnt them. 

The door slams shut. 

Have things changed?

Perhaps. The one left behind stares at the hand that betrayed him, unconsciously curling and uncurling them—the act of grasping at straws. Nothing but the thin air responds to his touch. He looks up, and the sconce can see his face now: a placid thing, cruelly beautiful. He’s not frowning, like the sconce half-expected. No. 

There’s a frightful pensiveness painting his features, and the sconce cannot help but feel something far more sinister lurks beneath the dermis making up this mask. 

Are all these observations credible, though?

Naturally. What reason does a lamp have to lie?

✦ . 　⁺

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well the interview with a lamp was finished far more quickly than I expected

it was a very cooperative subject

will be posting tonight after formatting + proofreading

SCHEDULE FOR MAY/JUNE 2025

will be on pause for a bit due to final exams. won't be online much due to revision, so inbox might coagulate but I'll answer all submissions when I can :3

my subjects are pretty intensive but I'll try to share snippets of progress for the fics/might even end up finishing some of them tbh.. if anyone's curious about formatting/writing processes/etc or starting out their writing blogs shoot me an ask/dm because I'll be pretty free when I pause writing :)

IN PROGRESS...

★ interview with a lamp (sunday) - writing stage

★ a finale to cap off the isekai au for sunday (a longer, rather debauched thing to round it all off, not necessarily an end though, but I will be focusing on my main project) - thinking stage

★ chapter 17 of pendulum - writing stage, thinking stage, but also rereading everything from the beginning stage to make sure there's no loose ends in the plot later on

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💬 Just a Small Update, and a Big Thank You

Dear friends, kind hearts, and everyone who has stood with us,

When I first opened my heart to the world and shared our story, I never imagined the amount of love and solidarity we would receive. Thanks to your incredible support, we’ve now reached $12,837—a milestone that brings real light to some very dark days.

From the deepest corners of my heart, thank you.

💔 A Journey of Loss, but Also of Strength

As many of you know, I’ve lost 25 of my loved ones during this devastating war. That grief lives with me every single day. It’s in the silence that once held laughter, in the empty spaces where we once gathered as a family.

But through your help, I’ve also felt something else: hope. And that hope is priceless.

“21/Oct/2023 Before It Reached Us: The Day Our Neighbor’s House Was Destroyed” A quiet moment of fear, filmed just before everything changed.

“22/Oct/2023 The Morning After: Our Family Home in Ruins” This is what was left behind after the bombing of our home.

🌿 What Life Looks Like for Us Now

Despite everything, we’re still here. Still surviving. Still hoping.

But things have only gotten harder.

The war has returned, more brutal than before—and for over a month now, Gaza has been completely sealed off. No food is coming in. No medical supplies. No aid. No trade. No one is allowed to leave, and no one is allowed to enter.

We’re trapped.

🏚 We live with the fear of tomorrow, every single day. Airstrikes, drones, and the uncertainty of what might happen next. 👨‍👩‍👧 Our family is forever changed—we haven’t just lost people; we’ve lost pieces of ourselves. 📉 Basic needs go unmet—even clean water feels like a luxury now. Medicines, if they exist at all, are unreachable.

And yet…

Your support reminds us that we’re not forgotten. It reminds us that someone, somewhere, is still listening. That someone still cares. That we’re not completely alone in this.

Every message. Every share. Every dollar. It tells us: You’re walking this road with us. And that gives us the strength to keep going.

💖 What You Can Do

If you’ve already donated—thank you beyond words. If you can share our story again, it could reach someone who can help.

Even $5 means warmth, comfort, and a chance to breathe a little easier.

✨ Why It All Matters

This isn’t just about reaching a fundraising goal. It’s about surviving war with dignity. It’s about believing in tomorrow. It’s about making sure my daughter grows up knowing that the world did not look away.

Thank you for your kindness, patience, and belief in our humanity. You’ve helped me find my voice—and I will use it to keep hope alive.

🙏 From the Heart: A Quiet Apology

There’s something I need to say—something that’s been on my heart for some time.

When I first began sharing our story, I didn’t know what the right way was. I was scared, grieving, and trying to protect my family in any way I could. I reached out to many people, hoping someone, anyone, would see us. In that process, I now realize I may have overstepped, and I might have made some feel overwhelmed.

If that happened, I am truly sorry.

Please believe me when I say it was never out of disregard or pushiness. It came from a place of fear—fear of being forgotten, fear of not being able to keep my family safe, fear of watching everything I love slip away in silence.

I’m learning as I go. I’ve slowed down. I’m more mindful now, trying to share our journey in a way that feels respectful of the space and hearts of those listening.

If my words ever came at the wrong time, or in the wrong way, I hope you can understand where they came from—and I hope you can forgive me.

Thank you for seeing past my mistakes. Thank you for still being here. It means more than I can ever explain.

Vetted by @gazavetters ( #309 )

With love and endless gratitude, Mosab and family ♥️

[slowd1ving]

I have successfully infiltrated the conclave with Sunday. now we wait 😌

thank you anon for your service 🫡

[slowd1ving]

this is like a random and weird question but i need to know,,, who is older, isekai reader or sunday? i need to know if reader is the younger top that puts bottom older sunday in his fucking place or if reader is older and likes to degrade younger bottom sunday either way im eating it up but still,,,,, it eats away at me

🐈‍⬛ anon

that is a very good question and I really had to think about the nitty gritty logistics of it... like isekai reader's got that experience in work that just causes him to be disillusioned and shit, but also the way I write his dialogue is brash and informal... ooh now this question's gnawing at me too.

I mean he's lived two lifespans to reach this age so I was thinking like around 23-28 in his old life, accounting for a degree and some corporate years + enough time to harden into a more cynical person...

reincarnated, reader's around 20 or so currently cuz he prioritised that levelling up EARLY... honestly idk if it counts to add it onto the past life since it would've taken time to fully become conscious again?? idk does the mind redevelop with a completely fresh slate??? no clue how soul logistics should work, does his past life count as memories or part of this life??? idek

as for sunday... figuring out his age is a lot more difficult since idk if halovians are a longlife species but since it's a rofan might as well have a more supernatural character since duke yingxing is keeping his longevity. So for the sake of that, let's say they are to fit in with the whole angel thing he's got going on. However, I'm still lowkey gravitating to the notion of both of them being very similar in age with sunday being like a year older since it really puts into perspective the stark differences in how they were both brought up and their experiences... also it's just really funny to me having reader act his age and still being more immature while sunday's desperately trying to seem older and wiser as befits his position, but it all falls apart miserably when interacting with reader who gets on every last one of his nerves..

so in this world reader's in his early 20s and sunday's in his early to mid-20s tbh... there's something about having someone your age seem more collected, not necessarily in a physical but more of emotional sense, and sunday's all in denial about it while also reverting to an immature persona of his own whenever he's around reader. idk the idea just tickles me for some reason. something about having both parties be almost exactly equal in age makes the battle between personalities all the more entertaining tbh. sorry I couldn't be more helpful it's the first time I'm figuring this out for any of the things I write😭😭

[slowd1ving]

I am in fact very mentally well about sunday and reader, so much even then I am in the stratosphere after having read that fic. THE NASTTYYYY THE LOWKEY YEARNNN THE DENIAL. Ripping my hair out as we speak this is peak freak fiction. No one is doing it like you fr twin.

me about the whole penacony cast tbh #never getting over them

OOOH I'M GLAD YOU LIKED ITTTT 🤑🤑 stay tuned for more absolute debauchery which will be exponentially more peak and more freak

thanks twin for the ask fr

[slowd1ving]

SCHEDULE FOR MAY/JUNE 2025

will be on pause for a bit due to final exams. won't be online much due to revision, so inbox might coagulate but I'll answer all submissions when I can :3

my subjects are pretty intensive but I'll try to share snippets of progress for the fics/might even end up finishing some of them tbh.. if anyone's curious about formatting/writing processes/etc or starting out their writing blogs shoot me an ask/dm because I'll be pretty free when I pause writing :)

IN PROGRESS...

★ interview with a lamp (sunday) - writing stage

★ a finale to cap off the isekai au for sunday (a longer, rather debauched thing to round it all off, not necessarily an end though, but I will be focusing on my main project) - thinking stage

★ chapter 17 of pendulum - writing stage, thinking stage, but also rereading everything from the beginning stage to make sure there's no loose ends in the plot later on