#fables of forgotten things

[eighthwholove]

Paul McGann in Fables of Forgotten Things (2005)

[rowanthestrange]

So, if this works, this is a 15 minute short film that is kind of an Alternate Universe Doctor Who, a dark fantasy, starring Paul McGann as Not The Doctor, called Fables Of Forgotten Things.

While it says it is a pilot episode, sadly it remained that way, probably because with it being 2005, the BBC were now focussing on the official Doctor Who now being revived.

If you are a fan of Eight or Paul McGann in any capacity, fantasy in general, or just weird little stories with weird little things, you’ll love it.

[chiropteracupola]

what if the single existing episode of a television show from 2005 that never got made was an animated show instead

[heimeldat]

So I might have outlined a bunch of stories for Fables of Forgotten Things... I now have the dubious honor of writing the only fic in this category on AO3, haha.

[the-sunbee]

so... i've been having thoughts about Forgotten Stars again.

i re-read forgotten stars a lot. i re-read all of my writings but especially forgotten….

there are a few chapters in forgotten that mean so much to me, that i managed to write out so brilliantly (at least to my standards) that portray what i wanted them to.

this'll have spoilers for the current version of forgotten stars so be wary. (note: i will rewrite forgotten stars at some point. that point is not today. not yet :] )

chapter 7 when Ocie finally finds out about Rae not remembering himself or his friends. how she breaks down, how the weather outside the library also breaks with her and how she fears what she is feeling because she doesn't know the extent of her powers.

chapter 9 where Athena tells Icarus about Rae and especially how they open up about how much it hurts them that the uncle they know is gone and how they dont know how to fix it

chapter 11 is definitely my top 3 with how i wrote how Rae himself is struggling with himself. how things feel familiar and yet he doesnt know why. how he sees how much effort Athena is putting into all this and yet… he can't help. and then he goes to the portal and there is nothing. and then he panics and runs and runs until he no longer breathes and crashes. how he feels utterly useless cause he can't help someone he knows he cares about and yet the feelings feel false because he doesn't know why he has them.

chapter 12 is a goodie too cause it shows Caspian, struggling with everything - with feeling lost, with Rae, with Momboo.

chapter 14 is an another top 3 for me and it has my favourite beginning… which is just Soup. how I managed to write about Rae's inner thoughts and how everything felt like home and yet… at the same time it felt like the furthest thing from it. how talking with Caspian felt so familiar, how laying in that bed and sitting on that couch he felt at home and yet… he couldn't justify staying.

chapter 15 perfectly shows Athena's inner thoughts with how things arent progressing enough or fast enough for them and how they struggle with that. and then Rae's pov of him choosing to fight for her, choosing to stay and focus on Athena and Ocie instead of chasing after the feelings of home elsewhere

and then finally chapter 19. one of my favourite chapters. where Athena finally hits a boiling point and his powers activate and he has no control over them. how she scares both of his uncles and surprises the god of creation and then finds solace in how Rae cares for them. how they choose to fight for him, too.

guys if you cant tell, forgotten stars means so much more to me than just a fable fic. in its core, yes, its a fanfic and yes its about premade characters but i've put so much into it. i continue to pour my thoughts into it despite not having worked on it for months now. how i keep thinking of how to better guide the story and how many more ideas i have.

[innerfare]

You See His Cabin For The First Time  

Summary: You see their cabin (or in Sabo's case, his bedroom at the RA base) for the first time.

Characters: Luffy, Usopp, Zoro, Sanji, Ace, Sabo, Law, and Kid

Genre: Fluff

CW: None // SFW

——— 

Luffy: He's literally so proud of just his hammock. Insists it can hold the both of you and could probably hold the entire crew if you tried, asks if you want to try, asks you if you’re sure when you say no. Definitely has a couple of dirty dishes that he’s forgotten about, as well as a few wrappers on the floor. Has some fishing poles, a net, quite a few different games, and a bookshelf that’s full of both comic books and snacks so that he doesn’t have to go all the way to the kitchen if he gets hungry in the middle of the night. 

Zoro: Your first thought is, why does it smell so freaking good in here? You expected dirty laundry strewn around and the stench of sweat and maybe a hint of metal from those blades he was always sharpening. And sure, there is a hint of metal in the air, probably more from the many weights against the wall than his swords, but it also smells fresh, like laundry detergent. He has his own wanted posters on his wall- not just the current one, but the old ones, too, all of them lined up in order so you can see his increasing bounty. He also has a collection of unique booze bottles from all over the world, his equivalent of keeping a map with pins in the locations he’s visited. Oh, and there’s an anatomy coloring book and some markers that belong to Chopper that Zoro keeps in his room because sometimes when Chopper is having a bad day, he wants to chill with his dad big bro. 

Sanji: Sparkling clean, and yet, he’ll apologize anyway because the pillows aren’t fluffy enough, the rug isn’t completely straight, etcetera. His closet is very well organized, all of his clothes ironed and properly taken care of (Sanji’s the rare type to actually read labels and do his laundry accordingly). His most prized possession is a book on the All Blue, which he’s poured over countless times, using color coded tabs to flag various pages and writing detailed notes in the margins. He also came across one of Zeff’s old wanted posters in Loguetown, and he keeps it framed next to his own, the closest thing he has to a family photo.

Usopp: You’re surprised to find he has quite a bit of clutter in his small space. He has a collection of different style slingshots and a surplus of supplies to fix them should they ever break, as well as literal boxes full of special stars and ammunition. He has an entire set up rigged on his desk to create more, and some plants in his windowsill to grow ingredients. In addition, his bookshelves are heavy with various collections of fables and tales; he’s working on his own and hopes to publish it one day, but he doesn’t talk about it because he’s worried nobody will take him seriously, and you only learn about it when you see the notebook he left on his bed. He also has a couple of fun hats, crazy sunglasses, and feather boas that he definitely pulls out when the Straw Hats get a little too drunk. Oh, and there’s a picture of his parents on his nightstand. 

Ace: His cabin is pretty sparse because he tends to travel light. He has a collection of animal teeth secured from a menagerie of wild beasts he’s taken down over the years, and he’s very proud of those teeth. He'll tell you about each one if you ask, is practically bursting at the seems with stories. He has way more animal teeth than he does clothing or books. Also has a pretty sick tiger pelt for a rug (he had intended it as a blanket, but he runs so hot he can’t actually sleep with it). He has Luffy’s wanted poster on his wall, and beside it, a note reminding himself to send money back to Dadan on the first of every month. Buried in the chest at the foot of his bed, he has the original ASL flag. 

Sabo: His bedroom at the Revolutionary Army’s base is a total bachelor pad, and when you see it for the first time, it wasn’t planned, so he’s a little embarrassed by the state of it. He has some dirty dishes he forgot about, some dirty laundry on the floor, and a pile of books on his bed. He spends virtually no time there and probably wouldn’t even have furniture beyond a mattress on the floor if it wasn’t provided by the Revolutionary Army as part of his living quarters. That being said, he did pin Luffy’s and Ace’s wanted posters to his wall, and he has a couple of different lotions and skincare products on his bathroom counter. 

Law: You don’t know what you were expecting- would it be sterile like an operating room? You’re surprised to see comic books and a few action figures. He has some records, too- a bit of rock, some low-key emo music- and to your complete and utter surprise, a candy wrapper on his nightstand. And then there’s the coin collection on his desk, tiny pieces of metal he picked up on his many travels. You’re careful not to have a big reaction to his personality showing through for once. 

“I like your action figures.” 

“They’re kind of childish, but-” 

You cut him off before he can dismiss his own interests as dumb. “No, they’re not. They’re cool.” 

Kid: It’s as messy and ostentatious as you’d expect, but he sheepishly tries to fold the leopard-print blanket crumpled on the bed and put some laundry in the hamper, though you quickly deduce he has no clue which clothes belong in the hamper and which go in his closet. It’s shocking to see him care what someone thinks. He has a pile of lipstick and nail polish on his desk and an impressive collection of weapons he’s stolen from various pirates; he could probably open a museum with all the weapons he has. Also has lots of tools he forgot were in there. TBH, he’s probably as shocked as you are by the state of his cabin because he spends most of his alone time in his workshop, anyway. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[edgeray]

“LATE NIGHT DEVIL, PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME

and never never never ever let go”- Teeth, 5 Seconds of Summer

Mafia AU! Arlecchino x Reader Oneshot

Author's Note: It's been a while since I've actually published anything on here. Well, my gay ass is back with another oneshot. This one has been in the works for at least a month. I'm considering making a Part 2, but that will definitely take at least a couple weeks for me to publish (if not months). I wish I was kidding. School literally hates me and my teachers are incessant on killing my GPA. This is also a gift for @megistusdiary because it'll be her birthday when I post this. Please go check out her blog for amazing genshin wlw content (especially Arlecchino content!) Would you guys like this on AO3 as well?

Content Warning/Info: This is a long af oneshot (6.3k words), long af descriptions and kinda long intro, Arlecchino is referred to with they/them pronouns, implied female but no usage of feminine pronouns for Reader, general dark-ish content, pet names, Arlecchino is a lil scary, I've never been to a club so I apologize for the very inaccurate information, nor have I ever been apart of the mafia so also inaccurate, a bit suggestive but otherwise sfw, if I'm missing anything feel free to tell me!

---

Monsters are said to have lied underneath beds–waiting to ensnare an unknowing victim–or stalk hidden among the depths of a closet–awaiting an opportune moment to strike its next prey. Monsters are fabled entities that are used to scare off children from bad behavior and are quickly eased from the mind by coddling parents. The mere notion of a monster shooed away like a pesky fly, swept underneath the subconscious like forgotten specks of dirt. 

You know otherwise. Real monsters don’t lurk on the undersides of mattresses; no, they lurk both in the skies above and the depths below. They do not stalk dark closets because they instead stalk alleys in daylit streets. Monsters are very real, that you know is true since you’ve seen your fair share of them. You’ve met monsters in person–they’ve come to you before. Terrifying is an understatement for them, and each time one has appeared as a client, you’re no less scared shitless.

You’ve learned that even inhumane demons find themselves in need of entertainment; like the sinful creatures they are, they seek self-pleasure. And that is how you found yourself in this particular circle of hell, meant to serve and please demons, devils, and monsters alike. Perhaps it was a revolting job, working at a strip club run by a criminal organization but it paid decent money for being danced on the fingertips of whoever you were unfortunate enough to be assigned to.

If it was a regular strip club, being an exotic dancer would have been fine. It wouldn't be so bad. Lustful and prying eyes can be accustomed to quickly, and so are the flattering compliments and the awkward flirting by middle-aged married men. However, there was a difference between lecherous and predatory gazes. Here, you aren’t even viewed as a person, no, the clients here, those that come in reeking of smoke or blood (though sometimes both), armed with knives and guns on their person, see you as nothing more than a toy or prey for them. Even in the eyes of your employer, you're less than human in their eyes. 

‘You harm our merchandise, you’ll pay for it,’ is the warning given to every guest when they first enter. Merchandise. That's what you are. And that single line of words is the only thing that assures you of your safety among mafia members, gangsters, crooks, and whatnot. You've heard that the organization behind this strip club does well in enforcing that rule according to other dancers, but you personally don't want to see if the statement is true. You've been here for a little over a year, and besides bruising grips and pulled hair you’ve surprisingly yet to be seriously injured in any way. So maybe monsters do have a little humanity in them. 

You're quickly growing to be a fan favorite as of recently, which means more money goes your way, but you're not sure how you feel about all the attention on you. It's most likely because of how often you offer private dances and private rooms to clients. Whatever gets you the most money; the faster you make money the faster you can pay off your debt and be out of here. 

Tonight is supposed to be no different from other nights. You perform on stage, you rile up the crowd, you get showered in tips, and if there is a customer that looks mentally sane enough not to murder you in private, you take them to the back. Except, tonight, you're approached by your boss, who informs you that the entirety of the club was reserved by the Fatui, a well-known mafia more powerful and larger than the one that backs you up, for some celebration. These kinds of occurrences in the club rarely crop up, but when they do, they're often the most opportune time to bag in an abundant amount of money. Big shots like the Fatui pay and tip well, but there's one unsaid risk that comes with this: as a mere dancer like yourself, your life quite literally dangles in the Fatuis’ hands tonight. The organization that owns this establishment can't retaliate against the Fatuis if they so choose to dismiss the warning. They can't even compare to the might of the Fatui.

Simply put, if a Fatui kills you tonight, no one could do more besides bat their eyelashes. You're not at all pleased with this predicament of practically bordering on death, especially when you know one wrong move with one too hot-tempered Fatui could land you at the pearly gates. Keep pleasing the crowd, keep entertaining them, keep racking in the money, you remind yourself as you continue your dance, twirling around the pole sensually, and the customers devour every movement with their eyes. The only comfort you're given is that you've heard the Fatui are quite reasonable and diplomatic most of the time. This is especially true for the Harbingers, you've heard, the twelve most elite members that serve under the Tsaritsa, and the ones that are the most exclusive customers this night. That doesn't mean the Harbingers are any more humane than the average crook. Having worked in a strip club run by the mafia and surrounded by criminal organizations, the more rumored something is, the more dangerous it is. They can be considered devils amongst demons even. That's simply how vile they're supposed to be. 

The most concerning problem about the Harbingers is that you don’t know what they look like, only the occasional whisper has alluded to how to distinguish between the twelve. Perhaps, you can survive through the night if you try not to draw too much attention; let the other dancers shine instead and hope you don’t get requested for a private room or dance. That way, you can ensure you don’t end up dead. 

Your time to go upstage comes sooner than you’re prepared for. Your hands are clammy, and your form trembles in a way that only happened during your first month. Both reactions don’t make for a very good combination when your survival relies on you not fucking up and disappointing criminal customers. As you approach the pole, just like every time you’ve done, you make sure that the crowd’s gazes are in the backdrop of your mind, and instead, fixate on repeating the movements you’ve been taught and have mastered with your experience. Bet your survival on the provocative sway of your hips, the practiced showcase of your legs, and the allure of your dancing form. Beguile the crowd, but not too much, just enough to wow them. From what you can tell by the volume of the crowd, you’re doing a good job pleasing the Fatui enough. Your body stops tremoring after a few minutes on stage, and with one last final push of courage, you focus your eyes on the crowd before you.

Unsurprisingly, the makeup of the Fatui are men, though there are notably quite a few women. Either way, all of their attention is on you. As your eyes scan across a crowd, for one reason or another, you stop at a particular set of eyes near the back of the crowd. Intent, pitch-black abysses stare back, like they were trying to bore into your soul and devour every single motion of yours. They don’t quite hold the same ravenous desire as many of those before you right now, you mentally note with curiosity. It feels like your form is being calculated, in the way a predator would cautiously observe their next prey, a sensation you’ve experienced a few times, but each is no less chilling. The weight of their engrossed gaze causes you to shiver momentarily, and you snap away from their disturbing gaze to prevent any fumbling or faltering while you’re on stage. 

Tonight marks the first time you actively seek out the same viewer while on stage, or even, during your entire time here. For some reason, you feel awfully bold, or curious, whichever two comforts you more, and unlike the meek little rabbit you usually are, you instead search for the viewer’s gaze. You find the pair of eyes with relative ease, as you remember that above their eyes are distinctive snow-white strands with streaks as black as their orbs. You take a moment to study them, and they remind you of a lion–or lioness–among hyenas. The aura they exude varied quite a bit compared to the other Fatui in front of you: not rambunctious, or arrogant; it's apparent they held an aura of indomitable authority just from the way they held themselves. Perfect posture with their clasped hands nested in their lap, with one leg raised over the other. They’re an embodiment of perfected elegance, however, much like a porcelain doll, they’re also expressionless, their appearance unmarred. You don’t examine the Fatui’s form for much longer because their scrutiny on you pricks at your skin irritatedly. 

You don’t look for them again throughout your performance. In fact, you hope you never meet those charcoal pits again. You’re afraid that if you do, you’ll be ensnared by whatever beastly claws or fangs you know that Fatui hides underneath that impenetrable mask. The moment your time on stage ends, you rush back to the changing room to shake off your nerves. You sit down at a nearby chair, taking in deep sighs as you attempt to forget how you were stared down like a you were cornered, defenseless animal. And that is what you are, as much as you hate it. There’s nothing that can protect you from the Fatui. Maybe if you hide, never show your face for the rest of the night, they’ll forget they ever saw you and they’ll target another dancer. Surely, that will work, won’t it? 

You’re able to steady your breathing before you can delve into a panic attack. Tonight, you decide, you’re not going to take any customers to any private rooms or take any private dances. You’d be missing out on a lot of money, but your life is more of a priority as of currently; not after the ‘encounter’ with that individual, you don’t want to think about how many more are just like them, hiding in the crowd like they were awaiting an opportunity to pounce on your vulnerable form. 

Unfortunately, it seems like someone else has other plans for you because your manager storms into the room asking for your whereabouts before his eyes narrow on you. You immediately sit up, stiff as a board when he practically marches his way towards you. 

"Someone wants you." 

You sigh and shake your head. You should have known. "Not tonight." 

He clicks his tongue. "You know I can't allow that tonight." 

You bite your lip. "Just pass them to someone else." 

"They're not someone you or I can refuse." 

"Who?" You question with a shuddering breath, your nails digging into your thigh. 

"The fourth one. The Knave. Lord Arlecchino."

Fuck your life. You might as well pull the trigger now. You’ve heard faint whispers of each Harbinger from the customers audacious enough to speak of them. The youngest, the eleventh, charming and boyish. The ninth, money-obsessed but a pretty looker. The eighth, elegant and cold, yet no less alluring. The seventh, as human-like as their robotic creations, which to say isn’t very. The sixth, is hotheaded and mysterious. The fifth, unknown. And the fourth?

Insane. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. That’s how the fourth is described. You shiver at the horrors that appear on the forefront of your mind when imagining what may come for you. If you're lucky, you'll be alive at the end of the night, more than likely clinging to the edge of living. 

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get ready as soon as you can.” 

And you do. It’s not long until you stand in front of the private room’s door, your guest is already inside more than likely. The Fourth Harbinger is waiting, you remind yourself, fruitlessly trying to swallow down your stress. You can be dead the minute you step inside, this room could be marked as your grave. Whatever he tells you to do, you’ll obey wordlessly to survive. Just nod along, smile, and do whatever it is that he tells you regardless of the demand. You inhale deeply, regaining some ease of mind, before you bring your knuckles to the door, knocking. 

“Come in,” comes a deep, flat voice, slightly muffled by its distance but what surprises you is how feminine the Harbinger sounds. Maybe you got the wrong room. You glance back at the room number plate on the door, and it’s the room you remember your manager mentioning. It’s the right room. Maybe someone else? You don’t have time to wonder, however, as you enter the room, knowing that if it is the Fourth, it wouldn’t be wise to keep him (Her? Them? You’ll just stick with ‘them’ now.) waiting. 

“Lord Arlecchino?” You inquire as you enter the room, closing the door behind you. Sucking in a harsh inhale, you instantly recognize their distinct hair. It’s them. Your sight is immediately greeted by the figure sitting on the couch before you, sitting in exactly the same way you discovered them–crossed-legged and lounging back with unfaltering confidence. The Knave wears a scarlet blazer over a black compressed turtleneck, with a matching set of crimson leggings. Upon closer inspection, you’re able to make out red irises in their jet-black eyes. Despite the blatant and literal red flag, something about their appearance draws you in even when they scream danger. They’re… you’re not quite sure how to describe them. You admire the unblemished and pale skin, their elegant and rugged demeanor is like the perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Are they beautiful, or are they handsome? You think both. 

Arlecchino stares back at you like they’re considering devouring you then and there. You can’t suppress the shudder that runs down your spine. You’re a sheep before a wolf. There’s something so chilling about them that even with your experience with other clients, none has ever made you feel this way with just their mere gaze alone. This is what separates the average crook from one of the most powerful mafia members you've ever heard of.

You wait for a response but they only continue to observe you. You take the silence as confirmation to your question and that they’re anticipating something from you. Biting back a sigh of resignation, your hands hook underneath the band of your bra top and you lift it just the slightest amount before a cutting voice makes you freeze.

“What are you doing?” the Harbinger demands, their tone chilling and apathetic, making you want to shrink in yourself immediately. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears and your hands tremble a bit. Something about how designing their gaze makes you suddenly self-aware in a way you’ve never felt before another client–you’re practically half-naked in front of them with your skimpy bra top, undergarments, and fishnets and now is the only moment that you've actually considered how little covering is on you. 

Why are they stopping you? Isn’t this what they wanted you to do? Or maybe they just want to do it themselves. Those types of customers always have the most bruising of grips and suffocating of holds. You stiffen at the notion. How are you going to survive this night with a Fatui Harbinger of all things? How many of your limbs are going to be fractured and how many of your bones are going to end up broken? 

“I…I’m undressing,” your meek voice sounds out and you hate the crack in your speech. The Harbinger continues to scrutinize you. You don’t dare continue disrobing yourself. 

There are several beats of wordless response before they then stand up from the couch. 

Oh shit. You’ve fucked up. Are they going to kill you now? Is this your end? 

Every thought is telling you to run in the opposite direction as they stalk up to you, but you're petrified as you realize with a chill that they’re taller than you. You’re not short by any means, a bit above average height, but they tower over you, looking down at you from above and casting judgment on you like a god. Once they stride toward you, you avoid eye contact by looking straight, observing their neck and clavicle that protrudes from underneath the fabric. You tense when they raise a hand, their manicured fingers placing themselves underneath your chin and long, carmine nails dig into the underside of your jaw, making you wince. They forcefully tilt your head, raising your focus onto their face. 

It’s like they plunged their hands down your throat and ripped out the oxygen from your lungs, leaving you unable to breathe. Up close, the first thing you notice is their lips, plump and red from their lipstick. Briefly, you wonder what color their lipstick would look on your skin. Then your eyes travel up, red-crossed eyes gaze back at you and you gape quietly at the distinct shape of their pupils. You swear that their pupils flash red as you finally lock eye contact with them. 

“Did I tell you to?” Their tone is cold compared to the strange softness of their handsome (beautiful?) face. 

Something in your gut coils inwardly and you want to look away, but their firm hold on your chin prevents you. You bite your bottom lip to repress a whimper. You’re delicate glass in their hands, and they can break you so, so easily. 

“No, sir.” Only the numerous times you’ve said this phrase ensures you don’t stumble over your words. They don’t answer promptly, but as they observe your features, their lips quirk up the slightest amount. 

“You know how to address me. Very good,” Arlecchino purrs after several beats of silence, in a low, oh-so-sultry tone, and oh. Oh. 

You’re not sure why, but their last two words make your stomach churn, but not in a discomforting way. In the way that lights a fire underneath your skin and spreads heat to every part of your body. You’ve never quite felt this way with another customer. You couldn’t believe that your body reacts this way just from a single praise but it doesn’t stop the pooling heat in your bowels. The chill down your spine still remains in place, but there’s an off-putting equilibrium of iciness and fervor generated from the client. 

The Fatui’s eyes stay fixated on you wordlessly until the hand on your chin turns your head, finally breaking you free of their intense behold. Their grip slackens so that they can trace their nails gently down your throat, every inch of surface their fingertips brush against ignites a blaze on your skin. A shuddering exhale leaves your lips and it seems like they take notice because from the corner of your eye, the small uptick of their mouth grows. Despite how sensual and probing the Harbinger’s touch feels, there’s nothing lecherous about it–purely just intrigue and fascination. It’s a touch you both have and never experienced before. Cold nails rake against your throat, not enough to mark or scratch, but enough to invoke shivers. 

You’re aware you should be terrified, but for a reason you can’t pin down, you can’t jerk away from their touch. You try to reason with yourself it was only because you’re one upset away from getting yourself killed but that reasoning falls apart when their hand gingerly traces your jawline and you make the softest of groans, a barely audible noise of content. Unfortunately for you, the sound seems to have reached Arlecchino’s ears and their expression softens slightly: their eyes narrow less and their brows aren’t as creased. And that smirk–if you could even call it that from how faint it is–becomes a half-smirk. 

They pull their hand away and your trance is broken, reality returning back to you as you remember that the person before you is still a Fatui Harbinger, no matter how bizarrely melting their touch was. They turn on their heel and walk towards the couch in front of you; the slightest bit of heaviness is placed on your heart. You remain stationary where you are, observing them as they seat themselves gracefully on the couch, and their attention encounters yours again. Their black pits hold expectancy in them. At first, you’re clueless as to what the criminal desires from you, but then their legs spread apart, an inviting gesture that beckons you and every rational thought leaves your easily swayed mind. Your heart skips a beat, and you're sure this time it's not out of trepidation. 

Even if you didn’t command them to, your legs would take you to their seating figure. You stand before them, feeling blatantly disrespectful to look down at Arlecchino, but you await their order. They lean back, lounging laxly against the couch, their posture never lacking their usual self-assurance. It only ties the knot in your gut tighter. You’re aware of what they’re instructing you to do, but the absent confirmation makes you hesitant. It seems like the Knave picks up on this because the room echoes with one definitive spouted word from their lips, authority and dominance ringing through their husky voice. 

“Sit.” 

Your legs buckle underneath you from the one-worded response, the demand only stoking the consuming fire inside you. Eager to please, you perch yourself on their lap, straddling them, your knees pressed into the furniture below you and encasing both of their thighs between your own. 

Oh, you think to yourself as your legs make contact with their thighs. They're firm. And for some reason, that provokes your stomach to churn in itself even more. You're so close to them, enough to feel their breath cascade against your skin. 

As you seat yourself, you nearly clumsily topple over, instinctively grasping onto their shoulders for support. Their shoulders are remarkably broad, you regard, well-muscled as well. Their hands creep up on your hips, steady but gentle hands grasping on each bare side of yours to stabilize you. The heat that radiates from their hands is infectious, regardless of the nails that burrow into your plush waist. For the first time, you flush considerably, a sweltering inferno forming in your cheeks and your head fills with dizziness. Their touch is gentle–something you rarely experience with customers–so, so gentle that you would describe it as heavenly. How can someone so inexplicably vile have heaven on their fingertips?

It's not a position you never found yourself in. In fact, it's far from the first time you've been like this with another client. But here, as you're sat on top of the Fatui Harbinger, and red x-pupils search yours, a foreign feeling passes through you. Placing your finger on it, you dubiously think it's bashfulness, but the heartbeat that sings in your ears and pulses underneath your fingertips tells you otherwise, tells you it's something more. Against that, you remove your grasp on their shoulders and place your palm flat against the couch’s surface behind the Knave. 

You squirm a bit, nervousness in your form as you remain as still as you possibly can, waiting for any more instructions. All you need to do is act like an obedient doll for them in order to survive; compliance is the best way of ensuring survival with people like these. You feel like you're merely eye candy from the way that their attention flits across your body, but you're immobile throughout the entirety of their observance. Being looked at is much better than any physical interaction. Their hands still cup your hips, but slowly, they descend to the side of your thighs, making your skin feel tingly. 

Impulsively, you mumble out a quiet "Sir…" as strange sensations brush against your skin. 

The sound surprises you and you feel on edge as their eyes travel from your lower half to your face. You gulp considerably. From their stare, they expect more of a response, a reason for their addressment, but even you don’t know yourself; it seems like an unconscious calling that just rolled off your tongue. You cow underneath their gaze, even when the two of you are at eye level. When you linger in quietude, their hand releases one of your thighs and lifts to your face, supporting your chin while their thumb rests on your bottom lip, unfurling it just the slightest amount to implore an answer from your now parted lips. Gleaming scarlet pupils grip your regard sternly, piercing into you and instilling you to spew something out. Except, you still can’t, now too entranced and lost in the crimson. 

“Doll.” 

Despite the pet name, it's devoid of any affection or warmth. It's a word that drips of command, a reminder of your place: simply a toy that they can play with however they want, a manipulated and decorated plaything for their amusement. That means you answer to them, and so when they request a response, you're under the obligation to please them. Your survival is in their palms anyway, if they wanted you to dance, you would just so they wouldn’t strangle the life out of you. 

However, its implication doesn’t prevent the tingling shudders that wrack your body nor the involuntary clenching of your thighs around theirs. Was it the gravelly voice that aroused your behavior? Your cheeks flare at the knowledge that Harbinger sensed the physical reaction. It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't be possible, your thoughts repeat, but then they're interrupted by: 

"Oh?" Arlecchino inquires to themselves, a stark amusement in their speech. Their red glare illuminates slightly, replacing the lost darkening with a faint glow in their pupils, and the corner of their mouth curls up. It is only then that you discover something entirely new: that monsters can be sinfully, cataclysmically, terrifyingly beautiful and the sight before you is the most exquisite example. A devil has you wrapped in its claws and its fangs readied for devouring but it’s disguised as an ethereal angel; blinded by their perilous allure, you mistake their snow-white hair, their lustrous piercing rubies, their flawless porcelain skin, and their burning, fleeting touches as traits of a seraph. From a measly smirk, you forget the atrocities lying underneath their fingertips and dismiss the hazard their presence holds. 

The hand on your thigh rakes its fingers up, red nails trailing across the surface of your fishnet, wrenching out a breathy gasp from you as they travel inwards. Tingling pleasure injects into your veins as you subconsciously lean in, imploring for further sensual contact. A plea sits on your tongue and nests in your eyes as you beg them through your pitiful expression. They drink in your desperation with a slow swipe of their tongue over their lips, and that single action is debauched enough to elicit a soft groan from your throat.

“Well, aren’t you an amusing toy?” They drawl out with a preposing rasp and dark abysses glint with an insatiable hunger. 

They smirk enticingly, their thumb running across your bottom lip and smearing your lipstick on their thumb pad. Their grip on your chin tightens a bit, pulling you even closer to them before a shadow casts over you when their face nears. Before you can even fathom their intentions, they descend upon you, closing the distance between the two of you. Your lips are greeted with something pillowy soft and fervently warm, and you sharply inhale from the sensation. Every one of your nerves sings frenziedly, your muscles tense all over, and your heartbeat drums deafeningly in your ears–all of this as your body is engulfed in a fervid tornado of heat that makes you lightheaded with pleasure. It takes you several beats to realize the reason for this is that Lord Arlecchino, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave is kissing–no, kissing is far too intimate, devouring–you voraciously like they're trying to rob you of any air, trying to imprint themselves on your mouth. Their mouth dominates yours, pushing against them with a deep fervor and famished urgency, eager to swallow every bit of shocked noise you make. 

You close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge. 

You first taste lipstick with a waxy flavor hitting your tastebuds. It’s cold against your lips, yet warm at the same time. But the physical texture and flavor of their lips are irrelevant; there’s only one true manner you would distinguish their taste: 

They taste like sin. 

The type of sin that’s chocolate coated and sprinkled with colorful toppings; depravity so sweet and charming it makes you reconsider the bounds of right and wrong. Degeneracy is far, far tastier than anything you’ve indulged in before. How can something so evil be so heavenly? Cushiony soft, placidly warm, flatteringly zealous, it’s like having a dance with a devil; so unequivocally immoral but no less gratifying. You question if they really belong to the Fatui because how can something like this come from such? You want to engrave the texture of their mouth onto your memory, feel this faux intimacy even when you’ve long parted. The Fourth Harbinger, you surmise as you surrend your will to them, is decadent–the only word that can be defined as both wicked and delectable at once–the perfect word to describe them. 

The last remaining bit of reasoning comes to the backdrop of your thoughts and begs you to not be swept away in the heavenly embrace. You discount it in favor of accepting this godsent gift by leaning further with a weak imitation of their ravishing lips and pressing back. It’s a feeble attempt to match their insatiate nature, far too domineering and forceful than you can manage but they display a token of appreciation when they squeeze your thigh, indenting your skin shallowly with the burrowing of their nails. The action exposes just how sensitive you’ve gone underneath their touch and you reward them with the sweetest of sounds. 

“Arlecchino,” you mumble with half-lidded dazed eyes in between ravenous exchanges and it evokes a depraved throaty growl from the Fatui, like provoking a call from a starving beast. They lean deeper to indulge in your taste. The gruff sound reaches your ears and it’s like a psalm–you shudder from its musical melody. 

Their clutch on your jaw releases and their fingers outline your jawline before snaking to the back of your head. Well-manicured digits entangle themselves in your hair, and there’s a gentle shove against your skull that forces you deeper into the kiss. Your hands clutch onto the couch underneath you as tight as you physically can for any sense of grounding and your knees attempt to close in even more to feel more of their body against yours. The hand on your leg, in turn, caresses the length of your thigh. 

Every graceful touch, stroke, and brush exudes an unyielding and infectious warmth that only adds to the stoking fire in your gut, and you’re bathed in so much swelter from the ecstasy that you feel dizzy. Yet, you never want it to end, you grow more addicted and drunk with each encounter of their lips. That, paired with your strained breathing, prompts your stamina to falter much sooner than the Harbinger’s. You let out a soft whine to signal your depleting oxygen, and their mouth unlatch with yours, pulling away despite your ache for more. With the separation comes a small string of saliva attached between the two of you, evidence of the shared intimacy that’s snapped when they lick their lips. The hand behind your head detangles from your hair and you silently mourn over the loss of contact. 

You heave for air, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You’re a little perturbed when you notice that they’re not even out of breath, a small but firm reminder that they’re as inhuman as humans can be. That knocks a sense of reality back into you. Customer, mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, it comes back to you like a train. Here you are swapping spit with them while in the lap of potentially the most dangerous criminal you could ever meet, but fuck were they a good kisser–you’ve never experienced anything that came close to this in your lifetime.

Any foolish doubtful contemplation of the morality of this interaction is swept away just like that when you hear:

“Greedy little thing that you are,” they regard with the most cunning and handsome of smiles, discrete amusement dripping from their words. Their dark pits behold you entirely, the same way they have always done when it seems like they were contemplating what part of you to savor the most. Only this time, you’re not so disturbed by the notion. If anything, the swirling heat in between your legs suggests the opposite.  

Greedy wasn't a word often associated with you, yet you couldn't more correctly describe yourself in that moment. Greedy. Greedy for a Fatui Harbinger no less. As ashamed as you should be, there's no use denying that you crave for their touch, for their gaze, for anything and everything they're willing to give you. You want everything and more. The more you contemplate, the more it seems obvious why you wouldn’t. Are they a devil disguised as an angel, or are they an angel that fell from grace? Regardless, they bring nirvana to you. An incessant desire bubbles inside you, your throat swelling up with an urgent request on the tip of your tongue. Would they allow such a thing if you plead? Would they be offended by your impudence? Would they punish you for such? But the necessity outweighs any reconsideration of your insolence and the supplicant beg tumbles out of your loose lips. 

“Can I… touch you please, my Lord?” You croak out, wincing at just how wretched it comes out. The response from them is not immediate as the two of you stew in silence, a building sense of dejection inside of you. The expression on their face noticeably contorts, smile lessening, their brows furrowing, and their red x’s glinting dimly. Their free hand raises to near your neck and you suck in a harsh breath as their fingers enclose around your throat. The mere action sends a stinging reminder to your lust-dazed thoughts about their position, and a chill pierces you. 

Mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave–the labels cycle through your thoughts. Though their grip is lax, not exactly suffocating and giving ample space to breathe, their fingertips does acutely jab into your skin, a display of their impressive grip strength. You have no doubt that they can suffocate you with one hand alone, snap your neck, or, as your mind ventures into more harrowing territories, crush your skull. Those thoughts alone has you breathless with anticipation. A heavy weight suddenly appears in your gut, so heavy that you feel like you can’t move so much as a muscle. 

Did you just go too far? Was that too much to ask? Was this how you were going to die?

The reflex to gag and inhale combat each other in your throat, a discomforting sensation that crawls up your spine while you tremble. You’re almost certain that the nails have penetrated the layer of skin, drawing beads of blood that’ll trail down your mark. You whimper at the prickly pain. Yet, in all your unease, the most masochistic thought arrives briefly at the forefront, and you can’t help but consider: this position is just as intimate as all the other interactions. You’re already so vulnerable in their lap, does the hand around your neck change your peril in any way? No, you’ve been a defenseless lamb to a slaughter the moment you’ve stepped into the domain of a menacing wolf. 

Ah. Even now, you can’t dismiss the warmth of their fingertips. 

“Do you still want to touch me when I do this?” They demand callously, their voice harsh and reverberating through the room. Their grasp closes more around, and you feel your supply of oxygen inhibited. Tears begin to brim your eyes, but you’re undeterred. Unlike Arlecchino’s, your answer is instant and breathless. Your eyes intently lock on theirs, the hardened expression enough to satisfy their question. There’s no need for contemplation. Danger, you determine, is addicting. 

“Yes.”

The previously small smile stretches across their lips considerably. Content, or dare you say it, thrill writes itself over their face and the boulder previously pressed against your shoulders is lifted. Your throat is freed from their hold, but their touch doesn’t halt there. Instead, they rotate your head for you to face to the left, exposing your side profile to them. From the corner of your eyes, you watch as their face draws closer to your skin, hot breath cascading across the small dents her nails created. The one on your thigh finally leaves, moving to one of your hips, tender strokes across your flushed surface. They lean forward, and moist, plush skin meets yours. Lips traverse over the length of your neck, teeth scraping against, making you weakly groan. It takes all of your will to still your body, only allowing for the Harbinger to do whatever they desire to your form. Their touches are burning, burning, burning–so hot that you wonder if you’re experiencing a heat wave. Peppered kisses follow the edge of your jawbone, all the way up to your earlobe. A wet kiss graces your ear and then the most sinful of statements dignifies your eardrums, like a devil whispering hymns directly into your ear. 

“I think I’ll keep you to myself after this.”

A short hum follows afterward. 

“If you want to touch me, you’ll have to work for it. You’re only mine for tonight, aren't you? Entertain me. Give me a private dance, doll. After all, you have me for all night.” 

---

Link to M-Alexa's amazing art and how I imagine Arlecchino to look like in this oneshot.

[siderealcity]

More Dawntrail narrative thoughts, this time about the Golden City. Spoilers below.

There are several layers to the Golden City as a plot device in Dawntrail, and I think they're interesting enough to just unpack them all and look at them.

The first time we hear the term, it's from Hades in Endwalker:

"Tell me, have you been to the ruins beneath the waters of the Bounty? Or the treasure islands beyond the frozen waters of Blindfrost, in Othard's north? The fabled golden cities of the New World? The sacred sites of the forgotten people of the south sea isles?"

It's telling that he groups that with the sacred sites of the south sea isles. The plot later tells us that they are explicitly connected to one another, but why does it call them "citiies," plural? Where's the other one, Hades?

(Also, we haven't yet been to the treasure islands in the north, but every one of those locations in the quote above has to do with cross-rift travel. Every. One. So, that may be something we see again later.)

But apart from their lore and plot significance (and potential foreshadowing), the Golden City is, from the first time we hear of it, a lure. Bait, dangled before an explorer, enticing them to go onward. It is, for lack of a better word, a promise of things to come. In the specific case in Endwalker, it's a promise that your story isn't over yet, there's still more to come. Even though you are, at that moment, standing in front of the amassed dead of countless worlds. Death is not the end, it's the beginning of new life.

The second time we hear the term, it's from Wuk Lamat. Who is, again, using it to entice us to join her. We don't know at that point that her actual title is, in fact, Promise. And that is significant.

It is, likewise, the bait for Krile's involvement in the story. The thing she knew her grandfather had been asked to study, the secret he'd kept out of the records of the Students, the promise of a connection. To the past, to someone she loved who is now gone.

But then there's the Rite of Succession. And it changes the meaning of the plot device entirely.

The Rite is structured to follow the Tulliyolal saga--the journey Gulool Ja Ja undertook, over the course of who knows how many years, to unify the peoples of Tural into a single nation. A journey which notably has nothing to do with the Golden City. To the Turali, it's a fairy tale. It is so detached from the story of Gulool Ja Ja that Koana immediately has to ask if the city being the final goal means his father actually has some proof it exists.

The Rite itself, as Gulool Ja Ja later admits to us, is meant to be instructional for his children. They are not meant to simply find and cross the finish line, they're supposed to be learning how to be the rulers of Tural.

As we complete feats in the rite, we are awarded stories of the Golden City by each of the races in Yok Tural. And they all follow a significant pattern: The Golden City was the literal dream of the Yok Huy. The conquerers of every single people in southern Tural. The stories we are given are the stories shared by colonized people of their oppressors.

The conquest of Yok Tural is mentioned repeatedly. Every group we meet was displaced and enslaved by the giants during their empire, and the ultimate goal of that empire was to find the Golden City--a paradise of eternal life without pain or suffering. It is at this point that the Golden City becomes a warning. It is the promise of self-destruction. Searching for it ultimately toppled the Yok Huy empire and changed the giants forever. It displaced and disrupted numerous cultures and started centuries of war.

It is, ultimately, the reason why Gulool Ja Ja ever had to play the role of peacemaker and unifier in the first place. The divide-and-conquer tactics employed by the Yok Huy created every problem he set out to solve.

Why did he choose to make it the final goal of the Rite of Succession? A place he famously did not find before becoming Dawnservant? Was it, perhaps, as a lesson to his children, his Promises? Especially his son Zoraal Ja who had dreams of empire?

But interestingly, the Golden City was also set forth as the specific goal for Erenville to find by his mother. Cahciua wasn't present in the flashbacks to Galuf and Gulool Ja Ja and Kettenram viewing the gate, but we know that she met them afterward, and had Erenville with her. Was she with them the first time they'd found the gate? I have to think she was. The only people who seem to have known for sure about it, among Gulool Ja Ja's circle of friends and allies, were the explorers. The ones who would have been interested in searching for it purely for the joy of discovery.

I think it's safe to say that for Cahciua, at least at the time that she gives her son his quest, the Golden City is the Almost Impossible Dream. One that can, in fact, be found, but crucially, not alone. The Yok Huy, who searched for it for generations, and crushed everyone around them trying to get inside, had it in their possession all along. But they never even saw the gate. It took Gulool Ja Ja, who had friends to help him, who actually discovered the way in. It is the promise of discovery through love and fellowship, for her only son who was withdrawn and antisocial.

And then we actually find it.

It is not an accident that the way to reach the Golden City is through a cenotaph of lost hope. We literally pass through waters littered with the bodies of children who were never born--promises never fulfilled--to get to its gate.

And it's eating the Yok Huy ruin. The electrope spreads out from the gate like an infection, over-writing the Yok Huy stonework, erasing their culture.

And it's still... oddly beautiful? But in the way a poisonous mushroom is beautiful.

And it's closed. We don't go through it at this point, though we walk right up to the seal on the doorway. Because we're alive.

We're told by Erenville that many people have sought the Golden City, never to return. And of course they didn't.

Because this is the gateway to death.

Zoraal Ja is the first person we actually see go through it. The False Promise. Just to reinforce that this is, in fact, Zoraal Ja's role, Sareel Ja leads him to the gate and hands him the key with a speech that is wholly constructed of the same false platitudes about Zoraal Ja's magical birthright that have driven Zoraal Ja to be this self-destructive and miserable in the first place. And we can see how much the speech upsets Zoraal Ja, who just lost the contest to both his siblings. He knows every word of his inherent greatness and destiny is a lie. Sareel Ja hands him the key, and he grips it like it might be a bludgeon without even looking at it. And the second time Sareel Ja makes a "Resilient Son" speech, Zoraal Ja literally stabs him in the back.

Having skipped all the lessons and warnings about the danger of pursuing death and destruction, Zoraal Ja walks through its front door.

And I don't think it's accidental that the dome appears in Xak Tural, even though the gate itself is located in Yak T'el, far to the south. Xak Tural is the land that defeated the Yok Huy advance without a single battle. The unconquerable land. This is the part of Tulliyolal that Gulool Ja Ja didn't have to fix because it was never broken in the first place. They very notably do not live in the segregated societies the people of the south do, because nobody imposed that on them. The towns we see are a mix of races living together, and probably served as the inspiration for Gulool Ja Ja to build Tulliyolal in the first place, differing people pursuing communal and sometimes conflicting interests together. These are the people Zoraal Ja has been rambling about nonsensically, "teaching the value of peace by the misery of war." The ones who don't need Tulliyolal, but merely want to be part of it.

He can make his mark here because his father never did.

When the dome appears over Yyasulani, we, the players, know it's Zoraal Ja's passage through the gate that caused it, but the characters don't learn this until after he's brutally slaughtered people. We players see the sequence of events as: Zoraal Ja, the Promise of Death, walks into the land of death and carries it out with him. But the characters are instead following the trail of death back to the land of the dead. We don't enter Alexandria through the Golden City. Not at first. We enter it through a swathe of destruction and desolation and a storm that never ends. That's our first view of it. The promise of ruin. We do not see the paradise that led the Yok Huy to their doom until after we know that Sphene, like the Yok Huy, is willing to lay waste to the lives around her to have her Golden City.

And then we have the vision.

I don't think it's an accident that the only people who have ever seen anything come out of the gate to the Golden City are the Warrior of Light, Gulool Ja Ja, Kettenram, Galuf, and indirectly Cahciua. All characters who inherently understand that life comes from death and the balance between them is vital. And it's symbolically significant that it's a child who is delivered from the land of the dead. Her parents don't come with her. The dead don't get to return, we get new life instead.

And then we go there. And it looks like Amaurot.

We call it Living Memory, but the resemblance to Amaurot, and the knowledge of what's actually here means that we immediately understand the lie. The Golden City, the cloud, the twelfth level of Everkeep, all of it has always been a false promise. Zoraal Ja, the False Promise, walked into the land of False Promises and became its king.

And Sphene, the Queen of False Promises, has always had the impossible task of keeping the dead alive.

As we make our way through Living Memory, it's notable that what we actually do is remove the beautiful, golden veneer from the land of the dead. The city is still there when we're done with it. We walk back outside through its gate. We do not have the power to remove death any more than we could destroy despair. But we take the lie out of it, we free the stolen life force to become life again. It's now just dead. No more promises of paradise or ruin to fulfill.

[lialox]

It's outside of my genre and definitely something I've never written before. But I every couple of months I get an urge to write a torture fic.

Specifically of KDJ.

Torturer's personal challenge of making him feel it despite the [Fourth Wall] offsetting his pain and physical shock.

Torturer has a skill that can enhance an already active skill.

Bonus points if KDJ is delirious by the end of it but he still. Can't. Faint.

Ideally the torturer should be one of his companions, who's forgotten about him.

Like, the ORV epilogue with a twist vibes somehow.

I want him opened up viscerally. His body is made up of stories and he is a man who refuses to open up. I want to see those fable fragments carved out of him with a scalpel. That blade needs to pierce his flesh and slice out the things he doesn't want revealed sentence by bloody sentence.

I want them thrown to Yoo Junghyuk tied up in the corner and make him read every cringey, embarrassing, idolizing thing written on them

Then I want Yoo Junghyuk to lap at his sentences like a dog.

I want him to taste those stories KDJ never wanted anyone to see. I want KDJ to watch him eat it. KDJ will watch YJK slowly descend into fits of insanity because in ORV's worldbuilding, incarnations are not supposed to eat stories.

Oh, should HSY be the torturer?

Maybe she lost her memories from some function of the avatar skill, idk.

Nah that's boring. Scrap the whole idea above. YJK is the torturer. It's juicier if he snaps back to reality (oh! there goes gravity!) at the end of the story and realizes he 'failed to protect what he was supposed to protect'. The last line of the story should be [Fable, 'Life and Death Companions', is continuing its storytelling.] somehow because its important that KDJ makes it out of this alive and its important that he remembers every brutal scene and it needs to be immortalized in the storytelling of their companionship.

I could make it doksoo but it would be HSY getting tortured unfortunately.

[kradogsrats]

Aaravos, Leola, and the Entire History of Human Magic: Revisited

So I last dumped on this topic right after s5 released, and came up with a rough series of conclusions that were largely correct, as far as interpreting what information we had been given so far. Now that s6 has dumped some new delicious and crunchy twists into the mix, let's take another look.

The Unicorn's Gift

Going into s6, we had 2.5 accounts of the gifting of primal magic to humans: the Book One: Moon novelization, Tales of Xadia, and Ripples. In Book One: Moon, and Tales of Xadia, we learn that humans received primal magic from the/a most selfless and compassionate unicorn(s), against the advice of the elves.

Unicorns were always the most selfless of the Xadian beings. There came a time when, filled with pity, they desperately wanted to help the struggling humans. After all, it was not the humans' choice to have been born without magic. But the First Elves were wary. They warned the unicorns that kindness was not always returned with kindness; it would be a mistake to trust the species. After all, if humans were supposed to use magic, they would have been born with it.

— Book One: Moon

One heart took pity on the plight of humanity. A unicorn, unique among her own rare kind, saw the strength and ingenuity of the human spirit where others saw weakness and beastly ignorance. Her name was Leola. While elves warned that if humans were meant to wield magic they would have been born with it, she gifted the wisest humans with secrets: the language of the dragons and the runes that shaped spells.

— Tales of Xadia

What's interesting is how inaccurate both of these stories have turned out to be. We also don't even actually know whose stories these are. By the time of the series events, it's no longer even remembered that humans had primal magic, aside from primal stones. It's a truth forgotten on the human side, and either similarly forgotten or deliberately suppressed in Xadia. Despite the brightest, most constant star in the sky still retaining the name "Leola's Last Wish," neither Callum nor Rayla know who Leola was.

Ripples obliquely acknowledges the vagueness and changing nature of these stories, opening with:

Like all the oldest tales, time has bent its shape and blurred its color. It is a fable whispered on some tongues and shouted on others. While one may say it ends with a sunrise, another will insist it ends at nightfall.

— Ripples

So rather than directly telling the story of humanity's acquisition of primal magic, Ripples deals with the aftermath. We learn that humanity had been, implicitly or explicitly, forbidden primal magic, and in the wake of them receiving it, a star fell.

It happened long ago, when humans had only just learned to hold fire in their hands without burning. They nurtured their precious primal flames secretly—in the dark of night, beneath shadows and shrouds—as cultivating its glow drew the eyes and ire of monsters. Eventually, for the audacity of their fire, they were hunted, and—though they looked to the stars for salvation—the stars, too, looked down upon them with disdain. Humanity had been given something it was never meant to have. And so there came a calamity.

— Ripples

The story told in Ripples turns out to be the most accurate, based on what we have learned from s6. Humans acquired primal magic, and a star was cast from the sky. (A tiny star, if you want extra emotions.) It makes no mention of how humans learned primal magic, only that they did, and—unlike the other stories, where the elves caution against giving magic to humans but take no other action—the are hunted by monsters for it.

Elarion, fading bloom, afraid to wilt and dim and die, she searched the dark for but a spark and caught the dragons’ hungry eye.

— Midnight Star

Hmmmm.

The Order of the Stars

One of the main things, possibly the main thing, we learned from s6 is that we were given a glimpse of the stars as the god-like authorities that have been hinted at in a lot of Aaravos-related side content. It's not a good look. (It never was.)

It tells us succinctly why primal magic was forbidden to humans: in the timeless gaze of the stars, humans acquiring magic dooms the universe.

(Of course, it is the attempt at averting prophesied doom that actually brings it to pass, but that's just standard stuff. For all their omniscience, the stars apparently still lack genre-awareness.)

This "cosmic order" is likely what the stars have built that Aaravos seeks to destroy:

I hope the stars were watching. I hope they saw it: the moment their perfect reflections turned warped and ruined, churned to chaos by the touch of a single human hand.

— Ripples

And when everything they have built lies shattered, I will savor their fall from the sky.

— Patience

Snitches Get Stitches, Even Dragons

The other major curve ball s6 has thrown into the story as we understood it is the involvement of the archdragons, Sol Regem in particular. According to Aaravos, the testimony of a young Sol Regem is the only evidence against Leola.

At the time, Aaravos seems to take this at face value, and argues that anything Leola may have done was out of love for humans and the world, not defiance of the cosmic order. Maybe this is because Sol Regem/Anak Arao is an archdragon of the Sun, the primal source known for the light of truth.

I, however, have to wonder if he was lying. Taking a look at Ripples, again:

It happened long ago, when humans had only just learned to hold fire in their hands without burning. They nurtured their precious primal flames secretly—in the dark of night, beneath shadows and shrouds—as cultivating its glow drew the eyes and ire of monsters. Eventually, for the audacity of their fire, they were hunted, and—though they looked to the stars for salvation—the stars, too, looked down upon them with disdain.

— Ripples

Apparently, the first primal source humans accessed was the Sun. It could just be that Anak Arao was a rules-obsessed hall monitor and... but what if it wasn't Leola who gave humans that secret? We don't even see Leola doing any magic of the kind she's credited with giving humans—no runes, no spells of any specific primal. If someone did teach humans the runes and Draconic words for primal magic, it seems unlikely to have been her.

But as heir to some kind of position of authority, could it have been partially Anak Arao's responsibility to keep his primal source out of human hands? Was it maybe stolen out from under his nose, and he sought to shift the punishment away from himself? (And boy, would it sure be a real uno-reverse to have this story loop all the way back around to a literal theft of fire for humanity.) Or could it have been lost/given to humans by someone he wanted to protect from the same cosmic justice?

Hmmmm.

There have been hints about a larger human/dragon conflict in the past, most notably the Midnight Star poem. In a hiatus-era interview, Aaron Ehasz describes an early version of the setting as being essentially humans/unicorns vs. dragons/elves. The low-key emphasis on humans and dragons in opposition that we get from some of these materials is a) interestingly not mentioned in either of the "unicorns gave primal magic to humans" stories, and b) not actually what we see as the primary conflict in the setting, outside of Sol Regem's personal grudge.

It gets especially weird because, like... there's no reason to think all the other archdragons we're aware of (except Zym) weren't there, too. Sol Regem is cast as a bit older, but not "of an entirely different generation from the other archdragons"-older. So like, you'd think Zubeia would remember, at minimum, that primal magic was forbidden to humans by the cosmic order. Maybe, given the implied departure/loss of interest by the stars, no one cares anymore? Maybe dark magic was considered a much more serious issue, as far as perversions of the natural order are concerned. Or I guess it's possible that there was some special relationship between the stars and the line of the archdragon Sun King, and the other archdragons weren't privy to the machinations going on in the heavens.

Basically, there's been a big new mystery introduced as to the geopolitics of Xadia and the heavens in the distant past, in addition to Aaravos's personal relationships with all the archdragons.

Book and Key

So overall, I don't actually know what to make of this:

But I have a couple wild theories to put forth.

First of all, Aaravos has been referred to as "archmage of all six primal sources," and this is reflected in the pre-s6 promo art series featuring the book and key.

But, interestingly, we also see in s6 that in order to truly commune with the heavens, the Celestial elves have to remove themselves from the influence of the other primal sources, specifically the Sun and Moon.

So, as powerful as they are, I think maybe Startouch elves don't have automatic access to the other primal sources. Maybe not even the magic of the Star primal, as it exists harnessed by rune spells. The book is probably how Aaravos himself built connections to primal magic while in Xadia.

(This would mean that the reason it was at all believable for Leola to give the secrets of primal magic to humans is because Aaravos was exploring those secrets—something it could be that the stars resented?)

Anyway this could also connect up with any number of wild theories about the nature of primal magic or primal elves, though we see a Moonshadow elf among Leola's friends so it seems primal elves are already present at this point. Being me, if Aaravos and Leola's home was actually in what is now Duren, I at least personally want to believe that he was seeding the frontier with magic.

Anyway, as always: some answers, and even more questions. Catch y'all later when the post-release interviews and Q&As inevitably make everything even weirder.

[eighthwholove]

Kicking myself for watching Fables of Forgotten Things during lunch...it's so freaking good!!

Like intriguing in a very DW-ish way and mysterious too. It gives out a very eerie vibe and I LOVE IT. Why didn't this get picked up??

[yandere-wishes]

𐙚 𝕬 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖋𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝕷𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕿𝖔 𝕯𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖚𝖑𝖆 𐙚

Wednesday February 14th xxxx

Dear Dracula:

I find myself pondering if, deep down, in the heart you deny possessing. There still exists a chasmic rhyme and reason for all which you do. They call you monster, fiend, abomination. Yet aren't they the ones that maim and slaughter for reasons as thin as thread? Thus why should we possess the burden of such an accursed name?

Valentine's is upon us. Maybe such sacrilegious festivities can be blamed for my intrepidity. We've yet to consort outside our nocturnal affairs, outside our world of half-spun truths and forgotten anecdotes. I pray you forgive my effrontery. I pray you comprehend my need for making such inquiries.

But my dear precious Dracula, I have to ask. Do you still remember your mother, your home, your heritage? Many deny that one as egregious as you could possess such mortal things. And yet aren't those the fundamental pillars of who we turn out to be? Isn't one man's evil another man's crusade?

So I, a mortal who believes she may have fallen for you in all your atrocious glory, ask do you remember being a son, a child? Being innocent and naive enough to believe every lie and fable? Do you still yarn for your mother in the dead of day? Recalling her scent and the bouncy curls of her hair, tasting nostalgia on your blood-soaked tongue.

What was it like in the sand, in the snow, in the green valleys and rocky outskirts? Did the coarseness of sand and the roughness of rocks and the tickle of flowers leave phantom pains across your body? Did you play with the snakes and climb fig trees? Did you laugh with others of your kind?

Do you recall your ancestrial home? The bronze walls of your mother's temple. Her fingers wafting through your hair as her smile radiates brighter than the moon. I zealously trust the visions that flash before my eyes on moonless nights. Images of a frail batling wrapped in kaleidoscopic blankets tucked under his mother's arm. Your mother mingled with owls, I wonder why she constructed you in the likeness of bats, of wolves, of snakes? Did she wish for you to serve as a cacophony to the detested, to those we so quickly forget? Did she wish for you something she could never have herself?

They seldom recall you are one of the sons of flames and stardust. Do they forget we share a legacy? One I believe you fought for. Both descendants of the divinely blessed. Both lost children arid for blood and retribution.

I too know of the darkly sweet tang of rich blood upon the tongue.

I too know the fragile elation of scraping blood from under one's fingernails three days later.

I too know the sensation of being a monster in everything but intentions.

I cherish the two lone bites you've left upon my neck. I cherish the cuts your claws have left upon my hips. You never say a word when you fall. When melancholy and memories obfuscate your judgment. I know you refuse to act human, to pretend and be something you are not. Thus I won't ask for sweet nothings from you.

Yet still I long to hear you call me "love".

When did you realize you were equal parts hellfire and shamshir?

When did you realize that humanity deserves to suffer for its every injustice?

My sweet, sweet Dracula, I regret to inform you that as of late my bones feel faulty and brittle, as do my thoughts. Can we still call ourselves holy? Do we still have that right? Can we still repent for our sins? Who decides what a sin is anyway? Will we ever be innocent to someone?

Are you torn too? Broken in all the wrong places? Do you feel the open wounds and amputations, when you stare up at the stars? I wonder if I owe you an apology. I wonder if you owe me one too…

Dearest Dracula, would you ever understand if I told you that I am tired of being a monster, a villain, an abomination? Would you understand if I told you I need to rest inside a glass coffin, to be rejuvenated and reborn into the world as something useful?

Would you believe me if I say I believe in you? That I lay the burden of my aspirations upon your unwavering shoulders. Should there exist any mere slivers of hope, I shall bestow them upon you in trim vials of gold.

Where did our obligations go? Where are they buried so that I may pay my tardy regards?

Dear Dracula,

I hope you understand every star I've spilled to you.

I hope you comprehend the love I harbor within my defective heart.

I hope you adore the blood I've penned this letter with.

I just hope you understand…

In your absence, thorn bushes grow across my cadaver. suffocating and desolate. Without you, voids grow inside me, where hope once flourished. Dracula what I've been trying to say this whole time is…

I think we're both monsters.

I think I could love you.

Sincerely me…

P.S

Think of me as you feast upon your latest victim. And I shall think of you as I fall asleep to the city's empty tunes.

I need an origin story for Dracula.

sorry for the cryptic love letter.

But hopefully this way everyone can identify with it in some way.

[justallihere]

opened my document of sitq scrapped scenes for reasons i've now forgotten, but there's a couple things there i really liked that never fit in what i published, and it's been a while since i've shared any of these, so here you go! these are all entirely unedited and cut off in weird places, so don't take it too seriously. enjoy!

a deleted scene between vi, ridoc, and sawyer from the planning stages of the journal heist (also, proof that the idea of malek and his consort was in my head for a long time before i ever wrote it):

“He’s fucking useless,” Violet muttered to herself, channeling her restless energy into straightening the papers and books on her desk until everything sat in neat piles. 

“No, he’s terrified of your husband carving him up into tiny pieces,” Ridoc corrected. 

“I still can’t believe you broke into your mom’s office without me,” Sawyer said for the third time. He’d been understandably upset when he found out about the late-night adventure he’d missed out on the week prior, but Violet hadn’t apologized. 

Neither had Ridoc, who’d quickly grown bored with Sawyer’s complaints. He scoffed. “You would rather knock out infantry and sneak into the admin building because Violet got that look on her face than go down on your girlfriend?” 

Sawyer blushed. “Okay, look—“

“No one’s blaming you,” Violet said, flipping open the front cover of The Unabridged History of the First Six. Jesinia had found her this morning to pass the book off after her unproductive conversation with Cam yesterday. She’d skimmed most of it already and hadn’t found anything particularly useful. “Jesinia gave a glowing review. Good for you.” 

Despite the color in his cheeks, Sawyer persisted. “I’m just saying, if you’re going to pull off a fucking heist, you could warn me. Or at least not wait almost a week to tell me.” 

“I’m just saying,” Ridoc retorted, “that if you want to be included then you could try celibacy like the rest of us.“ 

“You spent the night with that third-year from First Wing two nights ago,” Sawyer pointed out. “And Rhiannon and Tara aren’t quiet. Violet’s the only celibate person in this squad.” 

“Let’s not talk about my sex life,” Violet interrupted. 

“You don’t have one,” Ridoc said with a charming grin. “But when you do, I expect to hear all about it.” 

She glared and changed the subject back to their initial discussion. “We’ll try to make our breaking and entering schedules align better next time.” Because there would almost certainly be a next time. 

“That’s all I ask,” Sawyer said with a pointed look at Ridoc. 

The three of them were alone in Violet’s room. Rhiannon was in a leadership meeting, and Liam was taking a shower and likely to join them at any moment. Violet hid the book on the First Six beneath another history text and tucked them both into the bottom drawer of her desk. It was where she kept Brennan’s journal and The Fables of the Barren. With the conversation from this past weekend and Brennan’s request still fresh on her mind, she pulled out the Fables and set the book on her desk. 

“There’s nothing useful in the book Jesinia gave you, Vi?” Ridoc asked. 

“It’s a very abridged version to be unabridged,” she said dryly, flipping open the worn leather cover. “I don’t know what to try next. Jesinia says there isn’t much else in the Archives, about the Six or the wards in general. Nothing useful, at least—it’s all about expanding, not creating.” 

“It’d be nice if we had their journals,” he said. “Maybe that’s one of the things your dad was after.” 

The first several fables were about the gods—the very first one was about Malek and his consort, and Violet had always liked that one best. She ran her hands over the illustrations of the god of the dead and the shadowy figure at his side. “Whose journals?” she said absently. 

“Warrick and Lyra.” 

Violet paused, let the words settle, and finally turned slowly to look at Ridoc after a beat too long. “Warrick and Lyra,” she echoed dumbly. 

“Two of the First Six riders,” he confirmed. 

“I know who Warrick and Lyra are,” Violet said, too sharply. “Why do you think they have personal journals?” 

“Because they’re in the Archives.” Ridoc was staring at her like she’d lost her head. Sawyer looked between the two of them, openly curious. Violet’s jaw dropped open. “When we broke into your mom’s office last year for Squad Battle, she had a ledger that listed them as being stored in a sublevel vault. I flipped through it while you were stealing the map.” 

It was an effort to close her mouth. “We don’t have sublevel vaults.” But even as she said it, it felt wrong. Why wouldn’t they? Why wouldn’t the scribes store information in spaces even more secure than the general Archives, spaces that the average cadet or citizen had no idea about? 

History changes depending on who’s writing it, Cam had said. Did he know about the journals? Was that why he was here—looking for actual first-hand accounts of the history he seemed to be so interested in? 

Ridoc shrugged. “According to the paperwork in General Sorrengail’s office, we do,” was all he said. 

“Markham would have told me. My dad would have told me,” Violet whispered, pulling her desk chair out to sit down heavily. 

His expression slipped into something a bit more sympathetic. “You already know he was keeping secrets about his work before he died,” he reminded her gently. “I’m not saying he did it to hurt you, but it’s likely he was keeping a lot of things from you. If your mom knows, doesn’t it make sense that he would have known, too? He was the scribe, after all. He spent a lot of time in the Archives, didn’t he?” 

Violet only shook her head. Not in a real form of disagreement—she just didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want there to be even more secrets to uncover. 

“Maybe he didn’t know,” Sawyer offered gently. 

She shook her head again. “He probably did,” she said, and it hurt to admit, but it felt like the truth. She turned back to the book still open, the only piece of her father she had left. She flipped through the pages again, unseeing, and made herself shake off the crushing feeling of disappointment and hurt. “What are we missing?” she asked Sawyer and Ridoc. 

“Clearance,” Ridoc said dryly. 

She threw him a glare over her shoulder. “In terms of information.” 

“Clearance,” Sawyer said, and earned the same dark look. He held up his hands. “Look, Vi, I know you want to know everything, but whatever this is, we don’t have the rank to find out, and I don’t think this is something you can stubborn your way into if Riorson isn’t going to just tell you himself. How do you expect to get in a sublevel vault of the Archives? Your mom’s apartment where you grew up is one thing, but breaking into probably the most secure place in Basgiath that we didn’t even know existed five minutes ago? That’s extreme, even for you.” 

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, scrubbing her hands over her face. “If it’s something so bad that Navarre has hidden it or erased it from their history entirely—“ Then what? She didn’t know. She didn’t have a plan for that. But that was what Cam had implied inadvertently, and it seemed to be what they were doing with her father—erasing him and his work. What could he have possibly known that was so dangerous Navarre didn’t even want a reference to it existing after his death? 

“We might never figure it out,” Sawyer said. 

“No,” Violet said firmly. She didn’t believe that; she couldn’t.

“Even if it’s not written down, people know. We just have to find the right one to tell us the truth.” 

“If not Riorson, then who?” Ridoc asked. 

That was the part Violet was still deciding. Cam was the most obvious choice, and he seemed to want her to know whatever it was—unlike Xaden and Brennan and her mother, who were actively hiding things and not dropping so much as a cryptic hint. Liam was a possibility, but she was fairly certain his loyalty to Xaden and his desire to keep her safe would win out over any desire to tell Violet the truth. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. 

“Helpful,” Ridoc drawled. 

She rubbed her eyes again. “Xaden will be here tomorrow. Maybe I can—“ 

She cut herself off when a knock came on the door. Violet was closest, and when she opened it, Liam was waiting, damp-haired and holding a physics textbook. “Please help me,” he said, holding up a half finished assignment, and Violet waved him in. 

She nudged The Fables of the Barren out of the way as he took a seat at her desk, her perusal of it forgotten in favor of his homework.

***

a funny little moment between sloane and violet about dain:

“Enjoying the view?” 

Sloane jumped at Violet’s approach. “I’m not staring,” she said quickly. 

“What do you call it, then?” Violet asked, amused. 

“Watching for technique.” 

Violet laughed. Dain and Ridoc were sparring, both of them shirtless and sweaty. On the mat next to them, Rhiannon was working with Tessa, patiently walking her through several offensive moves. She was much better than she had been three months ago; she looked stronger, had better posture, moved more smoothly. 

“Which one are you watching?” Violet asked. 

“Both,” said Sloane imperiously, lifting her chin. 

“Well, they’re both trouble, so good luck.” 

“I thought Aetos was all straight-laced.” Sloane rolled her eyes. “That’s what Liam says, at least. Told me to avoid him.” 

“Dain has a strict sense of morals,” Violet said carefully. “But he’s a good man, or he wouldn’t be here.” 

Sloane turned a critical eye her way. “Were you two ever. . .” 

“No,” Violet said. Sloane raised an eyebrow, and Violet smiled indulgently. “He kissed me once. It was nothing.” 

Sloane’s mouth dropped open. “You’re lying,” she hissed. 

“I am not.” 

“Does Xaden know?” she whispered, like it was some sort of dirty secret. 

“I’m sure he’s guessed.” 

***

and finally, an alternate take on xaden and violet's first kiss, taking place at athebyne immediately after xaden woke up from his injuries during the fight:

“Violet—“

She lurched forward, cutting off whatever else he might be about to say by covering his mouth with her own. He caught her, his hands bracketing her waist, but he was otherwise still beneath her touch. She waited, pressing closer, and finally he responded, his mouth slackening as he parted his lips to kiss her back. 

“Violet.” It was a groan this time, and he pulled her closer, hungry, urgent, impatient. Wanting. She kissed him again, again, tasting blood on his tongue. He lifted a hand to cup her face, his thumb pressing into her chin beneath her lower lip, and he drew back. “Violet.” Now it was cautious. 

“Xaden.” She waited for the rest of the sentence. 

“You never answered my question earlier.” He paused, and the silence stretched for a beat too long. 

She brushed their lips together again. “You technically never asked me a question,” she pointed out. “But in case it wasn’t clear, this is my answer.” 

“I want you to say it,” Xaden whispered.

Violet tipped forward until their foreheads touched, and she stayed there for a moment, sharing air. “I love you.” 

He swore, low like he couldn’t quite believe it, and kissed her like he’d never get to do it again. His hands tightened on her, one hand sliding from her waist to her hip, the other tilting her face so he could kiss her deeper, nipping at her lower lip. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but she felt the sensation all over her body. She wound her hands into his hair and shuffled closer. His hands slid down from her hips, gripping her ass to pull her body flush against his. He broke the kiss, tugging her lip between his teeth as he drew back. “Say it again,” he ordered in a rough voice, and she shuddered. 

“I love you.” She found his mouth again, unsure how to be separate from him now that they’d started this. Between gasps for air, she murmured, “I love you. Tell me you love me.” 

He groaned. “I love you.” He gripped her thigh, pulling her knee up and over so it was braced on the bed against his hip, straddling his thighs. “More than anything.” She pushed forward until Xaden leaned back against the bed and she was half-kneeling above him, still trying to memorize the taste of him. “More than everything.” 

She licked into his mouth, shivering when he dug his fingers hard into her skin and pulled her up higher so she sat atop his stomach to reach his mouth easier. Her hands roamed, sliding from his hair, down across his neck and shoulders and broad chest. She reached the hem of his shirt and was sliding her hands beneath the material to touch his bare skin when the door opened. 

Violet jerked back, startled, but Xaden only followed her, levering himself upright to try to kiss her again—until he looked over her shoulder and glowered. 

“Go the fuck away,” he ordered, wrapping both arms around her waist to pull her close, like whoever had entered might try to steal her away from him. He kissed the curve of her jaw, and Violet tried again to squirm away, but he held her too tightly. 

The person at the door made a low sound of disgust. “I wanted to check on you, but I see you’re doing fine,” Brennan said. 

Violet jolted again. It would have been bad enough if it was Bodhi or Garrick, but for her big brother to see her plastered against Xaden like this—she’d never hear the end of it. 

Xaden didn’t seem to agree, or to care. “You’re going to see a lot more that you don’t want to see if you don’t leave now.” 

“Xaden,” Violet hissed. 

He only tipped her chin up and brushed his lips over hers. “You tell him to go away,” he murmured. 

“Brennan,” Violet said firmly. “Leave.” 

[elderberries-and-honey]

The Baudelaire family returned to Ireland the next day, only this time, they never had to worry about leaving.

Their new home had been abandoned years prior to them purchasing it and had been left vacant for quite some time after the previous family had fled those lands that had once been filled with such rich history. Overtime, the stories had been forgotten, perhaps almost purposely by those that occupied the neighborhood nowadays, existing only as children's fables or as myth.

One thing they did know though was that the land used to be a vegetable farm, quite a successful one too, and Lawrence intended to make it profitable once more. Already, the farm boys were put to work planting rows of cabbage, carrots and most notably, potatoes.

Hours of labor had gone into restoring the house to what it had once been before the family arrived and at last, it was returned to its original state of elegance. The perfectly laid brick was covered by thick ivy, and the grounds were surrounded by beautifully vibrant flowers, lush green plants, and tall, brilliant marble statues.

It all seemed like something out of a storybook rather than real life.

The travel horses pushed forward through the gates, and all any of them could do was gawk, unable to believe they were truly going to live here. Even the children, fussy and tired from such long travels, sensed the exhilaration from the adults and had begun to perk up with curiosity.

Ozzy, who rode with Beth in her carriage, stared up at the house in wonder, as though his little mind was trying to comprehend such a big change. "This is our new home, my little dove. We're going to live here now!" Beth whispered to the seemingly awestruck toddler next to her.

"Wooooow!" He exclaimed almost breathlessly, and though it was unclear if he actually understood what it all truly meant, Beth laughed in response, happily agreeing that 'wooow' was right.

Most of their belongings arrived before The Baudelaires, already unpacked and put away thanks to a moving crew hired on by Lawrence. In addition, he had also taken it upon himself to hire various help, like maids, gardeners, cooks, and even a personal chef, and as Lawrence stepped out of the carriage and onto the stone pavement, he could see one of their footmen waiting patiently to greet them at the door.

"Well, hello there, Baudelaires!" He called out from the porch enthusiastically.

Lawrence waved a quick hello before holding out his arms to take Atticus. "That's Mr. O'Bannon. He worked for the family that lived here previously." He explained once Winifred had situated herself.

They joined Beth and Ozzy next, and walked hurriedly up the front steps while Mr. O'Bannon welcomed them home.

Winifred audibly gasped as she entered inside, her eyes growing wide in amazement at everything around her, and once everyone had stepped through the front door, they understood her reaction at once.

After they had filed in one by one, Mr. O'Bannon offered a tour of the house and they happily accepted. He informed them of the origins of their new furniture, boasting about the craftsmanship of the Irish workers and the prestigious color schemes of the wallpapering, most notably, the newly popular Scheels green in the parlor and the dining room.

The new decor was so complimentary of the things they had brought from home, they were almost unrecognizable sitting amongst such fine things, almost as if they were new items themselves.

They had only made it through the first two floors before Atticus started falling asleep in his mother's arms, while Ozzy began to grow rather antsy. Winifred excused herself to rock with Atticus for a while and Beth, wanting to avoid a tantrum, decided to take Ozzy outside to get a better look at the water fountain out front. Which left Lawrence to finish off the tour with Mr. O'Bannon.

However, Mr. O'Bannon dismissed himself as well, needing to check how the luncheon was coming along and confirm the table was being set correctly. Lawrence didn't mind all that much, if anything, he was relieved to see how serious his staff seemed to take their jobs.

And so, just like that, everyone was off in different directions, making themselves right at home.

Lawrence, who now found himself alone, fancied himself a celebratory smoke out on the balcony. There, he smoked cigarette after cigarette while he watched over the farm hands below, reflecting how just months prior, he would have been down there in the dirt just like them. But, tilling soil and yanking weeds were a thing of the past, and someday soon, nothing but a distant memory.

Now, all there was left to do was assimilate to this new way of life.

next / previous / first

[sunderwight]

In the theme of "just ignoring whatever the people behind the show say", I have disregarded the idea that the people of KL don't cheer to see Meleys' head because they've somehow forgotten that she killed a bunch of them just a short while ago and are thus somehow mourning her.

I think reactions are muddled because they just really don't know how to take this.

The last time a dragon was killed and anyone other than the riders involved saw it would have been when Maegor slew his nephew Aegon and Aegon's dragon Silverwing. And even Maegor didn't parade the dragon through the streets. Because Maegor presumably understood that his control over the populace was reliant upon the image of dragons (and Targaryens, by association) as closer to gods than to mortal things. That image is diminished by reminders that dragons can not only be killed, but are reduced to the same rotting animal parts as anything else after the fact.

So this is strange. It's doubly strange due to Cole's decision to try and call Meleys a "traitor dragon", which was a bad idea and almost certainly went against previously established notions and precedents.

To go back to Maegor again, the guy was such a widely unpopular king that he is still wielded as an example to discredit other Targaryens. Otto warns that Daemon is too like Maegor. Anti-Rhaenyra statements often slander her as "Maegor with teats". Being like Maegor is shorthand for "person technically in the line of succession who should never inherit because the people and gods would not support their rule".

Maegor, however, flew Balerion. The Black Dread. Aegon the Conqueror's dragon. The dragon. The same dragon that Viserys I claimed. The fabled "last living creature to see Valyria before the Doom" that still lives large in the cultural legacies of Westeros even by the time of Robert's rule.

Dragons can live for centuries, and they don't seem to give much of a shit about political allegiances when accepting or rejecting riders. While it's certainly a feather in the cap of any Targaryen that can tame a powerful dragon, you cannot hinge much on the dragon's "opinion". You can call Rhaenys a traitor but not Meleys, because ideally if they'd killed Rhaenys and not Meleys then one day one of Aegon II's own descendants might have claimed and ridden Meleys.

Cole, I think, has made this decision because he finds the idea of dragons as beatable animals reassuring in the wake of watching the battle at Rook's Rest. He's trying to take control, to treat this as a victory. He's not registering the unease and questions he's introduced into the minds of the even the least transgressive common folk by putting a dragon on the level of an animal, or the fact that this undermines certain ideas that bolster Aegon's right to rule as much as Rhaenyra's. After all, the people of King's Landing haven't come back from witnessing a battle where the dragons unleashed their terrible might.

I think this fits well into the impending uprising that is going to result in Certain Events at the dragon pit, too. No cheering. Just unease.

[iamsherlocked-1998]

COME WITH ME

SUMMARY: Din is just... adjusting to his new realities.

WORDS: 1000

WARNING! ⚠️: Male x Male. A lot of sexual content (little rough). Emotional constipation.

Din Djarin trudged wearily across the dimly lit hallway of his ship, the new Razor Crest, after a long and grueling mission. His Mandalorian armor clinked softly with each step, a familiar sound that brought him comfort amidst the chaos. As a skilled and enigmatic bounty hunter, Din was accustomed to a life of solitude and independence. But his encounters had taught him that even the toughest warrior could not thrive alone forever.

It was during one of his missions that he crossed paths again with the Jedi named Skywalker, a name that echoed through the galaxy like a fabled legend. He had to admit that first impressions weren’t the best—Din still felt his breath catch in his throat when he recalled the time he lived apart from his son—but Luke, with his kind eyes and unwavering determination, had a way of unraveling the walls Din had built around his heart. Despite their contrasting backgrounds and lifestyles, a deep bond began to form between the two, a connection Din couldn't quite understand, but one he dared not resist.

Luke, with his gentle demeanor and formidable strength, showed Din a side of himself he had long forgotten: vulnerability. The Jedi's presence had a way of making Din feel safe, like a reassuring beacon in the darkness of the galaxy, whether it was during a simple meal or a chat about his time in the rebellion. Din, so used to carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, found solace in relinquishing control and letting himself be cared for, even if it was for a fleeting moment.

Intimacy was not long in coming, the bounty hunter had not had many bedmates, but Luke was a force of nature, drawn to him like two magnets. The difference came one day when they shared their time in the blond's room. His mate threw him onto the soft mattress as kissed with overwhelming need. His pants were down and his helmet slid up, resting on nose.

Both of their hands were everywhere and Din had lost awareness of his surroundings, moaning as he wrapped his legs around the Jedi's waist. His partner caressed his manhood, collecting the precum that was there, the next thing he knew was that his entrance was being explored with expert hands by the young man. The Mandalorian's first impulse was to push him away, the touch was firm but not aggressive. The man looked at him with concern.

-I'm sorry, I… I can't.

He took off his helmet in the bathroom, intending to let the water wash away the cold sweat from his face. For Din, letting go was not easy. Old habits die hard, and years of living by a strict code and a hardened heart had made him wary of trusting others. Yet something about Luke made him want to push aside his reservations, if only for the chance to experience a shred of the comfort and companionship the Jedi offered. He had to think of something.

As they embarked on new adventures together, Din found himself dealing with his own inner turmoil, torn between the familiar safety of solitude and the uncharted territory of letting someone in. Luke, with his patience and understanding, stood by Din’s side through it all, a steady presence that slowly chipped away at Din’s walls, revealing the vulnerable core that lay hidden beneath the armor.

On one mission, the adrenaline created a heavy atmosphere between them, the walls of the ship rumbling with grunts and suppressed sighs. Clothes were all but gone, the young man squeezing his thighs with hands causing bruises between kisses that boiled down to a clash of teeth. Then his partner did something unexpected, his mouth moving down Din’s belly to lick his most sensitive area, avoiding the place where he needed it most. He placed two fingers in his entrance while playing with his erect nipples. Control was fading by the moment.

The following seconds were an animal conflict to regain domination, Luke closed his eyes in concentration, he felt an invisible force until his body was held with all his weight, his nails dug hard into his partner's back, leaving a trail that would persist the next day. The blond's cock slowly and painfully entered his tight ring while he looked for a hiding place between the neck and shoulder of the other, leaving angry marks.

He noticed the sweat running down his forehead and the hand that still kept its worn glove, sheltered in the armored protections of the forearm. With an iron grip, the young man began to move reaching a point that made him see stars and the discomfort dissipated taking him to a state of trance. Sensing his ecstasy, the Jedi caressed him roughly, spilling himself all over his stomach. A warm, sticky feeling gripped him as his mate followed moments later, emboldened by the urges his entry provided.

Luke released him exhausted onto the most cosy area of ​​the Crest, cleaning his entire used body. He curled up next to him, directing his face to the Mandalorian's chest and placing a tender kiss there. Peace was established irremediably and sleep overtook them both.

And in those rare moments of respite, when the galaxy was in harmony and the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders, Din allowed himself to bask the warmth of Luke's presence, savoring the simple joy of being cared for and understood. In Luke, Din found not just a friend or an ally, but a kindred spirit, someone who saw beyond the armor and the mask, and embraced the man hiding beneath.

Together, amidst the vast expanse of the galaxy and the trials that lay ahead, Din Djarin and Luke Skywalker forged a bond that transcended the barriers of space and time, proving that even the most reserved of hearts could find consolation in the embrace of another. And as they continued their journey, navigating the twists and turns of the fate that awaited them, Din learned that sometimes, in letting his guard down, he found a strength and courage he never knew he had.

NOTE: The story is based in this art.

I hope you like It 🤗💕 @koi-illust