#for posting this curse upon this wretched land

[rockcat2112]

FUCK YOU

MAKES YOUR KETCHUP SEE-THROUGH Trans Ketchup! Trans Ketchup! It's gender fluid and it's beautifully homoerotic <3

[dewitty1]

Fic Recs Wrap Up - September 2023 (ノﾟ∀ﾟ)ノ⌒･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*☆

Salt on the Western Wind by Saras_Girl

When the war isn’t quite as over as it first appears, a guilt-ridden Harry is sent to a mysterious safe-house. Among sandwiches, insomnia, and Mills & Boon, he discovers something quite unexpected. Rec Post

Transfigurations by Resonant

Five years after Voldemort’s defeat, Harry returns to England to help re-open Hogwarts. Rec Post

The Arc of the Pendulum by brummell (actualite)

After his father casts a mysterious curse on Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy is forced to try to make things right. Rec Post

The Lily Spell by pickledghost

Harry Potter is one of the most handsome and sought after alphas on the Hogwarts Higher Education Programme. Draco Malfoy on the other hand, is the Seventh Year omega son of deceased Death Eaters and is widely ignored and shunned by his peers. Harry doesn’t even know Draco exists until he discovers that the younger boy is pregnant with his baby thanks to a spell gone wrong. Rec Post

Kiss the Joy (Until the Sun Rise) by ICMezzo  @icmezzo

The Room of Requirement was severely damaged in the war, but not so much that it could not provide for one lost student and another young hero—especially when they needed each other most of all. Rec Post

Night Magic by Kbrick @kbrick

Eighth Year isn’t what Draco or Harry expected. Harry’s horribly lonely in the aftermath of his breakup with Ginny, Draco’s stuck in a clandestine friends-with-benefits situation with a closeted Blaise, and neither one of them can ever get any bloody sleep. But when our favorite boys bond over their insomnia-related woes, things start looking up. Rec Post

The Sun in Summer (Presto Pizzicato) by Cannibalschism @cannibalschism

Harry Potter is an orphan. Everyone knows this, him most of all. Taken in by the agoraphobic and ancient Dowager Viscountess Cassiopeia Black, Harry’s musical aptitude was evident even from a young age. He has trained all his life to perform in front of a noble audience and step upon the shoulders of giants. To be known for his accomplishment and skill. To be great. And he will do anything to achieve that goal. Draco Malfoy is an orphan. He hasn’t been as such for very long, however. Known as the Instrumenteur, Draco runs a modest shoppe in lower Diagon Alley where he creates and repairs musical instruments. The Viscountess Cassiopeia Black stole everything from him the night of his parents’ fatal accident. When Harry Potter, the orphan that wretched woman took in even as she cast out her own blood, proposes the most ludicrous of schemes that might just get Draco his stolen title and life back, who is he to decline? In a time of galas, secrets, corsets, and symphonies, can love prevail over all else? Rec Post

WHISKY-TANGO-FOXTROT by Vukovich @vukovich

“Potter,” Malfoy said with a slow smile. “You’re a trashy, new money slut.” “Yeah? Maybe you like it.” – The worst thing about being the Golden Boy is the freebies. Free drinks. Easy sex. It’s all too easy. The worst thing about being a Malfoy is the expectations. Marriage. Kids. It’s all so scripted. Harry wants his arse kicked. Draco decides to grab life by the balls. Rec Post

Here are a few more fics I've read recently that y'all might like to check out as well! (ﾉ^ヮ^)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

A True Entanglement by Booktopus @thebooktopus

One moment, Harry was minding his own business, going about his workday, and the next, he found himself being dragged across the Ministry by a red string that had somehow curled up in a pretty little bow around his wrist. A story of fate, smut, falling in love, and a string named Harold.

Fire Meet Gasoline by lettersbyelise @lettersbyelise

When Draco’s anger management issues land him in St Mungo’s, he thinks his Quidditch career is over. But Harry, A&E Healer and notorious workaholic, is faced with a similar predicament. To save their jobs, the two of them decide to fake a relationship. All they have to do is convince their friends and employers… and not fall in love in the process. Simple, right?

Everything is Relative to You by honeybeet @thehoneybeet

Potter was supposed to have lived. Draco is certain of this. That Potter would no longer walk the earth was tantamount to the sun moving west to east across the sky. If only he could have stopped this from happening, if he’d have known… It comes to him as ideas often did: too late. Or, Harry dreams of his past lives, and Draco is in every one.

we'll keep the king by BlueSundayCake @bluesundaycake

On a cold December morning, Remus Lupin shows up on Severus Snape's doorstep with a child with very familiar eyes.

Evitative by Vichan

In the summer before his fifth year at Hogwarts, Harry is drawn to a room in Grimmauld Place. Like the Gryffindor he is, he enters the room without fear. The room is a library, and Harry is surprised to find that he’s eager to learn. Then he gets the bad news: he’s been accidentally expelled from Hogwarts, and he needs to be sorted again. Everyone is confident that he’ll go straight back to Gryffindor, but with what he's been learning, Harry’s not so sure.

The White Pawn by Soupy_George

When eighteen-year-old Draco Malfoy finds himself back at Hogwarts on the eve of Voldemort's infamous return, he is confronted with the most difficult decision he's ever had to make: Relive the 6th year at school he's tried so hard to forget, or do the unthinkable and ally himself with Potter's lot...

( •ॢ◡-ॢ)-♡ I hope you enjoy these fics as much as I have! Happy reading, y’all! xoxo, Carey  (◍•ᴗ•◍)♡ ✧*💜💙💚💛❤💗💕💖

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Wagan

Debut: Wagan

Look! It’s Wagan! From Wagan! What is Wagan (character)? Why, Wagan is a wonderful little green robotic dinosaur sort of guy who is good at making noises! What is Wagan (media)? Good question!

Here is a photo of Wagan in real life. Wagan is real! The original Wagan is an arcade machine by Namco, but I honestly cannot find much information at all about it. I don’t THINK it’s a game. More of an interactive toy? Here is a video! Hear his noises and watch his mouth flap about!

Wagan’s physical prison is labeled THE EMOTIONAL WEAPON, VOICE-CANNON “WAGAN”. I guess this is some kind of. Yelling game? The presence of a megaphone makes me think you yell at Wagan, and Wagan yells at you, and I don’t know the point, but it is really funny, and of course the actual physical Wagan robot is incredibly cute!

Luckily, Wagan would later enter a form of media I CAN comprehend! Scrimblo bimblo platformers! This is Wagan Land, which became Wagan’s Main Thing for a while, and hmm. I have things to say about this.

First is, WOW this game is cute! Look! When Wagan is falling in the air, his mouth flaps up, like Mario’s hat in Super Mario World! That’s so wonderful! And look at that SNAIL! The first enemy you see in the game, and what a great first impression! All the character sprites are delightfully compact. The thing that looks like a Wagan fetus is a Waganizer, which upgrades his Yelling ability, which is used to stun enemies so they can be jumped upon safely.

Very charmingly, Wagan’s yells are represented by the actual sound he says, shot out as a projectile! These have been lovingly translated in the fan translation, so you can make him yell WA, GYA, and GA. If you make him say GA twice, then just call him Lisa Simpson, because he’s Going Gaga!

The Waganizer was first a toy, and this sure looks like a gun huh! But it is a voice recorder and amplifier. I guess it is like having a bit of Wagan of your own, in Weapon form? To Blast your voice at others? I’m not sure why it had to look so incredibly like a gun, though!

Also, this post is about Wagan himself, but I HAVE to mention there is a Mola mola in this game! A pink sleepy one that flies above the water, and is the ONLY creature in the game that Wagan can safely touch by default, allowing him to ride on top of it! I do not know why a robot dies upon touching a snail. Sorry.

This game sounds so lovely, doesn’t it? It does! So it’s too bad it SUCKS and is TERRIBLE and I HATE it so much!!! And I don’t want to do any of that... but it forces me to!

The platforming sections are all fine and dandy. But the bosses, oh dearie me! Instead of battles, they play a minigame with you, and these are absolutely wretched! There is a word chain game and a memory game, neither of which are good, and both of which feel very easy to get locked out of winning due to randomness. And if you lose, you Die. It’s really not fun whatsoever to have to play a minigame you may very well not have any chance of winning, and they are so common that it sadly ruins the whole game... Maybe I’m doing something wrong, but I don’t think it should be so hard to see what to do right! It feels like a game for babies that wants nobody to succeed.

However! I must give a MAJOR shout-out to AlanMidas of romhacking.net for making this English translation of the game, because translating this word chain game and all its intricacies must have been absolute hell! So thank you, AlanMidas! Or curse you? For being the reason I was able to play this at all? But mostly thank you. And I applaud your effort. I mean, they were able to make the pig icon work by referring to it as an “oinker”. I applaud an oinker any day.

Geez, I don’t want to be so negative on one of these posts. I do love Wagan (creature) a whole lot! Want to see him playing baseball?

There we go. Isn’t that droll?

Have another! For your troubles. Sorry, there is just so little English information about Wagan! This is all I can humbly offer. But I hope you love to view Wagan as much as I do! And if you ever see him in real life, yell at him. I think he likes that!

[wazzappp]

uhh random blessing bc why not *waves hand in a circular motion on your blog*

if it hasn't happened yet, then may the man himself Felipe Smith come and praise thy blog. make haste. 🤞

*looks at the art I just posted*

What curse have you brought upon this wretched land

[iggyfing]

untitled self-indulgent post-3.3/dragonsong war drabble. heavensward spoilers!

estinien pov. featuring one of my wols, laughing hare. not ship. they're best friends, your honor. they can be a little soft. as a treat.

abrupt ending bc i'm bad at them. estinien characterization may be a bit off bc i'm working with what i have (free trial story content). references events of a previous untitled drabble.

***

The beasts really shouldn’t have given him much trouble, but he was yet on the mend and out of practice. One had landed a heavy swat to his side, staggering him to a knee, winded but blessedly unclawed. He only just raised his lance in time to fend another who lunged at him with jaws gaping wide. The creature’s weight impaled its shoulder on the weapon as the shaft slid through his hands, ramming the butt into the ground beside him. The beast howled in pain and leapt back, dragging lance and wielder with it to send him sprawling. The others circled as he scrambled to his feet, wary now that he’d drawn first blood. He cursed himself for a fool, for straying too far from the roads in search of solace and respite.

Just then a great destrier chocobo landed heavily in front of him, wings flared and head low as its rider dismounted and hefted a broadsword easily as tall as she was. With a roar and flourish, she set upon the beasts with fierce and unsettling fury.

It was the roegadyn, one of those warriors of light who had prised him from Nidhogg’s grasp despite his pleading. Laughing Hare, who had nearly taken his place as the dread wyrm’s vessel. She brandished the darkness again, as she had in the wake of Haurchefant’s death. The creatures all fell upon her with an equal fury but found themselves no match and soon all lay dead around her.

Fatigue took him suddenly, and he leaned heavily on his lance as he lowered himself to a knee.

She turned to him then, with that strange, half-mad look in her eyes as he’d learned to mark of her on their journey to Zenith, and stalked toward him with teeth bared in what might be a grin. He regretted letting his guard down but could not summon the strength to rise.

“Estinien!” she bellowed even as she reached him. She raised her sword and struck downwards, burying it a fair half-fulm in the ground before squatting down in front of him. “Why did you leave?”

His gaze traced the branching scars from her cheek to jaw to neck and collarbone where they vanished under her armor. The mark of her reckless folly. He looked away with a scoff. “Why did you come after me?”

“I didn’t want you to leave.”

“…There’s no more place in Ishgard for me.”

“Ha! You lived for your city! They’d have to be fools to cast aside her staunchest defender.”

“I lived for the war. In the end I defended nothing. My own weakness resurrected her fiercest enemy.”

She turned her face from him then. “…It was not only your weakness,” she said at length with ungainly stiffness of tone. “Kuzhuk had warned us of you and the eye. I did not listen. And I did not act.”

Silence fell. There was no response he could make. The half of him wished to shun her admission even as the other called for his absolution. But he had looked upon himself too closely to accept the latter, and to heed the former would be to consign himself to a festering pit of selfish loathing.

They were the both of them guilty.

She leaned forward onto her knees and hooked an arm round the back of his neck, pulling him into an embrace. “I am glad you’re alive.”

The shock of it froze him, all thoughts grinding to sudden halt. Something in him snapped. What he might once have called courage or fortitude, such qualities second to vengeance round which he had bent himself, after which he’d striven all his life, forsook him wholly. He returned to himself to find his body shaking, trembling like the wretched orphan child that yet dwelt in his heart.

His arms raised seeming of their own mind and wrapped round Hare, returning the embrace. He found she, too, was trembling, and the whole situation turned suddenly surreal and nearly sacrilegious. To hold and be held by one of the Warriors of Light as they both quailed from some unidentifiable sentiment. Though what cared he for sacrilege, he who had traveled with the chieftess of heretics and parleyed with dragons and stood by as the archbishop was slain? He who had himself become dragon? Even still, the conviction nagged. He shouldn’t be here, like this, doing this — but no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than she tightened her hold, to which he thoughtlessly responded in kind.

Long did they rest like that, until at last the snarls of more creatures coming to stake a claim to the territory roused them both to action. Wordlessly they parted and Hare raised herself on her sword even as he did on his lance. She slung her weapon on her back and mounted her chocobo before reaching down a hand. He hesitated only briefly before taking it. Once mounted, she spurred the bird to flight, only stopping once they were high enough to be beyond the beasts’ range.

“So,” she said, all solemnity and sobriety of the past minutes falling away, “where are we headed?”

“Tailfeather, I suppose,” he answered after a moment’s thought. Though he was reluctant to endure the company of so many others, he was yet unfit to make camp on his own. And the thought of begging shelter of the dragons of Anyx Trine was… unendurable.

She gave a nod and hummed in affirmation before turning the chocobo to the south and setting it off.

They flew in silence for several minutes. As they neared the hunting village, the sun hung low on the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the land.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

She only flashed a grin and laughed her hearty laugh, which struck him with an inexplicable stab of shame.

“Once we arrive, I shall burden you no longer,” he added quickly.

Now she turned to him with a queer expression, seeming equal parts confusion and mischief. “I came to bring you back to Ishgard. But since you will not return, I would go with you.”

[outofangband]

Starting the slow, painful process of rewriting older snippets of mine with fixed edits, more revisions and some of them just...completely reworking! anyways here’s Maedhros in Angband not having a good time. I chose this one because I have a sequel in the works! 

See the illustration here!!

Morgoth has stolen Fëanor’s father, his Silmarils and now, his eldest son and heir

CW: blanket Angband warning for captivity, restraints and Morgoth (and Gothmog) existing, humiliation/on display/made a trophy, dehumanizing language

Angband world building and complex trauma masterlist

author’s note: I know I have talked about this on like fifty other posts so I’ll try to make this quick but I just…I think a lot about Maedhros being a trophy to Melkor in a way akin to the Silmarils and..

The elf held its head high even as it was pulled forward by a chain connected to the collar around its neck. Despite the humiliated anger that burned on his face, the wretch still clearly considered himself as possessing of dignity, perhaps even nobility. Gothmog wondered if he should place a wager with one of the captains as he did on occasion ; how long until the little king abandoned his attempt at pride, until their master broke His new trophy. True this brat was of the fallen king’s brood but none of the Eldar could survive their master’s attention or fury with their mind intact, let alone the arrogance it was said the late Fëanáro saw fit to pass to his offspring. But no matter. Gothmog knew his master would be far more satisfied ruining the spitfire eldest son of his old Enemy rather than something sniveling and already broken. Gothmog knew this from experience and he looked forward to the day his lord paraded the insolent Noldo before them only minus his insolence.

The task of capturing Nelyafinwë alive had been a difficult one; not the capturing, once the other Noldor were slain and the high king was overwhelmed by Gothmog’s host, it had been easy enough to force the brat to his knees and bind him. No, it had been the alive aspect that had been the challenge.

Perhaps it should have been expected from the heir of Curufinwë but being rendered practically immobile by the chains and two huge orcish captains on either side had done almost nothing to quell the Noldo’s fire. He had kicked, thrashed, screamed insults and curses in that high Elvish tongue that Gothmog so hated… Most captives would find themselves dead should they have caused so much trouble merely to be transported or at the very least knocked senseless. But no. Lord Melkor had ordered that the king be brought to His feet alive and with no limiting injuries.

Gothmog was lucky that they had managed to subdue him with little more than some bruises as lasting evidence by the time they reached the fortress (where the fury did not quell either even upon being thrown to the foot of the throne of the boy’s bitter Foe) Gothmog had been ready to whip the wretched brat until he was hoarse from screaming. He still hoped he would be given this privilege in the future.

There was a general show of amusement and appreciation from the watching generals as Lord Melkor pulled His prize along behind Him. The Vala had not yet indicated to His audience whether there was a further purpose to this display or merely for its own sake. Gothmog would enjoy it either way, if only because the elf wouldn’t.

The more shrewd, and more cruel, among them would have noticed that the decorative pin bearing the crest of the Noldo’s House remained intact above his bare stomach. The Balrog captain recognized it from the battle the thrall’s father perished in. The irony was a nice touch from their Master. And at the moment He looked happier than many had ever seen Him in some time. Certainly since He had returned from the land of His hated kin The eyes of the Vala were glittering and there was a powerful aura around Him, throbbing through the small group of soldiers that He had ordered to gather there.

Melkor paused with an air of mock thoughtfulness and then the elf was shoved suddenly into their midst. The balrog Captain was impressed that it was still standing. This close, he could see it looked utterly worse for ware. True, he hadn’t looked very good when him and his host had dragged it from the bloodstained grove where he had been ordered to meet the small group of Noldor lead by their king. The king who was now swaying so pathetically on his cut feet

“Look,” the Vala says softly and everyone freezes, “But do not dare to touch. Not until I give My word.” He smiles blandly at them. Even among His own side, it is a deeply unpleasant thing. 

“Worry not. It has been given a dose of lhong water. Its claws trimmed, its wings clipped. Though it might try, it can offer you no trouble. For the moment at least, he is docile.” A few of the soldiers teeter a bit, clearly unsure whether to laugh or feel offended at the insinuation that the bound and blindfolded elf could have ever posed a threat to them.

“Of course, this is..or was…a youthful and strong warrior,” Melkor continued as the elf’s ears perked up, perhaps he was coming back to himself from the dazed state he had been brought in with. though of course, the general guessed, the Noldo would have no idea where he had come back to himself, blindfolded and barefoot in the middle of enemy soldiers, “He is more amusing when he can act freely but now is not the time for a demonstration.“ The elf was pushed from their midst back towards the clear path through the hall. The Vala pulled upon the chain leash to urge him forward several paces.

Towards the end of the hall Melkor stopped abruptly and there was renewed laughter from the onlookers as the jerking of the chains nearly sent the Noldor king to his knees. The balrog captain sneered as he caught sight of the fury and humiliation on the prisoner’s face as he righted himself again, only to be pulled forward as Melkor made his way to the Throne.

There was a thrill of anticipation in the hall. None present expected the prisoner kneel without a fight and indeed, though the words the Vala spoke were too soft for most to here, and though they seemed to cause the elf to blanch, Nelyafinwë still shook his head stoutly. The dim light of the torches made it appear as though it was a shadow that struck the boy’s face, sending him toppling to the ground. Two guards were beckoned forward to constrain him as Melkor sat, watching the struggle idly. The elf was forced to the ground, a large orcish hand holding his head down while the other guard fixed the manacles on his wrists and ankles. The Noldo continued to thrash and scream until  Dark Lord’s booted foot pressed ominously to his forehead.

“Shall we resume?” when Melkor in His terrible, rumbling voice spoke it was with gravity that seeped into the very stone that upheld the fortress. The Silmarils upon His crown illuminated the stark hatred and fear on the fallen king’s bloodied face.

As always please feel free to send Angband prompts :) About Maedhros or anyone!

First Author’s note: I’m thinking of having Melkor hold a more private viewing session for his higher ups too…

Second Author’s note: Gothmog gets some revenge (or at least tries to) for how difficult of a captive Maedhros was here Also feel free to check out my post about the hierarchies of Angband and the various trajectories of the prisoners

[soupbender]

I'd love the see the notes for Bad Fortune AU, on Tumblr or AO3 or wherever! Even a bulleted outline can be very entertaining 👀

I love your drawings about the AU where Zuko is a fortune teller!! Thank you for making them!! - AnonFisio

SORRY FOR REPLYING TO THIS SO SO LATE i am trying to finally shake off my hiatus a bit… and okay my notes are thee most confusing thing like even i barely understand looking at them now. but i do have a little segment of the first chapter written in that same document so im including that below:] if i reorganize the notes i may post them sometime since i will never ever finish this particular au tbh 😭

The midwives track rain-wet feet into the delivery room. Outside, the clouds are swirling so dark they blend into the night sky, thick and unforgiving, highlighted only in passing with the full moon.

These are not the proper conditions for a royal birth. Funny, how the heavens do not care about that.

(Or, perhaps, they do. Perhaps that is worse.)

It is nearly dawn by the time Ursa cradles her baby. She lies on a pillowed ledge by the round window, overlooking the gardens. Wind and water whip at the just-blooming flowers; scatter the fragile leaves. There is not a hint of thunder in the sky. No lightning cracking through the stars.

Zuko’s skin is cold as rain against hers.

The sun bursts over the horizon line just as Prince Ozai breaks into the room. Ursa holds Zuko tighter to her bare chest and privately wonders what it would be like to have a husband who she would hold her child out to. Who she would trust to cradle him.

Ozai barely glances at the boy before announcing, “The doctor will prepare a solution. The child will die peacefully.”

“No, please,” says Ursa, thinking she rarely says anything else these days.

Ozai considers, “Fine. Out of my mercy, he shall be left upon a cliff face. If the Spirits—“ here he raises a mocking brow, unimpressed as always in his wife’s belief in such things— “see fit, then the boy will be taken in by some other wretched soul.”

Ursa had not wanted the child, had not wanted the husband, had not wanted the marriage. This is a poorly-kept secret. But with Zuko pressed to her now, her heart speeds at the idea of leaving him (a feeling that will reoccur in her life, but thankfully she is no prophet and does not know this.) “What do the Fire Sages say?”

Ozai’s lip curls, “A reading, that’s what you want?” He gestures to the puddles in the grass, the overflowed pond, “Even I could spout that nonsense with omens like these. Clearly, he shall be no bender. He was not even born under the right stars.”

Here lies the center of the problem. Every member of the royal family has been born by the sign of the Dragon—Ursa had learned, upon her arrival at the palace, that the wedding time was very planned. It made her a little sick. Maybe it was this same sickness which had carried through her pregnancy, maybe that is why the child has been born a month too early. Maybe that is why he has been born a Rabbit—a sign of kindness. Of virtue. The same sign, incidentally, as his mother.

An embarrassment to the royal name.

“Let the Sages tell it,” Ursa begs, a choking sensation rising in her throat, “please, my dear. At least—consult the Firelord first.”

It sends a chill down her spine, the way Ozai’s eyes land on her, the gaze somewhere between wrath and disgust. But it unnerves her nowhere near as much as the way he looks at Zuko.

+++

“You must already know,” is what he says. The words are quiet, gentled by pity. He says them only to her, carefully lowered that her husband looming in the corner might not hear.

Ursa gulps, considering pulling her baby right to her heart and running fast from the Head Sage.

“Get on with it,” Ozai snaps.

The sage’s eyes flick between them, panicked, before he collects himself; before he focuses on Zuko, asleep in his mother’s arms, this child cursed by his very birth. This child born too early and too cold. This child born with clouds over his head; without sun; without spark. Without any great glory. This child whose only piece of luck, it seems, is in being born at all.

“The level of prowess he will reach with bending is… unclear,” he announces, and Ursa’s heart drops to her stomach.

“He’s a bender?” Ozai asks, too calmly.

The sage’s eyes flash, frown deepening, recognizing the awfulness of his own honesty when he replies, “…It is unclear.”

“Roku’s granddaughter,” Ozai scoffs, “the result is just as worthless as his bearer.”

Ursa does not sob. She holds an eruption behind her throat—kept at bay, lock and key. She holds herself inside herself. She holds her heart with hedge cutters.

“But,” the Sage puts in, “he may yet have other talents. I foresee the possibility of a… truly glorious future for him.”

Ozai snorts, “The mightiest non-bender is still a non-bender. It’s a stain upon the royal name.”

“What other talents?” Ursa asks, except it sounds more like begging.

“A special ability,” the Sage answers, “unlike anything the Royal family has seen before. It could be the difference between the Nation’s victory or defeat.”

It is an act of courage, however meek, that the man looks her husband right in the eye when he speaks. That he emphasizes the sentence with care.

Ozai lets out a low, exasperated growl. It is an act of begrudgement that he says, “The boy has six months to spark.”

It is only after the prince and the sage leave that Zuko starts to cry.

“Good job, Zuko,” Ursa mumbles, half-mad and half-asleep, “Good job, darling.”

***

In a month’s time, the Fire Sages will lie about the date of Prince Zuko’s birth. In a month’s time, the entire nation will celebrate Ozai’s heir. In a month’s time, no one outside of Caldera will know the truth surrounding the little prince’s birth.

In six month’s time, Ursa will feed her son a spoonful of ground fire-flower. She will hate herself as she brings him coughing ash to her husband, as he hums his approval of his firstborn bender.

In nine month’s time, Azula will be born a dragon. The sunlight will reflect off Ozai’s sharp teeth, and only then will Ursa realize that he did not smile once the day of his son’s birth. Now here he is, bathed in midday light and summer heat, grin closer to a shark’s than a father’s.

[thisisasupergoodidea]

my personal writing project masterlist 2024

finally doing the thing i said i would do in january... at the end of february

here are all of my current works in progress for original stories (AKA not including fanfics), most of which i would consider 'active' in some way or another. ive labeled them by their project names since i havent locked in official names for any of them yet

the cyan arrows and lines denote the relationships between projects (basically, there are two major worlds and then three unconnected stories with their own settings) which ill go into detail about as i summarize each project

but this post is about to get pretty damn long so... here is the complimentary 'read more' cut

👇

the projects MAGIC, ANGER, and ROOM all take place in the same world. the events of MAGIC and ANGER occur simultaneously, while the events of ROOM occur centuries in the future

MAGIC: Rogelio lives a perfectly normal, happy, peaceful life as the protector of the tiny town of Kaluss. Well, peaceful except for that bitter bastard of a mage who's set up a lair nearby and is very determined to make all of their lives hell. Just what is that guy's deal? When an incident with a necklace- sorry, an amulet- proves to be Rogelio's tipping point, he makes it his personal mission to pry and poke and disrupt the guy's plans as often as he can. But as he learns more about magic and preoccupies himself with the source of the mage's issues, he also starts to feel like he's drifting further away from the place he calls home, distancing himself from the people he protects- people who consider magic a danger and a curse. So is he really doing what's best for Kaluss, or is he satiating his own hunger for novelty? ...If only that damn magic guy would just agree to cooperate, Rogelio would be having a much easier time restoring peace in town AND peace of mind. If only.

MAGIC will be two to three books long, OR one beefy book depending on whether or not i can learn to be more concise 🫠. the events of ANGER begin to unfold in what will potentially be the second MAGIC book, just in a different place. but the characters from both stories will definitely cross paths in a significant way

ANGER: A very long time ago, a woman who'd faced cruelty and hardship her entire life died giving birth to twins, the products of wretched experimentation. She used her final breath not to name them but to declare them her curse upon the world. The twins grew up as cold and cruel as the land around them, raised by the same tyrants that kept their mother poor and sickly, until the day came that one was slain by the other in a deadly game. While the name of the victim has since been stricken from history, the name of the victor shall forever be remembered, for she is Aniguma the First Cursed. All lived in fear and awe of her bloodlust; her most devoted following called themselves Anguians, and with their loyalty she razed her hometown so thoroughly that it remains to this day a prideful trophy of her conquest, rebuilt in her name: Angur. She would eventually give birth to two children; one would eventually die at the hands of the other. Thusly would this pattern of betrayal and death continue to curse their bloodline, salting the land with cruelty and hardship for generations. This story follows Aniguma's present day descendants, Zennet and Axtrom, who had the unusual fortune of being separated at a young age and raised in much less tumultuous circumstances. But despite their estrangement, both of them have unwittingly dedicated their lives to the same cause: to be the last of their cursed lineage. They must plan their every move meticulously as they fight against the very blood in their veins… or succumb to their destiny.

then, centuries after the events of MAGIC and ANGER conclude, as the advancements of their world start to resemble our modern one, project ROOM unfolds. besides perhaps a vague reference or two, the events of ROOM are entirely unrelated to the other projects that take place in this world. in other words, its not a sequel, its just its own story occurring much later on.

ROOM: The leatherworker Hwaith has taken up part-time adventuring in the hopes of beating his sworn enemy Kolroasa- an ambitious student of magic- at his own game: recovering great and powerful artifacts of long dead mages. The prestige that comes with finding these rare lost items is certainly alluring; what compels them even more is the dread of losing even one of these deeply valuable artifacts to the other. So Hwaith and Kolroasa each gather a small team to accompany them to a location rumored to be the final resting place of an especially secretive mage: a secluded manor nestled in the spires of an imposing, icy mountain. The two teams race to be the first to claim whatever research or technology was left behind in the final years of the infamous Ocheveyn's life. But they will soon discover that what waits for them at the heart of the manor is infinitely more terrifying than the threat they pose to each other.

with that, we exit this world and enter the next one. the magic that governs the next world is less ambitious, but more... colorful

👇

the projects STONE, BELL, and RIFT all take place in this world. STONE is technically a prequel to BELL, though it precedes BELL by a few centuries, acts as a standalone, and only shares one (pretty significant) character. the events of BELL and RIFT occur simultaneously, though im undecided if any (except one) of the characters in RIFT will ever interact with the characters in BELL

STONE: Having uprooted his old life to start fresh in a place where his past doesn't matter, Rin arrives at a remote and desolate quarry operation with nothing but the bag on his back and the hat on his head, in search of work as a tailor. He would be the last to ever arrive. As he slowly establishes himself among the dejected and isolated people of the quarry town, he finds renewed joy in getting to know them all, becoming invested in their well-being, their pasts, and then… their legacies. A resident's sudden passing motivates Rin to start collecting any note, journal entry, memo and scrap paper that the other residents are willing to give him. He painstakingly pieces together the entries in chronological order to serve as an account (titled The Sorrowstone Account) of their individual experiences. And, all the while, the whole town becomes increasingly aware of something otherworldly lurking just beyond the desert horizon. Rin pushes himself harder and harder to finish what will be the only proof that they existed- and that it meant something- in the face of encroaching inevitability.

a few centuries later, long after the old horrors have been forgotten and new people and cities and borders have established themselves, the events of BELL unfold

this one is going to be the most difficult one for me to summarize. its really more suited to be a tabletop campaign, or a webcomic thousands of pages long. theres too many characters and too much going on. the plot spans decades. but ill do my best. sorry in advance for it being especially messy

BELL: Four people's lives collide, bonded by witnessing two soul harvesters- only thought of as creatures of myth, of fiction, until now- locked in a destructive battle in the heart of their city. One of these four, Zochio, is accidentally injured by one of the harvesters during the fight; the wound gets corrupted, and she eventually develops powers of death herself, believing that it is her destiny to use these powers to save the world from a threat that she can now see looming in the sky far above them. With her old friend Immudya and her new acquaintances Caforleh and Vim Vedmet, and with the penitent guidance of the harvester that wounded her as well, she hatches a plot to get the attention of that looming threat. Meanwhile, as news of the harvesters reaches every corner of the country, a dormant death cult begins to make moves again, hoping to contact one of the harvesters to clarify some ancient prophecy. The children of these cultists- who have formed their own death cult against their parents' wishes- sneak out of town to find one of their elders, Ranneigl. Thus begins a series of shenanigans for them all. But since one of those kids is Immudya's little brother, this eventually introduces the main four to the death cult, and the cult to a harvester. They work together to demystify the prophecy that foretold the harvester's return, learning that this entity is not alone on this world. There are more of its kind, and even more of all other kinds as well, brought here by that thing in the sky to farm the world for life energy. This particular harvester, one of purple hue to which they give the name Kymoyef, actually shares Zochio's ambition of putting an end to the callous destruction and excessive harvesting of souls. But in order to do that, it must first amass enough energy and rally enough of its siblings to be a presence worth noticing. They spend many long years on this plan, with Zochio's group endeavoring to gain power among their people and Kymoyef gaining its own strength in numbers by any means necessary. Some of them become less and less enthused about the methods used to achieve their goals. They had vowed to save the world together, after all. How did they manage to convince themselves that making it vastly shittier was a vital step in the process?? But it's far too late to absolve themselves now, when the finish line is so close. Otherwise, there will have been no point to the decades- no, centuries of misery and death, of isolation and careful planning, of hiding in the shadow of a looming something praying that it doesn't see you until you're ready for it. Finally, after centuries, the end is almost ready to begin.

meanwhile, the events of RIFT are occuring as well, though untethered from linear time. RIFT takes place almost exclusively in a deep wound left upon the earth by a shameful manmade catastrophe that caused the land to split open and swallow the cities along the fault line. the rift remains an open maw leading to a pocket dimension where time is broken, and the cities trapped within it wallow in their stagnation

RIFT: Three lives, tragically interrupted: Wayrain, Cadmor, and Fuithrel vanish into a pocket of reality where time and space dont quite connect anymore; where the light lives mostly in your eyes and so the landscape is tinted in the color you most strongly resonate; where the only path you can take is your own and the only way to reach that elusive destination is one step at a time, or not at all. The three of them come to awareness in three separate places, their introductions to this wayward land equally as off-putting as their surroundings. But they learn to navigate through their individual journeys through trial and error- sometimes alone, sometimes with the help of fellow travelers on the arduous road. Wayrain takes well to traveling, he discovers; he's romanticized his escapism all his life and now finally gets to live it. Cadmor, needing direction and guidance and something to do with his guilt, accepts a guard role much like his previous one back on the surface. Fuithrel only wants to know she is safe, to know she can stop running, but the path calls for her again and again. She will heed it every time. Along the way, the three of them continue to cross paths whether they like it or not and will come to understand exactly how their lives intertwine- both here AND before their fall. They also encounter plenty of danger on every road: a man who seeks to crack them open and drain them of their light, a spreading corruption that consumes people like the void if they so much as touch it, and their own doubts conspiring to knock them off their stride... But perhaps the journey will set them free before the ground can swallow them up again.

like i said, BELL and RIFT do take place simultaneously but theyre also pretty much isolated incidents. lots of isolation going on across all of my projects, lol. anyway now ill talk about the three standalones

👇

the projects DEMON, TUBES, and FIRE have no attachments to each other, nor to any other project i have going on. TUBES is based on a prompt someone gave me that im slowly chipping away at, and the other two are inspired by a couple of vivid dreams i had years ago. these are still in the very early development stages because ive been focusing more on other projects, which is why my summaries for these seem more like prompts rather than plots

DEMON: Iudus Fern, a man who was already questioning the strength of his faith, has not been to church in weeks- but he invites his friend Valerissa to his home in secret to recount to her the events that have transpired during his absence. At first, he seems unsure and ashamed of himself. But with her reassurance he reveals that he had the old wounds of temptation torn open once again when he was visited by a demon late one evening. An honest-to-God demon, one that towered over him with claws and hooves and wings and an imposing... impressive... irresistible allure. He was convinced that the demon had claimed his soul that night, despite no words or bargains being exchanged as confirmation. No, that came a week later when the demon returned to make a demand of him. As Fern listened, it occured to him that this demon intended to use him to set itself free from the shackles of hell. But the process was not yet complete, and Fern found that he... didn't mind the thought of more visits from his new acquaintance. So he allowed himself the pleasure of its company again and again; meanwhile, his Sunday attendance only continued to dwindle, and people began to worry and talk. Through this act of confession to Valerissa, Fern will decide once and for all if the weight of his deeds were worth it; if the faith of a demon can make men divine; and if he has brought heaven or hell on earth upon himself for having the courage to not only face, but also love, his demons.

TUBES: Katie works a monotonous but well-paying job at a logistics facility where the only thing she does all day is sit around monitoring and keeping records of whatever comes through the pneumatic tubes at her workstation. The entire multiple story building, in fact, operates almost exclusively on a tangled, maze-like pneumatics system that looks like it was designed to piss off the most amount of people possible. Any employee she's ever talked to barely knows how it works; they're all just told to trust the system- and hey, she won't complain. Not when there's plenty of other working conditions to complain about. So every day she slogs through capsule after capsule containing everything from the mundane to the bizarre, drinks stale water from the break room's old-ass pipes, then takes the underground train back to her shitty capsule apartment where she has recurring work-related nightmares. On a day that seems the same as any other, something weird but innocuous enough passes through Katie's workstation. Mistakenly delivered to the wrong part of the building, perhaps. She still sends it on its way, thinking nothing of it. Not knowing that someone in the building will do anything to get it back. She unwillingly gets roped into tracking down whatever the hell they're looking for before it gets lost forever in the bowels of the system, stumbling into some horrific truths along the way, turning her weekend overtime into a waking nightmare beyond anything she could have dreamt up.

FIRE: A young woman, who has lost her memories and dreams only of vibrant petals swirling in orange and yellow, wanders cold and alone in the woods for some time. She begins to encounter outcasts and drifters all suffering magical curses- dubbed 'the nameless ones' by the rest of society for the thing they all have in common, their inability to recall even their own names- and realizes she is one of them in the worst possible way: One particularly dreary evening, she is taken in to a warm home by a kind old couple only for the night to end in flames, exploding forth from her own body. She's forced to flee from civilization for fear of it happening again. Thus, with no one but fellow pariahs to turn to, she sets out to understand this affliction and trace it back to its beginning in the hope of regaining who she was before it all.

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and thats everything!! thanks for your time and interest whoevers reading this, even if you just skimmed or whatever. i rarely talk about my writing outside of a vague post here or there because its hard for me to explain my thoughts, especially irl. so getting to infodump felt nice. i dont even care that it took like 14 hours 🫠

[linnasmile]

Starry eyed child left behind

~Look, I posted this two years ago on AO3, enjoy it here~

Harry blinked into the light on the fifth day after the battle of Hogwarts. Used to waking up next to Hermione by now, he was momentarily alarmed when she wasn’t there. Her sleeping bag was already neatly packed in the corner.

Harry looked at his watch and judged he had got a good three hours of uninterrupted rest, by a stretch a record for the last five nights. He made up his mind to appeal to Madam Pomfrey for a vial of dreamless sleep potion. Perhaps a cauldron. He remembered the first and only time he had drunk the purplish solution-on the night Cedric died, only after he was made to recall the events in painful detail. The memory made him uneasy, and he lay there for a few more moments before dressing and heading into the halls of the now deserted castle. All the bodies had been carried out and the families had gone home. Harry didn’t know how wizards mourned the dead. It seemed an inappropriate curiosity, and so he kept it to himself. He thought at some point he should ask Ginny.  

It was him and Hermione who lingered in the castle in ruins, among the teachers who lived there. The two of them had been preparing to head to Australia to find Hermione’s parents. Taking a portkey to a different country was tricky business, as it had turned out, and so they waited patiently while McGonagall organized their trip. It was probably where Hermione was now- in McGonagall’s office, smoothing out details. It made him anxious not to know for sure. Harry knew she couldn’t be in danger, but worried whenever they became separated; he had suddenly disliked being alone. Ron had gone home with his family, rightfully so. Some part of Harry felt abandoned, but he did not let himself explore it further. He kept the wretched emotion buried, because he knew how much the Weasleys had suffered only by associating themselves with him. He had brought upon them the death of their son, had inflicted so much misery to them, that they deserved to grieve far away from him.

Harry walked past a toppled statue of an old warlock, half-destroyed by dark magic. He knew that even such carnage would give in to manual labour and so even though he had his wand, he raised it with his bare hands. He had fallen in love with magic when he had first been introduced to it, but now had to finally deal with the reality that this wonderful tool could be misused and turned into a weapon. Not even a week ago he himself had tortured someone. His anger had blinded him when Amycus had spat on McGonagall. The Professor was right, it was foolish of him. Unforgivable curses, Harry thought, are only called that because no person with a shred of kindness in their heart could forgive themselves after performing them. He should have instead disarmed the death eater and beaten him bloody. He felt ashamed.

Harry was halfway through breakfast when a tawny owl swooped in and landed gracefully in front of him. It lifted its leg obediently and afterwards nudged Harry’s hand, who stroked her in appreciation and handed her a piece of his toast. He had been getting countless letters, but this one carried the Ministry’s official stamp. It was from Kingsley, who had become provisional Minister of Magic:

Dear Harry,

I hope you are keeping well.

I wanted to reach out while you were still at Hogwarts, as I was not sure of your plans for the summer. Forgive me if my letter burdens you.

I am relieved that this war, which we fought together, is now over. You have fulfilled the prophecy of your life in a spectacular way, and I am thankful we landed on the right side of history. My hope is that we shall side by side rebuild our world. There will be a place for you in the Ministry’s Auror office, should you wish to pursue this line of work, one I feel you are destined for.

So many of the actions the Order has undertaken have been of a clandestine nature, even more so in the last year. We have made impossible decisions along the way, all of them towards the bigger goal; we have fought private battles behind a veil of secrecy. If there is any prize to be claimed, then I believe this to be the categorical recognition of our efforts, and in particular- the acknowledgement of your personal sacrifice. I see but one way to achieve this- we must tell the whole truth. Too many times in the past we were made to conceal our actions and motivations.

It does not escape me that the Ministry itself has continuously undermined our cause and has tried to discredit us. I agreed to head this institution for the better of all of us. I plan to stand for the truth and nothing less. Nothing shall be concealed or misconstrued. The Daily Prophetwill be left to its own and decommissioned as a propaganda machine. Currently, there are too many rumours tainting our reputation, or otherwise idolizing us for what we are not. I envision a transparent Ministry of Magic, and so it is the past which should be addressed first. We must admit to our faults and ask forgiveness for our mistakes, while at the same time tell the stories of our fallen brothers and sisters, to whom we are indebted for life. We must rise once again despite our pain, or perhaps with it, to pay tribute.

There is a big part of this story, Harry, which belongs to you. You dealt the final blow, but not only that- you made it possible. You gave us a reason to believe there was something to fight for, that it was not just aimless resistance. You shouldered the burden for all of us, as a boy. No single man deserves to experience what you have gone through. Older and much wiser wizards would have folded. We were all ready to die for the cause, but you were the only one whose death seemed a certainty. And yet, with the absolute knowledge you were about to meet your maker, you faced the unimaginable with a bravery thus far unmatched.

Lastly, please allow me a few words on Albus Dumbledore. He loved you and it pained him to know what other wizards only speculated about- that you were the chosen one. He confided in us his desire to keep you away from the spotlight, for the same reason he let you grow up away from our world. He wanted to give you as much of a normal life as you could have had. Despite this, I believe strongly, and I would not be writing this letter otherwise, that the Wizarding world needs your voice. Our new reality is mere days young. It is responsive to influence, and it is impossible to overstate how important it is that your truth is put out there as one of its first building blocks.

In the coming week I will be addressing our nation. I ask of you a great favour, conscious that it requires you to trust me as Minister of Magic: please join me in my effort to give hope and light to our kind.

I look forward to your owl.

Yours,

Kingsley

Harry reread the letter before folding it away. When stripped from Kingsley’s friendly tone, this was a summons. Harry understood what Kingsley wanted him to do, but he was sure the Minister himself did not fully grasp its magnitude. Dumbledore had deliberately kept the Order ill-informed, and Harry had followed suit. How was he to tell an entire people why he had willingly walked to his execution? He had emerged from the pensive, Snape’s memories had still risen in silvery streaks, when Harry finally saw his journey up until that moment clearly. Before that, his path was winding through a thick fog, concealed even from him. It was Harry’s narrative, but it was also Dumbledore’s, and Snape’s, and Voldemort’s.

Harry tensed at these thoughts. Voldemort was finished, but death eaters and otherwise bad people lived on. To show them how it is possible to cheat death, to give them this information, this weapon… would be foolish. A person must be divorced from ordinary human emotions to successfully create a horcrux, but Harry had lost his trust in the wide wizarding public; the war had turned him cynical. More lies would have to be told, more omissions made, all for the greater good.

All of this was giving Harry a feeling of bitterness towards Dumbledore, who had abandoned him in this mess. He could not bear to face his former Headmaster’s portrait, and yet needed his guidance. He’d been struggling with so many emotions and could not make out which of them were justified, all of them manifested as real physical pains. He still had an incessant worry in his gut, one which made more sense when Voldemort was still alive, but was now more or less unfounded.

Still flustered, Harry headed to the hospital wing, hoping to run into Hermione on the way. She would know better how to ask for the potion without having to disclose too much of what exactly had been keeping him awake. Each horror dream had felt like a stab in his side, one which bleeds, bleeds…

Before he knew it, he was sitting in Madam Pomfrey’s little office, fiddling his thumbs.

“What is it I can do for you, Mr Potter?”

“I was wondering if… well, if I could have some dreamless sleep for tonight?”

Madam Pomfrey was staying silent, but he did not offer anything further.

“Mr Potter, this is quite a strong and addictive potion and while I understand you are going through a tough time, I do not usually hand it out to students. You would have to clear it with your Head of House.”

Although Harry had expected a response of that sort, he had not prepared an argument. And now that was that. He was dismissed. He wanted to scream. He knew he had no chance with McGonagall, but in desperation he needed to try. Rather than marching straight into her office however, he headed back to the Gryffindor common room, hoping to formulate a response to Kingsley.

His piece of parchment remained empty for several hours while Harry contemplated the Scottish spring rain beating on the common room windows. For once, he wished Hogwarts wasn’t in the Highlands and missed the humid May months of southern England. Even so, there was not much to do with no one around. The image of Ginny with her head in his lap popped behind Harry’s closed eyelids and he sighed. Misery had engulfed him today and had shifted his focus only on what he no longer had. It was a punishment bestowed on him (by whom?) to think of Ginny, of Hedwig, of Lupin and Tonks, and of all the ways he would never again be the boy from five days ago.

Hermione had walked into the common room and was sitting on the couch next to him. He took her hand and blinked away some tears. She let it happen without comment. The Hermione from five days ago would have endlessly fussed over him she had found him in this disordered state. Now, she picked up Kingsley’s letter and read in silence.

“Kingsley doesn’t know,” she said finally.

Harry nodded.

“We should tell him,” Hermione continued.

“Absolutely not, Hermione. There’s a reason Dumbledore didn’t.”

“I was thinking that maybe he was wrong not to do so.”

 Harry knew she had a point, as he had contemplated the same himself. It still felt like betraying Dumbledore’s memory, as though everything must revolve around the great man even after his death.

As if reading his mind, Hermione continued:

“This is a new world, Harry. When all of this started, it was different for Dumbledore. He didn’t know who he could trust, so he didn’t trust anybody. You must admit it might have been easier finding the horcruxes if we had help. If we had only had one other person to bounce ideas from, someone who…”

“Someone who wasn’t a child,” Harry finished the statement.

“Yes.”

Voldemort had marked Harry, and Dumbledore had used him. The Headmaster, his only mentor, had charted his path only to the Forbidden forest, had accompanied him every step, even in Purgatory. He had provided Harry with no tools to live life outside of his identity as The Chosen One. Harry was just a boy. He had no exceptional magical abilities, nothing in terms of outstanding bravery or cleverness. He was not raised in the magical world; he was not raised at all. He was an orphan boy, only occasionally fed by his aunt and uncle who despised him. He was unable to see how Kinglsey would help the witches and wizards of Britain. He could not imagine a safe and quiet existence. He could not dream of Ginny without also dreaming of her being torn away from him, torn to pieces, left to die. Dread, dread, and more dread gnawed at him. His life had been so entwined with Voldemort’s, that now the Dark Lord was gone, Harry’s world had slowly started to fall apart.

A nightmare had startled him into consciousness the night before and just so he could keep himself awake, to be away from it, he had forced his tired eyes open and stared into the fire. Harry had tried to conjure a fantasy of a normal life. The best he could do had been to imagine living in a small apartment in Godric’s Hollow. He would be able to walk to his parents’ grave every day and sit there for hours, not speaking, not thinking, just feeling. He had imagined building some relationship with them and with the place where they had lived as a family for such a short period, such a long time ago, that hardly anyone remembered it. He had not wanted to let go of the memory of Lily and James as they had walked beside him in the Forbidden forest moments before his death. They had spoken to him and comforted him and even in their ghostly form Harry had loved them. The allure of the resurrection stone had not been lost on him and he was glad he had misplaced it. His heart was still drawing him to Godrick’s Hollow, which was silly, and predictable, and maybe also slightly dangerous. His mind had pulled the other way. Death eaters still existed; it was not out of the question some of them might go after him now that their master was done with. The lovely image of the quiet village had been replaced by one of bad people doing bad things to him and everyone he knew, again. Too tired to fight it, Harry had let it happen. The misery had flooded him again and he had passed out.

In the Common room now with Hermione, Harry felt no less panicked.

We must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy.

It would be easy to run away from England and the responsibilities which came with becoming the saviour of the world. But should he stay and lie through his teeth? He didn’t feel like doing that. He also did not want to participate in this anymore, whatever this may be. It probably made him a coward, but so be it. For once, he would take care of himself first. This omnipresent hurt would not permit him anything else.

He explained this to Hermione and told her about the Dreamless sleep as well. She expressed concern over him taking the potion.

“I had this dream that Voldemort was back, but in the body of a snake. There are no longer horcruxes but this time he really is immortal. Me and you and Ron are hiding in a building, he’s closing in on us. Suddenly his army of inferi attack us. At the front of the pack are Lupin and Fred. They’re dead and he’s controlling them and they’re trying to kill us. I know I should shoot a spell at them, but my body is frozen, there’s no way I’m hurting these people again. So, I lower my wand and hear his laugh in my head. Just as they’re about to attack us, I wake up.

“I don’t want these images in my head. Just for a little while, if I could, I want them gone. If I have to face inferi Lupin for one more night…”

The thought didn’t need finishing. Hermione seemingly got the point, because she looked shock, and said nothing. She then got up abruptly, but with no haste, his hand still in hers. He understood they were going to McGonagall’s office.

The professor frowned slightly when they walked in. More trouble, she probably thought, when will it ever end? Harry didn’t know.

“What is it, Potter?” asked Professor McGonagall straight away; she had never been keen on formalities.

First, Harry handed her Kingsley’s letter and sat in silence while McGonagall read. Despite the fear of being vulnerable, he needed hers,someone’s opinion.

“You have no duty anymore, Potter. You have done your part.”

This is all she said and then handed him back the parchment. Her eyes seemed to have softened. He understood her point, succinctly though she may have put it, and thanked her.

“There’s one more thing I need to ask you for,” he said hurriedly. She listened.

“I was…” Harry was suddenly self -conscious. “I’ve not been able to sleep at all since… since it all happened. I asked Madam Pomfrey today, but she said I needed your permission for… for some dreamless sleep potion.”

McGonagall sighed.

“You must discover how to deal with your emotions and trauma, Potter. Otherwise, you will be but half a man. Nevertheless, if there was ever a person who needed a bit of help, if there was ever such a trying time for anyone else…” she got up from her desk and walked to Harry’s armchair. In an unprecedented show of affection, she put her hand on Harry’s shoulder, like Sirius had done that night after the Triwizard tournament in Dumbledore’s office. “I will let Madam Pomfrey know she may give you the potion. Anything else would be cruelty I would not like to inflict upon you.”

Harry was crying in earnest, overcome by a slew of conflicting emotions. It felt comforting to have McGonagall and Hermione by his side, yet it made him realize how much he was missing in his life. This closeness was sporadic, and he had no one, no one who would reliably be next to him in this way. He would leave this castle and his past life, and all the gold in his parents’ vault would not buy him a companion, or a mentor.

He was grateful the two women let him compose himself before he got up and walked out of McGonagall’s office, a small note for Madam Pomfrey in hand. The rain had stopped.

Harry wrote Kingsley a short but polite note before he had lost his nerve.

Dear Kingsley,

I understand what you want me to do, but I can’t. The time has come when I need to take care of myself, if only for a little bit. You probably know I will be going away with Hermione very soon, but I’ll be back before long. You say the Aurors can use me and it’s true that for a while that is where I also wanted to be. I’m not sure how to say this, but I’m done with battling evil, at least for now.

I hope you understand.

Harry

He handed the note to an eagle owl, which set out on its way immediately. He looked at the spot Hedwig used to occupy in the owlery, and his heart sank for the umpteenth time today. He knew his letter to Kingsley wasn’t good, but it got the main message across. Kingsley had praised him in his own letter to Harry and suggested the boy was many great things. Ender of wars. Bringer of peace. Marked as equal by the Dark Lord.

In the end, Harry would step out of this castle in a few days probably for the last time in his life. The only place he had truly been able to call home would be left behind. He would depart from this identity thrust upon him by others. He would probably become a trained auror. He might even be a decent one. He would return as a protector, some day.

Right now, though, he was not qualified for any of it. He wasn’t ready. He was Harry.

Just… Harry.

[glazelilyy]

green thumb

request from anon - "requests for dendro!reader and scara? aaaa maybe a small scenario/set of hcs or something, where the reader teaches scara how to be patient with plants n stuff? gardening? maybe they guide his hands with theirs when he’s being a little… aggressive? something to do with the nurture of plants, maybe?"

a/n - gugughgh this is the cutest thing ever oh my godhggbfk i'm MELTING /pos !!! you got it nonnie, one gardening post coming right up! :D

S/O IS THE DENDRO ARCHON VOL 2 (KAEYA, SCARAMOUCHE, AND DAINSLEIF) (would help for context if you’ve read scaramouche's part in this before reading this drabble!)

pairing - scaramouche x DENDRO ARCHON!gender neutral reader

word count - 2014

genre - fluff

format - headcanons + drabble

warnings - skinship, established relationships, spoilers for scaramouche's identity (found in the 2.1 archon quest), not beta read! (might be some editing errors)

summary - in an attempt to further his bond with you, scaramouche takes it upon himself to learn the art of caring for flowers

"gentle" isn't exactly a word that scaramouche would describe himself with

he didn't concern himself with keeping up appearances that didn't paint him as a terrifying force to be reckoned with

after all: he's the sixth harbinger, and a harbinger who appears weak loses their authority and power

but there's a slight exception: you

all he really had to do was let his lithe fingers brush against the cool crystal of the gem that clung to his earlobe and he'd be red in the face and soft in the eyes

not even factoring in that your touch drove him to the brink of insanity and back

and though you've shown him nothing but beautiful blue skies and lingering morning touches bathed in sweet honey, he can't help but feel like he hasn't done very much for you

it's always him who stumbles in at precarious hours, all bloodied and bruised and asks you to heal him with you vision

and it's you who takes initiative to touch and hold him; to form beautiful flowers from your hands and weave them through his locks

compared to him you were softer than the delicate petals of a rose and somehow seemed to read him like an open book

though he'd never admit to the insecurities that ate him up alive at night when he's tangled up in your arms, he still resolves himself to try and do something for you

because though he struggles to show it: he really does love you more than anything else in this wretched world

continued utc!

you adored your flowers; adored the sweet smell of roses in their brightest bloom and little daffodils that begun to sprout from the green grass of the estate's land. on days that he was able to return home to your arms, he'd usually watch from afar as you tended to your ever-growing field of flowers and timbering trees that you had sprouted from the ground with careful hands and attentive eyes shrouded in a mossy hue.

scaramouche had never truly known what beauty and mysticality were until he laid eyes upon you in your craft; threads and spools of vines crawling up from the ground to weave around your arms and nestle at your shoulders where fluffy, snow-white birds sat chirping cheerfully away at your ears. divinity was scorned and scorched in his eyes; the picture of malice yet you were no gentler than the roll of ocean waves at the crack of dawn.

and it was that picture—your stunning visage bathed in the glow of nature that made his heart pound and throb against his chest.

if only being close to nature made him feel the same way that you do.

"these cursed," he scowled as he threw the cloth satchel of seeds to the ground, "wretched-" this time, the gardening trowel was flung to the earth, "ridiculous plants!"

the small bed of dirt he had dug up in the backyard was perfect in every sense except for the practical sense—practical being that the grown tulips he'd bought were accidentally ripped by the stem from their roots and now useless (since no one had informed him that yes, the roots are crucial). the soil he'd bought from a wandering merchant seemed rancid and unusable, the ferns delivered from natlan had wilted by the time they reached inazuma, and the rose seeds he bought had troublesome caring instructions that would put even a fontanian engineer to shame.

despite wanting to produce something of note for you, who could grow an entire field of flowers with a wave of your hand, it seems he failed in his task and that fact alone made his blood boil.

"darling? what are you doing?"

he whipped his head around to find you standing with a curious look on your face, arms crossed over the span of your chest as you tried to peer at the work he had done in the yard with a smile on your face.

"nothing, i am doing absolutely nothing." he grumbled and rose from the ground to face you with a scowl, "shouldn't you be out right now? or did you finally get tired of that puny, little town?"

"now, now," your hand rose to tenderly smooth back the frazzled strands of hair that fell in his face, "don't talk so rudely about the people, my love. i simply got what i needed in town and returned home early. though, this is quite the surprise. haven't you said before that gardening is a task far below a harbinger?"

"i've said many things before." he mumbled as he drew you close and pressed a kiss to the gem that hung from your ear, letting his fingers skim just over the shell of your ear.

"that you have. well, are you going to explain to me what you're doing, or will you continue glaring at my poor trowel?" you giggled and pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek.

he chewed the inside of his cheek and cast his eyes to the side, unable to meet your gaze. how low he's sunken—one of the most feared harbingers now a bumbling fool in love who couldn't admit to his defeated feat before you.

"love? what's happened?" your thumb brushed airily beneath his eye and quelled the nervous jumping of his stomach.

he muttered lowly, "i wanted to plant flowers for you," before planting his head into the juncture where your shoulder and neck met.

"oh my, is that all?" he felt you heave a sigh breathily—most likely out of relief—and sank further into his arms, "why didn't you ask me? you know that's an area i'm proficient in."

"i...i wanted...i-," he sucked in a harsh breath through gritted teeth before pulling his face from your neck and gripping your shoulders within his hands. there was no doubt that his face was burning bright red but he'd always push aside his pride for you.

"i wanted to show you that i love you!"

a beat passed, then two, and suddenly he was regretting his honesty and the silence was far too loud for his ears. the noon sun beat down on his skin and made him want to crawl underground and burrow.

"scaramouche, my love, look at me. let me see your eyes." you called for him just under your breath, hands moving to cup his cheeks and tilt his head towards you.

a tender expression blanketed your face, eyes swimming with an unshed gloss of tears and a warbled smile on your face,

"you always, always show me you love me," he nearly hummed beneath your touch; your hands felt so warm and smooth as they caressed his face and brushed aside the sweaty bangs that stuck to his forehead.

"and if i've ever given you reason to doubt that you do then i'm truly so sorry-"

"no! nothing like that." scaramouche scowled, tongue desperately trying to find the words to convey to you what he meant.

"you're so unlike me—so kind and warm, and i am...i..."

"you worry that i don't receive the same affection from you just because of our different displays of it?"

curse you for reading his mind—he'd have to hound you later on whether or not all the archons (or former archons, in this case) held the divine power to read minds.

"don't forget—wisdom is not only academic, it's also personal." you giggled and placed the palm of your hand onto his chest. he scowled but he hoped you knew that he wasn't mad or irritated, not with the way the tips of his ears glowed.

"you little minx," he jeered and pinched the soft of your cheek with a malicious grin on his face, "you could've spared me the formalities if you knew what i was saying and i would've made you squirm instead."

he bit back a laugh when you squealed and gently hit his knuckles to yield his pinches of doom.

"well i am your minx after all." you mumbled with a smile as you rubbed your cheek to soothe the dull ache.

"that you are, never forget it."

he took your hand within his despite the dirt that dusted them and ran his thumbs along your knuckles.

"scaramouche, do you know how loved i feel when i'm with you?" you hummed and squeezed his hands.

before he could reply, you urged him to stoop down to his poor, sorry excuse of a flower bed and picked up a rose seed from the discarded cloth bag with your free hand.

"you may not tell me you love me verbally, but i can feel it in how you hold me and all that you do for me—like that time you demanded that poor fontanian painter redo my painting because apparently she got my eyes wrong." you giggled at the snarl that spread across his face.

"what, you think i would let her depict you in any other way than you are? ridiculous, the nerve of that painter. i should've had her blacklisted from the industry." he grumbled and squeezed your hand.

"see?" you bumped your shoulder with his and smiled, "that is how you show me love. and that is how i feel your love. you may consider yourself no more than a puppet but i know that your heart is tender and kind and so full of love. i only wish that you have more faith in yourself as well, my love."

the rose seed in your hand began to glow a gentle green—it suddenly shot up, a spark of green from the seed, and blossomed so quickly into a beautiful, healthy, purple rose.

"this," you peered at him with hearts engraved in your eyes as you gestured to the rose, "is how you make me feel. forever and always."

it was uncharacteristic of him to get shy, and surely if he had his hat he'd use it to cover the blush that spread across his face as you tucked the thornless rose behind his ear. a "thank you" was on the tip of his tongue and yet he couldn't muster enough strength to say two little words that most likely would've meant so much to you.

but somehow you seemed to know either way, and he'd take a guess that you'd managed to study all his body and the language it speaks well enough to know what his mind speaks.

you tossed the bag of seeds to him and squeezed his hand, "would you like to help me plant the rest of these, darling?"

"if you insist i must." grumbled as his response might be, his heart was overjoyed and there was no denying the small smile that embedded itself onto his lips.

any time he felt the doubt of his worth crawl back up to bite and tingle at the nape of his neck, he remembered this moment: the moment where, as he flung the tulip with no roots to the ground in the heat of frustration, you stood beside him, moved behind him, placed your hands over his to guide him to plant the tulip with much more gentle hands than he would've ever done so as you breathed life back into the tulip and regrew its roots.

similarly, you breathed life back into him and allowed him to grow new roots within your arms.

from that moment on, scaramouche often accompanies you when you delve into your craft and return outside to garden

sure, he's not the handiest of men with flowers and your poor, poor cecilias are sometimes squashed unknowingly between his hands (because what harbinger can really control their strength?)

but he learns and he's quick to learn when your hands take his and guide him to be gentle with fresh daisies and soft ferns

and just like the spring that comes and brings new winds on the horizon, he finds himself falling more and more in love with the god who smiles among their flowers and sings songs to both him and the turtle doves that sit just outside his window

date published: april 7th, 2022

[aylish91]

A Sea of Hope

In a world of fading hope, who would have thought that the one thing you had always dreamed of, would be offered to you by a cold hearted pirate? Who would have then thought that said pirate and his cousins, would be the only ones able to bring your hope back, to set your soul free?

So I finally found the courage to post some of my writing. Love Undertale and pirates? A Sea of Hope can be found on AO3 by clicking the link, or down below. I would love to know what you think!

Master Post

Next Chapter

Special thanks to @absurdmageart​ and @oolongteacup426​ for their wonderful stories. They gave me the inspiration and motivation to take the leap. If you haven't ​read their works, I highly recommend them!

This absolutely incredible art was made by @lost-immortality​. Thank for making this for me! You and your art are amazing!

Trigger warnings? Mild blood and violence (mostly in background), mentions of abuse, slight panic attack

Chapter 1    A Glimmer

Long ago, a famed noble ruled over a well-known seaport town off the Ebbotion Sea Front. His high standing was known to grant him a lot of sway and power among the nobility, however, he was a merciless tyrant whose lust for power and hate for monsters drove him to do all manners of unspeakable cruelties against the people, thus causing them to fall further and further into despair. It wasn’t until a curse was placed upon the noble’s household in a final act of vengeance, that the people began to have any form of reprieve from their torment.

From henceforth, may the Banthos household be cursed upon this land and any other. Let any male born into this wretched family be burdened with a short life unless a sacrifice of true love is made. Let any female born be cursed into the form of that which their forefather hated most. Until this family reconciles with human and monster kind, let their house be burdened with tribulation and strife. Let them suffer for the sins of their fathers until they renounce their heritage or justice has been sated.

With this curse, the household soon fell from their seat of absolute power, and slowly began  to crumble.

 / / /

 The sway of the Ship was extremely soothing considering everything you’ve been through, especially when it was as silent as it is now. The boat seemed to be sleeping. If you focused on the swaying, you too could be lulled into a state of sleep, able to forget everything for a little while. You could forget about the beatings, the ropes on your wrists and ankles, and the tear tracks currently covered by a blindfold that’s too tight on your porcelain like face. You could forget about how you had hardly eaten for the last two weeks and that your clothes had been taken from you the very first day you were brought aboard this hellhole. You could just lie on the dust and marrow covered floor and drift away into nothingness…

Except, your body and mind decided to betray you and refuse. It was a lovely thought though.

Perhaps your lack of sleep had to do with the fact that, for the past couple of days, your chest had begun to pulse and flutter. Sometimes it would only feel like subtle vibrations, but other times it would break out into wild jumps and twitches. There had been no consistency to its activity, and until recently, you were able to at least have some moments of peace. However, for the past several hours it had been in an uproar. It would not stop pounding and thrashing about. It felt as if your feeble ribcage was being bashed apart. If you weren’t currently starved of food, you had no doubt you would have already made a sick mess.

You wondered if this is what it felt like to finally be dying, or, you guess monsters call it falling down? Dusting? You couldn’t quite remember.

You didn’t have many interactions with real monsters. Your aunt did not like you talking to them whenever you were allowed to visit the servant’s quarters, so what little you did know was limited.

You could never forget the look on that monster’s face when your aunt had caught you conversing for the first time. She was a young bunny monster, a soft golden color with a warm smile, gladly telling you about her work within the manor as a maid and about some of her favorite things to do in her spare time. Kindness radiated from her, and you had relished in it.

She could only stare in abject horror as your aunt had promptly dragged you away by the arm and given you a good thrashing right in front her.

It was bad enough her sister’s daughter looked like a monster, let alone have her mind corrupted by one…

Your thoughts were interrupted by a particularly hard roll of the ship, making you slide a little through the grime on the floor. All you could do was clench your teeth at the unpleasant sensation. Another hard roll had you wondering if the ship was beginning to head through a storm. A startled yell and the firing of a pistol silenced that thought.

The ship rolled again.

Whatever was happening did not bode well for you.

You wished you were able to see. Even though you could tell it was dark where you were, if you didn’t have this blasted cloth covering your eyelights, you would still be capable of seeing at least a little. It would be nice to know if the scuffle was just between the crewmen or something more. Maybe some sort of sea creature was attacking the boat or heaven forbid, pirates? You had heard a lot of stories of ships being lost to such things from your aunt. Neither scenario was good, but you would be able to prepare for what would be happening to you in the next little while.

Stars, drowning or being devoured would probably be preferable to the beating you would get if whatever was going on was simply a domestic squabble…

There was a particularly nasty scream within all the shouting. Deep manic laughter dominated the chaos as more and more joined in. There was definitely some sort of skirmish going on, but more importantly, there was now the smell of blood. A lot of blood.

You were beginning to feel the onset of panic.

So far, nothing as bad as this has happened on the ship. Sure, there had been a small fight here or there, but nothing like this. You would be blamed for these misgivings. You were going to be beaten again if nothing else!

What would they do to you this time? You were already at your limit. Would you even survive another one?

Your bones started to rattle at the sound of fast approaching footsteps. Heavy breathes and cursing had your soul racing.

“Shit shit shit!”

There was frantic shuffling, then the scraping of crates as they most likely tried to barricade themselves into the nook you had been shoved into. They were so close now you could feel the vibrations of their footsteps. If they weren’t careful, they would—

They tripped over your body on the floor, eliciting a whimper from you and more hushed curses from them. Promptly after, you received a harsh kick to your spine and ribs. You had learned better than to cry out at such simple things though, so you clenched your teeth and remained as still and silent as you could.

You could hear the rage behind each spitefully whispered word.

“You! This is all your fault! You’ve been nothin but a scourge ever since you were brought on board, demon. We all knew you would be nothin but bad luck!”

You were kicked again, then again as he spat upon you. Your heart was racing as you tried not to make any noise, but you were unable to stop the bright silver tears from forming. Forcing you onto your back with his boot, he began to fiddle with something.

“The cursed dead have no place in this world. May god have mercy on your soul.”

Your chest surged painfully. Even after everything you’d been through, you didn’t want to die. You wanted to be able to look up towards the sun, the moon, and stars, go on adventures through mountains and valleys, or run barefoot through the grass. You wanted to touch the waves of the ocean and experience everything that you had always been denied.

You wanted to live!

You cried out when there was a loud crack along with a thump and you were abruptly picked up. It was a struggle to escape their grasp, but you were already weak, and they held sturdy and strong.

“No! Don’t!”

Their grip tightened as you continued to squirm, their words lost to you in your panicked state. You didn’t want to hear a single thing anyone on this damnable ship said anyway.

In your desperation, you managed to bite onto whoever held you. While most of your teeth were flat, you did sport slightly larger and sharper canines that allowed you to clamp on quite nicely despite your lack of strength.

There was a deep grunt followed by some shuffling, a ping, and suddenly you felt so very empty, a loud muffled sob escaping you at the uncomfortable feeling. You knew it was your body finally giving out. However, gradually, an invisible force wrapped itself around your whole being, heavy and warm. A sense of safety swirled around and through you, enough to get you to stop squirming.

Like coming up from out of water, you were eventually able to focus on the voice. To your surprise, it was not the one from before, but much deeper and almost growly.

Their words were calm and soothing, being spoken into the side of your skull as they held you against them.

“It’s alright dove. I’ve got ya… I’m not gonna hurt ya.”

The feeling of calm pulsed through you again. Slowly, you opened your jaw.

“Please, don’t kill me.”

You could feel them shift as if lowering to kneel on the floor, then a large arm and hand brushed up your side and to your face. You flinched into them, making them hesitate before grabbing the blindfold and gently pulling it off.

Your pearl blue, almost silver eyelights, constricted and expanded up at the monstrous being currently gazing down at you as you focused. It was darker in this part of the ship, but you were able to see them just fine with the odd white glow below you.

You had to be in shock.

Holding you to their chest, was an exceptionally large skeleton. A skeleton like you. He however, had a nasty hole on one side of his cranium and only one giant red orb of an eyelight, the other socket a dark void. He also had the luxury of being clothed. Although, the simple linen shirt he wore was terribly stained with blood and had a few tears in it.

You were so shocked to see him, you didn’t notice the light begin to fade, or how your chest suddenly felt very warm. Your eyelights were too busy taking in this strange grinning skeleton staring down at you.

“I’m not gonna kill ya little dove. I heard your soul callen out ta me.”

He must have noticed your look of confusion, for the large, clawed hand that wasn’t holding you to him, came up to hover just above your chest.

“Your soul was screamin, callen out for help. Been callen for a while. I heard it an came for ya.”

Your soul was calling for help? And he came for you? You didn’t know what to make of that.

“You… you came for me? What are you planning to do?” You could feel your desperation coming back. “Are you going to save me? Are you going to take me away from this place?” You gripped his shirt as best you could with your still bound hands. “Please! Please take me with you! Don’t leave me here with them. Please, I’ll do anything. I, I’ll do anything…”

He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by shouting a bit away. His once soft features turned into an almost unhinged sneer as he looked over his shoulder. You could feel the vibrations of his deep menacing growl rumble through his chest. Then he looked back down at you, softening a little again.

“We don’t have much time, but I have a deal for ya. I’ll bring ya back ta my ship on one condition. Ya let me mark ya right here, right now.”

You didn’t know what that meant. Was he wanting to put a slaves mark on you?

At your hesitance, he continued. “It’s the only way you’re gonna be able ta come back with me ta the ship dove. Become mine, and allow me ta mark ya as such.”

The shouting was getting closer. If you didn’t make a decision quick, you were afraid he would leave you here. It left your voice shaky with fear.

“Promise me. Promise me you won’t hurt me. Promise me that if I go with you, if I let you make me yours, I will be safe.”

As you stared into his orb of an eye, something within him changed. His eyelight dilated and expanded a few times before fuzzing around the edges as he leaned over to hold you closer, face contorting into a grimace.

“I’m not one who makes promises dove.”

You felt tears swell up again but before they could fall, he carefully shifted you so he could nuzzle into your neck, his voice low and tender.

“I’ll… I’ll do my best ta keep ya safe. Ya just have ta trust me.”

It wasn’t a promise, but that’s all you could really hope for, wasn’t it? Some semblance of safety?

You were scared. Everything had changed so suddenly in the past few months. You didn’t know what your place was anymore, and you certainly didn’t know where your place would be with this stranger. But he was your only hope now. Whatever happened, at least right now, there was a possibility for something better.

You took a deep trembling breath, nodding slightly into the good side of his skull.

“Alright. I agree.”

He wasted no time, the voices already too close for comfort.

“This might hurt a little.”

You didn’t even have a chance to say anything as a sharp pain pierced the base of your cervical vertebrae as he bit down, quickly being replaced by a warming pleasure flowing into you. Your chest quivered with the sudden stimulus, and you moaned. He gave a deep possessive growl in answer along with the tightening of his grip.

It didn’t take long for you to see stars, your body finally giving out to slump loosely against him once he was finished. Gently, he stroked down your head and vertebrae to rest his hand on your back, his voice a reverent whisper.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

Everything else began to blur.

You felt yourself being carried from the only space you had known on that ship. Screaming, shouting, and his manic laughter sounded above you as you bounced with each of his steps. The scent of blood, steel, and gunpowder permeated the air.

At some point, everything rolled dangerously, eliciting a curse from your savior. The sudden numbing darkness that followed was only that much more disorienting with the abrupt fresh air, salt, and fire that seemed to appear in front of you.

You found yourself looking up. It was night topside. So open… When was the last time you were allowed to look towards the sky through your window back home?

Your savior’s movements became more erratic. There was so much noise and movement your head spun. The crew was battling monsters, a fire was spreading up to the sails, there were glowing bones and spears flying about or impaling things, and the clashing of swords were almost drowned out by all the shouting and growling. You’re pretty sure you could hear a pack of dogs somewhere too…

A glimpse of flashing blue and yellow then a beam of blinding light had the boat rolling again.

Your savior stalled to let a blur of crimson rush by, continuing through the shadows around the chaos to the edge of the boat. You gasped out a queasy breath after another bout of that strange darkness overwhelmed you and you were somehow on a different ship, slipping by a glimpse of baby blue.

Finally, there was the sense of calm and safety with the slowing of his pace and the feeling of fabric brushing past you.

Your savior let out a breath and a small chuckle, placing you gently down onto something soft. Carefully, the bonds on your wrists and ankles were cut and removed. You wanted to cry out for joy and throw yourself at his feet, but your eyes had stopped focusing and your body felt like lead. It wasn’t a surprise you promptly fell into oblivion now that you were safe and comfortable.

The last thing you were able to register, was his large hand delicately brushing against your skeletal cheek.

“Rest dove. You’ll be safe here.” There was a pause. “I promise.”

You had hope. Hope that maybe, from now on, you could finally be fee to live a little.

Next Chapter

[wrenqueenisboss]

DSMP Angsty Imagines - React to Your Death pt. 1 --- George

Part 1 to my series of “dsmp boys react to your death”:  Pronouns used: they/them (if mentioned) Warnings: cursing, death, grief, arguing, yelling, panic, weapons Words: 1.2+

The list: 

c!George - (you are currently on this post)  c!Bench Trio (platonic) - (coming soon!) c!Wilbur - (coming soon!) c!Dream - (coming soon!)  c!Technoblade - (coming soon!) 

George was finally done with the fighting. So much warfare, so much death and destruction. It was too much. Even his former best friends, Dream and Sapnap had been swept up into the chaos. Well, Dream had actually been the cause of a lot of the deaths. 

George Not-Found was done with the fighting, though. He wanted to keep you, the love of his life, safe. For so long, you had been begging him to move out of the SMP lands and live in the unoccupied lands outside of normal civilization. Your boyfriend hated the idea of leaving.

“All of my friends are here!” He’d protest. “George, all of your friends are either dead or criminals!” You couldn’t stop yourself from shouting back. It was true. Sapnap’s whereabouts remains ambiguous but Dream’s were well known. He had been locked in Pandora’s Vault. The notorious prison, made of mostly obsidian and Blackstone, was built with a seemingly immeasurable amount of traps. And yet, people still feared Dream’s escape.

George knew his former best friend was too far gone, but he hated it. He hated knowing the person he thought would be there through everything, was gone; had left for his own selfish gain.

Your shoulders slumped when you saw your boyfriend’s lip start to quiver. “George... I’m sorry. But I really do think we should move. It’s not safe here anymore.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay, we’ll move.”

That was three months ago. Now, the two of you were living happily alone in your cottage. The two of you built it together and it was perfect. It surely wasn’t the biggest or most impressive dwelling on the whole server, but it was charming and suited both of your needs quite nicely.

“George, my love, I’m going to collect berries for breakfast. I’ll be back soon,” you announced, collecting your gear. You walked over to where your - now fiancé - was napping on the couch.

You scoffed playfully at his sleeping form, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. Grabbing a random pen and post-it note off the coffee table, you wrote a note. The note explained where you were going, why, and when you expected to be back.

“I love you, George. Sleep well.” You added at the bottom with a smile.

Basket for berries swinging on your arm, light cloak on your shoulders, you left your charming house to go collect breakfast. 

You did now realize that it would be the last time you’d see him.

Three hours later...

George Not-Found woke up with a start, tumbling ungracefully off the couch. Rubbing his elbow as he sat up, he looked around the house. It was empty. 

“Y/n? Love?” he called into the empty air. He looked around some more, standing up and walking around.

A note on the table caught his eye. Your handwriting was spread over the small piece of paper. The message scrawled gracefully. “I’ve gone out to gather berries for breakfast,” he read aloud. “I should be back in an hour.” His heart began to drop. “I love you, George. Sleep well.”

His grip on the note went slack and it fluttered to the ground like a leaf. George frantically whipped his head around to look at the clock. It had been three hours since he fell asleep, and you weren’t in the house. Something was wrong.

George grabbed his sword, goggles, and some extra health potions off of the shelf by the door.

But as he closed the front door, a dagger with a note pinned to it stuck into the wood of the door caught his eye. The dagger was familiar, a polished silver handle set with diamonds and emeralds. The handwriting was even more familiar. But it wasn’t yours. It was Dream’s.

He ripped the dagger out of the door to read the note.

“Hey, George.

As you might have guessed by now, Y/n is gone. I’ve taken them. You shouldn’t have betrayed me, George. You knew that wouldn’t end well. Meet with me at the ruins of the community house tonight. Or else.”

George was so shocked. He knew something was wrong, but he really hadn’t expected Dream to be the cause of it. He hadn’t even realized he was on Dream’’s hit list - or list of enemies - to begin with.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

The night was dark as the moon was only half full as George waited for Dream. The ruins of the community house sat still behind him. You could still see the burn marks on the pieces of the house that hadn’t been destroyed.

He was running his hands over a burned piece of wood when a voice made him turn around.

“Hello, George.”

He whipped around. “Dream.” 

The man with the porcelain white mask visibly froze in surprise. He had never heard his former friend this serious before. Honestly, it was kind of terrifying. But the master manipulator pulled himself together.

“You seem thrilled to see me.”

But George wasn’t having it. He only wanted to know where Y/n was. Were they okay? Could he save them?

It was as if Dream could read his mind. 

“You want Y/n.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, a fact. Something so obvious it made no sense for Dream to say aloud.

“No shit,” George growled. “Where are they?”

The most wanted man on the server didn’t need to take off his mask for George to know he was smiling cruelly. His heart sank to his stomach, preparing for the worst. And the worst was what he got.

“They’re dead.”

Those two words, and everything seemed to stop. The world went quiet as George tried to take in the news. The words just didn’t seem to absorb into his brain. It made sense. What were you supposed to do upon hearing that the absolute love of your life had died? Just nod and move on with life? Hell no.

“Go, Dream.” George’s voice was hoarse, cracked with grief. 

Dream tried to say something, but he was cut off.

“Just fucking go.”

So Dream left and George was left to process his feelings amongst the ruins alone.

Tears finally began to fall. His knees buckled and he crashed to the ground, bent over on the ground. The torrent of emotions - anger, frustration, grief, emptiness - cascaded over him. 

He let out an earth-shattering scream. His throat burned but his sobs simply couldn’t carry the weight of his grief alone. 

Holding himself in a tight hug as he rocked back and forth, George came to terms with your death. 

You were gone. The love of his life was gone. Dead. Killed. Taken away from him. Your own life ripped away. And all because he hadn’t just agreed with you and moved away earlier, before the fighting and the wars got really bad. 

“I’m sorry, darling.” his voice was carried with the wind. So heartbreaking that even the sky began to cry. The raindrops fell softly, as if they were keeping a vigil.

“You were right. We should have moved earlier. I should have listened. But I didn’t, and now you’re dead.”

He was cut off by his own sob, a wretched sound that echoed slightly off of the burned ruins of the community house.

“I’m so sorry, darling.” He took a shaky breath. “I love you.”

[mcmansionhell]

The McMansion Hell Yearbook: 1976

Howdy, folks! Today’s house comes to us from my newly adopted county of Cook County, Illinois, and boy can this baby fit so many 70s house stereotypes in it. 

It’s got everything: weird spanish colonial revivalism, an external layout that can only be described as post-split-level, a 3 car garage, and it’s brown! This lovely 5 bedroom, 5 bath 5200 square foot estate is relatively affordable by McMansion Hell standards, coming in at around $600,000. There’s a lot of house to cover, so let’s get the ball rolling! 

Lawyer Foyer

This foyer has all the elements of a contemporary lawyer foyer (large chandelier, grand staircase, two stories) except for the oversized transom window over the front door. The fact that the house looks like a split-level on the outside is interesting because it’s a regular two-story house on the inside, furthering the hypothesis that the Lawyer Foyer itself is an offshoot of the 1.5 and two-story entrances present in split levels. In many ways this house is a transitional example nestled between two eras: the split-level/ranch of the 70s and the two-story neo-eclectic houses that would become popular in the 1980s. 

Sitting Room

Fun fact: a look at recent IKEA catalogs demonstrates that the grandma couch is slowly wedging its way back into America’s living rooms. 

Dining Room

I am weeping with envy at those chairs. (Instagram story vagueposting voice) Some people just don’t know what they have. 

Living Room

The overstuffed leather sofas might not be pretty but they are authentic.

Kitchen

Why I hate the kitchen island/peninsula stovetop recapped: - can’t use the island for seating bc cooking stuff is hot and steamy - one casual lean and you’re burned - no backsplash to catch like overboiling pasta sauce - wastes valuable counter space

I can go on.

Master Bedroom

Personally if I had all that extra space in my bedroom I’d put something cool like a pool table or a hot tub in there bc why not???

Speaking of tubs...

Master Bath

One must wonder why brown bathroom fixtures exist in the first place because frankly it’s not a very flattering color considering the functions. Let’s just say it was a different time. 

Bedroom 2

As someone who grew up in the era of Toyota Corolla hegemony, 70s cars are extremely funny to me - like they take up half a block and get 4 miles to the gallon??? No wonder there was an oil crisis!!! 

Bedroom 3

The virgin midcentury modern collector vs the chad grandma using a 1967 teak Dunbar sideboard as a display case for their doily collection 

Basement

This whole post is a ploy to get the zoomers to watch Cheers. 

Alright folks, our little house tour has come to a close - it’s time for our favorite part:

Rear Exterior

(looking enviously at other countries with functioning governments beginning to open back up): yeah ok you do you, i’m just gonna watch the tour de france in a bathrobe and rank the teams based on how cancelled their sponsors are.

Well that does it for 1976! Join us soon for another installment of the Brutalism Post and keep your eyes peeled for whatever wretched house the year 1977 has bestowed upon this cursed land. 

I know that these are economically uncertain times, but many creators including myself depend on Patreon for most of their income, so if you have a minimum of $12/year to spare and are into bonus content, then do I have some good news for you:

If you like this post, and want to see more like it, consider supporting me on Patreon!

There is a whole new slate of Patreon rewards, including: good house of the month, an exclusive Discord server, weekly drawings, monthly livestreams, a reading group, free merch at certain tiers and more!

Not into recurring donations but still want to show support? Consider the tip jar! (Tips are much appreciated since I am making a cross country move in two weeks!!!)

Or, Check out the McMansion Hell Store! Proceeds from the store help protect great buildings from the wrecking ball.

[drwcn]

CQL!AU: Everyone is an orphan except Wei Wuxian, and the Twin Jades are dark practitioners. Needless to say, that changes things. (canon what canon) 

Master Post

~

[1-3]

[1] Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan were the ones who died early. Wei Changze returned to Lotus Pier to become the guardian and regent of his best friend’s son and heir. 

Lotus Pier was black and white. Lifeless. 

That was the first thought that crossed Cangse Sanren’s mind when she and Wei Changze docked at the port, swords in hand, and their little son in toll. 

The people mourned. Posts were temporarily closed, the market suspended. Windows and doors of their bustling riverside town were firmly shut, with white and black drapes hanging from its sills and fluttering in the wind. 

Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan were dead. Two young cultivators, parents, taken from this world too young, gone before their time. 

“A-Ying, come child,” Cangse extended a hand to the boy who glanced around at the unfamiliar place with timid curiosity. 

“A-niang, what’s going on?” 

“No questions. You must behave yourself today.” Cangse brought her son closer to her, watching her husband’s usually smiling, gentle face pull taut into a mask that betrayed none of the grief he felt underneath. He held himself taller today, shoulders pulled back, spine rod-straight and jaws clenched. She’d forgotten, after all these wonderful years of travelling the world with their family, that this place was once his home. 

“Er’shixiong,” a man greeted them at the pier, flanked by a party of younger Jiang disciples, all appropriately garbed with white sashes around their waist. “Cangse-daozhang.” 

They had spoken in depth about returning. Cangse knew there was nothing she could do to stop him; Changze’s devotion to Jiang Fengmian ran deeper than she understood. It was never herself that Yu Ziyuan should’ve resented; though however misplaced Madam Yu’s jealousy had been, it was a moot point now.  

Chang’ge, I will not ask you to choose between your love for him and your promise to me. If Lotus Pier is where you wish to go, I will go with you. I cannot promise however that I will always stay. That — is not my nature. 

Thank you, Wumei*. I understand. 

They found Jiang Wanyin, the little lord, and his sister Jiang Yanli, in their mourning robes, kneeling and crying before their parents’ funeral altar.  

Wei Changze sunk to his knees beside them, and folded his body until his forehead hit the ground. “Shixiong,” he spoke to the spirits. “I’ve come back.” 

“Who are you?!” The boy Jiang Cheng, five-years-old and hurting, blurted out rudely through his tears. His sister held him from behind and gave a trembling nod of deference to the older man. 

“Wei-shishu.”  

Beside her, clinging to her skirt, Wei Ying looked up and asked quietly, “A-niang, are we going to stay?” 

Cangse Sanren, the favoured fifth pupil of Baoshan Sanren herself, smiled down quietly at her only child and smoothed back his hair. “Yes, A-Ying we will. Lotus Pier is home now.” 

(JC 5 yro; WWX 5 yro; JYL 8 yro)

[2] When Qingheng-jun’s respected mentor died - murdered - he made a very different choice. He turned his back on his clan and his responsibilities, and escaped into the wild with the woman he loved. They were just an ordinary family, living away from the chaos in a paradise of their own. But even Eden eventually falls, and nothing gold ever stays... 

Take A-Huan and A-Zhan and go! Do not stop until you are safe. Do not turn around. Do not come back. 

Shijie! You’re injured! Let me help you - 

Zhao Ming! Zhao Zhuliu, you listen to me: their names, Lan Xichen for the older, and Lan Wangji for the younger. It’s what their father and I wanted for them. 

Shijie - jiejie - 

Now go! Go! 

A-Niang, come with us! A-Niang, don’t go!! A-Niang!!! 

The forest burned like the autumn sun at dusk descending from the sky, red and golden and glorious. A single figure stood amongst the flames, corpses littered at her feet. Bichen fell from her grip, barely making a sound as it landed against dampened earth, soaked with Lan blood.  Those who fought her were dead, but she feared that she did not have long either.

“Rong-gege,” Qiu Baiti collapsed onto her hands and dragged her body towards the man who lay still amongst the carnage, arrows piercing his front, his sword Shuoyue still clutched tight in his left hand. 

Lifeless eyes remained open, as though he could not rest. 

“Rong-gege,” Baiti called helplessly, crawling to him and laying her head down against his chest. There used to be a heartbeat there, and if she closed her eyes, she could almost hear it again. “Wait, don’t go without me...” 

She was so tired and bled from so many places. It was not until a sharp cry and a familiar face descended from the sky that Qiu Baiti realized the inferno which surrounded her was not yet hell. 

"Qiu-jiejie!" Cangse rushed forth, almost tripping over the corpse of a dead Lan disciple in her haste. “Lan-da’ge, he -” A horrified gasp drowned the rest of her words. 

“Cangse...you’re here...” 

Cangse gathered her bosom sister into her arms and immediately drew upon a torrent of spiritual energy from her core, channeling them into her fingertips to heal her friend. She could tell that whatever combat Qiu Baiti had been through, it had already taken the little life inside her, and now hers was following it to the other side.   

“Hold on, I can save you - hold on -”

“Cangse - Cang - stop, it’s too late.” Qiu Baiti lay limp there.  

Death, it drew near, but she was ready. She closed her eyes as a slip of tear escaped beneath her lashes. "I did this to him, to all of them... if I hadn't...it’s all my fault. I was the one they wanted; he was just trying to protect me. A-Huan, A-Zhan...."

Trembling and in near hysterics, Cangse sobbed, “No, don’t say that! Where are the boys?” 

“Safe. A-Ming has them...you mustn’t tell anyone. Not anyone, promise me. Not even Lan Qiren. Especially Lan Qiren... Rong-gege trusts his brother, but I - I - promise me - promise -” Qiu Baiti gasped for breath, gurgling blood in her throat with each laboured attempt. 

“Qiu-jiejie, please - don’t - I - I promise.” 

“Good...Cangse...” Qiu Baiti clutched her hand and smiled, a crimson wound cutting across her pale, beautiful face. “Good.” 

And then she died, with the red of the forest flames still in her eyes. 

Cangse held her friend - dear, damned, dead - and allowed a scream to tear through herself. From the depth of her grief, she released a pulse of unrestrained spiritual energy that rippled through the dense woods as though the storm of her anguish could not be contained. And like a measly candle-light assaulted by the winter wind, the forest fire was extinguished in an instant. 

The sun was gone, and the night was dark.  All was quiet, but there was no peace to be found. 

 Cangse buried Lan Cenrong and Qiu Baiti in two unmarked graves side by side beneath a tall oak tree. She sifted through the bodies and the grime and collected the spiritual weapons they left behind — Shuoyue, Bichen, Liebing (cracked in two places) and the strings of Qiu Baiti’s shattered guqin — and stored them away in her qiankun pouch. She hoped one day that she would find Zhao Zhuliu and the sons Lan Cenrong and Qiu Baiti had left behind, and return these items to their rightful owners. 

It was not until three years later, not too far from her shifu Baoshan’s sacred temple nestled in the snowy mountain peak, where Jiang Yanli had been brought to strengthen her health and train as Cangse’s direct disciple, that Cangse perchance came across Zhao Ming again. 

He was accompanied by two youngsters, two beautiful jade-like children who called him jiufu. Cangse was not surprised in the least to find that both of them have learned the technique for which their mother and jiujiu were hunted: the core-melting hand. 

(LXC 9, LWJ 6 -> LXC 12, LWJ 9 ) 

[3] They called her “The Little Queen”. Wen Qing never wanted to be Sect Master, or Deputy Sect Master, or Regent Sect Master. She just wanted to live quietly with A-Ning and Wen-popo and study the art of healing that her parents practiced. But alas, life had other plans. 

Wen Qing was a month short of her tenth birthday when her life changed forever. 

Wen Ruohan, her father’s older cousin, who’d always been close with her family, had come to visit Dafan. Wen-bobo didn’t have siblings, and her father Wen Ruotian was as close as a brother to him, more than any other Wen descendent of their time. 

Wen Qing liked Wen Ruohan well. He was doting and found her intelligent. Her parents chose the simple village life, but they often spent New Years and holy days at Nevernight at Sect Master Wen’s behest and invitation.  

When Wen Ruohan came to Dafan and told her folks that there was a piece of the Yin Iron inside the Stone Fairy, her father had been eager to help, though weary he was of those powers he could not understand. 

He’d been right to be afraid. 

The extraction had gone horribly wrong, and the rebound of dark energy had eviscerated all those near by, her mother, her father, and Wen Ruohan himself. It was by the skin of her teeth that Wen Qing managed to yank her baby brother Wen Ning out of the way. Then, without thinking, she caught the vile, wretched thing as it sailed through the air. It landed in the palm of her hands, and there she stood, regarded with fear and bewonderment from all those in witness as the cursed item, which burned the life out of cultivators much older and seasoned than her, quieted in her small hands. 

The Elders said she had...a nature affinity. For what, they could not say. 

Wen Qing was brought back to Nevernight and given the name Yuefan: to exceed mortality. Within days, the heavy crown of Sect Master of Qishan Wen was placed on her head. 

It was then that she learned that her Wen-bobo, with no inclination to marry and bind himself to another, did not leave behind a legitimate heir. His young sons, 4-year old Wen Xu and 2 year-old Wen Chao were born to him by women of ill repute.  They were kind, good boys, but they were infantile and illegitimate. Wen Qing felt for them, but she could not change their fate. So for the time being, she accepted what she had to. 

The adults did what they could for her, but there was no one in the cold, vast palace of Nevernight to mind her or nurture her. She stood alone upon the towers where the eternal flames, fuelled by Qishan Wen’s combined spiritual energy, burned in their iron brazier, and watched over the lush volcanic mountain range that was hers to govern and protect. Those beneath her - servants, disciples - feared her and her unknown powers. Those advising her - Elders, mentors - had their own agendas. In any case, they stopped seeing her as a child the minute she held the Yin Iron in her hands and lived to tell the tale. 

It was a secret, they told her. She must guard it well. 

The Chief Cultivator Jin Guangshan sent his ambassadors to congratulate her succession. Gusu’s Lan Qiren and Qinghe’s Nie Heqiu both arrived consecutively to pay their respects to their ten-year-old colleague and fellow Sect Master. 

There was a momentary rumble amongst the Wen Elders about whether Nie Heqiu’s older son Nie Mingjue would be a good match for her someday, but as he too was set to inherit, the idea was put aside as quickly as it was brought up. 

Then came Yunmeng’s regent Wei Changze, bringing along an entourage of Jiang disciples and a boy one year her junior, the son he conceived with the revered Cangse Sanren. 

Wei Wuxian. 

Wen Qing liked him enough. He was spontaneous, agreeable, and clever, and he found her aloofness fun to provoke. They would’ve both been satisfied with the arrangement had she not met Yunmeng Jiang’s young Jiang-zongzhu some years later, and had he not crossed paths with the vengeful and infamous Lan Wangji. 

But life, as the gods have planned it, must have its mysteries. 

(WQ 10, WWX 9) 

TBH?  

Note: 

Wumei - fifth sister, Wei Changze’s nickname for Cangse. 

Details of Cangse and Wei Changze’s name as well as Qingheng-jun and Madam Lan’s name can be found here .

jiufu 舅父 - maternal uncle, formal.  

[orfeoarte]

@daily-writing-challenge

February 22, Day 3. Shine—Shadow

They hardly count the days anymore.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It's thawing.

Drip.

Drip.

Warmed by sunshine and moved by its force, how could they say no? As feeble as the tiniest sliver of foliage, how to resist against such a noumenon of faith? He had once been close to Faith, or so he was told by the cohorts of servants polishing ritual steps and unfurling festival colors on the sanctums. Their spirits still lingered and were easy to call upon, if one knew who held unfinished business on this side of the Veil.

Though once close to it, he had drifted. All it took was seeing the way some would twist it to acquire power. Not that he had morals, or an ethic code that forbid that. It was just so much easier to forsake all remnants or Trust, when one was already Forsaken! And beliefs take Trust. Else they never take root. Inhospitable soil does not yield nutrients to the vulnerable sapling.

Mirceas fancied themself inhospitable.

Drip.

Drip.

They traversed the Estate, rustling the corrupted flora with their spectral stroll. What once had been a collection of monuments to the Sun, to the ancient entity, to the guide and Ruler among the eyes of Azeroth... despite rebuilding, there was still a surprising lack of places of worship in their lands after the Scourge. Half of Silvermoon had fallen, but many other things were lost in the countryside.

The Orchard.

Drip.

Drip.

They are now unsure whether that is thawed dew, or a bleeding wound.

He had seen the chance to give them something grand and taken it. Seized that act of kindness as if it came naturally. As if he had dissected their very soul and laid out its components bare, only to find... to find... Love.

The dripping had stopped. There was no more frost to thaw, or perhaps some spinner had sewn the wound in their heart. A spinner which they dared name, an onlooker with eyes of molten gold and a passion burning brighter than the glory of ages past.

The sorrow did not hurt him.

The wails barely shook him.

The melancholy, he found endearing.

The tears... those he worshipped as divine envoys.

Every part of what made Mirceas himself was also part of the curse. It had been woven so intrinsically into his soul that distinguishing between pre- and post-mortem developments of his personality would make little sense.

And yet that... golden fool loved! He loved a wretched creature shackled to the mortal plane by a thread named affront, by atrocities committed by and against him. By Pain! So much pain it could be fashioned into a blanket and cover the sea, and still have much fabric left to wrap around the world.

But a love so sincere shook towers no matter the strength of their foundations. And so Mirceas found themself loving and wishing to love for the first time in countless years. Ancient memory become flesh, that man was. It reminded him what it was like to be alive, to be unbound and still believe in happiness.

And he was a promise. To that, Mirceas held on. He held on for dear Unlife.

[therealvinelle]

“By contrast, I can think of characters who resemble most other Twilight characters with a relative amount of ease.”

You put this at the end of an ask and was just wondering if you would please elaborate? Have a lovely day

(Anon is referring to this post.) Do you ever look at two characters, realize they have a few things in common, then blink, take a step back, and realize that they really do have an awful lot in common? That they're more or less the same person, only in different circumstances? The same archetype, at the very least.

I'm open to the possibility that you'll say no, @thecarnivorousmuffinmeta and I are strange people who see strange things.

All the same, here are a few examples.

Also, this contains spoilers for the animes Fate/Zero, Puella Magi Madoka Magica, and Revolutionary Girl Utena, as well as the play Vildanden, the book Candide, and the show I, Claudius.

Aro: Kiritsugu Emiya from Fate/Zero.

Kiritsugu is a highly effective assassin whose defining trait, and curse, is his willingness to commit any atrocity in the name of the greater good. His ambition is to save the world. Over the course of the series he sacrifices his father, surrogate mother, best friend, wife, and daughter, and treats everybody else like chess pieces. It will all be worth it when he has saved the world.

He is the opposite of Bella, who would let anything burn for the sake of her loved ones. Kiritsugu loves fiercely, but he will sacrifice that which is most precious to him with a steady hand.

Aro has that same ruthlessness combined with idealism. He sacrifices his sister and is willing to kill his only friend as well, to say nothing of the many other things he has done. He creates child vampires and will kill anyone who stands in his way. This is what he must do to gain and maintain power.

Aro and Kiritsugu will sacrifice anything and anybody if they perceive it to be beneficial to their goal, a goal they happen to share.

Also Aro: Claudius from I, Claudius.

Cladius is the emperor of Rome not because he wishes to be, but because the moment he steps off the throne, Rome will fall to pieces.

Aro did seek out the throne, Claudius very much did not. However, both are in the precarious situation where they can never leave their respective thrones. Rome would fall to pieces without Claudius, and the world would burn without Aro.

Also Aro: Voldemort in an AU where he won.

We're deep in la la AU land now.

But, Aro had to commit atrocities to get to the throne, we only meet him millennia later when his rule is secure. A post-victory Voldemort (and I here mean years and years and years have passed) would be a figure quite similar to Aro. A harsh, uncompromising leader, yet he’s been around for long enough to shape the world into what he wants it to be, people don’t remember that it was once different, and he is regarded as the distant, yet necessary leader.

Bella: Hedda Gabler from Vildanden.

Hedda finds out she's a child born of infidelity, and that her father no longer loves her. Wanting to win back his love she kills herself. Bella, too, has that utter lack of self-love, that willingness to sacrifice herself, and it’s all too easy for her to believe Edward never loved her. Both Hedda and Bella fail to understand there are people who love and would miss them

Also Bella: Homura Akemi from Puella Magi Madoka Magica.

This is not an obvious one.

But they both have that uncompromising drive to do anything and everything for the one they love, and by love I mean the one they fixate everything they are or have ever been upon. Homura, over the course of P3M, goes from wanting to use time travel to save everybody, to being content with saving only Madoka. She will destroy herself for Madoka in a very literal sense, seeing no worth at all in her own survival.

Give Bella a time machine and a timeloop where Edward always dies at the end, and she will go down Homura’s path.

Caius: Every warrior king ever. Ooh and he and Iskandar (again from Fate/Zero) have very similar vibes, although they're far from the same character.

Iskandar believes that kingship and leadership is not about being noble or virtuous or showing a good example to your people, it's about strength, conquest, and glorious victory.

Caius, I imagine, would heartily agree with that.

Carlisle: I love Carlisle, but there are Carlisles everywhere, especially in anime. Utena Tenjou from Revolutionary Girl Utena comes to mind in particular, though.

Utena begins her story as a righteous and brave girl who wants to be a prince. She wants this without quite understanding what it truly means to be noble, nor does she know what it means to save a person.

Her desire to save Anthy is especially this. Anthy is a traditional damsel in distress at the beginning of the story, and Utena is so eager to save her that she never takes what Anthy herself into account. She judges herself harshly for this failure, but comes to understand what it truly means to save Anthy in the end.

Carlisle has that same nobility and willingness to do good, he is the moral compass of those around him, but all the same he is hoodwinked and does not always know where best to thread. His rescue of Rosalie is a good example of this, he saw a young woman who’d been raped to death, and did the only thing he could to help her, only to learn this wasn’t what she wanted.

Also Carlisle: god, so many characters.

Shirou from Now and Then, Here and There. Suffers a ridiculous amount, but never loses his goodness and insists even in the most extreme circumstances upon the inalienable worth of human life.

Duck from Princess Tutu. Never uses violence or even powers to win against her opponents. She talks to them, finds out why they're unhappy, and wins through healing them. They become friends with her after.

Akane Tsunemori from Psycho-Pass. In a world where people’s souls can be calculated mathematically, Akane Tsunemori is objectively a good person, empirically proven to be incorruptible. That’s her defining trait, no matter what she endures she never loses her upstanding morals. The kind of person who wouldn’t succumb to the lure of human blood.

Just gonna drop the fact that Carlisle’s hair and eyes are the same color, Edward with his vampire sight notes that they’re only one shade apart. The guy is a misplaced anime character.

Oh, and Candide from Voltaire’s Candide. This is just a loose association, but “beautiful blond man travels the world, meets people who are over the top cartoonishly miserable (just... multiply Meyer’s backstories with each other and add 10. Victoria’s life + Rosalie’s life + Esme’s life + their mother is pushed off a cliff by dalmatians) but he carries on with a big smile, and eventually settles down with his found family of hilariously wretched people” gives me Carlisle vibes.

Edward: He's so many people and in so many different ways, oh my god.

He's a mommy's boy who cries because I'M A MONSTER - Buster Bluth. Arrested Development.

He thinks too highly of himself - Gilderoy Lockhart from Harry Potter.

He GOBs - George Oscar "GOB" Bluth. Again Arrested Development.

He appears normal to the outside world, yet there's a complete meltdown with incoherent rants, strong opinions about music, and strong disturbing tendencies towards violence he may or may not act on - Patrick Bateman from American Psycho.

He's weird about women, mother figures, himself, and violent. Creepy yet undeniably charming - Norman Bates from Psycho.

The way he regards Bella - strong Humbert Humbert from Lolia vibes. Replace "nymphet" with "singer" and there you go.

Really, though, with Edward, he is like these yet unlike them all. He’s... he’s a lot.

Emmett: Much like how Caius is a warrior king, Emmett is Frat Bro™.

Jasper: Clint Eastwood for reasons outlined in this post.

Marcus: Arwen after Aragorn inevitably dies.

A sad sad elf who's fading away.

Rosalie: Cordelia Chase from Buffy

Speaks her mind, no matter how brutal it is or how little people want to hear it. She does not forgive those who wrong her, she is proud, and most importantly, she is misjudged. Her beautiful appearance and bitchy veneer make her easy to dismiss, but once the going gets tough she is a deeply good person. She’ll make bitchy comments about watching your back, but watch it she does.

-

I also do this with ships. Aro/Carlisle are a great match for Dorian Gray and Lord Henry, if Lord Henry had failed to corrupt Dorian Gray and been delighted by that fact.

I have other examples, but they go weird places so let’s not.

TL;DR: I'm Miss Marple.