#i don't know if the thing about elves not needing to sleep much is true just go with me on this one. also if ive mixed up timelines its in

[youssefguedira]

behold, the product of yesterday's lotr au discussion (for @spacegirlsgang)

Nicolò has not spoken to him in days.

He hasn't spoken to anyone. He walks silently at Yusuf's side, hand always on his sword, eyes always on the horizon. When there are people who need it, he helps, tends wounds and lifts the younger ones onto horses and hands out food. He still does not speak, and Yusuf worries for him.

They have already lost Quynh, and Sebastien. Dizzy and Jay may well be dead by now for all they know, and Nile and Lykon… he does not really want to think about it for long. He only hopes they are alive. And now Andromache, too, is gone, and Nicolò will not speak, and Yusuf cannot help feeling very, very alone without him. It is strange: Yusuf would have thought, just a week or two ago, that he would have been glad never to see Nicolò again. Now, the thought terrifies him.

When they make camp that night, Yusuf takes his place by the fire with his sword across his lap and prepares to keep watch. Nicolò joins him, after a while, but instead of taking a seat and silently watching the horizon as Yusuf has come to expect him to, he speaks.

"You should rest," he says, voice hoarse as if – well, as if he hasn't used it in days. He carries two bowls of stew, one of which he passes to Yusuf.

"So should you," Yusuf responds. He's exhausted, but neither of them have slept much – he's not sure Nicolò has slept at all since they lost Andromache.

"I do not need to sleep like you do," Nicolò says, which almost makes Yusuf laugh.

"Bullshit," he says. "Even you can't go this long without needing to rest."

Nicolò doesn't say anything to that. Doesn't even meet Yusuf's eyes, but Yusuf can tell how tired Nicolò truly is, and suddenly he cannot bear it anymore.

"We cannot keep on like this," Yusuf says. "This is not – if we're all that's left, I cannot do this without you, Nicolò."

Nicolò is quiet, for a while. When he finally speaks, he says, "Try to rest, Yusuf. I will keep watch tonight."

Yusuf waits. Nicolò does not move, nor show any sign of conceding. Just as stubborn as Andromache – well. He doesn't let himself finish that thought.

He waits a little longer, but Nicolò remains silent.

"Wake me for the second watch, then," Yusuf says, finally. Nicolò does not nod, but Yusuf no longer has the strength in him to push. He falls asleep quickly.

When he wakes, it is morning, and Nicolò is nowhere to be seen. Yusuf can only hope he found someone else for the second watch, and that he did not stay awake all night, but he would not be surprised if the latter were true.

During the day, they keep to their regular routine – Nicolò's silence and Yusuf's attempts to find anything to do that isn't think too much – but that night, when Nicolò finds him, he sets his sword down by his side and asks, "Will you wake me for the second shift?"

Yusuf nods quickly, too quickly, and Nicolò smiles, though it is small. It's the first time Yusuf's seen him smile in days.

He wakes Nicolò for the second shift and sleeps after that, and the next night, Yusuf takes the first and Nicolò the second.

It's a start, at the very least.

–

The day after they reach Helm's Deep, Nicolò is the first to see the rider.

He does not realise who it is at first: the figure is too distant. They wear a cloak with the hood pulled low over their face, and lean heavily over their horse, as if injured.

Nicolò's first thought is that it is a scout. His second thought, which he discounts quickly, is that it is Andromache, which. It cannot be. He does not dare imagine it.

When the figure keeps approaching, he shouts a warning to the guards on the walls. Yusuf, who had fallen asleep beside him, his back against the stone, startles awake. "What is it?" he asks, still half-asleep.

"I do not know, yet," Nicolò responds. He gets to his feet. Yusuf follows a moment later.

"I see it, now," Yusuf says, furrowing his brow. Nicolò's hand goes to his bow, just in case. If it is a scout, he will deal with them quickly.

Then, suddenly, Yusuf's eyes go wide, and he curses. Taps Nicolò twice on the shoulder, and runs along the wall, down the stairs, towards the gate, shouting at the guards to open it.

Nicolò looks again, then, and realises what Yusuf has seen. The rider's weapon is just visible over their right shoulder, and Nicolò knows the carvings on its handle, knows them because they are the twin of the carvings on the hilt of his hunting dagger, because both weapons were forged by the same person.

He is moving before he truly has time to process the thought. The gates are opened far too slowly, creaking with the movement, and by the time he can see the rider again she is sitting straighter in the saddle, a wide grin on her face, urging her horse forward. It is only Yusuf's hand on his arm that keeps him from running through the gates to greet her; when Nicolò looks back at him, his smile is bright enough to rival the midday sun.

Andromache.

Finally, she is there, riding through the gates like a king returning to her kingdom, like she had planned this all along, like Nicolò hadn't seen her fall from a cliff only a few days ago. She dismounts easily, before the horse has even fully stopped, and then he is running, and she is meeting him halfway and gathering him into her arms and laughing, even as he thinks he starts crying.

Then Yusuf is there too, and Nicolò has to step back but cannot bring himself to go far, and Andromache hugs him too, while Yusuf laughs, bright and loud.

"Where have you been," he is saying, and "I thought you were dead, Andromache, I thought we had lost you," and she laughs again and cups the back of his neck with one hand and says, "I'm okay, Nico, I'm okay."

"So," Andromache says once Yusuf steps back, too, her grin sharp despite how exhausted she must be. "Tell me what I've missed."

[fairytsuk1]

getting katsuki gifts for the holidays was like trying to teach a monkey to dance, it was impossible.

you'd whined, mumbling about how the two of you had enough money to buy most items you wanted; katsuki also never seemed to never ask for things specifically.

"so, katsuki... the holidays are coming up!"

he's picking at his ordered in take-out, and you can see his displeasure at the lack of peppers as he picks through his kung pao chicken.

"yeah, already got your gift," and he's giving you smirk that makes you sweat, "are you sure you got the right chicken? this shit tastes like the fuckin' kids menu."

your eyes get caught on the wedding band wrung around his fingers, sailing the veins of his forearm till you can see his bulging biceps in the black muscle shirt. was your husband hand-carved by gods? seemed likely.

"mmm, no, it should be the kung pao chicken, want me to chop some chilies up for you?"

you're standing before he can protest, taking out your knives and chopping boards, "and you already have my gift? I don't have your gift, yet."

the box of take-out is set down as your husband circles his arm around your waist to leave soft kisses on the column of your neck.

"yeah, 'cause you don't love me," and a thankful hand squeezes your ass just to show his appreciation for the chopping of chilies, "...whatcha gonna get me?"

his hands are still wandering, and you're thinking more of what his talented fingers could do than his stupid gift, "i'm not supposed to tell, you know. santa's elves might get me into a whole lotta trouble."

he gropes you even more fiercely, and you can feel his pressing need against your back.

"fuck santa,"

he carries you off in a fit of giggles to your shared bedroom.

-

the bookstore was fairly crowded and you felt thankful you could slip by unnoticed and browse the various books of romance or sci-fi; katsuki didn't even seem like a sci-fi guy so each row left you feeling panicky and like a bad wife the further and further you went.

"excuse me, do you have any classical romance?"

the timbre of the voice makes your heart stop. It sounded just like, well, katsuki! your legs are thrumming with the knee-jerk reaction to tackle him to the ground, but you were literally buying his gift! the surprise would be ruined, and you're dashing into the row of cookbooks to calm yourself.

maybe it's not even him. you know what they say, just because it sounds like katsuki doesn't mean it is! you're affirming yourself silently when footsteps grow close, and your husband is flashing by you in seconds.

it is katsuki!

"i'm fucked."

your eyes follow the object of your love, his strong hands randomly pick books out of nowhere, but there's grumbles of displeasure as he skims the summary and grimaces at the cover. he didn't know that much about books, but you deserved something special.

you'd dealt with all the hero stuff (being gone for long periods of time and coming home nearly dead was no news to you), always made him lunch or dinner, and frankly... katsuki found his eyes drifting to a sleeping baby in its stroller.

he'd started thinking more like that. so the gift had to be pretty damn good!

a man strikes up conversation, and you smile at the idea that katsuki wasn't just factually married, but he gave that aura too. yeah, that was your man.

"i'm shoppin' for my wife," straight to the point and he's already grumbling at having to interact with this person for more than a minute.

"wow! a true husband, what's with the books then? looking to open your marriage?"

it's a joke that katsuki doesn't find funny, you do however and you're sure this conversation would be going very differently.

"fuck no. i'm just lookin' for somethin' good," there's a brief pause in his words, and katsuki looks askance at having to provide a reason why, "she does a lot for me. want her to know I appreciate it."

a beating heart is soothed by the words. your hormones run wild at his mild love declaration, and you're grinning like a mad man.

katsuki wakes up on christmas morning to find his absolute favorite thing; you.

and the book he got was pretty damn good, too.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

1, 13 and 25 for the choose violence asks please!

the character everyone gets wrong

Let's see, I already did Maedhros, and and I did posts about most of the other Fëanoreans as well (but seriously, everyone does get Celegorm wrong, he's politically ambitious and dangerous, not dumb and feral).

I think much of fandom gets the Valar wrong. The thing that I always come back to about the Valar is that everything they do is about love for the Eruhini and wanting them to be happy and safe and well. They err (because the Eruhini are meant for more than just being happy and safe), but it's all coming from that place of love and care. They ask the Elves to come to Aman so that they're not exposed to the dangers of Middle-earth. (I think they don't stay in Middle-earth in part because they remember Almaren and the destruction of the lamps, which ruined continents.) They let the elves do basically what they want - they've got virtually no rules besides "don't threaten to kill people" and "don't kill people", both of which come up in response to situations they really never anticipated. The rescue of Maedhros by Thorondor and the foundation of Nargothrond and Gondolin shows that they are clearly willing to help the Noldor, even after the Kinslaying and the Doom.

The difficulty is, in part the nature of their power. The Valar are at the same time tremendously powerful, to the point where they cannot have a direct war with the forces of evil without it levelling continents, and much less powerful than we expect them to be. They can't stop the Kinslaying by snapping their fingers and pulling all the elves' weapons out of their hands; that's not an ability they have, and getting involved would mean personally killing large numbers of elves, something they are clearly unwilling to do. They're far from omniscient; they don't always know what's happening outside Valinor. So people get confused and aggravated by them, because they simultaneously have the powers of gods and lack the powers of comic book superheroes.

13. worst blorboficiation

Finrod!! I get so tired of seeing him portrayed as a ditz, as a flake, as naïve, as sleeps-with-everything. Finrod is probably both the most intelligent and the most intellectually curious character in The Silmarillion (come on, the longest scene we get with him an an extended philosophical debate!), as well as being the wisest and most thoughtful. He's the linchpin of diplomacy for all Beleriand and things fall apart without him. He's not naïve; he walks to his death knowing that's what he's doing (he's already foreseen that his oath to Barahir will destroy him and that Nargothrond will not survive).

I think where it comes from is the fact that he's kind, and there's a sort of assumption running through society that kindness and intelligence/awareness are opposed to each other; that someone who is ruthless must also be intelligent, and that someone who is kind must also be dumb. (I partly blame House and Sherlock.) Neither are true.

25. common fandom complaint that you're sick of hearing

"Yes but the Silmarils are the Fëanoreans' property!" When did tumblr of all places start believing in the absolute sanctity of property rights? No need to go all stand-your-ground/libertarian about it.

I don't care. I really don't. I think that Beren and Lúthien achieving the impossible feat of getting one out of Angband, at overwhelming personal cost and in the teeth of Fëanorean opposition, does give them a right to it, and I think the Fëanoreans cease to have any right to make any demands whatsoever of the people they attempted to rape and murder, or of those people's son. The Silmaril itself accepts Beren's claim, in despite of the Silmarils being hallowed against "mortal flesh", even as it later rejects the Fëanoreans'. Beren and Luthien suffer greatly in order to obtain the Silmaril, they are meant to have it, and the fact that it is part of their family line enables the salvation of Middle-earth. That's enough for me.

[theurgic-necromancer]

You awake from another nightmare.

You hate how frequent they've been since you woke up. They were annoyingly frequent before, but they were closer to every other week back then. Now, they seem to come every few days... if not more frequently. You're not the only one getting them, at least. But Zia seems to be less affected by them than you are. It probably helps that she keeps crawling into someone's tent to curl up with them whenever she has a nightmare. People keep waking up to a girl (and sometimes a dog) sleeping next to them.

You, on the other hand, prefer to drown it all in booze.

Astarion happens to stumble across you sitting on the edge of camp, with a bottle of booze you happened to scrounge up from that Zhent stash a while ago. He always seems to be able to find you wherever you manage to crawl off to.

He sits beside you with a dramatic sigh. You don't pay him too much mind. The two of you are usually the only ones up late at night, anyway, owing to the whole "only need four hours of sleep" thing elves have going for them.

"Can you wiggle your ears?" you ask. Astarion stares at you, and you almost laugh when you catch a glimpse of his face out of the corner of your eye.

"No," he says, sounding irritated. "Can you?"

There's a sarcastic tone to his voice. You decide to ignore that for the moment. Screwing your eyes shut, you concentrate really hard on moving your ears. You usually do it without thinking, so it's difficult to do on command.

"...No, it doesn't seem you can," Astarion says after a moment. He sounds vaguely confused by this whole thing. "Why did you even ask? How drunk are you?"

"I'm just buzzed," you claim. It might even be true. Astarion sighs and you open your eyes to see him rolling his.

"If this is what you're like buzzed then I'd hate to see what you look like drunk off your arse."

"If I keep having nightmares, you just might get to see for yourself," you say, squinting into the depths of your current bottle.

"Is it even good booze?" Astarion grabs the bottle from you and takes a swig. He immediately makes a face, lip curling in disgust. "Ugh. Awful."

"It's from the Zhent stash," you point out.

"They have terrible taste in booze." Astarion hands the bottle back to you. "How can you even stomach this stuff?"

You shrug. "I'm not here for the taste right now."

Astarion clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "Darling, if you're going to drink yourself into oblivion, then at least find something better than watered down swill. Like a nice red wine."

"You really like your red stuff, don't you?" you say with an amused snort. "Red wine, red meat..."

"Well, when most of what I eat is already red..."

"Most," you say, gesturing vaguely to your own neck. "Still can't believe you didn't notice."

Astarion huffs. "All blood looks more or less black when it's dark out."

"Sure, sure," you say, grinning.

"...Huh," Astarion says, staring at you. You blink in response. "I didn't realize you also had fangs."

You poke at your teeth absentmindedly. "Oh, right. I sometimes forget about those."

"Are you sure you aren't secretly a dhampyr?" Astarion jokes. You snort again.

"Very sure. I may be an orphan, but I do know who my parents were."

"Oh an orphan, huh?" Astarion says, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hand. "Well, don't you just sound like a protagonist from some sappy hero's tale."

You scoff. "I don't think a lot of people these days would consider me a hero."

"Why not? You certainly have the attitude of one." Astarion wrinkles his nose. "A little goody-two-shoes, on par with Wyll."

"Wyll's like a baby hero, at best," you say, rolling your eyes. "He wants to be the charming prince—the dashing rogue at worst—but he can't see how close he already is to falling from grace."

"Well, if that's not the most scathing thing I've ever heard you say," Astarion says, sounding vaguely impressed. "Seems the alcohol has really loosened your tongue."

You frown and squint into the bottle again. "...Maybe that's my cue to ease up."

Astarion huffs. "Oh, don't be such a spoilsport. Aren't you having fun?"

"Talking to you, yeah," you say, which seems to give Astarion pause. "But the drinking part is suddenly looking less and less fun."

You attempt to haul yourself to your feet. You're not sure if it's the booze or your general lack of coordination that causes you to need more than one attempt. But either way, you manage to stand and stagger off to your tent again.

[howhow326]

So, I don't really like the Fairy lineage so I made my own Fairy homebrew race lol

Gentry, 5e homebrew race

Bayonetta demon masquerade form, belongs to Platinum Games

History

In ages past, the Gentry were fairy nobility that were much taller than normal and wielded powerful magic. Eventually, one of their highest members convinced all of them to travel to the material plane in pursuit of a land not dominated by the Archfey. They were successful, at the cost of their powers and immortal lives.

 In modern times, the Gentry are a material race like any other, but their culture still clings to their former glory. While most Gentry spend their whole lives in their secret meadow villages, a few become adventures.

Physical Description

The Gentry appear as humanoid, wingless butterflies from far away. Up close, their chiton bodies look almost skeletal in their thinness, with regular sized heads. Their faces have large compound eyes and lipless mouths.  They have thin, curly antenna where eyebrows would normally be. The average Gentry has a black body and monocolor eyes, but there are some with different colorations. Most adult Gentry have the ability to manifest vibrant butterfly wings.

Society

The Gentry live in secret villages located in meadows far away from industrial civilization. Most of these Butterfly folk spend their entire long lives in harmony with nature and their communities, taking only what they need and sharing what they can.

Instead of Good and Evil, the Gentry believe in Beauty and the Ugly. All things symmetrical, colourful, and pleasing to the eye are to be preserved and protected at all cost. Likewise, all things imperfect, grey, and revolting ought to be destroyed. This worldview causes conflict between the Gentry and most other material races, who believe good is not skin deep.

Like in most other cultures, the Gentry who become adventures are mostly outcasts who long for more than their boring life. Some do it to learn more about the world they live in, either seeking a kind of enlightenment or just broadening their horizons. Others for a sense of wanderlust and freedom outside of the community. But most leave for the sake of increasing their power; all the stories say they are this world's Archfey, so why not embrace their destiny?

Gentry Names

Male: Narcissus, Hyacinth, Gladiolus, Lupin, Snapdragon

Female: Rose, Iris, Lily, Jasmine, Plumeria

Gender neutral: Oleander, Foxglove, Hemlock, Cornflower, Nightshade

Gentry Traits

Ability Scores: +2 Cha; +1 Wis

Languages: Common, Sylvan

Creature type: Fey

Alignment: Adventures are usually Chaotic. Villagers are true Neutral.

Lifespan: Gentry age at the same rate as Elves.

Size: Medium. Average height for men and women is 6 ft.

Speed: 30 ft

Skills: Persuasion

Fey Ancestry: You have advantage on saving throws against being charmed, and magic can’t put you to sleep.

Fairy Form: Starting at 2nd level, you can use your action to tap into your magical Fey blood, manifesting incorporeal butterfly wings on your back. Your transformation lasts 5 minutes or until you end it as a bonus action. Your flying speed is 30 feet.

After the transformation ends, you can't use it again until you finish a long rest. You can't use your flying speed if you are wearing medium or heavy armor.

Cold Iron: As the most banal thing in existence, metal in all of it's forms is anathema to Gentry. As such, they are unable to wear metal armour and use metal shields. Additionally, Gentry take +2 damage when struck by metal weapons.

Fairy Dust: Your fey magic gives you the ability to influence the minds of beings around you. You know the Friends cantrip. Starting 3rd level, you can cast Charm Person by expending a level 1 spell slot once per long rest. Starting 5th level, you can cast Crown Of Madness by expending a level 2 spell slot once per long rest. Your casting ability for all of these spells is Charisma.

I am going to cry myself to sleep because I don't have any sessions planned. I guess you guys are free to use this but don't make any money off of it or else Hasbro will kill you.

[chiliadicorum]

12, 13, 14, 18!

12. the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

Cirdan! He's honestly one of the most amazing Elves in ALL of the legendarium and I blame Tolkien for burying all his gold nuggets. That's the only explanation for how he's so overlooked and dismissed. Has to be. Even C. Tolkien expressed amazement with Cirdan. Wisest of all Elves, greatest foresight of all Elves, saw the Star of Earendil 10,000 years before it happened, has one of the palantiri, Ring-bearer, could've wielded the One Ring itself...i need to just finally make a list of why I love him so much

ok this is a two-part answer bc I realize the prompt probably means a character that is actively disliked. For that, Thingol. I'm honestly appalled at the (general) fandom reception of him. He doesn't deserve it (don't have time to get to the why)

13. worst blorbofication

Nobody hit me, but my answer is Melkor. I love Melkor, like a lot. He's so darkly fascinating, so interesting and addictive to explore, and so often he's stripped of everything that makes him fascinating all for the sake of making him a little less villainous, a little more right, a little whatever (i'm generalizing here, and this isn't about shipping. I don't read melkor/ships so i have no comment on it) He's so complex and so often he's made so shallow instead. Sauron comes in a close second for the same reason.

14. that one thing you see in fics all the time

One-sided characterization? (idk what to call it) I'm not crapping on anyone who does it and I know I was guilty of it myself at one point but it's that thing where ONE aspect of the character (good or bad, usually bad) is then blown up to be their whole character. And in the Tolkien fandom this happens a lot with Feanor, his sons, Eol, Saeros, Finarfin (of all people!), Galadriel, Finwe, Thranduil, Thingol, etc (honestly the fandom's way with thingol pisses me off probably more than any other character, at least right now)

18. it's absolutely criminal that the fandom has been sleeping on...

The balrogs!!!! After Glorfindel and Ecthelion killed two of them! How groundbreaking and shocking it had to have been. Not just to the people of Gondolin who made it out alive but to EVERYONE in Beleriand. From the Feanorians to the Sindar to Dwarves to all Men EVERONE.

You know what, here's the link, I hunted it down: https://www.tumblr.com/chiliadicorum/159569845327/balrog-slayer-a-new-word?source=share

Read that for more info bc I'll start fangirling and won't shut up here. I'm commented on this before^^ and someone graciously wrote a beautiful fic exploring it as a result (can't remember who they were I'm sorry!), but except for that one fic I've yet to find one single fic entailing this! (plz point them out to me if they're there bc admittedly i haven't searched for fics the way I'd like to in a loooong time)

Bc yeah, really how has fandom been sleeping on this?! especially a "hopeful" thing to write about in the First Age lol

Also Word of Honor answer bc I'm craving it: (spoiler warning) After the events of ep36 or during the time of ep37, where are all the fics exploring the reactions of people to the "two immortals on the mountain"? bc come on, immortals don't exist. Right? It's been explored some (and those fics are GOLD) but UGH its so entertaining to think about! Especially when they become legendary and of course the true story gets exaggerated and rumors start and fly and get ridiculous and what's true what's false nobody knows! "I dare you to go up the mountain, see if the tales are true" "no way! you go if you're so desperate" "what are you chicken?" "shut up a-hole i just have no desire to climb a mountain" hahahaha Endless entertainment potential with this!!

choose violence ask game

[adleryoung]

"Quit eavesdropping!" I scolded Burnside. "This is a private conversation!"

"Don't see why it should be," Burnside sniffed disdainfully. "So what if she's a changeling? I was a changeling. It don't mean nothin. Whether she is one or not, we'll all find out eventually."

"Private!" I insisted. "This is a special, sacred mentor-to-pupil moment."

"Fine," she shrugged. "I'll go patrol the woods out of earshot! That'll give y'all loads o' privacy."

"No," I countermanded. "You must stay close, because I need to talk to you as soon as I finish speaking to Rebecca."

"Aw come on now!" Burnside snapped. "Whadda you expect me to do? Cover my ears an sing a song?"

"Actually, that's a good idea," I nodded.

Burnside sighed heavily, turned around, covered her ears, and began loudly humming.

"Watt about-" Angela started to say.

"You too!" I ordered.

"All right," I said, turning back to Rebecca. Where were we?"

"Uhhhhh," Rebecca floundered in temporary bewilderment. "So the stories are true? Elves really do steal mortal children and leave their horrible elf babies in their place?"

"Elf babies aren't horrible," I protested. "Maybe Burnside was, but in general I don't believe that's the case. Were you a horrible baby?"

"No," Rebecca declared after a moment's thought. "My parents were always quite fond of me. So how can you be sure if somebody's a changeling? Are there tests to find out?"

"I'm not sure. As I said, it's very unlikely that you are a changeling. No offense, but no elf in their right mind would leave a child in that rabbit village. And with Faerie falling apart, who would have the space or resources to care for a swapling? I'm sad to say the situation back home is too desperate."

"What kind of sense does that make?" Rebecca blurted. "If you have time to take care of a swapling, you have time to raise your own child. The whole thing only makes sense if, as the stories say, you eat the mortal babies."

"That's Unseelie!" I exclaimed. "How could you believe such horrible tales? No, most of us do NOT eat lowfolk babies. But you're right, the changeling tradition is practiced mostly because elves don't want the responsibility of child-rearing."

"So what happens to the swaplings?" Rebecca asked.

"I never managed to find out for sure," I admitted. "When I was little, they were draining them of their lowfolk essence … but that was a new thing at the time, and I don't know exactly what it did to the lowfolk children. I'm pretty sure it led to our downfall though."

Rebecca stared at me strangely for several seconds, then continued: "Actually, if the situation in Faerie really is that terrible, wouldn't that motivate elf parents to have their kids raised in the, uh, lowfolk realm? If they are incapable of caring for the swapling, would they even bother taking one? If they were desperate to make sure their child is safe, couldn't they just leave the elf baby in an orphanage or on someone's front doorstep?"

"I suppose," I admitted with a shrug. "I remember you telling me that your parents found you in a cabbage patch."

"That's just a euphemism for being visited by the stork," Rebecca explained.

It was my turn to stare at her in momentary bafflement.

"Still," I resumed after a pause, "it could be true. You have a point. As for tests to find out, the fact that you used Elfmind is a strong indicator. Another big one is, elves age much slower than lowfolk."

"If you want to see how long it takes me to become an old lady, we'll both be waiting for a long time. Are there any others?"

"Elves technically don't need to sleep," I said thoughtfully. "You could try staying up for several days and see if you get tired or go insane."

"That sounds risky."

"Nah, if you're lowfolk you will fall asleep before any serious damage is done. But let me think … oh! The Gate inside the dolmen will only admit elves. If you're able to pass through it into Faerie, that would be solid proof."

"Okay, let's try it," Rebecca declared as she started to get up.

"Not so fast. There's a time slip between the worlds, so if you went in you could be gone for days or even years on this side, even if you only stayed there for a few minutes. You would have to go alone because I already know I can bring things through from this world. If I accompany you, then you might be considered my guest, the Gate might let you pass no matter what, and the test would be inconclusive."

My train of thought was interrupted by a squadron of Ixies buzzing up to report.

"Sire," Typantronn barked, with a crisp salute. "The witches all safely returned home, and Oonagh the baker was overjoyed at the new addition to her family. Didelphis, not so much."

"That is that," Typantronn chuckled as she turned toward her troops. "The mission is over and thou hast all been debriefed sooo… Pay up, sisters!"

"Thou art killing me over here!" one Ixie groaned as they all began reaching under their carapaces and handing over aphids.

"Your bug servants seem to have a gambling problem, My Lord," Rebecca observed.

[lord-westley]

Hi hun, I don't know if your requests are open right now, but I could really use some sort of comfort Imagine right now and I was hoping I could come and ask you. It doesn't even have to be a full set of Headcanons, just a short blurb about some Characters will do if that's fine with you.

I've been really struggling with my chronic illnesses lately, and I keep imagining the Fellowship taking care of me, so I thought I'd ask for an Imagine about that. I have a really weird condition where my right leg is physically longer than my left, which causes really intense pain in my hip and leg and also difficulty walking, so I've been really struggling with that lately. There's also the chronic fatigue from my sleep apnea, I'm absolutely covered in bruises that I don't remember getting, the classic anxiety and depression and executive dysfunction.. it's just been a difficult week tbh.

I'd appreciate any kind words right now. Thanks for being so kind and supportive to me, it means more than you could ever know. I hope it's alright that I ask this of you. Godspeed, hun 💕

Comfort HC’s

Platonic!Fellowship x Reader

Post LOTR; Comfort

Warnings: Mentions chronic pain, anxiety, depression, PTSD

A/N: Hello Ro! I’m sorry this took a while, I hope the pain eases soon and that these headcanons help. If you ever need to talk, my DM's are open anytime!

You’ve known the Fellowship ever since you were a little girl. You met them when your parents sent you off to Imladris to seek the aid of Lord Elrond, one of the greatest healers in Middle-Earth. For you had an unusual physical condition, where your right leg grew longer than your left. It made walking difficult and a burning pain to spiderweb from your hip down.

Lord Elrond tried everything he could in his power to help you, and yet there was little he could do except ease the pain. No amount of magic can prevent physical growth.

The tears that welled up in your eyes that day pained him more than any wound can. A child, barely twelve years old, experiencing such excruciating pain right in front of him, and yet he can’t do anything about it. And from that moment on, he promised to you that he’d do anything he can to help you, and care for you.

So with the permission of your worried parents, Lord Elrond gave you an offer to stay in Imladris for as long as you wish. To heal and receive the care you need. Which you kindly accepted.

For years up to adulthood, you lived in Imladris; drinking Athleas tea every morning and night for the pain and sleep apnea. While it wasn’t a cure, it helped make life much more bearable. Allowing you to enjoy certain activities and walk around with only half the pain.

During those years you became great friends with the Fellowship. For they travelled often to Imladris to visit and rest between trips. They became your family, always joking and telling stories of their travels; teaching you new tricks and how to defend yourself. And in return you’d tell them stories of the elves around you. How the Ellon in the smithy loves to tease the Elleth in the bakery. Or how the children would braid flower crowns for you.

The boys know of your difficulties with your leg and illnesses. They’re constantly worried for you; asking how you are, helping when the pain begins to spike and holding you when you begin to cry. Everytime it starts getting bad again, they tell you it's okay to feel weak and to cry. That you don’t have to be strong all the time.

Aragorn

Aragorn is surprisingly soft despite his tough exterior

He believes that crying and venting about your frustrations is the most healthy way to deal

So on days you are having a rough time he’ll sit down with you in his lap, holding you tightly into his chest. One arm around your body and one hand in your hair

Aragorn will let you cry and yell into him, all while pressing small kisses into your hair

He’s not a very wordy person, so it’s not often he will whisper sweet things, but when he does. It’s always so soft and helps relax you

“Deep breaths Hun, It’ll be okay”

Legolas

A soft baby- an absolute angel when it comes to comforting you

Legolas is very big on grounding yourself and staying focused on your surroundings

So when he notices you’re beginning to have a rough time, nearing a panic attack, He preps a cup of Athleas tea and brings you to a private area

He’ll have you sit between his legs, and his arms gently wrapped around you torso

Legolas will have you ground yourself by telling him 3 things you smell, feel, hear and see

“Close your eyes, little one and listen… Listen to the birds sing”

As you begin to relax, he whispers praises, proud of how strong you are

“You’re doing so well, I’m proud of you”

Boromir

I love this man oml

If you’re bedridden due to the pain he’d 100% do whatever you ask of him

Need more pillows? Steals them from every. Single. Bedroom.

“Boro- holy crap how many did you take!?”

“Uh.. all?”

There is now a national shortage of pillows

Need more warmth? Will make a nest of blankets and wrap you up in his cloak

Comfort?? CUDDLES FOR DAYS

Boromir is there for you every step of the way

If you start crying, He might cry with you- absolutely hates seeing you in such pain

“I’m sorry- Im so sorry Darling. I wish there was more I could do for you”

Gimli

In true Gimli fashion, when he notices your anxiety he 100% wants to fight whoever triggered it

He gets a bit aggressive in the beginning, insisting to fist fight your problems away

but when you tell him that it’s something that can't be fought off, that its a constant thing, he calms down and just

“Oh”

“Oh oh wait Im so sorry”

Cue soft Gimli

Will rub your back affectionately while speaking softly

Asking if there is anything he could do to help

Another babe who will do anything you ask of him

If the panic attack happens in public, Gimli will bring you somewhere more private

He’ll shield you with his body from the eyes of the public and glare at anyone who dares stare

Not very good with soft comfort but if you ever need to feel safe and protected go to him

“Dont worry Lassie” (head pats) “I’ll protect you, You’re safe now”

Frodo

Sweet darling baby angel bean

He completely understands your anxieties and pain

Frodo did carry the one ring across middle earth after all

He absolutely has PTSD from it, so there have been many times the two of you would stay up late together when you can’t sleep, drinking tea

You find comfort in the fact that he’s quite similar to you, and vice versa

Most often, you guys will talk about what's going on and comfort each other

On the nights the two of you don’t wish to talk, Frodo will read stories to you

His voice is so soft and comforting, It never fails to lull you to sleep

“None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window” He reads aloud, peaking up at you and notices the way your lips part, a soft snore emitting. He hums, “Goodnight Y/N, sleep well”

Sam

This hobbit is such a softie

He understands that with mental disorders, you may forget to eat or care for yourself

So he always watches you, making sure you’re eating and you aren’t

Oh boy

Will cook your favorite meals and make you sit with him to eat breakfast, lunch and dinner

“Ah, I hope you enjoy the meal. I made your favorite!”

“Thank you, Sam..”

Ensuring you drink your water

Or if you don’t like plain water, make some tea. Anything really to make sure you get your fluids

As a gardener, Sam is busy quite often, tending to, well, gardens

He’ll set up a picnic nearby for you with finger sandwiches, drinks, and fruit that way you had company and can relax fully in the peacefulness of nature

Definitely will give you a bouquet of flowers at the end of the day

“I picked these for you Y/N!”

Merry and Pippin

Okay so these two are together cause well. They’re always together

Except that one scene

Absolute kings of distraction when you’re feeling depressed

You might want to just sleep it off- but we all know that never really helps

They’ll make so many jokes and sing and dance around just to make you laugh

Which often leads to them singing even louder and cruder, annoying every elf in the area

“Lucky Annie was a lady who’d been pleased by many men- They all would sail away but then they’d come right back again”

Yes they sing sea shanties

Oops

On days that you don’t have the energy to deal with such shenanigans, they’ll tone it down

The three of you will often be found in the field during these days, Tossing a ball back n forth

Or giggling amongst yourself, gossiping about the rest of the fellowship

“I don’t know Merry, Gandalf is kinda hot in an old man way”

“Pippin what the hell”

[beautifulterriblequeen]

B2:S - Chapter 3

Much of this series will be about the differences and additions in the novel version, and how they contribute to my understanding of story canon. But there will be character appreciation, the odd theory and headcanon, and suchlike as well.

Here be Lujanne, Callum, Rayla, Ezran, Bait, and Soren goodness!

Spoilers for Book Two: Sky below.

Lujanne having excellent fitness for all her walking around the Moon Nexus, and she's so energetic that Callum has trouble keeping up with her! She seems like those active grandmas who almost never stop moving, who have a lifelong supply of endless stamina. It makes me wonder if Lujanne will need that level of fitness for some upcoming conflict.

Callum feeling really hungry over not eating grubs and then still deciding he'd rather be hungry. It makes me wonder all over again how Lujanne got to the point where she eats grubs, considering that other Moonshadow elves we know of back in the Silvergrove don't. I still love my hc that the giant leech ate all of Lujanne's moonberry bushes and she's taking her revenge. Whatever's going on there, Callum is definitely not at that point yet.

When Lujanne asks Callum how he knows she's real, he thinks to himself that he'd put up with just about anything from someone who was going to teach him magic. That's a great parallel and foreshadowing for Viren's student/master relationship with Aaravos! And it's telling that neither student gets exactly what they hoped to get. Lujanne doesn't actively teach Callum any spells, because she believes he can't learn Moon magic at all. Aaravos does offer Viren power, but it takes him to some very dark places - literally and figuratively - and the cost is terribly high.

Callum sees a moon shape among the ruins, and Lujanne explains that the Moonhenge layout is an intricate rune that uses the structures themselves as part of its symbols and power. That's apparently a thing even with ordinary Moonshadow villages like Hollow Wood in the east, which is the coolest idea I've seen in a while: city planning as magic runes!

Yes, that's the same shape as the pendants Ethari made for himself and Runaan. Protection? Home? Feelsiness? A sense of safety and belongnig for all cycles and seasons?

Wonder what this Moonhenge rune stands for, then, and how much of this landscape is included in that rune. I bet it's more than we think!

But it makes sense now, how toppling the stone pillars would disable the spell the druids would cast to connect with the Moon Nexus lake. Breaking the infrastructure of the Moonhenge breaks the rune.

There's a physical sensation involved with the visuals that Historia Viventem brings up! When that one ghostly druid walked through Callum, he felt icy cold. Like in ghost stories. I really wonder about what exactly Historia Viventem is doing when it activates. It shows truth, "what really happened here?", so it must have some kind of time-related element, maybe tied to how the moon always repeats the same cycles or something. But it also seems to draw on the spirits of any living people involved in the flashback, because Callum could physically feel that wispy shape passing through him. So very interesting!

Orrr... is that all wrong, and there's something else at work with this spell than time? Maybe the world beyond life and death can act as an imprint of the things that have happened in the living world, and the spell that Lujanne (and later Callum) casts taps into that place, with perfect recall. I'm looking really hard at the sentence that says "dozens of translucent elf ghosts" and "phantom Moonhenge" and "lost in their own world" here.

Lujanne says more here than in the show about the world beyond life and death, being her mysterious Moonshadow-mage self. She says that "beyond" and "between" might both apply to where this other plane of existence is, and she doesn't much care which. With all the relativity swirling around this place, and not much in the way of empiricism, it's sounding like perhaps multiple conflicting ideas might actually coexist in such a place, allowing more ideas to fit there than we might normally believe is possible. Which is a fascinating bit of worldbuilding. Basically, every headcanon anyone has ever had about the Moon Nexus could all be true at the same time, for all we know.

Oh oh oh, Callum coming in soft with a secret wish! He takes one look at the Moonhenge and immediately thinks of finding a way to see his mom again! Poor boy, my heart! I'd say that could be another interesting parallel with Viren, but then, who wouldn't hold that sentiment?

Oh my, is this another breath of life into Ye Olde Ley Lines headcanon? Lujanne mentioning the Nexuses again, so soon after talking about the runic design of the entire Moonhenge, makes me wonder if the six nexuses are in fact giant runes. On Earth, the places where ley lines cross are called nexuses, and there are those who believe those points got marked with ancient structures, like Stonehenge and many many others. If Xadia were crossed with magical lines which naturally formed nexus points where they met, and if powerful magical runes were built across those entire areas, well. That would be cool beans, fams. Can I smack a map of Xadia and release a spell like Luz Noceda does? Because ngl that is my first instinct here.

Lujanne has got to be missing some grandkids to spoil, right? The way she's always whipping out cake and ice cream for Callum, and she's so grandma-ish about it. Headcanon about her being Runaan's mom aside, she is canonically lonely and she's very sweet to Allen and Ellis and I think she's missing whatever family she once had in the past. She may never get to have that family back, so she's finding a new one among the humans who live nearby, and I think that's sweet. Found family isn't just for the young.

But Ellis is straight up gonna be her fave, I bet, because she didn't turn up her nose at Lujanne's illusion food!

Ezran and Bait have a lot more to their relationship than was visible in the show, and I'm so excited by it! Ez can tell by looking at Bait's colors that he's not truly jealous of Zym, even if he's really grumpy about the dragonling taking up his favorite human's time.

And Ez thinking a lot about his dad and the things he's taught him. They're soft leadership material, and I love that so much! "Pick your battles" and the importance of encouragement. Ahh, my heart. Ezran, you're going to be such a good king.

But wait a second: both times that Bait gets extra grumpy in Zym's first training session, Ezran has just mentioned something about flying. Guys, I think Bait wishes he could fly, really badly. And that's his biggest problem with Zym, and with Ezran teaching Zym to fly, instead of Bait who doesn't have wings so. Bait is so old that his secrets have secrets, and I'm really curious how flying fits into them now!

Rayla, Dramatic Assassin: "I need to patrol for dark forces." That's what Lujanne called the source of the purple wisps that found them. I wonder if that's an official term all Moonshadows know, or if Rayla is just taking her cue from a veteran Moon mage. And I wonder how far Rayla is falling into the apparent pattern of "one mage, one assassin", since she does spend a lot of her time patrolling without being asked.

When Callum tells Lujanne that he was bad at prince stuff, and she asks if he didn't give up and got good at those things anyway, it's an opportunity for Callum to embrace subverting his parents' expectations in favor of seeking his own path, which is a primary theme of the show. But Lujanne is a couple generations older than Callum, at the very least, and I have to wonder what her upbringing was like. Is her version of success the one she took? Was she bad at magic once too, but she persisted? She is very soft and doesn't want to kill anyone.

Maybe Lujanne had dreams of doing something else with her life, but she felt she had to pursue the destiny that others handed to her, so she studied magic as hard as she could, and she did get good at it, but using it to defend Xadia from humans is not what she wanted to do with her life. Whether there's a parallel between her and Ethari on that point, there's one between Callum and Ethari, I think. How much of your life are you willing to let others direct for you?

LISTEN I WAS DYING AT THE EAR BREAD SCENE OKAY

This is my new favorite Soren and Claudia moment ever. Soren loves him his bread, okay. Even as earplugs for Claudia's sleep ocarina tune. The fact that it's "super effective" makes me think of a Pokemon defense. The fact that he learned it at camp, where he also learned about Moonshadow Madness, is hilarious. Later on, Corvus doesn't know Soren by name, but I still love the idea of Corvus being a kind of Strider-esque camp instructor, filling the ears of his young charges with all kinds of useful tactics like ear bread for magic spell songs (which actually seemed to work as intended), and warnings about the enemy elves' blood-themed tactics (which may or may not come back around in BH)

I thought they were gonna go in a kind of deep direction when Soren still wanted his ear bread back, but then he just. Eats them. Just noms them. I love this kid. Give Soren all the bread!

[giorno-plays-piano]

The Spider's Bride Part 3

Pairing: spider!Bucky x Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, stalking, forced marriage.

Words: 2422.

Summary: Whoever your stepmother sold you to, he wasn’t as honorable as she claimed.

Part 1

Part 2

P.S. I just remembered I haven't explain arachnids' family ties yet - even though Bucky says he has "sisters", they are actually his cousins, daughters of his aunt. Since the ones of his kind had always lived in a very big families, cousins were considered "sisters" and "brothers" because of their closeness to each other.

_________________

You spent the next two weeks in your chamber again - apparently, Bucky's spells were truly very poweful as you slept the whole day after returning home from the nursery. He even had to have a check on you, but the healer assured him you'd be alright soon. Bucky had to be more careful from now on.

However, he was rather surprised you didn't cry after your awakening and said nothing to him about your visit to the town. Judging by the way you behaved, maybe you were not as shocked as Bucky expected you to be. He was so relieved.

Arabella was visiting often. She didn't enter your rooms as a precaution - she said it was too early for that - but stayed right behind the doors, either singing or talking to you. Despite being reluctant at first, as the days passed, you talked more and more about everything you wanted to know. A part of him was jealous. In the end, he could tell you of all the things you were curious about as well, but you refused to talk to him much. Arabella asked Bucky to be patient. In the end, it was him you considered her captor, not her.

The more time you spent with her, the calmer you seemed. You started eating better, sometimes even complimenting him for the food he brought you directly from the surface; the man heard less and less of your crying. Eventually, you even started to move within the house to borrow new books from the extensive library Bucky made exclusively for you. Of course, he still kept his human form whenever you were with him.

"Bucky, we discussed a few things this morning with Arabella." You said to him when you brought back empty dishes from your room and started washing them despite Bucky protesting it. "That potion I asked you to give me the first day when you brought me."

He stiffened at your words since he knew perfectly what potion you were talking about. What on Earth Arabella was thinking?

"She told me how your spells work and how humans can get addicted to that. I understand why you don't want to cast more charms on me." You rinsed the large silver dish and put it to the side to let it dry before storing them in the cardboard. "But she said that if you added a three drops of love potion to my drink in the morning, it may ease my worries."

"Dear Lord." He grunted, taking away your cup and clenching his teeth. Maybe his sister was an expert in potions she had been preparing for decades, yet he couldn't believe she offered you something like that right after telling him to not use magic.

"Please, Bucky. She said it's safe."

"Oh, and how would she know this? I don't remember her treating any human females for long."

Controling himself was rather complicated at this point, but he knew he was overreacting. Undoubtedly, his sister would do nothing to harm you in any way. He just didn't trust the methods he knew nothing about, and risking your health was out of question.

You sighed, taking the apron you stole from your betrothed off and folding it neatly. The more you stayed here, the more acceptable your life seemed to you, and sometimes you hated it with all your heart. Your bed was nice and warm; your food was always ready for you when you became hungry; your room was reserved purely for you, and no one could enter it without your permission; you had many gorgeous dresses your stepmother could never even dream about. Although the thought of Bucky in his true form still made you feel disgusted, you couldn't wish him to die anymore. More and more you thought someone like him didn't deserve it just because he was ugly. Regardless what your instincts were telling you, he treated you better than any human did, didn't he?

You had a better life down here since the times your mother left, and thinking of that hurt.

However, you did want to wipe off the memory of Bucky chasing you the day your stepmother brought you to the cave. Sometimes you saw his eight long dark legs in your nightmares. This was what you talked to Arabella today, voicing your concerns to help you do something with it. Maybe if you could erase this, your feelings towards the man you couldn't escape would change faster.

Arabella didn't agree to wiping off that picture out of your mind as the spell that she would need to cast was unpredictable at best and could take half of your memories. As you knew little about magic, she spent some time explaining to you how the charms worked and how they affected both arachnids and humans. Indulging yourself into taking too many soothing spells sounded like a bad idea now, and you understood Bucky's reluctance to cast them.

Nonetheless, she offered you a better way to ease your worries. Love potion didn't bring the ones of your kind any particular harm, though it wasn't powerful enough to keep you in love for a long time. However, a small dose of it could keep your worries away, the woman said. If you and Bucky agreed, she would ensure the potion to be made perfectly.

But he just had to be so goddamn stubborn! You learned that despite his scary appearance and the fact that he'd been through the war from its beginning to the very end Bucky was a hopeless romantic. He probably hoped the issue would be solved somehow purely by itself. As much as you would like it to be true, your mind refused believing that marrying an arachnid wasn't frightening.

"Listen, I know you care." You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, turning to him. "But I need help. I know soothing spells aren't safe, so we need something else. Please, let's try this out. If you see I don't react as I should, we'll stop right away. What harm could 3 drops of potion bring, anyway?

He groaned at your persistance, but you weren't giving up just yet. You spend half an hour talking to him purely about the potion and the possibilities it could bring you until the arachnid gave up, surprised you stayed with him for so long by our own will. More than that, Bucky was content with your desire to get rid of your fears and even change the way you thought of him. Maybe it was for the better. Maybe trying giving you a few drops of a potion would help.

When he let you drink water mixed with potion, he was afraid to see the immediate changes, but nothing happened. You stayed in your room, reading the new book Arabella brought you. Your cheeks weren't heated; you gaze was focused on the text; your relaxed body wasn't shaking. It seemed perfectly okay.

Tomorrow morning he gave you three more drops as his older sister had prescribed, and nothing had happened after that, too. Bucky wasn't even sure it made sense to keep giving you the potion, but you said you were feeling a little better, so he believed you. However, the third day you spent solely in the library, not even locking yourself in your room as usual. Apparently, Arabella's advice had been way more useful he had anticipated at first.

The forth day you suddenly asked him to show you his true form. You wanted to give it a try, you said. If you got scared, he could cast a soothing or sleeping speel anyway. Since you were persistent, Bucky eventually gave in, but it didn't end well - you vomited on your own shoes at the sight of his horrifying spider form.

The morning of the fifth day Bucky had fought his desire to pour the whole bottle of potion into your drink and finally see you smiling at him.

The seventh day was better since his sisters visited, taking human form. They brought you gifts - ivory hair comb and hand mirror, pearls and laces. Although you tried refusing their presents because you felt ashamed you could give them nothing in return, they laughed it off: while human traditions required the family of a bride to pay the dowry, arachnids' custom was quite the opposite. You thought the reason was the lack of females in their society, but Bucky's sisters assured you it had nothing to do with it. Actually, they had adopted this tradition from the dark elves who had been their mates from the ancient times. Arabella also told you while the kingdom you belonged to was patriarchal, theirs wasn't much so. She said that despite having seven children - quite a normal thing for a female arachnid - she wasn't the one who would always take care of them as her husband was equally resposible for the brood. He fed them, bathed them, taught them, and brought them to bed just like she did. It sounded almost insane to you.

Then you returned to talk about their marriage traditions, and sisters were excited to tell you how their husbands courted them before they gave their woves. Apparently, all of them except Bucky had been already married.

"You know, the good thing is the courtship period isn't restricted by any laws." Dahlia, the youngest one, said. "While it lasts, a suitor and his family should pamper future bride. When my daughter will grow up, her betrothed will bring her gifts, too."

You tried your best to think of them as humans. Then the talk of their families was much less scary to you as you imagined them wearing beautiful laced silver dresses on the day of their weddings just like women of your kind did. Did arachnids wear dresses at all, despite when they took human form? You doubted it. Their large spider bodies could only be covered with two dozen meters of fabric, and moving with those on top would be too complicated.

You sighed when the doors to your chamber were finally closed as Bucky's sisters left. The deep sense of guilt had long settled in your chest. All of them were kind to you. No one had ever forced you to scrub floors or cook before the sun rises to have the breakfast ready when everyone gonna wake up. You had forgotten how the broom felt in your work-weary hands. Even though you did nothing at all, you were fed, clothed and given whatever you asked for.

Why did it have to be like this? If Bucky had been cruel to you, it would be so much easier to hate him and wish him to die. But now you couldn't. He didn't deserve to be detested only because of his form.

Wiping your tears away, you returned to bed and wrapped your warm blanket under yourself.

____________

"You shouldn't creep on her all the time, brother." Dahlia shook her head disapprovingly. "You don't give her privacy."

"She doesn't know I'm watching her while she's alone." When he protested, Arabella shot him a serious glance.

"Your obsession with her will do neither of you any good. Remember, though humans are not as conscious as us, they can still feel the emotions of others. She'll get scared."

"She's already scared!" He barked at the woman, furious, his hands clenched. "I don't change my form even when I go to sleep. I've stayed like that for the whole week! And she's still frightened. She still doesn't let me touch her. Maybe she never will. The only time I get to see her happy is when she's reading in her chamber all by herself, and you're telling me I can't do even that?"

"Do you know uncle had always been watching your mother, Bucky?" His second oldest sister intervened with her quiet and calm voice, her gentle hand brushing against his tensed shoulder.

The man stilled, his angry expression turning terrified in a matter of seconds. No, he didn't know, or rather didn't think of it much. Although his mother died shortly after giving birth to him, the dark obsession of his father with her was... dreadful. Bucky had never thought his feelings towards you could remind him of that. How could it be? Wasn't he much more gentle? Kind? Human?

"Bucky, you're a good man." He heard Arabella whispering to him softly. "You're better than him, you had always been. But if it continues like that, it will get worse. I told you, give her time. Have patience. She has suffered no less than you did, and she can't help you heal if she hadn't recover herself."

"I want nothing but love her." He said in desperation, covering his face with his huge palms.

"Then trust her. Look, she got so much better she didn't even cry when we came. I know you want her to jump into your arms, but it just doesn't happen that way."

Miria patted his head gently and nodded, agreeing to her older sister. They had slowly regained their huge and shiny spider-like forms right in front of the house Bucky lived in, strangers walking the street nearby paying them no attention as it had been a common magic ritual.

"I have to remind you my husband had spent half a year courting me." The youngest sister said, trying to cheer him up. "And he belongs to the same kind as us. Didn't stop me from believing he would be a terrible husband, though."

Bucky forced a faint smile. It was true, and he remembered how desperate the guy had been when Dahlia refused walking with him in the forests again and again. But she wasn't scared of him; she didn't hate him because he had eight nasty long legs making a terrifying sound when he walked. It was different.

He felt tears gathering in his eyes and blinked, quickly gathering himself. Bucky wasn't pathetic to the point he could goddamn cry in front of his own sisters.

"Thank you for your advice. I will do whatever I can." His voice sounded tired when Arabella dropped a kiss on his cheek and motioned others to follow her to the street.

Soon he was standing outside all by himself, watching the lamppost's flickering light. The nights were growing colder, and he shivered, turning his back to the black gates and marching straight home. He didn't know by the time he entered the hallway you had already consumed one third of the bottle with a love potion Bucky stored in the kitchen.

__________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki   ​@helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin ​@void-hoechlin @abyssaint @navegandoaciegas @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @ladyacrasia @iheartsebastianstan @rosalynshields

[cassieschaosdimension]

Here is the second installment in the redemption arc of Draco Malfoy.

The First Class (with the Gryffindors; I'm basing this off of the books and it's a fic so...)

He woke up after the feast in the Slytherin common room. Draco grins to himself running his hair through his unruly hair then he turns his head and it falls.

Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, and Zabini were sleeping around the room. How is he going to avoid them as he goes to breakfast?

It was especially hard not to wake up them meanly, but Draco wanted a clean slate where he could be himself without feeling smothered. He tried to be as quiet as possible. He doesn't want Nott and Zabini to ask questions. He may have had to grow up with them, but he doesn't have to be nice to them. Father might be furious at him, but mother said he should just be himself and it would all be fine.

Putting on his uniform and robe, Draco thinks how proud his father will be to see he's in Slytherin just like his parents were. He's always gravitated towards mother; she wasn't as harsh as father and made sure he was taught to be himself. At least she was the one who wanted him to be happy. Father only wanted Draco to become a mini Lucius and as much as he loved his father, he did not want to become just like him.

Tiptoeing out of the dormitory he shudders at the thought of turning as mean, heartless, and cold as his father. He never wants to be like that. He wants to bring light and happiness in the world because his father sucks it all up. Draco doesn't remember when he was allowed to laugh and smile.

Pushing open the heavy door, Draco runs into Marcus Flint, Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch House team.

"Hey Draco! Nice to have you finally here! Come on, let's come down to breakfast and stuff our faces before class." At the word class Flint rolls his eyes. Draco is shocked. He didn't realize Flint was disrespectful! The professors gave up any hope of a social life to teach them! The least they could do was respect them, but Flint didn't.

He tries to get away and go see where the people he met yesterday on the train are sitting. Glancing around until he spots them he grins. The grin slides off his face faster than a dementer closing in to perform the Kiss. They're at the Gryffindor table like he expected, but it still hurts.

Hmm, Hermione seems to be off to the side from everyone. He enjoyed going head to head with her on the train. (NOT DRAMIONE NOPE PLATONIC PEOPLE!!!!) Not many people could do that and survive. He wanted to be good friends with someone like her even if she was Mu-Muggleborn. He was going to have to get used to calling them by their proper names, not what his father always called them.

Harry and Ron looked thick as thieves already and it had barely been a day! Sitting down at the Slytherin table, Draco wishes he could have a friendship like that. He had hoped for that on the train, but Neville had squashed that flat. Poor Neville looked absolutely terrified when he heard his name!

Draco was sad as he saw the smile fly off the face of the round faced boy Draco thought would be nice when he introduced himself. Maybe the letter he wrote to his mother would have some answers.

The hooting of hundreds of owls suddenly fills the cavernous Hall. His owl, Talon, soars down to him. The giant parcel dropped in front of him seems to be filled with sweets and cakes. Among the cakes, he finds a folded letter. His mother must have placed this when she sent Talon off again. Bypassing the edible goodies the poor house elves must have been forced to.make for him, he goes right for the letter.

Dearest Draco,

I am hesitant to respond to you in case your father intercepts this, but I have placed this in your parcel instead of sending it with Talon separately.

The boy's name is Neville Longbottom yes? Your concern is welcoming, but the story is chilling.

This was before you were born in early 1980 and Snape has overheard the Divination professor utter a prophecy. Yes, Draco. The prophecy which changed our world forever. He was still very much in love with Lily Evans, who married James Potter earlier that year, and the prophecy scared him beyond comprehension.

He was scared it meant Harry and went to the Dark Lord to beg for the release of Lily Evans as he knew she would never leave Harry to die. But unfortunately, that was not so as you know and the Potters were killed leaving behind a little boy not much older than you were at the time.

Aunt Bella went to the Longbottoms that night and she tortured them for the whereabouts of the Dark Lord because she wanted to know where he went. The Longbottoms were tortured into insanity and left a one year old son, Neville, behind to be raised by his grandmother.

Draco gasps at this part. He knew aunt Bella was twisted, but not to that effect. He felt sorry for Neville and wants to apologize, but not in front of all of these people. He doesn't want to embarrass Neville. He'll read the rest of the letter later, he got his question answered. He'll have to thank his mother later for risking that information.

Draco, putting the letter into his pocket after folding it, digs into the hearty breakfast with relish. The rest of his dorm mates are down by this point. He glances at them out of the corner of his eye. Crabbe and Goyle are pigging out as per usual. Nott and Zabini are turning up their noses at the breakfast. Draco shrugs and goes back to eating.

Soon breakfast is over and he has his first class. Draco is excited because it's Potions and Snape teaches it.He walks alone having declined company. He wanted company, but not the company that was offered.

He was told by Flint to walk towards the Common Room and then turn left and he'll reach Potions eventually. Surprisingly, Flint gave him the right directions. When Draco walks in, the room glass silent. Sauntering in, Draco sits alone hoping Neville, Harry, or Ron will sit with him. The more people that aren't them that scramble in, the more dejected he feels.

By the time the boys arrive, all of the seats around Draco are filled by Nott, Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle. Draco wants to bang his head against the table in frustration. How on earth is he supposed to apologize for his aunt's behavior if he's never alone?

He tells himself to think of the happy days when he was allowed to be himself and play with the house elves. He had loads of fun with them and he learned amazing lessons from them. Draco thinks of all of the sweets and cakes he was taught in secret as soon as he turned eight. His mother allowed it because he was happy, but anytime his father was around he had to act like him.

A bang at the back of the classroom jerks Draco back to the present. Time to act he tells himself. He's going to loathe it, but until he can explain it to the others he has to act like this. He doesn't want Snape to report to his father that he's not acting like he's supposed to.

Snape's black robe flaps behind him as he makes his way to the front of the room. Draco has to keep from laughing at the sound. Every time Snape takes a step, the robe's hem smacks against the floor. Others aren't even attempting to hide their giggles.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor! I suggest if you don't want more points taken Mr. Finnegan, you will stop laughing. As such, you will receive detention tonight. You will be notified about your detention by Professor McGonagall. The same goes for the rest of you! Now, shall we commence to be introduced to the subtle art of potion making?"

The rest of the Slytherins are sniggering and jeering at the Gryffindors so Draco does it too. He feels absolutely wretched about it though. This is not who he is. Why did the Hat put him in Slytherin again?

The discussion with the Hat was interesting. The Hat told him he would do well in Gryffindor, but he asked to be in Slytherin because he didn't want to be disowned by his father. He didn't understand what his father was doing was wrong until he was eight and started to have to sneak around with the house elves.

Three years later and he worries about the house elves when he's not there. His mother can't protect them from his father's wrath all the time. Snape's voice carries out into the cavernous dungeon and Draco forces himself to listen intend of thinking of things that will make him cry. His father says crying is for the muggleborns, muggles and blood traitors like the Weasleys. Draco doesn't understand why the Weasleys are blood traitors though. The family is a pureblood family?

Oh well. Snape is now interrogating Harry about Potions ingredients and he doesn't answer. Draco knows the answers, but he has to pretend to be indifferent. Hermione has no problems with it. Her hand shoots up each time Harry says he doesn't know. She's brave he thinks to himself. Snape only knows one side of himself. He wishes he could show his true colors, but he's too afraid of his father to even think of it.

When Snape snaps at Hermione, Draco wants to defend her, but again, his father holds too much influence at Hogwarts. No one else defends her either. Is it so hard to defend your own House mate against a teacher?! Then again it is Snape and Snape is terrifying. That's the only reason Draco can think Neville isn't defending Hermione.

The rest of class is like that and Draco wants to cry for Hermione. She takes it like a pro and she must have gotten this treatment at her muggle school. He feels sick to his stomach. No human, or any creature for that matter, should be treated that way.

He wants class to be over so he can apologize to Hermione, but she runs out the door as soon as the bell trills. Draco grabs his books and stuffs them in his bag intent on following Hermione to see if she will let him apologize for what happened with the train and Snape. All he needs is for someone to give him a chance and he will be the most loyal friend they would ever ask for. All he wants is a real friend that isn't with him for his money or influence.

Walking to his next class he thinks about the apology he's going to make to each of them if he ever gets the chance.

Three days later and I'm finally done with the second installment! Enjoy! Please be honest in your opinions, I don't mind!

[jadedanddark]

Geometry

Her name is Arachne Malkin, and she's my great-grandmother. There are other robe shops, but hers is the best. Everyone knows this, and that means they leave her alone whene'er there's trouble. You can burn libraries, assassinate politicians, picket a business, but if it means you and your kids go naked, suddenly everyone is willing to take a step back and not get too near to really damaging things. The Dark Lord and his lot were terrible people, murderers and worse, but they were a snappily dressed group. The resistance would have taken anyone willing to join, but not Nona, because what would they do if something happened to her?

She helped the resistance in her own way. It's amazing how many of their children's robe alterations never got invoiced properly, and how many of the other team were sent their bills twice. They hardly noticed. When you're wealthy, and they were because that's what comes with being in power, you don't pay your own bills, that's what the servants are for.

I wonder about those servants. I wonder what they would have done with their lives, if they'd had more options. Would they still have aligned themselves with murderers? Would they, given time and energy to serve only themselves, have made the world different?

There isn't a philosophy class taught at Hogwarts, nor an ethics class. Some of the teachers can be dragged into a discussion about whether someone should use a certain spell right after teaching is how it's used, but you still have to time it right, or it's a point from Ravenclaw, Miss Malkin. They don't want to talk about what could be different at the core. They only want to change the surface of things, make them bigger or purple or taste like strawberry. They will tell you how to do these things but not why, and not how it works at the very bottom of the stack.

Nona, she knows how things work at the bottom. The sound of her sewing machine lulled me to sleep every night of my life until I left for school. I grew up knowing that clothing is more geometry than anything else, that surface area and weight and tensile strength are things you need to know if you want to make even so much as a pillowcase. Magic will put the pieces together for you, but really you have to do the math yourself.

I'm very good at math.

We aren't so well-off that we have our own house elf, and Nona got rid of the brownie when they had a falling out over what was scrap cloth and what was rubbish. She screamed that was her livelihood in the dustbin, the brownie screamed back that if that was true, her livelihood was rubbish. She threw a Knut in his face so hard it left a mark, and he stomped out hard enough to leave dents in the floorboards.

That was how I learned that you could dismiss a servant. Brownies will take just about any insult except the one of being paid for their work. House elves, well, whatever it is about clothing that sends them away works the same. They say Harry Potter tricked one of the high royal families into dismissing their elf, but I don't know how it was done. It was the nineties, nobody knows how anything was done.

And I wonder what a house elf does when it hasn't got someone to serve. I wonder what would be different if they could choose.

I had intended to get a cup of linden tea from the kitchen and go back to the history of jellied salamander in de-greasing potion, but I don't leave immediately. I just stand there with my tea and watch the elves at work, preparing food enough to feed a whole school their dinner. They have such grace to their movements, such focus. They look truly happy doing what they're doing.

Mostly.

One of them is chopping onions at speed and nips her finger, giving a yelp and sticking the finger in her mouth. Within seconds the elf next to her cuffs her hard and snaps that the onions weren't going to chop themselves, Fonny. She jumps, and carefully holding her injury out of the food, goes back to it.

One of them notices me then and says that if I didn't need anything else, miss, I should leave as they were very busy. I leave.

But I start paying attention to when my room was cleaned. I know that if I come in at just the right moment there might be a gentle whisper of someone small huffing themselves out of my sight. The bottom of the pile has always been invisible.

"This is a lapel," I say to the apparently empty room, plucking at my robe. "It's double-faced, meitre style, wool-linen blend and saturated dyed. The hem is waltz-length, invisible stitching everywhere."

I know none of these words make sense to people who didn't grow up in a robe shop, but I'm sure the little hint of movement under my bed hasn't moved. They're probably waiting for me to go so they can finish the room.

"The length of the sleeve is the distance from shoulder to wrist, plus one inch at the wrist end and a quarter inch at the shoulder end. The piece is shaped like a leg of mutton, attached to the bodice via a hole the circumference of the shoulder joint at the armpit when the arm is relaxed."

I do need to leave or I'll be late for class. Before I do, I mention casually to the empty room, "There's a strong possibility that I'll have more to say about this tomorrow."

The next day I tell nobody about how to choose a fabric for a piece, based on the fiber and drape and utility. I mention that extra may be needed to match plaids and stripes. I casually suggest, to the air, that if a cloth has a nap it should all stroke the same way, ideally downwards.

I talk about darts and diamonds and other ways that a two dimensional object can be make into a three dimensional one.

I instruct my furniture that one must accommodate for stretch, and not trust something to look the same on the model as it does on the cutting table.

I demonstrate how to tie a knot with one hand.

I lay the little repair kit that Nona insisted I take to school out on the bed, and hold up the tools one by one, naming them and their use, sometimes showing how it works on my handkerchief, then mending it with a different stitch every time.

I pace as I debate the merits of rolled versus invisible hems.

I feel a little dumb doing this, and it's a month of lectures before one of my needles goes missing. It's the oldest and dullest and the one I'd be least likely to miss. That evening I talk about flannel and sand and the other ways one takes care of a needle so that it will serve best. I talk about needles with a ball tip that won't catch on knits, and the hair-thin ones that are used on silk. I worry aloud that one of my classmates must be using a dull, rusty needle like the one I lost to mend their things, which would make for a poor learning tool. "Why didn't they take this one?" I say, holding up my sturdiest and sharpest. "User comfort has an effect on the outcome."

The next day my old needle is polished and back in its place, the sturdy one missing.

I talk about the inside of clothing, the bones that hold up a corset and the horse hair that stiffens a collar. "Without them, it all falls down," I say, angled toward the curtain for no particular reason. "It used to be that we used whale bones. They suffered, we had what we wanted, and that worked for awhile. It always works when the people getting hurt don't fight back. Then we found a system where nobody has to get hurt and the world moved on. The whales are doing better for it, I hear."

Someone rats me out and I spend an afternoon convincing Madam Pomfrey that I haven't been inhaling too many fumes from potions class. I tell her that I talk to myself sometimes. I say I miss home and the sound of the sewing machines, so talking about the robe shop is a comfort. She looks like she might hug me, but doesn't. A letter is sent to Nona, and I am sent back to class.

At Easter I tell Nona about the elves, and the onion. She is quiet for the meal. I can see her thinking, and I know that she's putting what I've said against the letter she was sent, and is doing a bit of math. She puts more soup in my bowl, more than I can eat, because she worries that I look thin. "Your jacket hangs on you," she says, not looking at my jacket. It doesn't hang. If anything I've grown a bit, and the chest is tighter.

When I go back to school, I have a roll of muslin with me and some books. Nona insists that it's time I did my own alterations, and shushes me when I say I already do them. "Make a sloper for yourself," she says, jerking her head at the muslin. "Mark it up. Maybe one of your friends would like to practice the craft." I tell her the only craft any of the students ever want to learn is witchcraft, and she snorts something about millennials. I mean, fair.

In my dorm I carefully measure every inch of my body and mark down what I find. I cut out the sloper, talking the whole time, saying that I am making a second skin. This doesn't fit like a shirt. I can't really move in it when I've put it together, but when I peel it off and stuff it I have as perfect a model as I can get. I explain about fit and how it affects the wearer.

"You can walk with your shoulders hunched, have one leg longer, be missing an arm or just be lumpy everywhere, but if your clothes fit you properly, you only walk with confidence and beauty. It's touching your skin, so it should act like it deserves the privilege."

On the last day of the school year I am called into the headmistress's office. Waiting for me are two people, Professor McGonagall and Fonny.

The elf is looking very sharp. I see where the muslin of her dress has been worn thin by dozens of stitchlines and the tearing them out, but it's a practiced eye that can see it. Fonny is standing with confidence and beauty, a dimity flounce behind her and cuffs exactly the right length in front of her, hands held together with calm gesture and white knuckles.

I'm very good at math.

"Miss Malkin, can you explain this?" The headmistress says, waving at Fonny.

"I don't think so, ma'am."

"Fonny says she is a free elf. I can't help but remember that you are, shall we say, well versed in what it would take to create such a thing as she currently possesses." I look at Fonny. She looks back, eyes large even for a house elf, knuckles even whiter.

"Whoever made the dress did a lovely job," I say. "But it wasn't me who made it. I can say with complete honestly that I don't know who did."

"Do you know who might have given it to her?"

"Fonny gave it to herself!" The elf bursts out. She claps both hands over her mouth, squeaking with alarm at her own boldness. I can't hold back a smile. McGonagall is not as easily read.

"You made it yourself?"

"Fonny made it of Fonny. No other may wear it!" My smile widens. She must have her own sloper somewhere, buried under wherever it is house elves sleep. McGonagall ponders this.

"Then I suppose it must be yours," she said at last. "I hope freedom treats you well, Fonny. You will always have employment here if you should choose to return." Fonny, eyes brimming, smile wide as a whale's, gives her a deep curtsey. "Thank you, Headmistress. Goodbye, miss." And with a snap of her fingers, she's gone.

McGonagall gives me an arch look. "I do hope you understand the gravity of what just happened," she says. I nod.

"This is a school," I say, more bravely than I feel. "People come here to learn. Nobody gets to choose what their student might do with what they learned."

"I see. In that case, miss Malkin, you may go. I believe the train is leaving for London at the correct time, so you'd best be ready."

"Ma'am? You aren't... aren't angry with me?" She suddenly looks very tired.

"I have lived through two separate revolutions, Miss Malkin. I don't have the energy for a third. If you want to run that one, be my guest."

On the train I am questioned by my friends about my visit to the office. What had the Headmistress wanted to talk about?

"Geometry," I say. They don't understand. I spend the train ride home watching the green hills go by, and picking at a stray thread.

(thanks for reading! This and a couple other HP fics like it available on AO3 under this same username!)

[fluidityandgiggles]

Sleep Is For The Weak - Chapter 8

Previous Chapters: Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 5, Last Chapter

Writing Masterlist - for previous chapters not otherwise linked, Read on AO3

Notes (I guess): I could not wait to post this. I know it’s only Wednesday but I couldn’t wait and I had to. I’m sorry... I’m sure the next chapter will bring us back to the regular schedule. This chapter is really weird, at least in my opinion (but it might just be that I read it again and again a million times over), but I’m really happy with it and... also not really. Some people in this chapter need to... I don’t want to say anything. It would only make things worse if I say anything.

Thanks to @broadwaytheanimatedseries for the original suggestion, to @whatwashernameagain for all her help and for being a sweet lil angel of a person, and to my little elves, @anony-phangirl, @asleepybisexual and @winglessnymph for dealing with my bullshit. A special one goes to Nicky this time, for being an adorable bean and reading this chapter ahead of time to help me figure things out. I am so grateful that I have this lovely group of people to help me and I can’t thank them enough.

Tag list (sort of): @bunny222, @ab-artist, @secretlyanxiouspersona, @your-username-is-unavailable, @virgilcrofters, @why-things-go-boom, @ilovemyspoopydad, @violetblossem, @prinxiety-an-chocolate

Trigger warning: period appropriate transphobia (the early 00s were not exactly trans-friendly). Especially in this chapter, and not necessarily period-appropriate, but... you have been warned.

—————

Wednesday, November 27th, 2002

Remy finally understood the point of existentialism and, more specifically, of the saying "Hell is other people".

He couldn't even take comfort in knowing how close India was. She didn't leave Boston for the holiday, and she wouldn't have anyway. Her family in North Carolina were horrible people and she told him that she hadn't seen any of them since she came to Harvard.

That meant that, for the next few days, he was stuck in Social Circle, Georgia. All alone. With no escape plan.

"Sarah, look, Remy's here!"

...and Leah.

She came down the road on her rollerblades, looking entirely too proud of herself, and their cousin Sarah on her trail. Sarah wasn't particularly bad, but Remy wasn't entirely comfortable around—

"A little bird told me you were going to be away this year."

"Gurl, you don't even want to know what happened."

"No I don't. I'm just glad you're here, Becca."

Becca. A cursed name. Yeah, maybe that's going a bit overboard, but… Remy wasn't called Becca since… well, Christmas of last year. But it's been a long time!

"I can rollerblade, right Remy?" Leah was holding onto his leg, almost dragging him down, and started taking her rollerblades off. "You saw me do it!"

"What are you doing?"

"I don't want Mom to see…"

"But you'll freeze!"

"But she won't be mad at me!"

"Becca, would you like to hear the holiday forecast?" Sarah tapped Remy on the shoulder as she said that. He didn't really, but… "Sunny. Way too sunny. With high chance of showers and a possible thunderstorm."

(Translated, it meant there will be fights. A lot of fights. And Remy was ready to deal with them, but… it didn't mean he wanted to hear it.)

"Wow, thanks for all the help, Sarah."

"No need to be rude, I'm just trying to prepare you. Everyone is coming. And some of us aren't as accepting of your ‘identity' as others."

That was incredibly true. Sadly. It took Linda no time at all to let everyone know that her daughter believes that she's a boy, and it took his grandmother no time to tell him that when she was younger, she had a very good friend who was born a boy, but lived as her true feminine self, and that she misses that friend so much because "there was no kinder or sweeter woman you'd ever meet, too bad we had to lose her to that wretched AIDS. We didn't have no cocktails or whatever back then, not like today. She died something like three years after you were born. You would've loved Celia."

It was going to be an insufferable holiday.

"Sarah, you're barely two years older than me. You don't—"

"I'm not mothering you. I'm just pointing out the facts."

Leah let go of Remy's leg, and instead grabbed onto his arm, the rollerblades in one hand. She was barefoot, she was cold, and he just wanted to hold her tight so she wouldn't freeze too much.

He was falling hard and fast for the sister he didn't want to meet a couple weeks ago, and he was struggling to understand what exactly happened.

"Sarah has a boyfriend now," Leah said happily as she led Remy (and his bag) to the house. "He's not very nice." She threw her rollerblades into a small shed near the door and quickly closed it.

"I'll bet."

"It's why she's being a bitch. I think. I don't know."

"It's how she's always been. Don't feel bad."

Leah decided to give him a house tour, and explained that nobody was there yet because everyone will come tomorrow and Stephen had a thing to do in Atlanta and Rachel had a play date. And Linda's house was… well, a house.

Remy was so used to the small and outrageously expensive apartment on West 106th, with the bad lighting and the closet-sized bedrooms, that the house seemed huge to him. The living room alone was - mismatched furniture aside - incredibly impressive. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in so much natural light that reflected off the shiny hardwood floors, the cream-colored walls and the needlessly large flat-screen TV, that Remy doubted they even needed the huge fucking chandelier (okay, maybe he was exaggerating a bit) that hung in the middle of the room. The walls were covered in crayon doodles and bright purple marks where the girls' heights were measured, and a few dark scratches. Obvious evidence that a certain scooter kept running into them.

Two black suede couches faced the brick fireplace (a fucking fireplace? Utterly pointless, much like a lot of things in this room), with dark blue and gray throwing pillows placed strategically on them. It looked incredibly comfortable. Between the couches and the fireplace was a small glass coffee table, "adorned" with misplaced toys and children's art supplies. A beautiful, blue-green glass vase full of white daffodils was right in the middle of the table. Leah proudly told him that she picked them herself.

Wooden bookcases covered the wall next to the entrance, and two light gray, plush armchairs, with the same dark blue and gray pillows, faced them. Remy was very familiar with those armchairs. They used to belong to his grandparents. He used to torture those chairs with Sarah when they were younger, draw on them with markers and put stickers all over the armrests. How his grandmother managed to remove the stickers was beyond him, but he knew for a fact that she put them through very intensive cleaning after every visit.

Two years ago they disappeared from their house in Red Bank, New Jersey. And nobody could explain to him why.

In the corner of the room, next to the bookcases, sat a sleek Steinway that Remy knew very well. It belonged to his grandfather. He wasn't even aware that it, too, made its way from New Jersey to Georgia.

(Nobody told Remy anything anymore, as it turned out. At least he could take comfort in knowing that Roger's piano was being put to good use.)

And that was just the living room. Remy didn't even want to think about the hallway.

"We moved here from Atlanta when I started going to school and my grandma and grandpa wanted me to go to where Dad went to school," Leah started rambling. "And I miss Atlanta. There's a lot more to do there, there's a lot more fun stuff to—"

"I know." The offended look on her face went away when Remy put his hand in her hair, to calm her down. "I live two blocks away from Broadway, I just need to take the subway and I'll be at Times Square, but I can't. I don't have the money for it and I don't want to take money from my dad."

"Isn't that annoying?"

"Leah, you're seven. Stop complaining about that kind of stuff," Sarah chided as she pushed past them, a glass of water in her hand, and went to sit down. "Just wait until you're in college."

"You mean, the place where everything is close by and rather affordable thanks to student discounts and the option of working on campus?"

"You're only a senior in high school, what do you know—"

"I go to Harvard, Sarah. It's been a couple months already."

"Oh… yeah. I'm sure you're doing great."

Yeah. Maybe this holiday he'll just stick to Leah.

——

"If there is a thing you should know about your mother," Edith Brigham told her grandchild in late 1992, "it's that she is too headstrong for her own good. It doesn't matter how much you try to change her mind, she'll never listen."

This was the reason Remy kept talking to his grandmother after the divorce. Why he kept visiting Edith and Roger after Linda left.

"Where's grandma and Roger?"

"They won't be coming this holiday, Rebecca. They're in Thailand."

Remy was absolutely not ready for this thanksgiving.

Stephen started a conversation with him about college while Linda was finishing things up in the kitchen that Wednesday. He asked him about his boyfriend, Remy did his best to avoid those particular questions ("is Ian playing any sports?" "She told me she was a cheerleader in high school, she wasn't allowed to do color guard"; Stephen choked on his beer when Remy said that), and things just seemed…

Overall, things seemed strangely calm.

Remy missed Edith and Roger.

"Who's she?" Linda asked from the kitchen.

"Never heard of her."

"Rebecca, please be serious."

"Remember when you met my best friend and she told you her name is Ian?" Linda made a choking sound. "Remember grandma's friend Celia?"

"That— you never even met her. You were too young. You don't even remember her. You are not the same as grandma's friend."

"I'm sure my best friend would love to hear that."

"So he's… he…"

"You can call her a she, you know."

"Grandma doesn't have a friend called Celia," Leah piped in from the corner, where she was sitting at the piano, trying to motivate herself to play it. Little Rachel was pressing all the keys, irritating Leah quite a bit.

"She died of a really bad disease before you were born," Linda said sharply. Something in her changed when talking to Leah.

"She was very nice," Remy added, trying to be softer than Linda. "Grandma says that she was a painter, and she spent a lot of time reading books, and that there was nobody sweeter than her. She died of AIDS."

"What's that?"

"Don't you—"

"Acquired immune deficiency syndrome." Leah hummed to herself as Remy said that. He could feel Linda glare at him. "You get it from contaminated blood or unsafe sex, and your immune system just doesn't work. I don't know a lot about it, so you should probably read about it—"

"Rebecca, she's seven years old!"

"She's a seven year old who knows that female hyenas have penises, Linda! She's old enough to know about AIDS."

"...you sound just like your grandmother."

"Thanks, I try to."

Leah just hummed again in understanding and left the piano in order to go painting. Rachel's key-pressing was getting too annoying for her. She said her hearing can't take it anymore.

Remy believed her.

"You can't just explain STDs to my child, Rebecca," Stephen hissed at him through gritted teeth, suddenly looking rather threatening.

"One of my professors said that if you can't explain it to a child, you don't truly understand it yourself."

"That's no excuse to—"

"Mom I have a headache can you tell Rachel to go away?"

"Deal with it. Rachel, sweetie, come here."

"Deal with it?" Linda just… shrugged. "Leah, come here, love. And bring my bag with you."

So she did. Remy took an ibuprofen pill out of the bag and gave it to her. And Linda...

"You're drugging up my kid?"

"She told you she has a headache. I'm having cramps right now, so I have painkillers on me. Shocker? To you, probably. You're the one who taught me that the cramps are just another sign that my body so terribly wants to have children, and—"

"Spit that out, Leah. You don't need anything."

And with that, Remy gave up on trying to talk to Linda. (Leah did not spit out the pill.)

——

Sunday, December 1st, 2002

The rest of the holiday was just as awful. Leah got overwhelmed by everything, Remy kept fighting with his aunts, and the alcohol didn't help in the least. Everyone felt Edith and Roger's absence and it only made things that much worse.

He should've stayed in Boston.

When he called India after getting off the plane, she told him to take comfort in the fact that Christmas is only three weeks away. And, yeah, she was right. But it didn't make things any better…

For now, he decided, he should focus on other things. Midterms were starting very soon. Next Tuesday was Emile's birthday. His dad started working on a new production—

There was a knock on the door.

"I heard you had a horrible holiday," an adorable, heavily-accented, quiet voice said once Remy opened the door. He could hear the smile in it. "Nothing cuddles and cookies can't solve, right?"

Thin, pale hands pulled Remy in for a hug, and finally. Remy came home.

——

"Umm… Emile, babe, you're crushing my lungs."

"Oh, oops. Sorry."

"Want to watch Nightmare Before Christmas and do absolutely nothing else?"

"Sounds lovely. Let's do it."

[jeichanhaka]

If Any Would Avenge: 29

Chapter 29: Temptation

Centuries Ago: Enchanted Forest

Isobelle opened her mouth, ready to accept the deal but then shut it. Chewing on her lips she mulled over the offer, hesitant to accept. Beside her Rumplestiltskin stood just an inch or so away, his eyes flitting from her to the chest impatiently. It was enough to send a chill racing up Isobelle's spine and her stomach to tighten in apprehension; she knew little about the funny looking man beside her, but she sensed danger from him. "I...I'm sorry, but I can't make that deal. I…."

"Why the hell not?" Rumplestiltskin seethed, backing away from Isobelle as the urge to strangle her and simply take the chest surged through him. An urge he had to resist. Not from any qualms about killing her, but because he wouldn't be able to use the chest. Ever. Not even if he stopped being the Dark One. Whoever had enchanted it had done so in a way that prevented those who harmed its owner from using it or any object summoned by it. "What if I make it a yearly payment to last as long as your kingdom?" He offered, searching the knight's face for any sign that she would take the deal. His lips twitched and his jaw clenched seeing the woman shaking her head. "I don't…I offer your kingdom untold riches and yet you turn it down? I didn't think such avarice would run through the veins of a knight so beloved by her people."

"That's not it." Isobelle blurted and grabbed Rumplestiltskin's arm when he lifted it to whisk himself away. Seeing the desperation in the beauty's eyes, his murderous anger calmed down, replaced by a sense of victory. "I...I can't accept the gold. It's generous, but I can't…."

"Why can't you, dearie?" Rumplestiltskin asked curious, his anger dimmed enough that its presence was only evident by an odd twitch of his fingers.

Biting on her bottom lip, Isobelle stared into the Dark One's eyes, unafraid. "What good is gold when war looms so closely at the kingdom's gates?" She muttered and took out a brooch from a pouch tied around her neck. A brilliant blue diamond cut into the shape of a rose and set in a silver fitting, the brooch glittered beneath the rays of sunlight peeking through the trees. Rumplestiltskin's eyes widened seeing it, recognizing it on sight.

"That's the Blue Rose, an heirloom of the Legrand family. Crafted by elves, its gem is said to actually be the heart of the last Fairy Queen. It…." Rumplestiltskin sucked in a breath, his knowledge of the brooch coming from both legends he heard as a child and the whispers of the past Dark Ones in his head. Though fairy magic didn't mix well with his brand of magic, the last true Fairy Queen was said to have used pure and primordial magic - neither light nor dark. If he harnessed its power….

"Yes. It belongs to Lady Legrand. Unfortunately the chest...summoned it." Isobelle continued, oblivious to the greedy look Rumplestiltskin gave the brooch. "The Legrand's are old friends with the monarchs of all the kingdoms surrounding my kingdom. If they learned I have this. Worse, if they learn how I got this, it'd mean war. War and utter annihilation for my kingdom."

Rumplestiltskin fidgeted, struggling to hold back his excitement at being so close to attaining such a treasure. It almost made him forget why he'd approached Isobelle in the first place - so she could summon something that would help him find his son Baelfire. He glowered at the voices of the previous Dark Ones in his head, each echoing and prodding him to make a deal for the brooch rather than an object to aid in finding his son. Ignoring them, he gritted his teeth and returned his attention to Isobelle. "So, rather than gold, you want what? Aid that will win you this potential war and wipe out your enemies?"

"Gods, no." Isobelle exclaimed, taken aback by the suggestion and winning a look of surprise from Rumplestiltskin. "No. I simply want you to return this to the Legrands. Without...without them ever finding out I had it. Or how it was taken in the first place."

Listening to the knight's request, Rumplestiltskin remained quiet for a moment, bemused by such a simple request. Especially when he compared it to what he would get in return. "Dearie...it's a deal. Hee, hee, hee."

Storybrooke: Present

"Do I have to repeat myself? Hand over your granddaughter now." The gunman growled and stepped further into the room, his gun pointed directly at David. His wizened face scowling.

"...George…." David seethed, turning around to scowl at his deceased twin's adoptive father and one of his most hated enemies. He bristled seeing the gun and instinctively blocked Sadie's crib with his body. The older man repeated his demand, causing David to scowl. "Not a chance. Now put the gun down or you'll be spending the rest of your life locked up."

"Please. That's not much of a threat considering I have a year, at most, left." George retorted, his words a complete surprise to Gold who quietly watched the scene unfold from his niche, but not to David. The shepherd-prince eyes softened slightly, but otherwise kept glowering at the wizened man. "That's why you took pity on me and released me from that pathetic cell."

"I let you out so you could put your affairs in order and enjoy whatever time you had left not locked up." David said, still shielding Sadie from the older man's view, his heart pounding. He thought of shouting to wake his wife, but hesitated, his gut telling him that George would shoot the second he tried. As for waking his daughter...having been in need of a decent sleep, Emma had taken some medicine to help her sleep and likely would not be easy to waken. "...don't make me regret doing that."

"Believe me, you're not the one I planned to make regret his actions." The former king growled, his eyes livid and face as stoic and immovable as marble. "But that won't stop me putting a bullet in your head. And don't think your wife or daughter will save you. This ring…." He nodded to a silver band, with a brilliant navy blue diamond around, his middle finger. "It's enchanted to muffle any sound its owner doesn't want heard. No one outside this room will hear a thing. Now give me your granddaughter."

"Absolutely not. You'll have to shoot me first." David said, disconcerted by the former king's revelation. His eyes locked on the gun, his limbs tensing as he considered lunging at the older man in an attempt to disarm him. Noticing this shift, George's lips spread into a bemused but cold and weak smile.

"You really think you can get this gun before I fire? You can try, but there's already been two children dying this week, do you really want to risk a third?" He spat, his cold grin growing seeing the growing alarm in his adopted son's twin's eyes. "Or are you 100 percent sure my bullet won't end up hitting your granddaughter?"

"I…." David swallowed, fearful as he considered the possibility. His fear quickly shifted to suspicion and bewilderment, at first without him realizing why. But then he did and he gazed at George, his face holding a peculiar expression. "...two children? I get that whole town knows about Gideon, but only a handful know about Belle's miscarriage...how do you know?"

George gave a short, curt laugh. "Who do you think gave Fortunato the idea to…."

"What?!" Gold hollered from his niche and lunged at George before either man could react, forgetting all about hiding and biding his time to kidnap Sadie. Everything about Nemesis, Sadie, and the deal slipped from his thoughts, replaced by rage and blood-thirst. "You what?! You're the fucking bastard that hired him?"

"Gold?! Why are...how…." David gaped, thrown by the Dark One's sudden appearance; it took a few moments before he snapped out of it and hurried forward to stop Gold from choking George. "Gold! Stop!"

"Stay the fuck out of this!" Snarled Gold to David, his one hand wrapped around George's throat while his other wrenched the gun from the ex-king's grip. "This bastard is mine! I'm going to fucking make him wish for death. Beg for it. You hear me?" He snarled the last bit, addressing George directly. "I'm going to make every last day, hour, and minute you have left hell. You son of a bitch."

"Gold…." David tried to approach, but was repelled by some sort of barrier the Dark One had put up. "Don't. Please. Think about this…."

"Shut up, Charming. There's nothing to think about. This bastard…."

"Might be lying." David said, holding his breath a few moments until Gold paused, loosening his grip around George's throat a tad. Noticing this, David continued. "George is dying. Has been for the better part of a year now, and has about as long left. According to what the medical journals of this realm say, it won't be a gentle or pretty death. George may simply be lying to goad you into killing him."

"...then he's more foolish than any fool that's ever lived." Gold growled, still furious but refraining from crushing George's throat. Though he had little compunction against killing the ex-king, even if his claim of giving Fortunato the idea to attack Belle was just a lie because he had a death wish, Gold had little desire to be so used.

Feeling Gold's fingers loosen around his throat and his brain gradually getting over his surprise and temporary lack of blood flow, George listened to the two men. Rolling his eyes before his son even finished speaking, he attempted to speak. It took a few tries, his throat sore from the Dark One strangling him. "I...um...khrh...I'm...not lying." He muttered, scowling defiantly into Gold's face. "I did...uhr...give Fortunato the idea to...stab your wife."

Gold's brown eyes gleamed, filled with vehemence and his fingers twitched with the desire to feel the wizened king's throat snap beneath them. "You…."

"George, why in the world would you hire assassins to murder a child?" David muttered, his gut twisting as he looked at the man who'd raised his twin.

The ex-king cocked an eyebrow and shook his head. "You think that I…? No. I didn't hire Fortunato for that. He and Kidd were already planning to kill the boy and his mother for some...blood price or whatnot Maurice owed." George muttered, breathing in deeply every few words, and fearlessly staring Gold directly in the eye. "I simply paid Fortunato to add a certain...infertility poison...to the blade he used to stab Belle. The same one once used on my wife."

"...what?" David mumbled, flabbergasted. "Why would you…." He collapsed to the floor mid sentence, magically knocked unconscious by Gold with a wave of his hand.

George barely raised an eyebrow seeing the shepherd-prince splayed on the floor, annoyed by the younger man's interruptions nearly as much as the Dark One. "Now that his jabbering is done, we can get on with this. And…." He trailed off, startled by the expression on Gold's face. It was still livid, but also heavily shocked.

"...Maurice? Maurice owed the blood price?" Gold asked George, his brain reeling and his body nearly numbed by indescribable rage. "Belle's father?! Belle's…." Gold muttered, disbelieving it even as George nodded and said 'yes.' So many emotions flooded Gold, whirling as a torrent inside his brain. Anger, shock, betrayal, relief, guilt, fear, horror, dread...it was difficult to articulate which he felt most.

With how helpful Maurice had been the past few days, taking care of a distraught Belle since Gideon's death, Gold had started to view his father-in-law as family rather than an enemy. He'd even allowed him to move into a guest bedroom so Belle would have her father nearby to help while she grieved.

'Well, that certainly explains why Maurice was so terrified when you mentioned killing anyone responsible for Gideon's death.' Mumbled his Dark One subconscious, a bit flippantly. 'It's too bad Fortunato already got to him, torturing Maurice would be really cathartic.' The imp paused, shifting his attention and self towards George. 'Though killing this fool very, very slowly will be just as cathartic.'

Listening to the imp, Gold refocused on George, tightening his fist around the former king's throat and glaring at him. The corners of his mouth twitched. "You have no idea what I have in store for you, dearie." He seethed, squeezing the man's throat when George attempted to speak. "And don't think your dying state will save you. I can easily prolong your life so I can enjoy torturing you for years or even centuries." George's eyes widened, his fearless stare suddenly grown terrified, while Gold simply chuckled. "You never considered that, did you, dearie?"

George simply gaped and moved his lips soundlessly, able to barely breathe but not speak with Gold's hand vised around his throat.

"Let's 'get on to things', as you put it, shall we?" Gold sneered, raising his hand to cast a teleport spell.

'Uh, um.' His Dark One subconscious interrupted, appearing between him and George. 'Forgetting a small something, aren't we?' The imp gestured towards the crib, where Sadie had started whimpering and was close to bawling. 'You are still going to take her, aren't you, dearie? You'll never have a better chance of getting away with it than now.'

Gold turned towards the crib, considering what his subconscious said. It took less than one second for him to understand what the imp meant: for whatever reason, George had come for Sadie, something David would remember upon waking. If he played things right and used a little magic to make the shepherd-prince forget he was here too, Gold could escape suspicion for kidnapping the five-day-old. George would instead get the blame for it.

'Well, dearie?' His subconscious asked, staring expectantly at him while he mulled over his options.