#she was a former House of Hearth kid!!

[almonddirge]

Some interesting hidden dialogue in Ritou of all places, after a quest I never would’ve realized existed without the wiki.

Do you think Arlecchino also inherited her Commedia name from him, which is why it’s masculine? Did she also inherit her position in terms of numbers?

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Ajax meeting a child his age from the House of the Hearth.

his family is taking a rare trip out of Snezhnaya to visit some friends in the Court of Fontaine- his parents' friends to be clear, which he finds horribly boring. luckily his mother and father are very much aware of Ajax's curious nature and let him wander around the city, provided he stay above ground and not leave the Court. he's quietly exploring, a little head of ginger hair weaving in between the busy adults and gardemeks when he catches a glimpse of someone his height scurrying away. a kid! someone like him, and not those boring grownups! Ajax grins and darts after, cheerfully yelling out for them to wait before he catches up and tugs on their wrist.

you yelp in surprise, snapping your head around to stare at him. the boy smiles at you, eyes like sun-dappled water, and sticks his hand out to shake like his father taught him to.

"Hi, I'm Ajax! What's your name? I like your clothes!"

you glance down at your uniform, perfectly tailored to your size and in the colors of the House of the Hearth. the other children- your siblings- all wore their own clothes, but you never had a preference. Mother was merciful enough to at least provide you with a wardrobe... although the coldness in her eyes told you she was merciful for little else. with tentative movements you grasp Ajax's hand and give it a small shake, and his grin widens further in delight.

time flies away as you slowly settle and become comfortable with him. Mother isn't happy when you return home past curfew.

it's years later when you see Ajax again. the House of the Hearth has changed; Mother and most of your siblings are dead, although you can't say you're displeased about the former, there's a new head of the House, a multitude of scars have formed on your body from Mother's brutal training. yet, you have remained, much to your surprise. you fully expected to die or be disposed of even after Mother was slain, but luckily Peruere- Arlecchino allowed you to stay. you observe the new Fatui recruits with her in Snezhnaya, none of them from the House of the Hearth, not this year. A yawn almost slips out of your mouth which you quickly shield with your palm, before a strong hand lightly smacks down onto your shoulder.

it's Ajax. older and taller with messier hair, but you'd recognize that coppery hair and dark blue eyes anywhere, even if they've turned from shallow waters to the deep sea. you stare at each other for a moment, then Ajax's face breaks into a huge smile as he picks up your hand and gives it a firm, familiar shake.

"I missed you."

slowly, you smile back, and the Abyssal monster in Ajax's head lets out an awed croon when he finally sees the person his host has been telling him all about.

[deathbxnny]

Woooo, congrats on 1k followers, sure has been a ride, huh?

Now, with requests back open, it's time time for the sequel to my Arle request!

Okay so, like I said in that ask I sent a while ago, this one takes place in the same "continuity" as the angsty af Arle request you did last req period. This one takes place some time after that story, and is less angsty in this case (but there's definitely still some here).

Here, similarily to the last request, the "Mother" of the House is staying in... let's say Fontaine, tending to one of the injured children (could be some rando kid, or maybe it's one of the Fontaine trio) after a mission. Unlike last time though, it's looking as though the child will pull through, that "Mother" won't have to bury another of her kids!

Bad news tho, the people responsible for the child's injuries are coming around to finish what they started. Arle, who's handling business elsewhere, catches wind of this and makes haste to help her wife.

Little did those who came to finish the child realize what danger they're in. Because you see, fem!reader is a former child of the House of Hearth. Not just that, she's the wife of a Harbinger. Normally she doesn't engage in violence, but these people Hage intentions of ending her child's life, and she simply cannot let that slide.

And so, Arle arrives just in time to bare witness to her s/o going absolutely John Wick (does she kill anyone with a pencil? That's up to you 🤭) on the bandits who dared to cross her not once, but twice.

(Part one) (part three) (Part four)

Ohoho.... I absolutely love this, dear Anon, and I'm hoping you'll love my spin on this as well!! Although I have to admit that I gave it a bit of a mellow end, instead of the "John Wick" type of ending, mainly because I found it more fitting with what I was going for... but anyhow, thank you so much for this request, I was definitely looking forward to it, hehe!!<33

Content: Some gore, Near character death, mentions of near fatal injuries/wounds, blood, mentions of grief/child loss, Reader snapping, violence, assassination attempts, Reader is referred to as "Mother", heavy angst, hurt/comfort, kind of a good ending for once?, stitches

Reader uses she/her pronouns here!!

((Not proofread))

The last one standing had crimson palms. (Arlecchino x Fem!Reader)

"I... I wish to..." "Shh... not another word, child... don't you dare say it." Your hands were stained red once more, pressing down on another gashing, deep wound, sweat running down your forehead as everyone around you attempted to stop the bleeding. You didn't want him to see what had become of him, one hand resting over his teary eyes to stop your heart from shattering any further. You wished she was here, your dearest wife, who had to choose this week of all the others to leave the country for a short business trip.

And today was supposed to be a good day. One filled with the laughter of children and the smell of grilled sausages and steaks coming from the garden. You were trying to have a little festival together to celebrate the start of warmer months. But the atmosphere had now become suffocating with the smell of sharp iron and sweat instead, the gentle warmth now scorching hot, exhausting, and grinding you down to the bone. However, you couldn't let go of him now. You couldn't let him die. You refused to give up on him, especially. You refused to let him become another buried angel.

His hand pressed against yours weakly, his breaths deep, pathetic gasps for air, as he tried telling you something important through broken cries. "Mother... Mother, please, you have to listen to me." He coughed out, blood staining his lips, as his other hand reached out blindly to grasp onto the fabric of your once white sundress. You furrowed your brows against the darkness of the room, light only filtering in through the moon outside and the shaky hands of Lynette trying to keep a lantern steady so her twin could keep patching his younger brother up.

"What is it, Freminet?" You indulged him, trying to keep him awake at all costs. His voice was hoarse, raspy, once silky blonde hair now sticking to his forehead as he gulped dryly to collect his thoughts.

"They are coming for us, mother... and you are next."

Lyney gave you a look, one filled with an undefined emotion he only ever had when it came to your protection. If you didn't know better, you would've been terrified at how similar he was becoming to his father. "Those assassins we encountered during our mission, Mother... they weren't ordinary ones, to say the least." He muttered to you, his mind replaying the moment one of them struck his brother, who was just trying to protect them out of pure instinct. He was brave, despite the shyness he often portrayed.

"How so?" You wiped away the sweat on your forehead, nose wrinkling when another member of the house handed you a medkit before they disappeared into the shadows again. "They... knew us by name. Every single one of us. And then-" You waved over Lynette to stand in your place whilst her twin spoke, so you could unpack the needed supplies for the upcoming "operation" you had to conduct on your son. You've become a near professional over the years. Something else you didn't choose to do nor want to be.

"-They uttered your name. We... believe that they are trying to weaken Father. And you are that weakness they are seeking, Mother.-" "-They've come to finish the job. We... we need to evacuate everyone.. we need to hide her.-" Lynette hushed Freminet quickly, as she pressed some cloth into his mouth. With a glance downwards to his wound, she determined that it would definitely hurt horribly to stitch him up... but he'd live. For the first time in weeks, someone would live. She closed her eyes to hide those tears that threatened to spill in relief.

You stared at the three of them for a moment before you simply proceeded with placing the first few stitches into the boy's wound wordlessly. He writhed in pain, his fingernails digging into the mattress below whilst his screams and cries were muffled by the cloth. Lyney and Lynette were trying to hold him down, their bodies wincing involuntarily at every sharp breath or movement from their brother. Your expression was meanwhile unreadable, hands moving automatically until you cut the string and were done with your little procedure. It's as if your mind completely fazed out, only driven by the need to fix and protect, keep everyone alive no matter what.

"Lyney." The young man hesitantly met your gaze, his body shaking when his brother fell limply into the bed again, his breathing heavy and uneven. "Evacuate everyone into the upper floors and then come back to watch over Freminet." You said, quick to wipe your hands with a nearby towel nearly coldly, but Lyney knew that look in your eyes. You were sick of it and would take it all into your own hands if your wife couldn't. "Mother, you can't just-" "-Lynette, use the backdoor and let this bird free." You tapped the golden cage on the nightstand with your fingers, the little sparrow chirping curiously. It was a messenger bird, one specifically designed to catch your wife's attention and bring her home instantly when things got out of control.

But you weren't using it for it's purpose tonight. No, everything was completely under control here... you just needed her to come back home to stop you once you're done.

"Mother-" A sharp look made him quickly reconsider what he was about to say, a hand pressing against his chest whilst he bowed. "... we're on it." Lyney muttered, signaling Lynette to love with him, which she did after grabbing the bird cage. Their paths split at the stairs, the girl practically descending them two steps at a time, which got the attention of their fellow bretheren immideatly. "Everyone! Get into the attic or your rooms at once! Mother's orders, so get moving! Barricade your doors and don't open them up to anyone! This is an absolute emergency!" Everyone jumped when they heard the usually playful magicians voice bark out orders harshly, automatically getting the job done as everyone filed up the stairs to do as he said.

Lyney pushed through the crowd to continue looking for stray children who may not have heard him. His heart was racing against his ribcage, sweat dripping off his forehead he could only barely wipe off with a handkerchief he accidentally dropped when someone bumped into him. But your orders were clear in his mind and kept him steady. He knew that he and most, if not all, other kids of the house could take care of themselves just fine... but this was something beyond their means. Something usually only Father got to handle.

By the time he finally got back to his brothers room, you had left it behind, nowhere to be found, and yet the injured boy had a simple blanket covering his shivering form now, dressed in clean clothes and resting on perfectly white bedsheets. Lyney waited by the door, his hand gripping the handle tightly, as he listened to his sisters familiar steps running towards him. He let her in, eyes glancing around the dim hallway one more time before he tipped his hat down and shut the wooden entrance again.

The only sound heard for a moment after was the chirping of a bird in the dead of night until deafening silence filtered in once more.

---

The house of Hearth was never still and unmoving, not even in the darkest parts of the day. The late hours were the busiest, filled with agents and children alike walking in and out of it's doors under the cover of shadows to complete their given tasks and missions. The iron, bloody scent left behind by their previous endeavors, their hushed words to eachother as they passed by, the movement of paper being hidden under floorboards, some given to you with proud looks for approval, as you stayed up with them until the first rays of the sun danced in your eyes... it was never calm, never quiet. Yet the intruders didn't question it. They didn't even think twice to enter the house, the open birdcage. They mistook the silence and stillness for safety.

The first assasin stepped in through the picked lock of a backdoor entrance, his cautious eyes trying to catch any looming danger that may cause them trouble. Yet with nothing in sight, he waved over the rest of his three little friends right into your humble home. "Okay, you know the plan... kill as many of those little rats as you can." "And what about the Mother?" One of them asked, his hair clumsily hidden under a makeshift hood, a dirty grin on his lips in anticipation.

"Can I get rid of her? It won't be much of a struggle, I'm sure. She's just a measly housewife anyway." "Heard she's a pretty thing, though." A round of chuckles filled the kitchen before the first shrugged. "Do what you want. We just have to be done by dawn... let's split up in two groups, then. Just in case." The men agreed, one group making their way upwards, whilst the other searched the ground floors.

The darkness was inviting, the silence emitting a false sense of safety that made the intruders let their guards down, unaware of your form slinking after them. You were calm and collected, eyes dull, the dim moonlight not catching in them anymore. A mother's rage was a dangerous, unpredictable one. Filled with the need to make those who hurt her children suffer, she'd advance even through the most perilous paths for the sake of glory, revenge.

Unbeknownst to anyone, you had put two and two together a long time ago. These intruders, who belonged to a foreign enemy faction, were the cause of many of your children's deaths. They were the reason as to why you had to hear them cry out that odd wish so often. They had dared to enter your territory tonight to take away the rest of the family you had worked so hard for to have. You worked so hard to be a good mother. You bled, you cried, you slaughtered your way here. You became a "mother" one could be proud of. And on this fateful night, you'd prove your worth and pride to even Celestia above you with their screams that will reach far and wide. Your hand gripped a silver dagger, one originally gifted to you by your wife, as you blew out a lantern in one of the hallways, plunging everyone into further darkness that was far from warm.

It was ice cold.

---

"Wait outside." Arlecchino gave the Fatui agents a sharp, warning look, her clawed fingers tight around the Scythe as she entered the still, quiet building she called home. Her eyes glanced around carefully, noting immideatly that the danger that lurked in the dark was familiar. The bird on her shoulder chirped, reminding her of why she had come here in the first place. The meeting she had was cut short by it flying through the window, the call for help loud and clear. She had simply walked out then, her priority always having been you and the house, although it still made her wonder why exactly everything seemed so... unusually silent. Did Lyney and the other children deal with the threat already? If so... where were you?

Her keen ears picked up movement in the living room nearby, which made her calmly make her way over to it's entrance. With a raise of a brow, she stopped when she stepped into a puddle of blood. It seems like her suspicions were partially correct... althkugh who it was that took care of the intruders certainly came as a surprise.

"... You came." Your voice made the tension in her shoulders cease, eyes flickering to your form seated infront of the fireplace. The orange light cascaded across the dark room, the four mangled bodies laying at the bottom of your favorite lavish loveseat being a testament to your victory, and yet you remained still as a statue, back turned to her to observe the flames instead.

"You called." Arlecchino replied after taking in the situation, the sound of her heeled shoe echoing off the walls, as she approached you carefully. Her clawed hand grabbed onto your shoulder, head tilting to look at the side of your head. Your eyes were cold, not even the scorching warmth of the fire melting them. You were unreadable, hands bloody, and yet still so tightly gripping onto the dagger like your life depended on it. And despite that, you were still breathtaking to the woman.

"Are... you alright, my dove?" She asked, a genuine tone in her voice that was only ever reserved for you. The tears in your eyes burned when you finally looked up at her with a pained expression. You weren't like her. You couldn't just kill and be as proud as you hoped to be. You raised your hands towards her, bloody palms raised towards the gods the way they often were when you pleaded for help and forgiveness for the death of your children. You didn't need to say anything anymore, as she pressed a hand to your cheek with an acknowledging nod.

She wasn't good at comfort, nor did she ever try to be. A father didn't comfort his children in her eyes. No, a father simply led them to glory, and that's it. But that didn't mean that she was a bad wife, too. She sat down next to you, uncaring of the bloody mess that surrounded you, when she pulled you close to press your foreheads together. It was a way to silently show her support. She was there for you and understood you.

"I was scared... they hurt Freminet, and I couldn't fathom losing the rest-" "-I know. Thank you for your bravery, my dove. I'll take it from here." Her words were curt and short, and most would perhaps chalk it up to indifference. But when she held you close like this, gently rubbed your back and promised to take care of you only she knew how to, you found yourself being lulled back into the familiar comfort you were so used to. You knew that despite everything that happened, however, she could still not promise that this would never happen again. Your hands will always be stained crimson for as long as you were a Mother. There was no going back. There was no leaving the house.

But... you both were stuck in it together forever, weren't you?

Alrightttt... this took a while to finish, mainly due to work and me being sick again. But yeah, thank you again for the request, Anon, and I hope you liked this!!<33

[eluxcastar]

The One and Only

── ୨୧：arlecchino x reader

୨୧﹑synopsis :: a collection of moments from Arlecchino's recollections of the former Harbinger

୨୧﹑genre :: Idk actually

୨୧﹑content :: fem reader, reader is a harbinger, not proofread

୨୧﹑words :: 2.8k

threw this together on a whim because I missed these two I realised it's been like nine months since I wrote one of repetition I was like I wanna play around with these people in their dynamic. you don't have to necessarily have read one of repetition for it to make sense I don't think but I have a bad habit of assuming people know things they don't so take that with a grain of salt

one of repetition

Snezhnaya has never been immune to the curse of rumours that run rampant among its people. Some spread like wildfire and others die out before they gain enough traction to matter. When they somehow manage to make their way to the House of the Hearth, it matters—Mother is liable to find out, and that's when it's revealed whether or not she spread them herself.

There have never been more rumours about anyone but the first Harbinger. Arlecchino realised that when she was young.

They tell the daring tales of a tyrant decorated in well-worn armour able to bring the nation to its knees at their feet with nothing more than a pyro vision and a claymore.

Many of the kids at the House share the same sentiment. Brighella is terrifying, and though they'd like their approval, they never want to meet them. The few who have met them say they're weird.

Supposedly the child of the Tsaritsa, you have been tainted by the ever-waining loveless God of Snezhnaya and become little more than a heartless warmonger seeking absolution. You have not even removed your helmet in three centuries nor shown your face. You are fussy, childish, impulsive and arrogant like your whole reign of tyranny is a giant temper tantrum, and you'll only stop once you've realised the nation that has been dwindling ever so gradually will one day be reduced to a wasteland.

Maybe then, the ashes left behind by the fire you let tear apart this icy world will be your single lesson.

Arlecchino meets you for the first time at the celebrations for her ascendance to her Mother's position. Every Harbinger gathers at the behest of the Tsaritsa, an important event demanding their presence. All nine others and the Director are called to return, and along with them, you appear clad in armour, even on a formal occasion. You are feared, yes, but undoubtedly lavished in praise and feigned respect meant only to appease you. People seek to impress you because you are the first, an immortal Harbinger with the nation under their thumb.

Though foolish, she finds she cannot help but be swept up in the glory of it all, the appeal of having a warmonger's approval if only because it feels like the only good sign she'd ever get. Her ascendence is not born of admiration, merely convenience, a way to escape her Father and gain power. She is young and inexperienced and fills the shoes of her Mother with the grace of a newborn fawn. For just a moment, she could revel in receiving your praise, then go right back to indulging the bitterness she associates so heavily with your name. Whatever you have that sends shivers to the very core of grown men, she wants it, and having you pay some attention to her feels right. It cannot keep her from detesting you for possessing it.

You touched her shoulder once with an unnaturally warm gloved hand—a silent congratulations, she tells herself—it is the only way to justify her racing heart as you lean down and speak barely above a whisper. "Do no disappoint me, Arlecchino."

Everything takes a backseat as a fire is lit in the pit of her stomach, the drive to wipe that infuriating smirk she knows is hidden beneath your mask off your face. If she didn't know better, she could almost convince herself you thought you owned her.

For all her staring, however, she can't recall another moment of that night you spared her more than a single glance in her direction before turning away. It was Pierro who pinned Arlecchino's delusion to her chest and welcomed her, the Director, not the Tsaritsa's child. You merely took it upon yourself to congratulate her— professionally— as any colleague would.

The first time Arlecchino saw your face, she could not believe her eyes. You lack the odd companion she has long grown used to seeing by your side. She does not even recognise you at first, sitting in a chair in Pierro's quarters in plain clothes, your helmet discarded at your feet. In your hand is a glass, the liquid inside sloshing as you motion with your hand in some general direction amid your conversation.

It almost makes her uncomfortable to see, like staring down at your severed head pathetically rolling back and forth under the sole of your boot as you entertain yourself with it. It does not roll far before the adornments resist, and you don't fight them, instead rolling it back. Your only response to her gawking is to quirk your eyebrow at her.

You regard her with curiosity, though she would be remiss not to notice the glint in your eyes. "Arlecchino," you say, perhaps some mockery of greeting her.

Since she met you, her poker face has only gotten better, though her short pause is a dead giveaway that she has to think to recall your title. She still does not quite believe the woman she sees is you. "Brighella."

A smile tugs at your lips, and another sip of the drink in your glass marks your second pause. "Are you lost, or did I interrupt something?" you ask, though you turn to Pierro for the answer to the question.

Arlecchino takes a breath, determined not to let you get away with speaking to her that way without seeing any bite— "I called her," Pierro interrupts her before she can even say a word, and your eyes flicker back to her.

"I'll take my leave then," you say, gathering your things. You hook your fingers under your helmet and pick it up like nothing is wrong, as if you don't notice how Arlecchino stares and tries to remind herself that it should be obvious someone was under there. 

The only thing that helps her remind herself nobody else could sport that cocky smirk in Pierro's office without receiving a cold glare. He merely watches as you down the rest of your drink in one mouthful and leave the glass for him on his desk before stalking off. You stop only to put your helmet back on.

There's a sigh once you leave the room, and Pierro silently collects the glass.

The second time Arlecchino meets you, it is more arranged: a trip down the halls leads her to a stray fatuu bearing a message for her. You want to see Arlecchino in your chambers. There's no indication of why, and the man delivering the message had no inclination to ask before scurrying off. She cannot even say she blames him. She's seen the way you speak to the lesser fatuus before.

Arlecchino arrives in the corridor to hear the unusual noises in your room. It is like someone is rummaging through your belongings with reckless abandon and tossing whatever is in their way aside. 

She eyes the door with particularly harsh scrutiny. If there is an intruder, rifling through your room is the most effective way to get things they might want, and she can't allow them an opportunity to escape.

That is until Arlecchino hears your voice from inside, and you exaggerate a frustrated groan. You sound on the verge of tearing your hair out.

Then she braces herself to knock, and the room falls starkly silent as you register someone is standing outside.

"Who's there?" You pose the question like an accusation despite having to know you would have guests. You invited her, after all— demanded her, really.

Through gritting teeth, she finds the will to bite her tongue and say nothing about your attitude rearing its ugly head again. You find a way to always be like this. The moment she gains some semblance of understanding of your motives, you screw it up by acting superior again, like you genuinely believe the world should fall helplessly at the mercy of your whims and run as you will it to. 

"It's Arlecchino," she responds, the animosity she wishes to show neatly tucked away beneath a layer of barely cordial stoicism.

"Oh," is the only sound from inside, followed by footsteps and a light thud as if you place something down, perhaps one of the things it sounded like you were moving. "Are you alone?" 

For a moment, she almost began to wonder if you had forgotten her.

The question confuses her. "Yes."

"You may enter. The door is unlocked."

Arlecchino does not waste another moment before she opens the door to greet your unmasked face. This time, she recognises you from the pattern of your scars to the odd look on your face, though the off feeling staring into your eyes gives her strikes immediately with the same confusing force. 

It should be less jarring the second time, and yet, as she slowly closes the door behind her, she cannot help but scan the room in search of your helmet.

Your room is a damn mess, probably because you just tore it apart for reasons beyond her. She spies your helmet discarded by the bed on its side, hollow and lifeless and so unlike she usually sees it perched atop a suit of armour brimming with self-assured grandiose.

"I was worried he'd followed you all the way here."

She grasps at who you're implying almost immediately, yet can't say she understands why. It can't be anyone but the man in armour you brought back from the abyss who follows you around like a stray puppy. 

"Are you referring to the—" she also realises she has no idea what it is that follows you around— "man you took in...?"

"Yes." You answer without notice for her apprehension, or perhaps so used to it that it no longer seems worth commenting on. "He has a habit of stealing faces, and though I already told him he can't have mine, he's determined to get it."

Stealing...faces...?

"You're probably wondering why I wanted to speak with you." All too quickly, you change the subject, jumping from whatever you just said to a completely different train of thought as you turn away from her to find something amidst the clutter on your dresser. Your body obscures her view, unable to see what you're doing.

She saves you the discomfort of having a hole burned into your back from her gaze, instead taking the opportunity to look around. Do you always live in this dump? In a way, it's not hard to believe; your behaviour is reminiscent of a spoiled child who never learned to clean up their messes, yet she expected you would treat your living space with the same methodical attention as your subordinates.

"It wasn't included alongside your message," she responds absently, merely engaging because she must. Her mind is occupied, overlooking the pile of armour dumped on the floor like junk metal.

You place a glass down behind her as you speak, the sound unmistakable to her ears, compounded by the sound of something pouring. "Intentionally. You would never have come if you knew why I wanted to see you."

She cannot help but glare at the back of your head. "Is that so?"

"Indeed."

When you turn to her, she cannot help the way her attention draws to the two glasses in your hands—glasses you have no doubt filled with alcohol. Pantalone taught her such a trick not long after he became a Harbinger, and she has not a single doubt that you learned it from him as well.

While your company isn't paying attention, fill a glass and offer it to them. It's rude to refuse once it's been poured. It'll keep them put.

It didn't occur to her until after you extended the glass in your left hand to her that she realised you had trapped her in the conversation should she strive to maintain her pleasant façade. Her fist clenches tightly at her side, nails digging into her palm with a sharp pain.

Arlecchino takes the glass with a tight smile, a wordless exchange. The look in your eyes tells her you know it, too.

"I hope you didn't bring me here for a frivolous venture." Her own warning, one she feels she has earned over the past few minutes.

"No," you say, swirling the liquid in your glass as a means of entertaining yourself. "I simply wanted to observe you."

"How forward." She cannot help it by the time she realises she's said it. There is obviously disapproval in her voice.

Despite her venom, you only smile at her dumbly as if you don't notice the tone of her voice or the furrow of her brows. "Isn't it?" a rhetorical question. You let out a light chuckle at yourself. "It's strange, I thought the one to overtake the Knave would be a little more like that old hag, but it turns out you couldn't be more different if you tried."

This is what you wanted to say?

Arlecchino's eyes narrow. "What do you mean by that?" 

"Oh, come on, are you blind?" Your penchant for mockery shines through your words whether you meant it to or not. "Surely you've noticed by now."

"I don't aspire to become my mother," she retorts just a touch more harshly than she meant to.

"I meant it as a compliment, don't you realise?" you question, "The House has run this way for years because she made it that way. I'm sure many of the children she bought are itching to go home." Your musings lead somewhere—they must—and yet you insist on meandering your way there at a leisurely pace to draw it out. It's as if you wait and watch with eyes filled with curiosity for her to guess, but she makes no attempt to. "Will you return them to their families?"

Arlecchino considered it many times. The thought is appealing. It would be like setting her siblings—now her children—free. She grew up alongside them, played with them as a child and now presides over them.

Wanting to stall, Arlecchino takes a sip from the glass before speaking.

"No," she answers. 

It's not possible. 

If not a monetary figure or tangible reason, it quickly became a stark impossibility when she considered that someone would have to explain why the orphans the Knave had acquired carefully raised were being returned. 

Many would live in harsh conditions, some would die or merely be sold again, and some were too broken down by motherly love to find their peace in the common world again. 

It's not worth the pain of trying.

Something in her answer piques your interest, and she notices your hardly disguised intrigue almost immediately. Years of wearing a helmet to hide your emotions have certainly done a number on how much you are able to hide them naturally. 

"I thought for certain you would say yes."

"You were incorrect."

You quirk an eyebrow at her as if to challenge that idea. "Was I?" you question.

Were you?

"Yes," she says before she can think of anything to disprove that. Time made her aware of the many impossibilities she had spent years fantasising about, but she would not share that with you.

"You're certainly gentler than her," you remark, almost a passing comment as it's quickly overshadowed, "Less of a pain in the ass to talk to as well. I'd have to chase her for days to get her to come talk to me."

Arlecchino suddenly understands why the room is in such a state of disarray—you hadn't expected her. Instead, you were tearing your room apart under the impression you would have days to clean it up before she found her way to you. It seems that punctuality is a burden to you. If nothing else, it's motivation to never be late.

She finds herself aimlessly staring into the glass in her hand, a lesser part of her mind trying to determine what's in it, though too clouded by conflict to place an answer anytime soon. Instead, she stands and listens to whatever you insist on saying, lost in your words and the musings of the past, your unique knowledge of what came before her.

The observations of now the piercing gaze that threatens to spill her soul out before the two of you and dissect it as you please while she watches at the mercy of your rank, the lingering respect that refuses to leave her from years of seeing you as an ideal.

Talking to you is something quite bizarre; knowing you is something even stranger. 

She may never forget the time you spent intrigued by the young orphan who overthrew her mother to take her place at your side as your colleague.

CROSSPOSTED ON AO3

[fatuismooches]

omg omg omg i’m brainrotting so hard abt arlecchino rn im so sorry if you’ve already been sent smtg similar but hear me out: childhood friends to lovers w the one and only knave <33

growing up w her in the house of the hearth, ur the only person she has a soft spot for <33 even when she began ascending the ranks of the fatui u know she’d always come back to you <33 i’m entering delulu land but im LICHERALLY going crazy over the idea that the reason arlie killed the previous knave was because they threatened you and she was not having that dgjskdjdjd im scratching clawing at the walls of my enclosure

BONUS: whenever u show up to fontaine’s hearth all the kids get very very excited bcos they’re going to be able to break SO many rules and arlie will mostly let it slide since she’s just so damn weak for you <33 all u hv to do is bat ur pretty lashes a little and she’s folding like a wet paper towel (“another story surely won’t hurt the children 🥺🥺 please?” “………fine”) one of the kids accidentally called you ‘mother’ once in front of her and her brain did a hard system reset for like 5 entire minutes LMFAO lyney is SO tempted to set up his idiot pining father with a special in-house magic show but lynette is a 100% sure arlecchino would straight up murder him if he tried (though she does agree with her brother in that father should just confess to you, because there’s no way you would ever say anything other than i love you too)

AHHMAKAONDW DW ANON I TOO AM BRAINROTTING HARD ABOUT ARLECCHINO AND I ADORE THIS HAHAHA CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS ONE OF MY FAV TROPES EVER 🤭 ooohhhh im words i cant describe rn…

Going to the House of Hearth and seeing shes always the quiet, solitary, speak to no one kid and your interest is piqued right away!! Yeah she ignores you for a while but you keep following after her so earnestly! On the missions, during playtime, during mealtime when she leaves to eat somewhere by herself but somehow you find her anyway… how can she not start to warm up to you? :( slowly but surely that cold mask of hers starts to melt just a tiny bit… you two are inseparable at that point, she refuses to work with anyone else <3 Arlie is… s-s-soft for you 🥺

AND UGHHHH her not forgetting about you even when she’s a higher-up, and a Harbinger 🤭 everyday, when she’s learning to adjust to her new duties, learning to deal with more incompetent people by the day… Arlie can just come back and rest her head on your shoulder and relax ❤️ (lmao regardless if it’s the former Knave or a random person they will be GONE hehe 😈😈)

AHHHH ANON THE BONUS IS MAKING ME GO CRAZYYY AJAIAIBDW I WOULD ADOPT THOSE BABIES IN A HEARTBEAT, THEY LITERALLY GET SO EXCITED BOUNCING OFF THE WALLS WHEN THEY HEAR THAT YOURE COMING!!! Help I would so be the parent who lets them break rules (within reason of course)!!! We can stay up past your bedtime!! Pillow fights and spooky stories and everything!! We can bake cookies together and playfully fight!! There are so much possibilities omg and Arlie is just like 🧍‍♀️yea there’s no way she would let this happen usually but,, sigh, the kids are literally beaming in happiness and crowding you and you’re laughing and smiling and looking so soft,, so fine, she’ll let it slide. But don’t expect her to join! (She’ll pop up around dinner time ❤️) (you *may* get her to join you for that one last story time, but it’s a very big *maybe*)

THE CHILDREN CALLING YOU MOTHER AHIAIVFW YESSS YESSS like bro you just give off motherly and parental energy to them, you are the parent they never had :( I always hc Arlie’s partner as being hella overprotective of their kids, like they are NOT getting hurt on your watch!! Making them separate meals if the regular food isn’t to their fancy, making sure their clothes don’t have holes in them, tucking them into bed and all :( Please the child would act as if they just said something normal and you’re just smiling really hard and blushing a lil bit and Arlecchino is just like 😐 outwardly but inside her heart is racing a bit ANISJAIAI. Like it just clicks for her that you’re really so wonderful… omfg she loves you so much.

And omg omg I would sooo love to be around baby Lyney, Lynette, and Freminet, they deserve the whole WORLD… you would clap and be surprised when they come home and show you all the new tricks they learned… you’d be their willing member from the audience to join them!! And Freminet, he’s a shy baby so you would just read him stories and help him with the big words :( you’d help him find more mechanical stuff to play around with and fix! And although Arlie doesn’t like when kids cry… the kids love you because they can cry into your arms and you won’t tell a soul 🥺

HAHAHA LYNEY BEING HIS FATHER’S WINGMAN 😭😭 he would so do it but Lynette reminds him every time that his life would be FORFEIT if he ever tried doing such a thing! Lyney is still thinking about it though 🤔, even the younger kids have caught onto Father’s pining for you! Like bro… Arlie, it is so freaking obvious how much you two like each other just kiss already smh (the kids have bets on who will confess first 🤭)

[wolgerrswraith]

Another one, from late 2023. I'm working on a spiritual sequel thing to this, set in the same area but not using these themes. It's a gothic horror...uh...thing, with Lovecraftian elements and a Florida setting. I also use the word "frothy" too many times, but whatever.

The House in The Swamp

Far back in the vast stretch of the Florida Everglades stood the small town of Byron's Gulch. The mossy trees kept it in almost permanent shade during the humid afternoons, the moonlight dappling off the green waters of the swamps at night, as the air grew dense and fog swirled along the banks. A quiet place, all but forgotten in the blistering heat of the merciless sun above.

With a name like Byron's Gulch, you wouldn't be judged too harshly for not expecting all that much from the place, and in truth, there wasn't much to be excited about. A scattering of simple homes traced the shoreline, the town proper only reachable by boat.

The small stores of the town sold what was needed for the people to keep their households going, the basics of living without all the flashy distractions of the more populated areas.

The people were simple, and led simple lives in their homes by the stinking waters of the swamps, each new generation growing up with the same horror stories as their parents and grandparents. The same stories, told over and over through each successive group of children, frightening them out of their wits during stormy evenings huddled around the family hearth.

Some of the more popular stories centered on the rotting mansion looming on the small island just off the Gulch's main river, only just visible from the front street of town if you craned your neck right and the light was good. Most of time it was hidden by the shadows of the twisted trees growing wild on the island, the rotted peak of the roof only just poking free of the overgrowth.

A single wooden path stretched across the water to the base of the hill, the only way in or out of the mansion's grounds. It wasn't cared for, the wood rotting away in places, making it unsafe for the local kids to play on, despite their better efforts to sneak onto it anyway.

According to legend, the mansion had once belonged to a pirate captain, who had been trying to play it straight for the first time in his violence filled life as he finally settled down.

He had built the mansion for his bride, a pretty young thing who had waited a long time to marry him, and deserved the best in life. But his dark past came calling during the construction of the mansion, making him order the builders to lay the foundation as close to the water as possible. A private dock stretched out over the water, the natural shelter of the trees making it invisible to anyone who didn't know exactly where to look for it.

Night after night, while his young bride slept in peaceful ignorance, the pirate captain had stolen goods shipped in by boat, the swamps providing an easy route for anyone wishing to remain unseen. His former companions from his old seafaring days were more than willing to rejoin his mission, charting in enough wealth to keep the captain and his bride in comfort. What supposedly happened to them varies by account, of course, but it always seemed to end in a murder-suicide that left the house haunted by the unhappy specter of the bride, and the revenge stricken ghost of the captain.

Of course, this is all just a tall tale, a ghost story to give children the shivers as the night grew cold outside, the firelight warm and comforting.

In the early 80's, a local author took it upon herself to sensationalize the legend as a paperback gothic romance, retelling the captain's story as one of mystery, forbidden love, and a secret wealth crated in by the pound at midnight in leaky rowboats.

Her version, though highly romantic and frothy, was based on a single page in an old book on the Gulch's history she had found in the stacks of the local library, hidden away behind the other books like someone wanted it to be forgotten.

The novel's author, Nancy Drogan, who went by the penname Aurora Terrault, went missing in 1987 without a trace, leaving behind her novel, and a mystery as to what exactly had happened to her. The last place she'd been seen was walking along the road through town, headed towards the dock leading to the mansion. Several people stopped to watch her make her way down the worn boards, but no one gave it all that much thought. It was only when she didn't come back, the days slowly bleeding into weeks, that people began to take notice.

***

Nancy hadn't known what exactly had pulled her back towards the house until she found herself walking through the gates at the base of the hill it rested on, a cold breeze making her shiver. She'd been here before, of course: the details of the mansion in her novel were all factual, copied from countless hours observing the mansion from the outside, taking pictures whenever possible. The floorplan of the house was easily found in the library's records, so there were no troubles there when it came to describing the rooms and corridors. Furnishings were made up on a whim and may or may not have matched the real thing, not that it mattered.

So why now? Why was she drawn back to the house, back to her original muse, months after her book had been published and sent out into the world?

Nancy didn't know: all she knew was the grit of rust on her palms as she pulled the gate open, the hinges squealing in protest. All she knew was the sound of her footsteps on the path to the house, steady and sure despite her misgivings to the whole affair. And all she knew was the warped wood of the door under her fingers, the chilled metal of the knob as she griped it tight.

Before Nancy really had time to process much of anything, she was standing in the front hall of the house, peering into the gloom at the dusty furnishings around her.

The door shut behind her silently, only a cloud of dust slowly settling back into the faded carpet showing it had ever been open in the first place. Silence was oppressively thick inside the manor, only the occasional groan from a floorboard as she moved through the darkness breaking the silence.

The furniture was shockingly close to what she'd described in her novel; the small fainting couch in the hall by the stairs, the fringed lamp with the twin bulbs, the stoic faced paintings of family members long ago passed on lined up along the faded wallpaper in tidy rows.

"The war general... the Southern belle... the maiden aunt..."

Nancy named the paintings as she passed them, quoting a passage from her book where one of the characters did the same. The fact her novel correctly described the paintings and their subjects down to most last detail when it was impossible for her to have ever seen them before that moment didn't cross her mind just then.

"It's so beautiful in here," she murmured, trailing her fingers through the thick dust coating an antique sideboard, the wood rasping against her fingertips. Her voice echoed slightly in the stillness, possibly the first sound to fill those shuttered rooms in a hundred years or more.

She didn't notice the front hall behind her subtly changing, the door becoming hazy and insignificant. Soon, there was only a vague smudge on the wallpaper to even show where the door had been in the first place. Her only escape from the house, gone without her even noticing it had been taken.

From the moment Nancy had entered the house, something had been working at her mind, picking apart its innermost depths like an overripe melon, sifting through her memories and emotions, using what it found there against her.

The house was shifting, details changing subtly to match what she had written in her novel exactly. A faded picture of kittens in a bowl slowly changed to a Paris landscape she'd described; the tassels on a lamp frayed and changed hue to match the ones she'd mentioned in passing.

"It's amazing," Nancy murmured, not seeming to notice the walls behind her shift and exchange places, a formal lounge with an arched doorway thrusting outward from what was once solid wood paneling.

To comfort her, to keep her happy and exploring, slowly wandering deeper into the forgotten halls of the mansion she had described so lovingly in her novel.

Nancy didn't know any of these things, of course: all she could think of was how wonderful it was that her novel had so closely captured the house, that her prose had gotten across the faded grandeur of the place so perfectly.

She headed up the stairs, footsteps muffled on the faded floral carpet. Each step vanished away into nothingness behind her, the landing becoming a steep drop to the first floor below. As Nancy trailed along the upper hallway, murmuring to herself as this detail or that stood out to her, the boards of the landing shook themselves lazily, like a cat waking from a long nap. The wood creaked softly as it flowed across the opening, sealing off the second floor. The railings melded into the wallpaper, leaving no indication there had ever been a way down to the first floor at all.

The spider had trapped the fly securely within the web.

***

Nancy's novel had done well in the stores, seeing a successful life even outside the borders of Byron's Gulch. The publishing house had been surprised a frothy Victorian romance had done so well in a world of thousands of identical books, but the people clamored for more. The Mansion in The Swamp quickly fled through two printings in the late 80's, seeing a collector's edition in the early 90's in hardcover.

But the esteemed author herself, Aurora Terrault, never published again. Despite constant letters to the publishing house for details, there were none to be had. Aurora Terrault was seemingly gone.

The original novel became held in high regard as a classic, spawning a sequel in 2004. Written by a greenhorn pen for hire, The Nightmare in The Swamp was highly reviled by fans of the original, quickly going out of print. The new author had tried their very best, but the lyrical sense of phrasing and deliberate, detailed passages about the house were gone, replaced by a try-hard, matter of fact way of storytelling that felt more appropriate to a young adult romance than a sequel to a cult classic gothic.

The online forums for booklovers were filled with stories about the first time they'd read the novel, with a few of the more rabid fans even having overly grand hopes for a TV or movie adaption. Everyone agreed that The Mansion in The Swamp was far better than it had any right to be considering the publisher's usual crop of bodice rippers, and that it was a terrible pity the author had vanished into the ether from whence she came, leaving behind a masterpiece.

***

Nancy wandered through the mansion's library, never once questioning how exactly a room that massive could be perched on the second floor of an average sized at best manor. The soaring vaulted ceiling and rows upon rows of towering bookshelves were impossible given the true size of the mansion itself, but Nancy didn't think about any of this. The idea never even crossed her mind.

Her few remaining thoughts were fleeting, trickling like a lazy stream over rocks, becoming fragmented concepts and hazy base emotions. Rational thinking was completely gone, only a dull, pleasant ache from happiness at her surroundings remaining in its place.

Downstairs, the house was... changing.

The faded wallpaper slowly regained its original luster, the carpets shaking themselves gently to get rid of the thick layers of dust, revealing their patterns for the first time in many long years.

As Nancy wandered the library in the cloudy haze of her own fantasies, the house was slowly coming back to life below.

***

When it came to the house and the true purpose behind its creation, things went a long way past the frothy backstory of pirates and forsaken brides Nancy had concocted for her book.

The truth concerned something beneath the house, something it had been built to protect from prying eyes and nosy townsfolk all those years ago.

There were no pirates in the traditional sense in all reality: the man who had commissioned the mansion to be built was named Charles Byerson, the owner of a small fleet of fishing boats that brought home goods and livestock across the swamps to Byron's Gulch, then named Byron's Crossing.

It was 1909, and life was simple for the people of the Gulch, which back then was only a single road of shops and a scattering of cabins built out on stilts over the water. The townspeople were more than a little confused as to why a fairly well off boat fleet owner would want to build on a squalid patch of land surrounded by swamp, but they welcomed the many jobs it brought to struggling families, as the wooden skeleton of what would become a splendid mansion towered on the horizon, casting its shadow across the water.

Besides, Charles was deeply beloved by the people of the Gulch, who depended on his crews' shipments for their survival.

If said crew occasionally dabbled in the odd murder and subsequent house burning as well was truly open to debate, but the fact remained he was not a man to be crossed by any means. Anyone who ended up on Charles' bad side often found themselves dead, their wealth funneled into the ever growing mansion's ever growing building costs.

Charles had been very specific about the placement of the mansion, requesting this soggy island the moment the plans were drawn up.

To the unwary, nothing about the place stood out, nothing remotely interesting about it catching the eye. It was stable, for the most part, high enough off the water that flooding wouldn't be much of a problem. The water completely surrounded it, making travel by anything but boat impossible unless you liked swimming in gator infested waters. Charles did rectify this by having a dock built, leaving the house with a single route in and out. The builders weren't particularly happy about this, but Charles was paying them well, more than enough for the men to overlook a few eccentricities from their temporary boss.

The biggest eccentricity the builders dealt with concerned a crevasse near the houses foundation, a split in the ground that lead downwards into a rough hewn tunnel.

"Just build over it," Charles had ordered, watching the builders work on the foundation of the house with a frown on his face, his eyes hardened. "Cover it up, but don't send anyone inside."

Most people would prefer the tunnel filled in, as something burrowed under the house like that could damage the stability of the foundation. Over time, the crack could worsen, splitting the island in half like it was nothing but a dirt clod.

But Charles was adamant, only allowing the workers to cover the tunnel with temporary wooden doors to protect it until the basement and foundation was completed.

"I dunno why you'd want to keep somethin' like that under yer house ser, but we did as ya asked," the foreman told Charles one afternoon, the foundation completed and ready for the wooden superstructure to be built atop it.

"You're not paid to spout ridiculous nonsense all the hours of the day," Charles replied sharply, watching the workmen as they began smoothing down the wooden planks for the first floor's skeletal main frame, the scent of pine thick in the air. "Just do your job, and no one has to get hurt."

***

The music flowed through her like a song half remembered from childhood, making her feel light and perfect. The man holding her close was solidly built, his breath warm on her neck, his grip tight as he touched her waist. They swayed together in the ballroom, the other couples around them only golden blurs at the edges of her vision.

"We have all evening," he murmured, his chuckle echoing deep in his chest. "There's no need to rush."

"No, none at all," Nancy murmured, swaying gently in his arms. "No need to rush a thing tonight..."

She hadn't even noticed her skin was slowly becoming paler by the moment, her voice only a soft murmur in the air. Nancy was fading away like a late summer memory, the man she was holding onto, the music they danced to, and even the ballroom around them nothing but a fantasy brought on by the house. In the real world, Nancy swayed alone through the darkened halls, growing paler and weaker with every passing moment.

The soft music crackled from a rotted phonograph that was resting on a pile of trash against the wall, playing on and on from the broken record slowly circling the rusted needle. To Nancy, the music came from the beautiful carved organ against the far wall of the ballroom, a man in a dark suit and hat playing like his life depended on it. The dancers needed music to dance to, after all: to stop playing now would be a terrible thing to do.

"Nancy," a voice whispered, so very close to her ear, luring her deeper into the house's cold embrace, the halls folding closed behind her like an origami papercraft. Doors opened before her, closing and locking behind as she passed until only one final door remained to be entered.

It opened onto damp, hot darkness, the distant echoes of screams and intense whispers reaching out from within to surround Nancy, drowning out the warbling music of the phonograph. A dull red glow pulsed somewhere deep within that overwhelming darkness, steady and persistent. The whispers grew louder, the screams piercing and horrible; Nancy only heard cocktail laughter and the soft chatter of party guests.

Her dream partner stepped into the bright hall beyond the open door, looking back with a smile to make sure she was following. Nancy returned the smile, following her partner into the bright hall beyond.

The door slowly closed behind her, the screams and whispers reaching a fever pitch.

All through the house wallpaper was brightening, cracks in the floor repaired, holes in the wall shored up. Beyond a few cobwebs in the corners and dust along the mantlepieces, the house was the very definition of perfection itself, warmly lit and inviting.

Deep inside the darkened chamber, the whispers slowed, as the many souls lost in the haze at the heart of the house welcomed their new sister.

***

Nancy was not the first to go missing inside the manor, of course: she was just the most famous case. For weeks after her disappearance, the local news was filled with reports on what should be done to locate her, why wasn't anyone doing something to do so already, and the possibility of whether Nancy was even still in Byron's Gulch at all.

The town council decided it was best to close down the dock leading up to the house, putting up an admittedly flimsy barricade in attempt to keep people away from the house.

But people more often than not merely redouble their efforts to get into a place once they've been told not to enter it, and the council soon grew tired enough of the yearly repair costs to keep the barricade intact for them to not bother keeping the mansion in the swamp separate from the rest of the Gulch any longer.

Despite the manor growing more rotted and unstable with each passing year, the dock remained in good condition, the boards weathered but still in good shape, still strong and hearty for anyone wishing to explore the decrepit mansion.

An obvious trap, of course: the mansion's way of trying to attract new blood into its halls, new life to feed itself on. Nancy's lifeforce had run dry years before, leaving the mansion powerless once again. All it had was time to waste. Endless amounts of it. Someone would come before too long. They always did in the end.

A shutter banged loosely in the wind, the dead trees lining the island's border rasping against each other with a sound like whispers. The perfect picture of an innocent house left to rot all alone on an island in the Everglades, just waiting for someone to step inside and look around for a little excitement...

***

When the house was finished, Charles and his young bride, Rebecca, arrived together in a fishing boat he'd fixed up to be as comfortable as possible for her.

"Do you like it, my own?" Charles asked, as Rebecca stared up at the house in what he hoped was awe, her expression otherwise unreadable.

"It's... big," Rebecca said softly, a smile lifting the corners of her lips. "If you like big it's alright enough. The location is somewhat odd, my love."

Charles' hand tightened its grip on the tiller, his jaw setting at Rebecca's words. She noticed none of it, watching the house as the small boat approached the dock, still trying to wrap her head around the fact she was to be mistress of this mansion, this strange home all alone in the swamps.

"I think you'll like it once you see it," Charles replied through gritted teeth, tying the boat off with rough, hard movements, the knot secure and tight. "I even had a basement dug for you, in case you wanted to try your hand at canning fruit or some such thing. I thought you would enjoy that."

"We'll see," Rebecca replied lightly, but her smile said everything her words did not. Secretly, she was pleased that Charles had thought of her like that, when he needn't have given her a second thought when constructing their home.

Charles was quiet as they left the boat, offering Rebecca a hand as she stepped onto solid ground after the long trip in the rocking waves. His eyes were locked on the manor, as if seeing it for the first time rather than the hundredth.

"Welcome home," he said softly, a thin smile crossing his lips.

"And what a home it is," Rebecca said, smiling back at Charles. She didn't realize Charles hadn't been speaking to her at all, but rather to the house itself, to what lay underneath it.

Without a word, Charles strode down the dock, his boots slamming against the boards like a panther on the prowl. Rebecca was slightly annoyed by this, left to fend for herself in the chilly swamp air with her bags, but she quickly forgave Charles for his actions. After all, this was the first time they'd been alone together since the wedding, and it was only natural Charles had some jitters over the whole affair. Even with their wedding night over and done with, for better or worse, they hadn't been in one place without a single soul around before. This would be new ground for both of them.

With a heavy sigh, Rebecca gripped the handles of her admittedly overpacked bags, and began the long trip up the dock to the mansion she now held sway over as mistress of the house.

Charles had left the door open for her, the first glimpse of the mansion she had a rather cold one. Although the furniture was in place and some paintings were hung, that stale, unlived in air filled the room, making the hall feel almost oppressive. She didn't like it, and briefly wondered if she should turn right back around and take the boat back to shore.

Rebecca then chastised herself for thinking so selfishly, gently setting her bags down on an overstuffed fainting couch against the wall. A hand came up to brush a few stray strands of hair back from her face, a draft of chilly air making goosepimples dot her skin.

Something felt... uneasy about the house, the home her loving husband had built for her, a place to raise her future children in peace. There was no reason for her to feel this way.

And yet...

Rebecca frowned, unable to shake the phantom fingers tracing cold lines down her back as she went deeper into the main hall. She needed to find the kitchen, see what she was working with for evening meals. A wife must see her family eats well, she thought, remembering what her mother always said when slaving over the hot stove for hours on end.

The kitchen was empty, something that probably shouldn't have surprised her at all: Charles didn't need to cook after everything he'd done for her so far. That was something Rebecca could tend to herself; a nice ham, possibly a roast.

A sigh left her as she opened the lavish icebox to reveal only a few small cuts of meat and an empty jug of milk. There was food, at least, but it could've been nicer.

Beggars can't be choosers, she could almost hear her mother say. That might have been true, but she still felt a right to have some disappointment at Charles not preparing the kitchen well enough for her standards.

As she busied herself setting a pan on the woodstove to begin warming up the meat, an icy draft tickled the back of her neck, making her shiver: a door she hadn't noticed before was open, only darkness visible inside. The basement Charles had mentioned, obviously, although she was surprised how cold it seemed to be down there: usually basements dug in such warm places as these swamps were unbearably hot, making a perfect place to can fruits you wanted to ferment.

Standing in the doorway, Rebecca could hear whispers from somewhere below, and the darkness slowly lifted as a dull red glow began to pulse steadily.

"Charles?" Rebecca called, "Is that you, dear? I'm trying to make us a nice dinner, but there's so little in the icebox..."

The only reply was the whispering, which now seemed to be repeating her name over and over, growing in intensity. The red glow began to throb quicker, a steady noise echoing from the basement, steadfast and strong.

Feeling uneasy, Rebecca debated on what to do: Charles could be down there hurt, these strange noises merely echoes against the stone walls. If that was the case, she needed to stop acting like a little girl and go down to see what the fuss was.

"I'm coming down, Charles," she announced, hating the slight panic in her tone. "I'll just be a moment, my own."

Gathering her wits, Rebecca put one hand on the rail of the stairs, lifting her skirts over her ankles with the other so she did not trip and fall. The glow seemed to get brighter as she went, the whispers following her like a chorus.

The basement was rather large, stretching in either direction to pools of shadow that made seeing anything nearly impossible. The red glow seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, the whispers almost acting like they wanted to lead her deeper into the darkness.

"Charles?" She called, her voice slightly strained. "Charles, if this is a game, I'm afraid it's not a good time for it."

Silence, even the whispers fading away. Ahead, the glow seemed to be getting brighter, allowing her enough light to see someone standing there, someone she would have known anywhere, in any light.

"Charles, thank goodness," she sighed, a hand to her heart. "I was so worried about you... why are you in the dark, my love?"

"Come here," Charles replied, his voice low and deep. "I want you to see something... something important."

"Of course, Charles, anything you need me to see is important," she smiled. Rebecca was just happy Charles felt like she could handle important things like this, unlike her father who had constantly called her simple minded. "Is it the canning supplies you mentioned? Something else?"

"Something better," Charles replied. Behind him, the red glow pulsed even brighter, a dull throb filling the air. It made her wince, the sound pounding in her ears.

Rebecca opened her mouth to speak, but as the light flared up once again, she saw the vines twisted around Charles's feet, slithering like snakes across the earthen floor. They were a vivid red, shot through with purples and blues like veins in an artery.

The scream came before she could stop it, tearing from her throat like it was the last sound she would ever make.

Perhaps, she thought, as the vines shot through the air to pin her arms to her sides, yanking her to Charles like she was nothing but a puppet on strings, it would be.

The red glow was now revealed to be a massive heart, throbbing and shuddering from its place in what looked like a stone alter, like something from a nightmare or one of the ghastly stories her brother enjoyed so much, about men who faced beings from other dimensions and lost their minds. Rebecca, in that moment, could sympathize with those men: she surely would never be the same after this.

"I am sorry," Charles said, his eyes glowing a dull red in time to the heart's beat. "It needs someone important to me for this to work."

"I don't understand! Why? Why are you doing this?" Rebecca cried, feeling the hot tears running down her cheeks as the vines tightened around her, slowly but surely bringing her into the alter, into the heart's embrace.

"To please He Who Sleeps," Charles replied. This meant nothing to her, and had no reason to: no one had spoken that name aloud in centuries, the alter and heart lost under the earth since before the swamps had even formed.

"He will accept you into the house," Charles went on, as the vines pulled Rebecca closer, the heart's beating filling her head. "The first of many to keep the house alive."

Rebecca screamed, the vines growing taunt as they pulled her into the heart. Her last thought was, nonsensically, that the meat on the stove would burn if she didn't go to check on it soon.

She then felt nothing, as her mind and being faded into the darkness at the center of the heart, her soul added to the wood and stone of the house in the swamp.

Only the first of many, as Charles had promised He Who Sleeps. More would come in time, no matter how long it took.

[voidfragments]

ALSO I JUST REALIZED AT THIS VERY MOMENT THAT I'VE BEEN WONDERING HOW TO GET A MUSE INVOLVED IN FONTAINE SHENANIGANS AND I

I HAVE. MULTIPLE FATUI OCS. hang on gotta add liza to my muse list bc she feels the most "former house of the hearth kid"-ish of the trio

[sfnewsvine]

At Least 38 Dead Mostly Preschoolers in Rampage That Began at Thai Day Care NBC Bay Area

A former policeman burst right into a day care middle in northeastern Thailand on Thursday, killing dozens of youngsters and lecturers after which firing on extra individuals as he fled within the deadliest rampage within the nation’s historical past. The assailant, who authorities mentioned was fired from the power earlier this yr due to a drug offense, took his personal life after killing his personal spouse and little one at house. A witness mentioned employees on the day care locked the door once they noticed the assailant approaching with a gun, however he shot his approach in. In footage posted on-line after the assault, frantic relations might be heard weeping exterior the day care, and one picture confirmed the ground of 1 room smeared with blood and sleeping mats scattered about. Photos of the alphabet and different colourful decorations adorned the partitions. At the very least 38 individuals had been killed within the assault, in response to police spokesman Archayon Kraithong. One other 12 individuals had been wounded. At the very least 24 of the useless had been kids, principally preschoolers. “The instructor who died, she had a toddler in her arms,” mentioned the lady, whose title wasn’t given. “I did not assume he would kill kids, however he shot on the door and shot proper by way of it.” Police recognized the suspect as 34-year-old former police officer Panya Kamrap. Within the assault he used a number of weapons, together with a handgun, a shotgun and a knife, Police Maj. Gen. Paisal Luesomboon instructed PPTV in an interview. “He began taking pictures, slashing, killing kids on the Utai Sawan day care middle,” Luesomboon mentioned. Native police chief Damrongsak Kittiprapha instructed reporters that the suspect was a sergeant on the power earlier than he was fired, and that the primary weapon he used was a 9mm pistol that he had bought himself. “We’re nonetheless investigating all of this and need to be taught from it,” he mentioned. “At this time is the primary day and we don’t have all the main points.” Police haven’t given a full breakdown of the loss of life toll, however they’ve mentioned at the very least 22 kids and two adults had been killed on the day care within the northeastern Thai city of Nongbua Lamphu. Firearm-related deaths in Thailand are a lot decrease than in international locations like the US and Brazil, however greater than in international locations like Japan and Singapore which have strict gun management legal guidelines. The speed of firearms associated deaths in 2019 was about 4 per 100,000, in contrast with about 11 per 100,000 within the U.S. and almost 23 per 100,000 in Brazil. Final month, a clerk shot co-workers at Thailand’s Military Conflict Faculty in Bangkok, killing two and wounding one other earlier than he was arrested. The nation’s earlier worst mass taking pictures concerned a disgruntled soldier who opened hearth in and round a mall within the northeastern metropolis of Nakhon Ratchasima in 2020, killing 29 individuals and holding off safety forces for some 16 hours earlier than ultimately being killed by them. Thailand’s Prime Minister Prayut Chan-o-cha, who was to journey to the city on Friday, instructed reporters that preliminary reviews had been that the previous officer was having private issues. “This shouldn’t occur,” he mentioned. “I really feel deep unhappiness towards the victims and their family.” ___ Related Press writers David Rising, Chalida Ekvitthayavechnukul, Elaine Kurtenbach and Grant Peck contributed to this story. Supply hyperlink Originally published at SF Newsvine

[stargazing-enby]

The Mysterious Case of the Unclaimed Jumper

Thanks @april-thelightfury115 for betaing!

Drarry | 2k | Teen and Up | Eighth Year, Pining, Fluff | Read on AO3

“Harry!" 

Ron and Hermione halted, leaving Harry no choice but to do the same. He was exhausted, and it had already taken too much energy to get up from their table at the Three Broomsticks so they could make it to the Hogwarts grounds before Filch closed the gates in their faces. The last thing he wanted was to talk to people, lovely as Madam Rosmerta was. 

“Sorry to keep you, kids, but someone forgot this on one of the tables. Would you please do me the favour of taking it back to Hogwarts with you? I still have patrons to attend.” 

“Uh...sure.” Harry took the khaki jumper she was handing him—gosh, but it was much softer than it looked—and she smiled at him appreciatively. 

“How do you know it’s from a Hogwarts student, though?” Hermione asked. 

Madam Rosmerta snorted. 

“Because none of my patrons are naive enough to step into the inn whenever you kids are taking over the town. Teenagers are loud as all hell, in case you hadn’t noticed!” 

“All right,” Harry said quickly, dreading the idea of the exchange turning into a full-fledged conversation. “We’ll take care of it. Have a nice evening, Madam Rosmerta.” 

On their way back to the castle, though, Harry started to regret his decision. It was the beginning of the school year, and the transition from summer to autumn had fooled many Hogwarts students into putting on warm clothes to fight the morning chill, which meant practically everyone had ended up carrying jumpers and jackets over their shoulders and around their waists for most of the day. The jumper could be anyone’s. 

“What are you going to do with the jumper, anyway? It could be anyone’s,” Hermione echoed his thoughts, turning from Ron to Harry.

“I have no idea,” Harry admitted.

“Maybe you could hand it to one of the Heads of House. Or...” Her voice shifted into that tone of hers that meant she knew she’d come up with a brilliant idea, “we could tell the ghosts to ask around the castle and see if anyone is missing a jumper!” 

Even as Harry nodded, Ron shook his head in disbelief. 

“Or you could just smell it,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world and he couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to either of them. Harry and Hermione just stared at him. “What?” 

“That’s kind of creepy,” Harry said. 

“Wha— No it’s not! Don’t you know clothes smell like their owners?” Silence. Ron looked increasingly exasperated. “Come on, don’t tell me your families didn’t smell the clothes lying around the house all the time to figure out who they belonged to!” 

“Er…I’m afraid not.” 

“That’s probably only a necessity when you have seven kids’ clothes to keep track of,” Hermione offered. 

“Yeah…fair enough,” Ron grumbled. “Still, it won’t hurt to try. If it’s from someone our year we’ll probably be able to recognise them.” 

Harry doubted that would be the case, but then Hermione and Ron turned to him, expectant, and he didn’t have a choice but to bring a corner of the jumper to his face and give it a sniff. 

“...Oh.”

“Well?” Hermione asked. 

“It’s…” Harry smelled it again. “It’s familiar.” Familiar and nice, he thought, giving it one extra sniff for good measure. “But I just can’t tell who it is.” 

“Oh?” Ron grabbed a sleeve, brought it to his nose. “Hmm…Yeah, I see what you mean. It’s definitely not a Gryffindor bloke. ‘Mione, why don’t you try?” 

“I’ll pass, thank you very much.” 

“Eh, that’s fine. I’m sure if we leave it in the Eighth Year Common Room someone will claim it sooner or later.” 

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, folding the jumper properly over his arm. 

As a new conversation started, Harry held the jumper a little bit closer. 

***

The stupid thing was still where they’d left it—hung over one of the Common Room couches, the one nearest the hearth—when they came back from Hagrid’s, its pale khaki tone contrasting starkly with the purple sofa. 

Hermione led the way to their usual corner of the room, keen on getting some more homework done before bed, and Harry tried to ignore the jumper, just visible out of the corner of his eye. His friends had clearly forgotten about it, and Harry didn’t bring it up again. 

But the feel of it, the scent of it, was ingrained in his thoughts, and concentrating on his Potions essay soon proved to be an impossible task. Merlin, he knew that scent. He knew it well; every time he’d sniffed the jumper, it’d been like a word was on the tip of his tongue; like a thought in the back of his mind wouldn’t come forth.

Like there was a need, buried deep within him, that he couldn’t fulfill, because he didn’t know what it was he was yearning for. Who it was he was yearning for. 

So he looked. Every few minutes, as much as he tried to avoid it, he looked back at the couch, waiting, hoping that someone would walk past and go, Hey! That’s where it was! And the missing piece inside Harry’s mind would finally click. 

But no one picked the jumper up, and when practically everyone had gone to their dorms, and Ron and Hermione had finished neglecting their homework—Ron’s fingers tracing Hermione’s knuckles, her cheek resting on his shoulder, a goofy smile brightening his face—and seemed ready to call it a night, Harry decided he simply couldn’t leave it alone. 

“You guys go ahead,” he told them. “I feel like I’m finally making progress with this essay, and if I stop now it’s going to be impossible to pick it up again tomorrow.”

As soon as he was alone, though, Harry stuffed the parchment in his bag and made for the couch at a pace just slightly faster than could be reasonably considered walking. 

Ah. The scent was just as enticing as he remembered it from earlier. 

Harry basked in it for a few moments. When someone walked into the Common Room—Terry and Hannah, who nodded at him on their way to their dorms—he let go of it as though it had burned him, but as soon as he was alone again he draped it over his lap and raked a hand over it, thinking, wondering. 

It wasn’t Hannah’s or Terry’s, Harry knew: not just because they hadn’t recognised it on sight, but because the smell did not belong to either of them. It was…deeper. It was masculine, definitely—a hint of sweat at the armpit area, like the owner hadn’t taken it off straight away after growing hot underneath it—and it was intense, in that it did things to Harry; riled him up, and brought him back down from the high, only to make his heart quicken again as soon as the thrill of it had diluted in his veins. 

Sighing, Harry lay on his back and placed the jumper, once again, over the armrest behind his head, just close enough for the scent to reach him. 

The hearth crackled. A House Elf vanished the crumbs and dust from the floor with a spell and disappeared again. Nearly-Headless Nick floated by, but didn’t seem to notice him. 

The door to the Common Room didn’t open again. 

***

“Are we going to do this every night now?” Greg grumbled, dragging the last word—practically dragging himself to the Common Room behind Draco. 

“Only until I force Slughorn to give me an Outstanding,” Draco said. “Which won’t take long, because my first essay was clearly perfect, and if that one wasn’t enough for him, this one will for sure. I swear that old man has it out against me!” 

A portrait shushed him, and Draco flipped it the bird. It wasn’t like there was anyone sleeping in the bloody halls. Or roaming them, for that matter: only Prefects and Eighth Years were allowed outside the Common Rooms past curfew, and it had been a good hour since he’d seen any of the former around. 

“Gardyloo,” he told Sir Cadogan upon reaching the Eighth Year Common Room entrance. Glad as he was that he didn’t have to share a space with people from other years, entering his new Common Room had to be one of the most draining moments of his day. And so, before Sir Cadogan could start spewing nonsense about him and Greg, Draco Silencio’d him, watching as the knight gestured dramatically without uttering a sound until the door had closed. 

“Draco, isn’t that your…?”

Draco saw it just as Greg pointed at it. 

“My jumper.” Salazar, he’d put that jumper on that morning, hadn’t he? When had he even taken it off? He’d completely forgotten all about it. 

He doubted he would ever forget the sight that greeted them, however. 

“Uh, Draco…? What’s Potter doing with your jumper?” 

“It would seem that he is cuddling it, Gregory,” Draco said, tone flat. Completely out of tune with his raging thoughts. 

“More like curling himself around it,” Greg murmured, and Draco could only agree. 

Merlin. Potter looked so young when he slept. So small, like he was afraid to take up space. His hair fanned over his forehead and his face, some of it caught between his arm and Draco’s jumper. His chest falling and rising slowly, evenly. His feet pressed close as if to keep their warmth. 

Draco shook his head, annoyed that he had allowed himself to be caught off-guard by the sight, and walked up to Potter. Grasped his jumper, and pulled at it. 

Potter’s eyes snapped open and stared right into his. 

***

Oh. 

Oh. 

“Fuck,” Harry slurred, sitting up, half-asleep and entirely too awake, as Malfoy took the jumper from him and just stared at him. “Fuck. Sorry. Madam Rosmerta told me to bring it…the...you’d left it there. It’s yours, right?” he asked, even though he didn’t need to. It was Malfoy’s, of course it was Malfoy’s. His strong, deep, alluring scent was unmistakable now. 

“Yes,” Malfoy said. He sounded weird—strained. His eyes were fixed on Harry. “It’s mine.” 

“Right,” Harry nodded. Then, after a few moments: “Er. Sorry about that. I must’ve fallen asleep.”

Malfoy snorted. 

“Never would’ve guessed.” 

“Can we go to bed now?” 

Harry whipped his head around—he hadn’t noticed Goyle was there with them. 

“Go ahead,” Malfoy told him. “I’m right behind you.”

“M’kay then. G’night, Potter,” Goyle said with a yawn, dragging his feet to the stairs. 

“Er…night?” 

Malfoy huffed again. 

“Don’t mind him. He’s an idiot when he’s sleepy.”

“No offence, but he’s an idiot all the time,” Harry said. 

“You’re one to talk.” Malfoy looked at him, then. He wasn’t as stiff now, although he was still weirdly clinging to his jumper, a gesture that reminded Harry of his own fixation with it earlier. “No one with more than two brain cells falls asleep in the Common Room, honestly.” 

“Piss off, I was exhausted!” 

“Oh, I’m sure you were,” Malfoy retorted. “That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t utilise your perfectly comfortable bed to meet the need, though.” 

Harry glared at him, and Malfoy arched an eyebrow. 

“Well?”

“Why do you want to know so bad?” Harry bit back—a little childishly, he knew, but it wasn’t like Malfoy was acting much more maturely right now. “Did you enjoy the sight that much?” 

“Wh—don’t be preposterous!” Malfoy spluttered, a grimace distorting his sharp features. A grimace that did nothing to distract Harry from the angry blush spreading across his cheeks. From the way Malfoy averted his gaze, clutching at the jumper so hard he was almost twisting it. 

“Oh my god,” Harry breathed. “You did enjoy it, didn’t you?” 

Malfoy’s panicked gaze turned back to him. 

“No, I didn’t!” 

Almost as mesmerised as he was amused, Harry stood. He took one more look at Malfoy’s increasingly flushed expression, just to be sure he wasn’t reading it wrong, and then stepped into Malfoy’s personal space. When Malfoy’s breath hitched, Harry, heart in his throat, brought a hand to his flushed cheek. It was soft: softer than the jumper. 

Malfoy stood completely still, wide eyes stuck on Harry’s face. A breath stuck in his lungs: waiting. 

Heart racing, Harry let his hand stray back. Let himself caress Malfoy’s cheek and jaw, let himself cup Malfoy’s head at the nape, play with the hair there—Merlin, was there anything about Malfoy that wasn’t illegally soft?—and lean forward to take a long, deep sniff of his hair. 

Malfoy shivered, and it suddenly hit Harry just how close their bodies were. 

“Potter.” a broken whisper.

Harry inhaled again, his own skin tingling with excitement—anticipation—lust for that scent. That scent that belonged to Malfoy, that now had every reason to drive him fucking insane, to draw him near, to leave him hanging. How had he not recognised it straight away? There was nobody else who could elicit such a response from him. Whose mere closeness thrilled him like this. 

“I needed to know,” Harry said, voice low, as he let his hand slide down slightly, a caress that ended on the jut of Malfoy’s spine at the base of his neck, fingers splayed over the edge of a shoulder blade. Then, pulling back his hand, taking a step back: “I needed to know who that intoxicating scent belonged to.”

As Harry retreated toward the stairs, Malfoy swayed, eyes closed. Jumper clutched close to his chest. 

***

The following evening, when Harry arrived at the Common Room after dinner, a deep grey jumper was draped over the armrest of the couch closest to the hearth. 

[une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir]

random thoughts on jon connington’s chapters

The last time I read this was over four years and  I had a different take on Aegon, so I was curious to see on what changed with a second read.

----

The Lost Lord  ~ ADWD

Sansa and Aegon

Alayne II (Sansa II) ~ AFFC

When Robert dies, Harry the Heir becomes Lord Harrold, Defender of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie. Jon Arryn's bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon . . . and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back . . . why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright."

The Lost Lord ~ ADWD

"We have gone to great lengths to keep Prince Aegon hidden all these years," Lemore reminded him. "The time will come for him to wash his hair and declare himself, I know, but that time is not now. Not to a camp of sellswords." (...)

"The plan was to reveal Prince Aegon only when we reached Queen Daenerys," Lemore was saying." (...)

The prince wore sword and dagger, black boots polished to a high sheen, a black cloak lined with blood-red silk. With his hair washed and cut and freshly dyed a deep, dark blue, his eyes looked blue as well. At his throat he wore three huge square-cut rubies on a chain of black iron, a gift from Magister Illyrio. Red and black. Dragon colors. That was good. "You look a proper prince," he told the boy. (...)

Sansa and Aegon are supposed to reveal themselves by washing the dye out of their hair and wearing their house colours, in an event that involves a wedding with someone that will facilitate claiming their birthright.

However, Aegon said “fuck that bitch Danerys” and getting married, revealed himself somewhat (to the Golden Company higher-ups only) wearing his house colours and went back to Westeros to reclaim his birthright on his own, unware that his cousin from his mother’s side is coming to him to offer aid in the war.. Aegon washing his hair of the blue dye and doning his armour will only happen wieh he sets foot in Westeros.

Likewise, we can draw a parallel scenario for Sansa and considering the “Sansa is grey girl who flees from a marriage” it all fits, Like Aegon, Sansa syas “fuck that bitch blonde Bobby B Harry and getting married, like Aegon she wears a grey cloak, and like Aegon she’ll be meeting her cousin and eventually claim her birthright.

I somehow doubt Sansa will be getting an army that soon, but in the show she got the Wildlings (via Jon, who can be seen as “sellsword” type of warriors) and the Vale army. In the books, there’s the mountain clans both in the Vale (loyal to Tyrion, whom she’s married to) and the north mountain clans (those that protected Bran because he is Ned’s son and joined Stannis also because of Ned and his daughter).

Another thing of note is Aegon ended up cutting his hair but dyed blue once more, so this may be true for Sansa as well. She may cut it shorter (a parallel to her sister Arya as well) but keep dying it for awhile still. Such, she may reach the Wall and meet Jon as a brunette (a parallel to Jeyne Poole as well as  Alys Karstark).  ETA: Likewise Aegon only revealing himself by washing his hair and doning his armour when he invades Westeros (his birthright), Sansa may only wash her hair and done her armour when the northern campaign starts.

Regardless, This is a smart choice because...

Cersei IV ~ ADWD

The queen bristled. "I most certainly have not forgotten that little she-wolf." She refused to say the girl's name. "I ought to have shown her to the black cells as the daughter of a traitor, but instead I made her part of mine own household. She shared my hearth and hall, played with my own children. I fed her, dressed her, tried to make her a little less ignorant about the world, and how did she repay me for my kindness? She helped murder my son. When we find the Imp, we will find the Lady Sansa too. She is not dead . . . but before I am done with her, I promise you, she will be singing to the Stranger, begging for his kiss."

The Lost Lord ~ ADWD

"His because they're bought and paid for. Ten thousand armed strangers, plus hangers-on and camp followers. All it takes is one to bring us all to ruin. If Hugor's head was worth a lord's honors, how much will Cersei Lannister pay for the rightful heir to the Iron Throne? You do not know these men, my lord. It has been a dozen years since you last rode with the Golden Company, and your old friend is dead."

Cersei’s attention on Aegon is also a parallel to Cersei’s attention to Sansa, interestingly enough Tyrion is mentioned in both instances. Cersei’s attention on Sansa also come attached with the “singing the Stranger for a kiss”, which is interesting because if “Sansa is the Grey Girl” theory holds to, the guy she’s running to for protection is in fact.... dead or close to (the Stranger is their god and in the show... the episode was aplty named, the Book of the Stranger).

The bells tolled for all of us that day. For Aerys and his queen, for Elia of Dorne and her little daughter, for every true man and honest woman in the Seven Kingdoms. And for my silver prince. (...)

He had grown fond of Lemore, but that did not mean he required her approval. Her task had been to instruct the prince in the doctrines of the Faith, and she had done that. No amount of prayer would put him on the Iron Throne, however. That was Griff's task. He had failed Prince Rhaegar once. He would not fail his son. 

Let me live long enough to see the boy sit the Iron Throne, and Varys will pay for that slight and so much more. Then we'll see who's soon forgotten.

I grant that the obsession that Jon Connington has for Rhaegar Targaryen is milder and more honourable, compared to the obsession Littlefinger has for Catelyn Tully, but the fact is this is yet another parallel between Sansa and Aegon. They both have mentors with an unhealthy obsession with one of their parents and hate the other, which they project onto the kids. Last, but not least, both mentors are passing off as parents of the children while they remain disguised under a false indentiy.

However, as Sansa will have to run from Littlefinger’s toxic shadow, I suspect Aegon will do much the same. I have suspicions. Sansa escaped Littlefinger because of Jon, as he took the role of protection. No matter how people see the ship, the fact is Jon is a lot like Ned V2 (at least, that’s how Littlefinger will see it and he hated the man) but the truth is Jon is Ned’s nephew and Sansa’s cousin from his mother’s side.

Likewise, Aegon is about to meet Arianne Martell, who’s the niece of his mother Elia Martell, which makes them cousins from his mother’s side. Elia Martell, whom Jon Connington... hates, often speculated in fact that he was in love with Rhaegar Targaryen himself. The symmetry of all this, not only the mentor’s obsession with the children but also the love / hate hey have for their parents.

Connington’s wish to see Aegon crowned and the giant chip he has on his shoulder for not being recognised. For the former, I have not found any reference to Littlefinger wanting to sit the Iron Throne in the books, but this was basically his goal in the show. To be king with Sansa by his side. For the latter, well that’s the drive of his character, he’s a social climber seeking recognition.

Sansa VII ~ ASOS

I will tell my aunt that I don't want to marry Robert. Not even the High Septon himself could declare a woman married if she refused to say the vows. She wasn't a beggar, no matter what her aunt said. She was thirteen, a woman flowered and wed, the heir to Winterfell.

The Lost Lord ~ ADWD

"Why should I go running to my aunt  [implied marriage] as if I were a beggar? My claim is better than her own. Let her come to me … in Westeros." 

Eh. Same energy. They are not beggars and they know their birthright, they will not be forced to marry someone they don’t want to to facilitate it.

----

TL;DR: I think these concurrence between Sansa and Aegon suggest that Aegon is real, but also glimpse into their characters beyond their toxic mentors and their ascencion to power. It will be interesting to watch their common points in future events, even if by the fact that they’re different genders and that makes PLENTY of difference in ASOIAF.

Jon and Aegon

Jon II ~ ASOS

A few tents were still standing on the far side of the camp, and it was there they found Mance Rayder. Beneath his slashed cloak of black wool and red silk he wore black ringmail and shaggy fur breeches, and on his head was a great bronze-and-iron helm with raven wings at either temple. Jarl was with him, and Harma the Dogshead; Styr as well, and Varamyr Sixskins with his wolves and his shadowcat.

The Lost Lord ~ ADWD

The prince wore sword and dagger, black boots polished to a high sheen, a black cloak lined with blood-red silk. With his hair washed and cut and freshly dyed a deep, dark blue, his eyes looked blue as well. At his throat he wore three huge square-cut rubies on a chain of black iron, a gift from Magister Illyrio. Red and black. Dragon colors. That was good. "You look a proper prince," he told the boy. (...)

I personally ignored Aegon because I started with the show and didn’t know he was a (living) character until I read the books. I wasn’t even all that convinced he’d be particularly important. So I always looked at Jon’s interactions with Mance (associated with black + red) as "preparation” for Jon’s internactions with Daniella.

Hoewver, that changed when show!Cersei took over some of book!Aegon role: sitting on the Iron Throne, the Golden Company, and loved over Daniella in the last to final episode. It seems to me now that Mance can also (at the very least if not all) be seen as “preparation” for Jon’s interactions Aegon. As said, Mance  dresss in a black and red cloak which associates him with Targs, the cloak being “copied” by Aegon. Mance united the notorious “give no fucks about authority) wildlings under one idea (run from the Others), while Aegon united a sellsword compay (sellswords are untrustworthty).

Moreover, it’s my conviction that Jon and Aegon are probably going to war against each other for a time (this is illustrated by what I believe are their respective dragons and a natural consequence if Aegon sits in King’s Landing while the Starks declare Northern Indepdencen), until they sommehow make peace (in case of Mance and Jon it was because of the Others, but for Jon and Aegon it could be their fire counterart, Danerys).

TL;DR: I think these vague connections between Mance and Aegon are rather interesting and may be “preparation” for Jon and Aegon’s intereactons will involve war AND peace. Interestingly, Connington’s next chapter feaures battle.

[secret-engima]

Look look, I know you've implied that Sasuke!Nyx is the only FFXV reincarnation in the Naruto 'verse, but - just. I had a sudden mental image. Of /Libertus/ as a Maito - as in, a close relative of Maito 'Konoha's Glorious Green Beast' Gai. ("YOUTH!") Perhaps a younger sibling or cousin or something? Because. Because the /mental images/ of the /rest/ of the non-uchiha-Compound family /reacting/ to an Uchiha being Best Friends with a Maito - Kakashi would despair. Gai would weep - in JOY.

I was not on board with this plan until you said Uchiha being Best Friends with the relative of Might Guy and now I’m dying.

... FINE.

One exception. JUST THIS ONE.

And also Crowe. Because I’m a sucker but SHHHHHH.

Because of course Libertus and Crowe would bully their way through the afterlife and timeline to follow their Ulric. Of course they would.

Hmmmmmmmmm *cracks knuckles* ficlet ramble time!

-Jun will forever be grateful that his mother was the one to name him and not- well- his father.

-Of course he only knew to be grateful AFTER meeting the man his mother had had a teenage fling with, but his point stands. Which was after that wildfire swept through and burned down most of his little village and the trauma of nearly burning made him Remember. Remember another life, another time, another way of life.

-Made him remember Nyx and how Libertus, after finally passing away of old age, had found no Nyx waiting for him, had gone and picked a fight with ... he thinks it might have been Ramuh? Or possibly Bahamut himself, and demanded to be taken to his best friend RIGHT NOW. No he didn’t care if Nyx had wandered off to become a Walked Twice. You think Libertus isn’t stubborn enough to qualify? TRY HIM YOU OVERGROWN LIZARD.

-Not his most sparkling moment of intelligence to be sure.

-But that means ... Nyx has to be here. Somewhere. Surely.

-But there is no Nyx in the village, and the village is struggling to cope, especially his mother, considering both their home and her workplace had been reduced to rubble.

-They end up leaving the village. They had never treated Libertus’s mother too well after he had been born, so it was no real emotional loss. Libertus is physically five when this happens, and he tries his hardest to help his mother and make her smile. She’s the only Clan he’s got after all.

-They wander from village to village before settling down in one where his mother finds work as a seamstress. Libertus, now eight, makes a few yen running packages and messages around town, his brown braids with the little blue beads he’d managed to get bouncing against his temple.

-It’s on one of his runs when he’s around nine that he rounds a corner too fast and smacks right into someone’s leg. He lets himself fall, tucks and rolls back to his feet with the flexibility of a child and the skill of a glaive, an apology already on his lips.

-The leg turns out to be owned by a NINJA. Wonderful.

-The ninja is staring at him, a little metal toothpick hanging from his mouth so loosely that if he gapes a little harder it’s gonna fall out. Libertus has a bad feeling about this. He yells an apology that is possibly too loud and energetic (an odd side effect of this new body, he tends to get ... loud and enthusiastic when nervous) and books it. He wants nothing to do with ninja, he just wants to grow up enough to travel so he can go find his idiot.

-The ninja doesn’t follow him.

-Nope. The ninja turns up again two weeks after Libertus had successfully forgotten about the incident with ANOTHER NINJA. This one is wearing some kind of awful, AWFUL jump suit of eye-searing green (watch out indeed), a red belt (oh dear), and the world’s shiniest bowl cut.

-Weren’t ninja supposed to be STEALTHY?

-The living neon warning sign is looking around with fervor as the two enter Libertus’s mother’s workplace (how did the ninja know she worked here), and his mother gasps. But not out of horror at the truly awful outfit, but out of ... recognition?

-“H-hello again,” she murmurs with a mix of fear and memory that makes Libertus’s hackles rise and him discreetly snatch one of her spare scissors off the shelf in the back room.

-The green ninja gives a booming, smiling greeting, then ... sobers. Quietly asks if she’s ... doing well.

-If she has a son.

-That’s about the minute Libertus notices that the man has caterpillar eyebrows. Caterpillar eyebrows just like Libertus’s, who did NOT inherit those from his mother thank you. He got her soft chestnut hair and hazel eyes.

-Libertus dives out of the back of the store and tries to stab the ninja in the femoral artery with the scissors because PYRE NO is he gonna be taken away from his mom by ninja for being some kind of wayward blood child.

-He doesn’t manage to get the artery, the ninja is too fast, but via the advantage of surprise and glaive memory, he DOES manage to bury the scissors into the man’s leg.

-It’s really not fair that all the man does is hold him up by his scruff and laugh about it. He has a bleeding leg. SHOW SOME PAIN.

-There’s talking after that while his mother fusses in terror and the toothpick chewing ninja pulls out a roll of bandages with a sigh (if it hadn’t been for the current situation, Libertus would have sympathized, he knew what that Sigh meant, he too had an idiot to look after).

-Surprisingly, the green ninja (Might Guy! He announces with a smile that literally sparkles what the pyre) does not insist on taking “Jun” away from his mother.

-Nope. He takes his mother WITH them back to the village. For a wedding. Libertus is honestly stunned. Weren’t ninja supposed to be sneaky and without honor? He has literally no obligation to marry the woman he had a fling with as llike- a FOURTEEN year old just because a kid came out of it. But apparently nope. Libertus’s father is the one ninja with a sense of chivalry because he signs a marriage certificate within hours of getting back to the ninja village of Konoha with mother and Libertus in tow.

-And just like that, Libertus’s name is Might Jun.

-What.

-What is going on.

-No he doesn’t want to be a ninja buzz off.

-Libertus takes to exploring their new home, partly to avoid his new ... father and partly to look for Nyx because who knows, maybe he’ll get lucky for once.

-He’s passing the ninja academy when he hears laughter and footsteps. He sidesteps, but isn’t fast enough to keep from getting run over by a screaming blur of orange. While trying to catch his breath from being trampled by the screaming orange blur (who has yet to notice the impact), a hand appears in his vision. He follows the hand up a pale arm and to a concerned face with black hair and black eyes, “Hey, you okay? Sorry about Naruto, someone let him have ... caffeine...” the boy’s breath stops. He’s staring at the side of Libertus’s head.

-No. His head. His temple.

-His braids.

-And Libertus, on an old instinct from another life, tilts his head as he sits up, looking for braids.

-He sees the purple bead and cord, the simple twist braid partly tucked behind the boy’s ear and hope burns through him like liquid fire. No way. No way. What were the chances of finding Nyx HERE.

-Check that, it’s a child soldier death academy. Why wouldn’t he find Nyx here.

-If it’s really Nyx.

-He swallows his fear and whispers, “For Hearth and Home.”

-Hope flares in the other boy’s eyes, his lips twisting before he rasps, “Libertus.”

-And the next moment Libertus is on the ground again, pinned down in the middle of the street by a sobbing Nyx, but that’s okay, because Libertus is sobbing too. A second after that and he’s hauled to his feet and dragged off by Nyx to a too-empty compound that still stinks of old blood and bleach and bundled into one of the houses so they can sob in privacy.

-Libertus spends a good ten minutes screaming himself hoarse at Nyx for dying. For being a self-sacrificing heroic idiot. Nyx screams back that what was Libertus doing here then huh?

-“I died of old age you idiot! Like you should have!”

-Nyx pauses “...Oh.” A blink, a flicker of red in black eyes and Nyx whispers, “What happened ... after?”

-And Libertus tells him. He tells him everything as they lie on Nyx’s futon, tangled around each other in a puppyish pile like they did when they were children. He tells him about Insomnia’s fall, and Princess insisting on separating, on going to Galahd and waiting until the Long Night fell and he returned to the glaive. How he was the Captain and hated every second of it, hating having to choose which brothers and sisters would take the suicide missions, hated losing more and more people as the night kept going.

-He spoke of the young king who returned ten years later with age and wisdom in his every line. How they followed him to Insomnia to take back the dawn. How the king died purifying the scourge and giving them a chance. How he had gone back to Galahd with the survivors and rebuilt their homes until Libertus was old and grey and couldn’t really walk because of the ache in the hip a daemon shattered during the Long Night that no one had had an elixir for.

-Then he speaks of waking up here as Jun, of his mother and his ... new father. Of being taken here and exploring and finding Nyx.

-Then Nyx huddles closer, and tell him his story in return. In waking up his memories in a massacre. All of his Clan. Gone. Again. Murdered by a kinslayer, a former BROTHER and Libertus keens for his friend. Nyx whispers of putting himself back together and training, and it is only now Libertus registers the pink and purple ribbon woven into a tiny braid in his hair, a declaration of revenge.

-Nyx also tells him of Naruto, the boy he’s adopted, of little Hinata and her flinches and how she blossoms like a flower in the sun with just a little bit of kindness and praise. He talks about his Anbu, the masked ninja that leaves potted plants on his window sill and is secretly addicted to Nyx’s cooking, terrible as it is, and how even though the man will not speak and won’t give his name, Nyx has adopted him too.

-Libertus hugs Nyx as tight as he can and swears that it will be alright.

-He comes home late that evening, dragging Nyx behind him by the wrist, looks his new father in the eyes and says he wants to become a ninja.

-The promise of training, of becoming strong enough in this world to protect Nyx, is worth the manly tears and illusionary sunsets his declaration gets.

-Of course, dragging Nyx home only causes more manly tears when he announces that this is his new best friend (what kind of name is Sasuke anyway, Nyx is much better, but they keep their old life names to themselves). And they get ... a lot of odd looks after that as they run around, attached at the hip just like when they were kids the first time around. Might Guy, his father, has a lot of Feelings about this friendship. Mostly Manly Tears and booming declarations of Youth. Libertus smacks Nyx over the head the one time Nyx grins and says Lib’s new dad is fun.

-Meanwhile the rest of the village watches in horror at the budding friendship of the Last Uchiha and Might Guy’s newfound son. Because MIGHT GUY’S SON. AND THE LAST UCHIHA.

-Kakashi feels a creeping sense of Doom™ in his future.

I’ll cover the reunion with Crowe in another ramble sometime, and more reactions on the Might/Uchiha friendship but for now this has already gotten long enough so I’ll leave it there. XD

[londonfog-chan]

Noriaki Kakyoin x Reader: Glitter Freeze Part 3

A bit more plot wise, but hey, that’s what we are here for.

It’s the best feeling in the entire world…

Outside, it’s freezing. Like the Arctic tundra. You can almost hear the roar of the wind and feel the harsh flakes obliterate the land, but inside your blanket it’s nice and toasty warm. Let the wind howl, you think, you can’t remember the last time you’ve been this warm. A cool hand strokes your forehead. You’re cuddled on someone’s lap like a cat, head cushioned by soft silky skirts and the plush of her thighs as your caretaker continues to pet you. Even though you’re highly aware of being in a dream, everything feels so real... As if this is a routine, predictable…

“Are you still cold?” she asks.

Her voice is so soft. So kind…

“I’m ok…” you coo. “Is it time to get up?”

She chuckles, smoothing your locks down as soft snowflakes kiss your cheeks.

“You don’t have to get up if you don’t want to.” She assures. “Just rest.”

The kiss she places on the bridge of your nose is so warm… So familiar… You murmur softly, a name you’ve heard only in vague snippets of whispers. A smile is apparent in your caretaker’s voice as she sings you a soft lullaby, one that makes you feel as though you are in another place and time with the way she speaks so fancifully.

“Just rest darling… nothing will harm you so long as I am near you.”

“Mmm… gra-…”

“HOLLY! WHERE ARE MY CLOTHES?!”

… God fucking dammit.

“HOLLY!”

Your eyes snap open when you hear your grandpa’s booming voice echoing throughout the whole fucking house. Mama is a firm believer in simplicity she says, but you know better. Your deadbeat father doesn’t give her enough money to treat herself nicely, therefore the expanse of the house that your grandpa bought for her is sparse, and the acoustics makes his screaming sound like he’s in a fucking cave. There’s no choice but to get up. No chance of rolling over in your empty bed and ignoring him, it’s already too late. Even your mother has decided to get up, you notice the side of the bed she was sleeping on is tucked in at the edges.

“HOLLY! I CAN’T WEAR JOTARO’S PANTS EVEN IF THEY FIT ME, WHERE DID YOU PUT THE REST OF MY CLOTHES?!”

Jesus jumped up Christ… You reluctantly open your screen door leading to the outside, squinting in the bright sunlight. Grandpa is lumbering around, looking for your mother in every room that has an open door. Fuck… your family and their negligence in opening doors. Son of a bitch… Before you go after grandpa you have to pull the duvet from your bed and wrap it around your shoulders. You’re still so fucking cold, as if the warmth never happened and your Stand was still breathing down your neck. You can hear your grandpa muttering angrily to himself, looking every which way in confusion.

“Wait… Is she still wanting to be called that Japanese name…? Is that the only way I can get her to come out? What was that name… Sa… Sade? No… I gave her a beautiful name, and that was all by myself. HOLLY!”

“Stop screaming!”

Grandpa jumps nearly ten feet when you croak out your reproach. Your throat is still a little sore, and you look positively disheveled in your pajamas as you rub your eyes.

“Grandpa…” you hiss in your weirdly accented English, “It’s unholy hours of the morning.”

“Honey it’s already eight-…”

“Unholy… HOURS. Stop fucking screaming!”

“You watch your mouth young lady! I’ve had enough of you and your brother acting like wild animals. You don’t talk that way in front of your grandpa. And what are you doing out of bed?!”

You’re not in the mood to be babied and you hiss like a cat at your grandpa, pulling out of his strong grip and waving him away as your face scrunches in a positively grumpy scowl. No matter how much you protest or complain that you’re fine it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t back off, and he keeps griping for you to get back into bed with the threat of carrying you back there himself.

“Please stop it Papa!” you whine like a baby, and it’s the tone of voice that makes him soften. “I’m fine. I don’t want to be babied.”

“Honey this is serious. I need you to get back into bed. Please? For your Papa?”

“No… I can’t think of laying there rotting in my room for another minute. I’m starting to get sore.”

“Bedsores?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a whole spot on the side of my body, look.”

That’s not a lie. You show him the bruises and red marks of developing bed sores from huddling under the covers trying not to freeze to death, and it does seem to bring some understanding the more you open up to him.

“Alright baby…” he finally concedes. “You don’t have to get back into bed, but you need to get cleaned up. Do you want me to help you?”

“I’ll be fine, besides it looks like you need more help than I do. I took your suitcase Grandpa.” You lead him by his warm hand to another part of the house.

“Where’d you put it baby?”

“I woke up last night and I couldn’t sleep. Figured you’d get tired of rooming with me so I put everything in the guest room.”

“I think your Papa is going to stick with you, at least your futon is comfortable. Why doesn’t your mother want any real beds in the house?”

You have to think of a good lie and think of it fast. If you let on now, your mother will be distraught. Of all the secrets you kept from your grandparents this one was the worst. Your mother often begs you not to say anything to them if they ask. Just tell them everything is fine, she insists, we’ll be ok honey. Your daddy will get a big break and send us more money soon. But he never gives anything so much as a second thought. All three of you live in poverty compared to your multi-millionaire grandparents. The bills get paid solely because your father doesn’t want to ever come home to a non-functioning house, cheap asshole doesn’t like paying for hotels in Japan, and he only sends money for food when he remembers he has two kids to feed. Other than that, you all are on your own, and your mother has to keep everything hush hush.

Otherwise… Well… You’ve figured it out by now. Grandpa can make it look like an accident if he finds out.

“I don’t know.” You groan, and the second you say it you quickly save yourself, “She thinks it’s the Japanese way to sleep on the floor, and I told her that’s only if you’re dirt poor. I hate sleeping on the floor. I’m too delicate, even cats sleep on beds.”

While you’re walking with your grandpa passed the hall leading to the front door, you hear a gruff voice calling out “going to school, don’t bother with-“only to be cut short when you pass by with your grandpa.

“She’s not here to kiss you, so if you’re leaving just get on with it!” you snap in Japanese.

Jotaro turns to look at you, and there’s an unreadable look on his face as you stare him down. Thank the good Lord that grandpa never learned a word of Japanese (he insists that you, Holly and Jotaro speak only English to him), otherwise you know you’d be in a world of trouble if he could understand the harsh words that you tell your brother.

“Are you heading to school Jotaro?”

He nods vaguely, eyes trained on you as you glare him down. You won’t forgive him for this. You can’t... The past few weeks echo like a nightmare in your head and no matter what, you can’t let it go.

“Go on and get out.” You tell him in Japanese.

He doesn’t move an inch. Scoffing, you skulk off away from both your grandfather and your brother, the former calling out your name while the latter just stares after you.

“I’m going to take a shower.” You call back to your grandfather. “Jotaro, see you later.”

“That’s not how you say goodbye baby!” Joseph responds. “Come here and kiss your brother goodbye!”

You turn around and your scowl chokes up your grandpa’s words.

“He’s a grown ass man.” You snarl, this time in English. “He got sent to big boy jail I heard because he’s so big, so he’s grown. He doesn’t need anything from me.”

You have to leave. You can’t even look at your brother anymore. It’s too painful… Not when your grandpa is only going to try and pry more because of your anti Jotaro sentiments and possibly make you blab now that you’re left feeling raw and exposed. Last night when you were talking with Kakyoin he’d asked you the same thing, how come you were screaming at Jotaro for leaving you? And you simply told him you thought he was the world, and then you found out it was a lie. Why keep up a lie perpetuated by everyone else? You were content with being lonely if you had to.

“What difference does it make anyways?” you had asked Kakyoin before you left. “Everyone has someone they say, but that’s a damn lie. Nobody has anybody because at the end of the night when you’re laying there alone in that bed like me, absolutely sick and only getting worse, no one comes to get you. It’s just you there alone with your thoughts… And no one would ever understand what those thoughts do to you…”

“Good morning Miss Kujo, how are you feeling today?”

You look up, hearing a rather diplomatic accent address you. It’s Grandpa’s friend, one Mr. Avdol, and instantly you feel yourself perk up just the tiniest bit. He’d introduced himself before and told you briefly of the string of events connecting everyone together. For some reason you decided in the night that you really like him, maybe it’s his warmth that draws you in, like a fire in a hearth beckoning in a snowstorm. Whatever it is, your cheeks turn pink and you smile for the first time this morning.

“Hiya Mr. Avdol!” you grin, and you’re excited to see him smile warmly. “I’m alright. A little cold, but I think that’s just left over from being sick. Look, I don’t have ice anymore!”

Proudly you hold out your hands to him, but you’re too excited to berate yourself for the childish action you’re performing. You want someone to be proud of you for keeping your ice lady under control, and you can feel her happiness fluttering in your heart alongside your heartbeat. Now that she’s no longer perceiving anything as a threat, it feels like she was always meant to be there with you.

“Very good.” He praises, and his nod makes your heart skip a beat. “In fact that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about. You thought about what I told you about Stands, yes?”

“Why do you have to call it that?” you whine like a petulant child. “That’s literally the most uninspired name I’ve ever heard, like really? It stands next to you, so you call it a Stand? Why can’t you call it something else?”

He chuckles in that deep brooding voice and you have to break the pout to smile.

“I was coming to that, seeing as your lady can manifest into a physical form, and has inexplicably tied you to this string of fate, I’d like to give her a name.”

Avdol reaches into the many folds of his clothes and begins to shuffle a very old looking deck, well worn, and he’s even able to do that really cool casino shuffle Grandpa Joseph does whenever you watch him play cards. You’re captivated, like a five year old, but it suddenly doesn’t seem very fair that he wants to give a name to the lady living in your soul.

“How come I can’t do that myself?” you cock your head. “She’s my Stand isn’t she? I thought maybe I’d call her Jareth the Goblin King.”

“I’m afraid that’s not how it works, can you imagine if everyone had free reign to name their own Stands?” he shakes his head when you huff indignantly, handing his cards out to you face down so that you cannot see what you are getting from the large hand.

“Pick a card from this deck.” Avdol instructs you.

“What’s it supposed to do?”

“The card you pick will determine your place in this web of fate, and will decide your Stand’s name and ability. No peeking, and don’t worry about trying to pick the best of the bunch. Just let your hand rest on the first one that feels right.”

You try not to think about it, but your fingers still tingle uncertainly when you reach out to the proffered deck and ghost your fingers over the cards. It seems like it should be something to think of for days, but he did say not to worry about it. Yet how could you help but worry anyways? That’s just who you are, too many secrets rest inside you to even allow you to have no thoughts. Constantly you are deep in contemplation, hell even now you’re starting to worry that you cannot even do something as simple as pick a fucking card.

But your body reacts automatically, settling down on a card and drawing it towards you to see.

“What’s this one?” you ask, frowning at the card.

Avdol looks down, taking the deck back up together and studying the card with a slight frown.

“Interesting…” he murmurs.

“What’s so interesting about this lady on the chair?” you ask.

“That lady is called Queen of Swords, an air element and the most masculine of the tarot queens.” He says, more to himself than anyone else.

“She sits high on a throne in the clouds, that no one may trick or fool her. In her left hand she holds her sword as if to strike, while her right hand extends outward as if in offering. She offers the gift of judgement in determining every day decisions, as well as the flexibility and strength to take in knowledge from others. But if you look here, you will see she’s reversed.”

“Huh?”

“The card you have drawn is upside down. The reversed queen can often be seen as coldhearted, resentful… Most certainly familiar, don’t you think?” Avdol told you, flipping it right side up and back again to show you the distinction.

“Is… Is that why she can make ice?” you ask.

He nods gravely, taking the card from your hand and looking it over, and then looking back at you for quite some time to think.

“You think too much with your heart, and the situations at hand will manipulate your emotions, clouding your judgement and making you act brashly. You’ve been doing that so much, it’s beginning to deteriorate both your physical and mental wellbeing.”

This whole thing is starting to sound scarily familiar. So much so that you begin to deny it to yourself. The cold was a cold, the Stand was… The Stand was…

Is there even an explanation for it?

“If I may little one,” he says, taking the card from you gently and laying his hand upon yours, a warmth exudes, and you swear you see another hand engulfed in flames appear. You didn’t know when the ice came back, only could feel the cold dread of anxiety when you realized Avdol could read you like a fucking best seller, “If you wish to have complete control over your Stand you need to start thinking more objectively. Use your head, not your heart, emotions will always lead you astray and cause misunderstandings. You’re strong, but you must learn to use that strength to your advantage. Otherwise you might find yourself impaled on your own sword.”

The flames lap at the ice, dripping water down to the hardwood floors as you avoid looking up at the stranger. Once he realizes you’re not going to respond, too busy trying to process everything said to you, he leaves you without a goodbye.

You stand in the hallway trembling, wondering, contemplating your place in this abysmal fantasy…

And then you hear Avdol scream your mother’s name.

…

“If I could, I would marry someone like her. She calms everyone around her, a shelter from the storm...”

Great. Now turn the knife counter clockwise in your chest.

You can’t even bring yourself to go to your mother. Not now… Not when you’ll just get hit with those whammies every five seconds if you let yourself be exposed to them. Kakyoin has shown his true colors… Avdol found your mother collapsed and said she had a Stand too, except this one was slowly killing her instead of manifesting like yours or Jotaro’s… You can’t breathe, banished outside of your mother’s room, the ice skips the crawling and straight up freezes your limbs in a vice. Letting it take you is tempting. Maybe there was a good reason that your Stand wanted to keep you isolated from everyone.

It takes a lot of effort to go back to your room. When you finally push the door closed, rushing and shaking to get under your blanket, you can’t even think clearly. Your mind is swimming with irrational thoughts. Maybe it’s easier to give up, you think as the tears dribbling down your cheeks begin to freeze. Possibly you would find that the pain would end if you just surrendered yourself to the cold. It’s creeping further and further towards your heart and you think maybe this will be easier. Let it take you… Just let it take completely over… Let you go into the storm of the cold…

“Ora, ora…”

You can’t open your eyes, they’re frozen over with tears. A very warm pair of arms wraps around you, the breath of the one holding you tightly begins to emulate the breathing technique Avdol coached you through. You don’t want to breathe. You want the cold to just take you over and let you go, let you go with Mama into that dark void. The only parent you’ve known is dying and you want to go with her. You barely survived when Jotaro shunned you, you don’t even have a friend in Kakyoin who probably thinks you’re a fucking animal. Even Avdol told you, you were dying at one point, but it had been all your own fault because you couldn’t control yourself. And Grandpa... Grandpa hadn’t done anything to you but care, but the thing with him is that he will always go back to New York with Grandma, the visits where they shower you with affection always have an expiration date, and they don’t even have the decency to take you away from all this suffering… The only one you had… That was Holly…

You cannot imagine what life will be like without your mother. She was the one constant in your life. Never did you ever question where your deadbeat father was or when he would come home and love you. Not when she was there being both parents at the same time. All the times you didn’t mean to take her for granted came flooding back to make your stomach hurt, but deep down you knew she was the pillar holding you up. What will it be like to not have her there anymore? If she is no longer there to hold you, no more soft lipstick kisses, no more fussing over you to make sure you’re eating properly, no more laying your head in her lap while she ran her fingers through your hair… is life worth living without your mommy?

“Ora…”

Who the hell… You don’t know… You just don’t know anymore. It seems whoever is holding you wants you to breathe, to fight back the cold. Take control back, if not for your sake for… for whose sake?

Someone wants you to keep living. You don’t know how you feel it, but you do.

“Please…” you whine, “Please let me go.”

“Ora.”

“Stop it. Just stop it, I don’t… I don’t want to… Not… Not my mommy… First my Bubba and now my mommy… I can’t… Please!”

It won’t let up. You’re forced through chattering teeth to take a breath in, then exhale. Your breath is like a snowy cloud when you exhale, only stopping once you’ve got the repetition down to four seconds breathe in, four seconds hold, and finally four seconds exhale. You can feel your Stand’s hand caress your arm, bringing down the ice from your elbows back down to your fingertips. There’s another soft lull of “ora ora” as the one holding you rocks you gently, your Stand whines by your side.

You want to let go, but it seems you cannot escape this vice grip no matter how hard you to try to.

[thebiasrekkers]

Make It Right [BTS Mafia!AU]

Plot: “It’s always darkest before the dawn…” It’s a dog-eat-dog world in Seoul, South Korea. One has to dwell in the shadows in order to reach for the light. What are you willing to sacrifice in order to feel the sunlight on your face? What will it take to drag you back into darkness? How long will the journey be to make it right?

Rating: NC-17 // NSFW

Genre: Series | Mafia!AU | Crime!AU | Angst | Romance/Fluff | Smut

Pairings: Jin x OC | Taehyung/Hoseok x OC | Yoongi/Jungkook x OC

Warnings: Graphic Violence (bloody violence), Heavy Language, Angst, Slow Burn, Smut

Additional Warnings: Actual smut (strip tease, heavy foreplay, fingering, hand job, body worship, pre-cum), allusion to kidnapping

Previous Chapters: Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin E’s AO3 || Admin E’s WP || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 4,315

Tag List: @prisczero​, @pinkpjmin​, @btsaudge​, @flowerwrites06​, @unoriginal-username15432, @halussali​, @shrimpmsg​​,

AN: So...this is the beginning of the end. To everyone who has faithfully followed this series from the start, I thank you. I appreciate you. It’s about to be a very bumpy ride. I’m going to go ahead and apologize in advance. I’m sorry for the hurt and pain that is coming. Please stay with me  until the end.

Chapter 48: Home

“We won’t talk but we’ll be comfortable. If only I have you, it’ll be my home.“

© thebiasrekkers (Admin E). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft.

Hwaseong – Gyeonggi Province South Korea

Eden smiled as she felt Jungkook wrap his heavier coat around her shoulders. Children raced past them, squealing in delight as they chased each other. One child barreled into her back, causing her to stumble forward a little. Jungkook cuffed the little boy on his head and Eden tugged at Jungkook’s ear to get him to stop. The little boy sniffled, apologizing, and Eden gave him a few bills so he could buy some snacks with his friends. Jungkook smirked, watching the little boy blush as he looked at her, bowed, and then scrambled off to be with his friends.

“You’re too easy on them,” he teased.

She rolled her eyes. “They’re just kids. Let them be kids.” Eden paused as they reached the corner of the street. “They should have that luxury, don’t you think?”

When she looked up at Jungkook, something flickered across his gaze. His brows furrowed and she immediately regretted saying what she had. Her intention hadn’t been to make him feel guilty, but he still did. Old memories were dredged up, something that they talked about in length once when they were up late watching Korean gangster movies while sharing a bottle of whiskey. They both never really got to be kids; the world forced them to grow up and deal with the adult world before they physically became adults.

It wasn’t a life either of them chose for themselves, but it wasn’t a life they regretted either. It made them who they were now. It was the life that led them to each other.

“I’m sorry, Jungkook-ah,” she said softly, “I shouldn’t have said that…”

He shook his head roughly from side to side, taking her arm and looping it through his. “No, you’re right. They should be able to run and play and rough around like they want while they can.”

She smiled, relieved to know that he felt the same way she did.

They continued down the path, passing various street stalls that sold food, clothes, and other trinkets. It was Spring and Summer would soon be approaching. Flowers were blooming and green returned to the once barren trees that lined the streets. The air was starting to warm up, but there was still that little bit of chill in the air that swept through and touched the marrow of bones.

Most women would have found coming to a back end province like Hwaseong deplorable – especially for a honeymoon getaway. But Eden insisted that this was the place she wanted to spend time with her husband – the place where he sealed away all his childhood memories; where his dreams first began.

The place where he called home.

Hwaseong was rural in most aspects, but there were industrial districts. She preferred the softer sides of his hometown, the places where all the rolling hills and lush forests flourished. It was peaceful, quiet, and a place where she could gather her thoughts. Jungkook pointed out the places that meant the most to him and she made mental notes of them; filing them away to be explored in depth later.

One by one, he went by all the places that his brothers called home. Some of their family members came out to greet them and Jungkook simply introduced Eden as his girlfriend. She didn’t mind, seeing as how they were both wearing their wedding bands as necklaces. But just for now. Eden agreed that it was better if they kept their marriage a secret, especially since tensions between the Jade Fangs and the former Golden Jackals had the potential to escalate. It was the safer and smarter way to go about things. Jimin was the only one who knew and they would keep it that way until everything finally settled down.

As each day passed, she was able to see the lake where he first met the others – the ones he called his brothers. They were all children back then, playing around the Han River in their underwear and throwing rocks at the lake while fishing. He took her to the orphanage that cared for him until he was old enough to get a job and go to school. As painful as it must have been, Jungkook even showed her the home he used to live in with his parents before they threw him away. A different family lived there now.

Everything was a precious memory, good and bad, and Eden tucked them away without judgment.

They returned to the hotel, deciding to order takeout and have it brought to their room. Lavish as their lodgings were, it seemed a bit silly, seeing as how Hwaseong became a bit of a tourist trap in recent years. It gave the community a chance to build something expansive and eye-catching, grabbing at the ankles of wealthy tourists to come and spend their money on pricey hotel suites and cheap souvenirs boasting ancient history in the inner square’s markets.

But it was the little things that counted.

After they finished eating, Eden began washing dishes in the sink of the suite’s kitchen. As she placed a few on the drying rack, she felt Jungkook approach her from behind. He slid his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder as she continued to work. She smiled when he pressed a kiss to the side of her neck and she wiggled a little, his fringe tickling her cheek.

“Let’s go back to Seoul tomorrow,” he said suddenly, lacing his fingers together across her stomach.

She rinsed off a plate, intent on focusing on the task at hand. “Why? I thought we were staying here for a few more days?” Eden pouted, casting a sidelong glance at him. “Are we cutting the honeymoon short?”

She understood if it needed to be done. Sometimes work couldn’t be avoided. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

Jungkook laughed, pressing his mouth to her temple. “No, we’re not.” He reached up to brush some of her hair behind her ear. “I actually have another surprise for you.”

“You and your surprises,” Eden muttered, unable to hide the tiny smirk that appeared.

“Trust me,” he whispered, “you’ll love it.”

Seoul – Itaewon; Yongsan District South Korea

“Uh, Jungkook?”

“Hm?”

“What is this?”

“What is what?”

Eden turned to look at Jungkook, seeing the look of pride all but explode over his face. He was practically beaming and he took a moment to meet her gaze. Eden blinked up at him, then craned her neck to look back at the large house surrounded by a thicket of private trees. There was a small stairwell that led up to the front door, a small awning perched from the siding of the slate walls. A large front deck wrapped around the house, a two-story home that boasted modern features with a hint of traditional landscaping.

She pointed to the house – her finger aimed at the large window on the second floor.

“This,” she said again, “what is this?”

“A house,” he said, amusement laced through his words, “our house.”

Whipping her head to look at him. She could see no trace of a lie or even a tease. “Excuse me, what?”

Laughing, Jungkook grabbed her by the hand and tugged her along – pulling her up the short set of steps while rustling around for a set of keys. Slipping it into the door, he twisted the key and ushered her inside. Eden was only barely able to get her shoes off as he helped her into a pair of house slippers.

“I’ll get an electronic lock installed later. I just couldn’t wait to show this to you.”

She had no words. Even if she had, Eden was positive they would have tumbled to the floor in a meaningless collection of jargon she wouldn’t have been able to understand. Everything was brand new. The floor was made of polished hardwood, the furniture sleek and modern. Only the throw pillows were unfashionable as they sported various characters from anime that Eden liked – a large Princess Mononoke throw blanket draped across the back of the large couch in the living room.

Eden took a few steps forward, her eyes darting in every direction to take everything in. The kitchen was large, sporting a marble island with stools around it. Large windows allowed for natural light to flood the rooms, showing off the view of the front and side gardens. A huge flat screen television decorated the wall near an ornate entertainment center – a fireplace nestled in the corner with freshly cut logs near the hearth to be used during the colder months.

Turning to look at Jungkook, she didn’t have time to speak before he was already scooping her into his arms and carrying her up the stairs.

“We can explore the rest of the house tonight,” he said, leaning in to press his lips along the shell of her ear, “but there’s one place I want us to go.”

Eden felt her cheeks getting warmer. She knew the look in his eyes and understood what his intentions were. So it didn’t come as a surprise to her when he pushed open a door with his shoulder to reveal a large master bedroom. Without wasting a moment more, Jungkook set her down so her feet hit the floor, his lips moving to capture hers in a heated kiss. She moaned unconsciously into his mouth, her hands moving to rest on his shoulders as he hurriedly popped the buttons of her jeans loose.

His large hands moved to all but tear the hoodie from her, pulling it up and over her head so that it landed on the floor without a second glance. She tried to say something – anything – but the words were lost as he kissed her; his tongue slipping in between her lips to brush along her canines. Eden took a step back, her calf hitting the edge of the bed and she nearly stumbled backwards. Jungkook caught her by the waist, his hands warm against her skin. His fingers pressed into her waist, curling into the waistband of her jeans and she felt her breath hitch when he knocked his hips against hers. She could feel his erection through his pants, and she squeezed her thighs together a little bit tighter – attempting to get friction where she needed it most.

Jungkook’s kiss grew a bit more feverish, a hand moving from her waist to trail up her exposed back. Eden felt her skin pepper out in goosebumps – chasing the path that his hand made along her skin. Pausing to rest at the nape of her neck, Eden can’t help the sigh that managed to escape – lost in the cavern of his mouth. She tilted her head slightly, trying to get at his mouth at a better angle. But he chose that moment to break the kiss, trailing his mouth along the column of her neck. She felt his body almost vibrate as she reached out to pull at his shirt, yanking it free from his pants.

She felt his hand moving from the back of her neck, his fingers slowly clambering up to thread through her hair. His other hand was still at her hip and she could feel him tracing small circles around her skin before dipping below the waistband of her panties. Eden gasped softly as the sound of her zipper sliding down seemed to ricochet off the walls.

Jungkook broke the kiss again, moving a step back so he could slowly sink to the floor to his knees while taking her pants with him. He urged her to step out of them completely when they were bunched around her ankles and she complied, her legs trembling when he pressed his lips along her inner thigh. A hand slid down to the crown of his head, carding through his hair. Delicate hands moved to caress along her skin, finally smoothing over the curves of her thighs and then gripping onto her panties. He dragged them down, his lips giving chase to the material as he let it fall to her ankles.

Without having to be told, Eden stepped out of them as well.

Clad in just her bra, she felt overly exposed in a way that felt a little embarrassing. It was still broad daylight and Jungkook was being shamelessly intimate. The curtains weren’t drawn over the windows and while she knew the home was nestled in their own private sanctuary, Eden felt like someone was watching her; like they were being watched. It was a weird kink that she never believed she could properly give a voice to, but Jungkook indulged her whenever he could.

Licking a trail up her body, he paused just long enough to press his lips atop the swell of her breasts. He reached behind her, unhooking her bra and she let it fall to the ground. It, too, would be forgotten until it was deemed fit to be remembered.

Eden pouted as he smiled down at her, his eyes full of dark arousal. She could tell he was holding himself back a measure and she lightly smacked him on the chest with the back of her hand. His eyes crinkled in the corners, his gaze softening as he looked back at her.

“I’m the only one naked,” she murmured, “no fair.”

Reaching out to grasp one of her hands, he moved so that it now rested along the center of his chest. She could feel the heavy thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm and he quirked a brow at her. She wasn’t sure what he was trying to ask her.

“Then make it fair,” he replied, his voice low and raspy.

Eden couldn’t keep the look of surprise and amusement from dancing over her face. She bit her lower lip, her hands moving to undo each button before shoving the material back and off his shoulders. He shrugged out of the shirt, shaking his hands so he was free of the material. Eden immediately went to his belt, pulling the leather through the loops of his jeans and then dropping it to the floor.

She could admit she wasn’t nearly as patient as her husband and he laughed, watching her popping the button of his jeans loose while frantically pulling at the zipper. His hands moved to still over hers and he lifted her easily off the floor. Eden wriggled when she felt him kissing her stomach, laughing as he tossed her onto the bed.

She cooed softly as he slid out of his jeans and boxers in one swift motion. His shaft twitched in response to him drinking her in. She could see his pupils dilating as he climbed over her like a predator about to devour his prey. His hands slid between her thighs to press along her folds, feeling the slickness that escaped from how heavy her own arousal was. Moaning at his touch, Eden tried to move away from him, but he wouldn’t give her any quarter. Instead, he lowered his head to capture an exposed nipple between his lips.

Pleasure exploded over her skin and she nearly bucked from his finger pressing against the sensitive nub between her legs. He rubbed agonizingly slow circles around it before dipping into her slit to caress at her inner walls. In the haze of her lust, she could see the milky white fluid beading at the slit of his tip. She wanted to taste it but her selfish desire was knocked clean from her mind when he slid another finger into her.

Her hips lifted, pushing his digits further inside of her. Jungkook moved his face to lavish affection to the other nipple. He pumped his fingers in and out of her, his thumb continuing to rub circles over her clit. Electric shocks exploded behind her eyes and he lifted his face to catch her mouth in an open-mouthed kiss. Sucking on her tongue, Eden closed her eyes and moaned – unsure how much longer she was going to be able to handle this assault against her entire person.

As if he’d read her mind, Jungkook removed his fingers from her folds. Eden whined, shocked at her internal outrage to being deprived of her own pleasure. She watched Jungkook using her juices to coat his erection, his hand slowly stroking over himself. He gripped the base of the shaft and she felt herself getting wetter just watching him. After a moment of this, he straddled her hips – positioning himself as he pressed the tip of his erection against her clit. Again, she hissed in pleasure, feeling her walls growing more and more slick as he teased her folds.

“My god,” Jungkook whispered, “you’re beautiful.”

“Jungkook-ah…”

“You’re my wife.” He smiled down at her. “How did I get so lucky?”

Eden felt tears forming in the corners of her eyes. She laughed softly, not caring that they leaked out and into her ears. Jungkook leaned down to press a kiss to her mouth, his lips moving along the curve of her jaw until he caressed the lobe of her ear.

“I love you,” he said softly, pressing the head of his erection into her entrance. She sucked in air between her teeth as he inched forward a little bit more. “I love you so much, Eden.”

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him closer. “I love you too, Jungkook.”

As if those were the words he’d been waiting for, he pushed himself forward completely – filling her insides. Her walls clamped down around him instinctively, holding him in place. As he pushed and pulled against her, the friction created was almost jarring. The pace was slow at first, but it didn’t take Jungkook long to speed things up. Eden rocked her hips against his, rising to meet his as he came down along her. There were wet, sloppy sounds of skin slapping against skin and it didn’t take long for their sweat-soaked skin to glide over each other with each hurried pulse of their movements.

And then he hit that spot; the spot that drove her half-mad. The spot that almost always left her fucked out of her head. Eden dug her nails into his skin, leaving half-moon marks along his muscles. She dragged her fingers down, red angry trails chasing after her fingernails before she clamped onto his forearms. He was practically jack-hammering into her, reaching his own favored spot, until she was seeing stars from the orgasm that began to overtake her. Her voice started off low until it soon escalated to a scream; one that she was almost positive rattled the windows. Jungkook wasn’t far behind her, her name bellowing from his lungs.

Heat filled her core, spreading over her entire body. She felt Jungkook shift his body slightly, collapsing beside her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, still buried inside of her, and pulled her close so that she was nestled perfectly against his form. He whispered words of love into her ear and Eden was barely conscious enough to hear them. But not before she was able to tell him that she loved him back.

They’d made a mess over their brand-new bed; their new bedding.

Neither of them cared.

Five Months Later

“I’m proud of you, y’know that?”

Eden smiled while rolling her eyes at the phone situated on the nightstand. Raelyn smirked back at her on the screen. They’d been Face Timing each other since Jungkook left for work in the morning. He had a few errands to run and she was leaving the shop in Minki’s hands. Eden folded a few more items on the bed, organizing them, and then placed the clothes into the small suitcase.

“I’m serious. This is pretty gutsy of you and I’m glad you’re doin’ it.”

After she threw the small plastic bag of toiletries on top of the clothes, she moved to sit on the bed. She picked up the phone and flopped back onto the bed.

“I know,” she said with a sigh, “I’m just a little nervous, I guess.”

“Don’t be. I mean, do be, but don’t let that shake you up.” She watched Raelyn’s brows furrow. “They know you’re comin’, right? You’re not just showing up unannounced?”

Again, Eden rolled her eyes. “Yes, they know I’m coming.”

Raelyn held a hand up. “Look, I’m just makin’ sure, alright?” She paused and Eden lofted a brow. “I’m a little surprised they agreed to this.”

She scoffed, clambering off the bed. “Like they have a choice. From what I was able to find out, I’m the only child my mother ever had before she died. I’m sure they’re just as curious about me as I am about them.”

She still didn’t know why she was doing this. Part of her wanted to call the whole thing off. It wasn’t like things were going to change by doing this. Seeing her mother’s family, the people who treated her like the black sheep of their bloodline, only angered Eden. But she also knew that she couldn’t abandon them. Not until she really got to see them for who they truly were. After that, she would make her decision on whether to continue having them circulating around her life.

“Well, when you get there, you show them exactly who the hell you are and that you ain’t playin’ any games.”

Eden couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “I think you should be more worried about that little troublemaker growing inside of you, don’t you?”

“Girl, don’t get me started,” Raelyn said, the bitter tone evident in her voice, “between Anastasia’s mood swings and Taehyung being my damn shadow, I don’t have time to get into anything stupid.”

She closed the suitcase and secured the locks, picking it up and unlatching the extended handle. Eden made her way out of the bedroom and headed downstairs, the suitcase rolling behind her as she continued to hold the phone up in front of her.

“Good,” she said once she made it to the ground floor, “because I don’t need to be working my nerves while I’m on this trip. They’re frayed as it is.”

This time Raelyn scoffed. “You’ll be fine. Is Jungkook takin’ you to the train station?”

“No. He’s busy with work and I told him not to worry about it.”

“Three days, right?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Though depending on how the trip goes, I may come back early.”

“I heard Daegu is beautiful this time of year. Make sure you take a lot of pictures.”

“I will, I will,” Eden reassured. She opened the front door and closed it behind her, the electronic lock beeping to let her know it was secured. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

“Alright. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Hanging up the call, she pulled up her messages. She shot Jungkook a quick text to let him know she was heading to the train station. Eden knew he was busy at the recording studio and didn’t want to interrupt him while he worked.

Jungkook: Be safe. Call me as soon as you’ve arrived. I love you.

Smiling, she sent him a heart emoji. She was never a big fan of texting and he knew that about her. He never nagged her about it. Eden was a woman who believed that actions spoke louder than words. She’d always been this way. She was thankful that Jungkook understood and accepted this – always willing to meet her halfway.

He sent her two heart emojis back.

Making her way toward the front gate, Eden pushed it open and pulled her suitcase behind her. She turned to close the gate, tugging at the bars to make sure the latch caught properly. Checking her watch, she saw she had plenty of time to get to the train station.

Maybe I should call him anyway, she thought, moving to head down the long walkway leading from the house.

Eden managed to take a few steps forward before someone stepped in front of her. The heels of her sneakers scuffed along the ground as she stopped, lifting her head to see who was blocking her path. He looked a little familiar, but she wasn’t quite sure from where. Blinking a few times, she watched the other man’s small smile growing little by little.

She didn’t have time for this. Maybe she was mistaken.

“Excuse me,” she said through clenched teeth, moving so she could side-step him. He shifted to resume blocking her path. Eden shot him a glare. “Move.”

“You’re still as feisty as ever, I see,” he said. She said nothing, narrowing her eyes. “I know it’s been awhile, but I’m a little hurt you don’t remember me.”

“Should I?”

The man lifted his hand in the air, miming holding a shot glass. He made a motion to show he was tipping the glass back into his mouth. Eden scrutinized him a moment longer and he merely continued to smile.

And then it hit her.

“You,” she growled, her eyes narrowing to slits. “Yoo Kihyun.”

He snapped his fingers. “Bingo.”

Eden reached into her pocket. “What do you want?”

He shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious?” When his eyes met hers, they were dark and cold. It caused Eden to hesitate for just a moment. “It’s you.”

That moment of hesitation was her undoing. She failed to notice the look of triumph painted over his face. She’d missed the sound of movement behind her. And before she could register that she was being ambushed, Eden felt a sharp prick to the back of her neck. 

It didn’t take long. If given the chance, she would have only been able to count to five.

Five seconds before the world went dark.

[drarryruinedme7]

Hi hun! Congrats on the 400 followers.🌹 May I ask for a Drarry babysitting Teddy Lupin?

Hey there @harrypotterfanfictionwriter! Here I am, I tried to write something for your prompt and I hope you’ll like it!! 💗Many thanks to my beta @keyflight790 and my always supporting alpha/beta/friend @rockmarina ❤️.

Drarry | Rating: General | Word count: 2.8K | Tags: babysitting Teddy, redeemed Draco Malfoy, boys in love, first kiss | READ IT ON AO3.

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

The first time they met there, it was weird.

Harry entered Andromeda’s house with a little package in his hands and halted abruptly on the doorstep.

“Dromeda… why is Teddy’s hair so…” Harry struggled to find a word until nothing better than, “Malfoy-ish?” came to his mind.

His step-aunt snorted, shaking her head lightly. “Don’t you think he looks cute with this platinum blond?”

Harry regarded Teddy more closely. The kid was now looking expectantly at the package in Harry’s hands. He kinda did look pretty with blond hair, but that wasn’t the point. He opened his mouth to reply when none other than Draco Malfoy appeared on the stairway that led to the second floor of the house.

Harry’s hands tightened around the wrapping of Teddy’s present and his eyes snapped to Andromeda. She was apparently concentrated on knitting some sort of coloured scarf and wasn’t paying attention to the fact that a former Death Eater happened to be in her house.

Malfoy caught Harry’s eye and just stepped into the living room, silently approaching Teddy and sitting next to him. He made Teddy’s magical marbles dance around him, eliciting heartfelt laughter from him.

From Harry’s godson. Like Harry wasn’t even there. Like Harry wasn’t even a big deal.

No. Draco Malfoy couldn’t just ignore him.

“What are you doing here, exactly?” Harry tried to convey as much spite as he could, but Malfoy simply raised his head and grinned.

He fucking grinned.

“Playing with my cousin. Do you want to join us?”

Teddy turned his head to Harry too, and his hair became almost black as he stretched his hands towards him. “Up!”

Harry was staring in horror at this strange version of Draco Malfoy. He knew he had changed since the War, he’d seen him earlier that week at the restoration of Hogwarts and he’d received his letter of apology, but surely this was a step too far.

Trying to gather his control, Harry left the package on the floor, next to the marbles, and picked Teddy up, lifting him above his head and peppering his face with kisses.

With Teddy laughing in his arms, Harry kneeled next to Malfoy and tried to smile at him. If he could be civil, Harry certainly couldn’t be any less.

He thought again about Malfoy’s offer. Did he want to join them?

“Well… let’s see if Teddy likes what I bought him.” He unwrapped the package, revealing a big stuffed horse doll enchanted to gallop an overexcited Teddy around the house.

Harry let his eyes drift towards Malfoy, who was watching Teddy on his new toy, clapping his hands and laughing. Without taking his eyes off Teddy, Malfoy said, “He’s lucky to have you as a godfather, you know.”

Harry’s world must have turned upside down, because there was no way he’d heard that right. Ignoring the way his heart was vibrating in every fibre of his body, Harry scrambled for something to say, anything. He took a marble and fidgeted with it. “Erm, these are beautiful. Did you buy them?”

Malfoy nodded, offering him a soft smile again. Harry had no idea what to think — this version of Malfoy was making him nervous and he couldn’t guess how to deal with it. When Teddy came back to his marbles, they all played together and Harry was surprised to realise he was having a great time with Malfoy, who was surprisingly good with Teddy; gentle and patient.

Their time together flew by and soon it was evening. Andromeda tried to insist that Malfoy stay over for dinner, but he refused, saying he had to go back to his mother. Malfoy’s No left a bittersweet pang of disappointment in Harry’s chest, and a plea to remain almost escaped his lips.

He managed to hold it in and walked Malfoy to the door, gripping his hand quickly to bid him farewell and closing the door behind himself. When he turned towards Dromeda, she raised an eyebrow at him and a corner of her mouth lightly quirked up.

It was the closest thing to a smile Harry saw on her face since the War was over.

—–

The second time, Harry was less prepared than the first one, if that was even possible.

He was late, he always was. He entered Andromeda’s running, barely closing the door behind himself and sprinting towards Teddy’s room. He almost missed her “Hi, Harry!” in his haste to reach Teddy… and Malfoy. He needed to be certain he met the real Malfoy the last time and not just a faker but kinder… well, also, more handsome, version of him. The whole thing stank to Harry.

As soon as he reached the door to Teddy’s room, he slowed down. A soft whisper from inside the room made heat pool in Harry’s stomach…  

When the dog bites

When the bee stings

When I’m feeling sad

I simply remember my favorite things

And then I don’t feel so bad

Someone was singing… someone that definitely sounded like Malfoy and whose voice was so deep that Harry’s chest felt tight. Without thinking too much, he pushed the door slowly open to find Malfoy standing in the centre of the room. Teddy, with bright blond hair, tears in his eyes, but relaxed in Malfoy’s hug.

Harry’s breath faltered and goosebumps ran down his spine while Malfoy turned his head, nodding to Harry, still delicately singing…

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens

Brown paper packages tied up with strings

These are a few of my favorite things

All Harry could do was stand there and smile, while Teddy’s hair slowly changed to his brand black. When standing there simply staring at Malfoy became too awkward, Harry approached them and gently kissed Teddy’s cheek.

“Hi,” Malfoy whispered. It was so new to hear him whisper, that Harry almost forgot who they were and where they came from. “He was crying, searching for his Mummy… but I think he’s calmer now.”

Harry felt something heavy drop in his stomach at those words, making his eyes sting and he threaded his fingers in Teddy’s hair. He replied whispering as Malfoy did. “You’re good with him, he looks so at peace… and — ” Harry chewed on his bottom lip. Was he really about to say it? “And your voice is soothing… it’s, um, sweet when you sing.”

They shared a look and Harry saw Malfoy’s cheeks gaining a deeper colour. Harry stared at him, thinking once again he had no idea who this guy standing in front of him was. Space and time seemed different when they were together at Dromeda’s with Teddy. And he let himself believe they really could be someone else, something different.

“Thanks, Harry.” Malfoy’s eyes widened before he quickly added, “Can I call you Harry?”

He didn’t have to think about the reply. “Of course, you can, Draco.”

When dinner time neared, Draco politely refused again Andromeda’s invite, greeting them at the doorstep, promising he’d stay next time.

Harry daydreamed about that next time, about them chatting over dinner, laughing, telling funny anecdotes with Teddy, maybe even talking more serious stuff, something about the War? How they were dealing with the aftermaths?

He was gazing absent-mindedly into the void when Andromeda playfully shook him. “You get along well, after all, Harry.” Her voice seemed to have a hopeful tone, rather than the flat one she had assumed after the Final Battle.

Harry felt his face on fire. Sighing deeply, he just smiled. “I guess we do.”

—–

The third time they met there, Harry knew it, it was planned. So, he should have been more prepared. But he wasn’t.

He and Draco still met during Hogwarts restoration, but there they were their old selves. Draco called him ‘Potter’, almost never approached him, keeping a distance, maintaining a cold stance.

That’s why he was so nervous when he arrived at Dromeda’s. Draco still hadn’t arrived, so Andromeda left the instructions about where to find food, how to change diapers, the right temperature for baby food and such, to Harry and then went out with Narcissa. They were trying to rebuild their relationship.

Harry was baking cookies with Teddy when Draco finally arrived. He showed a big grin to the two of them, covered with flour and chocolate, and joined them without a second thought.

The entire afternoon went smoothly, Draco calling him ‘Harry’, playing with Teddy, showing him magic, listening to Harry telling stories about Muggle life.

In the end, Teddy’s loving eyes convinced him to stay even for dinner.

All during their meal, they kept things light-hearted until they brought Teddy to bed. It was an incredibly intimate moment, where Harry felt all the warmth of a welcoming house, of love and caring for the little ones. Those feelings he never experienced as a child himself and would have never imagined sharing with Draco Malfoy.

When he was in his bed, Teddy yawned and looked at Draco with his eyes already half-closed, asking him to sing a lullaby. For the second time, Harry stayed mesmerized, listening to Draco, his voice reaching Harry’s soul and taking its space into his heart.

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,

How I wonder what you are…

And it was in that moment that Harry knew it, he knew something was growing inside himself towards Draco that he couldn’t stop anymore, like a snowball picking up more and more snow in its fall, getting inescapably bigger as it rolls down.

When Teddy was fast asleep, they moved to the living room, waiting for Andromeda to come back. They sat on the couch before the hearth, a hot chocolate in their hands and a companionable silence between them.

After a while, Draco’s head slid on Harry’s shoulder and he couldn’t be silent anymore. He needed to ask, to know… “Do you ever – Are you…”

“I am sure you can articulate something even with your little Gryffindor brain,” Draco snarled, his hot breath tickling Harry’s collarbone.

“Ah-ah. No, I mean… I wanted to ask… are we friends?” Harry’s feet became so interesting all of a sudden that he found he couldn’t tear his eyes off of them, his cheeks burning, his throat drying.

Draco snorted, and Harry almost whined at the sensation on his neck. “Well, I hope so. I know I’ve done some shit, but…”

“Why don’t you ever talk to me at Hogwarts, then?” The question was out of his mouth before he could realise it.

Draco shifted his head, curling it even more into the crook of Harry’s neck, shutting his eyes closed so much Harry felt his eyelashes brushing his skin. His lips were dangerously close to Harry’s neck and his voice came out muffled. “I thought you didn’t want people to see you are friendly with me.”

Harry sucked in a breath. This wasn’t the answer he had expected. Actually, he didn’t know what he had expected. “Fuck ‘em,” was all he said, while with a hand he started to stroke Draco’s hair gently.

—–

It could have been the tenth or eleventh time — time passed in a blur when they were together — when Harry understood he could not escape his feelings anymore.

Harry entered the house with the warm trepidation that he learned to associate with Draco by now and as soon as he stepped foot in, Teddy ran in his arms, screaming with joy. “Harry! Dray surprise!!” pointing towards his room.

With Teddy on his shoulders, he reached the room, heart thrumming with excitement. But as much as that ‘Dray surprise’ could have made Harry imagine, when he entered his jaw dropped and his breath caught. The walls were animated by magical drawings all over, fairies, dragons, stars, planets, everything a kid can dream of was there, magnificently painted in meticulous details and vibrant colours.

But the sight that really stole Harry’s breath away was Draco crouched in front of the wider wall, a brush in his hand, completely splashed with paint, a concentrated frown on his face.

His entire body was vibrating; all he wanted to do was to reach Draco and kiss away his frown, strip him of his clothes, lick away the paint on his skin. Shaking his head, Harry cleared his throat and Draco turned, his frown quickly smoothing into an open happy face. “Erm, I think I got a bit carried away.”

“I think you’ll never stop surprising me, Draco. You can paint? This is gorgeous.”

Malfoy stood up, leaving the brush on the paint bucket. “I am full of surprises, Potter. You should know that at this point.” He smiled, flushing lightly and Harry’s stomach jolted.

“I know.” He lowered Teddy on the floor who ran to the paint bucket, meddling with his hands and squealing happily.

“Dray paint!”

Draco looked at him and pulled out his tongue jokingly. Teddy blew raspberries at him and ran away, calling Andromeda to show her Draco’s work.

Moving his gaze to the walls again, Draco sighed. “You know, I’ve charmed it.”

Harry’s eyebrows knitted together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I drew some basic characters to adorn the walls, but the paint will change based on Teddy’s wanting and thoughts and on the stories I’ll tell him.” He smirked at Harry, looking smug. It sounded rather impressive, indeed.

“If you want, I can charm it so that it will change with your stories, too.”

“Sure, why not.” Harry looked amazed while Draco took his wand and muttered a spell he never heard before. With his wand still sparkling golden, he asked Harry, “I need you to tell anything, anything at all. It’s just to impress your voice with the magic in the paint of the walls.”

Harry felt embarrassment take over his body; he wasn’t the good one with stories, Draco always invented them and used the right words. He was clumsy and banal, but… an idea crossed his mind. He didn’t know how that would go, but it was worth a try.

“Okay… What about a story about two kids. They never got along when they were younger, on the contrary. You could define them enemies, but they had a lot in common. Born in different families with different circumstances, they quickly learned that they had a clearly defined path in front of their selves and that they couldn’t escape it.”

Harry stopped, taking a deep breath. Malfoy was looking at him with a perplexed face, but a little smile was pulling at his mouth.

“Well, they took completely different choices and they both regretted some of them. They faced evil and, in the end, they both survived. They are scarred now, they have suffered and lost loved ones… and after all this, they met again. From the ashes of their past, they met and slowly started to rebuild, to make good from it. And…”

Somewhere during Harry’s rambling, Draco must have reached him because they were now standing mere inches apart. His gaze held Harry’s. “And?”

“A-and… they… fell in love. I… think.”

Draco raised a hand and cupped the nape of Harry’s neck, lightly caressing it. He leaned his forehead on Harry’s and bumped their noses together, whispering, “They did. They did fall in love, didn’t they?”

Harry closed his eyes, caressed Draco’s hips, said, “I want to kiss you.”

“I’m not gonna stop you.”

When their lips sealed, Harry felt years of struggling, of pain, remorse, hatred, all dissipating, melting away in the heat of Draco’s mouth, in the sweetness of his tongue tracing the shape of his lips, in the kisses he peppered down his jaw, his ear.

After what felt like a lifetime, Draco bit down lightly on his earlobe, breathing, “Harry, open your eyes.”

The walls of Teddy’s room had changed to show a pile of ashes at the bottom of the wall and a giant phoenix arising from it, in a blaze of colours and sparks.

Draco started to hum close to Harry’s ear…

Wire-framed glasses and black messy hair

Big deep green eyes shine as brightly as emeralds

Lightning-bolt scar and he loves when I sing

These are a few of my favorite things…

[undyingpriestess]

LEVANA MORRIGAN MORELL is 220 YEARS OLD and the COURT NECROMANCER as well as ADVISOR TO THE KING in all matters arcane. Typically, you can see her with haunting the castle halls in IRON CASTS and a CRUTCH wearing BLACK KOHL around her eyes to hide her perpetual dark circles. She uses SHE/HER pronouns.

SKIN AND BONE.

You have not always been power-hungry. In the beginning, when you’re no older than twenty and you struggle to come to terms with your abilities, you are soft around the edges. More willing to concede that your skills are a tool to be used by others and not by yourself. You travel from court to court, king to king, offer your services and abilities and vast knowledge – acquired at the Temple, of course, when the Temple was once secretive – in exchange for safe harbor. Most accept because they are terrified, and you work this terror to your advantage. They might worship necromancy in Tyrholm, but other cities and states are entirely different matters. Across the Sahrnian sea you are almost crucified when you reanimate the queen-consort’s favorite wolfhound. No matter, though. It always ends the same way, and as you grow older, extended your life beyond your years, lose the sensation in your legs and your ability to scream, you realize that there will always be a pattern. A pattern you’ve been missing, apparently, but a pattern nonetheless. Another ruler dies and you set your eyes on Tyrholm with the intention of a new experiment. If they were weak enough, could you orchestrate the fall of of an entire nation through an incompetent king? You think you could, if you chose to. If you chose to, the Undying whispers into your ear at night. Your fingers clutch at the sheets, and when you rise the next morning, you step onto the next ship that will take you and sail.

You arrive two years into King Septimus’ fledgling rule and he is enamored by you, in spite of the hair you’ve allowed to grey at your temples and the serpentine smile you possess. Surely your entrance is a clandestine one, a blessing sent down by the Undying God, he says, and you pat his hand. Reassure him that this is meant to be. It doesn’t take long to persuade him to disavow his former arcane advisor and put you in their place; what you know outweighs the tomes and tales of old. You have firsthand experience, something he delights in at first. But time, much like everything else, passes. You watch as Septimus grows old and fat and feasts and refuses to act but will not abdicate or let go of his rule no matter what words you put in his ear about destiny. You’d been expecting an idiot for a king; most of them were. You hadn’t been expecting someone so stubborn. In recent years your resentment has only fostered. He doesn’t listen to anyone, especially not you, and acts on a whim rather than on information. He possesses a personal spymaster, an assassin, a literal ruler of the high seas, and – most importantly – you. His laziness is beginning to grate on your nerves. You think the time has finally come to topple all the pieces on this particular chessboard over and move along. You’re out of patience.

This skeleton was written by Julie.

FLESH AND BLOOD.

It’s an unfortunate thing, to carry the legacy of a ghost before you’ve even taken your first breath. Her parents were never able to really let go of dead things, though. Their marriage was long dead before they even tried for their first child, the love that they had once had for one another before even that. They held onto their dead ideas and dreams just as they had held onto the memory of their first daughter years after she was buried six feet beneath the dry soil of the summer ground. A famine had swept through their country and Levana’s poor sister had never stood a chance, despite the prayers that had been offered up by the Morrells time and time again.  The last vestiges of their hope for something living had been placed on Levana and even when she had been placed into her mother’s arms, howling and red-faced, it hadn’t been enough. Where her sister had been a thing of beauty, she was a shock of white hair and sharp edges – looking like the corpse that her sister very much had been.

The irony of it all was not lost on her. It was perhaps why she had such a wry, dry sense of humor despite how tragic it actually was. In the face of fate’s cruel humor, she couldn’t help but laugh along with it. She still had air in her lungs, a brightness in her eyes and a smile so bright that the moon had no choice but to look on in envy. When her mother would bite and spit at her, she would simply turn her gaze the other way and go out to the fields once more - either to lay in the wheat or lounge upon the back of their old, weary work-horse. As the sun would shine upon her pale, ivory skin she was more than content to let it eat away at her, all too happy to live a life of ease, if it only meant that she not bother the world with her existence and it not bother her with its woes and tragedy. Levana had disappointed her parents enough, there was no need to disappoint the rest of Tyrolhm by imposing her useless heap of skin and bones, her cutting mouth and staunch moralities.

When she wasn’t blissfully sketching away with a bit of charcoal stolen from the hearth or wrestling another bottle out of her father’s hand, she always managed to corral the kids of the neighboring farms into grand, elaborate games. She was always the leader, the one who set the rules, who dictated what was fair and what wasn’t – just as she was always the one to clean up the scrapes and bruises of her comrades, whether they “fight for the king” or not. Even when she ruled with an iron-fist it was clear that she was soft around the edges, forever armed with a warm smile and a bawdy joke that would have made her mother balk and her father grab the broom to smack her with it.

What a lovely childhood she had. She wished she could remember it, now. She wished it had lasted longer.

The days of playing games of mages and holding mock-court were long behind her. The reality of her inability to be anything more than a farmer’s daughter was beginning to make the Morrell household a rather suffocating place to be. Too odd-looking to marry off, not savvy or competent enough to hold the land and keep it to herself. There was no profit to be made in caring for the children of the countryside or teaching the war-ravaged and orphaned creatures how to find joy in capturing the smile of another in charcoal, or coaxing them into sweet sleep with tales of pirates and warrior women. No man wanted a woman so useless. No family wanted to pay a dowry for useless little Levana who could only offer a shining – albeit impish – smile. The only suitor that had come knocking had left in quite a hurry when he realized how strong-headed she could be, how sharp her tongue was and how her eyes seemed to see right through the facade of gentility and courteousness. For the umpteenth time in her life, she had been sent to bed with an empty stomach – though, throughout the night it had been full of laughter at her suitor’s expense.

Not long after, on the night of her 20th birthday, when her parents were ready to sell her to the most ill-reputed house in Tyrolhm that was furthest away,  the Undying God decided it was high time that the blessings they had placed upon her be brought into the light – the revelation of her abilities shining unabashedly in the bright, spring sun.

Her little gaggle had all grown and had children of their own or moved to have adventures across the Sahrnian sea. Some of them even became clerics at the Temple, while she was all too content to take each day as it came, toiling away at the dying soil, listening to the bickering of her loveless parents, frequenting the markets and listening to the songs of bards that were passing through. Levana had taught the children of the countryside her games – telling them tales of the glorious adventures she and her friends had when they were in the golden years of their childhood. Wars raged while wielding sticks in the place of swords, and pieces of barks as shields. One of the girls had stumbled into the stream – its waters tumultuous and high from floods that had come from the melting winter snow. The fretful, panicked hands of the small children tugged at her skirt, pulling her from her place beneath the shaded tree, voices high and weeping as they tried to pound life into little Errena’s chest.

That was the first time Levana could recall giving everything.

That was the first time Levana could remember trying.

She remembered peering up through the leaves, watching them sway in the light breeze. Years later, she knew that it was the last time she had ever known the meaning of peace.

Untrained and reckless, she had poisoned the earth that was there – and because it hadn’t been enough, she had poisoned something within herself as well. The grass had grown black beneath her fingers, parched and dry as though it had never known green days. She remembered the cries of horror from the children as they had watched her body bow over little Errana’s, had heard the guttural noises that tore from her lips, the darkness that had been cast over her eyes. If the Undying God were to have had a voice that could be heard, it would have been the very same that poured from her lips as she called Errana’s name from the land of the dead. When she had arisen with the girl’s cold, trembling hand in hers, she looked at the children that stared at her in terror – a weary smile on her lips as she told them to run along and keep this secret between them. There was no need, though; terror was the most effective muzzle.

She packed her bags and made her way to the Temple, leaving the Morrell lands and the Morrell name far behind her. Levana never thought to question why it was so easy for her to leave those ties behind – the land of golden wheat and warm, drowsy memories. She never thought to ruminate on which part of her had died that fateful day when she had exchanged a life of peace for Errana’s beating heart. Levana built her life anew as Morrigan, giving the name at the steps of the Temple, while enlightening them about the tale of a girl once known as Levana. There had been no need, though; it would always be worth it for the lives that she managed to call back from the arms of the Undying God. Her tutelage at the Temple illuminated the path that she had willingly turned a blind eye towards in favor of lazing days spent adventuring under Tyrolhm’s golden sun. Ravenously, she consumed the tomes that they placed in front of her, testing the limits of her power and reflecting on the tolls that they took on her. For one of the orphan girls she resurrected a bird that had been target practice for the impish little boys – and for that she lost her taste.

For a queen’s handmaiden, she had animated the limbs of her poxed brother, and for that she lost the life of the only person she had made there that she could have called friend – a wizened old tutor whose eyes were milky and whose lips carried lines from smiling so often. The years began to bleed into one another, her hunger for knowledge growing as her abilities did until she began to spend restless nights squinting into tomes as the wax of once-tall candles melted into stubs. The coldness of corpses and the silence that they offered became more familiar to her and far more preferable than playing the enigmatic mage at the courts that the Temple recommended she visit. But for many years, she clung to who she remembered herself to be, the charming and vibrant girl that had spent so many days dictating which child would be allowed to be king, who was to be the advisor, the general, the serf, the mistress, and the queen. Her cutting tongue was known to cause riots within courts, stirring subjects with barks of laughter, making handmaidens and queens flush – charming kings and princes and royals alike.

They whispered of her across the lands and the wide, raging sea – the necromancer with silver hair and dark eyes, whose smile you wished to see before you died, whose siren-like voice you heard call you from the embrace of the Undying God.

But just as death and life were inseparable, were one, so too was the love and hatred of those who heard the tales of Morrigan. There were those who sought to control her, just as she had controlled the corpses – shackling her in dungeons until she did their bidding. There were kings and queens who wished to bed her and use her for nothing more, casting her out of their castles mid-winter when they realized she would not. Poisonings and beatings were something she learned to become familiar with (demoness, devil, defiler), prejudice, bigotry, and poverty haunted her as assuredly as her sister’s nearly-forgotten ghost had. And what did the Temple do but preach to her about the practices of her power and her duty to guard wayward kingdoms from their tumultuous, violent ways? What more was she meant to do but bear these burdens and slights, so that they might know she might usher in a new age of peace? In her many travels and over the two centuries that she walked the earth she had lived a number of lives. The mage, the pick-pocket, the farmer’s daughter, the con, the philosopher, the artist, the scholar. Not a single one of them had known peace as intimately as Levana Morrell had.

But she was dead.

Only brought back to life once, in the chamber of a queen she thought she had loved, across the Sarhnian sea who always kept a wolfhound at her side. Morrigan thought she had the heart of a wolfhound too, which made it all the more easy to lay her heart at the queen’s feet. She remembered how she had poured herself into the creature, had harkened for its heart to beat, for its heart to rise. Some nights she can still taste the growl that had torn through her throat – an echo from the wolfhound’s maw. She could still feel how her spine had bent over the limp form, arms twitching, back arching as the creature began to rise to its feet, tongue lolling, eyes black. In restless fits of sleep, her and the hound became one in the same. Sometimes she would wake, touching her teeth, thinking that they might be sharp. Within that week, she had been ushered out of the castle by one of the queen’s advisor, his eyes unable to meet hers as her threw her traveling cloak over her shoulders, shuddering away when his skin had grazed hers, paying no mind to the way he had the guards drag her since her legs didn’t seem to respond and gave way.

When she was returned to the Temple she wept for a fortnight, unable and unwilling to leave her bed. She had given everything and they had taken everything. There was no one but herself to blame – and what was worse, she still craved the power that had poured forth from her. She hadn’t noticed how her legs had failed her, only the way all eyes within the court had looked to her in awe, in terror, in reverence, in horror. In the years that followed, she learned to use her legs once more, the iron casts and crutch aiding her, adding further allure to the century old necromancer whose bright eyes brought corpses to life in the Undying God’s name. She knew what power the whispers of common folk and courtiers had. When she had laid her heart out for the queen consort, something within her had exhaled its final, shuddering breath. Something within her had risen from its ashes and come to life – awakening with a ravenous, insatiable hunger that eclipsed any she had ever known.

In the eyes of the great court, she had seen within them the reflection of the death defier that was whispered about. In them, she had seen the power that she had. She could realign the stars and there was no doubt that they would look at her with that intoxicating concoction of horror and awe. They would have no choice but to do as she wished – and what she wished was for that power to be wielded by her and her alone. To bring about the Golden Age of the world as she would define it.

The woman that stepped into the court of King Septimus was a far cry from the girl that had spent her days lounging beneath the large branches and green leaves of an age-old tree. Her iron casts had echoed as she entered the large, grand doors of the castle and from the moment she laid eyes on Septimus, she saw a future of glory – the Golden Age made incarnate. He was malleable beneath her touch and in the first decade of his rule, she flourished. It was not unlike when she was a child, dictating this and that, her the cutting edge of her words coming off as roguish and charming, refreshing and novel as the entirety of his court leaned in to listen. Morrigan forgot, though, how quickly novelty can wear off and before long the revulsion sets in, her contempt for Septimus beginning to become a nigh-impossible pill to swallow. She thought that perhaps her intuition had failed her, that once again fate, with its cruel humor, hoped to make a mockery of her once more.

The mage with all the power in the world at her fingertips was unable to bring anything more than a handful of decades of tenuous peace, known for nothing but carnage and carnage alone under King Septimus’ rule.

She didn’t even have the ability to laugh, as she once might have been able to. That power had been taken from her, too.

The yawning hunger within her, though, did not balk in the face of kings, though. It recognized neither the limitations of Morrigan’s own body, the intricacies of politics, nor the iron, bloodied fist of Septimus. All it knew was how close she had been to power – fingers outstretched, yearning, reaching, grasping. She remembered the weary faces of the soldiers as they returned from the carnage, how pale and wide-eyed they had been, how their armor had shone, painted with the scarlet blood of the fallen. One soldier’s eyes had lifted to hers and within them, she saw the lifelessness of so many corpses that had been laid, prostrate at her feet before harkening to her call, their once-still hearts beginning to beat something fierce.

If she could not bring them peace with King Septimus then the issue was simple; she did not have enough power to. That made her culpable for this carnage. The sharp-toothed hunger within her stirred, sinking its claws deeper into her as the last vestige of her patience was swallowed whole. She would take the power that was not given to her. She would crown a new king and usher in the Golden Age of peace that she had envisioned, or upturn the board and start this game anew, with the rules dictated by her and her alone.

Her lips had twitched as she recalled a girl, standing atop a rock, dictating to those beneath her the new rules of a new game.

That young girl had been rather good at that.

She would be too.

NOT A SOUL IN SIGHT.

[randomnameless]

Since the new Star Wars will be released in less than a week, I’ve been binge watching some of my favourite episodes...

I’m a bit surprised, but given how the original sixology (? the first 6 episodes) all revolve around a certain character who fell to “the dark side” and then was redeeemed, i couldn’t help but think about a certain game -

Ani’s the chosen one (tm) and knows it.

It goes over his head, makes him arrogant, his descent to madness is kind of gradual but it is well portrayed (unlike his romantic plot) - he really wanted to save the mom he never forgot but was forced to and now his wife is going to die and he must do something to prevent it because he is just so strong isn’t he supposed to be the chosen one (tm)?

Ani murdering children is never whitewashed. Ani, in his madness, tries to kill the one he swore to protect.

Ani doing all the shit he does in Episode III is, and will never be whitewashed

There is this “split-persona” thing where Darth tells Luke that Ani’s dead (just like Obi-Wan says Darth killed Ani) but in the end, we discover that the real Ani never died and there was still some part of him buried inside Darth’s evil looking armor.

(Ani never realising that the force is strong in his daughter when Luke says it is is on par with Princess Julia shenanigans, the plot never wanted it to happen but it had to be mentionned in some weird way)

so yes, at the end of the 6th movie, Ani’s kind of redeemed and appears as a force ghost.

GG Ani?

I thought Ani was a nice parallel to another mask wearing authoritarian character we know.

Granted, Anakin is shown to be subservient to Palpatine (calls him master and does whatever he wants - even if i read on the wiki that he tried to kill him after learning that Padmé died?) when Edel’s not so subservient to her uncle Arry.

Both were manipulated by external forces who are actually the reason why they suffered (even if it is not that simple in Star Wars? You can make the argument that Palpating was nurturing the “asshole” streak of Anakin, but he was still an asshole ?) and choose wrong pathes - Palpatine deceived Anakin into killing Windu and isolated him from the Jedis, Uncle Arry experimented on Edel and is apparently the reason why she’s so lonely and can’t trust anyone, save for Hubert and Billy.

But Anakin is called on his bullshit, by Padmé - the one he sacrificed everything for. Confronting his wife, Ani reacts violently and tries to kill her.

(it is never said why “she died in childbirth” apparently she lost the will to live so bar the WTF YOUR CHILDREN ARE YOU GOING TO LET THEM ALONE BECAUSE YOU DON’T WANT TO LIVE ANYMORE??? - I think it’s pretty implied that when Anakin tried to kill her she lost it, she couldn’t save him, she knew he still had “some good left in him” but she knows she isn’t the one able to call to him)

When Ani realises that Padmé and their kid (remember guys, those people can sense pregnant women being alive but not two force sensitive babies inside said pregnant woman, i mean sense a daughter) died he breaks (tries to kill his master?) and becomes the souless husk we see until Luke comes in.

Thing of importance here : Anakin is called on his bullshit.

A certain someone from Fire Emblem’s latest opus is never called on her bullshit, let it be her odd allies, the fact that Kronya used to be a thing, why Jeralt died or the funny experimentations on peasants.

Anakin, angry that his beloved doesn’t react like he planned, kills her (tries to) violently.

He then has to fight his sensei

Billy never tells Edel that nope, Rhea isn’t the Goddess the Church is venerating, the real Goddess lives in their head, or that Edel’s story about Nemesis and the relics is doodoo. Would Edel have reacted violently and tried to kill Billy?

SS plays the scene where sensei has to fight his wayward student as a tragic thing but there is nothing on par with Obi-Wan and Ani’s duel on Mustafa. We’ve seen Obi-Wan raise, as much as he could do, Anakin, who was naught but a brat. We saw them spend time, do missions etc, together. Even share jokes!

Anakin tried to killed Obi-wan, and all of his former allies (the Jedis). He managed to kill (he and Sidious) a crapton of them (even babies!) but the one in front of him he has to kill is his father figure, his mentor.

When Ani “I 8 U” memetic words are heard it’s a parallel to Obi-Wan’s “I thought of you as my brother” “I loved you” - there is no returning point here. Kenobi’s torn - Anakin became their enemy and he dealt with him accordingly (alway being on the defensive and severing his legs after warning him that it was useless to continue) but still showed sadness.

Billy? Is shown to be sad?? But why? Where is the weight? They spend (in SS?) a year together?

Sadly Billy also spent a year with Bernie’n’co and Edel tried to kill them. Was he closer to Edel than to Bernie’n’co? Nothing prevents Billy from reaching supports with the other BE students - so if Edel confessing her torture to Billy could be seen as that big thing for her, why should it be different than, say, Bernie confessing that her dad wanted to make her a good wife, Dorothea more or less confessing that she used her talents to get a place in the academy or Ferdie’s insecurities about being the eldest son of House Aegir?

“But Rhea is an evil baby-eating monster; the church lied to everyone”

Note that Obi-Wan never says that Anakin’s distrust with the Jedi Council is unfounded (during episode III iirc) or that he’s plain wrong.

Obi-Wan considers Anakin dead because he tried to kill Padmé, because he fell to the Dark Side, and because he effing cut babies (i don’t even know if Obi Wan knew about Ani’s role in Mace Windu’s death).

Just because one party did shit it doesn’t enable you to do way worse shit

Morale (one of them?) is that I don’t know Star Wars universe like I pretend to know FE.

But if there is one thing I loved in Episode III and in the subsequent episodes (4 5 6 and even 7 where Ben’s entirely wrong about grandpapa) is that while Darth’s story is a sad story (Palpatine manipulated him), he found his redemption doing the only thing he could, at the cost of his life - saving Luke and embracing his Jedi persona.

And yet, does it absolves Ani of everything he did? Hell no!

Anakin-Darth dies. He doesn’t get to live a fruitful life with his son (and daughter he only discovered in the last minutes of his life despite having meet her earlier), he dies.

Pilling on all of the shit he did deprived him of living the perfect life he envisaged with his wife and Luke (maybe Leia if we insist).

He might not be alone when he dies, he still dies as the empty husk of what he used to be and what he had been for years.

Ani lost everything, but in the end, thanks to his son, he found his jedi pride/self or something like that.

Edel? Doesn’t face consequences of her shit.

So no Sensei trying to kill her, or if Sensei does it’s painted as a tragedy for reasons we don’t really know because, hey, Sensei is also the Sensei of the other BE - there’s no special Edel exclusive bond with Sensei (and no as i said earlier, revealing her tragic backstory in supports doesn’t count, because Bernie and Ferdie did the same thing).

Edel doesn’t lose Sensei, since the loli in Sensei’s head doesn’t see anything wrong with her daughter having been turned into minced meat due to her race and fuses with Billy or some other shit to explain why Sensei’s defective - since birth - hearth suddenly starts beating (is it the moment where Billy realises that shit, without Rhea i’d be a dead baby in the end i owe my life to her?)

Since Edel never loses anything of importance, Edel never learns.

When Edel threatens her nuncle it’s funny, when Anaking turns against Sidious (after having watched the prequels) it’s satisfying and cathartic - finally, Sidious who used to dispose of his minions right and left tastes his own medicine as in, he who betrays must expect some sort of betrayal.

Edel gets to live with her significant other even when she wanted to kill Billy (in the tomb and with the “we don’t need gods anymore” “i’m the vessel of god she kind of fused with me do you mean you don’t need me anymore??” but the last one is never adressed in the game :p) when Anakin has to live with the (distorted) fact that he killed Padmé.

They still share some loltastic moments.

When Ani argues to Windu that Palpatine can’t be executed without a trial, Windu says fig it.

But Anakin never gave a fair trial to count Dooku or to the Tusken Riders he rekt a long time ago (in episode 2)...

TFW due process only concerns senators...

Tl; Dr : Even Anakin, in all of his pear-slicing glory is a better written character than Edel.