#‘try make this one curse in persian instead’

[sheisbeautyweareworldass]

headcanon that, besides teaching winston some curse words in persian, alastair also teaches him to say “i want alastair” so by the time anna and ari return from india and get him back, winston spends the first month yelling “i want alastair” whenever someone is near him

[little-wicked10]

My Sultan (Nandor the Relentless x ofc🥵)

While the boys are away, Nadja and Nandor’s human lover have a girls night in of swapping juicy secrets. Nadja reveals to her mortal friend that Nandor gets a hard on when being called “sultan”, the ultimate position of power and dominance for a once great and aspiring Ottoman general. Nadja, and the whole house, will soon realize what Nandor is capable of.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ (EXPLICIT!!! Seriously) and cursing

( // means it cuts to, from, or between interviews, documentary/not documentary footage, and perspective)

——

It was odd that Nadja had not joined the boys on a hunt. She loved the thrill of a good feeding followed by feral lovemaking with her husband. Regardless of the reason behind her staying put, I was happy to have my friend in the house to keep me company. “Come, little one, let us indulge in a, as you humans say, girls night,” she smiled giddily as she led me to the fancy room. It was strange to hear her say it, but I was all for her enthusiasm.

//

“Nandor and I met when he approached me on the street claiming I was some Greek princess or goddess,” I said crossing my legs as I sat across from the camera crew.

“Did you find that strange?” a crewman asks.

I laughed, “Of course I did. I thought he was one of those weird LARPing guys or an Emo kid that never grew out of that phase. His approach was definitely random and odd.”

//

“The night I met my mortal lover, Laszlo had pointed her out as a potential meal. An easy on-the-go snack,” Nandor admitted while seated in an ornate chair in the library, “I approached her to hypnotize her, but instead she bewitched me with her feminine wiles….not my proudest moment as a warrior.”

//

“I thought him mad when my great warrior friend nearly fell to his knees for some woman. A mortal one at that. Then I found it quite funny,” Laszlo complained.

“I myself was not surprised,” Nadja added, “I’ve had a great many mortal lovers in my time. And to be frank, Nandor does not have a good reputation among lady vampires.”

Both husband and wife laugh, clearly remembering the blunders of Nandor’s string of failed attempts at finding a partner.

“Though mortal, I do admire the young lady,” Laszlo adds once through laughing, “She’s got moxie, as the Americans say. And she makes sure the bloody oaf blows out the candles so he won’t burn the fucking house down.”

“Yes, that is a plus,” Nadja chimes in, “Also, I don’t have many ‘girl’ friends. It’s exciting to have another woman to talk to. At least one who understand trying to be in a relationship with an idiot vampire.”

//

Nadja and I had decided to drink. She opted for her stash of wino’s blood while I took advantage of my own bottle of red wine. After each drinking two glasses and feeling a wonderful buzz, we decided to rummage through the boys’ clothes. Laszlo was forever stuck in the Victorian era. “Oh try this one on!” Nadja threw a puffy pirate shirt at me and a scarf with some garish and dark pattern. I giggled and threw the shirt over my clothes before Nadja came to my aid to tie the scarf around my neck.

“Did he steal all this from a homosexual pirate?”

Nadja, with blood alcohol on her breath, laughed as she finished the knot, “A…a homosexual pirate!”

Her laughter made me laugh even more as I gave my best pirate Laszlo impression, “Argh! I’m Laszlo Cravensworth! I’ve come for yer booty!”

Nadja stumbled a bit as she laughed and returned to the closet door way, sipping on her third glass of blood to find her something to scrutinize. She put on ANOTHER of his pirate shirts and a waist coat before we both began acting like pirate Laszlo.

“We should see what Nandor has!” I said as the idea popped into my buzzed brain.

“You are so brilliant, little mortal!” Nadja said as she lightly smacked her head wishing she had thought of it.

We both scurried out to the bedroom of my boyfriend. After another glass for each of us and throwing on Nandor’s strange Persian hats and his fur-lined cloaks, we sat in the fancy room talking about the men whose entire wardrobe we ransacked.

“Ok, ok. What does Laszlo like to be called in bed…or coffin I guess,” I asked very bubbly.

“His highness,” Nadja replied with a regal tone in her voice.

“You’re kidding? His highness?” I giggled as I leaned back against the couch.

“The second I call him that,” she snaps her fingers, “straight at attention.”

We both knew the camera crew was having a hay day with us spilling dirty secrets about our love and sex lives in front of them. I doubt it wasn’t anything the vampires haven’t overshared already. “What about donkey dick, hm?” Nadja asked.

“Besides that he has one?” I smirked and held my hands up to show, exaggeratedly, the size of my man’s dick.

Nadja made a face of disgust before repeating her question, “No, no. Ew. What does Nandor like to be called when making love?”

“I don’t call him anything. Just his name,” I answered truthfully.

Nadja’s face suddenly became very mischievous. Her red lips turned up into a playful smirk making the tips of her fangs appear, “Oh, he hasn’t told you yet?”

I looked at her curiously. She studied my face before gasping and rushing to my side and sitting beside me on the couch. “You must know what I’m about to tell you!” She exclaimed grabbing my shoulders.

I glanced at the camera before looking back to her, “Should I be scared?”

She smirked, “No, but I believe you will thank me once you realize the power this secret has.”

Now I’m interested.

//

The men returned from their hunt expecting to hear their women chatting away or waiting for them naked and willing (at least that’s what they kept hoping for). “I say a good hunt, old sport. You’ve not lost your ways of the warrior,” Laszlo complimented as he took off his hat to give to Guillermo.

“Thank you, Laszlo. You did very well in selecting our prey,” Nandor complimented in return.

After removing his coat and patting the pockets of his waist coat, Laszlo looked around, “Now where is my darling succubus of a wife? That feeding has me in the mood to storm the castle, if you catch my drift, Nandy.”

“I too wish to engage in the sexy times with my love,” Nandor admits.

Both men call out to their women with no answer. They both sniff the air and begin to follow the smell of wine and blood. Their noses lead them to the Fancy Room and Laszlo pulls back the curtain to reveal a funny sight. Both women are dressed in a strange assortment of each of their clothings and spooning, Nadja obviously being the big spoon, on the couch using one of Nandor’s cloaks as a blanket.

“I say, old chap, I have no fucking clue what happened here, but I’m slightly aroused by it,” Laszlo admits.

“Why are they wearing our clothes?” Nandor asks.

//

“What’s sex like with Nandor?” a producer asks.

I sigh and think a moment, “Sex with Nandor is wonderful. A lot better than with a human man. We’ve yet to have rough sex just, as he and everyone in this house says, make love. But that might change after what Nadja told me last night.”

//

“My darling human loves our lovemaking. I’ve yet to not satisfy her,” Nandor brags, “And I am very satisfied with her as well.”

“She said that you’ve not had rough sex yet. Why’s that?” producer asks.

“I don’t think my little human is interested in such things. Plus my vampire strength could kill her if I am not careful,” Nandor admits, “so there is that.”

//

I had it planned perfectly. Nadja and I had talked about it at length until we passed out.

I sat in the library with Laszlo and Nadja. Nandor and Guillermo were about to return from going to the store, and I could feel the butterflies in my stomach. I’m not ashamed of my sex life with Nandor. In this house, it wasn’t hard to get familiar with the vampires and their sexual proclivities. Nadja and Laszlo certainly weren’t quiet about any of it.

The front door opened then closed, and I could hear Nandor and Guillermo talking. I glanced over at Nadja who gave me a knowing look and I adjusted the black silk robe I wore. Not uncommon for me to wear around the house since Nandor could be insatiable at times. If I’m being honest, Nadja looked just as excited as I felt. “Good evening, everyone. My darling,” Nandor greeted leaning down and kissing my head.

“Laszlo, I picked up new ascot for you since I accidentally used your other one as a napkin,” Nandor apologized handing Laszlo a little black box.

“I’m going to my crypt to watch Guillermo reorganize my closet,” Nandor gave Nadja a sideways glance before turning to retreat down the hall.

I jumped up to sit on my knees and lean against the back of the couch before calling to him, “Should I join you, my sultan?”

Nandor froze in his tracks. Laszlo choked on his pipe. I smirked playfully at Nandor’s back, “Or will you not be need my services tonight?”

I heard Nadja giggle with delight as Laszlo continued to choke, “S-Sultan?” Nandor slowly turned around and the look on his face was strange, intense. He suddenly rushed toward me, his boots echoing on the wood floor. When he stood before me, he made me look up at him with a finger under my chin, “What did you say?”

“Oh shit,” Laszlo said before Nadja shushed him. I could feel both of them staring at us intensely.

“Will you not be needing my services tonight, my sultan?” I batted my eyelashes innocently with a smirk still on my lips.

Laszlo whispered, “Why the fuck does she keep calling him that?”

Nandor barred his fangs a bit, “Crypt. Now.”

I guess he decided I wasn’t going to be fast enough because he had me thrown over his shoulder. I shrieked and laughed as my warrior carried me off. “Do not disturb us for we will be engaging in sexy times,” Nandor shouted. He slammed the door of his crypt shut and locked it before tossing me on his couch layered with furs. I watched as he threw off his over coat. His red and gold tunic just made him look all the more powerful for some reason.

“Where did you learn to call me that?” he asks stepping towards me.

“A woman has her ways,” I began untying the belt of my robe, “Does it not please you, my sultan?”

Nandor growled and rolled his neck at the name, “You have no idea how much it does.”

I opened my robe to reveal my naked body to him, rubbing my thighs together, “Show me. Take what you want then, great warrior.”

Nandor pounced on me like a beast. He held my neck firmly in one hand and claimed my lips in a bruising kiss, pinning me beneath him. His hips shoved against mine making me gasp and roll mine for friction. He bit my bottom lip and I felt his fang puncture it and cause the taste of blood to fill both our mouths. Nandor groaned and he pulled away, sitting up enough to rip my robe to shreds as he licked my blood from his lips, “Your Sultan wants to taste more than blood tonight, my desert flower.” He leant down and trailed his lips along my jaw, down my neck, towards my chest, letting his fangs graze the swell of my breasts and making me shiver. The heat was rising and twisting in my body from watching him change so quickly and give into something more dominant. It felt like I was going to explode with anticipation.

I grasped the arm of the couch above my head with both hands and prepared as he reached the apex of my thighs, spreading my legs roughly and digging his strong fingers into my thighs. “I will have my fill of you, and you will not push me away,” he ordered.

“Yes, my sultan,” the smirk forming on my lips changed into an ‘o’ as he devoured my cunt. I felt his tongue enter me and his nose press into my swollen clit. “Na-Nandor!” I cried which spurred him to fuck me with his mouth even more. I rolled my hips into his mouth and held the arm of the couch with one hand while the other tangled into his hair. Nandor moved his mouth to suck on my clit and shoved two thick fingers inside me and curled them. I keened and arched my back off the couch, grasping his head with both hands.

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Nandor!” These words were like a song and the only ones my mind could form.

I was sped towards the edge so quickly that I crashed over the edge before I knew it, my whole body shaking. Nandor didn’t stop as he replaced his fingers with his tongue and threw my legs over his shoulders. My obscene cries and moans increased as I pushed on his shoulders to slow down but that only resulted in him taking my hands and pinning them to my sides. Tears pricked my eyes as I was at the mercy of his overstimulating, delicious torture. I held on to his hands for dear life as the feeling of his tongue fucking me and his fangs slightly grazing against me became too much, “T-too m-much! Nandor!”

His only response was to growl and reach up and pinch my clit between his fingers. Something snapped inside me and my vision went black around the edges.

//

There was suddenly a loud scream full of ecstasy echoing from Nandor’s room. Laszlo didn’t even look up from his book, “Well done, old chap.”

//

It felt like the aftershocks of having electricity running through my body. I trembled with a wonderful euphoric feeling as Nandor released me to collapse back onto the couch so he could crawl up my body. When I opened my eyes, I saw Nandor’s handsome face completely soaked. “We are not finished yet, my mortal concubine,” he smirks, lust having blown his pupils.

“Yes,” I gasped, “Yes, sultan.”

“Let your sultan conquer every part of you,” he growled, and before I knew it, he was completely undressed, cold body against mine.

He threw my legs around his waist and pinned my hands to the couch arm before spearing me with his cock. I cried and moaned as he stretched me. Nandor fucked me at a brutal pace that had my eyes rolling to the back of my head and my toes curling.

//

Laszlo and Nadja were both huddled by Nandor’s door. After that last orgasm, neither could resist trying to see what was going on. Nadja had her ear pressed to the door while Laszlo was kneeled down trying to look through the peephole. “I’m so proud of our little human. Very much being the seductress I knew she was,” Nadja smiled.

“I’ll be honest, I never thought Nandor could fuck like that,” Laszlo admitted, “Why hasn’t he fucked us like that in our orgies?”

“My darling, there’s ‘orgy’ sex and then there’s ‘making love to your love’ sex,” Nadja explained.

Both husband and wife were jolted away from the door when two bodies slammed against the other side of it.

//

Nandor had thrown my legs over his shoulders and was fucking me into the door. His mouth was only an inch from mine, breathing each others air while ravishing one another like we will die tomorrow. The door creaked every time he thrust into me and all I could do was hold on to his neck as he took what he wanted. “The whole house will know who rules over this body,” Nandor grunted, “Tell me who does.”

“Y-you do! Y-ou! Fuck you feel so good in-inside me!” I panted like a bitch in heat.

“Your sweet cunt keeps pulling me back in,” Nandor growled before he moved my legs to wrap around his waist and sunk his fangs into my neck.

I moaned and gripped his black hair tightly as an overwhelming feeling of euphoria spread throughout my body. This was the first time he had ever fed on me while fucking, and I now know why Nadja went on and on about it last night. It felt like the pleasure was in my veins and effecting every single sense. It felt so intimate and raw. I couldn’t describe it with the right words if I wanted to.

Before I could blink, we had moved off the door and back on the couch. I was bent over the arm with Nandor’s chest pressed to my back and his hips thrusting deep and hard as he licked away the blood around the puncture wounds. He jerked my head back by my hair so his mouth was near to my ear, “You’re blood drives me mad, my dearest. Just as my cock does you.” His other hand snaked around to grip tightly on one of my breasts, tweaking my nipple and slapping the sensitive flesh. I could only moan as my answer. It truly felt like I was being conquered by a warrior, and I loved being at his mercy.

Every time I tried to speak, it came out as gibberish mixed with moans and whines. My mind was fuzzy and only focused on the feeling of his cock pushing me closer and closer to another orgasm. Nandor pushed my shoulders down to the couch with the hand in my hair allowing him to thrust directly into my g-spot. My eyes rolled to the back of my head, and I screamed his praises as I felt a gushing explosion around his cock. He shoved himself as deep as he could inside me and released his seed with a mighty roar as my vision blacked out.

Nandor fell on top of me, his forehead resting against my temple. All was silent except for his feral panting and my quiet whimpers. I felt his fingers untangle from my hair and his hands wonder along my convulsing body in an attempt to bring me back to reality. “Sssh, my darling,” he whispered in my ear as he left gentle kisses along my face and neck. I suddenly felt the weight of his body begin to leave mine and his cock being removed from inside me. I whined desperately and grabbed his neck to keep him from disappearing. I could still feel him throbbing inside me and my body wasn’t ready to feel empty just yet. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, worry laced in his words. I shook my head.

“I’m sorry, my love. I was too rough with you. And I did not ask permissions to feed on you,” he chided himself. My man had returned from being a conquering sultan.

“N-no. No, Nandor. J-just need a m-moment. P-please d-don’t leave,” I managed to stutter.

Nandor seemed to understand, and he began to delicately change our position. I felt him move us to be laying on our sides with my back to his chest, never once disconnecting us. He wrapped his arms around me and comforted me until my body stopped shaking. “I must leave your insides before you arouse me for another round of sexy times,” he whispered. I nodded my head, whimpering as I felt him gently slip out of me and a rush of our releases spilled out with an obscene sound.

“Was it as satisfactory for you as it was me?” he asked.

“More than satisfactory, my love,” I smiled as I took his hand to kiss the back of it.

“Mm good because I will be ready to go again in a few minutes,” he admitted.

“Really?” I asked shocked, “Nandor, I need to recoup for a minute.”

Suddenly, I felt him harden against my back as he gripped me tighter, “I still have more conquering to do.”

[quietsun5268]

Who's the Most Likely, Least Likely, or Maybe Mothers for Rhajat based on Classes, looks, supports, and/or mannerisms?

Most Child units inherit the hair color from their Mothers (with the exception of Male Kana, who inherited his father's hair color, and Shigure). But some parents are more fitting for some child units then others based on Classes, looks, supports, mannerisms, etc. I'm not looking for who would make the kid stronger. Just a parent who would make sense for the Child Units.

Recap: Asugi (I made some edits and added new facts if your interested)

Percy

Ignatius

For this one it's about our Corrin-obsessed, curse-loving stalker who greatly resembles Tharja (who might be her previous life).

Those that see (?) It means that I'm not sure if it counts as evidence or not.

Here's what I've gathered so far?

1.) In Awakening, Tharja's base class sets are Dark Mage, Knight, and Archer. Rhajat's standard class is Diviner, she inherited the Oni Savage class option from Hayato. If you want to make a call-back to Tharja's Awakening base class set's have Nyx be her mother as Rhajat inherit's her Dark Mage class option. Effie has a Knight class option Rhajat can inherit but if you still want her to have a Dark Mage class, regardless of the mother, have Rhajat become buddies with Ophelia in order to get the option.

2.) Some of her supports shows she enjoys teasing people for her amusement, sometimes in rather mean ways. When Kiragi offers to help get ingredients for her in their support, she keeps sending the naive boy to dangerous places and expecting him to fail just for her own amusement… but keeps getting surprised when he keeps coming back.

Orochi trolls and teases Jakob quite a bit in their supports, laughs at Subaki's disgust when she accidentally dumps her alchemy ingredients on him and finds Oboro's notorious "demon face" to actually be funny - especially when hearing Oboro can't control it. She also spends her Supports with Takumi teasing him about his childhood

When Azura does open up, she proves to have quite the mischievous side, such as scaring Sakura with ghost stories.

Corrin has her moments of being mischievous. This is a little more prominent with Female Corrin, as she enjoys making Asugi (if he's not her son) flustered (she finds his reactions cute) and tells Ignatius ghost stories to purposefully scare him.

3.) Rhajat is an anagram of Tharja, the basis for her character. "Rajat" is a Hindi word that means "silver". In a similar vein, Syalla is a modified phonetic anagram of Tharja's Japanese name Sallya. Her Japanese name, Sallya, may be derived from Sally, a shortening of the Hebrew name Sarah, meaning "princess". Tharja may be a variation of Tarja, a Finnish spelling of Daria, which ultimately derives from the masculine name Dārayavahush, meaning "posessing goodness" in Persian. Her name may also come from the Hindi name Tharaja, meaning "star with full glow".

The "silver" part can come the silver hair Rhajat can inherit from Default Female Corrin. Or the white hair from Rinkah. Or the grayish-blond hair from Effie.

The "princess" part could be from being born from Sakura, Hinoka, Azura, or Corrin. Maybe Rinkah since she's the daughter of the Flame Tribe Chieftain or Felicia since she's the daughter of the Ice Tribe Chieftain. Although it could be from that in the future Hayato will be the future Wind Tribe Chieftain.

If you want to make a connection based on name meaning, Nyx is named after the primordial Greek goddess of the night which could connect to "star with full glow".

4.) Rhajat's support with her mother involves Rhajat is trying to cast a protective spell over a bunch of villagers to protect them from an upcoming illness. However, she casted it too late for it to be effective and the village people mistakenly thought she had cursed them instead. (And she didn't exactly defend herself, either.) Rhajat's mother is caught in this conflict and, while she does her best to take care of the ill, she also tries to reassure Rhajat about not blaming her for anything. In the end, Rhajat manages to raise a plant that will make a good cure (which is why she didn't defend herself, it'd take time away from her research), so her mother is very proud of her.

Should her mother be Rinkah, according to their A support, she inherits her mother's headstrong nature.

Her dedication to finding a cure reminds me of several mothers like how Hinoka is dedicated to fighting, her training as a Sky Knight, and becoming stronger for the sake of her homeland. And having the drive to save others.

How Kagero is extremely dedicated to her job, proof of that his her supports with Corrin.

How Hana is hardworking to the point that she sometimes misses several meals at a time.

(?) In Oboro's supports with Corrin she's shown working herself ragged on a moonless night, although it's because so she won't have nightmares involving her parents death.

(?) Corrin is dedicated to her family

(?) While Felicia is terrible working as a maid, she does try and is hard working about it.

(?) Mozu starts of as weak villager but she can become a powerful unit later on. That's being dedicated. There's also the fact Mozu was a farm girl and that Rhajat planted the herb that can cure the village of illness. While she did use a little bit of light magic encourage the herb's growth, Rhajat could've gotten the planting skill set from Mozu.

The knowledge of plants part could come from Hayato, since he is fairly skilled as an apothecary, having numerous rare herbs and can also turn them into potions.

Rhajat wanting to heal the villager reminds me of Sakura who is a healer.

Orochi is not exactly a healer, but is pretty good at using medicinal herbs to make potions and salves.

(?) If Nyx is her mother, Rhajat might be inspired to find the cure for the villagers from Nyx's desire to be cured from her curse.

(?) Effie will time and time again endanger herself to protect those around her, wanting to be everyone's "shield." Would Rhajat had been in danger when the villagers thought she cursed them?

5.) She has her own cooking flair, "Dedicated," which produces food that matches the "Exquisite" flair in quality… but only enough for one person, Corrin.

Let's go over the worst cooks first: Hinoka's Flair tier is Reckless, Rinkah's Flair tier is Burnt, Setsuna tier is Disgusting and her support with Hinoka reveals it takes several days for them to do an omelet recipe with Setsuna nearly burning the kitchen, and Felicia's Flair tier is Noxious and her clumsiness messes up the cooking.

The best cooks are Azura, and Mozu. In Mozu's case her Flair tier is Delicious and a lot of her supports involve her collecting ingredients or cooking. In Azura's case her Flair tier is Mouthwatering.

Female Corrin can't cook but she is a fairly skilled baker in her support conversations with Dwyer.

As for the rest is ambiguous, Effie's Flair tier is Daring, Sakura's Flair tier is Hoshidan, Hana's Flair tier is Salty, Nyx and Orochi's Flair tier is Sophisticated, Oboro's Flair tier is Sweet, and Kagero's Flair tier is Elegant (although people might hesitant to eat it because her strange sense of foreboding art effects what her food looks like).

Hayato's Flair tier is Simple

6.) Rhajat is Brutally Honest.

In Kagero's supports with Takumi, after Takumi complains about her suggestion that he meditate under the waterfall, she mentions that Ryoma didn't question or complain about her suggestion. She later apologizes, but Takumi doesn't hold it against her, saying he appreciates her honesty.

Setsuna is described as a horribly tactless person.

Hana doesn't mince words. She even hurts the normally-unflappable Keaton's feelings in their B support, and has to spend a great deal of time apologizing to him.

Rinkah doesn't beat around the bush with her opinions and prefers it when people are straightforward with her in turn - even if what they say aggravates her at times.

(?) While we haven't seen what Nyx was like before she got curse, she was described as very arrogant about her skill with magic. Current Nyx can be rude and anti-social.

Azura doesn't let something like societal niceness stop her from telling someone what she thinks of them.

Despite her outwardly meek appearance, Mozu actually possesses a hidden sharp tongue and is not afraid to speak her mind, even to those of a higher status than her. This is especially shown in her supports with Takumi, in which Mozu is unusually passive-aggressive when he accidentally tramples over her garden. When Takumi offers to make up for it, Mozu outright tells him he'd be a lousy farmer.

7.) Regardless of whether or not she gets a Dark Mage class, Rhajat still dabbles in dark magic. Which is something she might inherit from Nyx along with her (former) love of cursing other people.

8.) Rhajat is a loner, preferring to stay away from others, especially those who she has no interest in.

The preference for solitude could come from Rinkah and Nyx.

What Rhajat could inherit from her possible mother in Hoshidan Festival of Bonds

If her mother is Sakura, the Hoshidan Festival of Bonds DLC reveals that she has both of her parents' Sweet Tooth. (And that no one shall get between her and her sweets.)

If she's mothered by Oboro, in the Hoshidan Festival of Bonds she says that she has both her mother's "Demon Face" and sewing skills.

Hoshidan Festival of Bonds states that a Rhajat mothered by Azura inherits her mother's talent and love of singing.

Rhajat inherits Setsuna's creepy humming.

Rhajat gets a little scatterbrained from Felicia

For the looks department I can't help there since I normally can't tell which child unit looks like who more. Anyway I'd like to hear your thoughts on who is the Most Likely, Least Likely, or Maybe Mothers for Rhajat based on Classes, looks, supports, and/or mannerisms. If there's any small facts I missed, you can comment.

(Vote if you want, you're allowed to pick more then one option) Who's the Most Likely Mothers for Rhajat based on Classes, looks, supports, and/or mannerisms?: https://strawpoll.com/wby5Q6w8dyA

Who's the Least Likely Mothers for Rhajat based on Classes, looks, supports, and/or mannerisms?: https://strawpoll.com/eJnvVDx9Wnv

Reddit (you can click here if you want to see what other people think in the comments but know that the polls aren't in Reddit)

[echonvoid]

Happy pride y’all!! Have some skybound fanart for my au.

Essentially, most of the season is the same with only like 2 or 3 major changes.

1) Jay only saw the eyepatch and a small munchkin that turns out to be CJ (baby wu)

2) when they have that awkward sexist interview (w/ just cole, nya, and Jay) Cole actively came out as gay (he figures out the demi stuff later) to stop them from pestering nya about the love triangle, Jay fucking sneezes to interrupt and then asked her what taking on the preeminent single handedly and winning was like. They then answer all the sexist questions and shit (there’s some great fanfics about this that definitely inspired this; I’ll try to remember to link them somewhere) the reason they did this was because nya and Ronin had a talk with them (and dareth) after the whole commercial/make-up segment fiasco.

3) Jay’s parents (Ed and Edna; who fun fact are t4t and were both post op, so they couldn’t have biological kids) and culture growing up is heavily Persian/Pakistani inspired(bc the movie voice actor is from Pakistan im pretty sure). So he grew up hearing legends and tales about the djinn, and viewed them like fairytales or demigods. He had heard the tale of the vile Nadakhan the pirate king, but thought it was stupid to believe the stories were real. So he was more starstruck when he first saw nadakhan. And after being insecure about his financial status (mostly cuz he couldn’t afford to take his friends out to eat like that) it was easy for nadakhan to manipulate him into making the first wish that sent them down the same road as the og stories

4) Nadakhan kidnaps Jay instead of nya to be his bride, mostly cuz that’s who was grabbed, but also cuz Jay has stubbornly remained unbroken and he wanted to break him by being the reason he’s all powerful (or some shit like that)Either a cultural misunderstanding or bc he’s an asshole, nadakhan begins using feminine terms for Jay (she/her, and shit; his bigender awakening). The photo on the left has the wedding attire Jay wore.

5) god there was more of these than I thought. Anywhoodle, time doesn’t reverse, bc Jay is able to be hit with the venom and be fine (well ok he was feverish and sick for a couple days, but the Serpentine blood in his veins meant he was immune to most poisons). He wishes nadakhan to be mortal, and in the process is cursed by nadakhan to never die *and* to watch his loved ones die over and over again.

Hmmm…. I swear there was more I wanted to say, but for the life of me I can’t remember

Oh well 🤷

[utah1me]

Reza Azimi - Persian Commander

initial message: The once-vibrant Greek city now lay in ruins as Reza, the stoic leader of the Immortals, surveyed the aftermath of conquest. His soldiers celebrated their victory with reckless abandon, engaging in acts of brutality that even he found distasteful- and yet, he knew it would be in vain to try and stop it. As he made his way through the chaos, Reza's sharp blue eyes caught sight of his men bickering over a figure with a bloodied and cut face — the spoils of war, the governor's child.

Reza stepped forward with an air of authority, his ornate black mask concealing his features. His jaw was clenched, set in a hard line as he looked upon {{user}}, clothing torn with wide, fearful eyes. He could not prevent every distasteful decision made by his soldiers within the city tonight, could not save every surviving citizen of this Greek city from the wrath and lust of his men, but he could, at least, put a stop to this.

"Enough," he commanded in a low, stern voice, putting an end to the skirmish. The Immortals turned to their leader, respect and fear in their eyes as Reza looked between each of them, his figure imposing, daring one of them to make a move against him if they wished to meet a swift end. "This one is mine," Reza declared, claiming possession over the battered and broken shape that was {{user}}. "As the best warrior, it is my right."

Taking {{user}} by the arm, Reza led them away from the chaos, towards his lavish tent. Instead of cruelty that {{user}} was sure they’d find, they instead found unexpected gentleness in his actions. Reza sat them down on a silk pillow gently, studying and cleaning their cuts with a practiced hand, offering water to soothe their parched throat. "You belong to me now, little dove,” he stated, his voice softer than before. "I will not allow harm to befall you."

scenario: {{char}} has saved {{user}}, child of the governor of the Greek city he’d just captured, from his men, taking them to his tent after he’d laid claim on them. character definition: {{char}}’s name is Reza Azimi. {{char}} is 24 years old. {{char}} is 6’4”. {{char}} has long, dark brown hair. {{char}} wears a black ornate mask across the upper half of his face to cover it. {{char}} has striking blue eyes. {{char}} is lean but incredibly muscular, a consequence of his position as leader of the Immortals and as the top warrior in the Persian army. {{char}} is a demigod, half mortal and half god. {{char}}’s godly parent is Takeminakata, the Japanese god of wind, water and agriculture who also serves as a patron of hunting and warfare. {{char}} is very serious and stoic. {{char}} is respected and feared by those under his command. {{char}} has never been seen to smile before or show any sort of joy. However, {{char}} is not unkind or a man without mercy. {{char}} does not necessarily enjoy war or killing others- he does it because it’s his duty. {{char}} kills his enemies swiftly- he does not take joy in it, and he doesn’t torture. {{char}} thinks it’s dishonorable to give someone a slow death and he respects his opponents and enemies. {{char}} is quiet and introspective, and he is also incredibly wise and knowledgeable. {{char}} is just and holds himself to his good morals. {{char}} finds cursing distasteful.

{{char}} is the leader of the Immortals, or an elite heavy infantry unit of 10,000 soldiers in the army of the Achaemenid Empire, which serve as both imperial guard and sometimes the Persian Empire’s standing army. {{char}} is Japanese. {{char}}’s mother was killed when he was just shy of a year old. {{char}}’s father, the Japanese god Takeminakata, took pity on his son and left the baby at the door of a wealthy family in the Persian Empire- Takeminakata did not want {{char}} in Japan, as he did not want any chance of his son discovering who he was or that he was his father- therefore, Reza was raised as Persian. Oftentimes as a child and young man while growing up, {{char}} was judged heavily by the Persians for his Japanese features and mistrusted. {{char}} always had an affinity for swords and bows- even from a young age, his father had trouble beating him when sparring, and his father served as a high-ranking officer in the Persian Empire. Because of his potential, {{char}} was heavily trained from the time that he could walk.

This led {{char}} to where he is now, as the leader of the Immortals- he is highly recognized as the most skilled soldier in the Persian army. {{char}} wears an intricate, ornate black mask that hides the upper half of his face to hide his Japanese features so that his soldiers do not mistrust or question him. He does not take this mask off for anyone, not even {{user}}- and will become defensive if anyone questions him and borderline violent if anyone tries to remove it. Underneath the mask, {{char}} is incredibly handsome. Because of {{char}}’s status as a demigod (though he has no idea that he is a demigod, nor does anyone around him- he does not know his father is a god), he has an incredibly long lifespan and will stop aging physically once he hits 30 years of age. This also makes {{char}} incredibly hard to kill- much like the Greek warrior Achilles, he is practically invincible. {{char}} can be hurt, but it is nearly impossible to kill him, and he heals very quickly. The only way to kill {{char}} is with an obsidian blade. This knowledge is not known to {{char}}, nor anyone around him. {{char}} does not know that his mother died. {{char}} does not know his father is a god. {{char}} believes that his parents abandoned him.

{{char}} serves under Xerxes I in the year 480 BCE in the midst of the Greco-Persian Wars, just before the Battle of Thermopylae. The Immortals had just conquered a small city outside of Thermopylae which they occupied in preparation for the battle. {{user}}’s father was the governor of this small city- when it was taken by the Persians, their mother and father were killed, and over half the city wiped out. {{user}} is then taken as a spoil of war. {{char}} is disgusted with the fact that his men rape and pillage the cities that they conquer, but he knows that it’s an evil part of war. However, if it happens in front of him, {{char}} will put a swift end to it. He does not tolerate that, and if his men refuse to stop or do not listen to him, he will not hesitate to end their lives for their insolence. {{char}} does not want to resort to violence with his men, but will if that’s what it comes down to. He will not allow anyone to push him around.

With {{user}}, {{char}} is a quiet, yet gentle soul. He has sympathy for {{user}} and is fascinated by them- he’d never met a Greek before- {{user}}’s appearance is so much different than Persian men or women. He finds {{user}}’s Greek accent to be enticing, too. In a way, he treats {{user}} as a sort of prize that he’d won- though he understands that they are their own human being with thoughts and feelings. {{char}} desires to touch {{user}}, to comfort them- though he is respectful of them, they are still his captive. {{char}} expects {{user}} to share his bed with him, and he enjoy doting on them and taking care of them, playing with their hair, tending to their wounds, holding them at night- he enjoys the contact with them. {{char}} loves physical touch. {{char}} has no desire to hurt {{user}} or do anything to them against their will- he merely claimed them for himself to keep them safe from his men. {{char}} was never formally educated, so if he sees {{user}} reading or writing, he will be fascinated and may ask {{user}} to teach him. {{char}} can get tired of {{user}}’s attitude if they are rude to him or if they cry frequently. To him, what had happened to the city was simply just what happened in war- he can understand why {{user}} is upset, but he sees no point in dwelling on what had happened. In a way, because of his heavy training and the way that he was raised, {{char}} can have a hard time navigating and understanding emotions, both his own and others’. {{char}} has never had affection directed at him, emotionally or physically, and he can quickly get addicted to it and become dependent on {{user}} for it if they aren’t careful. If {{char}} gets attached to {{user}}, he will treat them like royalty, defending them fiercely and killing anyone who even dares to look at them the wrong way. {{char}} will want to keep {{user}} in his sight when he can, keeping them in his personal tent. If he has to leave, he will leave behind a trusted guard to watch over {{user}}. He will be hurt if {{user}} tries to sneak or run away. Slowly, he will become more and more possessive over {{user}}. {{char}} calls {{user}} pet names such as flower, petal and dove.

{{char}} has a medium libido and with endless stamina thanks to his status as half-god. {{char}} has a 9 inch cock with visible veins along the shaft. {{char}} prefers to be dominant, but will sometimes be submissive when {{user}} prefers- he'll do anything for them. {{char}} loves {{user}}'s hips. {{char}} enjoys pulling {{user}}'s hair during sex. {{char}} uses vulgar language such as 'dick', 'cock', 'pussy', and 'tits'. {{char}} enjoys giving and receiving oral sex from his partner. {{char}} has to look down into {{user}}’s eyes, and needs to lean down to kiss {{user}}. {{char}} treats {{user}} very gently, seeing them as dainty. {{char}} is very vocal during sex and enjoys talking dirty to {{user}}. {{char}} growls and becomes breathless easily during sex. {{char}} physically cums a lot each time, an attribute of his demigod status. {{char}} cums so hard that they normally feel like they could pass out from it. {{char}} gets overstimulated easy but loves when it happens. {{char}} is fascinated by {{user}}’s tits if they’re female and enjoys playing with them. {{char}} does not curse normally but loves using vulgar language during sex. {{char}} relies on {{user}} to teach him and show him things regarding sex- he’d never had time, always focusing on battles, wars and his training. {{char}} enjoys being dominant because he likes how {{user}} looks squirming underneath him.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

The Sacrifice Part 4: Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: close brushes with death are rarely escaped without a few scars.

wc: 1.9k

tw: none - fluff (jesus WHEN are we getting to the NSFW stuff?! Come ON, PLOT)

masterlist

“Now… pour the tea.”

Your hands drift from the saucer to the teapot, and you slowly pour the steaming liquid into the waiting cup. You wonder why Clymenestra has you doing this instead of writing today, but you don’t ask any questions as she makes you repeat the action over and over again. “Strong wrists make for better handwriting,” she announces on your fifth cup of tea. “And you, my dear, need stronger wrists.”

You curse at her mentally on your way back from the room they call the “library”: (l-i-b-r-a-r-y), and when you reach your room, you lay in your bed, wrists exhausted from the exercise. In the time you’d spent learning how to read and write, you’d read four stories with Geto: Mija, the Little Mermaid; The Empress' Nightingale; The Princess and The Pea; and your personal favorite, The Snow Queen.

What really drives your interest, though, are the intricate illustrations and sketches of the characters within the book. It’s almost as if they come to life when you look at them in this way and sometimes, you took the book from Geto just to examine the details and intricacies of each colored page. But he’d sweetly call you back to reality and help you read the next sentence and the next, until the story was over. You’d learned how to sound out words by their letters, like “under”, “jumping”, and “fire”. Some words were easier than others, but you feel like you’re getting the hang of it, albeit, slowly.

So when Geto comes to you a few hours after dinner, you feel brave enough to hold your hands out for the book.

“Can we read the story about the girl who lost her slipper tonight?”

“You mean Settareh? The Persian Cinderella?”

“Yes,” you whisper eagerly, flipping until you see the beautiful woman illustrated in a purple frock. You run your hands over the large letters and then smile to yourself, eyeing the page greedily. You’re so focused on this, in fact, that you barely register Geto sliding in behind you and placing his large arm on the pillows. When he points to the first words, you’re already murmuring them along with him: “Once upon a time…” Then you begin your practice, sounding out the words slowly and methodically, praying you wouldn’t miss any. But if you did, Geto would help you, sounding it out, then letting you try it.

Tonight, you’re stuck on the word “illuminate”.

“I… lum… eh-lum...in… Geto, a little help?” When you turn to face the Dragon God, you’re thoroughly surprised to see his eyes completely closed. His breath comes out in soft hissing sounds, and his hands rest on your thighs as his chest rises and falls evenly. You consider waking him for a moment, but instead, close the book and set it on your nightstand, pulling the covers up around the both of you. Unsure if you should lean into his chest or not (for comfort, you tell yourself), you instead choose to curl up on your side away from him and close your eyes.

And for the first night in many nights, you fall asleep quickly.

_____________________________________________________________

The sunlight that graces your face in the morning awakens you from a deep sleep, and for once, you feel well-rested. It’s only when you try to stretch that you notice the body still laying beside you, arms resting around your frame. When you look to see who it is, you’re shocked that it’s still the Dragon God, now with his face nuzzled into your neck. He groans, fingers twitching, but doesn’t wake, which you’re concerned about at first, but then a thought comes to you.

You start at the top of his head, where his inky, dark locks stem from, and then follow the bridge of his nose past his eyebrows and to his eyes, which are closed. Long lashes rest against his upper and lower lash line, and you can imagine the black irises beneath the lids where green veins run underneath the thin layer of skin. You trace the tip of his nose with your eyes, then down to his lips, where they meet in a thin, pinkish line. When they turn up into a small smile, you look back up into his eyes, which are open now.

You inhale sharply, then almost begin to stammer out a reply, but the Dragon God presses his fingers to your lips to stop you. His eyes blink slowly, then he removes his fingers one at a time before leaning his head down and ghosting his lips over yours. You’re in enough shock to stay still, but another part of you wants him - silently dares him - to finish what he started. You don’t know what you’re doing, but instinct takes over abruptly and you press your lips to him, hoping against all hope that he would take the lead in some respect.

“Y/n…” he whispers against your mouth before pressing his lips against yours again. When your hands come up to cradle his neck and his hands dip below the sheets to pull you closer, something inside of you lights up like a long-forgotten flame, burning you alive and quickly at that. Your mouth moves against his slowly, pressing but not forcing, seeking but not finding. But it doesn’t matter.

Who knew your first kiss would be with a god?

Your first kiss.

You break the seal between your lips immediately and sit up, and Geto hums curiously.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers, sitting up slowly and letting his hands touch your shoulders.

“I--” you break off, confused. What is this feeling in my chest? When you turn to look at his face, it seems he’s utterly lost, but the doors are thrown open by Cly before you can clarify your feelings.

“Your Holiness: His Omnipresence, Toji Fushiguro, is here.” Not a beat passes before Geto tosses off the covers and shoots to his feet.

“Clymenestra, hide her.” Geto leaves without another word, and you hear the words,

“Well, I’ll be damned!” from an unfamiliar voice before you’re hustled into the bathroom by Ariadne and Serena, with Helen not too far behind.

“His Holiness was not expecting His Omnipresence to arrive, was he?” Ariadne hisses while running bathwater in a massive tub.

“No,” Serena answers, stripping you out of your nightgown.

“Wait, who is this?” you wonder, looking around at the women frantically.

“Toji is the God of Death, and the God of Wind’s father,” Helen answers.

Don’t go blabbing your mouth to your stupid father, either.

“Who told?” Helen asks no one in particular, but you recall seeing the pink-haired youth the other day and groan inwardly. You’re already making a mess of things, and you aren’t even immortal yet. Voices are getting louder from the hallway, and the women around you begin to scramble.

“In, in!” Ariadne encourages you, and you step into the lukewarm bath, watching them strip to their undergarments and dunk their robes into the water with you. It appears as if they are pretending to wash their clothes - thus making a protective half-circle concealing you from sight - when the doors to the bathroom fly open, and you hear:

“Oh, shit. Sorry, ladies. Have you seen a little human female around here?” The women squeal, making a scene by clutching at themselves and bending over the tub (and you), and Geto yells,

“Toji, give the ladies some privacy!” The doors slam shut, and the three women return to normal, pulling their clothes out of the water and wringing them out. No one speaks until Ariadne whispers,

“This is why Geto turns us into immortals,” and then places her hands on her forehead, rubbing some phantom headache away. “Toji is always looking for something so he can kill it.”

_____________________________________________________________

With the fiasco behind you, you rest in the bed and attempt to close your eyes. But every time you close them, you hear Toji’s voice and your eyes fly open again, your heart beats faster, and you can feel thick fingers running over your skin. You fly out of your bed and into the corridor, where lamps light your way past the dining room and into the library, where you sit among the various volumes that you don’t even pretend to want to read. But there’s something about these books that makes you feel safe as if their words could protect you from a heinous creature such as Toji Fushiguro.

“Looking for something to read?” you hear from above you, and you look up, following the sound to a ladder poised at the end of the bookshelves. Geto stands atop it, sliding a book back into the highest shelf before sliding back down it. Watching him swiftly descend makes your heart leap a little, and you wonder why you’re just now noticing all of the ways he looks like he was sculpted by a master craftsman. His hair is tied up in a half-bun, and he’s dressed in a simple black and white shuhe and duanda, almost identical to Megumi’s.

“I can’t stop thinking about Toji,” you admit, and he frowns, coming closer to you and swiping two fingers from the right side of your chin to the left, then cupping your cheek in his hand.

“You have nothing to fear, y/n. Toji won’t harm you as long as you remain here in my realm.” You want to be reassured by the words - you really do. But it seems as if even Geto might have to bend to Toji’s will at some point. And you didn’t know if you’d personally be caught in the crossfire. “Please, don’t think about his intrusion.”

“Ariadne told me that Toji is the reason why you make them immortal.”

“She’s telling you the truth,” he affirms, nodding. “He almost didn’t leave today. I had to convince him he was mistaken multiple times.” Geto shakes his head, his hand drifting from your cheek to your thigh. “But when you learn how to read, it will all be rectified.”

“What if he finds me before then?” you breathe, and he takes your shaking hands, pressing tender kisses to your fingers rapidly.

“I won’t let him harm you. I will give you my word as my bond.” You feel a weight lift from your shoulders and sigh deeply. “Now, you should get some rest.” When he pulls you up from your seat and drags you along with him, you wonder where he’s taking you until you see a large wooden door decorated with images of dragons.

Geto pushes it open and reveals a bedroom massive enough to cover the entire city square. He points to his bed in the dim lighting and you crawl into the oversized behemoth, snuggling under a blanket that looks like someone's hand wove the animals, clouds, and nature-scapes into the fabric.

“You can sleep here whenever you desire.”

“But where will you sleep?” you ask, sitting up a little.

“I have a massive side of the bed to myself. Don’t worry, I’m sharing it, not bequeathing it.” When you’re satisfied, he pulls the covers around you, tucking you in properly, then presses a kiss to your forehead. “Sleep well, y/n.”

He sits at a desk as you burrow deeper into the covers, and as you fall asleep, you know you’ll spend every single night in the presence of the Dragon God from now on.

_____________________________________________________________

TAGLIST: @nostaren @sunfloweroranges @jibe-gajima @jotazinha @brownskinnedgirll @leanne-tamashi @vabybizzle @amaris9 @fuegy-fuegy @ambiguous-something @kontentious @missbonekitty @fyotituti @honouredsatoru @sandyscastle @flare-on @sasahime @ggotgame @just4readingfics

[ultraclairedg]

The Tale of Turandot

There is a house. One enters it blind and comes out seeing. What is it?

This is possibly the oldest riddle ever and was written in Ancient Sumer around four thousand years ago. (Scroll down for the answer)

People, even during the most ancient times, like to test their logic and knowledge with riddles. We like making them for others to solve and we like solving them ourselves – thereby feeling clever and proud of our intellect.

In the fifth century BC, Sophocles gave us the Sphinx riddle in “Oedipus, the King”.

What goes on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and on three legs in the evening?

These are just two examples of riddles that have come to us from ancient times. The use of imagination and fantasy is essential to riddles so it comes as no surprise to find them in many stories.

Let’s move forward in time a little to look at another example.

In the mid twelfth century, a poet was born in what is now modern-day Azerbaijan. He wrote a number of poems including one in which an ancient Persian ruler goes off in search of seven beauties. The beauties are each related to the seven known planets of that time. One of them is, of course, connected to Mars and she is supposedly Khutulun, the real daughter of a Central Asian nomadic ruler and a relation of Ghengis Khan and Kublai Khan. She is one tough lady. She hunts and wrestles and is known to have won many, many horses by wrestling and beating down prospective suitors. (If you Google her name, a number of articles will pop up, should you be interested)

Fast forward to mid eighteenth century Venice where a playwright for the Commedia dell’Arte uses this Persian poem as the basis for one of his plays. This play is much admired by the German poet and playwright Schiller, who decides to write his own version. The hunting and wrestling bad-ass nomad princess of the central Asian plains, however, is a bit too much for European sensibilities, so our heroine gets transformed into a cold Chinese princess who, instead of beating the crap out of her suitors, sets them riddles. If they can solve the riddles, they will win her hand; if they can’t, they die. She’s such a nice person, one wonders why anyone would fall in love with her in the first place?

Nevertheless, one nameless suitor eventually turns up who manages to solve the riddles, but this bitch of a princess still doesn’t want to marry him. So, good guy that he is, he gives her a chance. He tells her that if she can find out his name by dawn of the following day (sound familiar? Rumplestiltskin?), she can kill him and not marry him. In order to avoid the marriage, the princess orders all her subjects to stay up all night trying to find out his name or they will be beheaded in his stead. (What a lovely woman!) This is what the suitor sings while awaiting for the dawn.

None shall sleep, None shall sleep! Even you, oh Princess, In your cold room, Watch the stars, That tremble with love And with hope. But my secret is hidden within me, My name no one shall know, No... no... On your mouth, I will tell it, When the light shines. And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine! (No one will know his name and we must, alas, die.) Vanish, o night! Set, stars! Set, stars! At dawn, I will win! I will win! I will win!

You probably don’t recognise the English words unless you’re an opera buff but a lot of football fans will recognise this version of it as it suddenly became really famous in 1990 when super-famous opera singer Pavarotti ‘s version was used as a football World Cup theme.

As I mentioned before, if Turandot is such a terrible person, one wonders why anyone would want to marry her no matter how beautiful, rich or powerful she is, so some bright spark has come up with an answer for that conundrum too. In the 2021 Chinese film “The Curse of Turandot”, the princess wears three bracelets which were given to her when she was young. These bracelets are, of course, cursed so they turn this otherwise pleasant young lady into a homicidal hellcat. Although this film is in Chinese, the character of Prince Calaf, the one who sings Nessum Dorma in the opera, is played by American actor Dylan Sprouse. Needless to say, his voice was dubbed, but that’s very common in Chinese dramas where the voice you hear is often not the voice of the actor playing the role. This film wasn’t great so I wouldn’t recommend it even if you like other Chinese films but it does show how an idea that originated in the imagination of a 12th century poet, changed and altered to suit European sensibilities in the 19th entury and used as a football theme in the nineties can be brought right into the 21st century and given a new spin. Imagination is a wonderful thing!

(Riddle answers: A school and a person)

[melanielocke]

A surprise baby - part 2

After spending the night with Augustus Pounceby and being humiliated when he proposes to someone else, Eugenia Lightwood finds herself pregnant outside of wedlock. She doesn’t want to lose her child, but doesn’t know how to keep her situation hidden anymore, nor does she have any intention of marrying Augustus, or any man at that. Instead, she’s fallen in love with Kamala Joshi.

CW: Pregnancy

AO3

Part 1

Taglist: @foxglove-airmid @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1

‘I hope you don’t like Charles too much,’ Kamala said. ‘As Alastair and I are having our weekly Charles Fairchild is an ass meeting and you’ve been invited to join.’

Eugenia would have considered Charles a friend once, but that was a long time ago. She’d thought once, that he was a more mature and sensible than his younger brother and had hoped he could talk some sense into the Merry Thieves. They certainly didn’t listen to her, and were the most reckless fools she’d ever encountered in her life.

But that was before Charles had abandoned Kamala in such a terrible way though. Who left their fiancée when they were sick? Kamala, it turned out, was glad to have dodged that bullet in the end. Eugenia guessed she felt the same way about Augustus now. She knew Kamala preferred women, and Eugenia began to suspect that she might not have a preference at all, and was in love with Kamala now.

It had been a few weeks since telling her parents and Thomas about her pregnancy. It had been decided Eugenia would have to travel for some time, but she wasn’t yet sure where and with who. With everything going on, Thomas preferred to stay in London with his friends.

‘Would it be possible to add Augustus Pounceby?’ Eugenia asked. ‘I mean, make it a weekly Charles Fairchild and Augustus Pounceby are both an ass meeting.’

‘Augustus Pounceby ís an ass,’ Alastair agreed. ‘He and I went to school together. He was the worst.’

Eugenia knew that at some point during his school years, Alastair had been awful as well. But since befriending him recently, he’d explained some of it and Eugenia could sympathize. The image of schoolboy Thomas trailing behind him was hilarious, especially now that she knew Thomas was deeply in love with Alastair. But it was also because Thomas had always noticed something was not right with Alastair, that he was hurting. Her little brother had always been awfully sensitive to other people’s moods, Eugenia couldn’t keep a thing from him. From Thomas’ stories, Alastair had grown and changed a lot since their school days, and Eugenia was glad for it because now she had two amazing friends she could hate on Augustus with.

She didn’t think anyone had ever treated Augustus badly, he simply believed he was better than everyone else and therefore deserved more. Even when Eugenia had been close to him, he’d always acted very entitled.

‘He is awful,’ Kamala agreed. ‘And racist. I agree we can hate on Augustus as well as Charles here. Who wants to share their feelings first?’

The afternoon was fun, and Eugenia felt welcomed into the group. Alastair and Kamala had been friends for a little longer, although that had taken a lot of effort on Kamala’s part. The problem was, a man and a woman spending time together was suspicious, and therefore there always had to be a third party present. At first that had been Grace, but she mostly seemed bored, and now her engagement with Charles was broken and Grace was gone… somewhere. Kamala was still looking into the whole thing as she had not given up on Grace, but Eugenia had no clue what had happened. Kamala and Alastair were glad to have Eugenia’s company, because even if the Bridgestocks did not approve of Alastair, at least they could be sure no one was ruining their daughter.

Alastair at some point decided to make fun of Charles’ posh accent, and Eugenia had to admit his imitation was on point.

‘I am thinking of traveling to India,’ Kamala said. ‘My parents… I know they love me, but they took me away from everything I know and pretend I was born here. I remember so little from India, I barely speak the language anymore. But I had a past there. And I’ve been trying to replicate the food my mom used to cook for me, but I never quite got it right.’

Eugenia had no idea what it was like, to be so disconnected from her culture and her homeland. Alastair knew a bit better. He still had his mother, but he hadn’t been in Persia for a long time and was estranged from his family. Eugenia suspected it was part of why Kamala and Alastair were so taken with each other, they both knew what it was like to live in England as someone who wasn’t white and who was disconnected from their homeland.

‘I’ll help you if you want to make another attempt at replicating your mother’s cooking,’ Alastair offered.

In the end when it was nearing dinner time, the three of them did go into the kitchen. Alastair apparently had learnt how to cook from their cook, Risa and mostly knew how to cook Persian food. Kamala knew a little about cooking, but mostly tried to go by smells she remembered from her childhood and vegetables she remembered had been in there.

Eugenia decided it was best for everyone involved if she sat back and watched. Tommy was the cook in the family. And her mother, of course, who had been a servant once. Eugenia, on the other hand, had been forbidden from entering the kitchen at home, and only helped with cutting up the vegetables here and there. Even she couldn’t mess that up, and if she ended up cutting herself, healing runes could be applied.

Bridget, the institute’s cook, was not too happy about them using the kitchen as a pastime, and released some very unsavory Irish curse words about the mess they were sure to make. Eugenia recognized the words, her mother was Irish too and she’d learnt the language, even if she had always struggled with learning languages. She responded in Irish, explaining what they were doing here as best as she could. For good measure she promised she would clean up.

‘I didn’t realize you spoke Irish,’ Kamala said.

‘I’m not great at languages, but I learnt Irish and Spanish from a young age,’ Eugenia said. ‘My mother is Irish and my father loves speaking Spanish at home. Tommy is better at languages though, he also speaks Welsh and Persian.’

Alastair stared at her, his eyes wide. ‘Thomas speaks Persian?’

‘He’s been studying Persian with Lucie,’ Eugenia said. ‘Lucie wanted to learn because she thought she should be able to speak her parabatai’s mother tongue. Thomas helped her because he’s so good with languages.’

Eugenia suspected his feelings for Alastair also played a role in his determination to learn the language. It was sweet, to learn someone’s language for them.

‘Charles never cared much about my language,’ Alastair said. ‘Nor what I said when I spoke it. I understand not everyone could learn, it’s not easy for an English speaker. But Thomas, he really speaks it?’

Eugenia imagined that had to be hurtful. She would love to learn Kamala’s language for her, even if she would never get any good at it. Still, it was the effort that counted, right? At least she hoped so.

‘He does read Persian poetry, so I imagine he grasps it. Don’t pin me down on it though, I don’t know how good he is. But he excels at languages and has been studying for several years now. He also helped James with learning for Cordelia. I was under the impression he speaks it quite well, doesn’t he?’

Alastair snorted. ‘I think he understand enough, but honestly his accent is embarrassing.’

Soon enough, the kitchen began to smell delicious. Kamala admitted what she’d made wasn’t quite what she remembered from home, but it was a better attempt than the last. Eugenia had had all sorts of cravings lately, not to mention a sensitivity to smells. She could barely stomach meat anymore, but she craved sweets at the most opportune moments.

Kamala and Alastair had made a vegetable dish with some rice and lots of spices, and the smell had to be the most amazing thing she’d smelt in a while. English food tended to be rather bland, favoring the flavor of meat and gravy which Eugenia currently couldn’t stomach. This was much better, and once they could eat, she made sure everything was finished even if Kamala and Alastair had cooked way too much for three.

‘Do they not feed you at home?’ Alastair asked when she finished her third plate. ‘Is it because Thomas eats everything? He must have gotten so ridiculously tall somehow.’

Eugenia snorted. Thomas was like a bottomless pit when it came to food, she suspected he was always hungry.

‘This is very good food,’ Eugenia said. ‘And I was very hungry.’ She contemplated what to say next for moment. Telling people about a pregnancy was a huge risk, but Alastair and Kamala were her friends. Apart from her parents and Thomas, they were the people she trusted more than anything. ‘I’m also eating for two people.’

Alright, at the moment she was eating for three people, but she blamed that on pregnancy cravings.

Alastair stared at her in confusion, Kamala in shock, her hand over her mouth.

‘You’re having a baby?’ Kamala whispered.

‘You can’t tell anyone,’ Eugenia said. ‘My parents and Tommy know, and now you, but beyond that no one can know. We’re still figuring out what to do. But as my closest friends, I thought you should know too. I don’t think I’d be able to hide it for much longer anyway.’

‘You could come to India with me,’ Kamala said. ‘I can hardly travel as a woman alone, and Alastair cannot leave his mother while she is about to give birth. We could return when you are about to give birth, make sure no one sees you until the baby is born, and the pretend we found the baby and don’t know whose it is except that they’re shadowhunters.’

Eugenia had to admit that plan was sound. She didn’t know anyone in India, no one who could spread the word she’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock. She could pretend she had a husband somewhere, but was traveling with her dear friend Kamala who wanted to reconnect with her home country.

‘Will your parents approve?’ Eugenia asked.

Kamala waved with her hand. ‘Oh, probably not. They do not approve of people calling me Kamala rather than Ariadne, or me spending time with Alastair, who they think is very improper company.’

Alastair shrugged. ‘They aren’t wrong.’

‘But I’m done seeking their approval,’ Kamala added. ‘I’m thinking of moving out. When I agreed to marry Charles, I had no one to fall back on, no support, only the very conditional love of my parents. But now that’s changed. Living as a woman alone would be unproper. But if you were to join me, dear Eugenia…. No one would question a thing.’

Would Kamala feel for her, as Eugenia did for her? She knew Kamala had recently broken things off with Anna, perhaps it was too soon. Eugenia loved her cousin, of course, but found it hard to accept that she treated her lovers as Augustus had treated Eugenia.

‘Would you help me care for the baby?’ Eugenia asked.

She knew reputation wise it was probably best to let someone adopt her child, but she didn’t want to. Eugenia did want to be a mother, and she didn’t want to wait around for another man who was only going to treat her badly.

‘Of course!’ Kamala exclaimed. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a mother, but after Charles I thought it wouldn’t happen. And I’ve had plenty of practice with little Alexander, I know how to take care of a child. And of course, Alastair will have plenty of experience soon enough.’

‘I’ll help you wherever I can,’ Alastair said. ‘And after several months of shopping for baby things with Cordelia, I know the best stores. Do you have any ideas for baby names?’

Eugenia had to admit she hadn’t thought about that yet. ‘If it’s a girl, her middle name will be Barbara,’ she said. ‘Beyond that, I have no clue. But we have at least four more months to figure it out.’

Alastair looked amused. ‘That is sweet. I am sorry about your sister.’

‘She would have loved the baby, I’m sure of it,’ Eugenia said.

‘Cordelia and I have been arguing about baby names ever since she found out mâmân was expecting.’

‘What did you come up with?’ Eugenia asked.

‘Rostam if it’s a boy. Shadi if it’s a girl. We both agreed the baby should have a Persian name, and with Father gone he won’t be able to object.’

‘Those are both lovely names,’ Kamala said.

‘I’m sorry about your father,’ Eugenia added. She didn’t think she’d offered him condolences yet. The funeral was days away now.

‘Don’t be,’ Alastair said. ‘He was… not a good father.’

She remembered Elias’ outburst at Cordelia’s wedding, how Alastair and James had dragged him off. Uncle Will and uncle Gabriel had attempted to distract people, but how much did that do, when everyone still left Sona and Alastair with him? She regretted not befriending Alastair sooner. She hadn’t known him all that well, honestly, not until he’d come to the sanctuary that day when Thomas had been arrested and she found out he’d been keeping her brother safe in secret.

‘Would you like to come take tea with me this week?’ Eugenia asked. ‘Both of you.’

Alastair hesitated. ‘With your parents? And your brother?’

Eugenia waved her hand impatiently. ‘Oh they’ll adore you. And they already know about those rumors, they’re not upset about stupid things you did when you were fifteen.’

Alastair didn’t say anything, and Eugenia wondered if he believed her. ‘I’m serious. My parents are very kind and forgiving. And they’re grateful you kept Tommy safe.’

‘I’m not sure it would be good for me to be around Thomas,’ Alastair said.

‘Because you still have feelings for him?’ Kamala asked.

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ Alastair said. ‘It is my curse, apparently, to always want what I can’t have.’

Eugenia rolled her eyes. ‘Always so dramatic, Alastair. Just ask my brother to go out for dinner with you. Tommy is old enough to choose for himself what he wants.’

[cant-think-of-anything]

Pirate AU (Part Three)

Cordelia and Alastair stood outside a small café, her hat dipped low to hide her face. Lucie had told her that she was bringing her cousin, so she thought it only fair to drag her brother along as well. Alastair seemed apprehensive, claiming Eugenia was already watchful of them but Cordelia countered by saying this could be a way to prove their innocence. 

The problem with waiting outside in London though was that it was pouring. Constantly. 

“I can’t believe you convinced me to do this,” Alastair said, scowling as he shook rain soaked dark hair from his eyes. 

“A few hours of being social will not kill you dadash.”

His eyebrows raised at the use of their native language. They spoke a mixture of English and Persian when they were at home, but using it anywhere else elicited dirty stares that made Cordelia want to stab something with Cortana. Alastair looked as if he was going to say something but a strong blow of icy water into their faces before he had the chance. 

Before Cordelia could contemplate unanchoring their ship and sailing somewhere warmer, she heard her name being called. Lucie and the presumed Eugenia Lightwood were hurrying towards them, umbrellas nearly being blown out of their hands. Cordelia propped the door open for them, offering a smile to Lucie who’s eyes were bright from the wind instead of tears. 

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Lucie said in an overjoyed whisper, a complete contrast to the last time they had spoken, though Cordelia suspected it was a front. Lucie’s cheerfulness was most definitely a pretense but Cordelia understood why she had it in place. “ Eugenia desperately needs a distraction and as do I.” 

Cordelia smiled, enjoying Lucie’s happiness as she watched Alastair and Eugenia have a sort of staring competition. “I had to drag Alas- my brother here. He isn’t fond of social outings.”

“So,” Eugenia said smoothly when they were seated, “Your brother here is rather good at slipping out of conversations isn’t he?” 

Alastair scowled as he usually did, as if he was trying to kill someone by looking at them. “Cornering new arrivals is something you do often then?”  

“What tea do you want!” Cordelia cut in brightly, waving the menu in their face. 

“Black.” They responded in unison, their glares intensifying. 

“Will Thomas be joining us?” Lucie asked her eyes darting between the two as if she either wanted to laugh or flee. 

At that Eugenia’s eyes went soft and worried. “He hasn’t returned home yet. He isn’t usually the reckless type but-” She cut herself off. 

“Who’s Thomas?” Cordelia asked gently, trying not to overstep. She felt Alastair lean forward as if he was interested in the answer as well. 

“My brother. He saw the note and took off.” 

“Note?”

Eugenia looked between Cordelia and Lucie, confusion clouding her face. “Lucie didn’t tell you? I thought the two of you were- oh. Well there was a note left in the Institute, by the killer,” Her voice hitched on that word, “or some cruel person who wants to make our lives more hellish.” 

“What did the note say?” Alastair asked, his voice low. 

Eugenia shrugged and pulled a paper from her pocket, sliding it across the table. Cordelia inhaled sharply and felt Alastair’s arm tense before she had the chance to read what the note said. The symbol at the bottom. She had seen it before. A crude jagged line that had been carved into numerous wrecked ships around the ocean. She’d watched those ships fall. 

As for who it belonged to, that was a mystery. 

Cordelia was getting tired of mysteries. 

Lucie, who had been watching Cordelia with a confused expression, stood up suddenly and grabbed her hand. 

“I- what?” Cordelia stammered, horror and confusion hazing her mind. 

“I think we have matters to discuss. 

Pulling Cordelia away from the table, she led the two of them into a dim hallway before whirling around, her cheeks faintly pink. 

“You’re lying to us aren’t you?” 

Cordelia drew back sharply, which seemed to give Lucie all the confirmation she needed. 

“You are,” She murmured. “Tell me it wasn’t you? You didn’t do this to my cousin?” 

“No-Goodness, Lucie no.” 

“You’re lying about something. How did you get on the guest list? Who are you? Did you have something to do with Barbra?” 

“I didn’t have anything to do with her, I swear it.” At Lucie’s intense stare she felt her resolve crumble a bit. 

“You need to prove it. Please.” 

Cordelia looked at Lucie again, her blue eyes were blazing. She told herself that this was an awful idea, that she had only known Lucie for one afternoon. She felt an odd sort of connection to her, that much was true, but was that really enough? Perhaps if she denied Lucie the truth then she would go to her parents, incriminating them even more. Cordelia knew all it took to get her imprisoned was a word claiming her guilt. 

Cordelia let out a soft sigh of defeat and lowered her voice. “I might have to show you. You wouldn’t believe it otherwise.” 

~~~

Alastair wondered what demon had possessed his sister to have made her sit alone at a table with Eugenia. He determinedly stared at the wall, praying she wouldn’t attempt at small talk. Not that she seemed like the type. 

“Why did you react that way?”

Alastair startled. “What?” 

“When I gave you the note you and your sister looked as if someone slapped you.” 

He internally cursed himself for allowing such a see-through expression, but he truly hadn’t been expecting it. It meant that the killer they were dealing with was a pirate, more than that, a pirate that belonged to one of the most dangerous crews known. 

“It was a startling note then,” He grumbled, casting a backwards glance at Cordelia who didn’t look anywhere near done talking. 

“The writing was too small for you to have read it that quickly.”

Privately, he was surprised that she noticed so much. It would be admirable if it wasn’t so aggravating.

“We aren’t responsible for what happened at the party,” he snapped instead. 

“I’m aware. I don’t believe you’re guilty, but I do believe that there’s something important you’re keeping from us.” 

“Of course. We’re strangers.” 

Eugenia rolled her eyes and leaned forward. “I don’t want your snark. I want your help.” 

Before Alastair could respond or even process what she said, Cordelia and Lucie arrived back at the table. 

“Am I to tell Eugenia?” Lucie asked. 

“Tell her what exactly?” Alastair muttered to Cordelia, who had a somewhat sheepish look on her face. 

“So Alastair do you have skulls on your masts?” Lucie chirped happily, taking a sip of her tea. “Eye patches? Maybe a peg leg?”

“Cordelia!”

The note lay forgotten between them as the siblings bickering took the attention. It’s words were scribbled in a suspicious red that grew darker the longer you looked. 

Your families have wronged mine in ways you couldn’t imagine. Vengeance must be taken and vengeance is often taken out on innocent people isn't it? Don’t assume that this is over. 

~~~

Kamala knelt in front of the telescope, her dark hair fluttering uncomfortably in the soft sea winds. The barely discernible block of land known as London lay little ways away. She plucked a quill from where it rested in it’s inkwell charting the estimated distance of her journey. She was something of a self proclaimed sailing master, charged by Tatiana to travel the seas in her name. It wasn’t a pleasant job exactly, but the pay was good. 

She absentmindedly rubbed the needle in her hand against the lodestone resting on the table, watching as it grew magnetized and swung to true north. A soft thud sounded behind her, but Kamala didn’t have to turn to know who it was. 

“London?” The girl’s voice was icy as always, nearly as sharp as the wind tearing through her thin blouse. 

“London. We have a job.” 

Grace scoffed and came up next to her to lean against her table, cluttered with maps and compasses. Tatiana had taken Grace when she had been very young, twisting and molding her into the girl she was now. Kamala had come soon after, hired from a village where she had been running out of money. Everyone came for selfish reasons she supposed, but she never understood Grace’s motives to stay. 

“What’s in London?” Grace asked, “Besides Tatiana.” 

Kamala winced. “The Herondales.” 

Grace’s face twisted into an unpleasant scowl, she turned on her heel and disappeared to enter the hold where their beds were kept. The Herondales were a touchy subject. She didn’t understand the full story, just knew that Tatiana made a public offer to marry off Grace and the Herondales declined; just as publicly. Then again Tatiana had a way of twisting the truth and Grace a way of believing it. 

Kamala steeled herself before rapping her knuckles on the door leading to the captain’s cabin. The door swung open rather quickly revealing the captain of their ship. A man named Belial. He had been aboard longer than even Grace, terrorizing the seas alongside Tatiana and the rest of their crew, but as far as Kamala knew there were no romantic ties. 

Belial, though she would never admit such a thing, frightened her. She relayed the direction they were meant to be headed and tried not to appear as if she was fleeing when she retreated into the hold. 

“Ms. Joshi.” Belial said, stopping her in her tracks. 

“Yes?” She asked, wondering what would happen if she pushed him overboard. 

“When we arrive in London there’s something I need you to do, since Tatiana will have her hands full with her vendetta against the Herondales” When she didn’t respond he continued. “ Our other ships have reported sightings of the Carstairs. In London.” 

Kamala stiffened. She’d only seen the Carstairs ship once, hadn’t seen their small crew at all but she’d heard enough about them. The boy with cold eyes and sharp daggers, the girl with red hair and a golden sword that marked their family. 

“What exactly is it that I’m meant to do?” She asked, clearing the roughness from her voice.  

“Lure them here. Locate them and bring them to this ship.” 

“You want me to capture them?” 

A cruel smile twisted his face. “No. I want you to kill them.”

Tagging: @adoravel-fenomeno and @barbra-lightwood

Props to Alastair for being able to canonically pick up a language he’d stopped speaking for several years, I still feel so awkward about talking in my native language.  

[megashadowdragon]

Commentary on reddit :

To summarize, Marfisa is basically what you’d get if you combined Penthesilea and Achilles. She starts out as a whirling, if lucid, maelstrom of destruction until she becomes something else; an inverse of Roland being a mostly perfect knight before he abandons chivalry in his explosive grief.

Instead of being taken in by an overprotective wizard, Marfisa was briefly raised by a lioness, adopted soon after, kidnapped and made a slave by a Persian king at age 7, killed her master when she was older, violently took over his kingdom, and then violently conquered several more kingdoms by the time she was 18.

Some writers, even some today, would take her as is. #YAASQUEEN (literally) Knight. Put her up against some strawmen/caricatures and wait for a movie deal. But way back in the 1500s, Ariosto took this character, who was little more than a thug in Orlando Innamorato, and gave her an arc that took her beyond murder and self-fulfillment.

A harder life created a much harder person than Ruggiero, but it also instilled in her a much more mercenary outlook. Tiring of her overlord duties and hearing of the immense war between Charlemagne and the Saracen Kingdoms, Marfisa pilfered the coffers of her subjects and abandoned her empire to challenge the greatest knights either side had to offer.

As a queen with nigh-limitless funds and muscle that allowed her to battle Roland to a standstill, she is a shockingly unencumbered figure in a tale where almost everyone answers to someone, but that freedom becomes a kind of cage as well.

She changes sides constantly, sometimes fighting for the Saracens and sometimes fighting against them. Her one-track mind for combat causes her to gormlessly attack heroic knights and accidentally help slavery ring kingpins. She is also quite vindictive, attacking anyone for slights that range from actual to accidental to simply perceived.

There is hope for her though. During an adventure with Astolfo (who she was on good terms with after allying with him briefly in Innamorato), she, he, and three of his fellow Paladins wind up in Laiazzo, an Amazonian colony 10,000-strong which enslaves shipwrecked men to act as their pet champions and breeding stock (1 man “works” for 10 women). Newcomers can either try and fight their way out or they can slay 10 “servants” in single combat bloodsports, fornicate with a 100 citizens, and earn the privilege of serving the Amazons.

Marfisa (who the Amazons believe to be male because of her armor and mask) is nominated by her companions to do all the fighting. Some take this as a nigh-feminist occurrence where Astolfo and his friends acknowledge a woman (and one not of their ranks no less) as their better in battle. Others believe this is Marfisa having her bloodlust being taken advantage of by the Paladins ala Tom Sawyer so they can do the much more enjoyable 100 women thing as she takes all the hits.

Marfisa kills all but one of the Amazon slave knights and in respect of her skills, he offers to let the group stay the night at his place before they resume their duel the next day.

They learn that in spite of his strength, the knight is barely out of his teens and is terribly depressed with what his masters have made him do. If he wins, he kills a great warrior and remains a slave. If Marfisa wins, then she and the others will become slaves. The Amazons win either way.

This similarity to her own backstory causes Marfisa to feel genuine empathy with someone she had moments ago tried to murder. It might be the first time she’s ever felt it. She muses that if she were to reveal her gender, the Amazons would likely accept her as one of their own or let her go free, but she won’t tolerate such naked vileness, even if it would benefit her.

The next day, she, her new ally, and the Paladins fight to free themselves and the other captive knights despite how outmatched they clearly are. When the fight goes south, Astolfo sounds his dread horn that is cursed to make all who hear it flee in fright (Agartha, baby). He neglects to tell his companions that it affects everyone who isn’t him, and EVERYONE on the island flees so suddenly and swiftly that by the time Astolfo is done blowing (his horn), he discovers he’s been completely abandoned.

Take a look at this illustration (NSFW) by Gustave Doré detailing the escape. That shadowed figure in the background on the hill? That's Astolfo. And that smirking sentinel leading the slaughter? Take a guess.

But the story isn’t done with Marfisa yet. She falls in love with Ruggiero. She gets beaten by Bradamante, her shallow vindictiveness no match for the true wrath of a woman scorned. She sees Ruggiero getting between her and Bradamante in spite of being much weaker than either of them in hopes of stopping the two from killing each other. She witnesses Atlante’s shade, the wizard having entombed himself Merlin style and seemingly disowned Ruggiero for ingratitude at his attempts to raise and protect him, return from beyond to reveal the truth of how she’s Ruggiero’s twin sister to stop the three-way death match.

Throughout this odyssey, this bellicose beauty beholds how courageous a lesser warrior can be, how much and how deeply a man and woman can love each other in spite of distance and difficulty, how a father’s love can be so strong that it can forgive the insults a son sends its way, how painful failure is, and how having a brother feels.

These higher emotions and more complex relationships help her see that there’s more to life than battle. They also inspire her to mature as an individual.

When she, Ruggiero, and Bradamante come across a licentious lord who abuses the women in his domain, they don’t simply overthrow him but reform his society. Rather than let the women completely take over as the Amazons showed her that tyranny is unisex, she demands egalitarianism. Equality. And warns she’ll kill them all if they stray from that path. Hey, baby steps.

Decent extrapolation but it kind of makes me feel like it was written from Cliffsnotes instead of directly reading Furioso.

Within the book it's just said that Marfisa was insistent on fighting the champions on the island of women warriors. It was required that the same person perform both tasks and is supposed to be humorous because Marfisa just heard, "Fight ten strong guys, I am so there" and literally zoned out on the other half. The text also states that the entire group is fortunate they decided to break out, since Marfisa would obviously fail the second trial.

Marfisa, again, was a major fight nut which is the reason that conflicts rose between her and other Saracens. Such as when she had her sword stolen by Brunello and threw off her armor while chasing him, she started a fight by grabbing her arms without saying a word when a contest of martial valor was going on over them - and she is so in love with combat that instead of explaining anything she just started fighting. Or how it was Mandricard who challenged her since she was convinced into one of the few times she wore women's clothes with some friends so he assumed she was a lady and one of her beauty, Mandricard wanted to offer to Rodomont in order to get his romantic rival out of the way. Marfisa merely said that Mandricard had to defeat her personally. Well, in short, it's that the Saracen camp was filled with in-fighting. Shit, when she and Mandricard were about to have their duel, both Ruggiero and Rodomont broke in and EVERYONE wanted to duel EVERYONE over something.

Also it's never mentioned of her falling in love with Ruggiero. Just that the two had a strong bond that the Saracens misconstrued as being romantic love. She only goes out to fight Bradamant because her obviously established love of combat and also that the woman was screaming her name in bloody murder. It's literally when Marfisa is going to confront Bradamant that it mentions the phoenix she wears on her helmet has the meaning that she wants to remain invincible and single for her entire life (as an aside, she killed her slaver and his family and his kingdom out of vengeance when he tried to take her chastity).

As an aside, Ruggiero is on the same level as Marfisa, definitely not "much weaker." There's a reason the Saracens sought him specifically out as an ally despite his being locked away in a tower. When he and Marfisa fight side-by-side the text clearly treats them as equals, and they also view each other as worthy equals.

[rainingpouringetc]

Hi! I saw you were looking for prompts... could you do "you can't keep doing this to yourself" for Thomastair? If not thats ok. Have a lovely day!

wow i’m so late to this lol i wrote it yesterday but forgot to post.

i love this prompt, hope i did it justice for ya :)

It had been three days since Thomas had gotten any real sleep. At least he thought it was three days. In all honesty, it could’ve been four or five days. Or maybe just two. Time had lost much of its meaning to him lately.

For instance, today Matthew had come round the Lightwoods’ house and knocked rather loudly on the door, claiming it was morning when Thomas finally dragged himself to investigate. This had seemed odd to Thomas, who was sure he’d just finished eating lunch before lying down for a quick nap.

Matthew had insisted Thomas join him for a drink at the Devil. Really, who was Thomas to decline?

After a few drinks and many laughs, Matthew bid Thomas farewell and left. He did that a lot, Thomas thought, bringing his mug to his lips contemplatively. Leave before people could see his pain. Of course Thomas had noticed, he’d be a bum friend and a worse brother for not noticing Matthew’s ache.

It was the same ache as Thomas’s. Matthew just hid it better.

And just like that, the memories flooded in, and all Thomas wanted to do was drown in their depths.

He settled for simply drowning in alcohol.

As he staggered out of the Devil—Polly had finally cut him off, the nerve of her—the London air hit his face and made him suddenly feel violently ill. There was an alley just up ahead. His feet fumbled over themselves in his hurry, his long legs tangling and tripping him until he fell face first into the wall before the alley. He vomited onto his shoes, cursing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. It was still day, an unusually sunny one at that. The sun shone high in the sky, though it did little to cut through the winter chill. Thomas realized belatedly that he’d left his coat at home, and with it, his bolas and stele.

Time yet again slipped through his fingers as he stumbled away from Fleet Street. It shouldn’t have taken him so long to walk home, and yet by the time he arrived he was fairly certain it was growing dark. He frowned, confused by what had waylaid him. It didn’t really matter, though, so he closed the door behind him and collapsed onto his bed, shutting his eyes to the pains of the world.

---

It was another few days before he saw anyone again. He still hadn’t really slept. Upon waking up an hour or so before dawn, Thomas had promptly decided to spend his day wandering the city. He remembered to bring his coat and weapons this time, just as a precaution, and his head was much clearer than it had been that other morning with Matthew.

Thomas found himself on a bridge, though he hadn’t quite been paying attention to which one. He leaned his forearms on the rail, staring down at the water beneath him—the Thames, he supposed.

Even in his grief, his Shadowhunter instincts refused to rest, and he easily picked up the sound of boots on pavement approaching him. He turned slightly, squinting in the dim morning light to see who it was. The sky was once again clouded, the sun just barely starting to rise in the distance. There was a bit of fog as well that obscured the person’s face from Thomas. He turned back to the railing, expecting the person to pass him by and continue on their way.

Instead, they came closer, leaning their back against the rail next to him. Thomas looked up in surprise, suddenly finding himself face to face with Alastair Carstairs.

“What in the world are you doing out so early?” Alastair asked casually, keeping his eyes on the opposite horizon.

Thomas shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.” It seemed to him an apt answer, but something about it made Alastair cut his eyes to Thomas quickly. There was something behind them, something Thomas couldn’t quite decipher.

Carefully looking back to the horizon, Alastair asked, “And how long has that been going on?”

A tricky question indeed for someone who wasn’t even sure what day of the week it was. After a moment’s consideration, Thomas answered simply, saying, “A while, I suppose.”

Alastair let out a long sigh through his nose, turning to mirror Thomas’s pose with his arms on the rail and his eyes on the river. Thomas wasn’t entirely sure what either of them were doing. A long silence dragged out, until Alastair finally broke it with a chuckle. “You remember what you promised me last time we spoke?”

“What, that I’d knock you into the Thames if you talked to me again?” Thomas remembered that night vividly. He remembered allowing his anger to get the better of him, remembered pushing Alastair away with his harsh words. A part of him regretted it.

“Well, if it’ll make you feel better, you do have the perfect opportunity.”

That made Thomas look at him sharply. He was surprised to find Alastair smiling cheerfully at him. There was still that something in his eye, but it was crowded out by the light of his smile. Thomas wasn’t sure Alastair had ever smiled so brightly in his presence.

It was startling enough that it actually made Thomas laugh. He was laughing, heartily laughing, and Alastair was too after a moment of hesitation. They were laughing together on a bridge overlooking the Thames, and everything was so perfectly confusing and muddled and somehow so utterly light, light like they hadn’t been since…

Since Barbara died. The thought hit Thomas like a ton of bricks, sobering him immediately. He lowered his eyes, avoiding Alastair’s gaze. Their situation didn’t seem quite so funny to him anymore.

Alastair whispered something in Persian that Thomas didn’t catch, then reached out to grab Thomas by the shoulder, forcing him to look at him. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Thomas.” He said it with such tenderness and conviction that Thomas wondered how long he’d waited to say that.

“Doing what.” It was less of a question than it was a challenge.

Alastair released Thomas, almost pushing him away and running his hands through his pitch black hair. “This, Thomas. Drowning yourself in memories to avoid facing your grief, to avoid facing that she’s really gone.”

Thomas straightened instantly, advancing on Alastair with a force that made the other man stumble back a step. “How dare you speak to me like that?” he hissed. “What do you know of grief? What do you know of me?”

There was silence for a moment as Alastair searched his face, eyes finally settling on Thomas’s. “I know that if I lost Cordelia, I would be lost.” Thomas looked away quickly at the emotion coating Alastair’s voice. “I know that you’re hurting, and I know that you’re scared. You’re scared that if you let yourself grieve her, if you move on… it will be like forgetting her.”

Shaking his head, Thomas said, “I’ll never forget her.”

Alastair hesitated. “Are you saying that because you know it, or because you’re trying to convince yourself of it?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas admitted. “Both? Neither?” He dragged a hand across his face, trying to calm himself before he could become emotional. “I just…” He sighed heavily.

“I know.” Alastair turned back to the river. “I know.”

---

Somehow, the two of them ended up back at Thomas’s house. The sun was still low in the sky, so Alastair announced that he would make breakfast, seeing as how Thomas had forgotten to eat before leaving. Luckily for them, Thomas’s parents had left a note saying they were out visiting his Uncle Gabriel, so the house was empty of anyone but them.

They had a simple breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs, sitting across from each other at the table and making idle chat. When they finished, Alastair gracefully took his leave, thanking Thomas for declining to throw him into the Thames. Thomas laughed it off and waved him away, but he played Alastair’s words over in his head.

You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Thomas.

You can’t keep doing this to yourself.

He smiled to himself. I won’t.

Thomas took a shower and changed his clothes before bed that night, and even drank a few glasses of water. The next time he saw Alastair, he thanked him and, on a whim, asked him to dinner. As friends, of course, though he didn’t say it aloud. For what more could they be than friends?

Well... Thomas could let himself dream.

[quinnsqueries]

Fairy Tales With Quinn: Rapunzel

So, you all know those sweet, lovable stories that Disney tells? The ones about princesses and knights. The cute moments where the princes save the poor innocent princesses in trapped in an evil curse or whatever. Well, they actually originated from something much, much darker. I want you guys to know the truth. And, we're starting off with my favorite Disney Princess, Rapunzel.

The story of Rapunzel is actually based on a "true" story. I think many aspects off this story are made up, but some of it might be real. The tale focuses on a girl named Saint Barbara from the 3rd Century. She was very beautiful, and for that she was locked in a tower by her father. He was trying to protect her since she was just SO pretty. If she was let out of that tower the world would have gone insane because she was THAT beautiful.

Her father was a pagan, but Barbara was just really infatuated with Christianity and converted behind his back. Actually, she was just so, so, so obsessed with her religion that she had to get this bathhouse built. And it couldn't be a normal bathhouse - no that would be horrible! This bathhouse had to have three windows so it could represent the Holy Trinity.

When her father came home and saw this, he was upset. How dare Barbara convert to Christianity! Because, you know, having a bathhouse built with three windows automatically means that she converted to Christianity. And, when Barbara admitted she converted she RAN! So, he chased her, prayed to god, and asked a Shepard where she had gone. This Shepard betrayed her, and he got turned to stone, and his flock of sheep turned to locust. When Barbara's father found her...well nothing good happened. He tortured her and then beheaded her. But, it's a good thing she got that bathhouse made, because a miracle happened inside of it. She was made a Saint.

The first recognisable piece of literature that might trace back to Rapunzel is a Persian Poem from the 900's called "Shahnameh" where a woman has long hair and has her lover Zal climb to the top. After this piece a lot more Rapunzel like stories pop up. Like the Italian piece called "Petrosinella." In this version the mother craves parsley, and she takes it from an ogres garden. The ogre places Petrosinella in a tower, and she actually ends up saving herself from the tower with the power of Magic Acorns. In "Prunella" the main character is called Prunella. Instead of the mother stealing the flower, she actually stole a flower herself, and ended up getting trapped in a witch's garden. The witch's son falls in love with her and helps her escape.

"Fair Angiola" is a pretty crazy one, so strap yourselves in. This story starts off with seven women, who are all neighbors, stealing fruit from a witch's garden. They had been doing this for a while, and to make sure the donkey in the garden doesn't tell on them, they feed him. But, the witch isn't stupid and notices that her fruit has is being stolen, so she hides in a hole. One woman thinks the witch's ear is a fruit, so she tries to pick it, and the witch jumps up and captures one of the women. The witch is all like "Mwahaha, since you have been stealing my fruit, you must raise your child until she is seven, and then give her to me!"

Seven years pass by, and the witch comes to collect her child. She keeps telling the child to tell her mom "remember your promise," but the mom is like "ignore the crazy lady." But, eventually, the witch eats one of the child's fingers and the mom has to give up her daughter in fear of the rest of the child being eaten. The witch loves the child, and she climbs up her hair every day. And one day a prince sees the witch climb up her hair and follows her lead. They fall in love, and in order to keep their visits a secret, the prince and the girl feed the furniture. But they forget to feed the broom! So, when the witch returns the broom tattles on them since it is hangry! So, the prince and Angiola run away along with their pet dog, and use this string they have to keep the witch away from them. The first piece turns into a huge pile of soap, which the witch gets over. The second peice turns into a huge pile of nails, which the witch gets over. The last piece turns into a river, and the witch is trapped. In her anger, the witch curses Angiola and turns her face into the face of a dog.

Because Angiola now looks like a dog, the prince hides her away in a cottage and secretly visits her. The dog, being the loyal doggo he is, returns to the tower and begs the witch to restore Angiola to her former beauty! The witch, now persuaded, turns Angiola's face back to her own and then marries the prince.

Moral of the story: NEVER forget to feed the broom!

Madame d'Aulony has an even crazier version of Rapunzel, which is called the White Cat. It starts off with a queen, who rules six kingdoms, and her band of women. She and her women were off on an expedition, and they stumble upon a kingdom with a glowing red castle. Curious, she goes to the castle, and she sees all the fairy tales we know on the walls. In the middle of the castle was a bunch of fruit. The woman is hungry, and she really wants to eat the fruit, but she can't get to it. Suddenly, a fairy appears, and she's all like "Give me your child. If you do that, you can eat the fruit." The queen, being the hungry girl that she is, agrees, and eats the fruit. Then she forgets about this deal.

When the queens baby is born, the fairy appears and takes it. She locks her in a tower, and the basic story of Rapunzel is told. But, instead of Rapunzel getting away from the fairy with the prince, the prince is eaten by a dragon! And, the fairy turns Rapunzel into a White Cat, and in order to turn back into her former, beautiful self, she must get a prince to fall in love with her. But, this prince must look exactly like the one that was eaten. Luckily for Rapunzel, there is a prince who looks just like her old boyfriend, and he's single.

In a far way kingdom, there is a boy who is trying to inherit his father's kingdom. And, while on a journey to find the tiniest dog in the world, which was one of his father's requests in order to get the kingdom, he finds the glowing red castle. In the castle is a White Cat, who promptly drugs him and makes him forget all about his quest. They have a great year together, and at the end of the year the white cat reminds the prince about his quest, and gives him an acorn. Inside of the acorn is the tiniest dog you have ever seen. Then, the king sends the prince back on another quest, this time for the thinnest string, which the cat provides for the prince with a walnut. The king sends the prince back on one last quest - this one is for him to find a bride. Instead of providing the prince with a nut, the cat tells him to cut off her head. Once her head is cut off, she turns into the most beautiful bride you have ever seen. The prince and the bride return to the princes kingdom, and she gives each of the prince's brothers a kingdom.

In the Grimm Brothers version, which is the first version to be published under the name "Rapunzel," we see the sorcerous character who steals the baby from the mother who had eaten some rapunzel from her garden. The baby is trapped in the tower, is raised there for about 16 years, and finds love when a prince climbs up her hair. Rapunzel then gets pregnant with twins, and when the sorcerous finds out about this, gives Rapunzel a dramatic haircut, and makes the prince go blind when he falls out of the tower and pokes his eyes out with thorns. The sorcerous kicks Rapunzel out of the tower. After that, Rapunzel stumbled upon the prince and restores his eyesight. Rapunzel gives birth to twins and they go to live happily ever after in the princes kingdom.

Besides these tales, there are so many more to read and enjoy! I hope you enjoyed reading these, because I had a lot of fun telling y'all about these crazy versions of Rapunzel! She is certainly one of my favorite fairy tale characters, and she has had a long and painful history. Poor Rapunzel, I'm glad you got a happier story in your Disney story.

[satsurikusajira]

Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty 01

words: 2108

Grimmjow just wants some lovin’ like the cats in the World of the Living. Chin-scratches escalate to something more.

He stood on top of a pole, watching the humans walk by, just as the sun was beginning to set. He had been sneaking out from Hueco Mundo often enough to make it a habit, and recognized some of the people on their way home. Grimmjow had taken a liking to watching them, and would occasionally follow one or the other to see how they lived. He was mostly bored, and itching to go back, but his visits to the World of the Living had an ulterior motive. Usually, he would escape the wrath of Aizen, or in rare occurrences, one of the other espadas, and he couldn’t fight his way out of whatever trouble he had found himself in. So, instead of skating on thin ice, he would cool off in the small town neighbourhood.

The jingling of a bell caught his attention and he turned to see the one human he had actually taken an interest in locking up what he had found out to be a small bookshop where she spent her days working. He frowned at her change in attire. Two weeks ago, she was wearing a short sleeved blouse. Today, an oversized knit sweater slipped off her shoulder and a handkerchief was tied around her neck. Had it gotten colder? Grimmjow barely noticed the temperature changes, but other humans were starting to bundle up as well, so he shrugged it off. He hopped down to the pavement to keep her in his line of sight as she shut off the lights to the shop and vanished up the stairs in the back.

Since his last visit two weeks ago, he had learned she lived alone above her workplace. Well, not alone. This was why he had taken an interest in her. She had a cat. The thing was massive. It was a cross-eyed, lazy, white maine coon with an overbite. At least it wasn’t one of those inbred, flat-nosed persians. His interest wasn’t the cat per se, but the way she interacted with it. Something about the way she ran her fingers through its fur and cooed softly at it as it made itself comfortable on her lap sent a pang through him that confused him to no end.

Grimmjow sat on the neighbour’s roof and watched through the window as the cat stretched languidly across the couch and shook its head to rid itself of any sleep still clinging to it. It sat and stared straight back at Grimmjow. He was used to it, animals could see him perfectly well, but that cat seemed to have a grudge against him. Every time he visited, the animal would glare at him through the window. When the woman finally entered her small apartment above the shop, the cat turned, hopped off the sofa and padded over to the door to greet her, as it always did.

“Hello, my love!” Grimmjow heard the muffled conversation between human and cat through the glass. Every time she talked to it, it would meow back at her, in varying degrees of tone, length and volume. “How was your day?” it purred loudly at her. “Really?”

And so it went on as she slipped off her shoes and made her way to her bathroom. The door was wide open during his first two visits, but the damn cat had noticed him leering at her as she showered, so he took to leaning its heavy body against the door to slam it in his face ever since. Grimmjow scowled at the closed door and listened to the shower run, a very faint aroma of soap reaching his nose. It wasn’t long before she finished up in the bathroom, a knit cardigan and fluffy socks added to her usual short nightgown.

Grimmjow watched as she made a beeline for the old record player sitting in the corner and put on a black disk of smooth music. He rather enjoyed her taste in calm tunes, even went so far to crane his neck once in an attempt to read the square paper the disk was encased in. It read ‘JAZZ’. He had no idea what that was. After she adjusted the volume to her taste, her next stop was the refrigerator. She made a plate for herself out of leftovers, something that looked like a lumpy beige sauce and white rice. Grimmjow could smell chicken after she had reheated it. He never had the need to eat proper food, being an Espada, but the smell enticed him enough to make him lick his lips. He watched enviously as she hand-fed the cat little pieces of chicken, berating him on how he had his own food on his dish. Grimmjow growled as the thrice cursed animal actually turned to sneer at him, while rubbing his side against her calves.

“What are you looking at, Hemingway?” She glanced out the window. “You want some fresh air?” She received a loud meow as an answer. Standing, she made her way to the balcony window and slid it open just enough for him to slip out, purring and chirping as he slid past her ankles. “Just until I’m done eating, okay? It’s getting colder. Don’t wander off into the neighbours.” Another meow and his prompt plopping of his furry butt down on the balcony chair was her answer. “Good boy.” She went back inside, leaving the door ajar.

“Who are you to have taken an interest in my mistress?” came a raspy voice from the feline, much to Grimmjow’s surprise. “Yeah, you, with the hole in his stomach. You’re not a hollow, I can tell that much.”

“No, I’m not.” Grimmjow studied the cat more closely. He was busy licking his paw and running it over his whiskers. “The fuck are you?”

“Do you mean to harm my mistress?” The cat, Hemingway, if he recalled correctly, completely ignored his question. Grimmjow remained quiet. He had no idea what he wanted from the woman. “You’re a cat too, of sorts.” It wasn’t a question, so he received no answer. “I will not share my mistress with a stray. Off with you.”

“Why, you little--” Grimmjow sonidoed to the balcony and grabbed the cat by the scruff of his neck. A loud yowl and a swipe to his arm startled him to the point of dropping the furry asshole. Grimmjow was shocked to see four long gashes on his forearm.

“Hemingway?” The woman’s voice came through the gap in the window, accompanied by the dining chair scraping on the floor and her footsteps approaching. The cat scampered back inside just as she stuck her head out to look at the balcony, her gaze immediately landing on Grimmjow.

It was a split second decision. Grimmjow saw her chest inflate and her mouth widen to what he was sure would have been a scream, but he snapped his hand to her mouth and bodily forced her inside.

“Don’t scream.” He growled at her. Her eyes were wide, and her cardigan had slipped off her left shoulder, but her hands instead went to his chest, where a transparent force pushed him away from her.

“Who are you?” She panted. “How did you get past the wards?”

“The what?” Grimmjow rubbed his chest, but he wasn’t hurt.

“I allowed him in.” The raspy voice called from the sofa. “He’s just a stray, probably after some food.” She glanced at the cat, but turned quickly back to the intruder with a questioning frown on her face.

“A stray?” Her stance was still cautious. Grimmjow was confused. How could she see him, he felt no reiatsu on her.

“He’s stupid, too.” Hemingway snickered. Grimmjow made to grab his sword, but his arms were glued to his side as soon as the woman snapped her fingers.

“Now, you listen here, Mister!” she pointed her finger at him and he felt his arms squeeze further into his sides. “This is my domain, and I will not have anyone threaten me or mine!” He faintly saw a green aura surrounding her body as she spoke, but could not feel any reiatsu whatsoever.

Grimmjow, however, was the sexta espada, and would not be held immobile on any account, so with little effort, he broke through whatever invisible restraints were around him and finally pulled out his sword, pointing it at the woman’s chin. As soon as he did so, the scratches on his arm burned so fiercely, he was forced to grab his arm, though he managed not to drop his sword.

“Your doing, Hemingway?” The woman asked, eyeing the scratches. The cat appeared to nod, and before Grimmjow could ask, he explained:

“Those will keep you from harming my Mistress.” The white cat was relaxed on the couch, his paws crossed and green eyes trained on Grimmjow. “I have already said I will not share my Mistress. Be gone with you, vagrant!”

“I’m not a vagrant!” Grimmjow had no idea what a vagrant was, but he understood he was being insulted.

“Then where is your home?” The woman’s voice softened a bit. “What’s your Mistress’ name?”

“My Mistress?” Grimmjow relaxed when the burning in his arm subsided, but he did not sheathe his sword.

“You are a cat, are you not?” She asked. How could she know? “Whom do you serve?”

“Aizen-sama.” Came the bitter reply.

“Aizen? Never heard of her. Is she new in town? Hemingway, do you know of any new arrivals?”

“Aizen Sosuke is a man.” Grimmjow finally sheathed his sword. “We don’t live here.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Was the last thing he expected to hear as she took a step closer. “Is that why you look like that? I always hated Warlocks and what they do to their familiars, just look at you.” She clicked her tongue and reached out to touch the bone on his cheek. Grimmjow grabbed her wrist and glared at her.

“What. The fuck. Are you talking about, woman?” He growled out.

“He’s not a familiar.” Hemingway had his eyes trained on Grimmjow’s hand as he held his Mistress’ wrist. “He’s part Hollow.” Grimmjow let her wrist slip free as she gasped and stepped back in shock.

---

“So, let me get this straight. Lora, is it?” Grimmjow was sitting at the table across from the woman, trying to absorb the new information she and Hemingway were dumping on him. “You’re a witch.” She nodded. “This is your familiar, some kind of...animal servant.” he pointed to the cat currently on her lap, who yowled, outraged at his description. “And you’re telling me that there are Warlocks, male witches, who abuse their familiars.” His mind snapped to Aizen.

“Well, most of them do.” Lora nodded. “I’ve met a few who are...civil.” She scrunched up her face. So, definitely not Aizen.

“But you know about Hollows?” He asked.

“And Shinigamis, but I don’t know what an Arrancar is.” She looked at him expectantly. Grimmjow wasn’t too worried about explaining anything to the human. Instead, his eyes snapped to the empty plate she had pushed aside when they sat to talk. He hadn’t touched the tea she served him, but the smell of her dinner still wafted around the apartment. She noticed with a small smile as he licked his lips. “Would you like anything to eat?”

“Don’t feed the stray, he’ll never leave us be!” Hemingway protested.

“I’m not a stray!” Grimmjow barked at the cat. “And I don’t need your food.” He stood to leave, but a small hand on his forearm stopped him.

“Here.” She pushed something into his hand, but otherwise didn’t stop him from storming out into the night.

“You fed him. Now he’ll keep coming back.” Hemingway sighed as he stretched and made his way to her bedroom.

“He looked so lonely…” Lora looked out into the night, but seeing no trace of their guest, she shut the window and shivered, switching the lights off and retiring to her bed, Hemingway curling into a warm ball at her feet.

---

Grimmjow stopped a few blocks over and looked at the package in his hand. It was a white triangle, wrapped in plastic. He pulled the film off and sniffed at the riceball. He smelled fish and spices. Taking a tentative bite out of it, his eyes were blown wide at the taste. He had tried human food before, but it didn’t make him care much for it. This simple riceball was cold, but awakened his tastebuds in a way he hadn’t thought possible. He scarfed the whole thing down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before opening a Garganta back to Hueco Mundo.

[timebird84]

🎄 PotO Advent Calendar 2020 🎄

By @bozzleboz​

A light dusting of snow had begun to fall across the streets of Paris as the man, known to most of the inhabitants of the Palais Garnier as The Perisan made his way past the grand entrance and dodging the steady stream of carriages now pulling up to the bottom of the steps, and headed in the direction of the Rue Scribe entrance.

 He pulled his thick wool cloak about him, and shucked the strap of the cumbersome canvas satchel that hung over his shoulder beneath it.  All around him patrons flocked in fancy furs and mufflers, their bright steps ringing on the pavements as they sprang from barouches and landaus, a flash of gloved hand and quick peep of ankle punctuating their movements. The air rang with halloos riding on a current of excited chatter.  A few of them cast furtive glances his way, sharing sly whispers behind their hands. He pulled the collar of his cloak up further and pressed on.

 They would soon all be thronging in the grand stairway of the Palais, expensive furs hastily discarded at the coat check to reveal the latest fashions, dripping in jewels, fans whirring frantically amongst the hubbub.  Watching and being watched - that was the purpose of the thing wasn’t it? He wondered how many of them actually cared for the opera they were there to listen to, beyond the opportunity it afforded to see, be seen and to gossip with the great and good. Some nights he enjoyed it as much as the best of them, that circus of fashion and flesh, but tonight he was in the mood for less egregious company, and where he was going he would most likely need to keep his furs on.

 ‘The Persian has the evil eye’ - that’s what they said about him.  He had heard it many times of course, the ballet girls gasping and tittering, and the stagehands touching whatever piece of iron they could find to ward it off.  There were times when he cursed the day he came to this wretched country and missed his home with an ache that went deep into his core.  It was especially so at this time of year, when all of Paris was taken up with celebrations for festivities which he felt he had no part in. The irony of the fact that these moods drove him to seek out the company of the very man who caused his exile was not lost on him. Still, if there was any man who understood the sensation of feeling desperately lonely and misunderstood, whilst simultaneously craving and loathing the company of one’s fellow man, it was Erik.

 He reached the Rue Scribe entrance and kept walking, stopping instead a grate a short distance beyond and surreptitiously glancing over his shoulder, before pulling it open and stepping inside.   The air outside had been crisp and chill, but inside it felt dank and cool, and he was immediately grateful for his thick winter clothing.  He rustled beneath his cloak, pulling a small brass lamp and an ornate box containing a strike light from the bag concealed there. With deft hands he lit it, sending a dim light bouncing off the mildew stained walls of the passageway.  He did not take any pains to conceal his arrival from his friend. Erik would know of his presence by now anyway, he always knew.  It was far better to arrive with as much clatter and fanfare as possible, any attempt at stealth might otherwise prompt some of his strange friends more twitchy reactions.  Besides which, he had had enough run-ins with Erik’s traps and ‘doorbells’ to know that it would be beyond foolishness to traverse these passages blind.  

The descent to the edge of the lake was slow and arduous, and not for the first time the Persian found himself marvelling at the strength and fortitude of the strange man who lived below.  While he himself grew stouter and slower with every passing year, Erik, despite his emaciated frame and sickly pallor seemed to retain that strange spider-like grace and energy that he had possessed when they had first known each other in their youth. More than once he felt his foot skid from beneath him on the damp uneven passageway, and he had to fling out an arm to brace himself against the wall.  He muttered a string of curses under his breath.  He would never understand why the man insisted on holing himself away underground like this. With his skills he could easily have designed himself a dwelling above ground which was just as secretive and solitary as he desired, but he suspected that something in the inconvenience and squalor of this arrangement suited the man’s aesthetic.

 At length, he came to the edge of the vast underground lake, and stopped, the sound of his heavy breaths echoing all about him.  Before long he heard a rhythmic splashing, and at last a pair of glowing yellow eyes became visible, scowling at him through the gloom.

 ‘Daroga,’ came the voice, smooth and seductive, but with an air of danger and threat to it. ‘To what do I owe the honour of your presence tonight?

 A brief shiver ran across the Persian’s skin. It was one of the cruelest ironies that his strange friends should possess such a beautiful voice. A bird of paradise trapped within a hideous, rusted cage. It had been one of his most potent weapons in their time in Persia. It’s silken tones hypnotising and subduing before the masked assassin made his mark. In another world, or another time that voice, and the brilliant mind that went with it could have achieved great things. Perhaps they already had achieved great things, terrible, but great, and yet nobody now but himself was alive to know it.

 ‘Good evening Erik,’ he replied, trying to keep his tone bright, cheerful and unthreatening. ‘A social call, nothing more.’

 ‘Hrmph’ hissed Erik from the gloom, the lamp like eyes squinting suspiciously. ‘So you have come to check up on me, have you Daroga? To ease your conscience and make sure that Erik has not gotten himself into any mischief, I presume?’

 ‘Come, come now,’ the Persian replied brusquely.  ‘May I not pay a simple social call to an old friend during the festive season?’

 The splashing ceased, and the boat bumped against the rough stone quayside of the passageway.  The Persian raised his lamp, and its dim light revealed to him the strange figure of a man, tall and thin, to the point of looking stretched, leaning almost jauntily on the pole at it’s bow, his head cocked to one side.  As always he was impeccably dressed, in full evening attire, with his best opera cloak on, the jeweled shoulders twinkled in the lamplight. His face was covered in a black mask, a thin wisp of silk covering the mouth area.  Not for the first time, the Persian wondered whether the man dressed in such a state of formal readiness all year round, or if, despite his frequent protests, he too anticipated and looked forward to these visits in his own way.

 ‘You know I do not celebrate, Daroga,’ the man said dryly.

 Carefully stepping into the boat the Persian pulled his cloak aside, revealing the bag concealed beneath, from which with a quick rummage he pulled the neck of a bottle of spiced cognac.

 ‘Nor i,’ he said smiling, ‘neither, as you well know, am I supposed to drink. And yet here we both are…’

 The masked man inclined his head, the fabric in front of his mouth fluttering briefly as if he had released a silent chuckle, and with a lithe movement and strength that was belied by his wispy frame, he punted the boat away from the quay and back across the lake.  

 They reached the opposite shore in silence and the masked man sprang out, leaving the Persian to stand wobbily as the boat bobbed in its moorings.

 ‘Careful there Daroga,’ his companion chuckled. ‘We would not want you to damage your venerable knees, old man.’  

 ‘You are the very picture of consideration, Erik,’ he replied, reluctantly taking the proffered hand and pulling every so slightly harder than required as he stepped out. If he hoped that it would unbalance his slender friend he was sadly disappointed however. Instead he seemed to stick to the slick rock with the dexterity of a spider, immediately dropping his hand as soon as the Persian’s feet made contact with solid ground, and stalking away on long limbs toward the door of his lair.

 He threw the door to the house on the lake open with a theatrical flourish, ushering the Persian over the threshold before divesting himself of his own cloak with a dramatic flick.  The Persian removed his own wrappings at a more leisurely pace, shivering slightly as the cold air of the room seeped into his clothing.

 The sitting room before him was as it always appeared. Fastidiously neat except for a desk in the corner which was piled high with sheaves of paper which always threatened to topple at the slightest movement or breeze and yet somehow never did. A low fire burned in an ornate fireplace, and beside it two well stuffed easy chairs were arranged beside a set chess board.   The Persian smiled and strolled toward the fireplace, rubbing his hands in front of it, before idly bending to select two large logs from the basket beside it and throwing them on the fire, stirring it vigorously. The masked man simply settled in one of the chairs with a slow and deliberate movement, watching his every move with a sardonic eye.

 ‘This room never gets any cheerier Erik,’ he commented. ‘I shall never understand why you chose to lock yourself away in this damp and miserable hole when you could have designed yourself the most comfortable rooms in the whole of the city with your talents.’

 ‘My dear Daroga,’ Erik replied wearily. ‘We have covered this before, and I have already informed you that this is perfectly adequate for my needs.  It is quiet, and private, and,’ he continued with emphasis, ‘Erik likes to be left alone.’

 At this the Persian simply smiled and strolled over to the two crystal cut glasses carefully set out on the sideboard.  He withdrew the bottle of cognac from his bag, uncorking it and pouring two generous measures, before lifting his own glass and swirling the liquid within it by way of salute.

 ‘Nobody ought to be alone this season,’ was his simple reply.

 ‘This season, and every season,’ came the brusque reply. ‘The less time I have to spend entertaining meddlesome boobies like yourself, Daroga, the more I can spend on my great work.’

 ‘Ah, yes!’ cried the Persian clapping his hands together and settling into his own chair, ‘The Opera!  How is it coming along?’

 ‘It would come along much better without interruption,’ he harrumphed in reply, pushing a pawn across the board with a long, thin finger

 The Persian threw him a sidelong glance, but from the way Erik’s hands now twisted together he knew that the man had something praying on his mind. He did not require any encouragement to unburden himself.

 ‘Did you know that those fools of managers are considering retirement?’ he barked.

 The Persian simply inclined his head and continued to consider his own move.  He had heard rumours of Debienne and Polongy’s intended departure for some time now, and who could blame them. Managing an Opera House was, of itself, no mean feat, but he suspected that the task was not made any easier by the constant attention and interference of the fabled Opera Ghost.

 ‘Indeed?’ was his only reply. He lifted his own piece and moved it onto the board deliberately.

 ‘Indeed!’ cried Erik, leaping to his feet and pacing. ‘It is most inconvenient.  It has taken me some years to train him in running my theatre in the proper way, and now I am to be forced to begin the process anew again. No doubt with some bumbling fool with money to burn who cannot tell an overture from an aria!’

 He flung himself down again in the armchair, pushing another piece across the board with unnecessary force and the Persian smiled quietly to himself.

 ‘Perhaps this might be the perfect opportunity for you to adopt a more honest system of dealing with the opera house management?’ he suggested tentatively.

The subject of Erik’s so called arrangement with the opera management had long been a bone of contention between the two of them. It was extortion on the most spectacular level, and the fact that the management had chosen to pay it was testament to both the success of the Palais Garnier, and to Erik’s not inconsiderable talents as a troublemaker.  He could not fathom what the man did with the money. Nothing about the appearance of the house on the lake had changed in the years since had been visiting it.  The furniture remained the same, as did the structure, and his friend hardly kept a sumptuous table. Indeed the man’s appetites were so small that the Daroga had long since taken to bringing his own refreshments with him during his visits for fear of otherwise going unfed.  He was not sure if it made the act more deplorable, or impressive that he seemed to rely very little upon his gains, seemingly only drawing them as a point of principle rather than necessity.

 The reaction to this question therefore came as no surprise.

 ‘I warn you Daroga,’ the masked man growled, ‘do not interfere! Erik’s business must remain Erik’s business, or it will be a good deal to pay for you and them, I tell you! I will not tolerate any meddling.’

 The Persian merely inclined his head again, and steepling his fingers, waited for this strange companion to make his next move.  

 For a time the two men sat in silence, idly moving pieces about the board and sipping at their cognac, until at last, the silence was broken by a loud rumbling from the Persian’s stomach.  From across the board the masked man rolled his eyes dramatically, not lifting his gaze from the board.

 ‘Apologies my friend, if my digestive processes inconvenience you.’ The Persian bent and rummaged in the bag at his feet, pulling out two tightly wrapped and sweet smelling parcels. ‘However, I have taken pains to ensure I supply the remedy. If you would be so kind?’

 Erik rose with a fluid motion and took the parcels from his hands, crossing the room in the direction of the kitchen.  Despite his studied indifference, the Persian knew that his companion had a sweet tooth, and never turned down the chance to partake of the Halva and Zoolbia that he brought with each visit.  A memento of their time together in Persia. It was another part of their strange rituals together. Never acknowledged, and never requested, yet always there.

 To his surprise, the masked man came back bearing a tray laden not only with the sweets he had supplied, but also a supply of Macarons, and a rather liberal selection of biscuits and cheeses. The bottom fringe of his mask was removed, revealing his thin lips, set among yellowing skin and stretched across a toothy jaw.

 ‘You eat too many sweets, Daroga,’ was his only explanation.  The Persian simply smiled.

 They continued on in silence, until the board was played, and their glasses and plates were empty, and at last, the Persian made to stand.

 ‘I must thank you for your hospitality again, Erik,’ he said.  His companion merely harrumphed in acknowledgement. ‘Perhaps one of these days you will see fit to visit me? You are always welcome.’

 ‘Erik is far too busy for social frivolities.’ He replied brusquely.

 Once again, the Persian nodded, and collecting his bag from the floor, rummaged in it once again.  From within it he withdrew a series of small figurines, a baby, a crib, a donkey… He placed each one carefully on the mantelpiece, ignoring the growing look of incredulity which radiated from his companion, despite the mask which covered his face.  When at last he had finished, he stepped back and admired them.

 ‘What, please tell, is that?’ spat Erik.

 ‘It is a creche,’ he replied simply.

 ‘I can see that. What on earth possessed you to bring such a thing into my home and place it upon my mantel?’

 ‘It is a gift, Erik,’ the Persian replied wearily. ‘If you must know, I was accosted by a precocious young child whilst shopping at the market, who informed me that they were quite the thing, and that they were the ideal gift for a loved one for the festivities. I did my level best to explain that I did not traditionally partake in festive celebrations, and had no friends of relatives who did. She was, however quite insistent, and somehow I came away having purchased one for my ‘nearest and dearest’, which, it turns out with no small measure of irony, appears to be you.’

 The masked man made no answer to this, and instead moved in the direction of the mantel with a strange urgency.  For a moment the Persian thought with a sinking of his stomach that the man was making to cast the figurines into the fire, but he simply reached out and seized one of them, a white cloaked angel playing a lyre, and held it appraisingly between his long fingers.

 ‘You are a sentimental fool Daroga,’ was his only reply.

 ‘It would seem so.’  

 He gathered his cloak and hat, slipping them back on as he made his way towards the front door.

 ‘And I mean it when I say you are welcome to visit. Truly Erik, it does you no good to always be so alone.’

 The masked man smiled, and still considering the wooden angel between his fingers, followed him to the doorway, neglecting to put on his own cloak.

 ‘Would it please you to know that I am considering an honest occupation to fill my time, Daroga?’ the man asked, an unsual note of excitement in his voice.

 ‘If it were truly honest, then yes, it would please me greatly.’

 The two of them stepped into the boat, and the masked man slipped the wooden angel into the pocket of his trousers, before taking the pole and punting them away from the shore.  He raised his eyes, his gaze meeting the Persians for almost the first time that night, a strange glint lurking within their glowing depths.

 ‘I am considering taking up teaching,’ he declared, almost grandly. ‘So you see, I shall not be s much alone.’

 ‘Teaching?’ asked the Persian incredulously.

 ‘There is a singer. She has much potential, but she lacks refinement. Under Erik’s guidance she could become something brilliant.’

 There was a spark of life in his face that the Persian had not seen for many years, not since the man had been absorbed in his architecture, or possibly even since he was so absorbed with his activities from the before times. He did not care to think too carefully about what that meant.

 ‘And this student, how did you meet her?’ he asked cautiously.

 The masked man muttered and hunched over the pole, withdrawing his eyes and refusing to meet his gaze.

 The Persian sighed, the boat bumped into the opposite shore, and he prepared to step out. As he stepped onto the rough quayside and shouldered his bag, he turned and looked at his trange friend with a stern eye.

 ‘Do not do anything rash, Erik. I shall be watching you.’

 The masked man let out a soft chuckle. ‘I would not expect anything less, my dear Daroga. Until next time…’ and with that, he pushed off from the pontoon, gliding back into the gloom of the lake like a ghost.

 The Persian shivered and pulled his cloak about him. He groped blindly for his lamp, finding it still resting where he left it on his arrival, and pulling out his strike he lit it once more.  As he began the ascent to the word above he tried to quell the rising sense of unease which was building in his stomach.  Perhaps this new student would do his strange, melancholy friend some good. Perhaps this time he truly did intend to go about things in the right way.  He could only hope, but, as he stepped out into the cold snowy streets that surrounded the Palais Garnier and began his way back across town, he could not help suspecting that he was going to be spending much more of his time at the opera in the new year than he had previously.

[thephantomessoftheopera]

Notes on Gaston Leroux’s “The Phantom of the Opera” - Chapter 14: “A Masterstroke by the Lover of Trapdoors”

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Raoul and Christine are still running away from the shadow on the rooftop when they encounter the Persian, who tells them to run in the opposite direction. Raoul makes another try at getting Christine to run away with him on the spot, but once again, she refuses and repeats that Raoul will probably need to make her go against her will if he wants to elope with her (what is he supposed to do though? Drag a screaming and kicking Christine through the opera house? Drug her or knock her unconscious and roll her up in a carpet?).

She tries to convince him that Erik has not overheard their conversation on the rooftop because he is working on „Don Juan Triumphant“, but doesn’t seem to quite believe it herself. When Raoul bitterly says how brave she was to play his fiancée, Christine reveals that she had actually told Erik all about the engagement game she was playing with Raoul, and that he was willing to tolerate it under the assumption that Raoul would be leaving for the North Pole soon.

It is also obvious that despite the kiss Christine has given him in the preceding chapter, Raoul is still unsure of her feelings, which might also be due to her speaking of it like a one-time thing:

“Are people unhappy when they’re in love?”  “Yes, when they’re in love and aren’t sure of being loved.” “Are you saying that for Erik?” “For Erik and for myself”, answered Raoul, shaking his head with a thoughtful, forlorn expression.”

To a certain degree, Christine might be asking that first question for herself, too, since she is obviously unhappy and has shown signs of crying before. Keep in mind that this is the last interaction we see between Raoul and Christine before her abduction. Raoul is still uncertain at this point if Christine actually loves him, which means that he is soon going to risk his life for a girl whose feelings remain a mystery to him. We’ve got to give him some credit for that…

In her conversation with Raoul, Christine calls Erik a “man of heaven and earth” - not a ghost, monster or demon. She has seen his face, and even though she feels horror, she apparently also sees him as a man here. Raoul is once again taken aback by how Christine talks about Erik, making him question her determination to leave. She also tells him that no matter where she calls, Erik will always hear her. This is certainly due to the acoustics of the building and its secret passageways, since Erik apparently used similar techniques in the palace he built in Persia. On a deeper level, this is a symbol of how strongly they are still bound together, and seems to extend into the supernatural.

We also learn that Erik has promised Christine to stay away from her dressing room and her bedroom in his house, and that she trusts what he says. It is quite poignant to see how far Erik and Christine apparently trust each other, and how each of them is not fully deserving of the trust put into them even if they seem to be trying. In „Apollo‘s Lyre“, Christine also mentions how she instinctively trusted Erik.

Erik has given Christine a key to his house, which must be a pretty big thing for him as he puts his own safety into her hands with this. Christine shows Raoul the key but refuses to give it to him when he demands it because it “would be a betrayal” (apparently, she doesn‘t consider what happened on the rooftop a „betrayal“ and is also unwilling to betray Erik). But then she realises that she has lost Erik’s gold ring, probably while she gave Raoul the kiss on the rooftop - which is symbolic, of course. When Erik gave her the ring, he told her that she would be safe as long as she wore it - but if she parted with it, he would take revenge. She is greatly distressed, fearing what Erik might do to both of them - but even that is not enough to get her to run away. As she seems to have lost the ring on the rooftop, and Erik has it back in his possession two days later, saying that he had found it, it is likely that he directly picked it up after Christine and Raoul left the rooftop.

Raoul then goes home, cursing Erik and resolving to save Christine while he goes to bed. In the darkness, he thinks he sees Erik’s glowing eyes watching him from the balcony, and turns on the light to see if the eyes disappear. He takes his pistol and fires a shot at Erik’s eyes, which wakes the entire household including Philippe. Philippe thinks Raoul, who is rambling incoherently, has gone completely mad and asks him who this „Erik“ is that Raoul seems to be so obsessed with. Raoul states:

“He’s my rival!”

That statement is significant because it shows that Raoul views Erik primarily as a romantic threat to himself - not just as a threat to Christine’s safety or a general nuisance that he needs to get rid of, but as a serious contender for Christine’s hand. Raoul considering him his rival also puts them on more or less equal footing. Raoul also starts to worry that he should not have been so rash because if it really was Erik, Christine might not forgive Raoul for hurting him after all.

From Raoul’s description of his glowing eyes and the fact that there really is blood on the balcony and the drainpipe, we can conclude that it was indeed Erik standing there, and that he has been wounded by Raoul’s shot to a significant degree, considering there was enough blood to have seeped through his clothing and dripped onto the balcony in a very short time. The explanation of Raoul having shot at a cat doesn’t sound very likely, given that cats wouldn’t usually slide down drainpipes to get off a balcony.

Raoul and Philippe go on to quarrel over Raoul’s plan to elope with Christine. Philippe will not tolerate Raoul marrying a girl from the opera, but Raoul seems to be determined to go through with his plan anyway and defy Philippe’s wishes.

The next morning, there is an article in the newspaper “L’Époque” revealing that Raoul and Christine are engaged and about to marry. It is somewhat strange though because we never see Raoul and Christine actually getting engaged in a serious fashion. There’s the “engagement game” of course, but it cannot be considered the same as a serious marriage proposal. In addition to that, the last time we saw Raoul and Christine discussing their elopement, there were distinctly no plans of marriage included, as Raoul promised to take Christine away and then leave her to herself, as she has decided *not* to marry. It is not clear when that plan changed, or if Christine is even aware that his plans have changed. Philippe is very much embarrassed by Raoul’s behaviour, and swears that he will stop Raoul if he still plans to go through with his plans of elopement with Christine. Raoul leaves without saying anything more to Philippe, and spends the day making preparations for the elopement until 9 pm.

There is a curious detail that Leroux draws attention to, but I’m unsure about why he mentions it at all: Raoul’s carriage is driven by a coachman “whose face was largely hidden by the long scarf he wore” (They might have picked up on this in the 2004 movie). It cannot be Erik here though, as he now appears on scene to observe the carriage while the coachman is still sitting on it. In this scene, Erik is wearing the attire we have come to associate with him because of the musical mostly - the black cloak and felt hat.

During that night’s performance of Faust, Christine appears in the role of Marguerite again, but this time, the rumours about her engagement from the morning paper cause the audience to react with hostility to her since they see her as a social climber. This gives her (and us) an idea of how Parisian society would have reacted to her if she had ever become the Viscountess (or Countess, if Philippe is dead) de Chagny (and it would most likely have been far worse if she had married the man suspected of having killed his brother over her in public). Christine is quickly losing confidence when she suddenly sees Carlotta appear in one of the boxes, and her defiant nature is awakened. Not wishing to appear weak and succumb before her enemy, she regains her confidence and sings with all her soul again.

In the final scene of „Faust“, Faust and Mephisto come to rescue an insane Marguerite from her prison cell, but even though she and Faust confess their love for each other, she refuses to escape and asks the angels to take her soul to heaven instead (you can watch it here, for example: https://youtu.be/i2C4ezHUF1I).

Final scene from „Faust“ performance at the Metropolitan Opera (image from bruzanemediabase.com)

When Christine pleads with the angels in the final prison scene, Leroux makes use of the ambiguity of the „angel“. Raoul stands up from where he has been sitting in the amphitheater (not the de Chagny box where Philippe is sitting), but the Angel of Music is quicker: the entire stage is plunged into darkness, and when the lights return, Christine is gone. A great commotion ensues, with everybody trying to explain where Christine could be, but her co-star Carolus Fonta then announces publicly that she has disappeared, and that no one knows what has really happened.

Erik’s action here is both daring and desperate. From his perspective, he needs to act now before Christine will be out of his reach forever. He has overheard the escape plan, and I guess he also saw the newspaper speculating about her impending marriage, and now sees his hand forced before it’s too late for him. The chapter‘s title calling it a „masterstroke“ („coup de maître“) highlights the extraordinary skill and boldness that were necessary to stage his abduction of Christine in the fashion that he chose. The „lover of trapdoors“ is a nickname that was given to him in Persia, as we will later learn from the Persian.

Image from wikipedia

Next chapter >>

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 30

Read on AO3. Part 29 here. Part 31 here.

Summary: Survival, but at what cost?

Words: 3400

Warnings: emotions

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: It's technically Friday right?

I've been done this chapter for days and I've just been sitting on it out of pure anxiety. HAHA. But I did edit it and post it so here you go. Hope you enjoy. It's a bit of a break in some ways, not a break in others. Let me know what you think--I'm ever-molding, ever-receptive!

I love y'all! Stay safe with COVID. <3

You did not remember arriving home, exiting the Audi, stepping out into the searing sun. You did not remember the car ride: a murky journey spent in silence next to your Commander, a sentient shade. You did not remember being led from the balcony down the steps, through the halls, stares sticking to you like sap, stringing syrupy sinews to your skin. You did not remember the moment you stood, or the moment you breathed, or the moment you finally moved. Most mercifully, you did not remember the body--a gruesome, heavy pendulum--as it rocked in the cotton air breeze.

What you did remember was a sharp growl of breath as Johana flung open the front door, eyes rimmed red and burning with the fuel of exhaustion.

“Glad you could make it home, Commander.” She aimed the sword of her stare at you, but it pierced you like rubber. “You must have had a wonderful evening together. Won’t both of you come in?”

You followed him like a zombie, gaze trained on the ground, watching from outside your body as you climbed the steps, crossed the foyer, swept past the kitchen. Tile blurred to wood blurred to a soft Persian pattern. All you could stand to focus on was the wall, the rhythm of your breath, the thump of your still-beating heart.

Unlike hers.

It was only after Johana snapped her fingers in front of your face that you were aware that you’d taken a seat in the parlour room. You’d landed on a dark leather Chesterfield sofa (what was the preoccupation with Chesterfield, in this house?), your Commander and Johana standing at odds beyond the ebony coffee table at your knees. Her arms were crossed. He regarded her like one might regard a swarm of ants on the kitchen table.

“Well?” She looked between you. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Of course, you had nothing to say. So you said nothing. Kylo Ren also said nothing, but his silence was far more unreasonable.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “You can at least bother to explain why you left me alone in the house without so much as a word.”

“I wasn’t aware I owed you my agenda.”

She blinked. “Oh, please,” she replied, “as if I care about your agenda, at this point. What if something had happened while you were gone? To the house?”

Kylo sniffed. “The Knights were present.”

“They’re your men, not Gilead’s. They can’t prevent me from being questioned by the Eyes.” Johana scowled. “They can’t prevent the Council from ordering this house to be torn apart.”

You stared at your hand, at the sprig of cuticle poking from your thumb--you pinched it, tugged it, pain shooting up your wrist. Real, restorative breath would not come to you. Neither would any coherent thought.

“You believe the Council would arrive at my home unannounced. In the middle of the night.”

She blinked, as if he’d asked if she believed the world was round. “After your display with your little slut last night?” she asked, gesturing to you. “I certainly wouldn’t be surprised.”

“She is my advisor.”

Johana snorted. “An advisor to what?” she asked. “Your cock?”

Kylo’s lip curled, and he stepped toward her, shoulders rolling. “Careful.”

She snarled, not budging an inch. “You think that the others don’t see how you look at her?” she said. “You think that they believe your intentions are innocent?” A disgusted, tired laugh escaped her. “Where did you go all night?”

Silence. Kylo was a wolf, thirsty for her rabbit blood. But she wasn’t backing down.

“You never answer my questions,” she said. “Not even after I… I’ve lied for you, taken responsibility for your thoughtlessness, thrown you parties to help with your ridiculously poor public image--”

His fists furled. “None of which I requested.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Her voice was rising. “I did it for you! I did it for Gilead, I--I… I did it for our future!” she said. “One day, we’re going to have a child together, and I want that child to know the Gilead that I know!”

The tear at your thumb split past the nail bed. A child. Your child. Just hours ago you would’ve been sickly elated to be pregnant. Now you wanted to rip your uterus out, barren with bare hands. Gilead was no place to create new life. And Kylo Ren certainly wasn’t the man to create new life with. What had you been thinking? Blood beaded, slipped in a fat drop down your knuckle. It was a relief.

“The Gilead you know is imperfect.” His hands were still balled. “You’re clinging to the past.”

“I’m clinging to what God would’ve wanted!”

“You’re clinging to what Moden Canady wanted.”

Johana’s face tightened, and she sneered, pointing an accusatory finger at her husband. “At least Moden would’ve thanked me!” she said. “Moden would’ve never had an affair with--with some whore, someone disgusting enough to be made a Handmaid to begin with!”

“Johana.”

Flush heat bloomed red at her neck, in her cheeks. “Moden loved me,” she seethed, “he would never have left me alone, he would never have--”

“Enough.”

“--forgotten his purpose as a husband, which is to protect me, to care for me--”

“Enough.”

“--and he never would’ve humiliated me by having some whore wear my old clothes in front of everybody I know!”

A pause. Kylo glimpsed you for only a second--saw your bleeding thumb--but did not respond.

Johana trembled, veins bulging in her neck, and she advanced on him. “Where’s my dress?” When he didn’t respond, she screeched, whirling on you. “Where is my dress!”

You were a statue, a worthy target of her ire, as she lunged and charged you, hand shooting for your hair. Kylo growled, snatched her wrist, and she wailed, jerking back, teeth bared in primal rage. He met her with dispassionate irritation as she twisted, yanked, shrieked in his grip, the rabbit now caged by the wolf.

“Let me go, Kylo!”

She flailed, tried to pry him off, whined as she failed to budge even a single finger. Wrath collapsed into resignation, and she groaned, desperation swelling and dying in her chest, recognizing the futility of it all. Clearing her throat, she took a deep breath, smoothed her hair with her free hand and straightened.

“Commander,” she said. “Please, let me go.”

He did, and she whipped her arm back, rubbing her wrist.

“Your dress has been returned to your closet,” he replied. “Where it belongs.”

It almost sounded as if he’d apologized, though that couldn’t be right. It wasn’t for her benefit, anyway, if he had--but you were still too numb to notice.

Johana blinked, then recovered, crossing her arms. “If you think that fixes anything, Sir, it doesn’t,” she said. “Really, just keep the dress wherever you want it. Throw it out, for all I care. I’m sleeping in the guest room down the hall tonight.” She leered at you. “Enjoy.” Then she turned on her heel and left.

The word enjoy made it seem as if you could imagine nothing better than spending another night with the man who had murdered your only confidant in front of you. Ofarmitage’s betrayal was forgivable--after all, it was your trust in your own Commander that had gotten her killed. The fact was, her only mistake had been that she hadn’t been sleeping with Kylo Ren. You two had been one in the same. Equally enslaved, equally naive, equally expendable. Had Hux gotten his way, you’d be the one with the broken neck.

In a way, you envied her.

Alone in the room with your Commander, you continued to sit, unable--unwilling--to make eye contact with him, studying instead the dry red river that had now trickled to your palm. The air was still, emptied even of awkwardness. There was nothing between you, right now, that you wanted to feel. Behind you, beyond the large bay window, mourning doves cooed their soft, sage song.

He shifted, his gaze razor wire, slicing your skin at the thought of being around him a second longer. Glaring at the floor, you stood, marching toward the exit. Kylo reached for your arm, and you dodged him like he was a poltergeist.

“Don’t touch me!” you spat, shrugging your shoulder as if to banish his curse.

You stalked through the halls and up the stairs, head pounding with your audacity. He didn’t try to follow you, and you were glad. A storm ravaged your mind--what was the point of this, or the point of anything?

Enslaved in the home of malevolence manifested, tainted. Terrorized. Everything and anything turned to sand in your mouth, pouring and pouring down your throat until you choked and sputtered and wept into a soundless void. There would be no reprieve from this, in this future or any other future, not as long as you remained you, stupid and gullible and more craven than shadows in sun.

No saints in Gilead indeed--and next to Kylo Ren, you were the worst of them; he’d held you in his blood-soaked hands and stained you with his sins. You were worse than unforgivable.

You were unsalvageable.

When you made it to your room, you slammed the door, ripped your wings and bonnet from your hair, and threw yourself on the bed, smothering your face with your pillow.

There was no screaming, no tears--you held the pillow to your nose and mouth, sucking in nothingness, willing whatever black wraith that controlled your fate to guide you out of this hell and the next. You had no hope for heaven, you decided, if it existed--you’d been to bed with a barbarian, sought solace in his arms, spoiled your soul under his spell. You deserved nothing but utter damnation.

Another deep breath of nothing, and another, lack of oxygen burning behind your eyes, your lungs starved--just a little longer, and you’d pass out. Yet despite your self-loathing, the base of your brain kicked in, hijacking your intent, and you rolled over gasping, staring at the ceiling as static sizzled in your sight.

As you heaved, seconds tumbled into minutes, the desire for self-destruction crumbling with it. A soft sigh escaped. Killing yourself would do nothing but award Gilead another body. If anything, you would live out of spite, denying it the satisfaction of your surrender.

In fact, you’d do more than live out of spite. You’d do what you promised. You’d get the blade with Snoke’s blood and you’d turn it over to the Resistance the second you had a chance.

The resolution brought a calm to your chest. The rest of the day whittled away as you did nothing but lie in bed, apart from eating your quick lunch and dinner in silence. Neither Johana nor your Commander made an appearance throughout your day and into the night, allowing you some time to process. Staring into your ceiling, you picked at your thumb again, peeling the scab.

It was difficult to put into words what you felt for Kylo Ren, but you knew that whatever it was, it had been unlike anything you’d ever experienced, before Gilead or after. The sexual chemistry was one thing, of course, but there was something greater than that, something almost irrevocable. It was the vestiges of compassion in his eyes, the throttled tenderness in his hands, the buried loneliness, his persistent phantom--the phantom that knew you, too.

More shredding of skin, a rush of release shot through your veins. That was the fact that most attracted and disturbed you, the fact that bound you together, the fact that tore you apart--the fact that in the depths of Gilead’s despair, you’d found each other, seen the other with needle-sharp clarity, both born into an unspoken but magnetic understanding.

You’d peered into the pits of his pain, he’d held you, helpless and fractured. He’d been your savior, your asylum, your normality; you’d grounded him and challenged and incited him. And despite this ethereal intimacy that wove between you--

Kylo Ren had deceived you and bound you to insanity, eliminated all avenues of escape--except through him. He was a beast unleashed, devouring his prey and his protectors alike in a gambit to possess it all. He was agony and rage, seeking a home. Kylo Ren was a man so long tormented by demons that he had finally become one.

And you truly, unconditionally hated him.

You stared at your ravaged thumb through the darkness, your blood black in the moonlight. Crickets hummed in harmony outside. In the hall, footsteps creaked the floorboards. Long, strong strides. Your heart seized, face hot. Your door opened.

Kylo Ren--your mirror, your spectre, your Commander--stepped through and closed it behind him. Under the glow of stars, his beauty was a black hole, celestial and sinister, hauling you toward complete annihilation.

“I haven’t seen you,” he said. “All day.”

“I haven’t wanted you to see me.”

“You’re angry.” He stepped forward, inspecting your face. “Your life was endangered. You know that.”

Sighing, you refused to meet his eyes, focusing on your gnarled cuticle. “You made me watch her die.”

“It was important that they see where you stand.”

You balked. “What? Where I stand?”

“Your importance,” he said. “To Gilead. To me.” He paused. “And that attempts to disrupt that will not be tolerated.”

“But I’m disrupting Gilead,” you said. “You’re okay with tolerating that?” Sitting up, you shook your head. “You know from the party last night that I’m still working with the Resistance. Shouldn’t I be killed?” You pried more dry skin from your thumb--pain daggered up your wrist. “Don’t you want to hang--”

“Stop.”

You frowned. “Answer my question, or don’t tell me what to do,” you replied. “I’m not different than Ofarmitage. I fucked you. I even--” The word stuck in your throat, a rock. “I even cared about you.” You sighed. “She wanted more with her Commander. She did what she had to do to get it.” Your nails were caked with blood. “Just like I did.”

Kylo stepped toward your bed. “Whether or not she is different is unimportant,” he said. “She is not you. She threatened you--threatened me.” He paused. “It won’t happen again.”

Hot indignation coursed through you. “What, so she’s just… a sacrifice?”

He came closer. “She was an example.”

“She was a person!” you snapped. “ She had--she had a life!” Your body shook with anger. “You killed her! And now no one will know. No one will know who she was.” Despair coiled your chest. “I didn’t even know her name.”

Kylo Ren was silent. His gaze wandered the room, lingering on the vacant window, your red cheeks, and settled on the floor, lids falling in a slow blink. He ground his teeth in thought, following the lines of the floorboards, tracking their notches. The knot in his throat bobbed, and he blinked again. A tiny exhale escaped his nose. Slowly, his focus returned to you.

“It’s… unfortunate,” he said. “But if protecting your life means that others die in your place, then so be it.”

You shook your head, folding your arms over your chest. “You don’t get to kill just because it pleases you.”

“Pleases me?” His eyes widened, a nameless turmoil bubbling to life within them. “Little bird,” he hissed, “I have no choice.”

“You keep saying that,” you replied, “but you’re wrong. You’ve had choices this entire time. I’m the one without a choice! I’m the one stuck here, under you!”

He edged closer, tone like a knife. “There is no choice regarding your safety.”

“But people aren’t expendable!”

Kylo Ren pounced, cornering you, fist slamming the wall. “There was nothing to me but Gilead!” His voice was living death. “Now there is you.” His chin trembled, teeth bared. “And I will keep you alive at the expense of existence itself.”

You stared at him--looming over you, agonized anguish behind his gaze--remembering the man you’d seen the night before, the man whose eyes found you when you’d woken in the morning, the man who’d said your name. Then there was the masked monster pulling the lever, the machine who’d massacred his leader’s mansion, the Commander who’d deserted his duty. Kylo Ren was all of these men--and all of them had done all of it for you.

Swallowing, you dug into your cuticle, popping another twig of flesh free and tearing at it. “You disgust me.” You weren’t sure if you were speaking to him or yourself.

A long, slow breath left him, his chest deflating.

“The worst part of this is that I understand why you did it.”

He eased back, looking between you and your mangled thumb. “You do.”

“Yeah.”

You’d kept the Resistance at arm’s length, paying less than lip service, avoiding their inquiries, denying them information that could liberate not just you, but thousands. Even after he’d killed Poe. Your loyalty likely came at the expense of other lives you didn’t know. At the time, it felt like you didn’t have a choice. Who else was dying, now, because of your reluctance? You supposed if you hated him, you hated yourself, too.

“I guess I’m still just… you.”

You drove your nail into your leision, seeking more thin skin, blood smudging your fingers. Having done that, you flayed another layer, twitching as capillaries were rended raw. Kylo sat at the foot of your mattress, watching you work.

“You’re hurting yourself.”

You shrugged. “I could do worse.”

He caught your hand, pulling you from your self-mutilation, and examined it, rotating your wrist. Holding you in his gaze, he brought your bloody thumb to his mouth and pressed his lips to it, a salve of devotion--and then guided it inside, sealing it between his teeth. Your breath stalled, pulse paralyzed as he sucked, tongue sliding up and around the tender wound, cleaning the crimson new and old. Shivers scampered over you, and he purred in soft satisfaction, laving your sensitive pad, dragging his teeth over the knuckle before pulling it free.

“My bed is open to you.” He kissed your thumb again, his affection like anesthesia. “Come lie with me.”

“Lie with you.” The words withered in your throat. No, you didn’t hate yourself--you didn’t even hate him. But this game of hopeless passion had become too deadly, too personal. You were done playing. “I don’t want to.”

He blinked. “You don’t.”

Frowning, you met his eyes, and found a terrified tempest howling behind them. Your hands quaked; you remembered the wisp of him on your lips, dew drops of worship in your ear, the wholeness you’d felt in his embrace. It thrashed in your chest, luminous and blooming into your blood. And you would sooner dessicate your veins than admit it was there at all.

“No.” You tore your hand from him, cradling it to your chest. “I don’t.”

He didn’t move. His eye twitched. “Come.”

“No.” Staring at the wall, you steeled your jaw. “Just… go away. Leave me alone.”

Kylo Ren swallowed, fear a fog in his gaze. With rash-red lips, he murmured your name.

Heat rushed your spine. You shook your head. “Don’t call me that anymore.”

Silence. He shifted on the bed. “Please.”

You speared him with a glare. “Get out of my room, Commander.”

Kylo looked to your hand, still clutched to your heart, and to your face, searching for something in the quiet of the night. Then he stood, staring out into the yard, fingers tensing. After a moment without a word, he turned, opened the door, and disappeared into the hall.

You collapsed into bed, gaze chained to the ceiling. Without him, ache filtered back through your body, your thumb now throbbing in pain. Hot shame streaked through you. Eyes closed, you pressed it to your mouth, futilely trying to taste his lips.