#also on a softer note

[fantasykiri5]

Fabian Seacaster, Maximum Legend that you are

[1071png]

blorbo from my ttrp novels

somehow, every time i draw him he looks more moe but i cant help myself..

[turtleblogatlast]

[ cw: death mention / strangulation mention / stabbing mention / blood mention / self-sacrifice / codependency mention in tags / ]

I think a lot about how common it is for Raph to be the one to have direct focus put on him when Leo gets into all his near death experiences.

Like, when Leo is thrown off a building, it’s Raph who’s right there jumping after him, not even thinking about the consequences to himself when he does. When Leo almost gets skewered by the Krang, Raph’s right there to take the blow and send Leo to safety without a second thought. When Leo’s being strangled to near death, it’s a Krangified Raph doing the job, doing exactly what Raph would never, ever want to do. When Leo is telling Casey Jr to close the portal, it’s Raph who tries desperately to convince Leo otherwise.

Likewise, Leo is consistently very single minded when Raph gets forcibly separated from them. Both when in the sewers and by the Krang, Leo is dead set on finding Raph first and foremost.

I also think it’s interesting that during each of Leo’s near death experiences, the lightheartedness of his words during them goes directly hand in hand with both how close Raph is to him physically and how much danger Raph is also in in that moment. From a literal “I told you so” as Leo’s falling away from Raph to a soft joke about how “hero moves” are Raph’s style - both of these are on the more morbidly carefree side and both of these notably take Leo farther away from Raph and, in turn, have Raph not in immediate danger.

On the other side of things is the apology from Leo, heedless of the danger he himself is in as he seriously and genuinely speaks to a Krangified Raph face to face. Then there’s Leo’s freezing and desperation as Raph takes a hit meant for him and sends just Leo to safety, leaving Raph himself behind. Both of these involve much closer proximity and Raph being directly harmed - these together make Leo much more vulnerable in his words and actions, something not even the threat of death can make him.

These two care about each other so much, and they’re way too much alike for their own good.

[asketchydomesticatedgremlin]

so, iterators are kinda 1/2 1/2 metal n flesh right?

What if it slowly got more biological over time? Science progressing n all that.

I think it'd be cool if iterators from different eras looked completely different from each other :3

[trashyshrew]

big admirer of your work! you asked for drawing suggestions–would love to see your take on lawlight snuggled up together relaxing in bed or something! absolutely starved for soft content of these two

[00fairylights00]

*clears throat* HIGH HUMANITY P FINALLY BEING ABLE TO EAT AND SHARING ALL KINDS OF WONDERFUL TREATS WITH HIM!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh my god Bloodbrown you are reading my mind ahhhh!!

I bet he would love baking so much, and he takes it so seriously when you tell him the best kind of treats are the ones made with love! I actually have a plot bunny about teaching P how to bake and cook floating around in my notes that I’m excited to get some time to work on.

Okay okay!

The growl of a stomach and the pang of hunger had initially concerned P, who tugged on your sleeve urgently. As you turned to face him his stomach rumbled again, you laughed at his mounting concern and explained that it sounded like he was hungry.

“You know, like how when I wake up I always have something to eat? Like that.” You soothed, the worry lines in his brow settling. 

This was something normal, something human. 

He was now very excited about the prospect of a new human thing he’d be able to try, and eating was something he’d been longing to do, watching you eat tended to be awkward and everything you made looked so appetising.

“I think I have something in the pantry you’ll really like.” You beamed, dragging him into the hotel’s kitchen.

You swung open the pantry doors and rummaged a bit, P looked over your shoulder curiously. The pantry wasn’t filled to the brim but what was in there he wasn’t familiar with at all, tins, cartons and baskets full of food and ingredients he didn’t know the name of.

“Ah hah!” You cheered, pulling a white, metal box from the pantry. “I promise you’ll love these!”

You popped off the lid and inside where multiple yellow discs with brown pieces scattered throughout them, he tilted his head and you waved the box in front of him,

“Try one! They’re homemade.” You coaxed, not that he would take much convincing when it came to you.

“Home… made?” He took a disc, the paper surrounding them crinkling, you also took one for yourself before placing the box on the countertop beside you. 

“It means it was made in the home, I made these ones myself. Some people believe the best kind of food is made with love, which you get plenty of in homemade cooking!” You explained, his eyes widened owlishly, throughly impressed once again by your abilities and your knowledge. You’d said before that they weren’t exactly difficult skills to pick up but he didn’t know how to make a… wait what is this thing?

“What… is it?” He questioned, turning the disc over in his hands. 

“It’s a chocolate chip cookie.” It was solid in his hand but the surface had a bounce to it, he brought it up to his mouth and was even more eager to try it now that he could smell it. 

You watched his reaction closely as he bit into the treat, any hesitance was quickly replaced with pure joy as he rushed to finish the rest of the cookie. 

“You like it?” You asked, and you got an enthusiastic nod in response, a giggle bubbling up from P’s throat boyishly. “Would you like another?”

“Yes!” He beamed, you held the box back out to him and he took another cookie for himself but stopped short when he noticed that you hadn’t done the same.

He frowned, looked at the cookie and then back at you before splitting the treat down the middle and offering one half to you. “Love should… be shared.”

You couldn’t agree more.

[fatuismooches]

Have you heard of “cuteness aggression”?

I just wanna kiss and squeeze zandys little face, he’s just so cute! I just saw fan art of him smiling so adorably and now I just wanna bite his cute little chubby cheeks.

Same with webttore and boattore he’s so cute waving like that. The way the game makes his face look so round and soft I wanna pinch and bite his cheeks so badly. And webttore with his little pink bow tie UGH I need to get a grip😭😭💝💝

Zandy would be very happy with the attention! He will eat it up like nothing else, he finds his chest getting very warm whenever you shower him with all the praise and compliments that a child would long for from their parental figure. Over time though, Zandy gets a tiny bit embarrassed whenever you happen to do it in front of the segments. He doesn't like the looks they give him! He's had one (1) mini-rebellious phase when he rejected your affection, and then regretted it deeply a few minutes later and clung to your leg in apology after that. His very tiny hands have tried squishing your cheeks a few times as well.

Boattore, well, he's just all smiles whenever you feel the urge to conduct that cute aggression of yours. Funnily enough, it's rare that he ever stops you from doing so, even when he's doing work and experimenting, he just carries on as if nothing is happening. Even asking you questions about what he tastes like or if you'd like to draw and taste his artificial blood. You also like comparing your hand size with his often.

Webttore is Webttore. Bite and pinch him and he will just do the same to you ten times harder, but you have probably gotten used to it a long time ago. He gets a bit annoyed and huffy when you keep trying to take off his mask, but you're naturally very persistent so in the end, he just gives in. Even if he doesn't, you just cutely assault that one part of his cheek that's left exposed by his mask and kiss him until he's persuaded.

In a way, the segments can... sort of relate. Though it's probably more of just aggression, without the cuteness aspect, actually experimental aggression. They too will bite you, not because of your cuteness (even though they do believe you are), but just because they like the pleasant sensation and your reactions (ranging from surprised to embarrassed to unbothered.) They too will pinch your cheeks... as punishment, for when you do something stupid, and laugh at your whines. All in all, they just take pleasure in teasing you a bit.

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

Ok, this is mostly bc I realized we've only seen Sally being passive, but how is she able to hypothetically rip apart larger puppets limb from limb? (if the captions with Howdy hold water with other puppets)

(Slight Mutilation Warning Ahead: Puppet Edition)

they absolutely hold So Much water! it's a combination of a couple things!

a) Nightlight!Sally is really Strong. i'd liken to her to a chimp, as much as i hate them. despite being smaller than people, they're absurdly powerful. when it comes to Her, this comes from a mix of hysterical strength and something Else i've been pondering but don't want to solidify yet, so shh dont worry bout it. it's also much easier to tear fleece & cotton/stuffing than, uh, Biological materials.

b) none of the puppets are really prepared for violence? they've lived in an idyllic world where true, visceral violence likely hasn't even been a Thought in anyone's minds. like, you watch videos of people get attacked by like... raccoons or rats and they visibly Lose because they panic! they aren't prepared! they don't wanna fight! so the much smaller creature wins. They Don't Know How To Fight, Or Fight Back.

b.1) also, Nightlight!Sally is still... Sally. she's still their dear friend. i know that if a close friend attacked me, i'm not sure i'd be able to bring myself to do much other than defend/flee. i wouldn't wanna hurt them even if it meant protecting myself. hence why Wally avoids all confrontation with her & can't protect his friends from her. he can't hurt his neighbor.

b.2) there's also the shock factor. imagine you wake up from a pleasant dream to an absolute nightmare reality. Boom, automatically thrown way off your rhythm. then one of your close buddies looks Fuckin Weird, Are You Okay? and other crazy shit is happening! you're freaking out!! then your Close Friend Who's Off is suddenly slashing at you and BOOM, your arm's gone & your entire brain is scrambled from shock and fear and "?!?!?!?!?!". plus, i doubt the puppets know they're full of stuffing. seeing yourself sliced open and white fluff spilling out has gotta be just. so Unpleasant on principle.

c):

CLAWS BABEY! RIP TEAR AND SHRED! those sharp grippers are perfect for piercing and ripping! puppet fleece is Paper to her!

her fighting method is attack wildly until the threat stops making noise! it's very hard to defend oneself from it! imagine those cartoon bits where a cat attacks someone and its just a Flurry of Unbeatable Violence

[maxthesillyy]

sorry bc this is the biggest nothing burger ive ever posted but. like. im just. Staring. at how they interact in this one small moment.

[yoibrainrot]

A Yuri on ice Hannah Montana au where Yuuri is an up and coming star stuck between his new life and his peter parker self.

He has a major crush on global superstar Viktor Nikiforov (ever since his Disney days), and Yuuri thinks he'll never be near Viktor's sphere of existence - until suddenly he is, until suddenly Viktor is aware of him and talking to him and likes his music.

Maybe Viktor asks to go on tour with him and work with him. But Viktor's s also having a crisis. Because he likes the cute shy bespectacled boy he met backstage while hiding from his fans, and he also likes the confident dazzling boy who is a monster onstage. If only they were the same person!

[averlym]

,,, sun-dappled sheets...

[romance-rambles]

godheim clarence | because it's you

On a seemingly normal day, as he's braiding your hair in the morning, your husband asks you if he should cut his hair. You try to be brave about it.

1.6k, post-clarence epilogue, misunderstandings + fluff, reader is mc, series: none

"SHALL I CUT MY HAIR short too?"

You register your husband's words as a joke at first. Why would you not? It flows so seamlessly from your own, after all—about how he might actually thank you for freeing up his time in the mornings if you chop off your long hair.

You know full well Clarence will not.

It is not enough to prevent you from chasing after your favorite kind of high. The one where he huffs exasperatedly and tells you as much, as a lovely but faint scarlet hue spreads across his cheek. The one that leaves you with the singleminded desire to kiss him, which you waste no time in doing—because you can.

So, expecting to see a hint of mirth in his blue eyes, you roll your eyes and watch him through the vanity's mirror with an unfaltering grin.

There is none.

Instead, the mirror reflects only the almost clumsy seriousness you've come to expect in his endeavors to prove himself worthy of being your husband. It is both flattering and worrying.

And sometimes, it makes you wonder if you were too harsh on him in the early days of your time together in the void, when you demanded apology after apology from him. Then, you remember that he's the same man who catches fishes only to free them in the end—and that this is simply sort of endearing idiot he is.

It helps immensely.

"Would you like to?" you ask carefully, concealing your silent insults with a half-awkward smile.

You would not like him to.

But it is rare for Clarence to express an interest in his appearance outside of what you make of it. His most frequently worn coat is the one you once complimented him, under a brightly-lit street lamp as he wrapped his scarf around you instead. He always buys the same fragrance, and only when it runs out, with a polite explanation of My wife likes this one the most that drives most merchants mad.

The only response he's ever offered when shopping for clothes is: If you like it, I'm fine with wearing it.

Biting back a scowl, you add, "I think you'd look good with short hair."

Of course he would. Even putting aside his hairstyle when he was younger, your husband is handsome enough to pull anything off.

You are, of course, very biased—it's an accusation you've never tried to deny.

"I see." With a pleased hum, Clarence ties off your braid. "Then I'll pick out a date. Would you like to come along?"

He's careful to adjust the hair tie first, concealing any stubborn tufts hair poking through between the gaps before he reaches for your usual red ribbon. Then, with a practiced ease that comes only with years' worth of repetition, he loops it through the hair tie and twists into a proper bow.

Today, you cannot find it in yourself to admire his careful movements through the mirror.

"I'm never going to hear the end of it if I do that," you answer, shuddering a little at the thought. The people at this village are mostly kind, but a few of the louder ones tend to comment on Clarence's tendencies a bit too frequently for your liking. "You remember what happened last time, don't you?"

Your fingers traverse down the full length of your neatly-braided hair to pull it over your shoulder. Their grasp on the end of it lasts for only a second before your hand falls to the edge of your stool. Gulping, you swivel around and soon find yourself properly face to face with your husband.

He smiles faintly. "In a sense, they weren't wrong."

To properly hold onto his face, you have to scoot closer to the edge. Clarence bends down slightly, further easing the burden on your arms. Your eyes narrow fondly at him before you ruin the moment by smushing his cheeks.

"They were insulting you," you correct him, indignation fueling your flat tone. "I'd say they were very wrong."

His expression grows helpless and fond. Wrapping his hands around your own, he settles down onto the hardwood floor. In doing so, he ignores your chiding entirely; instead, he looks at you with a hint of reverence in his gaze.

"Perhaps," Clarence agrees softly. "I've heard worse."

Inhaling sharply, you press your foreheads together. When you next speak up, your tone is softer. "Do you have a cut in mind?"

"The same as it was when I was younger, I suppose," he says, sounding a bit uncertain.

You do your best approximation of a nod. You're not entirely certain what brought this on, but that won't stop you from being the most supportive wife to ever be supportive. As you squeeze his hands gently, you hope he can sense your resolve.

"Alright," you say, a bit forcefully, as you press a kiss to his forehead. "—now get off the floor. It's my turn to do your hair."

IT'S WHEN YOU'RE CAREFULLY UNTANGLING your braid at night that you remember the conversation from that morning.

"Did you decide on a date?" you ask curiously.

Clarence hums. "I didn't get the chance to quite yet."

He's watching you from his side of the bed, both hands occupied by a book he stopped reading the moment you walked in after your nighttime routine. When you shake your hair back to normal and settle under the blankets, he wordlessly turns the lamps off, with only a flick of his hand.

Accepting his answer, you snuggle up against his chest, fully intent on going to sleep—

Except you can't.

Curiosity nags at you, offering you the same question over and over again in the hopes that you'll break. And break you do as you call out your husband's name.

You can't quite make out what his expression is, but you know he isn't asleep. It's only been a few years—just a little over a decade, to be precise—since they've reunited. Adjusting to a life within the bounds of time, you know, takes some time, especially for someone like Clarence who had seemingly outgrown the need to sleep even before he entered the nothingness.

"Clarence," you whisper, "what made you want to cut your hair?"

For a moment, he remains silent. You can hear his beating heart, and that is enough to let you know that he's flustered.

"Clarence?"

"You said I looked very handsome," he says finally. "The other day."

Upon hearing those words, your mind offers you nothing noteworthy. To you, calling your husband handsome is no different making sure your heart's intact. You think you might actually die if you don't tell him, but you haven't tested it before.

Your heart, however, is filled to the brim with affection for this man, the one you've searched nearly your entire life for.

Even if you do want to throttle him a little bit.

"You'll have to be more specific, dear," you tell him, gently touching his cheek. He's warm, you think. You're tempted to turn the lights back on. "I'm sure I say that every day. And why would that make you want to cut your hair?"

Clearing his throat, he adds, "To be more specific, you didn't say it to me necessarily. You were—" Clarence pauses, a hint of uncertainty to his next words. "—talking about my younger self."

Oh.

The gears in your head start to turn. Now, you can faintly recall the memory of you waxing poetically about the man whose image remains in use on one of the most popular and frequently sold-out stamps even now, centuries later. Mostly, you remember smiling through a comment about how carefully you must've chosen your husband—as if she hadn't pressured into picking a man other than your husband to gush about.

You would've chosen the Archmage who seemingly had no relation to your husband regardless, but it would've been nice to know ahead of time.

Because you do have eyes, Eliza. That's how you know there isn't a man alive that's more attractive than Clarence.

Still, there hadn't been any deeper meaning when you chose his younger self specifically. There'd been a stamp nearby and you'd used it as a reference, in the hopes that it would help the other ladies downplay your incredible knowledge of his features.

You're almost certain they think you're deranged.

"Clarence." You giggle, suddenly amused. "Clarence. You look very handsome today."

Clumsily, you press a loving kiss to his forehead. Then, to the mole under his eye, to the tip of his nose, to his other cheek, until finally, you kiss him on the lips. At some point, while you're busy being productive, he goes from laying on his side to laying on his back.

"What brought this on?"

He sounds bewildered. You think it's cute.

After taking a moment to compose yourself, you begin to explain. Throughout, he's mostly silent, save for the occasional acknowledgement. Still, you don't have to worry about whether he's listening or not.

Until the very end, his hands—still wrapped around you—give him away.

"I like your long hair just as much, because—" You give him another peck on the lips. "—I love you. No matter what, you're always the best-looking man in the room."

Clarence wastes no time in answering you, though he very nearly chokes on his words. "And I...you."

"Good." Feeling satisfied, you rest your head against his chest. "Do you still want to cut your hair? ...Clarence?"

"I think," he says, clearing his throat. "It's fine the way it is."

You don't try to point out why.

[mo-ok]

🦈 Vul Shark vs Zyuoh Eagle 🦅

not quite sticking the pose but he's old give him a break

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

Brief pause in the SW hurry panic to post a picture of what my docs looks like. I found out you can put nice colours on documents while we were organizing the event and got a little excited with it. Now my fics look like a pastel party

[chucapybara]

—as bruised thorn wilts.

some thoughts on innamorati and arlecchino's first few meetings.

the arlerati brainworms really wouldn't let me rest until i get these ideas down 😭 it just kept going... it's 1.8k words...

no particular cw just a lot of mindless, rambly brainrot and inna vaguely dishing out her "love" (hint: murder)

the duty of a ferryman is to guide a voyager from one point across the river, to wherever their destination beckons them. through snow and rain, the unfettered innamorati abides not by weather, but by the calling of her passengers and the calling of her majesty's mission.

and so, when she finds a lost snezhevich in the wilds of elynas—young still, no taller than her hip—inna knows she must safeguard his return.

the child, having been separated from the rest of his siblings, was compelled to wander by tales of the beast whose bones now lay slumbering, fused in grass and soil. one of such youth had no purpose there so far away from his "family", and had gotten himself into trouble with the local creature population.

bearing fistfuls of hail and frostwind comets, innamorati had descended then upon the breacher primuses assaulting him, to the little snezhevich's amazement. a knight clad in armour dark as the twilit sky—yet with a kind touch in spite of their harsh scolding, kneeling down to speak in lowered tones and inquire what would bring him thereabouts.

innamorati knew this place well, could taste the taint of abyss even through the sheet of her helm. it was no place for a young boy.

she escorts the snezhevich back to the rest of his group, then back to the court of fontaine. they speak to her about the things they found amid the marrow, the curious plague upon the earth turning the grass as sundered violets.

rainbow roses, the rare sprout, had been the eye of their venture: a gift, they said, for their elder brother, before their sibling had wandered astray. to pick the carefully cultivated roses near the fount of lucine and within perimeter of the court might warrant trouble, and being the spry imps they were, had dared to brave the sea and to cross into the beryl region on their own.

for the most part, inna counted herself impressed by their courage (and their audacity). she made it known so, as their boat crossed the waters where it would be safer, still. she had the least liking for children, but it did not escape her the endearing quality to their spoils: a small bouquet of rainbow roses, clumsily held within a table napkin. a modest gift, to be sure, but one of great heart.

her odd kindness was not lost upon the children, either. where innamorati made to depart from the court—she was not particularly welcome in many cities, due to the nature of her profession—the snezheviches and lone snezhevna tugged at the cool, almost icy metal of her gauntlet, pulling her with them.

(children of snow ought not have any qualms in touching this frostbitten elegy, as is their birthright; and even little favours such as this deserve utmost thanks, as it was how they were raised.)

it wasn't long before their residence came into view: the hotel bouffes d'ete, headquarters to the house of the hearth, where a familiar duo stood speaking by the door.

a notable magician's hat, and a pair of quaint cat ears. their voices are hushed, a secret spoken between brother and sister.

as they received the gifted flowers and welcomed their lost siblings, who then in turn introduced the obsidian knight that had led them home, eyes fell upon innamorati. but of those eyes came a pair not present in their midst—the gaze of baleful scrutiny.

as she tilts her helm in its direction, innamorati almost believes a pair of crimson crosses had flashed just by the second story window, before vanishing like a spectre.

arlecchino hardly ever went uninformed by matters of consequence both dire and miniscule. after all, as a diplomat and fatuus, every morsel of information did not come without its value, however minute.

thusly so, it was not lost to her, the identity of that armour-clad figure. every harbinger ought to know the movements in relation to their ranks, and when an addition had been made upon the lowest rung, she'd thought little of it—another pawn to the tsaritsa, and no more.

so who could draw blame at her suspicions, when the abyssal spawn adopted by her majesty had personally seen to escorting her children back to the hotel? she had heard wind of the flesh that creature had torn apart with bare tooth and nail, of how they had feasted upon the denizens of the tsaritsa's domain; and how the tsaritsa had glimpsed the sane wedged in their madness, and thought hopefully of the nourishment those lives had offered to a potential servant of hers.

“even a collared devil must surely, too, have its benefits to keep.”

no more than a chained beast, made to amend for those troubled villagers she had fed on. arlecchino almost pitied the poor thing.

albeit so, the children—arlecchino could see—were nary scratched or nicked in their return. they seemed almost joyous, in fact, perhaps sheepish as they offered lyney a bouquet of rainbow roses held together at the stems by a tablecloth. a crude gift, but a gift nonetheless. so, perhaps, let the children be.

the knave's gaze would return once more to that armoured veil. the way they stood, almost timid in the throng of her fosters, uncertain. it seemed almost...

human.

innamorati had very little need for accommodations: a boon to the finances of the fatui. having dug her way out of the recesses of the earth after five abyssal years meant there were few conditions inna could not survive in, maybe none at all.

after completing an excursion of her own into sumeru and handling affairs of some stragglers (affectionately, in that morbid way of hers), innamorati received a letter from a scout that spent quite some time seeking her.

work to be done in fontaine, once more. more affections to ferry across the seas, and with it, a peculiar offer: an invitation, as guest, to board for a time at the hotel bouffes d'ete, as extended gratitude for returning those wayward children.

as she sits with the letter, her armour still stricken with red, innamorati thinks then of the little ones she had found traipsing around elynas, the magician duo.

the crimson x's from the window.

there would be no purpose to it. her work did not need to involve the house of the hearth or its director, but perhaps there was no undoing the ties she had woven on that day. the memory of that family’s “warmth” still lingers, tantalising, tempting—a moth to a flame, an invitation sitting on parchment in her hands.

the sweet tang of iron wafts through her visor. a limpid growl churns in her frigid soul, the rousing of another within.

she'll consider it, later, once she has quieted her little beast.

the day innamorati arrives is not the bloodstricken hour—that is to come yet.

she doesn't quite know what to do with herself in the lobby of the bouffes d'ete. the air is sweet with the fragrance of flowers—almost too sweet, she thinks—and cinder from the ever-flickering hearth, lending a warmth to the room that almost drew dew across her armour. cold, versus heat.

the children welcome her, and they speak of a "father" who is yet to arrive. inna vaguely recalls. they have not met in person, but she has heard of the woman: the lord they call knave.

one cursed, knowing another of similar ilk. but as innamorati stands in the presence of the knave's children, she couldn't help but find them pure as the untouched fire, with a lingering shade to them—the shade, perhaps, of the acts their life has led them to do.

there is an offer of a hearty meal, but innamorati politely refuses. she does not remove her helm, after all, in the presence of others; her visage is a mystery, even to inna herself.

(she almost fears what she might see, at this point.)

in return, she offers a chest of trinkets and baubles, toys and other useful things, treats and foods: items she’s procured during her time in sumeru. a guest, of course, musn’t come without bearing gifts—to do so would simply be rude, and innamorati was anything but rude. a callous lifetaker, perhaps, but certainly not rude.

as the fosters begin proclaiming which of the gifts are theirs, that familiar looming presence once more returns to haunt her. not the one that resides beneath her skin, but the other.

the “father” has arrived.

when the children rise to greet her, innamorati does the same. the sharp resounding steps, a distinguished gait, a cold and calculating gaze sharp as the gleam of a scarlet blade—there was no doubt that she was the fourth of them, indeed, an indisputable fact. in comparison, innamorati may as well have been nothing.

neither of them speak, for a moment, merely trading stares of acknowledgement. the recognition of one fatebringer to another: murky shadow beneath a visored helm to baleful crimson x’s.

“a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, innamorati.” she speaks the name with tempered intrigue, enough to make the discernment of tone difficult. neither a threat nor a welcome, but a measured neutrality.

innamorati tilts her helm, ever so slight. “a sentiment i share, lady arlecchino.”

it is the first they ever meet in person, and the first of many others to come.

for someone dubbed a chained beast, arlecchino found great interest in the manner by which innamorati interacted with the hearthfolk. the lovers seemed almost timid in the way freminet was known for, content merely to observe, her responses to queries quaint and modest—soft, almost. it felt nothing like the vicious bite she had expected out of a muzzled taskdog.

perhaps arlecchino had been too quick to conclude anything about the knight.

inna’s words held an underlying melancholy to them, even as she spoke of other things: the meaning of this sumerian gemstone inlaid upon this brooch, the background of the artisan who crafted that vibrant spinning top. she spoke with respect, which could hardly be said for many other fatuus, especially among the other harbingers.

but her tales—ah, innamorati’s tales. the knave had no shortage of stories all her own, but she was oft content to lend the stage to others, to let them speak; for in speaking can one reveal aspects of who they are to those who listen. a most apt technique indeed for information gathering, and one that brought to her some surprises.

what had taken possession of innamorati, then, to have raised her to just below tartaglia’s rank? what had she glimpsed in the depths of the abyss that she would hide away from all the world, veil her countenance, and become as another? perhaps it is the softness she shares in him, that childe; the softness unbecoming of the tsaritsa’s most dangerous.

it felt almost like reverence for the world, a love for the life that went into every little thing she brought to the hearth that day.

needless to be said, of that first visit, the children lacked for nothing by way of stories to carry regarding the gifts they chose for themselves.

somewhere, somehow, a feeling stirs in arlecchino. a burning curiosity, she finds, to gather all that she can on this beast parading within metal skin.

would she still be a knight, then, at the end of those flames—virtuous and upstanding in the ways decreed by the tsaritsa? when the veil has been turned to ashes, what ever shall remain in her wake?

she cannot help but sense a pulsing eagerness to find out.

[fatuismooches]

Fontaine teaser dropped an hour ago! There was a really suspicious leak a while ago of Lyney being from the House of the Hearth, and now I think there's a decent chance of that being true. Since he is almost definitely gonna be playable despite his potential ties to Arlecchino and the Fatui, that means there's a decent chance Arlecchino is playable too (yes I'm coping, she has quickly shot up the ranks of my favorite harbingers list recently)

Also, remember in your "voicelines about you" post where Columbina was HC'd to enjoy theater? After seeing the recent Fontaine teaser, I HC Arlecchino would be similar. Imagine her sitting through a play with you, totally stone-faced, and then taking apart every imperfection in the performance and story afterwards

YES YES I'm almost positive the three siblings have to be from the House of Hearth, there's no other explanation for why Arlecchino can control them and give them others! They all got drip marketed so I'm super excited to see what their voice lines will be on Arlecchino, maybe even other Harbingers, and their character story lore will definitely have something on her too, so I'm really interested to see the lore drop! I have complete faith that Arlecchino is going to be playable.

RAHHHHH I LOVE THAT IDEA SO MUCH!! You and Arlecchino have the best seats of course, usually you two have those fancy balcony seats at the top of the theater for the best view (and the privacy is very much welcomed, Arlecchino can run her hand up and down your thigh without anyone seeing ;)

You're the one who's always on the edge of your seat, anxiously looking at the stage during a serious moment, awing and fawning over the sweet moments, clutching your chest during the sad ones. While Arlecchino... is the one who's casually sipping wine, with a blank, almost bored expression. She's already noticed the very tiny slip-ups of the actors, internally scoffed at the plot hole most people wouldn't notice. All things that have completely ruined her immersion of the play. Yet the crowd seemed to be mesmerized, so perhaps they weren't doing too bad, for amateurs at least.

Inaudibly sighing, she glanced over to you, your hand fiercely gripping hers that lay on your thigh, watching the performance with furrowed eyebrows. With that, a small smile appeared on Arlecchino's face. The only thing that makes these plays worth watching was your rather perfect emotions.

(You learned to wait until the end of the play to ask Arlie's thoughts. Once, you questioned her on what she thought so far during a brief intermission, and she pointed out every single mistake regarding the plot, voices, costumes, scenery... It was hard to enjoy the play after that. But it grows to be quite funny, a tradition between the two of you.)