[ID in ALT] I've made posts before about Talia/Dick co-parenting Damian moments (will never happen but let me dream) and this came to me in a vision. Took me ages to finish for some reason 😭 and then even longer to post
[After they talk about Pac's debt to the Pancake Mafia, and Pac warns her about Sir Reaper]
Bagi: I think you're the one that needs to be careful, because soon you might lose your other leg.
Pac: N-no! NO! Please don't! Stop- stop! STOP TALKING LIKE YOUR BROTHER!
Bagi: [Laughs]
Pac: I'll pay you– I'm going to pay you!
I want to give a MASSIVE thank you to @wasabi-ribs, who was kind enough to check my translations and help me with the parts I missed (and also reviewed the final subtitled video)!
[ Transcript continued ↓ ]
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Bagi: Pac, pay the rent!
Pac: I'm going to pay! Hey- I'm going to pay right this second, the money that I owe you, and... and I'm- I'm serious! And look, if you want- if you have more money... If I pay your 4,500, will you lend me 4,500? No, then I'll actually drown in fees. [Laughs]
Bagi: [Laughs] I'll lend you, I'll lend you
Pac: No, not really Bagi. You've got those red eyes– I'm scared, Bagi. I don't know– I don't know what happened, actually it's an eye infection, I know– But something tells me it's not just an eye infection, that it's also some other things, you know? Like, um... y'know, right? [He fumbles again] Oh God wait, your brother– when he had those red eyes he would also turn evil. Nonononono– I'll pay you, ok? Where's the waystone? It's here, it's here, it's here– I'll pay you, ok? I'll pay the 4,500- we're gonna–
Bagi: I'll be waiting.
Pac: No no, oh- just– Just let me walk, my God, I love walking– OH, WALKING IS SO GOOD – [Pac teleports] I'll pay her.
[Bagi follows him moments after]
Pac: [Pac mumbles to himself as he begins transferring money to Bagi] 4,500... I need to pay her 4,500...
is it just me or are you ever watching/playing/reading your f/o's source material and you have to put it down for a moment because they made a face/did something that was so unbelievably cute/hot, and you couldn't keep going because you needed time to recollect yourself?
a short arlecchino x harbinger fem!reader drabble.
—in which a wounded innamorati is tended to be blackened hands and mournful words.
notes: "innamorati" is one of the cast in the commedia dell'arte, with the theme of the lovers, if i remember correctly. they are usually a pair, as well. wrote this a few days ago; this came to me with my own version of a harbinger!oc in mind (hence it may come off as self-shippy), but i think it's vague enough to substitute a reader as innamorati. :3c inna also has cryo-inclined abilities (hence titled "Permafrost") and covers themselves in armour!
"You still bleed like a man does."
"And how does... ngfh... a man bleed?"
"Red."
Were it not for the slickened crimson coating her cursed palms, Arlecchino may as well have thought that the Innamorati was no more than an inanimate suit of obsidian. Innamorati's breaths come heavy, misting like frost at the base of her visor.
There is a kinship, in the blood and in the ghastly taint that sours them both. Like beckons like, as the familiar recognises the familiar from a sea of crowds.
For a moment, Arlecchino's dead-eyed gaze flickers over the shadows in Innamorati's helmet, as if searching for a glimpse of the soul that stares beneath. She almost catches the abyssal-flecked hazel, the dredges of human, or what once was human.
"Innamorati."
"Mmh."
"The children will mourn your passing," the Fourth mutters. It's difficult to dress the wound of an acquaintance who refuses to shed their armour, but she improvises. The bleeding must stop eventually.
"Will they, now?"
Arlecchino bows her head, the slightest nudge of a nod. It was not often that Innamorati passed by the House, but every instance always brought with it the intrigue from the children, and the rumour of the risen "abyssal knight". For all the Lovers' aloof frigidity, a wonder it had become when said abyssal knight would bring souvenirs and trinkets for the children of the Hearth after and between deployments, when said abyssal knight would converse with the fosters in a voice soft as snow, gentle as a whisper upon a dandelion breeze.
Quickly, Innamorati had unknowingly earned a place for herself among the denizens of that organisation, and had come under the scrutiny of its unfeeling Father. Hence had Arlecchino found a wounded Innamorati, returned from a mission, stalking past whilst nursing an injury; hence had Arlecchino beckoned her fellow Harbinger into her office, where a box of medical supplies sits in her cabinet for unforeseen events much like this.
"And of you?" The words come slow from 'neath Inna's helm, a gravelled drag to them, strained. "Will you mourn my passing, Knave?"
There is a long silence. With calculating coldness, the baleful moon falls quiet, perhaps contemplative, perhaps resentful of the question.
How many has she reaped? How many throats slashed, heads ground into a marrowy pulp? And of the many, of what number were those she had no strength to aid, left to keep the reminder of their lives in their final breaths?
Even now, from the depths of that icy past blazed upon a crimson pyre, Innamorati ferried recollections that the Knave had not pondered in a long time: her first blood, on that fated arena, within the cage of a woman madder than she—the blood of a fallen dreamer, an heir to tragedy.
When Arlecchino does not answer, Innamorati answers for her.
"Well," the Permafrost mutters in a rasp, "I have yet to forfeit my life, stubborn as I am. You do not grieve for the living."
"And yet we grieve, still, for what eludes us in the present."
Their gazes meet—or Arlecchino thinks they do. She feels a knowing shiver at the tilt of Innamorati's head, in her direction, where the fiery moon meets a frigid sun.
We grieve for what we have lost.
And if naught else, yours is the grave whose flowers I shall never allow to wilt.