Reader is an eldritch being who once took care of Arlecchino when they were just a baby, but saw that they were too different and they weren't able to properly raise her, so with a heavy heart, they left her at a home, also let's change her backstory a bit, so reader left her at a home who took care of her for a bit, up until they died and she was then transferred into the House of Hearth, then after that nothing changed, anyways, after many years she meets reader, but they are in the form of a younger effeminate man that slightly looks like a of relative to Arlecchino, and the only reason she knows it is reader is cause of a certain feeling she distinctly knows from certain memories she would remember as a baby seeing a gigantic spider carrying her around attempting to be her parent, and it seemed a bit too real to be a simple dream, but there was always a lingering feeling of happiness when she wakes up, btw the reason why in her perspective reader looks like a gigantic spider is cause she really likes spiders and it was the only thing her brain could comprehend reader as at the time, anyways, so they meet and Reader is worried that she doesn't recognize him, but she does, so he literally almost bursts in happiness, he flashed everyone around him and her in a gold light making them blind, lmao, but he reverses the damage and takes out those memories of it happening to them, anyways after a bit they talk and so on about Arlecchino's life, which reader was very sad about since he didn't know the people he left her with originally died, after a while reader meets the children at House Hearth, and he looks excited as he looks at the children then turns to Arlecchino saying "These are your little ones, they look so cute!" And he's just squeezing their cheeks, patting their heads happily as he comments on how cute they are, and overall being very affectionate and happy with them.
Also sorry if I confuse you and if I keep changing the orphanage's name that Arlecchino now runs-
Even Monsters Make Good Parents
Summary: Arlecchino always thought the memories were dreams—strange lullabies, too many limbs, warmth that didn’t make sense. But when you return—an eldritch being once tasked with keeping her safe, long vanished and long mourned—those dreams become reality. What follows is not rage or horror, but a quiet, surreal reunion filled with soft webbing, awkward apologies, and the odd comfort of watching you dote on her adopted children like a long-lost spider relative. You couldn’t stay before, but now? You want to try again.
Tags: Arlecchino x Male!Reader, Eldritch!Reader, Reader is Not Human, Found Family, Reunion, Soft Angst, Surreal Fluff, Parental Themes, Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Happy Ending, Gentle Comedy, Protective, Wholesome Monster Content, Spider Imagery, Memory & Dreams.
Warnings: Mentions of childhood abandonment (non-malicious), Brief reference to parental death/house fire (off-screen, not graphic), Non-human/eldritch themes, Mild emotional hurt/comfort.
She always thought it was a dream.
That warm cocoon of safety from when she was very small—before names, before pain, before the cold reality of the world carved her into the slicing machine she is today. The memory lingered like a phantom touch: a gentle hum, a lullaby in a language that made her bones vibrate, and the embrace of limbs—too many to be human.
Spindly, gentle limbs. Like a spider’s legs.
She liked spiders.
So when she dreamed of the gigantic creature that once cradled her in webs of starlight, she didn’t scream. She felt… safe.
Even now, in the Hotel Bouffes d’Été, in her sharp suits and sharper words, she sometimes woke with that same warmth wrapped around her chest. A sense of belonging that had no origin. The little ones at the House of the Hearth never asked about her dreams, and she never told them.
It wasn’t real. Probably.
Until you walked in.
You arrived like an echo from a different dimension.
Not loud. Not demanding. You simply were—like something the world had misplaced and was only now remembering. Your presence bent the light, made the air seem thinner, made her heart pause in its rhythm.
She didn’t recognize your face—couldn’t, really. It was like looking into something trying to appear human, like a relative remembered from a dream. But it wasn’t your shape that mattered.
It was the feeling.
A pulse. A pull. The same warmth from her oldest, most impossible memory.
You stood quietly in the hall, like a visitor hesitating on the threshold of a long-abandoned home.
“…You don’t recognize me?” you asked gently, like you didn’t want to hope.
Her eyes narrowed. “I do.”
You blinked. Then your face lit up, blooming into pure, unrestrained joy.
“You— you do?!”
Light exploded from you like a burst of gold.
It was so bright several staff members outside screamed. The kids in the upper hall went temporarily blind. One poor cat in the courtyard saw heaven and came back crankier than ever.
Arlecchino blinked once. “You’re still dramatic, I see.”
You immediately panicked, motioning in wide, frantic gestures. “Oops—wait—no, sorry! Sorry!” In an instant, you pulled the memory of the flash from every nearby mind like threads from a tapestry, rewinding time just enough to erase the chaos.
She raised a brow. “Is that necessary?”
You coughed. “I got excited. My bad.”
She studied you carefully, her expression unreadable. “...You’re the spider.”
A pause. You nodded slowly. “Technically, no. But that’s… how your infant mind made sense of me. So… yes. I suppose I was.”
“You carried me.”
“You liked to be upside-down in my webs,” you said quietly. “I sang to you in a language no one remembers. You always fell asleep with your cheek against my chest.”
“…Why did you leave?”
Your glow softened, dimming like a sunset pulled into itself.
“I was… too different,” you whispered. “Too strange. I couldn’t speak your language properly. I couldn’t cradle you like others could. You cried and I didn’t know why. So I found a family—good people—who could raise you better. I stayed close. I watched. I thought you were safe. But then…”
She looked away.
“They died,” she said flatly. “There was a fire. The neighbors didn’t come in time.”
“I didn’t know,” you said, voice breaking. “If I had—if I had known, I would’ve—”
“Stop.”
The word wasn’t cruel. Just tired.
Then, after a pause:
“…You tried.”
You looked up, tentative. “You forgive me?”
“No,” she replied. “But I understand.”
Something in you trembled.
“I thought you might hate me.”
“I did. Then I dreamt of you. Over and over. Your legs, your humming, your webs. I woke up happy. Couldn’t explain why.”
You let out a quiet, almost teary laugh. “I guess I made an impression.”
“Not many spiders sing lullabies,” she replied.
Later, you walked with her through the House of the Hearth. You asked to meet the children—her little ones.
She hesitated, then led the way.
When you stepped into the children’s wing, your expression shifted instantly to delight, as though you’d stepped into a hidden grove of blooming flowers.
“These are your little ones?” you said, clasping your hands together like someone seeing baby stars. “They’re so cute!”
“Don’t scare them,” Arlecchino warned flatly.
But you were already kneeling down, softly aglow, eyes wide as you looked at each child like they were the most delicate and divine creatures in the world.
“This one has tiny fangs!” you cooed. “And this one has sleepy eyes—just like you used to have!”
A small boy stared at you suspiciously. “Are you Father's brother?”
“Something like that,” you said with a grin, squishing his cheek gently. “She used to chew on my hair when she was a baby, did you know that? Wouldn’t let go.”
Arlecchino groaned softly. “You’re making that up.”
“They don’t have to know that,” you whispered conspiratorially, patting three heads at once.
You turned back to her, your expression softened—less cosmic, more human. Less glowing god, more proud guardian.
“You did it,” you said quietly. “You became what I couldn’t. I thought I’d lost you forever… but you found them. You made a family.”
She folded her arms, averting her gaze. “…They’re not mine. Not really.”
“They are,” you said, “because you love them. And because they are safe with you.”
A long silence passed between you.
Then:
“…You’re still a terrible singer.”
You smirked. “And you still have terrible taste in sleepwear.”
The children looked between you two with big, confused eyes—half in awe, half unsure whether they were supposed to laugh or leave.
That night, after the children had gone to bed, you left a thread on her windowsill—silver, delicate, folded into the shape of a small heart.
She never told anyone she kept it under her pillow.
And sometimes, when sleep took her, she dreamed of limbs rocking her gently again—only now, they were joined by smaller limbs.
Hello, may I request one where it is an older reader with Asta and Arlen (it's platonic) where normally reader is very shut in and doesn't talk to their other coworkers and such, but when it comes to those 2 he's happily a chatter box, but those two might assume it's romantic feelings until they hear one co worker ask reader about why he talks to them so much, and they receive the answer of, "They remind me of my own child." Now that might be a happy or sad thing, but reader walks away as they hear him mumble "The child who's no longer here, I hope nothing bad happens to those two."
“The Child Who’s No Longer Here”
Tags: Asta x Reader, Arlan x Reader, Older!Reader, Platonic Relationships, Found Family, Parental Themes, Protective Dynamics, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied Past Loss, Reader As Parental Figure.
Warnings: Mentions Of Child Loss, Themes Of Grief And Mourning, Emotional Vulnerability, Misinterpreted Feelings, Soft Angst, Parental Dynamics.
The observatory was alive with the soft hum of machines, telescopes pivoting to trace the stars. Most days, you blended into the rhythm like any other cog—focused, quiet, and never stepping beyond what was necessary. Your coworkers often described you as “polite, efficient, but reserved.” And it was true. You didn’t mind exchanging clipped greetings, but conversation was a bridge you rarely cared to cross.
Except when Asta was around.
The young Head Researcher had a way of pulling words out of you with the ease of someone adjusting the lens of her telescope. Her voice was bright, almost musical, and when she asked you about calculations, star formations, or even if you’d eaten yet, you found yourself… answering. And not just answering, but elaborating. Whole paragraphs would leave your lips where your colleagues usually received nods.
“Ah, I see! That makes sense—oh, I wouldn’t have noticed that pattern at all if you hadn’t mentioned it,” Asta said one evening, leaning forward eagerly as you explained the peculiar shift in a comet’s trajectory.
You smiled softly, adjusting your glasses. “It’s the kind of thing you only catch if you’ve been doing this long enough. But your eye for details is sharper than most already.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Asta had gotten used to this side of you—your easy chuckles, your thoughtful stories of past research projects, even your mild jokes. She liked it. What she didn’t realize, though, was how much it set you apart in the eyes of others.
One afternoon, when you stepped away to archive old records, two coworkers nudged Asta with curious looks.
“You ever notice how they don’t talk to anyone except you?” one asked, lowering his voice. “It’s kind of strange. You sure they don’t… like, like you?”
Asta blinked rapidly, her eyes widening. “Eh?! No, no, no, that can’t be it!” But her voice pitched higher with uncertainty. She fidgeted with her clipboard, suddenly recalling the warmth of your laughter when she asked about star charts, the way you softened when she entered the room. Could it be?
Later that evening, you were halfway through describing a quirk of an old telescope’s lens when a coworker asked outright, “Why do you talk to Asta so much, anyway? I mean, you barely say a word to the rest of us.”
The room went quiet. Asta froze, her heart thudding as she stared at you, waiting.
You smiled faintly, voice gentle but weighted with memory. “Because she reminds me of my own child.”
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
You glanced at the telescope controls, brushing dust off the panel before adding, “The child who’s no longer here.” Your voice dipped softer, almost lost under the hum of machinery. “I hope nothing bad happens to her...”
With that, you walked away to finish your task, leaving a stunned silence behind.
Asta’s throat tightened. She pressed her hands to her chest, heart aching with a mix of sorrow and tenderness. Suddenly, every smile you gave her felt heavier, like it carried the weight of someone you had lost but still cherished.
That night, she sat on the observatory balcony alone, gazing at the stars. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to me. I’ll keep shining bright… so they never have to worry like that again.”
The Security Department’s training ground echoed with the clang of weapons and the barked commands of drills. You didn’t belong here, not technically, but every so often you came to help maintain the comms equipment and calibrate detection systems. Normally, you’d do the job in silence, quietly efficient and avoiding small talk. Most of the guards had grown used to your withdrawn presence, filing you under the category of “quiet but reliable.”
Except when Arlan came by.
The young guard captain was always a little tense, shouldering responsibility heavier than his years. But for some reason, whenever he stopped near you, you felt your lips loosen.
“How’s the wound healing?” you asked one afternoon, glancing at the faint scar on his arm as you recalibrated a scanner.
“Fine. It doesn’t get in the way anymore,” Arlan said. He wasn’t much of a talker himself, but he always answered you. To his surprise, you kept going—commenting on field tactics, offering small tips, even making quiet jokes that earned the rare twitch of his mouth into a smile.
Your coworkers noticed. They noticed a lot.
“Funny,” one muttered to another during a break. “Normally, they don't say a thing, right? But with Arlan? They’re practically glued to his side. Think it’s… you know, feelings?”
Arlan overheard that. His ears went red immediately, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. Still, the thought lodged in his chest uncomfortably. He’d never imagined it before, but the way you treated him so warmly, the way you always asked after his health, felt… different. Could it really be?
The answer came sooner than he expected.
It was evening, most guards filtering out of the training grounds. You were double-checking the logs when one of the younger recruits asked you with a teasing grin, “So, why d’you talk to Captain Arlan so much? You barely even look at the rest of us.”
Arlan froze where he stood nearby, pretending to check his weapon, his heart hammering.
You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Because he reminds me of my own child.”
The recruit blinked. “…Huh?”
Your smile was tinged with sorrow. “The child who’s no longer here,” you said, voice softer now, as if speaking more to yourself than anyone else. You glanced at Arlan briefly before turning back to your equipment. “I hope nothing bad happens to him.”
With that, you packed up your tools and left, your footsteps quiet against the floor.
Arlan’s hands tightened around his blade. A pang of emotion struck him—confusion, sadness, but also… warmth. You didn’t see him as a comrade, nor as someone distant. You saw him as family.
For someone who had grown up so fast, losing the chance to lean on parents himself, it hit deep. He swallowed hard, gaze lowering.
“…I’ll protect them too,” he murmured under his breath, a vow meant for no one else.
And though he didn’t fully understand the grief you carried, Arlan resolved that if you saw him as a reminder of your child, he’d honor that trust with everything he had.
This is gonna sound oddly specific and ofc you dont have to write it ! But I had an AU of gn!reader and Aventurine with Kakavasha (smol child) and they just. "Adopted" him-- obv lorewise it wouldn't make any sense, throwing that out the window for this bc the thought of reader being a gentle elder sibling to Kakavasha (and holding him bc he's so <33) with Aventurine.. they deserve the world :,)
“House of Cards, Heart of Gold”
Summary: You and Aventurine stumble across a small, traumatized child named Kakavasha. You both choose to care for him. As Aventurine wrestles with the ghosts of his past through the mirror of this child, and you gently guide them both toward healing, a quiet, unconventional family begins to form.
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Soft!Aventurine, Child Kakavasha (Aventurine and Kakavasha are different people), Emotional Healing, Fluff with Bittersweet Undertones, Gentle Reader, Domesticity, Trauma Recovery, Parental Themes, Symbolism & Body Language, Subtle Romance.
Warnings: Implied past trauma, Mentions of survivor’s guilt and emotional repression, Emotional vulnerability and identity fragmentation.
The child doesn’t speak for the first three days.
You don’t push him.
Aventurine calls it “a silent negotiation,” but even he doesn't say much when you sit with the boy on the sun-warmed balcony, wrapped in a too-large coat with golden trim. It's one of Aventurine’s—swiped from a spare rack and draped carefully around the child's tiny shoulders. He still smells faintly of sand and salt, his skin drawn tight over a starved frame and eyes too old for someone so small.
Aventurine, standing behind the glass door, watches in a way you’ve never quite seen before—quietly, almost reverently. Not a trace of his usual showmanship, no roulette-smile or theatrical tilt of his hat. Just him. Real and unguarded.
Kakavasha curls against your side like you’re a fire he wasn’t expecting.
You lower your hand to rest against his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. His head doesn’t lift, but the tension in his shoulders eases. Slightly.
“He’s you,” you say later, when you’re alone with Aventurine in the kitchen.
He’s not flamboyant now. No hat. No peacock feather. No watch catching light like a wink. He leans against the counter, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hands, for once, are still.
You expect a flippant remark. A chuckle. A sly “How poetic.” But Aventurine says nothing.
Then: “He flinched when I stepped on tile too loudly.”
The words land like a stone on water.
You cross the room and take his hand—the left one, the one he so often hides behind his back. He doesn’t pull away.
“He doesn’t flinch around you,” you say, quiet. “He trusts you. Even if he doesn’t know why yet.”
Aventurine looks down at your intertwined fingers. “I’m not sure I trust me.”
You don't answer that. Not with words. Instead, you guide his hand to your chest, letting him feel the rhythm of your heart—slow, steady, open.
On the fifth day, Kakavasha speaks.
It’s not a grand moment. No music swells. No dramatic close-up. He just tugs on the hem of your sleeve as you’re adjusting a cushion on the couch and murmurs, “Hungry.”
You freeze.
And then—Aventurine is at your side before you even speak, already listing options aloud with exaggerated flair: “Well, well, the young sir awakens! Shall it be flatbread? Pudding laced with fruit syrups? Or perhaps something grander—roasted skylamb with jeweled rice?”
Kakavasha blinks. “...Bread.”
Aventurine bows low, lips twitching. “Your wish is my command.”
You don’t miss the way his eyes shine as he straightens.
That night, you find the two of them in the living room. The child is curled up in Aventurine’s lap, head tucked under his chin. He’s asleep, breathing slow and peaceful. Aventurine’s arms are wrapped around him in a rare, unscripted embrace.
He notices you watching and lifts a brow.
“I don’t think he realizes he’s me,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Or that I’m him.”
“You don’t need him to,” you murmur, stepping closer. “That’s not why we’re doing this.”
“No?” His smile falters, just a fraction. “Then why are we?”
You crouch beside the couch, brushing a strand of blond hair from Kakavasha’s face. “Because if anyone deserved a second chance at softness, it’s him. And if anyone deserves to give that softness back... it’s you.”
Aventurine stares at you.
No snark. No dramatics.
Just aching silence.
And then, his hand finds yours again—his left one, warm and trembling.
In the weeks that follow, the boy begins to laugh. Shy, soft giggles at first, always hidden behind his hands, like joy is something dangerous. You and Aventurine become fluent in the language of small victories:
He eats all his dinner.
He lets you hold him when he cries.
He traces the patterns on Aventurine’s coat and calls them “lucky swirls.”
Sometimes, Aventurine tells stories—not real ones, but whimsical fabrications with flashy names and impossible plots. Kakavasha listens with wide eyes, nestled between you both on the couch. He always clutches the edge of Aventurine’s coat when the story gets scary.
You notice, over time, Aventurine stops hiding his hand.
And the boy sleeps without nightmares.
And for once, you feel lucky.
One evening, you find a note tucked in your book. The handwriting is uneven, like it was written with trembling fingers, but it's unmistakably his.
Thank you for not making me grow up alone.
I like you. Both of you.
Please don’t go.
—Kakavasha
Your throat tightens.
You look up to see Aventurine in the doorway, watching. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to.
You stand, cross the room, and press the note to his chest. He covers your hand with his, and in the low light, you both stand there—two fragments of broken lives, mended not by fate, but by choice.
Mobile Suit Zeta Gundam: Episodes 3-5 Review: The Set Up For Kamille's Parents' Fate
Mobile Suit Zeta Gundam: Episodes 3-5 Review: The Set Up For Kamille’s Parents’ Fate
Episode 3:
The beginning reveals the great amount of danger Kamille is in this episode.
The Titans mistreat Bright Noa, possibly in a bit of a hazing ritual, after speaking to Kamille earlier, possibly representing Kamille’s fate, possibly representing what had happened to Kamille after he was sent to jail.
