#and was on my knees next to our bed WEEPING with laughter

[novelconcepts]

You can really tell how much Drawfee/Secret Sleepover Society I’ve been leaning on between projects lately, cuz my brain is just a riot of Jacob-isms.

“NnnnnnnnnnAOOOW. it’s NOT.”

“Ohhhhhh HEEEETMAN.”

“Scoop it. Scoop it. SCOOP it. SCOOP. IT. SCOOPIT. SCOOOOOOOOOP IIIIIT.”

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

can we stay for a while and listen for heaven?

A/N: my first fic !!!! i wrote this between the hours of 1 and 4am so i hope its not shit asjkffjkd

please please please reblog, comment and like !!! if you have any feedback please feel free to drop it too (:

"You’d told him earlier that this building was his home. You were wrong – he fights the urge to say it now. To chant ‘The four walls have nothing to do with it. My home isn’t this house, it’s you. It’s here, in my arms’ until his throat runs dry. "

desc; veteren!reader x simon riley. he comes home on leave after a (kind of) disagreement. all fluff, some non-sexual nudity (a soft little affectionate shower scene). should be fairly gender neutral!!

"Hear the storm dances outside Something set free is running through the night And the dark awaits us all around the corner But here, in our place we have for the day Can we stay a while and listen for heaven?"

Simon “Ghost” Riley, more weapon than man, almost falls to his knees weeping at the sight of you.

You stand, some thirty-feet ahead of him, holding a pistol aimed at his head with perfect precision. Hair wild and sleep-tousled, one of his shirts hanging to about mid-thigh, eyelids drooped and eyebrows furrowed in confusion, lips forming a perfect ‘O’ and he swears to whatever divine being still watching that one day he’ll be brave enough to marry you. 

He’d poetically liken himself to a man returning home from war, but the simile cuts a little too close.  

You lower the weapon, flick the safety on (he narrowly bites back the urge to praise you) before launching it towards the sofa and launching yourself at him. He ignores the burning in his injured side and returns the fervour, arms finding your waist with practised ease. After almost fifty hours awake, Simon allows himself to feel the exhaustion that permeates his bones. He sinks into you – into your warmth, your scent, your love. He fears he’ll never be able to let go again.

You somehow detach yourself enough to blink up at him, eyes still half-lidded. “You’re back,” you whisper, voice so roughened with sleep that he can only make out half the syllables, “thought you were comin’ back next week?” 

“Sorry, darlin’. Should’ve given you a heads up.” He hates how fatigued he sounds, even to his own ears, but he can’t keep up the act. Not with you. 

“Nonsense, Simon Riley.” Your nose scrunches, voice mimicking severity. The way your mouth sounds the shape of his name ringing through his head like a stricken bell, “This is your home, too. You know you don’t need permission to come back.”

He doesn’t know, not really. Especially not at the moment. He’d half expected you to shove him back out the door duffle still in hand if he were honest. After almost two weeks of not speaking, of dodging calls and ignoring texts, he figured he’d deserved it. The knot of guilt begins to twist his stomach. 

You must sense his hesitation – reading him like a book always was a favourite pastime of yours – because you press your face back into his chest, squeezing him briefly before releasing him.  He barely has time to mourn the loss of your warmth before you’re hooking your pinky with his, intertwining your fingers. 

You lift yourself onto your tiptoes, face hovering just a few centimetres away from his, before you whisper.

“You’re not getting into our bed smelling like shite, Si. ‘M hosing you down." 

He watches as the corners of your lips turn up into one of your signature lopsided grins and before he can stop himself he’s leaning in to kiss it, mask be damned. Since there are no merciful gods left, you duck out of the way before his mouth can stick the landing, letting out a squawk of laughter as you swipe out of the way of his arms. He finds his lips mimicking yours beneath the fabric. 

“You’re not kissing me til you brush those fuckin’ teeth, either. Dirty man.”

“I thought you liked the way I taste, love.”

You snort, pinky latching onto him again, leading him towards the bathroom of your darkened house. Reiterate your previous statement by muttering a “filthy man” under your breath. The radiance of dawn spills through the closed blinds as the sun begins its endeavour across the sky once more. Simon follows dutifully behind you. 

Your unoccupied hand fumbles before finding the string of the light switch. You give it a firm tug and cool light blares into the room. Simon barely has time to hiss before you’re tugging it off again, encasing the room in darkness once more. You hum softly, murmuring apologies as you lead him to the toilet seat. 

“Sit. I swear I have fake candles somewhere, I’ll find them.”

An objection rises in his throat, although he obeys instantly, perching on the lid of the toilet. He watches in the low light as you flit about the room, rummaging through bottles and loofahs and sponges before letting out a small “aha!”. 

You methodically disperse small, white discs around the room, clicking them on as you go. Warm light flickers throughout the room, much less overbearing than the beacon overhead. You turn to face him again and he lets out a sigh through his nostrils. You’re far too endearing like this; completely dishevelled, all soft smiles and teasing words. 

He can see it with a bit more clarity now, the way worry has been eating at you. In the dim 'candle' light, he notices the state of your lower lip, chapped and bitten, and the smudges of blue that frame your eyes. The knot that sits at the base of his stomach twists again, digging in, and he tightens his jaw to stop himself from spilling I’m sorry’s like a mantra.

“You planning on washing your clothes as well as your body, babes?” 

Your voice pops the bubble of his self-pity. He blinks thrice, grateful for the mask to hide the downwards tilt of his lips. He attempts to sound breezy as he replies, though it comes out with more bite than he’d like. Typical. 

“Figure it’s the quickest way to stop smelling of ‘shite.’”

It’s your turn to sober yourself as you cast your eyes over him, eyebrows furrowing. You must catch it; the way, however subtle, his body responds to his injury – hunched slightly to one side as if trying to curl protectively around it. He straightens his spine at your scrutiny. 

“You’re hurt,” you whisper, voice so tender, as you take two slow steps towards him, “your side?” Your eyebrows furrow, hands absently reaching for him. 

“It’s nowt, darls. Just some bruising. I…” He rolls the request around on his tongue. He swears it burns, to ask more of you after you’ve given so much. “I need a hand. Can’t really… bend. Sorry.”

Your reaction is immediate. You drop to your knees in front of him, hands reaching for his laces, face set in gentle determination. 

“It’s no bother, handsome.” You’re quick to soothe, to reassure. Always so quick to give him what he needs. He softens like warm butter. “Get started up there, and we’ll meet in the middle.” You toss him a cheeky wink, face still tinged in a trace of worry. 

Never one to deny you anything, he does as he’s told. Starts with his mask – easy enough. He’s too tired to have any reservations now, especially when you’ve spent so many nights devoted to tracing his scars with your lips. He unhooks the straps and slips it from his face, drops the piece of fabric onto the bathroom counter next to him. 

His shirt is… a little bit trickier. He struggles to lift it up above his head, but he manages it soon enough. On his own, despite your assurances that you can help with that, too. He’s a stubborn creature. 

Meanwhile, you’re dutifully and methodically working off his boots. He’s seen those hands broken and bruised, snaked around the grip of so many guns. He’s in awe of their softness; the duality of hands once soaked in blood, now working so gently to undress him. 

True to your word, always, you meet him in the middle. Soft hands ghost over the mottling of bruises littering his left side, shades of purple and blue deep and rich. You frown, casting your eyes up to meet his. Your teeth go to bother your lower lip again but he leans forward to intercept, covering your mouth with his own. 

You hum absently into the kiss, feel the graze of his hand against your jaw, the soft exhale through his nose. You both stay like that for a moment; making no move to deepen the kiss, keeping it light and sweet and oh-so tender. 

You disconnect, your frown banished. He watches through his lashes, eyes half-lidded with relaxation as you stand back up, hands moving to the hem of his your shirt. Simon reaches to help, you swat his hand away. 

“Ah-ah! Just sit back and enjoy the show, Riley. I don’t give ‘em out for free.” You wink, cocky grin rising to your lips. God, he has it bad for you.

“Show me how it’s done, love.”

You put him to shame. Lift your shirt off with one confident sweep of your arms. His hands twitch with the effort to keep them by his sides. The rest comes off just as easily, barring your fluffy socks. You almost end up flat on your arse, cheeks flushed as you slouch against the bathroom counter repeating ‘stop laughing, Simon Riley, or so help me God–’

A few moments later and you’re both in the shower, standing under a stream of water just below scalding. He hisses as the jets hit him, rolling down the planes of his back, slowly loosening the knots along his spine. You’re standing so close, nearly pressed against him, and this time he doesn’t stop himself from slipping an arm around your waist. Your bare forms merge and he feels like a ship returning to harbour. He feels tethered.

You’d told him earlier that this building was his home. You were wrong – he fights the urge to say it now. To chant ‘The four walls have nothing to do with it. My home isn’t this house, it’s you. It’s here, in my arms’ until his throat runs dry. 

The way you tilt into his grasp, your arms winding so naturally around him, slotting against him so perfectly makes him think you already know the words by heart.

After a few minutes, you break away. Simon is just breathing out an objection by the time he notices the loofah in your hands. You squirt a splodge of soap onto it and a wave of your signature scent fills his nostrils. His objections die on his tongue. 

You work the soap into a lather before gently taking one of his arms, eyes flicking up to meet him for a moment in a silent question. He answers with a nod and you get to work, systematically massaging away the layers of grime and dirt. You work in small circles down his arm, scrubbing his armpits and washing the grit from beneath his fingernails with precision, before moving onto his other arm. 

And so the time passes; both arms, across the chiselled plains of his broad chest, down to his navel, spinning him around so you can work your way up his back. Then you’re onto his legs, his feet, before you move on to washing his hair. 

He has to stand facing away from you (much to his despair – you look so focused, your tongue almost poking out in concentration), head tilted back to give you access to the top of his head. Still, you stand on your tiptoes, rubbing and massaging the shampoo into his scalp with firm but doting hands. You hum as you work. 

He’s flooded with warmth at the depth of your devotion. 

Hours or seconds pass by, simultaneously too much and too little time, and you’re done. You guide his form back around to face you, rising up to place a sickeningly sweet kiss to his lips. His body is sagging as the exhaustion finally drapes over him like a well-worn blanket. He blinks to keep his eyes open.

“Your turn?” He murmurs, voice a jumble of syllables. 

“Mmh, I’m okay, babs. We need to get you into bed,” you hum. His eyes close for half a second and by the time he’s opened them again, the shower is off and he’s wrapped in a soft towel. 

“Our bed?”

You huff out a breathy laugh, “Yeah, Si, our bed.”

Pinkies entwined, you lead him once more. Sunrise is fully upon you now, a kaleidoscope of peaches and tangerines spill through gaps in the curtains to bathe the bedroom in pinks and golds. You guide Simon Riley, now far more man than weapon, to his side of the bed. The man barely makes it to a horizontal position before reaching for you -- a request that you happily oblige. 

You settle against him with the same practised ease, curled against his uninjured side, head tucked against his clavicle. He hums beneath you, arms slotting into their designated space around your waist. 

A few moments pass. You’re certain that he’s already asleep when his voice, deep and full of timbre, cuts through the tranquillity. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, his large hands dragging up the notches along your spine. “‘M stupid, and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t– you don’t have to, Si. I get it.” You exhale against his collarbone, arms tightening around him. “It was a bad time. I didn’t mean for it– it just came out. I get it.”

Simon murmurs in disagreement, but he returns the motion. Arms squeezing your sides like he needs an anchor, something to hold on to. 

“I shouldn’t have ignored you. I was a coward. I–”

His head turns, lips grazing over the crown of your head. His eyebrows furrow and he freezes for a moment before whispering, voice so quiet you have to strain to hear it. 

“I feel it, too. I can’t– I can’t say it, but I feel it. I do.”

You feel the corners of your lips twitch up involuntarily. This absolute muppet of a man – watching you all evening like you’d hung the stars one by one, like you were some divine creator, some source of eternal beauty that could make the angels quiver. You bite back the urge to laugh, and instead tilt your head upwards, graze your rough lips across the underside of his jaw. 

You whisper back, trying to pour as much love and devotion as you can fit into three words. 

“I know, Si.”

[quinnhayden]

please ma’am may I have some trio fluff now? pretty pwease

It ain't much, but it's a lil' something to get back in the trio groove!

Quinn is dead on her feet when she stumbles inside the tent. From the whispers running around the basecamp, it was a rough time in the medical tent. It’s been twelve hours since he last saw her, almost twenty-four since she last slept.

When she crawls inside her sleeping bag, Bucky expects that to be the end of it. Lights out. Instead, she rolls on her back and stares up at the top of the tent.

“Are we going to live in Brooklyn or Kentucky when we go home?” Quinn asks quietly.

The tension slips away from Bucky’s shoulders. He can deal with this. If she doesn’t want to talk about what she saw in that tent, he’s not pushing it right now. “What do you want?”

Her brows furrow. Steve reaches over to rub the wrinkle between them which is what Bucky wanted to do himself. She’s thinking so hard about it and looks cute.

“If I let you pick where we live, I get to choose our kids’ names,” she finally decides.

Bucky feels a spike in the beat of his heart. They’ve never talked about something like this before. Steve’s face is so unbearably soft. He sprawls out next to her, putting his chin on her shoulder, curling that massive body toward her. “That doesn’t seem like an equal exchange,” Steve says with a shy smile.

“I’ll be pushing your fat-headed kids outta me. I should get to pick their name, shouldn’t I?”

Bucky flops down next to her, putting his hand over her belly. “You got this all figured out, huh? Who says we’re having kids? Maybe me and Steve are gonna run off and elope when we get home. Ever think about that?”

“Steve would look pretty in a dress,” she replies thoughtfully. “He’s definitely got the tits for it.”

Steve looks positively scandalized, only getting redder when Bucky and Quinn have a fit of quiet laughter. He rolls over on his back, crossing his arms over his chest, pouting. “I’m not doing shit with you assholes. I’ll run off to France and become a hotshot artist.”

“Fine with me.” Bucky leans in and kisses her cheek. “How many kiddos we havin’, baby doll?”

“Two, at least,” she answers. “I want one that looks like you, Buck. If Steve is amendable to staying with us then I want one that looks like him, too.”

Steve gets that dreamy look in his eyes. Bucky just giggles. “I don’t think you can control who they end up taking after, baby doll.”

“No matter how many we have, I want ‘em all to look like you,” Steve says to Quinn.

“No. You two are gonna make pretty babies, I know it. So, they’ll look like y’all and they can take after my personality.”

“Hell no,” Steve and Bucky reply immediately and at the exact same time.

Seventy years later, nearly ten hours of labor, two of delivery and his vibranium hand hanging on by a thread, and she’s got a baby pressed to her bare chest. Just as she’d been in that tent where they were all daydreaming about this day, she’s exhausted, but refuses to close her eyes.

“Ten more minutes,” Quinn slurs. “You can hold her after, I swear.”

At the foot of the bed, a nurse warmly reminds her, “Why don’t you try to get the baby to latch first, Doctor Hayden?”

“Right,” she agrees hoarsely.

Steve hasn’t stopped staring at the baby in awe, cupping her tiny head in his whole palm. Meanwhile, Bucky is kissing momma’s temple, so fucking thankful that he’s fit to burst. He wants to drop to his knees and weep along with his newborn baby. Fuck. Fuck, they finally did it. They made it.

“What a fucking set of lungs,” Steve whispers.

“Language, Captain Rogers,” the nurse scolds.

Bucky barks out a laugh. To Quinn, he says, “Don’t you worry about us schmucks, okay? Do what you gotta do. We’re here for the ride.” He smirks, but the effect might be lost with how teary-eyed he is. “And since I’m such a nice guy, I’ll let you pick the name even if you did pick where we settled down.”

Quinn’s head drops back against the pillow. “These nurses know better than to let you run wild.” She smiles, serene and so goddamn beautiful. He didn’t think he could fall more in love with her. “I said it once, I’ll say it again—if I’m pushing your baby outta me, I’m naming ‘em.”

“Anything the wife wants,” he whispers.

[efyra]

Bubble Bath • Fred Weasley

pairing: dad!fred weasley x mom!reader

summary: after an exhausting day at work, fred comes back home to his wonderful family.

word count: 2.6k

warnings: fluff (?); mentions of sex.

author’s note: i had a dream about having kids with fred and this idea came into my mind - so i just had to write it?

like always, i’m sorry for any grammar mistake 🥺

reblogs are always welcome

you can check my other works here

The first time Fred Weasley thought "bloody hell, this must be the happiest day of my life" - which he could remember - was in a summer of 1985 when Bill and Charlie taught him and George how to play Exploding Snap. The second was when he started his studies at Hogwarts in September 1989. The third was the following year when he and George were accepted into the Gryffindor’s Quidditch team as beaters. The fourth time was on a winter's afternoon in 1993 when he had his first kiss. The fifth was when the dream of opening a joke shop with his twin had become even closer to reality after Harry gave them the Triwizard Tournament prize. The sixth was in a 1995 night when he lost his virginity. The seventh time was the day Weasley's Wizard Wheezes opened at Diagon Alley in 1996. The eighth was in May 1998 with the defeat of Lord Voldemort. The ninth was when he met you on a spring morning in 2001. The tenth time was when you agreed to go on a date with him a few days later. And since then, Fred Weasley had lost the count. 

But he remembered the most special days. 

The day you kissed. The first night you spent together. The lunch his mother prepared at the Burrow so that you could be introduced to the Weasley family. When you finally said "I love you" to each other. That afternoon you agreed to have a picnic, but you didn't check if it would rain and came home soaked. The next morning that Fred woke up sick and you made him some soup. The time you two couldn't sleep then you stayed up all night talking while drinking hot chocolate. When Fred asked you to marry him on the first day of a new year. That summer day in 2004 when you and Fred said "I do" and made a vow to love each other for all eternity. The dinner where you revealed that you were pregnant with your first child together. The day Maeve Weasley was born and your world had changed completely. And since then, Fred Weasley went to sleep every day thinking, "bloody hell, this must be the happiest day of my life." 

He was enchanted with every little moment. 

Fred was thrilled the moment he hold Maeve for the first time and nested her in his arms; he pressed a delicate kiss on her forehead, feeling that newborn baby smell and watching her sleep peacefully, finally realizing that she was his baby - his baby to care for, to protect, to love; his daughter. 

He remembered the first time Maeve opened a toothless smile, that she babbled something in the baby’s language, when she ate solid food when she was six-months-old and ended up with banana puree - made by mommy - all over her face, the way she clapped her hands when she heard Hermione singing muggle’s nursery rhymes, when she took her first steps two weeks after her one-year birthday. Fred was not ashamed to admit that he cried when Maeve first called him "Daddy", that he got emotional every time she lay on his chest and fell asleep there as if it was the most comfortable place in the world, of how he couldn't stop smiling silly while watching her dance "head, shoulders, knees and toes". Since Maeve was born, Fred Weasley thought he couldn't be happier. 

But you got pregnant again; and in 2008, Alexander Weasley was born - better known as "lil’ Alex". 

And Fred was, once again, in heaven. 

Just like happened with Maeve, he was enchanted by his son from the moment he heard that little weeping for the first time; he couldn't help but be amazed to see that the e/c color of your irises were reflected in Alex's eyes, that his nose was very similar to his father's and that he had much more hair than his sister when she was born - and once again, he had fallen in love with that newborn baby smell. 

Fred's heart melted completely when he saw the scene of you in bed holding Alex in your arms while Maeve was sitting next to you, her neck stretching so she could see her little brother more closely; he opened a broad smile with that vision, the vision of his family - his to care for, to protect, to love, his family.

That day, Fred sat next to you on the bed, taking Maeve on his lap and placing his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to his body; he remembered the way you looked at him with a tender smile decorating your face and said: "you and I make beautiful babies," but before he could answer, Maeve exclaimed: "but Alex looks like smashed potato!”.  Fred used his free hand to tickle his daughter briefly, who let out an angelic laugh and squirmed in his arms, saying: "not the tickle monster, Daddy!", he laughed once again, kissing Maeve's fluffy cheek; his heart seemed to barely fit inside his chest of how much love he felt at that moment. Then, your head rested on his shoulder, Fred turned his head to give you a long kiss on the temple; you, in turn, lifted your face towards your husband, sealing your lips in a very short but passionate kiss - passion for the beautiful family you built together, for the life full of joys that awaited you and without forgetting, of course, the overwhelming passion you still felt for each other. 

It wasn't always easy. 

Despite the joys that fatherhood brought in your lives, conciliating raising your children with your jobs and the marital relationship was something that sometimes you failed at. Sometimes you fought for silly reasons, other times for more serious issues, but you never forgot that in the first place you loved each other. 

The worst fight you and Fred had was when the two of you were facing difficulties at work, and without even noticing it, you started to take your frustrations out on each other; you both spent a whole day not talking - just talking about your children - but in the late afternoon, when you and the redhead were distracted with work matters while Maeve and Alex were playing in the middle of the  living room, your daughter shouted cheerfully: "Mom, Dad, look! Alex likes when I dance!", the two of you immediately dropped the papers you were reading and watched the scene before your eyes: Maeve - with 3 years-old - was making extravagant ballet moves and Alex - who had just completed 8 months - was sitting on the fuzzy carpet, applauding his sister with a smile of few teeth decorating his face. At that moment, your eyes met with Fred's, and as if you were having a mental conversation, you two agreed: "No work in this world was more important than this: Maeve dancing ballet while Alex applauded". When the children slept, you had a long talk and made up in the best possible way: in bed. 

And you were fine. Better than just fine; you and Fred were happy with the life you built together. And even if some days weren't so good, the redhead would still sleep thinking that he had lived the happiest day of his life because it was one more day by your side while raising your children together, because it was one more day with his family. 

Today, Fred felt exhausted; he and George stayed until later at the shop because they needed to make an inventory of their products, and even though they had several employees so they didn't need to overload themselves with work, that task was something they didn't trust anyone else to do but each other. 

As soon as he arrived at his home through Floo Network, Fred was surprised that there was nobody in the living room and that no three-years-old girl jumped on his arms saying: "Daddy, Daddy, you're home!", but he heard laughter coming from the upper floor. He took off his shoes and socks, leaving them in the corner, and went upstairs; Fred followed that familiar sound and stopped in front of the bathroom suite you two shared, which was with the door ajar. 

For a moment, he allowed himself to watch the scene: inside of a huge white ceramic bathtub, were his wonderful children and sitting on a stool right next to it while holding Alex - who had already completed one year old - with both hands, you were wearing only a simple t-shirt and cotton shorts, your hair was in a tight bun on the top of your head; you were laughing while looking at Maeve, who was pretending to be a fish and imitating Dory's line in "Finding Nemo" when was speaking whale - you two really thanked Hermione for all the childish entertainment she introduced to you over the years -; the little girl was talking to Alex - who was supposed to be the whale.

"Ah, so you’re there" Fred said with a broad smile on his face; Maeve exclaimed an excited "daddy", splashing drops of water on all directions when she jumped. "I thought I was abandoned" he joked, walking towards the bathtub, and squatting close to where you were. "Hi, baby."

"Hi, love" you answered, smiling sweetly and leaning slightly towards your husband so you can greet him with a peck on the lips. 

Fred also greeted his children, saying tenderly: "Hi, little princess. Hi, little prince"; you two chatted distractedly while watching your children play in the bathtub - Maeve still pretended to be a fish and Alex played with a rubber duck. 

"How was your day?" he asked. 

"Normal" you shrugged. "Nothing new, which is a relief." 

"That's good. And how are our little angels?" 

"They've had dinner, played a lot and now they're taking a bath to go to bed. Did you have dinner?" 

"Yes, I ate something at the shop with George." Fred placed a hand on your knee, squeezing it gently. "I'm sorry for staying..."

"Don't apologize" you interrupted him. Your husband had never helped you to take care of the children; he had never helped you because that was his job too - he wasn’t “helping” you; he was taking care of his kids. Fred never expected compliments or medals for putting his children on bed, for giving them food, for waking up in the middle of the night when they were crying or for changing diapers; he knew that those were his responsibilities as much as they were yours. "I know" you sent him a reassuring smile. Days like this when you and Fred didn't do those things together were very rare - after all, you were partners for life. 

"Thank you" your husband smiled.

"And what about your day? Could you finish the inventory?" you asked. 

He let out a tired sigh, watching Alex chewing on the rubber duck. "Well... yes, but not everything. I still need..." 

"Daddy!" Maeve demanded his attention, interrupting him. "Look what I can do!" she said before immersing her head in the water for a short second before pulling it up again, her hair sticking to her cheeks as she wiped the water off her face. "See?" she opened her eyes and looked at her father, waiting for his answer. 

The redhead didn't take long to react, quickly applauding enthusiastically. "Wow, princess! You truly are a little fish! Did you see her, Mommy?" he looked at you. 

"I did, Daddy!" you smiled. "Our little Maeve already is a big girl!" 

Fred got rid of his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves to his elbow and sat on the bathroom floor, standing next to the bathtub as he listened intently to his daughter tell him about her fun day with Grandma Molly and Grandpa Arthur; Maeve said that Uncle Harry and Ginny showed up for a visit, so she played with her cousins all afternoon - she was asleep when you arrived at the Burrow right after work, but Alex was very agitated. 

You both took the opportunity that the little girl was very distracted and started to give your children a bath; you were soaping Alex's body while Fred washed Maeve's hair. He took the handheld shower and used it to rinse the shampoo, being careful to not let the foam fall in her eyes or ear. So, you two changed; now, you washed Maeve's body while Fred poured the baby shampoo on Alex's hair. Your husband stayed on his knees, leaning over the bathtub to hold his son firmly with one arm while using the other to give him a bath; the one-year-old was still very focused on chewing the rubber duck. 

Fred laughed. "You really like this toy, don't you, big boy?" he said to his son, who looked at his direction with his big e/c eyes. "This lil' duck is tasty, isn't it?" he said in a higher pitch and musical tone. Alex pushed the rubber toy away from his mouth just to laugh at his father, bouncing in his arms. "Yeah, you like it," the redhead smiled. "Maybe you can tell Grandpa Arthur what is the function of these rubber ducks, huh?"

You were washing Maeve's armpits when you heard the sound of your son laughing; you looked at that direction and a broad smile appeared on your face as you watched Fred talking to Alex about his toy. Then, your daughter also laughed. 

"Mommy!" she said between laughs. "You're tickling me!" 

"I'm sorry, honey," you said with a smile, pulling the little girl close so you could give her a kiss on the cheek. 

Minutes later, the children were properly dressed in their pajamas and Fred went to take a bath. And the scene he found when he returned to his room was even more adorable than the one in the bathroom: you were with your back against the headboard and, on each arm, you nested Maeve and Alex while singing them a lullaby as they were drinking hot milk from their bottle. 

His daughter was the one who saw him leaning against the door, she demanded that he come to bed with you, and as soon as Fred did, Maeve left her position to lay her head on her father's chest - now you and Fred were lying on the edge of the bed and your children in the middle of you two. 

"Daddy, can you tell us a story?" the little girl asked. 

"I don't know, honey," he said. "Mommy was singing."

"But the song's over, isn't it, Mommy?" your daughter looked at you. 

"Yes, dear" you nodded, opening a little smile. 

"Will you, Daddy? Please?" Maeve made a pout. "Alex also wants you to tell us a story," she looked at her little brother, who was almost asleep on his mother's arms. "Yes, Daddy, tell us a story," she said in a soft tone - as if it was the little boy talking - "see? He wants it too!" 

You both laughed at your daughter's little trick. "Well, Daddy, it seems they want you to tell us a story," you shrugged, still with a smile on your face. 

"How can I deny a request from the three loves of my life, huh?" Fred smiled, squeezing Maeve in his arms and giving her a kiss on the forehead. 

You listened carefully as your husband told the story of two fire-haired brothers who fought against a terrible one-eyed monster and managed to obtain a precious magical item: a map that led them to various adventures around the world. And when the two brothers discovered how to get to the Candy Land, you and Fred noticed that your children were already deeply asleep in your arms. 

You both shared a look and a smile. A passionate look at the love that existed in your family. A proud smile for the life you had together. 

"I love you" your husband whispered at you.

"I love you too" you whispered back. 

And before Fred fell asleep, he thought, "bloody hell, this must be the happiest day of my life."

taglist: @eunoia-kth

[whimsicallyreading]

Can you do comfort prompts #2 and or 3?

(Yes! I was really hoping to get one of these! Coming right up.)

Prompt- "I know it hurts, but I'm trying to be gentle."

Burn Brighter~

Fire licks up the metal gauntlets, heating the metal and cooking the flesh beneath. Pain. Cairn laughs as she no longer makes the effort to conceal her agony. Each scream vacates the oxygen from her lungs and she can't breathe fast enough to replace it.

Her skin is melting.

Aelin sits upright with a jagged gasp.

Her heart is bruising her ribs with the force of its beating. It knocks the wind from her chest, and rattles her bones. Aelin reaches up to touch her face-

She's burning. Blue flames lick up her arms and net her fingers like webs.

In Aelin's state of terror, it doesn't dawn on her that her own magic won't fry her. All she can feel, think, breathe is that unforgiving heat.

Falling from her bed in a tangle of sheets, Aelin races towards her private bathing chambers. Her tub is still full of water from her evening bath. Water that's now gone cold.

The flames licking her skin grow wilder, hotter, reacting to her panic. Just like they did those days before she'd learned control. When Rowan had taught her how to love the fire in her soul and embrace her magic.

Aelin slides to her knees and plunges her arms into the tub. The water reaches up to her biceps, but she doesn't feel any cooler. Her face feels even more flushed, and steam is batting against her cheeks.

Her chest constricts further. Ice. She needs-

"Aelin," thick arms snake around her waste and pull her from the water. "Shit- What have you done?"

"I'm burning," Aelin weeps miserably.

Rowan pulls his mate to his chest, and she leans willingly into his embrace. A cool breeze is now whipping around the room, carrying the humidity away. A freezing hand cups her face. "How bad does it hurt?"

Another sob strangles Aelin, "I couldn't take them off. My hands were gone."

"Burn in hell," Rowan whispers viciously to an unseen enemy. "Love, you boiled your arms. I have to get you to a healer."

Truly looking at her arms for the first time, Aelin can see the damage she has caused. Her skin is a mess of bubbled flesh, large blisters already surfacing on her scalded limbs.

Reality and past blend together, and anxiety jabs her in the gut. She gags on the front of her nightgown.

Aelin is swept off the floor, cradled gently against Rowan's chest. Suddenly, it dawns on her. He's taking her to a healer.

"No!" Aelin thrashes and he nearly drops her. "You can't take me there. Rowan, please don't. I don't want to sleep. Rowan you can't-"

They looked so sad as they took in her hands. More bone than flesh. It would be a total reconstruction. Aelin knew from their expressions what they would do. What all the other healers who'd shown sympathy had done. They would ease her into a deep sleep where she could feel no pain.

What they didn't know was that they were shutting her in a box with the Queen of Darkness herself.

"Damn it," Rowan looks close to tears himself. Rarely was her mate ever so visibly distressed.

He takes them to their bed and once more she's against his chest. The arch of her ear laying flush against his sternum. "Listen to my breath, Fireheart."

He takes a long, slow breath. "Breathe with me."

It's a shaky attempt, but Aelin manages to pull a little air into her aching lungs.

"Good. Now again."

Slowly, she can't smell the scent of cooking meat. It's pine and snow. Northern winds kissing her skin and stealing its warmth. Aelin's thought are no longer cluttered with her own screams because Rowan's heart is a steady presence beneath her ear.

Her mate consumes her in the best way.

Aelin's eyes flitter up and implore her mate to listen. She's beginning to feel the pain in her arms.

Please. Don't take me to a healer.

It would shatter the semblance of peace she was feeling. Aelin wasn't sure she would ever be totally comfortable in the presence of one again. Besides Yrene, perhaps.

Its bad, Aelin. Rowan looks as haunted as she feels. His stress is almost tangible. He can’t stand to see her suffer. 

Please.

In the end, Rowan won’t deny her. Not about this. Ever. 

Aelin winces, and lifts her arms so they don’t brush against anything. Pain and a horrible itching is starting to flare. Her eyes water, but before she can get pulled back by the tides of her own mind, Rowan’s ice-coated hands clutch her wrists.

The cold brings some relief immediately, but she’s still shaking from the pressure. "I know it hurts, but I'm trying to be gentle."

His magic creeps across the wounded skin like a cooling tide. At first it hurts, and Aelin tries to tug her arms back, but Rowan grips tighter. After a moment, a wonderful numbness sinks all the way to the bone, It’s not enough to totally mend the wounds, but the blisters disappear until her arms look as if they were just badly sunburned. 

Rowan’s magic recedes, and he doesn't look pleased. “That’s all I can do with magic.”

He helps Aelin remove her night gown and clean herself. Shame was not existent between them. They existed to be each others safe harbor, to care and protect for one another. She knew there would be no judgment on her husband’s face as he mended her. No disgust. 

Rowan returns and slides one of his tunics over Aelin. His scent encases her, reaffirming that feeling of comfort and home. Next, he opens a tin of salve and applies it to her skin with a featherlight touch. 

With Rowan’s essence surrounding her being, the residual fear starts to seep away. He kisses her forehead, her nose, her lips. Aelin sinks into his touch. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t faster.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Aelin tugs him to lay with her. She nuzzles her head under his chin, and his leg curls over her own. 

“To whatever end,” Rowan’s fingers card through her hair. “The worst is over for us. Our futures will be brighter, happier.” His hands trail from her scalp, down her back, to the curve of her hip. The small protrusion of her stomach cradled against his torso.

Soon it would grow larger, and they wouldn't be able to comfortably lay like this. Rowan would find other ways to accommodate. Equally soothing. As if he could ever disappoint. 

Then? Another person would be theirs to love. A tiny being who would round out the family its parents never thought they’d get to have. The start to decades of joy and laughter and endless surprise. 

Aelin would have all the time in the world to heal and never would she be alone again. Surrounded by family for eternity. 

“I love you,” Rowan whispers into the dim room. He hums a warm, lilting song until her eyes drift shut. Aelin falls asleep with a soft smile on her lips, and love in her heart. 

[let-the-dream-begin]

In My Daughter’s Eyes Chapter 33: Blueprints

Chapter 32

Read on AO3

March 19

Jamie’s car hummed down the highway, one hand on the wheel, the other laced with Claire’s. The Spotify playlist he’d put together for the trip had gone over swimmingly; he’d mixed together all of Claire’s favorites—Barry Manilow, Elton John, Billy Joel to name a few—a few miscellaneous songs he knew she liked, and a few of his own favorites, some country songs that he knew would earn him a scoff and an eye roll.

The trip up, he could hear Claire humming as she gazed out the window.

“Come on, Sassenach. Sing.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why no’? Ye’re embarrassed?”

“Yes! And why shouldn't I be?”

“Because ye’ve, repeatedly, might I add, held my face between yer legs and begged like a depraved—”

“Oh my god! Fine!”

She’d blasted the volume, perhaps because she thought he wouldn’t be able to hear her as clearly, and she begrudgingly began singing along to Manilow’s “I Write the Songs.” After a few minutes, and after Jamie had rolled the windows down all the way, she was singing at full volume, her hair whipping into her open mouth.

She was no professional by any means, but she had a sweet, sultry, velvet sounding tone to her voice. It was different from the way he’d heard her sing with Faith, more wild and unconfined.

Now, on the way back, she was bopping to “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” swinging their joined hands between them. He flicked his eyes off the road for just a second to take her in, and he kissed her hand as she continued.

They’d had a wonderful weekend, just the two of them, for the first time. Through Self Direction, Claire was entitled to something she referred to as the special needs parent respite program, a trip paid for by Self Direction, and childcare provided by them as well. Mrs. Lickett, Leina, and Amy had rotated their time with Faith all weekend since Friday afternoon. Claire had been incredibly nervous, especially since Amy and Leina were still relatively new. But with Jamie’s reassurance, she’d managed to let herself believe that January to March was enough time to get accustomed to two new people without Mummy or Jamie being around. Mrs. Lickett was the one doing bedtime and overnights anyway, which was something Faith was already accustomed to with her.

“I haven’t had a weekend away since before she was born.”

Jamie had burned with hatred for the sorry excuse for a husband she’d had before, and he simultaneously vowed that this weekend away would be the best she ever had.

And, not to pat himself on the back, but he was nearly certain it had been.

They’d stayed at a quaint bed and breakfast in Auburn, by the Finger Lakes. They visited a winery, did a beer trail—the Finger Lakes Beer Trail, to be exact, hiked through a state park, went biking, made love in a hot tub, made love in their bed, made love on the balcony of their suite overlooking a garden, made love on the hike through the state park…

Come to think of it, Jamie could not name a place that they hadn’t christened as such on their trip.

As much as he loved Faith, really and truly loved her like she was his own daughter, having Claire to himself was a thrill like no other. He’d underestimated how incredible it would be. He thought that they’d gone on plenty of dates, spent plenty of late nights together with Faith fast asleep…but this trip had been different. Is this what their honeymoon would be like, he wondered…?

Proposal first, then marriage, then honeymoon, Fraser.

“Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” concluded, and Claire sighed lazily, leaning across the gap in the seats to lay her head on his shoulder, resting their joined hands in his lap. “Copacabana” came on next, and he glanced down at her mischievously, expecting the performance of a lifetime. She didn’t budge, just nestled further into his shoulder.

“What’s this, Sassenach? This is a Barry classic.”

She chuckled softly. “I know. I’m just very tired. We didn’t exactly do much sleeping.”

He made an amused noise in the back of his throat. “Aye. Something that I refuse to be sorry for.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t want you to be.”

Barry carried on about Lola and Tony, and Claire remained silent, even at the climax of the song.

“Ye sure ye’re alright?”

She looked like she was about to say something, but she didn’t. Then, after a moment:

“It just feels like it went so fast.”

“I ken what ye mean.”

“It’s not that I’m dreading parenting again. I mean, that’s a daily existential dread kind of thing. But it’s not like I don’t want to go back home to Faith.”

“Ye’ll miss me that much?” he was teasing, laughing as he said it.

“Yeah.” She was gravely serious.

His brow furrowed, and he brought their hands to his lips to kiss her knuckles again. He didn’t know what to say.

“I’m just…I’m tired of saying goodbye.”

The lines on his forehead deepened. “What d’ye mean?”

“I mean I…” She sighed, frustrated. She sat up, keeping their hands clasped. “Could you pull over?”

His heart leapt into his throat, his stomach tumbling. Rationally, he knew this could not have been going in a direction that would shatter his heart. It would make no sense. But logic could not calm the nausea as he took the next exit and pulled into the first parking lot that came up: a Burger King.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Oh God, nothing is wrong,” she said, shaking her head, laughing. She released his hand to unbuckle, then got up on her knees in the passenger seat. She took his hand with both hers, facing him. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

He unbuckled as well, swiveled a bit in the seat, and closed his free hand over hers.

“I’ve wanted to ask you this for a while, because it just makes sense, but I thought I might sound crazy because it seemed too soon.”

His confusion must have been visible, because she laughed again.

“What I’m trying to say, and failing miserably at…is that I…I’m tired of having to say goodbye. I want you here. Well, not here. But home. With us.”

He blinked dumbly “Ye…ye want me to move in…? Wi’ you?”

Claire nodded, chewing on her bottom lip. “Is that crazy?”

To answer her, he captured her lips with his, kissing her firmly, sucking in through his nose for air. “Is it crazy that I’ve been wishing fer it fer months?”

She chuckled through her nose and kissed him again. Christ! And to think he was worried! She wanted him to live with her! Her and her child! It was, of course, something that he hadn’t been unable to stop thinking about for a while as well, but he’d never have asked it of her, not before she was ready. He never asked a thing of her before she was ready. And it always worked out in his favor.

She lost her balance, leaning so deeply into the kiss that she tipped off her seat and face first into Jamie’s lap, and they sputtered with laughter.

“Sorry…” She scrambled back onto her side, but not before pecking him on the cheek.

“You’re flushed wi’ joy, mo ghraidh.” He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“Well, shouldn’t I be? I just snagged the hottest roommate on Long Island.”

He laughed, gently tugging on the strand of hair.

“Well, since we’re here, would you like some deplorable fast food?”

Jamie winced. “Tempting as that sounds…I’d rather we drive around fer something else.”

“Fair enough. Burger King doesn't exactly seem like the best meal to celebrate a couple moving in together.”

Christ! Moving in together!

“I dinna understand it.”

“What? Burger King?”

“No…I dinna understand how every single time I think I couldna possibly be any happier…I’m always proven wrong.”

——

Jamie pulled up in front of Claire’s apartment a little after eleven that night.

Our apartment, he reminded himself.

He reached over and nudged her awake, and she woke with a start.

“Shit…how long have I been out?”

“About two hours.”

“Jamie! You should’ve woken me! I feel awful for making you do all that driving alone.”

“Don’t. Ye’re the busy career woman here.”

“You have a career.”

“No’ one that starts at seven in the morning tomorrow.”

She sighed and then got out of the car, retrieving her duffle bag from the back seat. Jamie followed her up the stairs, and Mrs. Lickett was on the couch, asleep with a book in her lap. Claire gently woke her, thanked her profusely. Jamie looked around the living room, the photographs on the walls and surfaces that now included him in them, and he wanted to weep.

Claire went in to check on Faith, and Jamie wandered into the bathroom, still holding his duffle bag. He opened it and pulled out the pouch containing his toiletries. He pulled out his toothbrush and slowly, reverently, slid it into the cup that contained Claire’s and Faith’s, full of princess logos. He tucked his shaving kit into an empty space in a drawer and slid his deodorant next to Claire’s behind the mirror. The rest of his toiletries were all travel sized, so he kept them away.

He was brought out of this ritualistic unpacking by soft lips on his shoulder, and he turned to take her in his arms.

“Hmm,” she said, looking at the toothbrushes. “How symbolic.”

He hummed in thoughtful amusement, reverently kissing the crown of her head. She pulled away to sweetly kiss him on the lips, then caressed his face in her small, tender hands.

“Welcome home, love.”

——

May 12

Jamie was awake long before Claire, long before even the sun rose. Unable to sit still any longer, he carefully tucked blankets and pillows against Claire’s back, knowing the lack of his warm presence might wake her, and he slipped out of bed. Last night had been rather hectic, and Claire had desperately wanted to pack everything for the zoo the night before, but had been unable. So Jamie took the initiative now, laying out the sunscreen, packing all of Faith’s snacks, unplugging her play-tablet and putting it and her headphones in the electronics bag. He checked the charge on her assistive communication tablet and decided to plug it in anyway just in case, making a note to not let her leave without it. He packed doggy bags and Angus’s portable food and water bowls. He packed a few snacks for himself and Claire, and then he moved onto prepping breakfast.

He wouldn’t actually cook them just yet, given that Faith wouldn’t be awake for at least another hour, but he prepared batter, fruit, and chocolate chips for birthday pancakes. He moved to the fridge, checking the cabinet above it where he and Claire had hidden her birthday presents. They each had one to give her today, and one to give her the day of her party next weekend; next weekend since Mother’s Day was that coming weekend. They hadn’t decided if she’d be opening the presents before or after the zoo, so he kept them up there, deciding it best to wait if she asked for them or not. He let himself sit on the couch for a bit before he started heating the pan for the pancakes. He smiled at his tartan blanket, very at home on Claire’s couch.

He’d finished moving over all of his things in the beginning of April, and that night, he and Claire had champagne in their kitchen. He’d put all his own furniture and dishes in storage, to be placed in a house someday, if that was what Claire wanted. He’d brought over his cubed shelving, the kind that you bought with fabric drawers, and between that and the spare closet in the master that Claire hadn’t previously needed, everything fit perfectly. Atop the shelves, he laid out a few picture frames of his family, and what didn’t fit, Claire added to the wall of framed photos of her and Faith—well, her Faith, and Jamie.

Faith had adjusted beautifully, apparently hardly noticing a difference between Jamie being over all the time and just living there. Her favorite change had not, evidently, been Jamie himself, but the tartan blanket. She was constantly wrapping herself up in it, even as the May weather got increasingly warmer, rubbing it on her face, humming contently. It made Jamie unreasonably happy; it felt as if Faith’s love for the blanket extended into a love for his culture that he was so passionate about, an acceptance and celebration of who he was. He knew that was silly; she could not possibly understand the depth of its meaning, but the smile on her face when she became a tartan burrito was joy enough for him. Claire, of course, did not appreciate Faith’s attempts at eating dinner as said burrito…nor Jamie’s encouragement of the habit.

Jamie heaved himself off the couch and made his way into the kitchen to start cooking, but then a door burst open, followed by giggling, and the pattering of six little feet. Faith collided with his legs before he could cross the threshold into the kitchen, and Angus sat dutifully behind.

“Well, would ye look who it is.”

Jamie bent down to pry her off his legs and lift her above his head, causing her to squeal.

“The birthday princess herself!”

He settled her on his hip and kissed her cheek, but she reached up again, grunting, apparently wanting to be thrown up again. Jamie just shook his head and continued into the kitchen.

“What day is it, lass? Can ye tell me?” She signed birthday about a dozen times in a row, vibrating with excitement. “Aye, that’s right. Happy birthday.” He signed the words with one hand, then kissed her nose. “Would ye like to help me make yer birthday breakfast, a leannan?”

Faith reached greedy hands toward the pancake mix, and he chuckled. “Aye, we’ll get there. We have to let Angus outside first. Come on.” He carried her to the sliding glass door that led to the balcony, where they kept a few of those synthetic grass potty-patches for dogs, occasionally emptied by Jamie or Claire (mostly Jamie, but who was counting). They tried very hard to ingrain in Faith that it was her job to let him out, but it would take a while before she did so without being told. Jamie flipped the lock for her, and she used all her strength to heave open the door, and Angus pattered outside. Jamie then helped her get him fresh water and his breakfast, and then he was back inside, eating and drinking, and Jamie sat Faith on the counter.

Jamie scooped three circles into the pan of perfect proportion for Mickey Mouse, and Faith gasped dramatically. “Who’s that, Faith?”

She answered him with two perfect cups of her hands atop her head, the sign for Mickey Mouse.

“Clever lass! That’s Mickey, alright. Good signing. Good job.”

Jamie gave her a handful of chocolate chips to drop into the pancake, and she plopped them all in one spot. Jamie snorted, laughing. For the next handful, he tried hand over hand in an attempt to get her to spread them more evenly, but then she learned that the more she did it wrong, the more Jamie would try to correct her until she’d be eating chocolate chips with a side of pancake.

“Alright, no more,” Jamie said. “Ye can put some in mine and Mummy’s. How’s that?”

Before Faith could protest, Jamie was flipping the pancake, and she gasped again. “See? Mickey’s almost done cooking.”

Jamie almost laughed at how strange that sentence would sound in any other context. He slid the pancake onto a plate, used whipped cream to make eyes, a mouth, and a nose, and covered the spots with berries.

“There he is, lass.” He put the plate on the table with a flourish, and Faith threw her hands up, demanding to be taken off the counter and put in front of her food. He obliged her, carrying her over with airplane noises, and dropping her in her seat with a little crash sound effect. “There ye go. Special birthday breakfast for the birthday girl.” He kissed her head. “Ye have to eat his face first, ye ken. His eyes, his nose, his mouth.” He pointed to the strawberry eyes and nose and the blueberry mouth. “When ye finish that, then ye get syrup to eat his head. Aye?”

Faith began shoveling berries into her mouth with no regard for the whipped cream, covering her hands and face with it. Jamie started the next batch of pancakes while she ate her berries, and he cut hers up for her and added syrup while the first side was cooking. When it was time, he brought over the pan and let her put some chips in before returning it to the stove. He checked the time, decided he could let Claire sleep for a few more minutes, then started the last batch of pancakes.

When Faith was done eating and the stove was off, he spent a great deal of time de-sticky-fying Faith’s hands and face, and then he led her to his and Claire’s bedroom. (Christ, he still got butterflies thinking of it as theirs.) Faith was bouncing with excitement, but Jamie made her wait for his dramatic count to three before throwing the door open and letting her zoom into the room and onto the bed.

Jamie chuckled at the undignified oomph that Faith forced out of Claire when she pounced on her back. She started grumbling, face still in the pillow, and then it was like a switch was flipped, as if her morning-brain needed a few seconds to remember the day.

“Oh, my sweet girl!”

Her voice was breathy and still drugged with sleep, but the joy was real as she flipped over onto her back and pulled Faith to her chest.

“My six year old! Oh my goodness…”

She showered Faith’s curly head with kisses, and Faith hummed contentedly. Jamie sat on the bed by Claire’s legs, feeling a few miles closer to heaven at the sight of his girls tangled up in bed, a mess of wild curls spilling all over the pillows.

“Happy birthday, my little love.”

Faith hummed and began pushing violently away from Claire. Claire sputtered, jerking away and releasing her, and then Faith was scampering away.

“Are those pancakes I smell?” Claire said hopefully, her eyes still only half open.

“That they are.” Jamie leaned over and kissed her, and she moaned sleepily, letting him press her into the pillow, and then—

“Zoozoozoozoozoozoozoozoozoozoozoozoozoozoo—“

“Jesus H. Christ, how many times did she press it?”

Jamie sat up, looking over at Faith’s tablet screen. “Quite a bit.”

“Zoozoozoozoozoozoozoozoozoo—“

“Well make it stop!”

“Zoozoozoozoozoozoo—”

“Yes, Faith, we hear ye.” Jamie pressed the top of the screen to stop the endless stream and quickly cleared it before she could press it again. “Mummy is getting up right now, and then we’ll be getting dressed, then sunscreen, then off to the zoo.”

“She’s doing it again—”

“Come on, lass, let’s get ye dressed.”

Jamie hauled her over his shoulder, causing the iPad to flop onto the mattress. She squealed, letting her limbs fall limp.

“Yer breakfast is on the table. I packed everything we could possibly need. Eat, get ready. Let me see to her.”

“You do know it’s her birthday, not mine. You don’t need to pamper me.”

“Ach, there’s where ye’re wrong.” He sauntered over, six year old still tossed over his shoulder. “Six years ago ye were in labor fer…”

“Twenty-three hours.”

“Twenty-three bloody hours.” He leaned over, eliciting another squeal from Faith, and kissed her. “I say today is a day ye deserve to be celebrated as well. Go eat. Enjoy.”

“You sweet, bloody man.”

“Aye, I am.” He stood up straight again, and Faith let loose another squeal. “Off we go, birthday girl!”

——

It was midday; they’d just eaten lunch and ice cream, so any crabbiness to be found in the little girl was dispelled as they strolled through the gorilla exhibit. As Claire had told him she would, Faith was telling every animal she came across that it was her birthday, using her signs. Faith and Angus were held on by Claire, and Jamie pushed the stroller that was holding their bags, Faith’s communication device, and the two giraffes that she’d gotten last year’s birthday. (They’d in fact gotten ten minutes away from the house before Faith had started wailing, and it had dawned on Claire impressively quickly that Faith likely had meant to take them with her; of course they’d turned around to get them.) He and Claire had a running bet going as to which animals she’d get this year, because they both knew full well that she’d be doing the exact same thing, her desire for repeating matching sets all too permeating in everything she did.

“You know,” Claire said over her shoulder. “I think I might change my bet to gorillas.”

“Ye sure?” Jamie cocked a brow. “After last year’s debacle wi’ the tigers no’ appearing, then she sees them this year…ye were quite certain.”

“Yes, but look!”

Faith practically had her nose pressed into the glass, her eyes locked on a mother gorilla with a baby on her back.

“Aye, she’s quite taken.” Jamie watched the mother and baby.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Claire said softly. “I mean, look at her eyes. How can anyone believe she doesn’t have a soul.”

Jamie glanced at Claire, as enthralled with the creatures as Faith was, and his heart warmed. “Aye. They’re beautiful.” He crossed his arms. “Though my bet will remain wi’ the red pandas. They’re just too damned cute fer a wee lass to no’ want.”

Claire opened her mouth to retort, but it died on her lips, and she stiffened. Jamie’s brow furrowed, confused. Before he could ask what was wrong, a loud, high-pitched voice sounded, apparently for the second time. The child had been talking already; he just hadn’t heard it at first.

“Can you stop that whining noise? It’s annoying.”

Jamie flicked his eyes down, and sure enough, there was a little girl, standing far too close to Faith for comfort. Faith was humming, her usual, happy stimming sound. She was having fun. Jamie was so used to the noise he hadn’t even registered she was making it. It was white noise to him at this point, to Claire as well, he knew.

“Can you stop that whining noise? It’s annoying!”

“That’s the third time,” Claire hissed, and her small body began shaking with rage.

“Stop. It’s annoying.”

“You’re going to let her talk to my child like that?” Claire raised her voice above its previous whisper, and Jamie’s stomach flipped.

“What?” An older woman, appearing to be the complainant’s grandmother, turned away from the glass.

“You’re standing right there. I know you can hear her being nasty to my child.”

“Claire.”

“No! I want her to answer me.”

“Hey! Stop it!” In her final, fatal mistake, the blonde girl gently shoved Faith by the shoulder, appearing as if she only wanted to get her attention.

“Makenna, come on, let her be,” the grandmother finally intervened.

“Get her away from her, now.”

“Hey. They’re just being kids. Relax.”

“No. My daughter is being a kid. Your granddaughter is bullying her for being happy!”

Without another word, the grandma seized Makenna by the hand and dragged her away, disappearing into the crowd. Jamie wrapped a firm hand around Claire’s wrist to stop her from running after her.

“It’s no’ worth it. They’re leaving.”

“I feel like I’m about to explode.”

“Aye,” Jamie said softly, indeed feeling her vibrating intensifying. “I can feel. It’s over now. Look at her, she’s fine. She didna hear a word of it.”

Faith was indeed oblivious; her noise-cancelling headphones were secure in place, and she’d likely thought the girl’s small shove to be Angus. She was far too focused on the baby gorilla to have a care in the world.

“She’s fine, Claire,” Jamie repeated, loosening his grip on her wrist now that Makenna and grandma were out of sight. “Her birthday hasna been ruined. She willna remember that at all. If ye made a scene…that she’d remember.”

Claire hastily, angrily, swiped at a few tears. “I know.”

A few other guests were giving them looks over their shoulders or out of the corner of their eye. Whether it was because they, too, found Claire’s daughter annoying, or because they felt sympathy, was anyone’s guess. Nobody came forward to offer support, but neither did anyone else condemn them.

“She’s fine.”

“Yes. She’s okay.”

“Are you?” Jamie tried to meet her eye, and she finally let him. She nodded minutely.

“Just…I need to forget about it…”

Jamie nodded. Claire crouched down next to Faith, tapping her shoulder gently to signify that she was coming close so as to not startle her, being that she couldn’t hear anything. Claire began signing to her, and Faith answered clumsily, pointing to the mother and baby gorilla. After taking a moment to blink away his own tears that he hadn’t let show until Claire couldn’t see, he crouched down on her other side and joined the conversation.

She was fine, she was oblivious. She was happy, blissfully so. Her birthday was still perfect.

But Christ, that had hurt.

At the end of the day, neither Jamie nor Claire had won the bet. Despite Faith’s awe over the baby gorilla, the cuteness of the red pandas, or even, for argument’s sake, the appearance of the tigers, they walked out of the gift shop with a mother and baby elephant. Faith settled into the stroller for the journey back to the car, and by the time they took Angus for a potty break and made it to the exit, she was fast asleep, two giraffes and two elephants piled on her tiny body.

“Hey,” Jamie said. He was pushing the stroller with both hands, and one of Claire’s hands rested on his, her other holding Angus’s leash. “I love you.”

Claire peered up at him through her lashes and pecked him gratefully on the lips. “It was wonderful to have you here this year. It was the perfect sixth birthday.”

“It was. Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. It was.”

Her cheeks were slightly pinked with sunburn, her nose darted with new freckles. Her amber eyes were swimming with the colors of the sunset around them, and Jamie sighed in perfect contentment.

“Jamie?”

“Hm?”

“I love you, too.”

No, now he was perfectly content.

——

May 14

Claire opened her mouth again, waiting patiently for Jamie’s response, and she hummed happily when he popped another grape between her lips. She sighed contentedly, shimmying back into his chest. His arms snaked around her again, and he kissed her temple. They were leaning against a tree, covered by the shade, watching Faith on a playground. It was completely fenced in, the playground and an adjoining field. Angus was laying in the grass napping, off duty until Faith needed him. She was quite independent on playgrounds these days, preferring to stop around, climb up the slide and then slide back down on her stomach, bounce on the see-saw herself, rather than drag her dog along with her. It was a good thing, Jamie had decided. The only time Faith decided to be utterly helpless was when she wanted to be pushed on the swing. She could pump her legs; Jamie had seen her do it. But she would always and forever prefer Jamie to push her. He’d been up and down a few times over the course of the afternoon.

It was a beautiful Sunday, Mother’s Day. They’d had a picnic lunch in the field, then sent Faith off to play. It was the perfect balance for Claire; Faith was close enough, having a grand old time, and yet Claire wasn’t overworked or stressed. They could just be like this, as a family.

Jamie had recently refrained from feeling any guilt when referring to the girls as his family. It was not presumptuous, not overstepping. Not anymore.

Jamie and Faith had presented Claire with breakfast in bed this morning, but not until eleven. Faith was ready to cook and have it delivered at seven, but Jamie managed to keep her happy with Sesame Street, Disney Channel, and a trip to the florist until an acceptable hour for letting Claire sleep in. The pancakes were all, of course, Mickey shaped, at Faith’s insistence. Claire loved them, and told Faith as such over and over. As Jamie had carried in the breakfast, Faith had carried in the flowers. It had been a perfect morning that carried into a perfect afternoon.

“I don’t see her,” Claire said, craning her neck. “Do you?”

“Aye, she’s under that wee rock wall cave.” Jamie gestured with his chin. “That flash o’ pink in the window. See?”

It was a small arch made of rock climbing wall that came just above Jamie’s knees. Faith enjoyed heaving herself up and just standing there, and apparently hiding underneath.

“Oh, yes, I see.” Claire eased back again. “How long has she been in there?”

“A fair bit,” he said.

“Is she just…sitting in there?”

“Aye, but I think she’s been making a nest.”

“What?”

“Ye haven’t noticed that she’s been picking up leaves and bringing them in there wi’ her?”

“No…” Claire said, a bit dazed. “I was trying to look for her on the slides or the ladders. In the groups of kids.”

“When have ye ever kent yer daughter to be among throngs of weans?” He’d meant it as a joke, but she deflated a bit.

“I hear them trying to talk to her,” she said softly. “Asking her her name, how old she is. Will she play tag, or hide and seek.”

In the beginning, Jamie and Claire had switched on and off shouting over to the kids and telling them that Faith wouldn’t answer, but after so many times, they’d given up. Faith wasn’t bothered either way.

“She’s perfectly happy on her own,” Jamie assured her.

“You don’t think she gets lonely? Or feels left out?”

“Nah.” Jamie kissed the crown of her head. “Not every kid, or every adult for that matter, needs conventional companionship. If she was lonely or unhappy she’d be all over us, asking fer snacks or juice.”

“You’re right,” Claire acquiesced. “You’re always bloody right.” She swatted his forearm in mock resentment, and he just kissed her head again.

Less than an hour later, Jamie was folding up the blanket and rousing Angus. They were out of snacks, and by the time they got home, it would be time to start dinner. When Jamie had asked Claire what she’d wanted for her Mother’s Day feast, all she’d requested was something they could all make together. So he’d decided on homemade pizza with all the toppings that Faith could throw on it to her heart’s desire.

“Come on! Five minutes are up!” Claire called, making her way to the playground. Faith was still under the rock wall. When Jamie had given her the five minute warning, she’d been on her knees and elbows, her head practically tucked into the ground.

Faith crawled out of the little tunnel obediently, and Claire reached out her hand, and Faith took it. Jamie made his way over to walk with them to the car, but Faith started tugging back.

“No, Faith. Playground is all done. It’s time to make pizza. Remember? We’ll get your chef apron, and—”

“Sassenach.”

“What?”

Jamie jerked his chin to where Faith was pulling toward. A single brown leaf was stuck in the grass, just outside the perimeter of the spongy playground floor. Claire let go of Faith’s hand, and she scuttled over to the leaf and picked it up. They watched as she crawled back into the tunnel, and she emerged almost immediately, giving Claire her hand right away.

“Good girl. Thank you, lovie.”

Instead of making her way to the car, Claire inched toward the tunnel. “Mummy wants to see what you made.”

Jamie smiled, following closely behind. Claire bent down to look into the little hole in the rock wall that they could see Faith through before.

“Wow, look at that,” Claire said, her voice breathy. “You made a little nest. That’s so sweet, baby.”

Jamie peered in, his grin stretching from ear to ear. She had to have picked up every single leaf in the entire playground, the entire field for that matter. He heard Claire sniffle, and he stole a kiss to her temple, onlooking children be damned.

“Mummy is so lucky, Faith,” she whispered, holding up the I love you sign. Faith copied, pressing the three fingers together, and Claire kissed Faith’s sweaty forehead.

——

At around nine-fifteen in the evening, Faith was fast asleep with Angus’s head trapped under her little arm. They’d all three spent the night making pizza, eating ice cream, and snuggling on the couch to watch The Little Mermaid. Jamie ducked out of Faith’s room, buzzing with excitement at having Claire to himself once more, and he locked the bedroom door behind him to find Claire already stripped down to her underwear and bra.

“Damn,” she said. “You weren’t supposed to come back until I was naked. I’m not wearing cute underwear.”

“Bloody hell, Sassenach,” Jamie half snorted, half growled. “D’ye think I give a bloody fuck about yer underwear?”

He attacked her lips with his, and there was a feverish ripping-off of clothing and underwear until they were both naked and hot and pressed together. Then Jamie slowed things down. He intended to worship her tonight, intended to show her with every kiss, touch, and stroke how much he loved her for the wonderful mother that she was, for the woman that she was. For the woman that she was because she was a mother.

After he made sure she’d found release with whatever method she deemed necessary, twice, Jamie finally perched over her and slammed home, delighting in the arch of her throat as she threw her head back in ecstasy. He could still taste her as he bent to kiss her, and her responding groan told him that she could also taste her.

He refrained from taking her hard and fast, not tonight. He let her feel every inch, let himself feel every inch. How many times had they done this? How many times had they gone to oblivion and back together?

As a lad, he’d been told by every teacher he ever had, all of them Catholic, that this was a sin. Not really the act itself, but doing it out of wedlock. He’d of course grown out of that belief, finding nothing short of holiness whenever he laid with Claire. Though, actually, the act itself could be considered a sin even in wedlock if done for pleasure. Some people believed this act must only be carried out if the intention was to create life.

Claire clenched around him, and he shuddered, groaning into her ear, unable to stop himself from speeding up.

“Yes…yes, love…”

He bit her ear, listening to her commands, listening to her body, and keeping up the faster pace.

Creating life…Christ, if Claire wasn’t on the pill, how many times might they have created life since last July?

She clawed at his back, dug her heels into his arse, mewling into his ear. His wee vixen would meet her end three times tonight, perhaps four if he paced himself.

How many times could he have made a mother of her since last July? Mathematically speaking, only once, really. It had only been ten months since they’d begun. But to think, every time he’d had her, every time she’d held him in place while he found bliss inside of her…

It was almost shameful, almost beastly, the primal urge he felt to mark her as such, to have her carry him inside her like that even long after they’d finished, pill or not.

And without that pill…

God, yes, he could make a mother out of her again. And she’d be beautiful; she’d be a goddess that they’d create together with their own hands, their own mouths, their own joining.

It was that thought that sent him fully out of control, no longer able to spare any ounce of power.

“Yes, yes, yes…”

Her words slurred until they were one strangled cry, and then they were falling together, teeth and nails latching onto anything they could.

Afterward, they lie sprawled on the disheveled sheets, catching their breath, comforter and throw pillows hastily tossed aside long ago. When Claire shivered, Jamie chuckled and pulled the top sheet over them. They were facing each other, and Claire looked mischievous, as if she were about to suggest something else to warm her up. She didn’t, though, just kept looking into his eyes like she was keeping a secret.

Then he began feeling like he was the one keeping a secret. He bit his lip, debating opening his mouth to speak or to capture that exposed, beautiful nipple again and distract her, distract himself.

He cleared his throat.

“Can I ask ye a question?” He propped himself up on his hand, and she smiled up at him.

“Of course.” She turned slightly to see him better.

“D’ye ever think about…” His voice trailed off, his throat suddenly filling with sand. Or vomit.

“What?” She mirrored him, propping up on her hand as well. “You can ask me anything, Jamie.”

He smiled nervously and averted his eyes for just a second. “Children. Well, more, that is.”

Claire blinked at him, clearly surprised.

“I’m sorry if that’s out of line…”

“No.” She stopped him before he could fully spiral, sitting up and covering herself with the sheet. “It isn’t at all.”

He sat up as well. “Ye sure?”

“We’re…building a life here, Jamie. Aren’t we?”

Now she seemed nervous.

“Aye.” He sat up and took her hand assuredly. “That we are.”

Her tight face relaxed into a tiny smile, and she squeezed his hand. “Right. So…if you want more children…you’re allowed to share that with me.”

“I didna say I — ”

“Then why are you asking?”

He had nothing to say to that.

“You’d want that?” she asked, her voice suddenly quite small. “You’d want to…have a baby? With me?”

Jamie felt his heart leap into his throat. “Aye,” he said, perhaps too quickly. “No’ right away,” he remedied. “Just…in the future. I…ye ken I love Faith like she’s my own. And together I…we’ll raise her together. As ours.”

Claire nodded, her eyes misting.

“And I could always and forever be happy wi’ just that,” Jamie continued. “It doesna matter to me that she was…sired by someone else. No’ at all. But…to see ye grow round wi’ child…my child…” It was his turn to well up. “D’ye ken I’d give anything to have known Faith fer…even a day longer than I’ve known her…? To have seen her take her first steps, watch her grow from the size of my hand to a full little person…to have watched ye carry her, bring her into the world, hold yer hand through it. To hear her first cry…Christ.” He hastily wiped his eyes. “To…to have been there during her diagnosis, fer both of ye. I wish every day I could have all of it. Because to me…she’s mine. And I canna imagine it any other way. But I wasna there.”

“Oh, Jamie…”

“It’s foolish.”

“No.” She fervently shook her head. “Not at all.”

“I mean it’s…it’s wrong…selfish to want to have a bairn wi’ ye because I didna have all that wi’ Faith. Isn’t it?”

She offered a tiny smile, shaking her head again. “You silly man. You want to be a father, and all that goes with it. That’s not selfish. That’s beautiful.”

“Ye dinna think me a greedy, ungrateful bastard?”

She bit her lip, laughing through her nose, shaking her head. She cupped his face, her grin broadening. “Someday, Jamie…it would be the greatest honor to carry your baby.”

Overwhelmed with relief and joy, Jamie kissed her passionately. He hadn’t lied; he would be happy, more than happy, to raise Faith alone as his daughter. But he feared there would always be a part of him that longed for a baby, that longed to see Claire pregnant, nursing, all of it. The thought of having it someday was enough to send him shooting into the sky.

When their lips parted, Claire did not look as joyful as he felt.

“What is it?” he said immediately.

“Jamie, I…I do want it. I want to have a baby together. Someday. But…” She swallowed. “It’s not…a proven fact, but some studies show that it’s…genetic. Autism, I mean. There’s a high chance for a second-born.”

He nodded, slowly understanding.

“I say this with all the love in my heart for Faith, but…could you…could we handle a second child with needs like hers?”

Jamie’s brow furrowed, but he nodded without hesitation. “Faith is old enough now, we’ve got a system in place fer her. If we had to do it all over again with another, it wouldna be easy, but ye wouldna be going into it blind again.”

Claire nodded. “Okay.”

“Would it be alright wi’ you?” Jamie asked. “I have no judgement, Sassenach. Ye ken that. But you know as well as any that becoming a parent means ye’re to be prepared fer any kind of child. If ye truly think it wouldna be best fer you, or Faith, then she should be our only one.”

Claire waited only a brief moment before shaking her head. “If the doctor had put Faith in my arms for the first time and said, ‘this is your baby, but she’s going to have autism’…I wouldn’t have given a damn. I was already in love. From that first second.” She squeezed his hand. “I want that again, no matter what. I want you to experience that. With me.” She kissed him sweetly, gently. “I want your child, Jamie, no matter what.”

He was happier than he’d been just two minutes ago, happier than he thought possible. As he sealed that oath with another kiss, he knew it was time.

Time to put that ring that he’d bought in August to good use.

[ficsilike-reblogged]

To Weep For The Sun

Summary:  Argella Baratheon never wanted to become a lady-in-waiting to her cousin's, Rhaegar, betrothed. But then Elia Martell smiled at her and the world tilted.

Pairing: Elia Martell/Baratheon!Female Original Character, Oberyn Martell/Baratheon!Original Female Character

WARNINGS: sneaking around with the love of your life behind your husband’s back, Elia and her babies have the canon ending, sorry, maximum angst

Word Count: 9.6k (is anyone surprised?)

(Banner by bb @thesadvampire who would always let me scream and cry about Elia) 

A/N:  This story bounces between the 'past' (pre-Robert's Rebellion) and the 'present' (post Rebellion.) Please let me know if you have any questions.

Or read on Ao3 here!

Robert’s face was red and wet—redder still from where her hand had connected with his cheek. The clattering of armor, of Kingsguard dogs rushing to their new king’s aid from the woman who had just smacked him, barely registered in her ears.

“You are a monster.”

**

Argella remembered meeting the princess before the royal wedding. She was a Baratheon—a far off cousin of the Targaryen family tree and the only girl born to Steffon and Cassana Baratheon and Queen Rhaella had requested she become a lady-in-waiting to the new princess of the Seven Kingdoms. It was supposed to be an honor, many others had been vying for the position she was unceremoniously saddled with, but she only saw it as an inconvenience. King’s Landing smelled. It had none of the charms of Storm’s End and she hated how warm every day was—where were the storms to lull her to sleep? Or the sea breeze to cool her heated skin?

And she was completely prepared to bribe her new slew of handmaidens to make sure her chalice was always filled with sweet wine but then…

“Hello,” a soft voice said.

And the world tilted.

Elia was a quiet sort of woman, who had a soft laugh and a wicked wit she only voiced in chosen few. And her poor heart was already firmly planted in Elia’s delicate hands when the princess called her into her chambers, late at night, only a few moons after her engagement to Prince Rhaegar had been announced.

King’s Landing, it seemed, had been very lonely for both of them.

“But it is good to have friends. True friends.”

Argella’s breath stuttered in her lungs when Elia reached out to touch her hand, pressing her gentle fingers around hers and squeezed. “Yes. Friends.” The word was strangled in her throat. “I would be blessed to call you friend, Princess.”

Elia chuckled and tightened her hold. “We are already friends.”

**

Even as the Kingsguard pushed her down to her knees at the base of the Iron Throne, Argella would not stop hurling insults at her brother—the usurper.

But she did not care about the stupid throne or whose ass sat on the stupid metal chair.

She cared about Elia and her babies.

“Did your hurt pride truly rob you of your last shred of humanity?”

“Silence!” Robert roared. He waved his hand and the armored grips on her shoulders were removed. “You are my sister. I will not fight you-”

“Fight me! You coward! You could not bear to have little Lyanna be anyone else’s wife! You are a spoiled boy with a toy—so you broke it so no one else could play with it.”

“I am your king! You will-”

“I will not! You will listen to me. You have robbed three innocents of their lives for your stupid pride. Elia and her children were not a threat to you. They would have renounced any claim to the throne if you had asked. But you left them bloody and nearly unrecognizable,” she spat. “They were children—babies. And Elia was gentle and kind. And you killed them!”

“I know!” Robert yelled, his voice cracking and echoing in the hall. “Do you truly believe that I do not care-”

“I know you don’t! Because you sit there with a crown on your head and wine in your gut like a glutton. You will ruin this kingdom—you will ruin yourself even more than you have already—you have ruined me!”

**

It was almost embarrassing how quickly Argella found herself half-in-love with the Dornish Princess. She was kind and beautiful and clever and she was fond of whispering vulgar jokes into her ear when they were surrounded by other highborn noblemen who were preparing for the royal wedding in just a few moons’ time.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” Argella murmured as they both pulled the blankets on Elia’s bed up to their chins in the dark room. Argella’s room was always too warm and, since she was the princess’ companion, it was blessedly common for the women to share a bed. After all, the companion was to tend to the princess’ every need at every hour she may need. “I think I’ve been waiting for you my entire life.”

Even in the dark, with the smallest sliver of moonlight filtering into the room, Argella watched a smile spread across Elia’s face. It was the sun—she was the sun.

And then Elia kissed her.

**

She wished she could say it looked like Elia was sleeping when she saw her next. But no. She had fought like a tigress against the hands of the Stranger but she was still ever so delicate. She had lost that fight.

“I’m sorry, my love. I am so sorry,” she whispered, her fingers just touching the ends of Elia’s hair, remembering how she used to braid it when Elia would be up late with her babies, nursing them or tending to their cries. It was always so soft under her fingers and Elia would smile at her over her shoulder whenever Argella tied off the ends. “I wish it were me. I wish it were me on this wretched table and you were still holding your babes close.” Tears tracked down her cheeks and splashed against Elia’s cooled skin. “Oh, my love. I am so sorry.”

**

The wedding was lavish, as it was bound to be for the Crown Prince and his bride.

Argella would be lying if she said it did not hurt to see Elia pledge her love and loyalty to Rhaegar. He did not deserve her. Rhaegar had been obsessed with prophecy since he was a boy and Argella wondered what he would do to Elia in pursuit of a fulfilled divination that was centuries old.

But she smiled at her Princess when she turned, holding Rhaegar’s hand, and was pronounced the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

The Seven Kingdoms did not deserve her either.

“She shines brighter than any sun, does she not?”

Argella turned at the sound of the voice and smiled as she recognized who was speaking. Oberyn Martell. Elia’s younger brother. He was a dashing man, filled with charisma and charm—and a temper as bright as his smile.

“She does.” Argella wanted to say more. Wanted to say that the dragon prince would try to stifle her shine, that the cloying dirt of the capitol would try to warp her into another mindless drone, that the last night Elia had spent as an unmarried woman had been in her arms. But she didn’t. She only smiled at Oberyn and clapped along with the crowd as the newly married couple walked by, out into the sunlight.

**

“I wanted to name you Princess of Dragonstone—my heir.”

Argella turned at the sound of Robert’s voice, biting back a snarl. “I would refuse. Have you no shame?”

“I need you-”

“You’re marrying Cersei Lannister. She will provide you plenty of heirs, I’m sure. Just as many as your precious Lyanna would have, too. Or any other girl in the Seven Kingdoms.” Argella turned back to her trunk and placed the dress she had been folding on top of the others.

“It was not me who killed her.”

“No. But you might as well have. You started the rebellion. You marched on the capitol. Every little thing comes back to you and your hurt pride, brother. And for that, I will never forgive you.”

**

Argella watched Rhaegar dance with his new wife and tried not to scowl. Weddings were supposed to be happy occasions. Royal weddings even more so. But she wanted to rip her hair out when Rhaegar was cold with Elia time and time again during the festivities. It was his wedding—he had married the most beautiful woman in the world, the kindest, the most gentle. And he could barely muster a smile.

“May I steal you?”

Argella nearly startled at the question but laughed as she recognized Oberyn at her side. “As long as it is only for a dance, my prince. You know I must stay by your sister’s side.” She placed her hand in his and let him lead her out toward the other dancing couples. He held her close and she let his pleasurable scent of spice and citrus invade her senses as he led her through the steps of the familiar dance.

“Elia speaks highly of you, Lady Argella.”

“She is too kind. It is a joy to be at her side.”

They spoke easily for the next few songs and dances, and Argella knew she could have easily fallen to Oberyn’s teasing and magnetic charms. She could have chased his smiles and made herself stupid trying to earn his laughter and attention. He was a handsome man, a learned knight, with worldly aspirations. He was who any woman would aspire to marry.

But all she could think of was how soft Elia’s lips had been last night.

But Oberyn smiled at her, unaware of her internal conflict, and she had to smile back. She could never deny him that, it seemed.

**

“You were my favorite, you know.”

Argella bit back the sneer she felt growing as she finished packing away the small trunk she had taken. “Renly and Stannis both starved for a year holding our home against the Tyrells but I am your favorite? I must say that I hope your new crown grants you a bit more awareness.”

Robert reached out and wrapped his strong hand around her wrist, stopping her movements. “Please, Argella. Please.”

And despite wanting to simply run him through with any sharp object she could get her hands on, she let her older brother turn her to face him and almost scoffed at the tears in his eyes. “What?”

“What would it take for you to forgive me?”

“More than you could give, your grace.”

Robert’s warm hand dropped. “I am giving you one hundred thousand dragons, to help you make a home wherever you see fit.”

“I don’t want your coin! I want Elia alive and breathing! I want her babies to still call me ‘Aunt Argella’ and tug on my hair! I want my life as it was—before your hurt pride ripped it away from me. I was happy, Robert. I was so happy.”

“You used to be happy on my lap, listening to me tell you stories. You used to climb into my bed when you had nightmares because you trusted your brother to keep you safe.”

Argella felt her chin wobble with fresh tears. “Yes. I should have known better. Should have known that you were a selfish brute when you never returned a single one of my letters after you were taken in by Jon Arryn at the Eyrie as his ward. Should have known when you dismissed me out of hand when you came back to Storm’s End. I waited all night for you, to see you come back on your mare. I made sure the cooks had your favorite meal waiting for you, spent more than a few dragons getting that ale you liked from the market—and you waved me off as soon as the gates were opened. You have always been selfish, Robert. I should have known you would take what little happiness I had and squash that, too.”

Robert’s face turned a familiar, terrible shade of sweaty red and he turned away sharply before turning back to her, dragging a hand down his cheeks. “It was not me! I did not steal your Elia away from you!”

“Then tell me who! Tell me who gave the order!”

**

Elia happily sighed as Argella kissed the backs of each of her thighs, up her back, shoulders, before nipping just slightly at the pulse of her neck. They had been granted a few hours reprieve of Rhaegar’s presence and had indulged themselves in a little carnality, filled with soft touches and wet kisses that lingered and fingers that moved to touch places only the other knew about until they were biting at the other’s shoulders with a cry of release. Elia’s labored breathing slowed as she turned to face her lover, tugging at the ends of her dark hair, silently requesting a kiss which Argella happily gave. “Only the sun can rival the warmth you bring me.”

“You are my sun, Elia.” And then she kissed her again.

**

“Dorne is calling for war. Prince Oberyn is readying House Martell’s bannerman as we speak,” Jon Arryn, Robert’s new Hand of the King, and surrogate father was pacing around the Small Counsel chamber like a white haired pony.

“My sister wants to travel to Sunspear to deliver Elia and her children to her family,” Robert said.

Argella held her breath from her hiding place behind the door, waiting for Jon Arryn or some other stupid man to say it was not her place.

“That is acceptable. Perhaps Prince Oberyn would be willing to marry-”

“I will not force my sister into any arrangement she does not design herself. That will be the last I hear of it, Lord Arryn, am I understood?”

Jon let out a sigh. “Argella, must learn her place, Your Grace. And it is to serve you and the Realm.”

**

“Oberyn has sent another raven.” Elia held up the bit of parchment with a smile. “It seems you have made quite an impression on him. He has dreamt of your ‘beautiful eyes and sweet smile’ while he has been running around playing sellsword in Essos.”

Argella chuckled and shook her head. “I am sure he has plenty of people to distract himself with. I will be barely a memory to him in a few moons’ time.”

Elia reached out and tugged at the end of Argella’s braid. “You think so little of yourself, my love. No one would ever be able to forget you. Even when I am old and frail and I can barely remember my own name, I will remember you. I know it. The way you smile, the sound of your laugh,” she reached out to brush a finger down her cheek, “the curve of this, just here. I will remember you.”

Argella leaned forward and kissed her. “And I shall remember you, too, my love. Until the end of my days, which I promise will be at your side.”

**

Dorne was warm—even as the last vestiges of Winter had the other kingdoms still firmly in its grip. Argella had to pull the silly gable hood from atop her head only a few hours after sunrise as they crossed the Red Mountains. The traveling caravan was small. Much smaller than what was probably proper. But that was what she wanted. House Martell did not need more strangers showing up at their doorstep.

It irritated her enough that Jon Arryn insisted he accompany her, telling Robert that Argella wouldn’t be capable of easing Doran’s (and Oberyn’s) need for vengeance.

Their want for vengeance was justified. Argella wanted vengeance.

And she would have it. She was not satisfied just yet. She wasn’t sure if she ever would be, even if the world was left in ashes.

**

“Lala,” sang a familiar voice. “Lala!”

Argella opened her eyes at the sound of her secret nickname and had to catch Elia as she pounced onto her bed. “What is it, my love?” She asked in a tired whisper, eyes half closed again already. The sun had not yet risen but it was not as if she would send Elia from her bed.

“I am with child. The maester just confirmed it.”

Argella sat up in bed and her hand pressed against Elia’s stomach, all traces of sleep evaporating in a heartbeat. “Truly?”

Elia happily nodded and placed her hand over Argella’s, squeezing her fingers.

“Oh, my love. I know you have always wanted a babe of your own.” She just wished it was someone who truly loved her. Not Rhaegar—not the dragon prince who would use her babies for some delusion. “They will be the most loved. I know it.”

“Even by you?” Elia asked, her melodic voice very soft, almost frightened. “I know you do not care for Rhaegar-”

“This child comes from you, my love. I love them already.” And Argella meant every word. She would love this little prince or princess as if they were her own. She knew the moment Elia’s lips touched hers all those months ago that this relationship, this clandestine bond, would always be confined to the shadows and the dark of the night. But she truly wanted to scream it from the rooftops that Elia was the love of her life. She wanted to hold her hand in the sunlight, kiss her for all to see. Wanted everyone to know that the Sun of Dorne was worthy of every bit of love anyone and everyone could give her. But she was quiet. She remained the perfect lady in the eyes of court, living for these stolen moments.

Elia kissed her—and Argella could feel her smile pressing against her mouth. It was Argella’s favorite sensation—aside from the more carnal feelings only Elia could elicit from her beneath their silken blankets. “I love you,” Elia whispered against her mouth. “You know that, don’t you? I love you.”

“I love you too. More than words could ever truly express.” She kissed Elia and ignored how something churned in her chest.

“I have a list of names—if they are a boy or a girl.”

“As your ‘most trusted confidante,’ I must insist that you add Argella to your list,” she said with a wink, referencing how the court referred to Argella. Elia smiled and moved down the bed just enough to lay her head in Argella’s lap, a silent invitation for her to play with her hair. “Tell me the story behind your name. It is one of your ancestor’s names, correct?”

Argella hummed as she started to weave a braid into Elia’s hair. “The Stormlands were once ruled over by the Durrandon family. But, during Aegon’s Conquest, the head of the house was King Argilac the Arrogant. Argilac and Aegon tried to find a common agreement but it quickly soured when Argilac chopped off the hands of Aegon’s envoy and sent them back to the Targaryens in a box. Orys Baratheon, Aegon’s Hand, then challenged Argilac to a duel and, of course, easily slew Argilac. The Storm Land armies fled. Argella was Argilac’s only daughter and heir. When she heard of her father’s death, she barred the gates at Storm’s End and crowned herself Storm Queen.”

“Now I see why you’ve been given such a name,” Elia teased, earning a pinch to her side.

“The Stormlanders heard of how Aegon and his sisters burned everyone in their way and turned on Argella as Orys approached with his army. They wrapped her in chains and presented her—naked, mind you—to Orys Baratheon. They told him that he could do whatever he wished to her as long as they did not suffer the same fate as Harrenhal.”

“I have not heard of this. How cruel!”

Argella sighed and nodded, finishing off one of the braids before starting another. “But Orys was kind. He wrapped his cloak around her and fed her warm foods, telling her of her father’s bravery on the battlefield.”

“And then they were married?”

“And then they were married. Orys took the Durrandon words as his own—Ours is the Fury—and House Baratheon was created.”

Elia was quiet as Argella finished the second braid. “That is cruel, to name you after a woman whose fate was less than fair. I only knew she was the wife of Orys Baratheon—but I might have dozed a little when learning the histories of the other kingdoms with my Septa.”

Argella laughed lightly and leaned down just enough to brush a kiss at Elia’s temple. “I do not blame you—but I did always wish I was Nymeria of Ny Sar instead of Argella Durrandon.” She then pressed a kiss to Elia’s lips. “But I am lucky to have you in my arms now.”

Elia reached up to tug at the loose strands of Argella’s dark hair. “There must be other names in your family that are kinder to women, no?”

“I’m sure there are—but women are rarely written about in our house’s history aside from how many sons she might have given her husband.”

“I remember learning of a mermaid…Elenei? Am I saying that right? Elenei?”

Argella chuckled and nodded. “Yes. Elenei the mermaid—daughter of a sea god and goddess of the winds. Fell in love with the First Storm King, Durran Godsgrief, it is said. Her parents forbid their love and used their might to tear down any castle he built for his bride. But he kept building. Building and building until their storms could not shake the stones free.”

“And Storm’s End was made,” Elia finished with a smile on her lips.

Argella hummed and glanced outside to the moon. What would her ancestors say of her now? Hiding her love in the dark.

“Elenei. I like that name,” Elia said, seemingly unaware of Argella’s bit of melancholy. “A much better story than poor Argella. She must be happy to know that someone as strong as you carries her name. I am sure of it.” She tugged again at Argella’s hair with a smile, drawing her gaze back to her. “Truly, I can only think of one person holding that name.” Elia turned in her lap to truly look up at her, bathed in moonlight. “It is you—only you.” She reached up and placed her warm hand against the curve of Argella’s cheek. “My Lala.”

**

The towers of Sunspear loomed overhead and she tried not to think of a young Elia running down those marble steps, a laugh on her lips and the sun on her skin.

This was the place Elia called home. This was the place that she had wanted to return to with her babies. This was the place that Argella never wanted to see without Elia at her side.

“My lady,” a knight said to her, draped in colors of House Martell, “Prince Doran is waiting for you in his Solar. I shall escort you. Your entourage will have to wait here.” His eyes cut to Jon Arryn in particular who was already opening his mouth to argue.

“I follow where you lead, Ser. Lord Arryn needs some sun anyway.” She only gave Jon Arryn a look in return, drying the words on his tongue before following the knight into the cooled shadows of the fortress.

The pair was quiet, only the sound of their footsteps echoing in their hall, before he slowed to a stop in front of a carved, white wood door and bowed his head just slightly before opening it for her.

“Lady Argella, I’ve been expecting you.”

**

Rhaenys was beautiful. Beautiful like her mother and liked to laugh when Argella would kiss her little tummy. Argella did not mind when Elia would ask her to hold the little princess when she grew tired. The birth had been hard and the healers and maesters said it would take time for her body to heal itself.

Rhaegar, the pompous silver-haired prince, did not seem to care that his wife was bedridden. He had already pressed Elia to agree to the name of Rhaenys and didn’t seem to spend much more time than necessary with his newborn daughter. He did dote on her, true. But Argella knew and wished that he could do more. More for Elia. More for Rhaenys. More for his family and less of that stupid prophecy he was known to obsess over when he was in trusted company.

“The dragon must have three heads.”

It all sounded so ridiculous. He had everything. A family who loved him. And he continued to not see that, willfully.

But she pushed that from her mind as Rhaenys happily slept in her arms while Elia was napping, too. Her sun tilted toward the slip of sunlight warming the side of her pillow as the sea washed up on the shore just a few feet below. The hum of Dragonstone was quiet.

This was peace. This was as perfect as her life could get, she knew it. Despite all the secrets, the hurt, the loneliness when Elia was called away, this right here? This was worth all of it.

Rhaenys’ dark eyes opened and she smiled as she recognized Argella—she was a smart little babe. “Hello, my little sundrop.”

**

Doran had given her a room in Sunspear for the night, telling her the arrangements had been made to have the funerals tomorrow. The Silent Sisters who had accompanied them down were making sure the bodies of Elia and her babies were prepared correctly for people of their station and rank.

Argella didn’t sleep that night. Doran seemed to know she wouldn’t and had a maid come in when the moon was at its highest with a bit of tea to help her. She took it with a soft ‘thank you’ but hardly sipped at it as the maid stood at the side of her bed.

“This was the princess’ room, you know, my lady. When she was a girl.”

And that just about destroyed her but she hid her face in her teacup and quickly drained its contents before handing it back to the maid who quietly excused herself, probably aware that the woman was about to burst into tears.

And Argella did, as the door shut in its frame. Through blurred vision, she could almost see Elia sitting at the edge of the bed with a smile and a book on her lap. She could almost see Elia wrapping herself in the golden silk of the blankets with a happy smile. She could almost see Elia.

And that was the worst part of it all. To know that Elia had been here, in this place, felt safe in this place, and now she was here—alone.

**

The Tourney at Harrenhal was a disaster. And that was putting it politely. There had been the unannounced and unexpected appearance of King Aerys—who had barely been seen outside Maegor’s Holdfast in the last two years. Then the appearance and subsequent disappearance of the mysterious Knight of the Laughing Tree. Little Lord Jaime Lannister had been inducted into the KIngsguard and then sent to King’s Landing to guard Queen Rhaella and little Prince Viserys, which in one move, stripped Tywin Lannister of his heir and refused Jaime the chance at more glory in the tourney.

But that was not even the worst of it. Elia had been feeling poorly the entire time and Argella was fretting constantly, like an old mother hen.

But she did remember how Elia was when she was pregnant with Rhaenys, and knew that Elia wanted to keep the second pregnancy a secret until she was sure she could carry this babe to term, too. She was so delicate. But she still sat in the box, beside her uncle Ser Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, and Oberyn, who had finished his ‘adventures’ across the Narrow Sea, to cheer on her husband in the tourney.

On the night before the final day of the tourney, Argella was happy to see Elia with a bit of life back in her face as she danced with Oberyn and Ser Arthur after the night’s feast. Oberyn then called Argella for a dance and whispered in her ear, making her laugh as one song turned into two then three. And if he snuck a kiss against her cheek, she would never tell.

Argella then pulled her princess away with a secretive smile, toward her tent. “We cannot be sure that Rhaegar will win tomorrow—so I wanted to be sure to crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Elia laughed and kissed her as Argella plopped a crown of braided blue roses on her shining black hair. “No matter if he does or not, I know that I am yours,” she whispered.

And, for a moment, Argella was happy.

The happiness would not last.

Rhaegar did indeed win the jousting tourney and he was given an ornate crown of blue roses to crown his Queen of Love and Beauty. Argella steeled herself to watching Rhaegar lathe half-hearted attentions on his wife—but what happened was much worse. Rhaegar rode his horse past his pregnant wife and placed the wreath of roses in the lap of Lyanna Stark.

**

The Septon’s words were a low hum in her ears. She could only stare blankly ahead as the funeral processions continued on. It felt like a rusted blade had wedged itself between her ribs and twisted with each breath she took. It ached.

Most of the Dornish in attendance did not look at her. She might as well have been just another pillar in the large hall. Unnecessary and unimportant. But some others… some other she could hear whisper if she put in enough effort.

“That one… the doe. The Usurper’s sister.”

“She must be mad to show herself here.”

“She should have died instead of Princess Elia.”

And they were right. She wanted to be dead instead of Elia.

But a few were kind, their eyes sad as they looked at her, as if they knew something she did not. One of them was Harmen Uller, Lord of Hellholt. His large, warm hand clasped her shoulder and squeezed gently, murmuring his condolences with kind eyes. Lady Mellario, Doran’s wife, also did not avoid her, giving her a small smile as they passed each other in the halls and offering her solar if Argella ever needed a reprieve from the court at Sunspear. But her young daughter, Princess Arianne, was always at her side, and it hurt to see the happy little girl who would always ask after her Aunt Elia.

It hurt.

So she sat in her rooms and cried.

**

Elia was quiet as she sat on the edge of her bed. She had managed to school her face into careful indifference during the tourney but had sunk into herself as soon as Elia had pulled her away into the tent. Oberyn was raging—vowing vengeance against the Crown Prince for the public display of shame he had just cast over his wife.

But Argella did not hear his words, only sitting at her princess’ side and holding her hand, trying to be there for her when she needed. She would do anything to make Elia smile again.

“He told me that he would do this,” Elia finally said, pulling a gasp from Argella and stopping Oberyn in his tracks.

“What?”

Elia lifted her chin from her chest and looked at her brother with tears in her eyes. “The maester told me that this babe would be the last I could bare.”

“What does that matter?” Oberyn hissed. “Two is plenty—two is perfect. Rhaenys is perfect,” Argella said, grip tightening on Elia’s hand.

“He has been obsessed with a prophecy—the dragon must have three heads—since he was a boy. He thinks the savior of the world will come from his bloodline.”

“I will split his head in three,” Oberyn said but Elia reached out and grabbed his arm as he moved toward the tent’s flap.

“Do not, Oberyn. I will remain his Queen, the true Queen. The babe I now carry will be king and any child the wolf-girl bares him will only be a spare. He has promised me this. But I had…I had only hoped that he would have waited until they were alone for him to start his courtship.” She shook her head. “And I am not sure if the girl told her betrothed of Rhaegar’s plan.”

Oh, that was right—Lyanna had been recently betrothed to Robert. He had been so excited to announce the news and then promptly brought two women to his chambers to ‘celebrate.’ Argella doubted marriage would tame his appetites. But his pride would be wounded. And a wounded stag was a dangerous one—Robert embodied the Baratheon’s words to his core. Ours is the Fury.

“Robert is an eligible lord. He can find another bride, I am sure of it.”

Elia nodded. “I do hope so. For his sake.”

**

The funeral had ended and Doran had asked her to wait for him in his solar. She awkwardly stood near the window, watching the sea lap at the shore until the door opened with a slam.

“How dare you show your face here, in Elia’s home!” Oberyn was already raging from across the room, his voice echoing. He was crossing the marble floor then, strides long. “You—the sister of the Usurper. You—who my sister trusted with her life. I should strike you down where you stand.” He stopped as he stepped to her side, his beautiful face twisted into a snarl most fowl.

“I would let you.”

And that seemed to strike at Oberyn as he took a single step back. “Have you no self-preservation? Did you come here to let us kill you like some lamb? To sate your brother’s guilt?”

“No…no I came here to…bring Elia home.”

Oberyn’s snarl faded. “Then you come here to sate your own guilt.”

“I came here to bring Elia home,” she repeated, standing just a fraction straighter despite the urge to curl into herself, as if that would shield her from Oberyn’s stare.

“You have done that. Leave.”

**

Dragonstone felt as if it were about to be consumed by the volcano on which it sat.

The paranoia of King Aerys had only grown, thinking everyone was his enemy. A raven the king had sent to his son was filled with unsubtle threats and demands for Rhaegar to stay at his side, to remain loyal to his father.

But Rhaegar only played his stupid harp and pored over his scrolls about prophecy as Elia languished in her pregnancy.

“He is preoccupied with saving the world, Lala. Try not to hate him too much.”

Argella sighed as she pulled the blankets a little higher around Elia. She had been so cold lately, constantly shivering as her hands cradled her growing belly. “If he truly wanted to save the world, he would have deposed his father long ago.” She shook her head. “He should be preoccupied with keeping you comfortable. You are carrying his child.”

“We both know you are more suited for it—and I prefer your company,” Elia said with a smile.

Argella had to smile at that and leaned down to kiss Elia’s forehead before sneaking a kiss against her lips, too. “Then I shall stay at your side until you tire of me.”

Elia chased her lips as best she could for another kiss before falling back against the silk-covered pillow with a smile. “You know I will never tire of you.”

**

The sun was beating down on her but the soft breeze off the water almost made it tolerable. The dark veil over her face fluttered and hid her tears from the other onlookers. The grand tomb of Elia and her children had been finished just that morning. The final brick laid. They would rest beside their ancestors in Sunspear’s ornate necropolis. They were home again. They could rest.

Argella walked forward and pressed her hand over the deep carving of Elia’s name. Princess Elia Nymeros Martell – The Sun of Dorne.

“Goodbye, my love.” She lifted the veil just enough to kiss the smooth stone of Elia’s name—the last kiss she would be able to give her. Her fingers traced Rhaenys and Aegon’s names, too. A quiet goodbye.

It was time for her to go. She had only a few more things to attend to and then…she would set sail. She would leave Westeros.

The royal stables still held her wheelhouse and she found the trunk she was needing and waved off the servants who offered her help. She dragged the trunk into her room and unlocked it before feeling fresh tears sting her eyes. Tucked inside, neatly tucked beside her dresses and chemises, was a portrait. It was of Elia and her babies. They were smiling and happy and…alive.

Some artist from Braavos had impressed Elia with his talents as he sold his wares at the market on Dragonstone and Argella had secretly commissioned him for the portrait only a handful of moons before the rebellion started. She had meant to gift it to Elia for her next nameday.

It was a true likeness—he had perfectly captured the gentle warmth in Elia’s eyes as she looked down at Aegon in her arms as he slept and Rhaenys dutifully peeked over her mother’s arm to look down at her brother. The gold dragons Robert had gifted her were left forgotten at the bottom of the trunk as she closed the lid, the portrait in her hands as she moved toward Doran’s solar.

A servant bowed to her as he announced her presence and Doran welcomed her, telling her to take a seat across from him at his finely carved desk as he finished a bit of correspondence. And she patiently waited, the portrait sitting on her lap, her arms wrapped around its frame as if she were trying to hug it—to hug the little family on its canvas.

Perhaps she was.

When she handed it over to Doran, her fingers lingers on the carved frame before dropping back down her lap.

Doran was quiet as he looked at the portrait but she could see the emotions running through his eyes before he tightly shut them and nodded once before calling for and handing it off to a servant and whispering where he wanted it hung. The servant nodded before walking away, the portrait in his hands held like a precious gem.

Argella told him of how Elia had loved the artist’s skill and Doran smiled at that. “She would have loved it. I know it.” He paused to clear his throat, the warble of tears in his voice. “It is a fine gift, my lady.”

“I have…one last gift for you. Much less palatable than the last.”

**

Rhaegar had left.

His wife had nearly died bringing his son into the world and he had set off with his band of guards to the Riverlands, quoting the prophecy again. Lyanna Stark waited for him.

The raven Argella had sent to Robert, telling him to break off the engagement to the wolf-girl had went unanswered.

“I am nervous, Lala. Everything is about to change.”

Argella stepped beside Elia at the window and kissed her temple as she watched Rhaegar and his retinue recede on the horizon. “And I shall be with you every step of the way.”

**

“I know that you were more than a companion to Elia.” Doran said it with such ease that it startled her. They had been quietly sipping tea in his solar as the sun rose when he spoke. “She loved you. I know you love her. You have lost your sun, too. And you have come here, to return her and her children home, despite knowing that your welcome would not be kind.” Doran took her hand in his and gently patted at her wrist. “The truth will come out, little doe. But we must let all of Dorne grieve, too.” He sighed and his eyes moved to the giant skull sitting on a tall-legged table. That had been the price Robert paid to try to buy Argella’s forgiveness. He had told her who had been the one to steal the sun from the world and demanded Tywin hand him over or he would not marry Cersei. Tywin had agreed. “I have been told that you are hoping to set sail for Braavos on the next ship that comes to port in a fortnight.”

She nodded.

“You will always be welcome here.”

“I cannot stay here—not without Elia.”

And Doran nodded at that. “If you ever care to return, there will be a place for you at my table.”

“That is kind of you, Prince Doran. Your wife has also suggested I visit her homeland of Norvos, if I am given the chance.”

Doran opened his mouth to respond when the door opened and Oberyn strode in. His dark eyes darted from his brother to Argella. “I thought you would have left by now.”

“Oberyn,” Doran scolded.

“I am surprised you would sup with a Baratheon, brother. First Jon Arryn comes and tries to offer peace and you take it without argument.”

Without a word, Doran opened a drawer on his desk and produced a bit of parchment from its depths. “Oberyn. I have a letter for you.”

“Now is not the time, brother.”

“It is from Elia.”

“I have already been given the last letter my sister wrote to me. Telling me of how scared she was in the Red Keep and how she loved me.” His dark eyes looked to Argella again. “How she wished that I could have been there.”

“There was another, brother,” Doran gently said, extending his arm out, lifting the letter a little higher. 

Oberyn looked from Doran to Argella again before pulling his lips tight against his teeth and walking over to snatch the parchment from Doran’s outstretched hand. He opened it and Argella watched his dark eyes scan the words, his face crumpling as he finished. And then he looked to her again. “You? It was you?”

Argella looked to Doran who only looked back at her, eyes unreadable. “I…I don’t understand.”

Oberyn carefully tucked the paper into his tunic before marching forward to grasp Argella’s arm and nearly hauled her out of the room, through the halls, and toward his own chambers. When the door shut, he pushed her into the overstuffed chair at his desk. Dozens and dozens of letters were neatly stacked on top and Oberyn whispered that she should read them. He placed the letter he had just received beside the stack. “You deserve to know.” And then he left her there, alone in his solar.

It took Argella a moment to work up the nerve to reach out and grasp the first letter, recognizing Elia’s neat handwriting.

**

Argella dashed down the stairs toward Elia’s chambers with a smile on her face. She had woken in a good mood at Elia’s side that morning and had only slipped away to dress for the day. The sound of metal on stone seemed to echo in the halls and she briefly wondered if the royal guards were running drills.

But, as she turned the corner toward the hall that contained Elia’s chambers, two spears were thrust out toward her. “Lady Argella Baratheon, you are forbidden from seeing Princess Elia.”

“Move aside. I am her maid—it is my duty to-”

“Your brother has taken up arms against the Crown. House Baratheon are traitors. You are now a hostage until your brother is dead and your brothers swear fealty—or they are killed.”

“I demand you move aside this instant! I am no threat to Elia or her babies. I am loyal—you have-”

Two more guards suddenly grasped her arms and started hauling her back toward her chambers.

“Elia?! Elia?” She screamed.

But she was a prisoner here, too. She knew it.

**

My dear Oberyn, I am in love. I know only you would truly understand when I say that it is not with my husband. I shall only call them Lala, to keep their identity secret—I would not have them persecuted at Court if these letters would be discovered. But I am happy, brother. Happier than I ever thought possible.

They have kept me sane, dried my tears. When their lips touch mine, I believe I have tasted heaven—if only for a moment. My Lala is my haven in this wretched world. Rhaenys is fond of Lala, too. It is…almost as if the gods have blessed me with them, letting me have my true family at my side, letting me know what I should have had. …perhaps it is actually a curse.

Over and over again, Elia had written to Oberyn about ‘Lala,’ telling him of how they lived. How they loved. She read of how much Elia had loved her.

**

“Lala?” The voice was soft, but it still woke her from sleep.

Argella sat up in her bed in an instant, recognizing the dark shape at the edge of her bed. She reached out and drew Elia into her bed and quickly pressed her lips to hers, desperate and wanting.

“I do not have much time. The guards are changing shifts and they will notice I am not in my chambers if I do not time this correctly. But I had to see you.” She kissed Argella again. “I needed to see you.”

“You must know I would never, ever do anything to endanger you or Rhaenys and Aegon.”

“I know, my love. I know it as well as I know my name. But I have been summoned to King’s Landing. We leave at first light.”

“Will I be coming with you?”

Tears filled Elia’s eyes as she shook her head. “You cannot. You are to stay here as leverage against your brothers. And I do not know what Aerys would do to you if you were to come to Court again. I have learned he has been burning dozens of people a day.”

“You cannot go,” Argella said, grasping at Elia’s hands. “It is not safe.”

“You know I must. I would only make his ire worse if I prolong how long it takes me to arrive. I would rather arrive with my head held high than in shackles that I know these knights would slap on my wrists if given the order.”

“Elia, please,” the tears were choking her. “Please, do not-”

But she kissed her again. “I love you.” And in the next breath, she was gone.

**

One last letter remained and she dreaded what it held, what Elia had written to Oberyn to make him forgive her so easily, but she slid her thumb under the broken seal anyway and read it.

Oberyn. I know my time on this plane is coming to a close. I can only hope that my babies will survive this but I know in my heart of hearts, that they may not. The Seven Heavens await us all. I wish I could have seen Sunspear one more time, pushed you into the pools at the Water Gardens like I did when we were children. You used to pout so much after I would do that, and mother always fussed over you. I miss you brother. More than words can say. I wish I had more time. When this is over, please tell Argella, my Lala, I love her. Tell her I know she was innocent in all of this—it was not her doing. Tell her to smile. Tell her I will wait for her. She helped me understand what love should be like—she gave me her heart and I gave her mine. Tell her that I will be with her—every sunrise and every sunset. I am with you all.

The last letter slipped from her hand and Argella wept.

**

Her hands hurt. For hours on end, she would hit the locked door of her chambers, pleading to be let out.

But no one would answer. She only heard the terrible sound of metal on stone as knights moved through the halls and once a day, a plate of food was slid beneath her door.

How long had it been? If she was counting the moon’s cycles correctly—it had been three months.

She had nearly given up the last tendrils of hope she had before her door suddenly swung open and a familiar face stood in her doorway. Queen Rhaella Targaryen looked as bruised and beaten as ever, but the gentle swelling of her stomach was new—she was pregnant.

“Lady Argella,” her voice was as soft as it ever was. “I must apologize for your captivity. I have instructed a ship to have you brought to Greenstone—your mother’s home, was it not?”

“It…it was, your grace.”

Rhaella nodded and held out a hand to Argella, helping her stand from her place on the cold, stone floor. “I hope you do not hold me in any ill will. I had not heard of your imprisonment when we disembarked. I would have had you home sooner.”

Argella shook her head, her greasy hair falling in front of her face. “I know you are kindhearted, your grace. I am happy to see you safe.”

Rhaella’s answering smile was small and she nodded. “I will have a maid sent up to help you wash. Your ship will leave at first light.”

And Argella would have been lying if she did not feel a bit of relief as she saw the familiar island of Greenstone come into view as the ship neared its shores. Her aunt and uncle were quick to welcome her and made sure she was comfortable in their finest rooms. And it was only then, that Argella had the nerve to ask what had happened.

Her aunt smiled. “Our little Robert is King of the Seven Kingdoms. Is that not wonderful news?”

“And…and Princess Elia? Little Rhaenys and Aegon?” She hated the sound of hope in her voice. It was cruel to her own ears.

Her uncle sputtered and looked to his wife for a moment. “They were killed when the Lannister army sacked the city.”

And the scream Argella let out nearly shook the walls.

**

Oberyn sat at her side without a word. He did not speak. Neither did she.

But silence eventually turned to quiet, stilted conversation which evolved into seeking each other out at meals and then Oberyn was slipping into her rooms at night so they could continue their discussions, falling back into old habits of hidden smiles and secrets and trying to make each other laugh even if they wanted to cry.

On the last night, Oberyn slipped into her room and watched as she packed away her belongings and readied for bed. As she neared the bed, he stood and grasped her hands in a soft grip that had her sucking in a shuddering breath. She did not want to say goodbye just yet.

“I loved you once. I might love you again—I believe I do already.”

That was equal parts the best and worst thing he could have ever said. “And I love you still. But not in the way you deserve. You…” the words were hard in her throat. “You deserve to be someone’s sun. You deserve to be someone’s first choice. And you will be, I know it. You will find the true love of your life.” She paused. “And I know I would only be a reminder of those who you loved and lost.”

“Just as I would be to you.”

Argella nodded and dropped her head to her chest. “Yes. I am so sorry, Oberyn. Truly.”

But he shook his head and squeezed at her fingers. “Do not be sorry, little doe. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He stepped closer and rested his forehead against hers, both of them squeezing their eyes shut at the contact. “Let us not part on such sad terms. Let our last memory together be one of happiness.”

Argella nodded as best she could, trying to keep the warmth of his embrace as close as possible. “Whatever you wish. Whatever you want. It is yours.”

And the night they spent together was filled with hungry, searching kisses and warm hands and slick skin. Oberyn kissed her as his release rumbled through him and then quickly made sure she found hers, too, before making sure she was truly tired and finding euphoria with each other again before they both fell asleep in her rumpled blankets.

And she did sleep soundly—far better than she had in over a year. Before the Rebellion. But she still woke before the sun and took a moment to watch Oberyn sleep—peaceful amongst the silk. Carefully, she brushed the hair away from his face and kissed his brow in a silent goodbye before slipping away.

At the port, she caught sight of Harmen Uller and his retinue, preparing their boats to return to Hellholt.

“Ah, my lady. Prince Doran has told me you are departing as well.”

Argella only nodded before seeing a beautiful woman step to Harmen’s side.”

“This is my daughter, Ellaria Sand.”

“My lady,” Ellaria said with a small curtsey.

Argella mirrored the motion. “Lady Ellaria.”

But Ellaria chuckled. “I am no lady. But I do wish you fair travels.” Ellaria reached out and grasped Argella’s hands and squeezed, as if knowing that she was in desperate need for some sort of simple contact. “And whatever lies before you, I hope it is kinder than what lies behind.”

Lord Uller nodded at his daughter’s word.

“And I wish the same for you. Your kindness… it has been most welcome.” She smiled as best she could and bid them goodbye as they were boarded onto their fine ship. And then it was time for her to do the same.

She crossed the gangplank and was welcomed by the crew who had been expecting her—and her gold. Before she was shuffled away to her cabin below deck, Argella turned and looked back at Sunspear, trying to press it into her memory. She wanted to remember how the sun shimmered on the golden towers and how the sea salted the air and the sand glistened.

And on just the edge of the dock, just a few feet away from the bustle of the early morning crowd, was Oberyn. He raised a hand to her, a quiet goodbye. Argella did the same.

And then she turned and walked away.

**

Braavos was welcoming. Filled with song and people who would smile and the customs of the city demanded that the highborn and wealthy wear black—it was fitting. She could wear black the rest of her days, a mourning dress. But while they would treat her with the respect a woman of her station warranted, both high and lowborn would take an opportunity to coo over the babe on her hip.

It had only taken her a few moons to realize she was with child. And Elenei came screaming into the world just past midday, when the sun was at its highest. Fitting. Elenei looked like a Baratheon—except for her eyes. Her viper eyes that would shine in the light and always seemed to know more than she said. Those were inherently Oberyn. She was a Martell.

And she was the delight of the maids who watched her when Argella was tending to her duties as a companion to the Merling Queen, one of the most revered courtesans Braavos had ever sheltered. Her duties mostly included letting Laena, as only Argella was allowed to call her when they were alone, speak of her troubles and help her remember when she was supposed to meet whichever rich lord had paid for her company that week.

Laena was kind and sweet and sometimes would simply cry when she felt that her public persona had robbed her of a true life, of happiness. In a way, Argella was reminded of Elia. A kind woman shackled to duties she did not truly agree to and confined within a gilded cage. So, she let Laena use her as a walking diary, let her express emotions she could not with anyone else. It was cathartic for both of them, in a way.

Argella did not need the coin the position provided—she could have lived very comfortably with the small mountain of gold Robert had given her. But she needed a distraction—and the connections she made at Laena’s side made sure Elenei would be as high-ranking as she ever could be in Westeros.

Elenei was her whole world. The light of her days. She need only look at her daughter’s face to feel herself smile.

She hoped that Oberyn would smile again, too. She hoped her would find happiness with someone kind and beautiful who would handle his wrath with gentleness. Her mind conjured a thought of Ellaria and she found herself smiling at the thought. They would be a handsome pair. Maybe the gods would allow them to be happy.

For a few years, as Elenei continued to grow and prosper into a lovely and well-learned little lady, Argella pondered telling Oberyn of his daughter across the Narrow Sea. But that would have been crueler, wouldn’t it? To drag him back to into the tumult and loss she knew she embodied for him and his family.

And Elenei seemed to know that her father was an important man—but that her mother’s heart also belonged to another. And would forever.

“The sun is shining today, mama. That always makes you smile,” Elenei would say whenever the almost ever-present clouds would clear for a few hours.

“Yes, my sweet one. The sun will always make me smile.”

Elenei smiled and held her mother’s hand, dragging her out of their manse as their servants chuckled at the familiar sight. “Then I must make you smile, mama!”

**

“Do you think you’ll love me forever?” Elia asked, eyes closed as sleep started to take her.

“I know I will.”

(And another banner by my darling @starlight-starwrites​ I love you)

A/N: Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!

[peachyteabuck]

bitter to the taste

summary: after a long mission, natasha and steve return to find you’ve broken their number one rule. 

pairing: natasha romanoff x steve rogers x reader

words: 2,045

trigger warnings: brat taming, degradation, punishment (spanking), dirty talk, fingering, orgasm control

notes: this is my birthday present to @domromanoff! not only a wonderful writer, they’re a fantastic friend and the owner to a simply adorable kitten. enjoy!

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

You cling to Steve’s pants leg, expertly manicured nails gripping into the fabric as you tuck your face behind his calf. The man sighs as he feels you sniffle against the expensive fabric, doing your best to hide from the wrath of the woman standing just in front of the sitting man.

“You know how I feel about rule-breaking, Steve,” Natasha sighs, looking between her husband and your trembling form below him. “If we don’t punish her, she’s just going to break more rules.”

Steve tsks, leaning down so he can pet at your hair. “Oh, baby, our little girl wouldn’t do such a thing,” he turns to you, sticking his bottom lip out to mimic your pout. “No, you love following directions from Daddy, don’t you baby girl?”

You grin up at him, playing with the hem of his pants in an attempt to look extra cute. “Yes, Daddy!”

Natasha scowls, shaking her head. “That’s bullshit and we fucking know it, Steve. You saw how wet her panties were when we came home. It’s obvious she touched herself without permission!”

The man just rolls his eyes, continuing to rub his thumb into your temple. “Babe, when we set that rule at least one of us always been there whenever her desperate little cunt needed us. Even if she broke it, we’ve been gone so often we can’t really blame her, can we?”

Your core heats at his words – speaking about you as if you weren’t digging your perfectly manicured nails into his muscular calf and could hear everything they were both saying. You love it when he does that, when he gives you no choice in whatever he chooses to do, when he makes you feel all small and dumb as his cock fucks in and out of you without mercy.

Natasha rolls her eyes, heeled foot still tapping against the hardwood floor at a tempo that makes your head spin and your whole body clutch at Steve’s leg even harder than before. You’re not sure why becoming something akin to a needy koala would protect you from the wrath of the redhead, but it’s still your only hope for avoiding your ass spanked raw – even if its chance of working is slim to none.

“Steve, we absolutely can,” she bites back – stomping closer towards you as you bury your face into Steve’s calf. At the least second she crouches down, her body awash with a faux caring demeanor. “Do you want me to be mean baby?” she coos, pouting her bottom lip. “You want me to tie you down so you can’t move, can’t squirm or writhe when it gets too much? Is that it? Do you want me to edge you all night, edge you until it hurts and then ruin every single orgasm I let you have until you cry so pretty for me?”

You shake your head, tentatively moving so that you can look at her with your own large, round eyes that silently plead for mercy. For a moment you have hope that it’ll work, that she’ll go easy on you or even give you what you want. But it’s only a second later that you realize you were wrong – very wrong.

Steve exhales deeply as Natasha reaches out to grab you by the hair – his actions relaxed as you yelp in reaction to the sharp pain spreading from your scalp to the base of your spine. She drags you through the large house, ignoring your whines as Steve follows close behind. His stride is casual, almost bored – he’s witnessed this back and forth before, seen the fire in Natasha’s eyes and fat, watery tears from fall from yours as they beg Steve for mercy, pity, anything. It’s unwavering – the look you give him – even as Natasha sits on the edge of their shared king-sized bed with her feet flat on the floor, bending you over her knee as she pins both your hands behind your back with one hand wrapped around where she’s crossed them on top of each other.

Steve sits next to his wife so that your head is resting in his lap, gazing down at you an unfortunate, disgraceful painting his face. There’s nothing there for you to pull at, nothing you can manipulate to get you out of the compromising position you’ve found yourself in, even as Natasha begins one of her famous punishments.

She doesn’t both undressing you before she begins, flipping your white tennis skirt up over your ass and tucking it under your hands before pulling your matching cotton panties as far as they’ll go to reveal your bare ass. Her spanks are hard and succinct, never stopping to coo over your tears or rub at the heated parts of your ass. You keep position, though, keep your arms behind your back as your wide, tear-filled eyes beg Steve for intervention, for praise, for something. At this point you’d even accept him degrading you – a job normally left to Natasha.

Unfortunately, it’s become obvious that tonight is different than the others – Natasha and Steve particularly stressed from the bullshit Tony handed down to them since the billionaire is unable to manage is own emotions weaning their capacities for your bullshit down to near nothingness. You consider sending the man a strongly worded email as the spanks enter the double digits, the pain causing you to weep openly into the fabric of the pants you once clutched for support. You count to twenty-four before she’s rubbing a rough hand into the heated skin and commanding you to thank her.

When it comes out more mumbled, more hushes than she would like, Natasha immediately grabs your hair to yank your head straight back.

“Say it again,” she hisses through grit teeth, ignoring your cries of pain as her other hand comes down to leave a quick smack! to your face. “I don’t care if it hurts - I want to hear you.”

Your voice is high-pitched and desperate “Thank you, Mommy!”

“Aw, so our little slut can follow directions,” Natasha coos, her voice tinged with laughter that should make you feel much more ashamed than it does horny. “Too bad she has to be beaten into it.”

She punctuates her words with a final harsh SLAP! against your dripping pussy, eliciting another high-pitched scream that only dies when Steve begins to pet over your face and hair to calm you down.

“Nat, do you always have to be so harsh?” he sighs, wiping a few tears that stain your cheeks.

The woman in question just grins, ghosting her fingers over your abused skin and nearly laughing as you twitch under touch. “Is there any other way to be?”

Steve rolls his eyes at his wife’s dramatics, but still manhandles you into his lap at her direction – pressing your back to his chest as your breasts rise and fall with your heavy breaths. He knows what Natasha wants, positioning his legs over yours to keep them open while one of his hands holds your skirt up so reveal your now-soaked panties, the cool air hitting nearly-transparent fabric and sending a feeling down your spine that makes you moan.

Natasha’s eyes zero in on your trembling cunt, smirking as she looks up to see your face heating up while you try to hide behind your hands. “You’re so needy, aren’t you? And all it took was some discipline and now you’re a little crying mess, all small and obedient for Daddy and Mommy…”

She gives Steve a small nod, giving him the cue to push your panties to the side, her grin getting impossibly wider as you melt against him.

“You’re our pretty little toy, aren’t you?” Natasha murmurs, watching as his fingers rub circles around your clit. “Our cute little toy with cute little whines and whimpers…”

Steve grins as well as your wanton moans fill the bedroom, leaving kisses on your temple as your pussy tightens around Natasha’s fingers. His voice is sweet, filled with love – and it makes his words all that much filthier. “Such a pathetic little toy for us, aren’t you baby? Just our dumb little toy…” Your fervent nodding, your mindless agreement with his degradation of you – it makes his cock strain even harder in his pants. “Don’t need to think at all…just be soft and pretty and do what we say, don’t you baby?”

You cry out as Natasha begins fucking her fingers in and out of you even harder – your face scrunching up as your legs twitch where they’re held in place. “Y-yes Daddy! I’m your dumb little baby!”

Your cries get even more pathetic, though, when Natasha pulls her fingers out of you to use that hand to slap you once more – leaving a trail of your own slick against your cheek. “Don’t speak unless I tell you to,” she snaps, ignoring your cries as her fingers slip back inside of you. “It’s a shame you’re stupid…at least you’re pretty.”

Her words shouldn’t make your head swim like it does – shouldn’t make heat pool between your legs as she fits one more finger inside of you, working in tandem with Steve to illicit humiliating wet sounds from your cunt.

“You want me to fill this wet little pussy don’t you?” Natasha murmurs, more speaking to herself than to you. “You want Steve and I to fill your filthy little cunt? Want to feel both of us inside of your tight little hole?”

Your eyes are wide and pleading, desperate for something – anything.

But then Natasha sighs, and that’s always a bad sign. “It’s too bad you’re a bad little slut.”

Yup. There it is.

“You’re going to come on my fingers,” you immediately moan in anticipation but it’s almost immediately cut off with a yelp as another SLAP is landed on your pussy with Natasha’s free hand. “And then you’re on no-touch for a week. You’ll be Daddy and I’s adorable little fleshlight until we say otherwise.”

You gasp and shoot forward, the reality of your future crashing down on you at once. “N-no Mommy! Please! Please I’ll do anything please don’t put me on no touch Mom-!”

You’re cut off by one of Steve’s large hands covering your mouth, pulling you against his chest and holding you in place.

Natasha smiles up at him, eyes knowing as you get tighter and tighter around her fingers. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it babe?”

Steve just rolls his eyes as she speaks down to you, her sweet voice an incredibly hot juxtaposition to her words “It’s so easy to make you beg, isn’t it? So easy to make you into a desperate little whore? All you little brats are all the same, you act out and do whatever you want and the second someone threatens a modicum of structure or punishment and you fall apart…”

Her words trail off as she realizes how close you are, as she sees each muscle in your body tense while your hands tangle in the sheets and your jaw goes slack and your brow furrows and

“Do it,” she leans forward to whisper into your temple, your head tucked under Steve’s chin as your eyes roll to the back of your head. “C’mon, baby girl, c’mon – you can do it, you can come on from Mommy and Daddy’s fingers all over your pretty little pussy…”

You finally – finally reach your peak with a moan that sounds more animal than human, Steve holding your trembling body as you shake near-violently, your cunt gushing onto the sheets below as your already soaked panties and the seat of your skirt become drenched with your slick and sweat. It’s disgusting but so hot, and makes you pant even harder as your lungs claw at your throat for air.

Steve moves his legs so that you can curl into his lap, whole body folding into itself as Natasha moves closer to hold your face with both of her soaked hands. “Go to sleep baby,” she murmurs between kisses. “We’ll discuss your full punishment tomorrow.”

As unconsciousness overwhelms your senses, a sense of relief floods your veins as the pleasure subsides. Natasha only negotiates when she knows she’s lost…especially when it comes to you and Steve.

[saphirered]

Keyleth x fem reader talking late at night til they doze off? 🥺

Thanks for requesting and I hope you enjoy 😊.

A night well spent in the tavern Scanlan would say. Everyone deep in their cups and scurrying to get back to their place of residence as he himself was too plastered to summon the mansion. Not the most sober but most well-composed and physically stable of Vox Machina you were designated to help Keyleth out as both Percy and Vax had already dropped her at least twice, Vex as already slumped over Grog’s shoulder and the gnomes were hardly an option, though you were sure Pike could manage. 

Keyleth rants and weeps into your shoulder how it’s unfair grass is being stepped upon and crushed beneath the feet of everyone and how it carries the weight of the world as you support her up the steps to the castle. 

“Keyleth, the grass is alright. It most often doesn’t even break under the boot of anyone and it protects the earth like a blanket from the other elements.” You reassure her at which point she missteps and stumbles. You manage to catch her just before the both of you fall but she does step on a small patch of grass. 

“No! I didn’t mean to hurt you!” She frees herself from your hold and falls to her knees weeping and hugging the grass. Behind you you hear laughter and quickly send a glare at Vax and Percy who try to stifle their giggles. You’ll get back at them later. Dropping to your knees as well the druid immediately throws herself in your embrace weeping even harder. You comfort her while you use one hand to fix the slightly bent and cracked grass with a quick spell. 

“Look. Look at the grass. It’s all fine you see?” She looks at the grass and cries out in joy getting on her hands and knees to press a kiss to the patch of grass. 

“I’m glad you’re alright and I’m sorry if I hurt you.” Keyleth mutters as you mentally facepalm sending yet another glare to the others for their giggles mouthing a ‘don’t make me hurt you’. They quickly move on as you coax Keyleth away from the patch of grass and get her back to her feet, a challenge on its own. Luckily you eventually make it into the castle and to Keyleth’s room. Setting her on her bed she refuses to let go clinging onto your neck and shoulders like a child. 

“No I don’t wanna go to sleep yet.” You manage to get her hands from around you as she pouts. 

“So what do you want to do then?” The pout and puppy dog eyes change into a victorious grin and cheer. 

“I wanna watch the stars.” 

“Fine but I’m sobering you up first.” You reach into your component pouch and begin casting lesser restoration. Within seconds she returns back to her sober self realising the stuff she had said prior.

“Shit… Grass? I cried about grass? That must be a new low even for me.” She cringes. 

“If we’re going to do this I definitely need more drink as I’ve yet to have nearly enough in the tavern.” You silently curse Grog for stealing your half finished drinks. You can’t help it you’re a slow drinker. You’d rather enjoy the taste than just chug it all one after the other. You come back with a bottle of wine stolen from a passed out Percy’s private collection. Payback indeed. You make your way to the balcony. Keyleth already there sat down back against one of the doors looking at the sky. You sit down next to her. 

“You alright?” You ask opening the bottle. 

“I’m fine.” You’re not convinced and give her a look. 

“You’re a terrible liar Keyleth. Drunk and sober.” 

“I’m sorry. I can’t help not being as charismatic as some of you.” She snaps and you’re taken aback quickly apologising for your statement. 

“It’s fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lash out. It’s just…” She tries to find the right words.

“It’s alright. You know you can tell me anything right?” You wrap an arm around her and pull her into your side. She leans her head on your shoulder. 

“It’s just… difficult. Everything going on. I worry a lot about you guys and my future, with my Aramenté. I’m not as good of a talker as you. I don’t know how to people. I’m just me. I’m no grand leader or anything. I’m just me.” You offer her the bottle and she takes a heavy swig. Normally you wouldn’t encourage drinking sorrows away but Keyleth needed it and you’re no drinking alone when she’s upset. 

“Keyleth, we all worry about our friends, our family and our future but that doesn’t make your worries any less true or valid. It’s okay to be worried and know you’re not alone in that. We’re here for you whenever you need us. And while it may be true you’re not the most suave talker among us, you shouldn’t want to be, you shouldn’t try to be. Being a leader requires you to communicate with people but it doesn’t require you to be anything like Scanlan. I think you’d make a great leader because you’re honest and upfront. You’re strong and speak out when you notice wrongs and will do your best to right them. That’s what makes a good leader.” You tell her. It’s true. That’s something you admire about the relationship between the two of you. It’s always been based on honesty and being upfront with each other. 

“You know what? You’re right. I would make a good leader.” She speaks slightly unconvinced still. 

“Just keep saying that to yourself and one day you’ll see it too.” You smile. There’s a moment of silence, the both of you looking to the sky watching the stars whenever they popped through the clouds. Keyleth laughs and you raise an eyebrow.

“I can’t believe I was crying over grass and I kissed the ground. Oh gods I’m never living that one down. Percy will never let me forget that one.” She buries her face in her hands.

“That dear Keyleth would require Percy to remember it in the first place.” You give her a mischievous side glance as both of you burst in laughter passing the bottle back and forth again. Keyleth sighs.

“Grass…. Worse or on par with that time I got passionate about the stars being so far away they must be cold and lonely?” Keyleth laughs with a yawn.

“Worse.” You mutter. The two of you slide down a bit just watching the skies sharing a few more sips until you both fall asleep leaned against each other. Hopefully the dawn will wake you up before you’re at the mercy of Vax and Percy or worse; Scanlan’s comments. 

[cdelphiki]

Was re-reading ‘In for a Penny�� when I read this sentence “if we do not rescue Damian today, “Clark said, finally speaking up, “I have a feeling we will one day face him in battle”and thought what if Bruce wasn’t able to find Damian, instead meets him again when he’s ten, how would he feel?What would happen? Damian holding a sword to the father he doesn’t remembers throat, dick finally seeing his brother again. Memories, baby things left untouched in the manor. Would love to hear your thoughts-M

The years since Damian’s kidnapping had not been kind to Bruce.

Dick left him. When he was barely eighteen. Packed up and moved to Bludhaven, where he still lived some six years later.  

Bruce couldn’t blame him. Not really. He’d not been much of a father, once Damian went missing.  

Then Jason came along, and Bruce had tried really hard for that boy. He’d worked on himself, worked on his availability. Adopted him, right from the start.

It hadn’t mattered.

Because in the end, Jason had left him, too. In the most painful way possible.

At least Damian was out there.

Somewhere.

Growing up, living his life.

Jason’s had been cut short.

After that, Bruce had sworn off kids. He wanted nothing to do with children ever again, because brining a child in his life just meant he’d love that child, and life didn’t let him keep the things he loved.  

He wasn’t sure how many more times he could go through that.

Those he loved suffered in the worst ways possible, and how could he do that to another child?

Then Tim came around. Kind of forced his way into Bruce’s life. Reluctantly, and completely against his will, Bruce had come to love Tim, as well. Had adopted him, when the opportunity arose, as tragic as it was.  

Talia had made herself scarce in the years since stealing Damian away from him. He’d tried to find them. Many times. But they always evaded him. Were always too well hidden.

He hadn’t… given up.

Per se.

But as Damian grew older, Bruce’s hope dwindled. He’d not even been two yet, when Talia took him away. There was no chance he’d even remember Bruce at five.

Or eight.

Or the ten he was now.

What right would Bruce have to swoop in and steal him away? Rip him away from the only family he remembered?

To him, Bruce was the absent father, living on the opposite side of the planet, and as much as he wanted to see his son, as badly as he wanted to hold his baby in his arms, he was a stranger to Damian.

He had no right over him any more.  

All he had left of his little boy were pictures and a stuffed cow.

He’d given away everything else. To Clark, when Lois was expecting Jon.

To Selina. When she was expecting Helena.

Damian was too old for baby things, anyway. And walking past a nursery was painful.

They’d turned that room into Jason’s.

It wasn’t any less painful, now.  

Bruce tried not to think about any of it. Tried not to think about Damian.

But it was hard, when Talia al Ghul kidnapped him while he was on mission in England.

Strung him up and got right in his face.

Hers was not a face he wanted to see.

“Talia,” he snarled, flexing his hands, testing his strength against the bat-thing that held him tight.

It would take a remarkable show of strength to free himself. He wasn’t sure he could. Even if he did, there were half a dozen more of the bat-things all around him. He knew himself outnumbered when he saw it.

He was just thankful Tim had taken the weekend off, rather than accompanying him on this trip.  

“What do you want, Talia,” he spat, when she came too close, running her fingers across his chest. He had no interest in her. And she should know that by now.

She had killed any chance of there being anything between them eleven years prior.

And then burned it to the ground when she stole their son away from him.  

“It’s nice to see you, too, Beloved,” she drawled, pulling away from Bruce and drawing her sword.  She toyed with it, staring at the blade in her hand, without saying anything further.

“What. Do. You. Want,” he ground out. Games were also not something he was interested in.  

“Hm,” she hummed, still toying with her blade for a moment before finally asking, “You remember our son?”

“How could I forget,” he growled. If she had merely kidnapped him to taunt him…

He might need to call in Clark to hold him back. He pulled at his arms again, and could feel the give in his captors’ hold. Knew, if he pulled his arms in just the right way, kicked his legs back at just the right moment, he’d be able to free himself easily.

“Hm. Yes, well,” she said, waving a hand at him, as if dismissing his anger, “He has grown wild. I can no longer control him.”

His sweet little baby?

Unlikely.

“What did you do to him?” he shouted, seriously contemplating calling in Clark. Because he was not sure he’d be able to control himself if he found out Damian had been mistreated in any way.

And he couldn’t think of a single other explanation for his Damian turning ‘wild.’ Not his sweet little baby who loved animals and was so gentle. So empathetic. So kind.

“Do not be so dramatic,” Talia snapped, “I thought you’d be happy.”

“Happy about what.”

“He needs… taming,” she said, twirling her sword around, a little, before she sheathed it again, “He lacks discipline. I had hoped some time with his father would straighten him out.”

“Time with,” he started, only to fumble over his words.

Was she…

Introducing him to Damian?

Why… why would she… after all these years…?

What was her game?

“You’ll hear from me soon, Beloved, though I’ll imagine you’ll be busy. I intend to hold the whole world hostage.”

Bruce tried to look back up at her, to ask her what the fuck that meant, but his head was pushed forward by one of the man-bats, and the entire world seemed to freeze.

Because a small child had materialized before him.

A… boy.

His boy.

In the eight years since he’d seen Damian, he had changed so much, but at the same time, not at all.

He had the same nose. The same… little button nose he’d had, as a baby. The same bright green eyes.

The same scowl.

“Damian,” he whispered, looking Damian up and down, trying to commit every little detail to memory.

“Father,” Damian responded, pushing his sword forward, almost touching Bruce’s neck, “I imagined you taller.”  

“You-“ Bruce started, but had to stop. Because he was overcome with laughter.

The man-bats let go of him, and Bruce slumped to the ground, right to his knees, only keeping himself upright with his hands as his laughter turned a tad hysteric.

His little boy.

His little boy, was standing right in front of him. Was… Was within reach.

Was coming home with him.

“You are the great warrior Mother has told me about?” Damian asked skeptically, his sword now sheathed.

That was enough to pull Bruce back to the moment.  He sniffed, and sat back so he could get a good look at his little boy.  

“Hi, Damian,” he said, smiling a little, to force the overwhelming urge to weep to go away.

Damian scowled, a little, and shot Bruce as critical look. “How do you know my name?”

“What?”

Out of all the things Damian could ask…

“My name. Mother said you did not know of me. She did not tell you my name just now. How do you know it?”

“I- What?” Bruce repeated.

“You are not as intelligent as Mother claimed. Shame.”

“Damian,” he said, slowly, “You- you lived with me.  For almost a year, as an infant.”  

“Tt,” he huffed, rolling his eyes dramatically, “Now you are suggesting my mother is a liar. She has done a lot of things, but she has never lied to me.”

“Just, come here,” Bruce said, looping an arm around Damian’s shoulders and tugging him close, “I have missed you so much.”

Damian tensed in Bruce’s arms, but didn’t push him away. That is, not until Bruce started crying.  

Bruce didn’t blame him. He’d be uncomfortable, too, if a stranger claiming to know and love him started crying into his hair.  

They had so much ground to recover.  

- - -

Damian was a massive brat.

Bruce felt like a terrible parent for thinking such a thing about his own son, but Damian was downright horrible.

He did nothing but yell and scream and throw things around. He fought with Alfred. Fought with Bruce.

Hated Tim.

Considering the boy had attempted to push Tim off the top level of the cave, that first night Bruce brought him home, he couldn’t trust Damian anywhere near Tim.

And Tim hated Damian in return.

Or, at least, considered him to be the ‘son of satan’ and avoided him at all costs.

Bruce wasn’t sure how to make his family all mesh together. Wasn’t sure how to get Damian to calm down and give them all a shot.

All those years Bruce had imagined, fantasized with it would be like to get Damian back, never once had he considered he might not like the boy.  

He still loved him, of course. Loved him so much it hurt.

His son was finally home, and his home had been thrown into pure chaos.

Handing Damian the cow had been a difficult decision.

For eight years, that cow had been all Bruce had. The only physical reminder he had of the little boy he’d lost.

Damian and Cow had been inseparable, when he was an infant. Bruce had bought three more, the very second he realized how attached to the dumb toy Damian had become. He had four of those cows, and when Talia’s men took Damian, they’d taken none of them.

It’d been a stab in his heart, every time he looked at cow. Knowing how scared Damian would be without it. How upset.

Knowing Damian likely cried for weeks, if not months, for that stupid cow.  

And in the eight years since Damian’s kidnapping, Bruce had become a little attached to the cow, himself. It sat on his bed stand. Right next to his favorite photo of Damian. He pat cow’s head every night, as if doing so would be telling his own little boy ‘good night, I love you.’  

Just like he’d done every single night Damian lived with him.  

Handing Damian that cow was difficult.  Because Damian destroyed everything he was given. He was violent. He threw tantrums.

And he was, above all, not a child.  

But Cow belonged to Damian, and Bruce was unable to put it off any longer.

“Damian,” he said, knocking on his boy’s door, allowing it to creak open as he did, “I wanted to give you something.”

“What is it now,” Damian started, but paused when he got a look at the toy in Bruce’s hand.  Bruce walked over to the bed where Damian was reading and held it out, for Damian to take.

But instead, Damian just said, “That’s… Mr. Cow.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said, laughing a little to cover up the desire to cry.

Because Damian remembered.

“I—“ Bruce started, “He was yours. When you lived here. I’ve— I’ve kept him in my room, ever since you left. To remind me of you. But, he was yours, so I thought I should give him back.”

“Why,” Damian said, slowly, in the least snotty tone Bruce had heard yet, “Why do I remember a stupid toy but I do not remember you?”

Bruce sighed, and sat down on the bed next to his son. He placed Cow down in Damian’s lap, even though Damian made not move to take it.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. He’d been a little distraught when none of the photos had jogged anything.

He hadn’t specifically expected Damian to remember things from when he was 20-months-old, but to have his own boy accuse him of doctoring the photos, just to “get into his head” and “paint his mother as the liar” had hurt.

“You were young. Most people don’t remember much from before the age of three, and you weren’t even two when you left.”  

“But I remember the cow.”

“Yes,” Bruce said, placing his arm behind Damian as he leaned back, “You couldn’t sleep without the damn thing. My guess is you cried for it every night for months, after you left. It probably stuck with you because of that.”  

“Oh.” Damian placed his hand on cow’s head and stroked. Just once. Before his cheeks flushed and he yanked his hand away sharply.

“I’m really happy you’re back,” Bruce said, moving his hand so it was sitting on Damian’s shoulder. Damian still didn’t let him hug him, but at least he didn’t shrug his hand away.  “I hope you know that. I want nothing more than to get to know you.”  

“Thank you, Father,” Damian said crisply, then faltered before adding, much less confidently, “I have always wished to… know you.”  

Bruce couldn’t help it. He pulled Damian in by the hand on his shoulder, and wrapped his arms around. “Well, I’m glad we have this chance, then.”

For once, Damian didn’t fight him. He did fidget, a little, with Cow started to fall, but he caught the little toy and held it a little more securely while Bruce rested his head down on Damian’s hair.  

And when Damian didn’t push him away for several minutes, Bruce started to think… maybe Damian wasn’t a hopeless case, after all.  

[jay-the-angst-king]

Angst #4 with Darkshipping (or Casteshipping, if that inspires you more) -Pyro

I wrote this happily even though it is angsty.

As with before, you can read this drabble here on Ao3, or you can read more below.

Prompt: Angst - 4 “I don’t want to do this without you.”

Summary: After Marik tries to force Yugi to forfeit his first match of Battle City by using Ryou as collateral, the spirit of the Millennium Ring seizes control and takes the final attack of the duel, sparing Ryou and saving his life. However, just as Ryou is laid down to rest, the spirit inside the Millennium Puzzle realizes that the Ring is no longer around Ryou's neck.

“I don't want to do this without you,” he vaguely remembered saying to a man with long silver hair as the desert winds blew sand past their feet.

He watched in horror as Ryou dropped to his knees. One hand cradled the stab wound in his upper arm while he whimpered in pain.

“Ryou!” both he and Yugi cried, one voice audible, one voice silent.

Yugi’s friends called for Ryou as well. Their combined shriek was a cry of concern while also teasing hints of fear.

“Yugi,” Ryou called for them, but he sounded as though he might start weeping tears of pain. “Where am I? My arm! It hurts...”

Behind him, from the open doors of the elevator, stood the one they knew as Marik in his black cloak with the Millenium Rod raised in the air. With a deep, steady voice, he announced to them all, “In his weakened state, an attack from a God can easily end with his death.”

He whipped his attention to Marik, glaring at him with seething anger. “You want to use Ryou as a mortal shield?” he asked incredulously.

But no answer came. Marik simply turned away from him and stepped back into the elevator. Their eyes stayed locked until the doors finally shut.

Too many sounds flooded his ears. Yugi’s friends arguing with the referee, Kaiba telling him to end it, and Ryou groaning as the wound undoubtedly screamed.

If the wound had reopened, then Ryou would need medical attention immediately.

Amidst the chaotic shouting, a flash of bright light from Ryou’s side of the field caught everyone’s attention.

He watched in surprise as the spirit of the Ring stood back up from the kneeling position, eyes set in determination, mouth twisted into a wide grin.

“Attack me!” the spirit shouted. “Don’t worry about your friend. I’ll make sure he doesn’t die!”

“You would take an attack from a God?” he asked the spirit. “Why?”

“I need him alive, and you need to advance to the next round!” When he received no response, the spirit smirked and continued. “Don’t worry about me. Marik is our common enemy. You have to succeed in order to stop him. Now, strike me down and win this duel!”

After all the peaceful words the two had exchanged, after so much struggling to find common ground, after finally getting the other spirit to open up to him, his heart ached at the thought of hurting the spirit, but he trusted the spirit’s decision.

He still wrestled for stray memories. The spirit knew more than him.

“Go then!” he shouted, commanding his God card with a point of his finger. “Attack him directly!”

The blast enveloped the entire field with bright light, and while the roar of the Sky Dragon filled the air, he could faintly hear the spirit’s laughter on the other side of the field as he accepted his defeat with open arms.

Once the Sky Dragon’s attack faded from view, his eyes had to readjust to the light around him. He didn't take long to run to Ryou’s side despite the color burned in his vision.

He knelt beside the disoriented Ryou, silently thanking the spirit for taking the attack and saving Ryou from any further pain.

“I don't want to do this without you,” he told the spirit of the Ring while they were alone in the elevator talking about Marik.

They all rushed Ryou to a bed and stood by his side with worry. He looked pale and tired, but just as the spirit of the Ring had promised, Ryou was alive.

As Yugi’s friends talked to one another about Marik’s underhanded tactics and the duel, he noticed for the first time that something was missing.

The Millenium Ring was gone.

Though often hanging from Ryou’s neck, the Ring could not be seen, and when he turned to look at the tables in the room, the Ring was not sitting on any of them.

Where had it gone?

He recalled a faint glint of light before they all crowded around Ryou’s body.

The Ring flew off of Ryou’s neck when he fell backward and hit the ground.

He turned from Yugi’s friends and quickly rushed out of the room as gripping fear stabbed his heart and bleed into his veins. Just as suddenly, adrenaline surged through him as he ran for the elevator that led to the dueling arena.

He couldn't leave the Ring behind. He couldn't leave the spirit behind.

Even as Yugi called to him, promising that it would be okay, his eyes were only set on confirming the spirit’s safety. For all he knew, the Millenium Ring could have slipped from the arena and off the side of the blimp to fall aimlessly to the city streets far below, only to land with a sickening clang!

Lost. Gone from them, without anyone ever knowing where the Ring fell.

He smacked the button on the elevator, and he cursed the mechanisms for how slow they were.

Sitting, waiting. At least when he was running, he felt like he was making progress. With the fear of losing the spirit clawing at his mind, standing still while he waited for the doors to open felt like torture.

He flew out of the elevator as soon as he could with desperation and dread.

The whipping wind surrounded him in the empty duel arena. He leapt onto the field first and ran to the other side, the one where the spirit stood his ground in the face of a mighty God.

He searched for the Ring, and when he couldn’t find it, he jumped down and searched the arena behind the far side of the field.

No circular objects, no faded brown cord, no glints of gold.

As panic gripped his throat, he begged the wordless wind for answers. “Where is it? Where is the Ring?”

But the wind only howled, never spoke.

“It’s not here,” Yugi called from inside.

“It has to be!” he protested. “I need him!”

“It's gone,” Yugi said somberly. “The Ring is gone.”

Desperate searching led to nothing. Slowly, he stopped where he stood, hands on the railing of the duel arena, and his eyes caught on the distant twinkling lights below.

“No, he’s gone,” he muttered to no one.

Though he voiced the words and knew them as true, the words did not crush him until once again, his mind conjured the image of the Ring plunging to the hard city streets, and he dropped to his knees, feeling the emptiness settle in his chest.

“I don't want to do this without you,” he whispered with a trembling voice.

[besanii]

Hi thank you for the 🗡 🗡 🗡, it 💔💔💔 and it 😭😭😭😭😦😦😦🥺🥺🥺, but it also like😍😍😍😍😍 because we love suffering and torture and that sweet sweet angst. (if we ask for🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️) will it hurt even more? 😘

Shattered Mirrors 51

A pair of hands grab him under the armpits and haul him upright with a grunt. He hisses as a sharp pain lances through his limbs at the sudden movement and his legs buckle almost immediately beneath him, but he is still hauled unceremoniously out of the damp darkness, head lolling listlessly on his shoulders. The door opens with a clang that jars his ears and makes him wince—a sharp, painful contrast to the long days he has spent in utter silence—but his handler spares no regard for his comfort, or the fact that his feet are dragging like dead weights against the cold stone floor behind him.

He’s taken to another chamber, where his captor is waiting for him with a mocking little smile.

Thought you could get away, did you? You must be stupid to think you could escape.

He stifles a pained gasp when fingers grab him roughly by the hair and yank his head back, exposing his neck and face. His eyes water and sting at the light from the torches along the walls, clouding his vision.

But don’t worry, his captor croons. You’ll learn soon enough.

Then his vision clears and he sees the figure behind Wen Chao. His heart stops.

No. No, no, no, no—

Ah yes, we caught your little accomplice too. The hand in his hair drags him forward, closer to the bench. We’re going to teach him what happens to traitors who turn against their own blood.

Dark eyes stare up at him, wide with terror, and pale, trembling lips form soundless words that he can’t understand. The rest of his body is restrained, shackled to the bench with chains around his torso and legs, his head held in place by a wooden frame.

You know what this is, don’t you? A delighted laugh. We thought it’d be a fitting end for our little A-Ning here. He’ll die as he lived: in silence.

--

 He wakes to the feeling of someone shifting beside him in the bed. A candle is lit and set beside the bed, the dim glow illuminating the dark interior within the canopy until he can make out Lan Wangji’s features, furrowed with concern.

“Wei Ying?” he asks quietly. “Is everything alright?”

Wei Wuxian releases a shuddering breath and nods, ignoring the way his heart pounds in his chest and the clamminess of his skin.

“Just a nightmare,” he says. “Sorry for waking you.”

Honey-gold eyes study him for a moment before Lan Wangji reaches over to give his hand a reassuring squeeze where it clutches at the edge of the covers.

“No need to apologise,” he tells him with a soft smile, rubbing soothing circles along the back of his hand with his thumb. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He closes his eyes and takes a moment to calm his racing heart, but the moment he does he sees that pale face staring up and him with fear and despair, and tastes the bitter helplessness in the back of his throat like bile. He grits his teeth and swallows it down before he opens his eyes again and allows Lan Wangji to help him into a sitting position. Their hands are still joined, resting between them on the covers, and he takes comfort from the warm weight of Lan Wangji’s palm against his.

Throughout all of this, Lan Wangji does not press. He sits beside him on the bed, arranging the covers to ward off the chill, and waits patiently for Wei Wuxian to speak.

“Lan Zhan…” Wei Wuxian begins haltingly, his eyes cast down at their hands. “What do you know about Yiling-hou and his family?”

Lan Wangji hums.

“Yiling-hou was known to be a fair, just man,” he says. “He rarely participated in politics, and preferred to stay neutral where he could. I’m told his family shared those values, but they died before the end of the war so I have never met them personally.” He pauses. “Why do you ask?”

A shudder passes through Wei Wuxian’s body which Lan Wangji initially mistakes for him being cold, so he shifts until he can wrap an arm around his waist and draw him back against his chest. Wei Wuxian tucks his head beneath Lan Wangji’s chin with a sigh and covers the hand around his waist with both his own.

“When I was…in Qishan,” he says. He does not need to elaborate for Lan Wangji to understand the meaning behind it. “I met two people—a brother and sister. Children of Yiling-hou. A-Yuan’s aunt and uncle, in fact. They had been sent to join the war effort and were working as on-field medics.”

Fingers card through his hair in long, languid strokes and scratch lightly at his scalp until the tension bleeds from his shoulders; his own fingers trace tiny circles over Lan Wangji’s forearm as he considers his next words.

“They were kind to me,” he says. “Did the best they could to help me despite the danger it would pose to them if they were discovered. If it weren’t for them, I would have died a long time ago.”

He shudders, drawing his knees up to his chest and curling in on himself a little tighter. Lan Wangji’s fingers do not stop their ministrations, but he wraps his other arm around him more securely, grounding him with the warmth and weight of his body. He has never spoken of these things to anyone before, not even Wen Yuan—the words do not come easily.

“We were discovered, eventually,” he continues, his voice going quieter as the memories resurface in his mind’s eye; he feels Lan Wangji’s body stiffen behind his. “The night they occupied Jiangling. Security was lax that night, so we decided to try our luck while the guards were distracted. It…well,” he chuckled to himself, a dark, bitter sound, “suffice to say, it didn’t work.”

Lan Wangji opens his mouth to speak, but decides against it, opting instead to press his lips against Wei Wuxian’s temple. His breath tickles the soft hairs there as he exhales. Wei Wuxian’s fingers tighten around Lan Wangji’s sleeve, twisting into the soft fabric; his eyes stare unseeingly at the flickering shadows dancing along the walls with the candlelight.

“There are many forms of punishment,” he continues distantly. “Many forms of torture that can leave a mark on the victim without even touching them once. There was one, in particular, that—that he was fond of. One that left him with a memento at the end of it, a trophy for his collection.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate on who he is referring to—Lan Wangji recalls the barely human figure huddled in the crate, disgust rising in the back of his throat at the memory of the stench and the bloodcurdling shrieks, and knows.

“Jiaguanjinjue,” he breathes.

Wei Wuxian stifles a gasp; his hands reach up as if to cover his ears, only to fall short and dig into the muscles of his jaw and cheeks instead, leaving deep imprints against the skin.

“How did you—?” the words are breathy and strangled. Lan Wangji shakes his head.

“There was a room in the watchtower at Jiangling,” he says. “The contents were mostly burned to ash, but there were a few…scraps. Enough for us to realise what they were.”

The laughter that rips itself from Wei Wuxian’s throat is harsh and wet, half-choked with sobs.

“He couldn’t move,” he whispers. “No matter how hard he fought. It was—I couldn’t—” he gasps, “—I can still hear him, trying to—to breathe, struggling—”

The hand in his hair cups the back of his head, bringing his face against the soft skin of Lan Wangji’s neck as he weeps; they cling to each other tightly, desperately, unable to stop the trembles that wrack their bodies. His ears ring with the sound of his own gasping sobs, mingling with the phantom echo of Wen Ning’s final breaths in that cold, dark cell—

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji’s voice is in his ears then, low and soothing, cutting through the storm in his mind. “Wei Ying, come back.”

He continues to murmur in his ear, soft reassurances and gentle words, his arms strong and firm and warm around his body. It seeps into his skin gradually, washing away the chill in his bones and the ice in his veins until the tremors subside. Even then neither of them relinquish their hold on the other.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji murmurs into his hair. “It’s alright. You’re safe now. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

   Notes:

jiaguanjinjue (加官进爵) - literally “promotion to nobility”; a method of execution beginning in Ming Dynasty where the criminal was bound to a bench to prevent movement, and layers of wet paper/fabric were placed over their faces until they died of suffocation. By the time the execution is over, the layers will have hardened into a mask that preserves the person’s final expression. It’s the quietest method of execution.

Master Post and ko-fi link on my sidebar!

[slyttherins]

Unexpected flame (part 3) | Fred Weasley x Sirius Black’s daughter

June 1995

After the grim end of the Triwizard tournament, the return from Hogwarts was gloom.

Two weeks had passed since the final task and many students were still mourning Cedric Diggory. His death had been traumatic for a lot of people - they had expected to see a winner come out of the maze, not a cadaver -, and the image of Cedric's lifeless body in the middle of the pitch will forever be inked in their memory.

Juliet didn't know Cedric a lot. He was three years older than her and they didn't cross paths a lot at Hogwarts. All she knew was that he was the embodiment of the qualities of a Hufflepuff and was their quidditch team' seeker. She was sad and disturbed about his death, as everyone was, but wasn't weeping in mourning.

As they neared London, a smile formed on her lips. In his last letter, Remus had informed her that she'd be spending a small part of summer with the Weasleys and she was thrilled.

According to Ginny's letters, summer at the Burrow sounded really fun. The younger of the Weasley clan would always tell Juliet about the many pranks the twins would pull, swimming in the pond during hot days, playing quidditch above the field and even de-gnoming the garden.

''I don't mind you coming over during summer vacation, Juliet, but don't make it a habit. I see you enough at school,'' Ron said as he dragged his trunk onto a trolley.

''I'm just so obsessed with you that I can't leave your side, Ronald,'' Juliet replied jokingly. She wrapped her arms around him and attempted to kiss his face, but Ron dodged her lips. His cheeks were bright red from the attack, not used to girls being so close to him - beside his mother and sister.

Ginny and the twins laughed.

''Worry not, I won't be staying for long.''

''Well, I don't mind you staying for the summer. We're gonna have so much fun!'' Ginny said excitedly.

''Mom's here,'' George pointed out, seeing her hurry through the mass of parents and students and trolleys full of luggages.

.

The Burrow's back yard was beautiful during summer. Molly's large garden was filled with flowers, overgrown weeds and...chickens running around. It was a lot livelier than the old flower box at 12 Grimmauld place that she and Remus never watered and had left to die.

''You can stay in Percy's room if you want, dear. You'll be more comfortable than on Ginny's floor. I've put an extra blanket for you. The nights are cold, even in summer,'' Molly informed, tearing Juliet's attention from the window.

She thanked Mrs. Weasley and frowned. ''Where's Percy? Won't he need his room?'' she asked, confused. She didn't personally care about Percy, but she didn't want to steal his room and cause more trouble between them.

Ron shook his head, walking past her and looking around the kitchen, in search of anything he could steal and eat before dinner. ''He's not here. He got himself a job at the Ministry of Magic as assistant to Bartemius Crouch.''

''So you won't have to worry about him attacking you during supper,'' Fred added with a grin.

Juliet bit back a smile, shaking her head. Of course he remembered that.

''Mr. Crouch can't even remember Percy's name, it's hilarious. He calls him Weatherby,'' George added, not even holding his laughter.

Fred mimicked his brother and Molly scolded them both, using the hand towel she had in her hands to swat at Fred's arm. ''Quit making fun of your brother, will you? He worked really hard to get this job.''

''What's for dinner, Mom?'' Ron asked as his stomach made a growling sound.

Beside him, Ginny rolled her eyes. How could he always be hungry?

.

Percy's room being on the same floor as Fred and George's, Fred decided to be a decent host and show her the way.

''Here's Percy's den,'' Fred said, opening the door. ''Careful not to stay too long in here, you might lose your humor.''

The room was neat and clean compared to Ginny and Ron's. There were no posters or family pictures on his walls, but Ministry law books, ink pots, parchemin papers and old Daily Prophet newspapers all over his desk.

Juliet walked in and set her trunk down at the end of the neatly made bed. ''Fear not,'' she reassured the redhead, having no intention of staying in Percy's room for longer than necessary. She'll come here to sleep and that's it. ''My humor is deep in my blood.''

With Sirius Black for father, it was impossible to not have a great sense of humor. Juliet didn't share his attraction for mischief - not to his extent -, but she liked to tease people and joke around.

''I'll make sure to make jokes everyday, just in case. If you stop laughing, I'll know it's because of Percy's bedsheets.''

Biting her cheek, Juliet fought a smile. ''Always have my back, uh Freddie?''

He grinned in confirmation. ''If you need anything, just knock on my door.''

.

The next day, the sun was shining high in the sky as Ginny pulled Juliet through the backyard, both dressed in their bathing suits. They went up to the small deck that led to the pond, excited to jump in and cool off.

The first day of summer vacation was usually dedicated to cleaning the yard, but Molly had made an exception and let the kids play in the water since they had a guest.

When the girls arrived, Ron and the twins were already in the pond, fighting with pool noodles.

''Get him, George!'' Fred cheered as George hit their younger brother with a green noodle, a slapping sound echoing.

''Go George!'' Juliet joined in, taking George's side too.

Her voice had distraught Ron and his short moment of inattention cost him to get hit square in the face by George - and losing grip of his noodle. ''Bloody hell, what are you wearing?'' Ron asked, catching sight of the girls and staring at Juliet with wide eyes.

''I won!'' George exclaimed, turning to his twin for a celebratory high-five.

Juliet sat on the edge of the deck, about to get in the water. ''It's a bathing suit, Ronald. You wear it to swim,'' she explained, making the others snicker.

''This is a bathing suit.'' He pointed to Ginny's bright red one piece. ''Not...whatever this is.''

Juliet rolled her eyes and got in the water while Ginny jumped, cannonball style and splashed everyone - including Ron who scowled.

''You seemed in need of a cold shower,'' she told him as she resurfaced. ''Let's play chicken fight.''

''In case you forgot, we're an uneven number. It won't work,'' Ron reminded.

''Well, one of us is gonna wait on the sideline and replace the first person who falls. And, that person is you. You can be referee.''

''Me! Why me?''

''Because you're the one who mention it and I don't trust you to keep me up on your shoulders.''

Ignoring the bickering between his two siblings, Fred had dove under to refresh himself, starting to feel a burning on his pale shoulders. He emerged of the water and shook his head, sprinkling water everywhere with his long red locks. Those boys really needed a haircut. It was getting out of hand.

Ron grumbled some more, reluctantly accepting his fate as Ginny went over to George, ready to play.

''Juliet, you go with Fred. I'll go with George.''

Upon hearing his name, Fred caught eyes with Juliet and swam up to her. ''Ready?''

Fred's body had changed a lot over the past year. Puberty was most likely one of the reasons, but also quidditch. As beaters, they couldn't be frail and lanky; they needed muscles.

Standing so close to him, Juliet was surprised by how broad and strong those shoulders were underneath his robes and sweaters. She couldn't help but dart her eyes to his naked chest and the galaxy of freckles on his wet skin.

Shaking her head, she pushed those thoughts away. ''How do I get up there?'' she asked, having never played this game before.

Fred lowered himself down in the water and Juliet awkwardly climbed on his shoulders, fingernails digging into his freckled skin in panic as he stood up, feeling herself wobble.

''I'm not gonna drop you,'' he said in a reassuring voice, putting his hands on her knees for security. ''If I can hold Ron up, you've got nothing to be scared of.''

''Get ready to lose, losers!''

.

After playing in the pond all afternoon, the Weasleys had gathered in the backyard for a campfire. Mrs. Weasley had brought out the marshmallows to roast and Fred and George had decided to show off their firework skills.

It was a day Juliet wasn't going to forget anytime soon.

But, all good days come to an end and it was now time to go to bed.

After an hour of tossing and turning, the young witch came to the conclusion that she wasn't going to find sleep anytime soon. It wasn't because she wasn't tired - she was -, but sleeping in Percy's bed made her feel uneasy. His loud comments regarding Sirius had hurt her and she’d honestly rather sleep on Ginny's wood floor than here.

She had fallen asleep fast enough last night, but she always fell asleep fast after a train journey.

Sitting up, Juliet reached into her trunk and grabbed a book. Might as well read instead of sitting there in the dark and waiting for sleep to come.

A gentle knock on the door made her slightly jump, and then, someone poked their head in. Fred.

''Everything okay?'' He was in his pajamas and his hair was slightly mussed from sleep. ''I was on my way from the bathroom when I saw some light. Given the hour, I decided to check on you.''

Juliet put down her book, heart warm. It was very kind of him to check on her.

''I just... I can't seem to find sleep.''

''It's because of Percy's smelly sheets, isn't it?'' Juliet looked down at the bright patchwork blanket, doubt and disgust in her eyes, and Fred laughed. ''I'm kidding. Mom washed them.'' He stepped in and sat on the end of the bed. ''So, tell me. What's keeping you up tonight, Black?''

Juliet sighed. ''Lots of things,'' she half lied.

''Let's play a game. I tell you something I haven't told anyone and you tell me one until you fall asleep. I'll start. I'm gonna be graduating Hogwarts next year and I'm scared. Worried, mostly. As you know, George and I want to open a joke shop. It's always been our big dream. It used to be an almost impossible dream to reach because of our shortage of money, but with the money Harry gave us, it's allowing us to make test samples and slowly build a small variety of candies to sell. But what if we fail?''

Hearing Fred confess his worries about the future changed Juliet's perspective of him. Fred was always so bold, confident and positive, going around telling people that anything's possible if you've got enough nerve. He gave the impression that he was never afraid of anything, but he was just good at hiding it.

''I think everyone's a bit afraid of the future. It is scary.''

''I try to stay positive, but there's always this 'what if' that's in the back of my head. If we fail, what will I do with my life, work at Gringotts? At the Ministry of Magic? Become a teacher? Absolutely not.''

''You're great at quidditch. You and George are the best beaters Gryffindor ever had.''

Fred chuckled. ''I’m flattered, but I’m not good enough to play professionally. And I like to play with George. Quidditch is something we’ve always played together. I’d feel weird to play without him. It’s your turn.''

Finding something Juliet had never told anyone turned out to be more difficult that she'd imagined. In their Ravenclaw dorm, she and Luna had a lot of late night conversations over the years. They’d talk about everything and nothing, typical girl things and...stranger things, but Sirius was a subject they never dipped in.

''I almost didn't meet my father,’’ she started, which immediately caught Fred’s attention. ‘’When Harry and Hermione saved and helped him escape in third year, I almost didn't follow Harry into the yard. I was scared he wouldn't be the person Remus had told me about. That he wouldn't be as great as I had been told. I was scared to be disappointed. I also knew that it might be my only chance and I'd regret it all my life if I didn't go.

''When I got to the yard, he wasn't at all like I had imagined him to be. He was...scary looking, as anyone would be after spending so long in Azkaban. I almost turned around and ran, but he called my name, his voice so hoarse and broken, and a smile had curled on his face. The first in Merlin knows how long. At this moment, I realized that I held a power. A power to bring him a sliver of happiness after all those years of coldness, darkness, misery and despair.''

''I'm sure it was an emotional experience for him too. It must've been a shock to see you.''

''I write him letters almost every day, but I don't have an address to send them to so I keep them in a shoebox under my bed.'' Juliet laughed at herself. ''It's silly, I know-''

''It's not,'' Fred countered. ''I think it’s cute and understandable. You had gotten your father back when he was taken away from you - again. It's a way for you to talk to him, even if he can't read your letters or respond.'' He yawned and apologized. Unlike Juliet, he had been sleeping before knocking on her door.

''You can go back to bed if you’re tired.''

Fred shook his head. ‘’I’d rather stay and talk with you. It’s my turn now, is it?’’

They kept going for a few more minutes, talking in Percy’s room while the rest of the house was asleep.

If Molly were up, she’d undoubtedly scold them for being awake past midnight and Fred going into Juliet's room. Her rules were clear about guests from the opposite sex: no visiting after bedtime.

While they were talking, they had shifted on the bed and changed positions. Their knees were now touching and their feet were buried under the patchwork blanket.

''I didn't want you to go back to Angelina after we danced at the Yule Ball,'' Juliet said, surprising herself. She found herself panicking inside, realizing that, although true, it could ruin their friendship in a disastrous way.

A smug smile curled on Fred’s lips. ''I'm a brilliant dancer, am I?''

She chuckled, but didn't deny. Although Fred Weasley wasn't great at following through with the classic steps when ball dancing, he knew how to spice it up and make it really fun.

''I didn't tell you, but you looked gorgeous in that dress.''

Juliet blinked.

It wasn’t the first time Fred complimented her, but he had never been so bold. He’d usually say something subtle that he could easily say to his sister, but tonight, it sounded very flirty - and Juliet didn't hate it.

After that, it was a blur. She could recall Fred talking, but one of them fell asleep and the other followed.

.

Fred was gone when Juliet woke up.

At first, she thought last night had been a dream, but the blanket was moved as if somebody else had slept there. She grabbed the blanket and a faint smell of Fred lingered on the blanket. Juliet smiled.

''Morning!'' Ginny greeted, walking in and inviting herself on the bed. She was still in her pajamas so it must've been still early. ''Luna sent an owl this morning, inviting us to have tea at her house tomorrow,'' the redhead informed, holding the piece of parchment in her hand. ''I'll ask Mum if we can go, but it should be okay. She doesn't live too far.''

Juliet rubbed her eyes, still washed with sleep and nodded, looking forward to seeing Luna. One of the things she didn't like about summer was not sharing a room with Luna for two months. She missed her so much. They'd write letters, but it wasn't the same.

''Mom is making pancakes. She sent me to get you.''

''Oh, yum!''

The raven haired girl pushed the covers away, excited to eat Molly's delicious pancakes, but Ginny stopped her. ''Before we go down, there's something I wanted to talk about...I think my brother fancies you.''

Panic flashed in Juliet's mind. Was Fred that obvious? His flirting was pretty subtle and rarely when there was people around. How could've Ginny come to that conclusion?

Juliet laughed. ''What? He doesn't. Gin, you're insane.''

''He was so red at King's Cross when you hugged him! And, he kept staring you when we were at the pond yesterday. He's into you.''

Ron. Ginny was talking about Ron, not Fred.

''See it the way you want. Now, let's go eat pancakes!''

[tanoraqui]

hey, pls tell us about those 'kidnapping sizhui back to the burial mounds' aus? 'grave dirt baby'? 'speaker for the dead'? put me down as Scared! and! Intrigued!

Alright, so, the au I’ve mentally titled Speaker for the Dead is inspired by this fic series, which I think has great concepts but wildly insufficient follow-through on consequences

edit: er, this is gonna be the first of several parts. At least 3.

You know the Cluster in Steven Universe? Think of the Burial Mounds like that. Hundreds, maybe thousands of restless souls; some shredded, some simply lost; all neglected. Forgotten. Stewing in their own resentful energy and their exponential shared resentful energy, trapped in these abandoned lack-of-real-graves and forged over time into a nearly-single mass of rage and loss and unfinished business.

And then someone came along - well, was bodily dropped from a height - who could match them rage for rage and loss for loss, unfinished bloody business for unfinished bloody business. No one living and perhaps no one dead remembers if he said, “serve me, lend me your power, and I will carry your sentiments into the living world”, or if the Burial Mounds said, “serve us, wreak our fury and sorrow upon the living world, and in turn you will live and wield our power.” Or maybe it was an instant mutual recognition and agreement?

Well, we all know what happened next. And then he came back, their deathly messenger, and brought others, and for a brief while there was...life, inexplicably, in the land of the dead. Stubborn, hopeful life.

Then death swept through once more, from the outside this time, and the Burial Mounds took their diplomat into their embrace - but they’d gotten a taste for having their voice heard, now. The living far and wide had buckled under the force of their weeping rage, shared the burning sorrow of their thousand dead hearts. And there was one living thing left on their grounds sympathetic to their power...

But not because he shared their rage, loss, unfinished business - save in that he was young, and all his life was unfinished before him. And he was starting to understand loss, as the rest of his family died out of sight. Mostly he was sympathetic in the other way: kind and accepting, and even as a child disinclined to forget those abandoned by everyone else.

Well. Disinclined to forget intentionally. Because a three-year-old isn’t designed to be swarmed by the thousand and one voice(s) of the Burial Mounds, howling their rage and loss and determination to be heard. 

A-Yuan would have died that day, if one ghost in particular hadn’t been too fresh to have sunk into the horde. Barely aware of his own death yet, save that it had hurt, the Burial Mounds’ previous master/messenger stepped in between the boy and the onslaught of the dead - and he was a warrior and defender, he always had been. It had served them well when their unfinished business was little more than the bloody spread of death. 

It’s hard to say what exactly happened, then. Suffice to say, once the dest and resentful energy settled - and certainly by the time the cultivator in white arrived - the Burial Mounds had a representative to the living again, their roots sunk deep into his soul, and their representative had a guardian.

-

Lan Xichen was very carefully not wondering where his brother had gotten this child, not wondering at all - why question; there were far too many orphans, these days, and of course Hanguang-jun was noble enough to save one even while wounded to near death himself.

But the fact remained that the boy - A-Yuan, Lan Yuan now - was laced with incredibly persistent resentful energy. The healers had noticed it first and done their best to cleanse it, and the best of the healers of GusuLan was no small effort. At first, it had seemed to work - the darkness stopped wisping from his lungs when he coughed; the cough and fever themselves disappeared. But still the resentful energy remained, a patina of grime on an otherwise pure soul, and even when Lan Xichen himself played Cleansing, it only seemed to fade, not fully dissipate.

A-Yuan grew sick again, feverish and weeping, complained of hurting in the way of a small child too miserable to give clear answers. Lan Xichen stayed with him, playing Cleansing through the night, and by the wee hours of the morning the boy was positively listless - and still, under close inspection, resentful energy clung to him. 

Lan Xichen closed his eyes and sat back to meditate for a moment. He had to collect himself. 

His brother was asleep in the next room over. He’d been asleep since he got back from...somewhere, nearly collapsing off his sword with blood pouring from every whip mark and with a feverish child in his arms. His continued unconsciousness was partly at the order of the healers, partly of his own accord.

Multiple rules forbade superstition and the taking of omens, but Lan Xichen could feel in his heart that if the boy died, Lan Wangji wouldn’t wake. Or if he did, he would be...empty, the way he’d been for years after their mother’s passing. The way he’d been, to be quite honest, until Wei Wuxian walked into the Cloud Recesses.

Meditation didn’t help. Lan Xichen picked his [xiao] again and began the first notes of Cleaning, pouring every ounce of power he had into the music. On the bed, Lan Yuan whimpered weakly.

There was a rattling from his waist, where jade keys to all the wards of Cloud Recesses hung as a badge of office. An instant later, something yanked Liebing from his hands and flung it across the room, and with the same force shoved him backward. For an instant, he saw a figure standing above him, dark-robed and terrible.

Then it was gone, a mirage of the flickering lantern - but on the bed, A-Yuan had moved. Instead of lying flat, he was curled up as though leaning against something, clutching the air near his chest like something invisible had been placed there for him to hold. ...Hovering slightly above the mattress as though on a lap, and tired tears spilled from his eyes; he murmured something too quiet to hear.

(Cool hands picked A-Yuan up and held him; a hand brushed through his hair and a gentle voice said, “Shh, shh, A-Yuan, it’s alright. I’ve got you.” He looked up to see a pretty face and soft, sad smile, clad in robes that were dark and smelled of damp and blood.

“Mama?” he said blearily. It wasn’t right, but it was the closest word he had for how safe and loved and somehow refreshed be felt. He clutched the roughspun robes like they might vanish from his grip.

“Is that what we’re working with?” The man’s smile turned teasing, and he held A-Yuan a little closer. “Sure. I did birth you from my own body.”)

Lan Xichen picked himself up carefully, retrieved Liebing from beside the far wall and eyed the boy on the bed. Some presence watched him back - resentful, to be sure, but not like any spirit he’d ever felt. The tokens representing the wards against resentful energy and restless ghosts had both stopped shivering - because it was quiescent, or because it was already inside?

He needed answers, but at the same time, he very much needed to not have answers, because they might force him to a decision that his brother would never forgive.

-

Lan Yuan has never left the Cloud Recesses since he arrived. This wasn’t entirely abnormal - he’s only just six years old; there are few reasons for a child that young to go beyond the wards. There are excursions for hikes now and than, to introduce the children to nature, but something always interfered - illness, other duties or even punishments. There is the Spring Festival in Caiyi Town for which disciples of all ages are permitted one day free of all responsibility, including the youngest who are taken down with appropriate adult minders. But Lan Yuan always filially elected to use the special dispensation of this holiday to spend all day with Lan Wangji (per Rules 267-270, exceptions to seclusions were allowed for close family, at the Sect Leader’s discretion.) 

In his third year of seclusion, Lan Yuan now age six and bubbling enthusiastically about the tales and treats he expected his friends to bring back from the festival, Lan Wangji had asked why he refused this holiday. Wide-eyed and pious, Lan Yuan had replied, “Because I want to spend time with Father!” 

Sensitive to too-wide eyes, and too aware of his own shortcomings in the area of festivity and excitement, Lan Wangji had pressed to be sure that this was how he wanted to spend his day: sitting quietly inside, playing music, practicing reading stories of Lan Sect history? 

Pressed, Lan Yuan admitted that his Mama said he shouldn’t go outside the boundaries of Cloud Recesses unless his father was with him.

It wasn’t the first time this “Mama” had come up. Lan Yuan’s Mama said it was not just permitted but required that he run shrieking up the path to the jingshi, to greet Lan Wangji by tackling him about the knees with gleeful laughter. Mama said it was okay if he didn’t eat dinner when he was supposed to, Lan Yuan insisted, because the food was “boring anyway.” 

“Mama”, Lan Wangji was very, very sure, knew a song that Lan Wangji had composed at the age of sixteen and only ever played for one other person, because somehow Lan Yuan knew it to hum himself to sleep on restless nights. It was possible that he simply remembered it subconsciously from the times he couldn’t otherwise call to mind - music was like that. But when asked, he took on the overly cute look of an untrained liar rather than the dreadful uncertainty that slipped into his voice when questions arose of any time before the Cloud Recesses.

Lan Yuan had never stepped foot outside the Cloud Recesses since the day he’d been carried in, yet it was Lan Wangji who hesitated on the border, marked on this back hill by nothing more than a thin strip of bricks at the edge of the field.

“Rabbits!” Lan Yuan cried, and tugged him forward by the hand. “There are rabbits!”

“Xichen would not have misled you,” Lan Wangji said, amused.

“I know.” Lan Yuan immediately slowed down contritely, and looked up at him with confusion. “But there are no pets allowed in the Cloud Recesses.”

“The rabbits are not pets,” said Lan Wangji, perhaps more automatically defensive than the occassion called for. “They simply find this meadow enjoyable, as it is filled with clover and, coincidentally, sometimes scraps from the kitchens. Also - ” He gestured to the line of brick several feet behind them - “we are no longer in the Cloud Recesses.”

“Huh.” Lan Yuan cocked his head as though this was something he’d never heard before, rather than something he’d been explicitly told they were going to do, this first day of Lan Wangji’s release from seclusion. “It’s colder, in a nice way. And there’s a lot of - ”

He shut his mouth abruptly, as though someone had hurriedly told him to stop talking.

“Rabbits!” he shouted suddenly, for all appearances remembering thei presence with absolute delight. “Can I play with them, Father?” He pulled on Lan Wangji’s hand again. “Can we play with the rabbits?” 

“You can and you may,” said Lan Wangji, and let his hand go.

Lan Wangji was itching now, burning, to draw his guqin. But of course this permission meant that he had to spend several minutes carefully coaching Lan Yuan on the way to quietly approach a rabbit without causing it alarm, how to offer some of the lettuce they’d brought and how to pick one up and hold it safely. Mitigating his impatience was the unabashed awe on Lan Yuan’s face when the first rabbit let him pet its ears, and his own gratitude at how several of the older rabbits seemed to remember him. (Or possibly they just recognized “man in white sitting quietly with lettuce”, and found it a more attractive invitation than “quietly bouncing six-year-old with lettuce.”)

But, fascinated though he’d been, Lan Yuan quickly lost interest in the rabbits. He pet them absently, but kept looking around as though more interesting things were happening in the clear air. A sudden wind whipped though the meadow, acrid with resentful energy, and he scooted to Lan Wangji’s side.

(”Everyone shut the fuck up!” Mama’s robes and hair lashed as resentful energy rushed out from him, pushing back the clamoring crowd of ghosts. His fists clenched and his eyes flashed red, and the scent of blood rose about him. “You will line up single-file to talk to A-Yuan, if and when I say you get to talk to him! Right now, he’s playing - oh, look, Hanguang-jun’s getting out his guqin, probably to play Inquiry. Go bother him!”)

Lan Wangji couldn’t stand it anymore. He settled Wangji on his lap and set his fingers for the strong opening chords of a general Inquiry, to announce his presence and summon any spirits within range - and paused, and leaned over to ask Lan Yuan, “Is your Mama here, now?”

“Ye - ” Lan Yuan squeezed his lips shut and shook his head. “I mean, no. Who’s Mama?”

“Lan Yuan,” Lan Wangji said sternly.

Lan Yuan shrunk, but didn’t break. 

“Mama’s a secret,” he whispered fiercely. “It’s a rule, like on the wall.”

“I know.” They’d had this conversation before, and Lan Wangji had never pushed beyond this. Even a child was allowed secrets, and Lan Wangji was in forced seclusion, punishment for a crime he didn’t regret but would accept the consequences of nonetheless, in spirit as well as letter (fave for A-Yuan’s near-daily visits - but that was allowed.) Moreover, even from the secluded jingshi, someone might hear his Inquiry and have questions of their own, and- and what if he was wrong? The disappointment would be like death again.

But now he was not just out of his house but beyond the border of the Cloud Recesses for the first time in three years, far from any plausible earshot save the rabbits’  and soaking in sunlight that reminded him of a smile. Now, he thought he’d seen a figure in black for a split second when the cold wind blew. and suddenly the idea of being right and not knowing it was more horrific than any other outcome.

He swallowed a rasping, Please - unseemly, and unjust to burden a child with. He gathered parental authority about himself like a cloak and improvised, “Rabbits do not like secrets. It is rude to keep them in this, their home.” 

Lan Yuan bit his lip, and Lan Wangji gentled his voice. “They will still be secrets away from the rabbits’ meadow, and there will be no consequences for any broken rules.”

“Oh!” Lan Yuan sagged against Lan Wangji’s side and let out a sigh like he was coming home at the end of a month-long night hunt. “Thank you, Hanguang-jun.” He bowed formally, from the seating position, in the direction of the greatest cluster of rabbits, which seemed unconcerned by the gathering resentful energy. “And thank you, rabbits, for your hospitality!” 

He sat up, posture Lan-perfect, and pointed. “Mama’s there, pushing all the other ghosts into line. He says they have to talk one at a time, like in lessons. Are the ghosts in lessons, now? Is Mama a teacher, like Senior Feng and Great-Uncle?”

Lan Wangji, quite honestly, didn’t hear most of his son’s questions. He was too busy playing, perhaps more hesitant than he had ever played Inquiry in his life, Wei Ying?

He held his breath as the small light of a lost soul alighted upon the strings and plucked out, I am Ying Huang.

The breath seemed lost for good.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Ying,” said Lan Yuan. “Um - ” He glanced at Lan Wangji and back at the space above the guqin. “Yes, I- we- Father can tell your husband that it wasn’t his fault - oh wow, you had a baby? What’s its name?” A pause. “That’s pretty! I bet she’ll be pretty, too - you are, so I bet she’ll be pretty just like her mother!”

The chatter, a six-year-old’s mix of earnestness and polite nothings mimicked from adults, reeled him back from that distant, breathless place. Inquiry was still in effect and the spirit continued to play, far more slowly than Lan Yuan responded, Tell Ying Chao it was not his fault, nor the baby’s. 

“A-Yuan,” Lan Wangji managed. “This - Ying Huang. She is not your Mama?”

“No?” Lan Yuan looked utterly baffled. He pointed to somewhere directly ahead of him. “Mama is right there. He’s tall and wears black and has blood all over, sometimes, when he’s angry or sad. Miss Ying is here - ” he pointed at the space on the opposite side of the guqin - “and she’s short and has a greenish dress, and only only has blood on her - oh! Mama’s coming here now...”

Another spirit light solidified as it approached the guqin. This one was brighter and darker at once, strong and resentful - yet not...active in it. It simply was. 

It hovered over the strings for a moment, quivering side to side like the eyes of a shamed person, before alighting and gently plucking out, Hello, Hanguang-jun.

There was no way to know that it was him, and yet... Lan Wangji was breathless again, but this time it felt as though he simply had too much inside him to have room for air.

His fingers moved over the strings without conscious direction. He thought he might be mouthing the name. Wei Ying.

The guqin language of Inquiry was necessarily limited; there were only so many combinations one could make of seven strings. There was only one clear affirmative, yes, and no formal or informal intonations.

Nevertheless, Wei Wuxian managed to express, Yeah. Lan Wangji could imagine him shrugging, giving a rueful smile. Sorry about the whole ‘Mother’ lie. It was his idea.

Understandable. The rhythms of Inquiry called for question and answer. Did you not birth him yourself?

“Mama is laughing,” Lan Yuan announced, as pleased as though he’d organized every part of this himself. He sat up straight, hands in his lap, every inch the proper Lan disciple. “Father, can- may we just talk, now, instead of using Inquiry? It’s much faster, and I can understand it.”

“I’m afraid I cannot understand Wei Ying any other way,” said Lan Wangji, feeling real regret, On the guqin, Wei Wuxian played, We really do need a better way - this is boring. But a way with less soul-binding resentful ghost fuckery.

(Another word that was absolutely not in the vocabulary of Inquiry. Wei Wuxian, as always, managed anyway.)

Three years of parenting practice had one of Lan Wangji’s hands protectively on Lan Yuan’s shoulder, the other darting across Wangji’s strings. What do you mean, soul-binding resentful ghost trouble?

Wei Wuxian’s soul moved back from the strings, fading until it was barely visible. Lan Yuan nodded and shifted until he was sitting beside the guqin, between them.

“Mama says don’t worry, A-Yuan is fine,” he told Lan Wangji seriously. “He says it’s a...” He narrowed his eyes in focus. “‘Severe but non-ma-lig-nant case of resentful energy inculcation and imprinting, with a side order of a little bit of passive possession. By the conjoined spirits of the Burial Mounds.” 

Lan Wangji must been visibly horrified, because Lan Yuan looked worried as he leaned forward and patted his knee. 

“It means I can talk to Mama and other ghosts,” he explained in his own words, “and they can understand living people better when I’m there.” His face twisted skeptically. “Because that’s special?”

“It is very special,” Lan Wangji confirmed, still reeling a little from “passive possession by the conjoined spirits of the Burial Mounds.” But if Wei Wuxian said it was fine, then it must be fine - he would, Lan Wangji was exquisitely sure, mask any danger to himself, but never to A-Yuan.

Still, his gaze flicked to beyond Wei Wuxian, where there was nothing but silence, sunlight, and idle rabbits sleeping, or gnawing down the grass - and, he was sure, still a line of ghosts apparently determined to speak to his son.

Wei Wuxian must have noticed the movement of his eyes, because Lan Yuan began reciting dutifully again: “Mama says that there’s fourteen more spirits here, not counting Ying Huang - who went back to everyone else, now. There’s a draw, he thinks, to A-Yuan, even if they don’t know con-scious-ly that he can talk to them. And, of course, the handsome - oh, the great Hanguang-jun, known master of Inquiry.”

"Will they accept Inquiry with myself,” Lan Wangji asked, “while Lan Yuan continues to play with the rabbits?”

Lan Yuan watched the space where Wei Wuxian was.

“’Lan Zhaaan,’” he repeated, less certainly. “’You’re too - sorry, Mama. ...Yes, Mama.” He turned back to Lan Wangji. “He says you’re a very good dad and he’s so glad you’ve learned so much since the street in Yiling.”

Lan Wangji felt his ears turn red, which was ridiculous. It wasn’t exactly a high bar, to have learned how to treat a child better than to stand in silent bewilderment while the child wailed at one’s feet.

Oh.

“A-Yuan. Do you remember...”

Lan Yuan shook his head, looking down in shame.

“That is fine,” Lan Wangji said firmly. “Do you wish to resume playing with the rabbits?”

Lan Yuan’s entire being seemed to brighten; if he’d been a rabbit himself, his ears would have stood straight in excitement. But he looked guiltily at the line of waiting ghosts.

(They were mostly common people of Gusu, ghostly echoes of clothing in rough cloth and dull colors. Many were bloody, from missing limbs or cut chests or more, others were simply pale and thin. One had the ghost of a cat draped stubbornly around her shoulders. The farther they got from him, the less clear they were to see, but sadness and yearning radiated from all of them, even the ones who scowled or glared, dark energy flicking around their forms like a shadow of the aura Mama could summon.

“Go on, A-Yuan,” said Mama, with one of his warm smiles that felt like home. “Your dad and I will handle the deathly supplicants, but we can’t play with the bunnies nearly as well as you will - but be careful! They might recognize that you’re part radish, and try to eat you!”)

Lan Yuan leapt to his feet with a grin, and bowed quickly to both of them. “I’ll be careful! Thank you, Mama; thank you, Father!” 

“Go slowly,” Lan Wangji called as he darted off. “The rabbits - ”

The rabbits had already scattered in the face of Lan Yuan’s run, save for one particularly lazy old one with a whole leaf of lettuce to itself.

He will learn, Wei Wuxian said on the guqin, with a meaningless trill that Lan Wangji had no trouble translating as a smile. 

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

thirty-three - beacon in the night

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

LESYA STRIDES INTO the Spartan war camp with the blood of their brother-in-arms still on her hands. She drives her spear into the ground and glances around at the sparring hoplites before approaching the central pavilion with the sealed edict in hand. The flaps are pulled open, a gathering of three men surround a small table looking over a fading and partially torn map of Boeotia and Attika. She almost pities the Spartan commander until he looks up– “Stentor?”

“You!” Stentor hisses, quarter drawing the short sword from his belt. The men under his command echo the motion, drawing swords and leveling spears. She takes a step back, hand reaching behind her back —fingers brushing over the cool leather hilt of her blade but instead, wrap around a piece of papyrus. 

“I have a message from the Kings of Sparta,” Lesya announces, holding out the scroll for all to see. The thunder of voices ebbs, all eyes on the sealed edict. Stentor —chest heaving— slams his sword back into its sheath, then spins away, stomping to the table at the center of the tent. Lesya follows him with the wary eyes of the Spartiates watching.

He takes the scroll and unfurls the message, face twisting and falling as he reads King Pausanias’s orders. Stentor rolls the edict back up. “Why was this entrusted to you?” He asks, sneering as he turns from the table —throwing the edict into a brazier to burn. She carried her own death sentence. 

Lesya watches the papyrus and ink burn, unable to discern any of the writing before flames take hold. “Brasidas asked me to deliver it,” she answers with a shrug, still unsure of why the general would trust her with such a task given her transgressions against him and Sparta. 

Stentor braces his weight against the map table, looking down at the fading rivers and hills and the markers for the Athenian and Spartan forces. What happened in Megaris still leaves a bitter taste in Stentor’s mouth, but he cannot deny her slaughter of the leader had been instrumental in their campaign’s success. He sees her as a means to an end, a tool to obtain victory in Boeotia and then discard. “I suppose now that you’re here–” he straightens and crosses his arms “–you may be of use.”

They glance at the map, and the stones huddled together representing the Korinthian fleet near the harbor city of Korsia. Stranded at sea for two moons, blocked on land by the Athenian army and at sea by their navy. “Our allies cannot make landfall,” Stentor says, motioning for his harmost and strategos to join them. Both men regard Lesya with disdain —each has seen men die at the blades of a ghost with copper hair. 

“You need me to clear a path,” Lesya surmises, whether by slaughter or diversion the Korinthian fleet needs to make landfall if Sparta is to secure Boeotia. She leans over the table, committing the lines of the city streets and walls to memory. 

“If you think you can manage what my men could not–” Stentor glares at her, his dark eyes harsh as daggers “–then yes.” 

Silence takes hold of the air, broken by the sound of knuckles cracking. Lesya looks up from the map —she will see the Spartan army receives the aid of their allies, if only for spite. Stentor rounds the table, exiting the tent. Sparing a final look at the map, she turns to follow. 

“Have you heard of the Boeotian Champions?” he asks, standing on a promontory overlooking Thebes in the distance. The meddlesome warriors spur the morale of the Athenian forces with each desecrated Spartan corpse. Lesya nods, know how to test the strength and resolve of Boeotian myths and legends. “Good.” His smile is grim. With the likes of her, they can end the war. “They say you are a weapon–” Lesya grimaces at his words and the reminder of what she’d been to the Cult “–be my weapon and secure this region for Sparta.” 

Her laurel gaze settles on the horizon —there is work to be done. Stentor grips onto her forearm before she can leave, drawing her close. “But do not forget,” he hisses, “I know who you are and that your blood is tainted.”

In turn, Lesya grips onto his vambrace and leans toward him with a smile capable of haunting dreams. “And do not forget that I could quash you and use your bones to pick my teeth,” she bites back. Stentor’s face —painted red with anger— drains of color. Pausanias has assigned him an impossible task. If the Cult’s champion wasn’t able to stop her, then how could he hope to do so? “You do not command me, Stentor,” Lesya grits out, eyes burning with unspeakable rage. “It would do you well to remember that.”

SHE CREEPS FORWARD through the fen and toward the harbor village. The night is muggy and the sky clear —the moon and stars shining like beacons, betraying everything in their silver veil. She stoops down, lifting wet earth to coat the metal pommel and edge of her daggers. Toads croak, and foxes and voles dart in and out of the tall ferns and shrubs. She halts at the edge of Korsia. 

Athenian hoplites line the wooden walls of the dock. The rest of the garrison —two taxiarchies each five hundred strong— sit encamped in and around the village streets. Stentor’s reticence had been wise. Assaulting this well-defended fort without the Korinthian fleet would bring the Spartans to their knees, and Boeotia would fall into Athens’ hands. Such a defeat could end the war.  

Bawdy roars echo from the hastily prepared taverns —where there are soldiers, there are drinks and hetaerae to warm their cots. Archers keep silent vigilance on the walls and rooftops, watching the seas and the streets. Against the stone buildings of the harbor, one structure stands out —a freshly hewn timber tower, upon which an archer strode with his chest bare and blue-and-white cape glinting. Far beyond the tower was the dark shapes of the Korinthian fleet, pocked with torches and braziers. The Korinthians could not hope to make landfall anywhere along the coastline without losing most of their men. 

She looks over her shoulder, eyeing the edges of bronze shields and the silver points of Spartan shields —all waiting for a signal. Ten men, Lesya thinks with silent laughter, I could do this alone. Turning back to the town, she moves through the thick ferns and around the outskirts of the walls. A break in the palisade just large enough for her to squeeze through and a sleeping guard presents her with a way in. 

Crouching next to the sleeping hoplite, Lesya unsheathes one of her daggers and draws it across the man’s neck. Blood gurgles, his eyes open wide, but he cannot cry out —seconds pass, and then he takes the outstretched arm of Charon. Throwing the fading blue cape across the corpse, she moves forward, gaze fixed on the archer’s tower. A pair of hoplites draw near to her hiding spot low in the flower beds at the front of a villa —their muted conversations rise and fall as they pass. 

Darting from the flower bed, she comes to the tower —pitch and oil-filled amphorae sit around the base, filling the fair with a heavy stench. Lesya turns her attention from the amphorae to the top of the archer’s tower, following a path of notches and binding ropes. The planks at the top of the platform groan as an archer strides back-and-forth. 

Lesya leaps up, clamping her hand over the archer’s mouth as her blade sinks into the soft flesh of his neck. She lets the archer’s body down silently and turns to the landward side of the village. Taking the archer’s bow and an arrow, she tears a strip of fabric from his chiton and ties it about the shaft, setting it alight. Lesya draws back the flaming arrow, aiming skyward and across the water —a streak of orange light across the clear sky. 

Long moments slip past as she watches the black hills in the distance —then one after another, small fires start to pock to the landscape and the Athenian hoplites manning the walls take notice. A war drum sounds in the distance, followed by the low moan of a war horn. The still of the night is broken by shouting. Hundreds of men spill from the taverns and tents into the streets and fenland. “Spartans!” They cry. “Take up arms!” The two taxiarchies fall into shambled formations, spreading out from Korsia to face the oncoming phantom army. 

Looking out over the water, Lesya remembers the stench from the jars of pitch and oil. A beacon. She glances between the burning brazier and amphorae below and acts rather than thinking. The flames topple downward, clay shatters, and fire takes hold of the tower with an explosion. Taking a running leap, Lesya plummets from the tower and into a pile of hay. Over the roar of the flames and shouting from the Athenians, the low echo of a hundred war drums fills the air as the Korinthian fleets bear down on the Boeotian shoreline. 

KASSANDRA FOLLOWS THE trail of blood and strung up bodies along the narrow forest path where whispers said she would find Deianeira and Astra. The Eagle Bearer stops at the last two corpses swaying in the breeze —both belong to women. One hangs by the ankle —throat gaping open with fresh blood still dripping to the patch of grass below. The second has a hole carved into her chest, her heart pinned to the trunk of the tree with an arrow and an ivory mask weeping red. She feels her stomach churn —Lesya. 

Ahead smoke rises, and through the trees, the misthios can see a small fire with a single shadow sitting beside it. “Doing my work for me?” Kassandra asks, sitting opposite of her. Long months have passed since they parted ways in Lakonia. Ikaros descends through the pines, perching on a boulder —mistrustful eyes trained on Lesya as she runs a worn whetstone down the edge of a spear-tip. 

“I work for myself, misthios,” she reminds Kassandra, feeling the leaf-shaped blade bite into the pad of her thumb. “It just happens our goals are aligned.” Satisfied with her work, she drives the spear into the ground next to her and reaches into a small canvas pouch. Lesya tosses a fragment of the artifact at Kass’ feet, proof of another successful hunt. “Deianeira is no more.”

The Eagle Bearer glances back at the path of corpses. “And the others?”

Lesya shrugs. “They got in my way.” 

The callous response sends a cold shiver down Kassandra’s spine. She imagines Lesya has left similar trails of destruction across Hellas. “You’ve been busy then?”

Her laugh is morose, her smile grim. There is a dark glint in her eyes that Kassandra has never seen before —something has changed her. “Carved a path for the Korinthian fleet to make landfall and have rid Hellas of three more Cultists,” Lesya answers. A more impressive feat than winning an Olympic wreath. 

At the edge of the clearing, something rustles in the underbrush. Lesya reaches for the small blade on the inside of her bracer. A hare jumps from into the open, and Lesya’s stomach grumbles. She flicks the blade into the air, catching the hare by the neck —it squeals once, then falls still and silent. Rising, she goes to collect her kill. 

Kassandra watches as Lesya skins the hare, the silver rays of Selene’s light dappling her skin through the canopy above. Her cuts are precise and efficient —the work of one used to taking life and skin from the living, whether it be man or beast. She guts the dead animal first, dumping the offal into a shallow hole but keeping the heart and liver before slicing a neat line all along the underbelly and ripping the skin free in a single tug. It may not be much, but it will fill their bellies for the night.

Fat drips down onto the stones surrounding the fire, sizzling as Lesya turns the hare over the flames using one of her daggers. Kassandra watches still, honing the blade of her kopis. She wants to ask after her brother —to know if Lesya has seen Deimos since they parted ways, but she refrains. A part of her knows the darkness surrounding her is because of him. Neither of them can find much more to say, not even as they split the roast hare. 

Lesya lays back under the stars with a soft sigh and cannot help but wonder if Deimos is looking up at the same night sky. 

[taglist:  @wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fucking-dip-shit @elizabethroestone @maximalblaze @balmacedapascal @elizabethroestone @kitkitvm @dynamicorbit @kvitravn]

[sugarbutterbroadway]

When Davey Smiles

Golden rays of sunlight trickled in through the blinds pouring over Jack’s face. He scrunched his nose up and pulled the blankets over his face. He had already started shifting an hour prior but he had hope that he could slip back into the clutches of sleep. Now it was just pathetic how he was clinging onto the traces of drowsiness. He spent five more minutes with his eyes screwed shut before opening them. The sky was awake so he was awake or whatever the hell it was Anna said. He groaned and sat up a little, rubbing his eyes. If it was anyone else he would have left to not disturb them, but when Davey finally fell asleep, he slept like a rock. Jack chuckled, he could probably do an entire cirque du soleil act and Davey would only groan and roll over.

Man did he love his husband. He was so happy he got to say that, his husband. They had tied the knot a few months ago and he still got all giddy every time he said it. Davey was his husband, his sweet and handsome husband who was currently drooling on his pillow.

“Ew”Jack whispered, pulling a face. He was more disgusted that he thought Davey was still darling with spit pooling out of his mouth. He wasn’t exactly a quiet sleeper, he pulled faces and groaned and snored and sometimes even talked if Jack was lucky. It was mostly lesson plans and history facts so that got old fast. It wasn’t any better this morning, every so often he would groan and every single time it gave Jack a mini heart attack. You’d think he’d be used to it at this point but the kids he grew up with all slept like the dead, unless something was wrong. He worried his lip between his teeth and peeked over at Davey. He promised himself he would stop doing this years ago because it was creepy but he couldn’t help it. He watched his face and looked for any tells that he was having a nightmare. Davey didn’t have them often, but when he did they were always horrible. Furrowed brows,squirming and more often than not he cried. Jack had only seen them a few times but they always broke his heart, the way Davey shot up not knowing where he was, it was like watching a frightened child. So he watched and waited, looking for even the slightest tell. A few minutes had passed and he could finally stop holding his breath, Davey was fine. Of course he was, but Jack could never be too sure. He wanted to slap himself, it was too early to be freaking out over something that hasn’t even happened.

He needed to get out of bed. He was growing restless and it was only a matter of time before he kicked Davey from all his fidgeting and ended up with a 7am scolding. He shuddered, a tired Davey’s scoldings were not to be taken lightly. He slid out from underneath the blankets and nearly jumped back into bed the second his feet hit the floor. 

“Jesus christ!”he exhaled, it was freezing. He waddled over to the closet and pulled out a pair of sweats and a hoodie, and if they just so happened to be Davey’s, that was his business. The first order of business was to get some coffee in his system—decafe of course. The last time he had caffeinated coffee he was an anxious wreck the whole day. He shook his head, that was not a good day for anyone. He slid his feet into his bedroom slippers and padded out of the room. The minute he walked into the living room he heard the jingling of a collar.

“There’s my baby”he cooed, dropping to his haunches. Luna happily trotted over and placed her head on his knees. He of course took this as the cue to pick her up baby style and walk into the kitchen.

“You’re getting so big, Lu”He sighed, maneuvering her to one arm. “You’re not our little baby anymore. You think you have the right to turn one and get so big, huh?”he picked up a peppermint k cup and placed it in the keurig, god did he love wedding presents. “What’s next? You gonna move out and go to college? Gonna leave me and daddy?” he paused. Then quickly muffled a cackle with his elbow. “You’re literally our first baby, how does it feel?”

Luna squirmed in his arms and whined. 

“Fine”He huffed, lowering her to the floor. She quickly jumped from his arms and padded back into the living room. 

“I get no love from this girl”He grumbled, once his coffee was done brewing he put in an unnecessary amount of creamer that would send Davey reeling and sat in the living room. If Jack was going to drink coffee he wanted it sweet or not at all, it annoyed Davey to high heaven. He smirked, but it quickly fell into a pout. It was early,he was bored and it was a sin to call anyone before 10am. He pulled his knees up to his chest and tried to enjoy the silence, it wasn’t something he got much of these days. But he didn’t really care for silence, he liked their house loud and chaotic. Not the ethereal hallmark masterpiece it currently was. Their house. That was insane, they owned a house. Well—they owned the mortgage and the bonus was getting to live there.

It was a project to begin with, it was practically begging to be taken off the market and both of them fresh out of college jumped at the opportunity. With help from Medda with the cost and many many breakdowns, it’s finally a place they can call home. He loved their house, their home. He loved it when Davey made breakfast in the morning, it was always without a doubt in his underwear no matter the weather. He loved when Davey sang while folding laundry or showering or even putting his shoes on. He was just a sucker for Davey singing, he rarely did it and when he does it’s always cut far too short because he’s embarrassed. Davey may not like his voice but Jack could listen to it all day long.

He was just a sucker for Davey, especially his smile. The way his eyes shone and his grin reached his ears, man it could make an angel weep. Maybe Jack had spent too much time with him but he knew each one of Davey’s smiles and he loved most of them. The way his lips quirked up into a lopsided grin when he was explaining a lesson planned out for his students. The way he smiled first thing in the morning when his eyes had lost their haziness and focused on Jack. The way he managed to smile even in the worst of times with tears streaming down his face because I’ll be okay Jack, I promise there’s nothing to worry about. And Jack’s favorite, the way he smiled at babies. His eyes would soften and he would grin and coo at any newborn in the vicinity, it gave Jack a deadly case of baby fever. They had spent time with Davey’s family this past holiday season and Jack could hardly bear it with all the new babies around, let alone them and Davey.

“Oh my god a baby.” Jack barely had time to question before Davey was pulling him in the direction of a cousin he definitely hadn’t met. The two embraced briefly before Davey had focused on the baby in her arms.

“Her name is Anika”

He let out a little gasp“Anika”he repeated, his eyes sparkling. 

Before Jack knew it Davey was coaxing his cousin to go have fun and enjoy the gathering which left them both on baby duty. Jack was excited himself but he couldn’t help but get a kick out of Davey acting like a complete idiot. He had basically taken over as a stand-in parent with a burp cloth over his shoulder,her diaper bag and a pacifier as they lounged on the couch.

“Ani ani ani ani!”He cooed, tickling her chin, the grin never leaving his face. 

Jack grinned himself, that was the happiest he had ever seen Davey, wedding and other milestones aside. He had taken a million pictures and didn’t stop smiling even after they left. He may have gotten a little eggnog drunk but he just remembers Davey repeating the name Anika over and over to himself in the car. It was a beautiful name but it left Jack thinking. Was Davey trying to drop hints? Did Davey want a baby? His eyes widened.

Did Davey want a baby with him?

He shook his head and set his unfinished cup on the coffee table. It was too early to think about babies, it was only 7:30am and he was only 24, there was plenty of time to think about babies later. Besides, he already had one child to look after, three if you count Charlie and Race. he sighed happily, where was Luna anyways?

He heard a scream from the bedroom and a loud thud. He winced, found her. He sprung off the couch, and jogged into the bedroom. Well Davey was awake. Luna was laid comfortably on his side of the bed while he sprawled on the floor staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes. Jack could barely stifle his laughter as he put on a stern face.

“Luna Anne Kelly-Jacobs”He scolded, “Did you push your poor father off the bed?”

“It’s too early for this,”Davey said in disbelief. “The chaos usually doesn’t start until noon”

“Look at what you did”He continued, “You sent the poor man into shock!”

Luna didn’t even bother to pick her head up, he clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“Kids these days man”

“Jack”Davey said, shifting his eyes towards the green eyed man. “Please...shut up”

“Good morning to you too, handsome”He said, he extended his arm and Davey reached up to grab it. With one pull Davey was in his arms, swaying gently.

“Morning”Davey yawned, and leaned in to place a kiss on Jack’s forehead. He missed by a long shot and got the top of his ear, but it was the thought that counted.

“You’re a zombie this mornin”He teased. Davey sighed and wrapped his arms around Jack, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

“My students are idiots,”Davey whimpered. Jack faltered for a second.

“Isn’t that kinda mean?”He chuckled.

“No no, they’re incredibly smart”Davey mumbled, “But oh my god they’re idiots”

“Ah, gotcha”He said, “What’d they say this time?”

“One of-”Davey cut himself off with a groan. “One of them looked me in my eye and told me that Amelia Earhart had big dick energy”

Jack quickly turned his head to the side and howled. If any of their neighbors were sleeping they weren’t now because he was dying.

“It’s not funny!”Davey whined burying his face in Jack’s shoulder.

“You’re right, it’s not funny”He said, attempting to compose himself “it’s fucking hilarious!”

“Jack-”

“But did they lie?”He asked, wiping his eyes. 

“No-”

“Raise their grade”He said, “I fucking love that kid”

Davey picked his head up and looked Jack square in the eye, “I couldn’t raise his grade if I wanted to, he’s top of the class”

And Jack was back in hysterics. “That makes it even better!”

That made Davey laugh a bit and he finally pulled away from the embrace shaking his head.

“You are a terrible influence”

“Tell this kid i’m his biggest fan”He pleaded, “Please, I’ll get on my knees and beg”

“I sure would like to see that”Davey laughed, then his face immediately dropped when Jack smirked. “No I didn’t mean it like-”

“Oh really?”He teased, “You wanna see me on my knees beggi-”

“I can’t hear you over the sound of me not hearing you”Davey said, walking out of the room. And he was smiling. Jack followed behind him with a laugh. He loved mornings like this,he loved the days those mornings turned into. For once Jack Kelly finally loved his life.

Bonus

“Will you make us breakfast?”Jack said.

Davey rolled his eyes. “You just want to look at my butt”

“So?”

“At least buy me dinner first”

“We’re married!”Jack exclaimed, “What more do you want from me!”

“I want you to love me for more than my juicy dumptruck!”

“And you wonder where your students pick this shit up from!”