#you cannot convince me he didn’t have half a dozen ‘oh to be a gentle kind lady mopping a fevered brow’ moments

[dathen]

Jonathan: These nuns are so lovely. If I weren’t madly in love with Mina maybe I’d be a nun and help the sick and unfortunate…

Jonathan: *passes out*

[five hours later]

Jonathan: Wait, I can’t be a nun…

Jonathan: I’m Anglican.

[orsuliya]

Alright! Time for part 3 of married!Awu/XQ headcanons. This time? It’s all about the children!

There is nothing unplanned about Awu’s second pregnancy. The subject of children comes up again not long after Awu reunites with Xiao Qi after the so-called death of the latter. Their days in Ningshuo may be filled with the hustle and bustle of preparing for the upcoming march on the capital, but evenings and nights? Those are for holding each other close in search of comfort and reassurance. If not for that, Awu would scarcely have the strength to let Xiao Qi out of her eyesight during those first days and weeks.

During one of those quiet Ningshuo evenings Awu finally breaks. She has had to be strong for so long, all the while half-believing she would never be allowed the luxury of being weak in her husband’s arms again, that even now it takes time for her to let go and simply cry. When tears finally do come out, so do all of Awu’s past fears, leaving her one by one in an unstoppable torrent. Fear for those reliant on her, for the orphaned country and for her own fate; all of those are carefully listened to and soothed with words, silent affection and sense of complete togetherness.

One of those fears? Had you died, had you truly left me alone, what would I have of you for all the years to come? she asks, her voice muffled, her face pressed into her husband’s neck. There is a good reason why she was prepared to die after exacting her revenge. Far too many sleepless nights in Hulan had been spent imagining the long, dreary years of her widowhood. Ten, twenty, thirty years of loneliness, seeing her nephews and nieces being born and then growing up, with nothing, not even her husband’s sword to put in that bloody chapel; would that have been her fate?

She hits him – not too hard, but hard enough for it to be more than a playful tap – when he says that, in time, she would remarry and find happiness again. Would you?! she demands angrily, then softens, once she reads the answer in his eyes. A man should take responsibility from the beginning to the end. Not even a bloody sword to be mounted on the family altar, she laughs tiredly. You owe me, my Prince Yuzhang, you owe me and I shall be your most merciless creditor. Give me a child with your smile, one with your hands and eyes, she demands, pressing insistent kisses to that smile, to those hands and eyes, and then and only then will I consider myself satisfied.

He would, you know, he would have given her a dozen children if that were only possible, but surely she must know that it is not, it can never be in this lifetime. Awu can have anything else for the payment of his debt; he knows he owes her and will give her all that she may wish for that she does not already own. She wants children? Fine, she may have all the orphans in Ningshuo for the raising, if that will bring her joy. But he doesn’t, can never regret putting her health above all else and would give her five more miracle flowers if he had to…

Yes, Awu finally shuts her husband up, unable to take any more of this lethal sincerity. How? Well, the exact method I shall leave to your imagination, but the gist of it is as follows: Xiao Qi is not getting off that easily. They can and will have that child. How? Well, Awu might have plotted with Doctor Shen towards that goal and it will work this time. Maybe not now, maybe it will take another few months or years of fiery needles, but it’s not like they are in hurry. There is no way Awu will agree to have a child in the middle of a civil war, so her husband should really get on with restoring peace in all Cheng. Not right now! In the morning should be soon enough.

____________________________________

It does take some time, first to restore peace and then for Awu to actually get pregnant. In the meantime, she does take all the orphans in Ningshuo as an advance on that debt, not to mention their first son and daughter, Xiaohe and Qinzhi.

Doctor Shen, who – struck with a sudden premonition – had moved to Ningshuo among much grumbling and trembling over the contents of his priceless apothecary, is rewarded with the dubious honour of playing witness to Xiao Qi’s complete meltdown. The first thing our brave general does upon hearing of his wife’s pregnancy is to hug her and refuse to let go for a good while, not that she protests. The second thing? He panics like he’s never panicked before. Doctor Shen comes upon his noble patron, well, not hyperventilating, we’re talking about Xiao Qi here, remember. But certainly in throes of a good old anxiety attack. It’s… an experience for the good doctor, that’s for sure.

Thankfully Doctor Shen manages to talk Xiao Qi out of his wildest ideas. Like, for example, shutting Awu in her rooms in the middle of Ningshuo Fortress and standing guard over her until the baby is born. Yeah, that was not Xiao Qi’s proudest moment. Doctor Shen promises not to tell anyone of this sudden bout of unreasonable behaviour and keeps his word… for about three days, when he gladly throws Xiao Qi under the bus in order to ensure Awu’s full compliance with his own, medically justified safety measures.

Mind you, even Doctor Shen cannot work miracles, which he comes to bitterly regret in those next few months. Panicked Xiao Qi and worried Turnip Wang make for a truly hellish duo and Ningshuo soon experiences a steady trickle of accomplished doctors from the capital. Some of them have clearly been dragged out of their comfortable practices under duress, for others it’s quite an adventure. The latter soon find themselves put to work; no use in simply standing around and deliberating over a stunningly healthy woman when there are actual patients in need to be seen to!

____________________________________

Awu considers Xiao Qi’s debt fully repaid the moment she sees her son smile for the first time. Xiao Qi, an overachiever that he is, doesn’t quite agree… and a few years later they try for another child; this time it’s a daughter. One - as Xiao Qi likes to brag - as beautiful as her mother and isn’t it lucky that he has an army fit to guard the greatest treasures in all Cheng? Awu thinks that it would serve him right should Treasure the Younger marry an officer of that very army in the future. She doesn’t, by the way, but that is an entirely different story.

The children are named Yunshuo and Yunning, which is a reason of much good-natured teasing. Even among the children themselves. Yunning, once she grows to an age when she starts to assert her dominance, insists that really, her brother should listen to her in all things. He may be older in years, that much is true, but Ning always comes before Shuo, everybody knows that!

Jinruo’s words come true after all: Xiao Yunning is Awu’s tiny copy, only, according to Awu herself, twice as bossy and confident. Xiao Qi never questions this claim, at least not out loud, but Uncle Asu has no such qualms and immediately provides a good half-dozen stories to that effect. Now, Yunning has every chance to grow up spoiled with a mother who applauds her strong character, a father who might seem strict, yet folds like wet paper at the first sight of a trembling lip and a whole bunch of playmates only too easily coaxed into following her commands. And she very well might have... if not for one Hu Yao (who is alive and you won’t convince me otherwise, ha!). The younger Hu, a true Ningshuo legend, enjoys great authority among recruits and veterans both; she proves a match for a head-strong girl like Yunning, although only barely. No, Hu Yao’s pupil doesn’t become a general in her own right, choosing another path instead… but she keeps up with her training in the years to come.

Xiao Yunshuo, affectionately called Xiao Xiao, is no warrior in the making, being of a rather gentle disposition, something that he never grows out of, for all that this gentle disposition later turns out to hide a character of pure steel. Oh, make no mistake, Yunshuo is perfectly competent with weapons and on horseback, but it is not something that comes naturally to him, nor does he find much joy in fighting. This becomes blatantly obvious once he starts advanced training. Every child under Awu’s care is taught enough to be able to defend themselves or know when to run away, but nobody is forced to persist with military training, should they not wish to. Yunshuo persists all the same, making continuous progress. It’s only natural that he does: he’s rather frighteningly smart, that boy, and he works hard.

A bit too hard, as it turns out. Xiao Qi becomes suspicious of his son’s behaviour and makes sure to ‘accidentally’ come upon one of Yunshuo’s solitary and completely unsanctioned training sessions. Why, he asks and becomes rather angry once the truth starts coming out. No, not with Yunshuo. With himself, for not preventing this whole issue from existing in the first place. See, Yunshuo thinks it shameful that he, the firstborn and only son of Prince Yuzhang, the greatest general and warrior Cheng has had for generations, will never be able to become a worthy successor to his famous father. No, nobody has said anything, but Yunshuo is not stupid, he knows what he is and is not capable of!

Xiao Qi takes a minute to consider his next words carefully. In the end, he tells the truth: when he was a bit older that Yunshuo is now, he had no valuable skills, no education, no family and no real hope for the future. Signing up for an army was pretty much the easiest choice to make for somebody who didn’t really have all that much to live for. Killing people? Is not that difficult. All it takes is a good sharpened sword and some basic training. Learning to protect people, well, that was a bit harder; took Xiao Qi some years and a lot grief and pain to master that. Everything else – building a true home, making peace for yourself and everybody else, and creating a lasting, better future? That’s Awu’s forte and her work. There is no shame in having different skills, explains Xiao Qi. Find what you do best and make sure that it is of use to somebody. That’s it. Whatever Yunshuo’s skills, as long as at the end of the day he is be ready to use them to protect what is dear to him, he will be a warrior in his father’s eyes.

Xiao Yunshuo takes his father’s words to heart and, when the time comes, relays them to his own children. He never becomes a one man army, for all that he takes care not to let his skill with weapons go to rust. He does, however, become a great lord and statesman, and a startlingly brilliant strategist to boot; his advice is greatly appreciated by his older brother, the brave General Xiao Xiaohe… as well as by his brother-in-law, the Emperor of Cheng himself.

In Ningshuo, despite all his merits and great dignity, Xiao Yunshuo stays Xiao Xiao long, long after becoming a father himself.

____________________________________

Xiao Yunning is widely held by the ministers of Cheng to be the cause for at least a quarter of their grey hair. And all because of one rather tiny, if rather infamous deed. Okay, maybe not that tiny… But it is not Yunning’s fault that Xiao Qi had made such an impression on a bunch of delicate noblemen over twenty years earlier!

Once His Imperial Majesty, one Ma Jing, successfully negotiates puberty, it becomes a matter of national importance to supply him with a wife of appropriate station, character, beauty and fertility, the first and the last being the most important, of course. The true war over who will become the Empress of Cheng does not start until His Imperial Majesty becomes a fully-grown man; that is not until the Prime Minister’s eldest daughter comes of age. Having another Wang Empress is seen as inevitable by many; others are rather eager to see the streak of Wang Empresses die a final death. The idea of courting a foreign princess gets briefly thrown around and then soundly rejected. It’s a pity that all of His Majesty’s marriageable cousins with even a drop of Ma blood have the same family name, says somebody who sounds suspiciously like a true Classist Wei. For a moment there is complete silence as the thoughts of everyone present turn to the one cousin who is neither a Ma or a Wang.

See, Xiao Qi and Awu could easily make their daughter an Empress… if they thought that it would make her happy. They have nothing against Jing’er, why, he’s a beloved nephew to them both and they have taken a good measure of his character during the time he spent in Ningshuo, which amounts to a good couple of years. If they were to be honest, Yunning could use a husband this good-natured and conciliatory, and Jing’er would do well with an Empress of Yunning’s strength of character. There is also the matter of a rather touching childhood crush… but since Yunning herself has nothing but derogatory words for this whole imperial marriage mart mess, there is nothing to be done. Nothing to be done at all, as Xiao Qi quite readily assures his brother-in-law, adding that being an Empress is not an easy fate and one that he would not wish on anybody. Asu, long-used to not truly understanding Xiao Qi’s ambitions or rather the lack thereof, takes this assurance on its merits and goes back to planning his own daughter’s imperial wedding.

Rather surprisingly it’s Jing’er who becomes the greatest obstacle to Asu’s dynastic plans. Somehow he never really says no… but no mercenary father can ever pin him long enough to force him to say yes to any of the myriad of candidates. This stand-off lasts for some time, to Xiao Qi’s quiet amusement and Turnip’s frustration. Awu, on the other hand, becomes rather pensive, although she refuses to share her suspicions with anybody. It’s not like she has any proof…

...until her daughter provides her with all the proof she could have ever wished for.

The day another group of potential candidates is to be presented at court, Xiao Yunning pulls a Xiao Qi, causing many a minister to relieve their old trauma. Yes, she marches into the throne room accompanied by six of her companions, most of which do rather poorly at concealing weapons under their dresses. Yes, she climbs the stairs without as much as a by-your-leave. Yes, she does all of that while wearing clothing in a colour appropriate for the occasion. In this case? Wedding red. The main difference is that Ma Jing is a much wiser Emperor than Ma Zitan and grants Yunning’s petition immediately and with good grace.

The reason why Yunning did what she did, leaving Jing’er with no choice but to accept her suit? Well, that childhood crush might have been rather more than a crush. Really, Yunning would have had it in the bag the day of her coming-of-age ceremony, were His Imperial Majesty not such a noble bore. I cannot condemn you to carry this burden with me before you really know what you want, he said, every word disgustingly noble and self-sacrificial. You are not somebody who can be caged, so go and spread your wings and I shall wait for you for as long as it takes, he offered in a rather suspiciously bland tone of voice. Really, one could almost believe that Jing’er actually bought into that silly rumour that Xiao Qi requires every prospective son-in-law to fight him with live steel. Which, by the way, is not true. He only ever fought two rather persistent young lordlings who couldn’t understand that Qinzhi’s no means no.

Everything ends rather well for all interested parties, although Turnip keeps grumbling about having an unfairly deceitful brother-in-law. Awu quickly shuts him down, if only to get in her own portion of shameless teasing. See, if Xiao Qi wanted to avoid such situations, then he should have given his children a better example. This quickly devolves into a round of Yuzhang-style teasing, which prompts a stark realization from Xiao Yunning. She might be the Empress-to-be now, but even being thrice an Empress would still give her no power to stop her parents from being a pair of embarrassing old people in love. Jing’er, ever the conciliator, shows his diplomatic skill by proposing that she might have her revenge… by being one half of a pair of embarrassing young people in love.

The Wang Princess of that generation, a rather lovely and wise young woman by the name of Wang Xu, is not all that sad about losing a chance at the throne. Why, her tastes were always rather specific and in general ran more to generals than delicate young nobles. Now, this Xiao Xiaohe looks like an interesting specimen and certainly worthy of taking a closer look, should one be in-market for a pet general of one’s own...

[wallgirl]

The Little Nereid Part two

2200 words, part two of a five six part fanfiction

Poseidon x OC

Dynamene, youngest of the 50 Nereids, has lived most of her adolescence as a servant alongside her sisters at Poseidon’s palace. But with her coming-of-age birthday and other developments, what she initially thought was just admiration of her master blossoms into something stronger and more passionate… and painful.

Categories: Romance, angst, unrequited love, coming-of-age, earn-your-happy-ending; no NSFW content

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               Once she had collected herself and spent enough time admiring the bracelet on her own, Dynamene rose from the bed with a sigh and went to her door. No doubt her family would be wondering what her running was about.

               Upon opening it, several of her sisters nearly fell into the room.

               “Why-! What are you all doing here?” Dynamene gasped, quickly stepping out of the way.

               “We heard you received your gift, and we didn’t want to disturb you, but we were just so curious…” One of the nymphs tweedled her fingers.

               “Ah, yes! My birthday present from Lord Poseidon!” Dynamene beamed and held her bracelet-clad hand up to the light, allowing her sisters a good look at it. They crowded around in awe, cooing with admiration.

               “Dynamene! Are you alright? Ianeira said you came running like a madwoman from Lord Poseidon’s quarters…” Actaea halted with relief at the sight of Dynamene showing off her new bracelet. “Oh, I get it now. So he did give you your gift himself, did he?” She gave Dynamene a rather knowing grin.

               Dynamene blushed. “I mean… Yes, he did. I was very surprised.” She began to turn the beads of the bracelet over in thought. “I’m very happy with it. It’s even mother-of-pearl.”

               “So it is!” Actaea stepped closer to get a better look. “It goes so well with the pins I gave you. You look absolutely spoiled now.”

               Dynamene giggled. “I do have to say that I’m very happy with the presents I’ve received thus far.”

               “Then you’re going to be even more delighted here in a moment,” another sister called from the far end of the hall. Slender Callianassa stood holding her treasured lyre in both hands. “Why don’t you all come down to the sitting room here? I’ll play you anything you’d like, Dynamene.”

               The sisters crowded together down to the large sitting area, one of over a dozen spread out throughout the palace. Dynamene took a place of honor, draped on the side of the couch closest to where Callianassa perched on a gilded chair. “What would you like to hear, Dyna?” Callianassa asked, lightly strumming the instruments strings.

               “Play me something by Erik Satie,” Dynamene said thoughtfully. Her thoughts continued to drift back to that moment in Poseidon’s quarters, where she had stood face-to-face with him.

               “Oh, Erik Satie! That’s furniture music,” Thoe scoffed from where she had begun brushing Actaea’s hair.

               “You’re so old-fashioned, Thoe,” murmured Callianassa. “Let’s see… I’ll start with the Gymnopedies, Dyna.” She began to softly pluck at the lyre.

               Dynamene gave a sigh of contentment and allowed herself to close her eyes. It really had been such a wonderful day thus far. She felt so lucky and at peace to be here, surrounded by her loving sisters, enjoying a calm afternoon on her birthday. The golden sunlight washing in through the open windows caressed her skin with warmth. The gentle, bittersweet melody began to envelop her, and she found herself picturing Poseidon’s unwavering grey gaze. The tender somberness of the song brought to mind the emptiness in his eyes. How was it that someone so beautiful, so mesmerizing, felt so completely cold and void?

               And yet a powerful aura emitted from him wherever he went. He was heartless, but he was also smart and strong. What he lacked in sentiment he made up for ten-fold as a god with his vast knowledge of the ocean and his subjects.

               The ocean, his domain… How fitting for a man as unfathomable as he.

               The sound of familiar footsteps echoing along a distant hall brought a stop to Callianassa’s playing, and Dynamene looked up. The rest of the Nereids halted whatever they were doing and stood; those footsteps could only belong to one person. Dynamene quickly got to her feet as well, straightening her peplos with quick hands. She felt that strange tingle returning to her veins, creeping from her wrists up her spine.

               Lord Poseidon entered the room, and the fifty sisters immediately dropped to a quick curtsy. As the eldest, Ianeira stood at the head of the group, ready to engage their master.

               He said nothing, as he was typically wont to do, for a moment, taking in the room. “We will be receiving Lady Hera here tomorrow afternoon.”

               Several of the sisters tilted their heads or tapped their chins in reaction to the news. Lady Hera didn’t visit that often, but she was one of the few Olympians to make it a point to see her brother from time to time. Unfortunately, Lord Poseidon and Lady Hera didn’t often see eye-to-eye, and her visits often ended with him annoyed and her in a rage.

               “I will be meeting with her in my quarters. There is no need to prepare the guest suite,” he finished.

               That part wasn’t unusual. Poseidon did his best to keep his interactions with his family private affairs, usually entertaining them in his sitting room in his private quarters. The sisters exhaled silently in relief. Hera was always polite to them when she visited, but she had incredibly high standards of cleanliness, not unlike her brother. Preparing a suite for her was always nerve-wracking.

               “Of course, my lord,” Ianeira replied. “We will see to it that the palace is fit to receive her.”

               His instructions finished, Poseidon turned and left as abruptly as he had arrived. Dynamene stared after his vanishing figure, her hand lingering on the bracelet.

               “We have our instructions,” Ianeira said, turning to the others. “We’ll start the preparations after lunch.”

               With that, most of the sisters returned to their leisurely activities, some breaking off to have lunch early. Callianassa took her lyre up once more, and Dynamene returned to her perch on the couch. But her mind was now racing with the news of Hera’s visit. Hera usually came to Poseidon’s palace with one goal in mind…

               Convincing him to marry.

               It was just in her nature. As the goddess of matrimony, she worked hard to pair up her relatives and see them happily settled. A loner like Poseidon who refused to take a partner irked her to no end. Dynamene wasn’t entirely sure what her end goal was in seeing Poseidon married, but that mystery was best left to the Olympians who knew her well. Perhaps she considered Poseidon’s refusal to marry a personal affront to her own nature as the goddess of marriage. No matter her persistence, however, Poseidon would never bend. That was why their visits always ended in both parties with a sour mood. Dynamene often wondered why he bothered to entertain her coming in the first place, but then again, Poseidon was a pragmatist in these matters. He probably allowed her to make her arguments simply to keep the peace between him and her – and by extension, her husband Zeus.

               Not that Hera herself was someone to trifle with on any accounts. One disastrous visit 700 years ago had ended with Hera punching a column that upheld Poseidon’s personal balcony, completely levelling it in the process. It had taken forty skilled workmen seven days, working day and night, to restore it to its prior condition. Hera was the most feared goddess of the Greek pantheon, sheerly on account of her wrath. Not to say that Poseidon could not take her in a fight; he mostly certainly could, and he would win. But Hera’s destructive fury wouldn’t leave him unscathed, if things came to blows.

               Dynamene swallowed and forced herself to come back to her senses. There was no point in letting her fears run away from her. Since that incident so long ago, Hera had been largely successful in reining in her violence around her brother and his palace. Nowadays, when she visited, only harsh words were exchanged.

               And yet, Dynamene found herself dreading Hera’s arrival. Was it because of Hera herself?

               Or was it because of the topic that would no doubt be broached yet again?

               “Alright, sisters,” Ianeira called, clapping her hands. “Lunch is ready for all. We’ll begin work after.”

               With a sigh, Dynamene pulled herself from the couch. There was no use worrying now.

               Several hours later, with the great entrance hall freshly scrubbed and polished, and the special velvet carpets laid out, the Nereids’ work was done for the day. Dynamene slipped out onto one of the smaller balconies overlooking the ocean for a breath of fresh air. She inhaled the scent of the seawater with relish; as a sea nymph, it would always be her favorite scent. The door softly opened and closed behind her, and Actaea stepped forward in the moonlight to join her.

               “Finally, everything pristine and in its place,” her older sister sighed, gazing out at the ocean. “I’m sorry the latter half of your birthday was so dull.”

               “No, it’s fine,” Dynamene smiled. “I got to spend plenty of time with all of you, and several nice presents to boot. I’d say it was a pretty fine birthday.”

               “Always the optimist,” Actaea tousled her hair fondly. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it. You won’t have another for the next century!” She sighed, voice full of reminiscence. “I cannot believe you are a woman now. It seems not long ago, when we first arrived here, you were hiding behind our skirts and shrinking behind furniture. And now look at you; a smart, well-read, considerate young lady.”

               “I still don’t feel that… grown up,” Dynamene confessed, looking down at her hands. “I still look so childish. And I’m still so clumsy.”

               “Coming-of-age is just the line drawn by the world, the official cut-off point between child and adult. The task of growing up is a giant blur; not one you can compartmentalize. Give it time, and you’ll feel grown-up soon enough.” Actaea smiled kindly.

               Dynamene took a deep breath, deciding to share what was weighing on her mind. “Truth be told, I am… worried about Hera’s visit tomorrow.”

               “Oh, everyone is worried about that,” Actaea laughed. “But she’s been well-behaved these past several centuries, no? I don’t think we have much to fret about.”

               “Well, yes, but… It’s not just Hera’s temper. I mean… She always comes to talk to Lord Poseidon about one thing,” Dynamene continued lowly, twisting her hands.

               Actaea looked mystified for a moment, then her eyes widened lightly as it dawned on her what Dynamene was referring to.

               “If Poseidon marries, we’ll have a lady-of-the-house,” Dynamene ventured. “And I suppose I’m just worried about what that would mean for us.” She turned her bracelet over on her wrist. Its iridescent surface caught the moonlight in haunting cool hues.

               Actaea was quiet for several moments. “Dynamene, you know as well as I do that Poseidon will never take a bride,” she said softly.

               Dynamene looked up at her older sister’s face. There was something she couldn’t place in her sister’s eyes. She slowly turned her face back to the ocean, gripping the balustrade tightly. “You’re right,” she replied. “It’s not something we should worry about.” A tight pricking sensation came to her chest.

               Actaea squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. “We should head to bed now, little sister. We’ll want our energy for whatever Hera brings our way tomorrow.” She grinned dryly before going back inside, leaving Dynamene alone again with her thoughts.

               Dynamene gave the dark ocean with its frothy foam one last longing glance. Her thoughts had been in a dizzy whirlwind all day long, it seemed. She desperately wished that she could go down for a swim, just to clear her head…

               The more she considered it, the better it sounded. The idea was tantalizingly delicious in the face of the strange weight in her heart. With quick, quiet footsteps, she rushed through the dark palace and down those 150 steps to the shore. She took a moment to take in the vast ocean again, with its white foam crests and the soothing rush of its waves. Stripping off her peplos and chiton, she folded them and placed them atop a nearby rock, making sure the pins gifted to her by Actaea were wrapped well within. Dynamene looked down at her wrist, momentarily debating taking off the bracelet as well, but couldn’t bring herself to remove it. Surely, as mother-of-pearl, it would be just fine in the seawater, wouldn’t it?

               With eager steps, she waded into the cold ocean water, allowing the spray of the waves to pelt her skin in its soothing rhythm. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to concentrate. Her older sisters were much more skilled in joining themselves to the water, but she still needed more time to focus her energy. Before long, her body began to slip away in the ocean, melting into foam. She gave a sigh of contentment. Although they might spend the majority of their lives in humanoid form on land, the Nereids were really most at home in the sea, their source of life and spirit. The dark, powerful waters cradled her fluid form, not unlike the weight of that presence she cherished back on land.

             With her body now joined to the water, her essence little more than a current, she slipped deep into the darkness and allowed her thoughts to melt away.

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Author’s notes: A new sister added to the bunch. The Nereids asides from Dynamene are:

Actaea – caring sister

Callianassa – musically inclined sister

Eione – tomboy sister

Thoe – rude sister

Ianeira – oldest sister

I did my best to pick names for them that are each unique, to help differentiate them. These are all names of Nereids mentioned in real Greek mythology, but the resemblance largely stops there.

Now we’re starting to bite into the meat of the story; the main conflict. You know, Poseidon is a really static character to have as a love interest, but I have plans to flesh him out a little bit more in the next parts, so it doesn’t seem like Dynamene’s in love with a freaking statue (though with the way he acts most of the time, she might as well be)

What is the time period this fic takes place in, you ask? no one asked that

Well, it’s kind of an anachronism-stew situation. If we try to put a time on when Poseidon rose to power as king of the oceans, we might be able to slap the date on that as 1000 BC, roughly around when the Greek Pantheon as we know them started to be widely worshipped. Assuming that the Nereids came to serve Poseidon around the same time period, and that it’s been 1000 years since, that puts us around the year 0. However, Erik Satie composed the Gymnopedies in the late 1800s. So who knows? I’ve given up on making it make sense

[fluffy-marshmallow-heart]

Drake's Diary ch.29 -The Chosen One

The Royal Romance canon from Drake's POV

Words: 2057

Master List (Catch up here)

This chapter was a bit difficult, because almost none of it was in the book. PB (in my opinion) dropped the ball with that. So, I put in what I think would have (should have) happened. I hope you enjoy it

Drake stood hesitantly on the hotel balcony facing Emma. “We need to talk…about us.”

Please tell me I’m not too late. Please tell me things didn’t work with Liam.

She nodded. “Yeah, we do. Drake…Liam proposed to me tonight.”

“Oh!” His heart sank. I actually thought you might choose me, though. He tried to hide the hurt coursing through him. Trying to smile for her but failing. “I’m hap…”

“I said no.”

He inhaled sharply. Did she just say…. “….What?”

She took a step closer. “Drake…I might’ve come here for Liam, but I want to be with you. You’re the only one I ever really cared about.

  It’s…happening? Does she know what she’s giving up? Is she drugged?  “Rose…do you really mean that? Liam is a King. I can’t offer you half of what he can.”

She gave him a soft smile. “I didn’t come here looking for a Kingdom, Drake. I want to be with you. And I think you invited me out here tonight because you want that too.”

He stares at her, falling silent for a moment as his disbelief slowly fades into resolve. “I do. I have for a long time, Rose. I guess I’ve been afraid of what that would mean. For you, for Liam…and for me. But if you…”

“Drake. I’m sure about this.” She interrupted.

He nods, running a slightly shaky hand through his hair. They both take a step closer to each other. Drake’s gaze never strays from her face. It’s real. This is real. Our feelings are real. I am a lucky bastard. “Is this the part where you tell me to stop talking and kiss you? Because I really want to kiss you.”

She bit her lip and his eyes fell to it. “Well…So do I, but aren’t you worried someone will see us?”

He follows her pointed gaze over to a nearby building, where a few dozen people seem to be throwing a party on the roof. He grinned. Nope. I really don’t give a fuck.  “Let ‘em look. I’m tired of being careful.”

He pulls her toward him, his lips catching hers in a searing kiss as his arms wrap comfortingly around her waist. He can’t help but feel gentle, astonished joy as he pulls away. “I don’t know what the hell I did to deserve you, Rose. But I’ll never stop trying to be worthy of it.”

God, she’s everything and more. And she chose me. I’m in love with this woman.

She smirked. “So, you won’t resent me for being a duchess?”

Like I could ever.  “I’d never re…Wait. What did she say?

“Wait, a what?”

“It’s been an eventful night. I’ll fill you in.”

Drake listened as Emma told him what transpired with her and Liam. He felt awful…to an extent.

I can’t believe he used her dog to propose…that’s genius. How am I going to top that?

“He also said that affairs are common in Cordonia, as long as you have the permission from your spouse.” She continued. “He asked me to sleep with him.”

Drake stared at her in shock. He what???

“Obviously I didn’t. But I think his ego may be a bit bruised. I just don’t want to go into this relationship without telling you everything, and even though we aren’t actually married yet, I just…I want you to know I would never do that. I choose you, Drake. I always have, and I always will.”

Drake let out a heavy sigh while running his hand through his hair. “Well…I’m a bit hurt he did that…but I also know that you’re pretty damn irresistible, Rose. And I know I can trust you, especially since you came right out with that. I have to ask though….” He trailed off, unsure of how to proceed.

“No, I never slept with him.”

His eyebrows shot up and she let out a laugh. “Are you really surprised that I knew you were going to ask?”

The corners of Drake’s mouth turned up. “I suppose by now I shouldn’t be surprised by anything you do. You’re amazing, Rose. And just so you know….it wouldn’t have mattered.”  Much.

“You can kiss me again, now.” She stated.

Drake grinned and wrapped his arms around her, capturing her lips in a ravenous kiss, his hands trailing down the curves of her body, grazing her breasts and moving lower.

“You look amazing.” He murmured into her lips. “But your dress is far too long.”

Emma giggled playfully. “I suppose it’s for the best. Although I love that you’re finally unafraid of being seen together…we don’t need to show everyone exactly how ‘together’ we can be.”

“Come on then, let’s go.” He said huskily.

She smiled at him before taking his hand and letting him lead her back to her room. She walked inside, leaving the door open, but Drake hesitated.

“Uhm, Rose…Before we go any further…I really want to talk to Liam. I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

Why do I feel like I need Liam’s permission? I’m a grown ass man, and so is he. I still can’t believe he tried to sleep with her after she told him she wanted me. That’s a dick move.

Emma sighed. “I get it, Drake. You’re a good friend. The best friend. Liam’s best friend in particular. But, you do know that you can let yourself be happy sometimes, right? It’s not your responsibility to make him feel good about himself. I love that you care so much, I do, but…. Drake, I chose you tonight. And you still won’t let yourself be with me. What does that say?”

“It says I love both of you.” His widened in horror at what he said out loud.

Fuck!  I just told her I love her…for the first time…in the same sentence as I said I love Liam. Way to go, Walker. Really smooth. She must think I’m such a…

“I love you too!!” She squealed, before jumping in his arms.

“Whoa!” He kissed her back fiercely, spinning her around and grinning like an idiot.

“I love you so much, Rose. Er, Emma.”

“And I love you, Drake Walker.”

She paused, giving him a mischievous look. “You know…there are other ways to enjoy ourselves that aren’t intercourse…” She began trailing a finger down his torso and he gulped, grabbing her hand when she reached his pant buckle.

Fight it, come on, fight it, not yet, don’t give in…I really want to give in…I can’t give in. Oh god, why am I choosing to be moral right now?

He licked his lips and whispered huskily in her ear. “I won’t be able to stop until I cum inside you, Rose. You should know that I fully intend on coming inside your pussy the first time we do anything together.”

Her jaw dropped slightly, and he saw a hint of a blush on her cheeks. He smiled in satisfaction.

She cleared her throat. “Well then. You better go, because I have A LOT of pent up sexual tension to get out, and since you’re not staying…” She walked over to her nightstand and pulled out a jet black, smooth looking vibrator. “I’m going to get busy myself and pretend it’s you inside me instead of this toy.”

What the…is she…how do I…what do I….uggghhhhh

Drake groaned, his dick jumping in his pants. “You make this so difficult, Rose. Maybe I should…”

“Nope, too late! You had your chance.” She smirked as she kissed him on the cheek, then turned the vibrator on and pressed it lightly where her lips had just been. He moaned lightly at the sensation before she took it away.

Good god, that’s going on her….

“Goodnight. Sweet dreams.” She shut the door right in front of his face, and he just stood there completely dumbfounded. He heard faint moaning coming from behind the door and he took several shuddery breaths before finally making himself walk away.

I’m so stupid. Goddammit. So, so, SO stupid

Scowling, he went to Liam’s quarters and knocked on the door. “Liam, it’s me.”

A moment later, Liam appeared at the door, clearly disheveled and looking at him in confusion. “Drake? What are you doing here? At this hour?”

Taking a deep breath, “Can I come in? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

A flicker of sadness crossed Liam’s eyes but in a second it was gone, his usual stoic look replacing it. “Of course. You know you’re always welcome.”

Sitting down in a chair, Drake began. “I understand you proposed to Rose, tonight.”

“I did. She turned me down.”

Drake nodded guiltily. “I…I’m sorry, Liam. I didn’t mean to fall for her, I tried so hard not to, it’s just I was always around her, and then I wanted to always be around her, and anytime we all hung out anywhere she would always put herself next to me and we have had so much spare time together and late nights at bars and playing games, searching for Tariq…it just happened. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I never in a million years thought she would ever choose me over a King. No one ever chooses me.”

Drake knew he was rambling, but he couldn’t stop the words that came rushing out of his mouth.

Liam gave him a half-hearted smile. “I admit I was…shocked. I had no idea that anything was going on between the two of you. For how long have you been together? I couldn’t bring myself to ask Emma.”

“We’ve never actually been together. We still haven’t been together. We’ve kissed and that’s it. I’ve never taken it further. I didn’t want sex to mess with her decision. Because it was her decision, Liam. And although I feel bad for hiding my feelings from you…I can’t feel bad about her choosing me. And I really, really want you to be happy for me. For her. For us.”

Drake looked pleadingly into his best friend’s eyes. Please Liam. You’re like my brother.

“I cannot lie and tell you that I’m not hurt. I am hurt. I have been planning for a future with her for months and you knew that, Drake. You knew how I felt about her.”

“I know.” Drake dropped his gaze to the floor. “I did know, and that’s why…”

But Liam rose his hand to stop him. “Drake, I didn’t know how you felt about her because you never told me. You’ve never kept something like this from me before. Would you ever have told me? If she had accepted my proposal tonight, what would you have done?”

Drake thought a moment before responding. “I would have wished you both the best. I never would have told you, and I would have convinced Rose to never tell you either. After that…I really don’t know. Because I can’t imagine my future without her in it. And I never want to. So, I haven’t even allowed myself to daydream about the possibility that she may return my feelings. I didn’t want to set myself up for disappointment. I just took things one day at a time.”

“Even after you kissed?” Liam rose an eyebrow.

Drake just shrugged and to his surprise, Liam let out a small laugh.

“You always were pretty dense when it came to girls, Drake.”

The two men chuckled before falling silent again. After a minute, Liam spoke again. “You’re my best friend. Of course, I want you happy. And if Emma makes you happy then…of course I support you. Always, Drake. We’re brothers.”

Drake grinned and stood up, exchanging a hug with Liam. “You’re a great guy, Liam. The right girl will come along for you, I know it.”

He watched as Liam’s face fell a bit, and he immediately wished he’d said something else.

“Yes, well. I’m quite tired after today, so I think I will turn in, Drake.”

Drake nodded, guilt slowly creeping back in. Dammit, why did I say that? Stupid! At least wait a day!

As he went back to his own room for the night, Drake couldn’t help the small smile forming on his lips.

I do feel bad for Liam. And I said one too many things to him… But fuck if I’m not completely ecstatic that Emma Rose chose me!!!!!

    @annekebbphotography @gardeningourmet @zigortega4life @eileendannie @thequeenofcronuts @drakewalkerfantasy @friedherringclodthing @coffeebeandragon @drakewalker04 @alesana45 @mfackenthal

 @hrhdes @drakewalkerisreal @akrenich @feartheendlesssummer @moonlightgem7 @i-miss-trr @noey718-blog @snyggflicka @rhymesmenagerie @gibbles82  @iplaydrake @lovedrakewalker @drakesensworld @i-only-signed-up-for-fanfiction @crookedslimecreatorpasta @be-still-my-aching-heart @mind-reader1

@notoriouscs @agent-bossypants @flowerpowell @katedrakeohd @choicesaddictedd

[pengychan]

[Coco] The Bedside Ghost, Ch. 4

Title: The Bedside Ghost Summary: The bell falls but, instead of waking up in the Land of the Dead, Ernesto de la Cruz finds himself with a broken spine - and an unwanted guest at his bedside who claims he can let him have the sweet release of death, if he gives back what he took from him… Characters: Ernesto de la Cruz, Coco Rivera, Héctor Rivera, Julio Rivera, Imelda Rivera. Rating: T Status: in progress [This is the fic’s tag for all chapters up.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: If you thought Ernesto was going to come clean right away, think again.

***

“You’re joking.”

“I absolutely am not.”

“You set a rooster free in a church, really?”

“And it went straight for the holy bread. No communion that day.”

Coco pressed a hand against her mouth, trying to smother a laugh. It came out of her nose as a painful-sounding honk. “Pffft! Hah! Sorry, I… why did you do it?”

Ernesto laughed. It had been a somewhat jarring sound at first, like she supposed an instrument would sound when left unused for too long, but now it sounded more like an actual laugh. The more he talked, the more she could glimpse the man she remembered from when she was little - healthier, livelier. At that point she wasn’t sure which one of them needed that conversation the most: if her to hear about her father, or Ernesto to reminiscence of better days.

“I honestly can’t remember that,” he was saying. “We must have thought it a good idea at the time. We probably wanted an excuse to be out of there early.”

“Haha! Did they ever find out it was you?”

“We lived to tell the tale, so... no.”

“Was it that bad?”

“Quite a bit of commotion. A nun fainted. I think the rooster got to bathe in holy water before it was caught and became someone’s dinner, but didn’t go down without a fight,” Ernesto said, and laughed again - only that it turned into a coughing fit after a few moments, and Coco’s own smile faded quickly. She stood in sudden alarm, unsure of what to do.

Ernesto coughed again, and glanced down at the table, at the glass of water Griselda had left there when she’d come to leave some coffee and sweets - for her only, though, and she could only assume he wouldn’t want to be assisted eating and drinking in someone else’s presence - and Coco immediately went to pick it up.

“Here,” she said, reaching to cup the back of his head with one hand, and brought the glass to his mouth. He gulped down half the glass before pulling back, resting his head against the headrest of his wheelchair and breathing deeply through his nose, eyes shut. She put the glass down and reached for a clean napkin without thinking, to dry off the water that had spilled down his chin. “Is everything all right?”

Ernesto swallowed once or twice, and nodded. Suddenly, he didn’t look lively at all - like the coughing fit, and the need for her help, had brought reality crashing back down on him: he was no longer a healthy boy up to mischief with his best friend, but a man just over fifty unable to even lift a hand to get himself a glass of water, or wipe his own face.

The thought caused something in Coco’s chest to ache. She hadn’t meant to humiliate him, she only wanted to help. “Would you like me to call Griselda, or-”

“No,” Ernesto rasped, and cleared his throat, opened his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was firmer. “Not just yet. She’ll be here shortly, anyway. I would keep you company for dinner, but…” he paused, and gave a smile that was almost a sneer. “As you can imagine, I cannot eat on my own. There is phone you can use, if you’d like to reassure your family that you arrived safe and sound.”

The idea of asking for a phone to call the inn in Santa Cecilia and leave a message had crossed her mind, but she’d forgotten to. Coco nodded, and smiled. “I’ll do that. Thank you again for your hospitality.”

“Anything for Héctor’s family,” he muttered, and there seemed to be something bitter in his voice - but before she could ask, he suddenly cackled. “Hah! That was a good one!”

“Huh?” Coco blinked, taken aback, when Ernesto’s expression opened into what was nothing short of a grin.

“You might like to hear this one,” he said, and Coco sat back down, rather relieved to see him like that again. “We were in Oaxaca. There was… yes, there was this one time when we really needed to make a call. We needed to have a telegram sent but we had no money to. We knew someone who could send one for us if we asked, but we had to get in touch. There was this fancy hotel that had a phone in its lobby, one of the few at the time. Only that of course it was for the personnel and guests, and we were neither. So I had an idea--” he trailed off, and Coco could have sworn his eyes flickered to her left for a moment before he rolled them. “All right, fine,” he muttered. “So, Héctor had an idea.”

That caused Coco to smile a bit. She remembered her father as gentle, tender and yes, fun to be around - but she had never known how much of a trickster he could be, always coming up with far-fetched schemes, pranks, and stories to get out of trouble that ranged from surprisingly convincing to absolute nonsense.

“What kind of idea?”

“Well, we… he figured that no one would turn away a man begging to make a call while his wife was in labor.”

How far along are you, dear?

Coco made an effort to push Griselda’s question in the back of her mind - it was only a guess, after all - and found herself smiling. “Did you find someone to play the part for you?”

“Well, we did find someone who could let us borrow a dress and a hat.”

“... What?”

“And a pillow. It fit Héctor pretty well. The dress, I mean, not the pillow. That was a bit of a struggle to get under the dress, but we managed.”

Oh. Oh . Coco reached up to press a hand against her mouth, but it did little to keep back her laughter. “Hah! He went and pretended to be pregnant?”

Ernesto nodded, the grin back on his face. “Well, I wasn’t going to be able to pull it off convincingly. Plus, the dress didn’t fit me.”

“And they believed it?”

“To be entirely fair, Héctor knew how to wear a dress. He had to shave his goatee, though, and I am sure he cried a bit over it,” Ernesto said, and seemed to pause for a moment as though listening to something before laughing. “Yes, he definitely shed a tear or two. But it grew back quickly, so no harm done. I was able to make the call and have the telegram sent while he was in the lobby, shrieking like an eagle that the baby was coming. Except that one of the guests was a doctor and was called downstairs before I was done, so he had to hold him off before he tried to examine ‘her’ and things got complicated.”

“Hold him off?”

“He pretended to panic and ran from him through the lobby like a headless chicken. Or maybe he was really panicking. He would have had a good reason to, with half the place’s security nearby. We were able to run off, though, and as far as I know they never... is everything all right?”

For a few moments, Coco was unable to reply: she could only try and fail to hold back the braying sound that only vaguely sounded like laughter, reaching up to wipe her eyes. Jesus, she was tearing up and her sides hurt, but she couldn’t stop laughing. “Hahahaha! I-I’m sorry, I just-- hahahahaha! That must have been a sight!” she wheezed. With the mind’s eye she could see her father’s face, from the torn scrap of photograph she’d salvaged, and trying to imagine him in that situation brought forth another gale of laughter.

And yet, even now, there was something in her chest that hurt, the thought that she should have heard that tale years ago, and from him. He should have told her while she sat on his knees, and they would have laughed together. Maybe her mother would have laughed, too, though rolling her eyes in that way of hers to show disapproval. Maybe.

What would she have thought? What would she had said? I don’t even remember how they were around each other. He played music and she sang, but I remember nothing else.

She would never know, of course, because there was no way she could tell her mother that story without ripping open a wound that, she knew, had never quite healed. Coco knew she had a right to know, but her mother also had a right to forget. She needed those stories, but she could never force them on her mother. She could never tell her, or anyone else at home.

It was that thought that finally stopped her laughter. She muttered an apology, wiping her eyes, not entirely sure those were all tears of mirth anymore. She tried to think of something else to say, but before she could there was a knock at the door. When she turned, still wiping her eyes, Griselda was stepping in.

“My apologies. It is time for dinner. Would you like la señora Rivera to join--”

“No,” Ernesto said, very quickly, and Coco couldn’t fault him for not wishing her to be there while he was fed. “She… see that she’s served dinner. She may require the phone as well. Whatever she asks for, make sure it's provided,” he added, and turned to glance at her. The mirth seemed to be already gone from his face, leaving it oddly blank. “I hope you don't mind dining on your own. I would be of poor company, I am afraid.”

She nodded. “I don't mind at all. Thanks for the hospitality. And for telling me about papá.”

“I had to,” Ernesto murmured, sounding very tired, and very frail. “I will see you in the morning. Have a good night.”

“You, too,” Coco said, and watched in silence as Griselda wheeled him away, hoping with all her heart that he’d have a more restful night than the previous had been.

***

Héctor did not follow him upstairs. It was a relief, really, being able to have a meal without his jeering. All that he had to listen to was Griselda’s constant stream of words as she talked about the garden, the weather, late deliveries and another dozen small things that Ernesto honestly couldn’t even begin to care about, but that felt so soothingly normal.

She insisted for him to have at least a tangerine - he had two - and he dutifully agreed that yes, they did taste really good. He was spared conversation for most of what followed; she knew all too well that he preferred to keep his eyes shut and pretend nothing was happening throughout most of the routine of preparing him for sleep. She only spoke again while tending to the ulcers on his back. “It felt good to hear you laugh, señor de la Cruz.”

Ernesto opened his eyes, but he may as well kept them shut. He was resting on his stomach, head turned to his left, facing the wall. He could see her shadow on it.

“Were you eavesdropping or what?”

“Oh, you offend me,” Griselda quipped. There was the sound of a bottle being opened, a strong smell of iodine. “You could be heard all the way from the front hall. You should do it more often. Your voice was never damaged.”

Ernesto would have happily traded his voice for just being able to move his arms, but chose not to say as much. He closed his eyes again. “We were talking about better days,” he finally said, very quietly. “A long time ago.”

How long had it been since last time he’d allowed himself to think not only of Héctor as he used to be when he was alive, but of everything that had been before he’d taken his life and that damn songbook? Decades, at least. He’d left it all behind, stored it away like you would with old broken toys in a dusty attic, and never turned back.

But now he had and it all felt so vivid, like it had happened hours earlier. He’d walked into the attic and brushed the dust off that heap of broken things to see that they were not broken, after all. It had been a good time. They had a good time. When had he forgotten that?

Never, really. He hadn’t really forgotten a thing, as it had turned out. The more he talked the more came back to him, and he found he couldn’t stop remembering - even more so with Héctor spurring him on, leaning on the armchair his daughter sat on. She laughed at the stories, and he could hear him laughing as well.

“Hah! That was fun, wasn’t it? Hey, hey! Tell her that one time we tried to ride your father’s horse! And remember when that wild dog chased us up a tree? Oh! And the rooster in church! Don’t forget that time - wait a moment, that was my idea, don’t try to take credit--!”

He’d looked like he had as a boy most of the time, but sometimes he had looked like he had before his death too, and he had also acted like it: no sneers, no mocking, laughing with him rather than at him. That was… no, it wasn’t new, it was how it used to be. Like nothing had ever happened. Like that night had never happened.

Except that it had; memories from before had been a respite, but nothing more. He’d traded all that there had been for songs, and fame. Fame had come, sure enough, but then the bell had come crashing down on him. It should have spelled his end but it had snapped his spine instead, he was stuck there and there could be no going back. He’d give anything - his mansion, his fame, all of it - to go back to the life he’d had Santa Cecilia.

Play in the plaza, go out for a drink, laugh and boast and poke fun at Héctor at any chance he got. Getting him in trouble with Imelda if he kept him out too late, rolling his eyes when Héctor brought his wife along but grudgingly admitting she could sing. Complaining when he was tricked into babysitting duty, and getting payback by singing very inappropriate songs to the laughing toddler. It had seemed such a limited world back then but oh God, how he longed for it now. If he’d known what price he’d pay for his dreams, he’d have never thrown-- him -- it all away.

“... Señor de la Cruz?”

Ernesto tried to ask her what was it, what did she want, but he found he couldn’t do it; a keening sound was all that left him. There was something stuck in his throat that kept him from speaking, kept him from breathing in anything but short gasps and it hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

There was a touch on his head, calloused fingers running through his hair, and thank God no words at all. He kept his eyes screwed shut, focused on the touch, and little by little he got his breathing under control, the knot in his throat loosening. I want to be gone, he thought, and tried to say as much, but that was not what left his mouth.

“I want to go home.”

If Griselda heard his mumble, she said nothing. She murmured something he supposed was meant to be soothing, finished tending to his ulcers, and moved him to a sleeping position on his side before pulling the covers over him. He felt her brushing his hair back again.

“Would you like an injection, señor?” she asked, very gently. “To help you sleep.”

Ernesto nodded, keeping his eyes shut. “Por favor,” he rasped.

That one plea, at least, was answered.

***

Coco couldn’t sleep.

Not that she didn’t need to: she was tired in a way she had ever been before. It had been a long journey to get there, and the entire thing had been emotionally draining to say the least.

She had been accompanied into a bedroom that was larger than her home’s living room, and far more luxurious. She was resting on her own on a bed larger than the one she shared with Julio, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to relax in it. It was too far removed from anything she’d ever known, too far from home.

She had gotten little to no sleep before she left, too. She had stayed wide awake for hours, with Julio’s arms around her and their mijita resting snugly between them - because she may be too big to sleep with mamá and papá, as she often claimed, but she wasn’t yet old enough not to be scared at the notion her mother would leave for days early the next morning.

If the tale of her disappearing grandfather had taught her anything, it was that no good things come from a parent who leaves the household and heads to a big city. Coco and Julio had done their best to reassure her that she would be back soon, and hopefully she believed them, but some things are hard to shake off. Coco would know; she’d grown up tip-toeing around the subject, while her mother worked herself to the bone to provide for her and make up for that unspoken absence at the same time.

The thought of her mother was another stab in the gut. She had said nothing to her before leaving, hadn’t even seen her, because she’d feared she would say something that she’d regret… or, worse yet, that mamá would convince her to stay, to just forget all about it, all about him, like she’d been trying to do for all those years.

Coco couldn’t fault her; she had been left in a difficult position. Betrayed in the worst possible way, alone with a child to raise, she’d still been the best mother she could have asked for. Coco had struggled to accept that her papá would never be part of her life - and she had never really accepted it, holding onto a tiny hope she hardly knew was there until the moment she had read Ernesto’s letter - but her mother had needed to fight, tooth and nail, for everything they had; to keep the family she’d brought together against all odds.

Leaving was not a decision Coco had taken lightly, but she had to do it, and she was certain now that she had made the right choice. She needed to know more about her papá if she was to ever put him to rest as her mother wanted, and that was the only way.

If only she could tell her as much without hurting her, gather the courage to explain that part of her had always, and perhaps would always, stare out of the window waiting for her father to come back home - that no ban on music, no amount of pretending he never existed could change that. It was something she couldn’t erase in any way, even though she had done her best - they all had. Her uncles had always been there, too, entertaining her as a child, sometimes covering for her when she went dancing in the plaza behind her mother’s back, walking her down the aisle on her wedding day.

They all had worked hard to give her a happy and secure childhood, and now she had a happy and secure life. There was nothing they could have done any better than they had, and to say that they just couldn’t entirely compensate for that one absence seemed terribly unfair… but it was also how things were. She couldn’t help that, like she couldn’t help holding onto the letters, photos and memories she had of him.

Coco thought of the face that would stare back at her from a scrap of photo, looking younger and younger with each passing year, and she had to swallow a lump in her throat. How could her papá just walk away and never turn back? How could he never miss home? She missed it already, was aching to have her little girl in her arms again, and her husband’s presence by her side. Had he ever felt that same longing? Did he ever lie awake like she did now, wishing to be back, or had she never been as important to him as Victoria was to her?

No, he had loved her, at least up to a point. Even after he’d left there had been the letters, lots of them. Poems. So much love poured on paper that sometimes she could still feel it, like a warm blanket on a cold night, and she refused to believe it had been anything but real. But then the letters had stopped, and he had vanished somewhere in the wide world. She knew now that he would never return, but she wanted to understand why he’d walked away, to understand him.

Had travelling made him realize his old life didn’t suit him, that his family was not enough? Had he felt trapped in his marriage, trapped by her very existence? He and his mother had married so young, several years younger than she’d been when Julio had worked up the courage to propose, and Coco was fairly sure she had not been born prematurely as her mother always said. Maybe it had been too early; maybe he hadn’t been ready.

Ernesto might know what had gone through his mind; he had been his friend, after all, his brother in all but blood. They had clearly stayed in touch, if he’d known of his death after he had left them behind. Her papá must have talked to him about his decision, surely, and she should have asked Ernesto about that; it should have been the very first thing she asked, really: she had come there for answers, not stories.

And yet she’d found herself unable to ask why had he left them, when had he died, and how. She had wanted to know about his life, grasping for bits and pieces of the man she barely remembered. Maybe what she wanted to know wasn’t the same as what she needed to know, after all.

With a sigh, Coco turned around in the bed to lie on her back, staring up at the ceiling, wishing more than anything to have Julio by her side. She’d called the inn in Santa Cecilia, sure enough, and left a message with the innkeeper - the journey went well, I am fine and will be back soon, give Victoria a kiss from me.

She knew that Paula would pass it on to her husband as soon as he came in asking… but it wasn’t the same as hearing his voice. A short message couldn’t replace a conversation; she knew that well, too, having read and re-read her father’s letters so many times she knew them word by word. And plus, she thought, a hand resting on her stomach, there were things that could only be said in person.

Griselda may have been wrong, of course. She was late, come to think of it, but she’d been before. She had only been feeling slightly nauseous, and a dizzy spell or two were easily explained by the journey, the emotional strain, the little sleep she’d had. It was only speculation, and mentioning it to her family now that she was so far away would only lead to more worry - just about the last thing any of them needed.

She would see things through there, learn everything she had come to find out. She would finally lie the memory of her father to rest and return home. She would mend things with her mother and, if it turned out that she was with child, she would share the news with everyone.

Victoria would be delighted to be a big sister, she was sure of it. Maybe they would make a shortlist of names for her little brother or sister, and let Victoria pick one. Coco was certain she would take that duty very, very seriously. The thought made her smile, and the smile turned into a yawn. Her mind a little more at ease, Coco closed her eyes and turned to rest on her side.

As she drifted off to sleep she hummed, very quietly, a song she’d learned a long time ago.

***

“Abuelita?”

Imelda was not the kind to wince easily, but when the voice rang out suddenly, breaking the deep silence, she couldn’t help it. She almost dropped the pen, and looked up from her desk to see Victoria standing at the doorway, barefoot and in her tiny blue nightgown, hair all ruffled. Under one arm she was holding that odd doll Óscar and Felipe had made for her out of a shoe and some buttons.

“You should be sleeping, Victoria. How many times have I told you not to go barefoot? You could get a splinter in your foot. If there’s something we’re not lacking in this household, that’s shoes.”

Then child entirely ignored the last statement. “You should be sleeping, too,” she said instead, not moving an inch. She was far from a troublesome child, but she had a stubborn streak a mile wide. Imelda had wondered aloud, once, who she got that from. The silent glances the rest of the family had exchanged at the dinner table weren’t lost to her. She didn’t think they had realized she had said as much in jest. Most people had trouble telling when she joked, and she rather liked it that way.

“I have to take care of some business,” Imelda finally replied, looking down at the accounts book. She had been staring at the numbers for a while now, not really getting any accounting done despite her wish to keep her mind busy, but her granddaughter didn’t need to know that. “I’ll be going to sleep soon. Go back--”

“You’re worried for mamá.”

It was a statement, not a question. Typical Victoria. Imelda smiled weakly, too amused to be annoyed at… well. Too amused to be excessively annoyed, at least. “No, I am not. You shouldn’t be either. Your mamá can take care of herse-”

“It’s not that,” Victoria cut her off, wrinkling her nose as though insulted by her attempt at deflecting the real issue, and padded up to her, her bare feet silent on the floor. She grasped her sleeve with a tiny hand, and held tight. “I am not worried and you shouldn’t either. She’s gonna come back, you know.”

Don’t worry, mamá. Papá is gonna come back soon. I know it.

She had believed that too, for a time, but she had been so wrong; Coco had been wrong. Both her trust in the man she’d married and her daughter’s childish certainty that her papá would return to her had been crushed when the letters had stopped, and he had never shown his face at their doorstep again. Coco had held onto hope for much longer than she had; Imelda suspected that she’d never stopped, until Ernesto’s letter had come.

Ernesto, who had taken Héctor away from home in the first place, talking of glory and childish dreams. If he’d never filled his ears with those fantasies, perhaps Héctor would have never left. Imelda found herself wishing that the stage accident had killed him instead of maiming him, so that he could never write that damned letter and break her family apart again. First Héctor, and now Coco.

Papá is gonna come back soon.

She’s gonna come back, you know.

Something in Imelda’s chest ached, and she pulled her granddaughter on her knees, in her arms. For all her bold words, Victoria clung to her far more tightly than she usually would.

“Of course she is,” she said, trying not to think of last time she had given that same reassurance to a child. “I know her too well to think otherwise.”

You also thought you knew your husband, a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind. Imelda did her best to smother it but it stayed, like the constant drip of water eroding stone.

***

“I told you, señor, the new gardener knows what he’s doing. They have never looked so good before.”

“Hu-uh,” Ernesto mumbled absentmindedly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see young Héctor climbing up one of the apple trees, swinging from branch to branch. He ignored his childish voice calling out for him to join him, like he had so many times when they were children, and glanced up at the tree he was beneath instead.

For once he was grateful that Griselda had insisted on taking him out after breakfast, pushing his wheelchair across the lawn, past the fountain and flower beds, and among the trees. There was something soothing in the rustling leaves, the bits of blue sky he could see through the green.

On a day like that, back in Santa Cecilia--

“Oh, señora Rivera! I sure hope you have been served breakfast!” Griselda’s voice snapped him from his thoughts, and it was probably for the best, all things considered. He turned to see Socorro - Coco, she had asked to be called that - walking up to them. She had tied her hair back in a braid, which was now loose her back rather than pinned up in a bun; it reminded him of how Imelda used to braid her hair, back when Héctor had begun courting her… with disastrous results, at first.

But then he had somehow won her over, she had become more important than anything and anyone else to him, and it had been the beginning of the end. The birth of their daughter had been the last nail in the coffin of the dream they had shared since they were children, one that Ernesto had tried desperately to keep alive, and now look where it got them - Héctor was dead, and he wished he were.

“No, Ernesto, mi hermano. This is where you got us,” Héctor - the adult Héctor, the one who had clutched at his stomach in empty street a long time ago - said quietly, leaning against the same tree where a younger version of himself had been climbing a minute earlier. There was no bite to his remark, no mockery, but Ernesto had no time to wonder about that.

“Yes, yes. It was delicious, thank you,” Coco was saying before turning her gaze on him. When she’d first seen him the previous day, horror and pity had been plain as day on her face; now her smile didn’t waver, and oh God, had Héctor’s smile, too. “I hope you had a good night.”

He had, he supposed. A full night of dreamless sleep was nothing short of a blessing and, for the first time in a long while - he wasn’t certain he wanted to know how long, he felt he would go insane if he did - he had been awakened by the sunlight creeping through the curtains and not by a mocking voice telling him to rise and shine: when he’d opened his eyes, Héctor hadn’t been there at all.

Of course he’d turned up eventually, first as a boy running through the trees and now as the man he’d last seen falling limply on the ground in Mexico City. He stood silently on his left, watching. Ernesto was not surprised, he had known that he wouldn’t go so easily, but there had been respite. He had given him respite.

Maybe he would let him go, once he was satisfied. He prayed that he would.

“I did,” Ernesto said, and turned slightly towards Griselda. “Could you leave us alone for a few minutes?”

“Of course. I will get your medication ready.”

As she left - not without telling Coco something on how she was welcome to any fruit in the grove, a lot of it went to waste and it was such a shame - Ernesto’s gaze moved to Coco. She watched Griselda’s retreating back, and only spoke when she was some distance away.

“She’s very fond on you,” she commented

“Got it in her head she’s your mother,” Héctor muttered, sounding amused. “Only that unlike your mamá, she doesn’t call you Tito all the time. Old Alvaro would call us ‘Tito and Teto’ for a while, remember?”

He did, but he made an effort to push the memory away - he’d been annoyed, so annoyed, that was a stupid nickname for children and it wasn’t how he wanted to be called - to acknowledge Coco’s comment. “I pay her well,” he said, more drily than he’d meant to, and tiled his head slightly on the side. “The satchel on the wheelchair - there is a pocket on the side. Would you…?”

“Of course,” Coco said, and approached to reach inside. When she pulled back, there was something in her hands - a leather-bound, red songbook. Worse for wear now than it had been when he’d taken it and fled, moving on to the next city before Héctor’s body was found; he had flipped through those pages so many times, even after learning each and every song by heart.

Keeping it had been a foolish move, Ernesto knew it: it contained all of the songs that had made him famous, and was entirely written in what was very obviously not his handwriting. If it had fallen in the wrong hands, it would have caused him… problems. Nothing he couldn’t deal with, but problems nonetheless. He should have transcribed the songs, and then burn it, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t.

“Keeping the guitar was a stupid idea, too,” Héctor muttered. “Such a unique piece. It was a small risk, but a risk nonetheless. You could have had another one custom-made at any point, but you kept mine and you played no other. Did you want to keep a trophy? Got sentimental? Both?”

Was there a difference? Ernesto wasn’t sure, and he was too tired to wonder. He ignored the ghost and looked up at Coco, whose gaze was moving from the book to him and then back on the red cover as she clearly wondered what that was about. Ernesto found himself smiling faintly.

“You can open it, it won’t bite. It belonged to your father. It... fell in my possession after he died.”

That caused her to recoil. “Oh,” she exclaimed, and immediately opened it. He watched are her eyes scanned the page, almost hungrily, and he drew in a deep breath. He was remarkably unafraid, all things considered. Any moment now she would recognize those songs, and she would know he had taken credit for her father’s work. Would she react with anger? Would she demand to know how he had gotten his hands on it? Possibly. He was not looking to confess more than he had to, but if she guessed, he wouldn’t deny a thing. There was an odd relief in that, in knowing that whatever came next was entirely up to her. For the first time, relinquishing all control was not horrifying or frustrating.

“Are these… songs?” Coco murmured, flipping through the pages. Instead of anger, what showed on her face was surprise. “I recognize the words. He wrote some in his letters. I… I thought they were poems.”

… Wait. What? “You… never heard them?” Ernesto asked, taken aback. There weren’t many people in Mexico who hadn’t, and he’d have imagined someone from Santa Cecilia especially was bound to have heard them. As a response, Coco gave him a rather sad smile.

“I heard very little music. It is… sort of banned from the household. My mother won’t have it.”

“Wha-- she loved music!” Ernesto blurted out, but even in his surprise the irony wasn’t lost to him. He could no longer stand listening to music, either, especially not his own. It looked like he and Imelda had something in common now. Fate had a sense of humor.

“Too many memories. Music is why my papá left,” Coco explained. Beside him, Héctor’s ghost sighed.

“You. It was you, not music,” he said quietly, resting a ghostly hand on his shoulder. Once again, there was none of the bite Ernesto had grown used to in his voice. “Your dream is why I left. Your ambition is why I never made it to the train back.”

You tried to leave me behind, it was all that I had ever wanted and you were taking it away, Ernesto thought, but he said nothing. No point in arguing with ghosts: it would make him look crazy, and achieve nothing. His own argument sounded weaker and weaker each time he uttered it, anyway. Regardless what he had done to keep it - regardlessly who he had sacrificed for it - that dream was empty, now. It seemed unbearably cruel.

“So you see, I heard none of the songs before,” Coco was going on. “I knew of you - you were… you are too famous for us not to hear about. But music is banned in our house. And we don’t talk about my father. I never knew he was your songwriter.”

No one does. No one but you and I, and you have no idea.

“He… was never too eager to play for huge crowds. He liked it, but he was at his happiest writing songs,” Ernesto found himself saying. He had not expected that situation, hadn’t anticipated it at all. “There… if you’d like to listen to them, there should be still some recordings around somewhere. I am certain Griselda knows where to find them.”

That caused Coco’s face to light up, and somehow that made him more uncomfortable than her anger would have. “Oh, thank you! I would love to hear--” she began, only to trail off and look up at something on his right, suddenly startled.

Ernesto turned, and caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. “Who’s there?”

“Uh… it’s Ramírez, señor. Fom security,” someone muttered, and a man stepped within his line of sight. It was a man from the security, sure enough, those three or four idiots his manager had insisted for him to keep around. They usually stayed well out of sight, and Ernesto didn’t even know their names.

“And what are you doing here? Guarding apples from blackbirds?”

Héctor let out a guffawing laugh. “Good thing old Rafael had no security to keep us off his land - only a mutt you could bribe with scraps. What was his name again?”

Diablo, Ernesto recalled vaguely. A big scruffy thing, but a good dog once he had a full belly - nothing like a devil, easy to befriend. Ernesto had named one of the chihuahuas he'd had later in life after him.

“I, uh, came to check on you, señor,” Ramírez was saying. He was a large man, built like a bull, but he looked like a chastised boy. “I saw Griselda returning without you, and I thought I’d make sure all was well.”

Ernesto snorted. “As you can see, all is well,” he said. He faintly wondered if the man had heard anything of what had just been said, but he found he didn’t care at all. “But you can make yourself useful and tell someone come here and bring me back inside in ten minutes.”

“I can--”

“Not you. Get lost,” Ernesto snapped, and the man nodded. With a mumbled apology and a nod towards Coco, he walked past both of them and back towards the mansion. Ernesto sighed, leaning his head against the headrest. “My apologies. I don’t know why Armando insists I keep them around.”

“Armando?”

“My manager. He seemed convinced there would be crazed fans trying to break in constantly. There were at first,” Ernesto muttered, faintly wondering when last time even was. He waited for Héctor to make a biting remark about the family he’d gotten himself - “some familia, huh?” - but none came. Héctor was nowhere to be seen. “If they’d refused you entry, I would have had an argument to fire them all,” he added, causing Coco to laugh a bit.

“I’m sure he was just trying to help,” she said, and looked back down at the songbook. “Thank you very much for letting me see this,” she said, and moved as though to put it back.

Ernesto shook his head. “No. You can keep it.”

“Oh! That’s very kind of you, but…” she paused, and there was no mistaking the hungry look in her eyes, the way her grip on the songbook tightened even as she spoke again. Had he looked at that same red cover that way, too, when he’d taken it from Héctor’s suitcase? He supposed he might have. “I could never,” she finally added. “He left it to you.”

Left it to him. The notion was so ridiculous, so wrong, and Ernesto almost laughed. Almost, because when he looked over her shoulder Héctor was there again, shaking his head slowly, causing laughter to die in his throat. He looked, again, like a corpse.

“You know I would have given it to you if you’d asked, right?” he said, his voice like old paper. “You only had to ask. I would have moved--”

“... Heaven and Earth for you, mi amigo,” Ernesto murmured, and closed his eyes, letting out a long breath. When he opened them again Coco was still looking at him, clearly confused. He shook his head again. “Keep it,” he said. “It’s yours.”

Coco crouched before his wheelchair, and Ernesto had little time to process what was happening. By the time he did her arms were already around his neck. “Thank you,” she said, very quietly, against his temple. He could hear tears in her voice. “Thank you so much.”

Ernesto tried to speak, but something was stuck in his throat, something that tasted more bitter than any medicine he’d had to swallow in those past five years of hell. A few steps away, Héctor looked at them with milky white eyes.

“I would give anything to be in your place right now, old friend. Anything.”

Ernesto closed his eyes not to see him and leaned his head against Coco’s shoulder, saying nothing.

***

[Back to Chapter 3]

[On to Chapter 5]

[insanereddragon]

Other works in the bound by little things universe by @elletromil and @insanereddragon:

[of flowers and fireflies] [of costumes and ghosts] [this fic on AO3]

of tinsel and mistletoe

Eggsy is used to strange sights.

For one, he’s a familiar, the only one to his knowledge that can take human form. For two, he’s bound to a workaholic wizard. For three, humans are fucking weird and Harry is like the human-est human to be around and thus, he’s also very very weird.

Not that it’s a bad thing.

It just explains why when he steps into Harry’s workshop at the estate and finds him dipping Merlin down for a kiss, his only reaction is to laugh at the way Merlin tries to push him away.

Of course, if it wasn’t for the way Merlin’s effort only seems halfhearted at best and how his eyes crinkles happily, he might have helped him out, but Merlin’s clearly having fun. And so is Harry, judging by the chuckling Eggsy can hear between the exaggeratedly loud press of his lips against Merlin’s cheeks and neck.

He’s aware that for the humans, kissing is usually reserved for mates, but Harry has always been a part of their relationship and always will be. They might never be mates in the same sense that he and Merlin are, but they are definitely partners and that’s just as important. Means just as much.

He’s still curious as to what prompted this though, but he won’t interrupt them when they are finally having a moment to relax. They both need it.

--

Merlin attempts to frown even as his eyes twinkle and he pushes at Harry’s shoulders. “Alright Harry, enough. This is terribly unpleasant.”

Harry presses a final wet kiss to the side of his head before standing him up straight and grinning.

“It’s tradition. How is it that even after all these years you still don’t appreciate my kisses?”

The disgruntled noises that Merlin makes as he straightens his clothes are negated by the way the corners of his mouth threaten to curl up.

It’s happened this way every year since they were kids.

It started out with all of them -- Ian and Diane, Harry and Merlin -- waiting and watching the clock for the stroke of midnight to announce the first of December. Then they stayed up until the wee hours of the morning decorating the house for Christmas. And in amongst the lights and ornaments, tinsel and garland, they would hang a dozen or more mistletoe.

At first when Merlin would get caught out under the mistletoe, when he was still too young to be embarrassed, Harry would kiss him on the cheek, smile big and bright. As the years passed and they got old enough to understand that most boys their age were disgusted at the thought of kissing their family, it turned into game -- give each other the most ridiculous, over the top, absurd kisses possible.

The year that Merlin realized his feelings, for other boys and for Harry, he stopped playing. Harry had frowned and grumbled when Merlin expertly avoided the mistletoe, and had pouted when he ignored Harry completely while Harry stood underneath looking at him expectantly.

The year after that, Harry insisted he was in charge of the mistletoe, and he spent all his time running around the house hiding it. When Merlin ended up underneath one the very next day, Harry spent minutes covering Merlin’s head with kisses until he’d finally broken down and laughed.

Since then, Merlin will never admit out loud that he always finds an excuse to visit on December first. Or that he forces himself not to search for the mistletoe hidden away so he can be surprised when Harry comes up behind him and makes a show of kissing him.

“You always make a spectacle of it,” he says with a smile. “Besides, it doesn’t help that you can’t be bothered to hang them in the same place every year and I get surprised by your...attack.” Merlin says it teasingly, a familiar banter to start the holiday season.

Harry looks scandalized as he glances up at the mistletoe taped to the bottom of the hanging planter. “The minute I put them in the same spot as the year before you would be sneaking around my house avoiding them. And then I wouldn’t even get to enjoy the one chance each year you let me kiss you.”

Heat floods Merlin’s face and he clears his throat as he turns away, flustered at being caught out so obviously.

It’s then that his eyes land on Eggsy and he smiles embarrassedly, his magic instinctively reaching out towards him, hoping Eggsy can’t sense his tumultuous emotions.

“Hello Eggsy. Come help us. We could use your expertise choosing the fabric for my new suit.”

Eggsy comes over and stands next to Merlin, placing a soothing hand on his arm. Merlin feels the wash of love spread through their connection and lets himself relax again, throwing a wry glance in Harry’s direction.

“What are you two doing in here? I didn’t know that kissing was needed to make a suit.” He looks vaguely betrayed, as if they’ve willingly kept him from something fun.

Merlin sputters and Harry just laughs, a twinkle in his eye. “It’s a Christmas tradition that’s been around since the eighteenth century. Servants would hang mistletoe in their quarters, and the men were then allowed to kiss any woman that was caught underneath. If she were to refuse, bad luck would befall her.”

As Merlin watches, Harry takes a step closer to Eggsy and Merlin can feel Eggsy’s curiosity through the bond at the same time that his eyes widen.

“Our tradition has been similar,” Harry says, “but for all the members of our family, since we were children. Although it got more fun after the year I was forced to hide the mistletoe in order to get Merlin to participate.”

Harry looks up again and Eggsy follows his line of sight to find the mistletoe now hanging above his own head. Merlin’s heart swells at the startled laugh Eggsy lets out as Harry closes the space between them and presses a soft kiss to his cheek.

“I hope we can convince you to keep the tradition with us.”

If the tendrils of affection and amusement that Merlin feels touch him through the connection are anything to go by, then Merlin is certain that there is no convincing needed. He rolls his eyes and huffs out a put upon sigh, but it’s all undermined by the smile that slips onto his face as he attempts to get the two of them focused back on the task at hand.

--

After Harry’s ambush, Merlin has been careful about where he stood, to Eggsy’s great disappointment. Of course, it’s not like he really needs an excuse to kiss him whenever he wants to, but half the fun is to participate in a silly tradition that doesn’t hurt anyone.

Not that he doubts he’ll get Merlin under the mistletoe before they have to leave the estate later today. Sure they’ll be back for Christmas, but Eggsy doesn’t want to wait that long. Especially since he highly doubts Merlin will put on any mistletoe back home. At least this year.

Eggsy already has plans for the following year and he’s sure Harry will be all too happy to help.

He nearly asked him to lend a hand before they all went to bed the previous evening, but in the end, he decided against it. Eggsy’s got some pride after all and it’s not his grumpy mate that will stand in his way.

Or he will, but because it’s kind of his goal.

So instead of waiting for Merlin to step under the mistletoe of his own volition, he waits until the man is distracted, all his focus on the tea he is preparing for Harry and Eggsy.

He nearly misses his chance, distracted himself by the sight of his mate working his instinctive magic, bathed in the gentle light of the morning.

But Eggsy’s a familiar with a mission and he sneaks behind Merlin while Harry looks at the scene unfolding in front of his eyes with obvious amusement.

It takes a moment before Merlin notices his presence, but he merely leans back against him with a contented sigh. That is, until he realises that Eggsy is holding an arm up and his gaze travels up to what he is holding in his hand.

Merlin groans with annoyance, but obligingly tilts his head backward so that it rests on Eggsy’s shoulder and he can easily kiss him.

Easily, but awkwardly, because the kiss is slightly upside-down. Not that Eggsy minds, not when he can feel Merlin’s lips stretching into a smile into the kiss. He can pretend to be annoyed all he wants, some things betray him.

Some things like the way his magic curls around Eggsy and seems to be stroking him all over lazily with with clear affection.

Both Eggsy and Harry’s breaths hitch at that and Eggsy doesn’t need to break the kiss to know Merlin is looking quite smug right now.

But to be honest, it’s hard to mind when he feels so undeniably loved.

--

Why are you all kiss-y? Even if she’s just a bird, Daisy looks so utterly puzzled over their behaviour from the last day that Eggsy cannot help laughing for a moment.

Daisy doesn’t seem to mind, even if it doesn’t help clear her confusion, and she waits patiently for him to calm down from her perch on his shoulder. But then again, Daisy has never been bothered by much. Even back when he was still being grumpy and couldn’t trust anyone, she kept coming to hang out with him and he’s forever grateful for her unwavering innocence.

“It’s a silly human tradition for the first month of winter.” He already tried to explain Christmas to her, but he knows it’s still somewhat vague for her. Though he’s pretty sure she’ll remember the date next year when she gets to the pile of blueberries Harry wants to offer her. “Whenever you get underneath the mistletoe with someone you like, you have to kiss them.”

Oh! That sounds fun! She chirps happily for some time until suddenly her trill ends on a sad note.

“Daisy? What’s the matter?”

I can’t kiss! She sounds completely devastated and his heart clenches painfully for her distress. She isn’t entirely wrong since she only has a beak and she cannot turn into a human unlike him. But he cannot stand having her unhappy.

“That’s not true! You just kiss differently!”

I do? She seems unconvinced, but Eggsy nods confidently.

“Yes! It’s when you bury your beak in our hair as if you were about to pick at it to clean us!” Sure she cannot do that to Merlin, but he’s pretty sure she’s mostly thinking of kissing Harry. If the man was a wizard, he’s sure she would be her familiar, the way they are both devoted to each other.

Her chirping is happy again and when they pass underneath a branch of mistletoe, he joins in her joy when she does exactly when he told her to do. It reminds him of lazy summer days of having both Michelle and her picking at his fur after he rolled in the mud, of being with family.

To look at Daisy preening with pride at the reaction she caused, he knows it did the right thing.

--

The morning air is cold against his cheeks when Harry steps outside to bring his daily offering to the birds of the estate, magical or not. He only has to stand there a moment before the birds start flying his way, chirping and fluffing their feathers as they land and peck at the seeds he’s laid out for them.

The only one who doesn’t go straight for the food, however, is Daisy. Harry smiles fondly as she circles around his head once and then comes to perch on his shoulder.

“Good morning, Daisy. Merry Christmas to you.”

She chirps and tilts her head to the side as though in question, but Harry just smiles and lifts a finger to pet the feathers along her neck. Eggsy has told him that Daisy still doesn’t quite get the celebration, but he doesn’t think that it matters much. Harry’s always known Daisy is smart and she’ll understand the emotional significance soon enough.

“Ready to see Eggsy and Merlin today?”

The question is greeted with a series of high pitched chirps and Daisy hopping back and forth across his shoulder.

“I’ll take that as a yes then.” Harry chuckles. “Come now, we can wait inside for them to arrive. Besides, I still have some of those pumpkin seeds left you enjoy so much.”

It’s a familiar routine for them, now that the weather has turned cold, for Harry to take Daisy inside the house for her morning treat. But today instead of just making his way to their usual spot in the kitchen, he heads further into the house.

He hums a tune under his breath as they walk towards the library. Normally Harry would have set up the Christmas tree in the living room as they did every year. The wide open space letting them choose an impressive tree to cut and decorate. But this is the first Christmas they’re sharing with Eggsy, and Merlin and he had quietly agreed that the only place the tree could go was in the library.

Harry made do with the smaller tree, but he is proud of the way it sparkles in the corner and how the lights spread out and onto the shelves around it instead. The limited space also meant that while some of the presents had made their way under the tree, a great many of the others now resided nestled in amongst the books. It looks magical and Harry is looking forward to spending the entire day there with his family.

They are just walking through the doorway when Daisy launches herself from Harry’s shoulder and starts flying in circles underneath the mistletoe hanging from it. Harry stops to look up and smiles as Daisy chirps excitedly.

“I see. Did Eggsy explain to you the tradition of the mistletoe?”

Daisy flies down to land on Harry’s upturned hand and bobs her head. Lifting his hand in front of his face, Harry smiles. “Then you must know that I’m obligated to give you a kiss.”

He moves slowly, in case this is a traditions that she’d rather not participate in. But when she doesn’t fly away, he presses a small kiss to the top of her head. She chirps happily and then Harry lets out a breathless chuckle when she jumps from his hands and into his hair to gently start picking at it.

“Why thank you, Miss Daisy. I do think that is by far one of the nicest kisses I’ve received this Christmas.”

It’s with a full heart that Harry finally walks all the way into the room and over to one of the armchairs. Once he’s sitting, he opens up a small bag of pumpkin seeds from the side table and offers them up to Daisy one by one, who is now burrowed down into his hair. She alternates between eating the seeds and pressing more kisses to his head and Harry can’t wait for Eggsy and Merlin to arrive.

[zacksfairest]

Please sort Vaela and Zaresh by Hogwarts house, Avatar bending elements, and which TMNT turtle they would identify with most, if any. What would it be like if they had met as kids? Teenagers? Talk to me about a role swap AU because I am always here for those

rubs hands together oh boy oh fucking boy

this got REAL LONG im so sorry

Hogwarts house:

Zaresh: Slytherin. No doubt in my mind. He is ambitious and cunning as all fuck. The entire reason he was banished from his home in the Underdark was because he was caught stealing from the matriarch that had taken his father as a lover, and was only caught after snatching a few choice baubles…..probably half a dozen times. The fact he wasn’t caught sooner (and they only knew about the one time) is all thanks to his cunning, honestly.

Vaela: Maaannnnnnn……..is it possible for her to change houses? Because I’m feeling SUPER Hufflepuff before she meets Zaresh, but after she escapes him, I’m feeling more of a combo Hufflepuff/Gryffindor. Gryffinpuff? Is that what they’re called? But she wouldn’t be straight up Gryffindor. Her time in Zaresh’s clutches completely rewrites how she sees the world (Hufflepuff apparently believe in fair play, which is absolutely something Vaela before her captivity would believe wholeheartedly, but with Zaresh’s manipulation and deceit, that would go flying out the window), but not…completely? And she more just rebuilds herself to be far more courageous and have a fuckload more self confidence as she slowly but surely faces the demons Zaresh created. So yeah TL;DR: Pre-Zaresh: Hufflepuff, Post-Zaresh: Gryffinpuff

Bending Elements:

Zaresh: Fire. Through and through. He is all passion and impulse, claims and consumes whatever he wishes. An unstoppable force in the face of nearly everything he comes up against, whether through manipulation and deceit or brute force and savagery. He does not know mercy, if there is one thing his people taught him, it is that mercy has no room in a drow’s heart. Not that he has any desire to make room for it in there, anyway.

Vaela: Water. She is not destructive by nature, she is calm and loving and soothing and gentle. She never had a truly violent impulse in her life, and, as much as she wished to be important and stand out in society, the heart of it stemmed from a want to help people. She wanted to be like the famed and legendary adventurers she’d grown up hearing about, occasionally seen passing through her city on some great quest. She wanted to be important, but help people on that path. To earn that fame through helping others.However, just because she is not destructive by nature, does not mean she cannot be, something that Zaresh will later learn after she has escaped him. She is no longer that carefree, lonely girl he met in the market, and she will not go quietly if he comes for her. She will swell like the fiercest sea in a raging storm.

TMNT: (i love this category oh my god)

Zaresh: None. He will identify the most with The Shredder. He is not at all a warm and fuzzy person.

Vaela: MIKEY!!!!!!! Mikey is so happy go-lucky, but he does not fuck around when it comes to his friends and family. After Vaela escapes Zaresh, she purposely does not go home, choosing instead to just run, because she knows her family is the first place Zaresh will look for her, and she is not willing to put them in danger in order to be safe. She knows Zaresh would gladly kill her family to get her back, and then lay the blame for their deaths at her feet. That is exactly something I could picture Mikey doing to protect his brothers. He would never put them in danger, even if it meant running off by himself.

Kids:

Oh, man. Ohhhhhhhhh man this one hurts a bit. Zaresh is a product of his childhood. Drow society is savage, brutal, violent, entirely selfish and self pleasing, and matriarchal. He kinda hates women because the only women he has ever really known beat him into submission, reminding him that he is nothing but a lowly male drow. To raise your hand to a female drow means death. He didn’t even really know his own mother, the matriarch that took his father up as a lover had his mother killed so she could have his father. Zaresh was only kept alive because his father begged for it, the one memory of his wife that still lived. I like to think that maybe his mother might have truly loved both her husband and their son, but who knows! Zaresh never knew her and for all he knows she was just as cruel and terrible as that bitch sitting on the that gaudy throne.

ANYWAY I DIGRESS, let’s say, if they met as children, they are left without the oppressive influence of drow society. I think they could have been friends. I really do. Zaresh probably could have been a loving and sweet boy and played adventurer games with Vaela. He would always try to convince her to play the princess he has to rescue from the evil red dragon, but she would huff loudly and refuse, saying that if he’s gonna fight a red dragon, they would be fighting it together.

Vaela would be pretty much the same, but maybe with a little less of a sense of mediocrity, because with a friend like Zaresh, who entertains her wild fantasies of being a famous hero, she feels a little less lonely and insignificant.

Oh wow that one hurt a lot THANKS LIZ.

Role Swap AU:

HOOOOOLY SHIT. So are we talking Vaela is a female drow banished from her home and making a life on the surface? Because WOW that would be even worse than Zaresh. Zaresh is making up for decades of the denial basic rights, relishing in this newfound power he has not being seen as “some lowly and insignificant male.”  Which is bad enough.

But a female drow? She would think herself entitled to anything and everything she wants right off the bat. She would be cold and cruel. There would be no passion. Zaresh is all passionate pursual of what he wants, what he deserves. Vaela would be cold, calculating, and cruel.

Pursuing the escaped Zaresh? Her prized wood elf? It wouldn’t even be to get him back, it would purely be to right the very grievous slight against her. She couldn’t care less about getting him back, but this male wood elf, lower than even her male drow elf kin, dares to slip through her fingers? He will be begging her for death by the time she is through with him, and, even then, she may just leave him for the wolves to claim.

Zaresh would be the sweetest boy you could ever hope to meet, probably with a passion for crafting and music (specifically the violin), but would also have fantasies of going out into the world and leaving his mark, whether it be through various adventurers or with a traveling music troupe.

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One:  Magical Loopholes

Chapter One: Magical Restoration

The first time he'd ever felt magic in his body, it came as an invasion. He'd stabbed Zoso, and his hand couldn't let go of the knife. Magic, strange and foreign, had overcome him, changed him, altered every limb, every cell, even his own DNA. He hadn't known the words for it then, hadn't understood how deep the transformation went, only that he'd felt it down to the marrow of his bones. He'd felt fear as magic invaded; he'd felt uncertainty and foolishness that he hadn't known what would happen or what was happening. Magic crawled into his body, overpowered who he'd been, and when the war was over, he was something new.

This time was different.

The pillar of magic rose up and then expanded so rapidly that he didn't have time to prepare for it. He heard Belle give a sound of shock and felt her as she turned to huddle against his chest, frightened as the first time he'd been when he'd first been given magic. He held her but smiled before closing his eyes and letting the breeze of it wash over him. There was nothing to fear this time. Only anticipation…

If the first time had been an invasion, this time was like a dam breaking apart to release the floodwaters. He could feel it all over his body, but his head most of all. It was as if his magic had been stored in a crate that was far too small, and now it all came tumbling out of him, bursting forth with an energy that made him grip Belle tighter just to stay anchored on the ground. Magic, his own magic, poured back into him, soaking him through to the bone, making him stronger. It wasn't a transformation, not at all, because he wasn't becoming something new. He was being restored. Mr. Gold had always been Rumpelstiltskin in some strange way, just without his magic. And now that last piece of himself, the thing that had been missing from him for twenty-eight years, rolled back into place.

And with it came…

Voices.

He couldn't have one without the other. He couldn't have magic but not the Seer. He couldn't be the Dark One and not have the others in his head just as they'd been the moment he took his Curse. They'd been in him all this time, locked away in that too small box, unable to talk, to growl, to order, to advise. Free again, they had a lot to say.

The chatter in his head was overwhelming. It was loud. There were too many voices, too many sounds to make out words or phrases. Not even Nimue came through clearly. It was as though they'd been keeping a running commentary on his life all these twenty-eight years, and now he was experiencing every comment and question, every joke and insistence, all of it all at once. They were confusing him, disorienting him, confounding and drowning him out so that-

And then she was there.

He felt a void against his chest where someone had once been.

Belle.

She'd pulled away from him slightly and was looking around. And then back at him.

Her eyes. He loved her eyes. He would be lost in them if he stared forever.

Better to be lost in her eyes than in the cacophony of dozens of Dark Ones and a Seer.

Dark Ones and a Seer…

He looked over at the well, calm and peaceful once more. The magical cloud had dissipated.

He'd done it. He'd actually done it. He was in the same realm as Baelfire, the Curse was broken, and magic was restored. He could go. He could find his son! He could-

Another void, the feeling of absence, drew his attention back to Belle. He hadn't realized that he'd still had an arm around her, not until she started to move away and now.

"My darling Belle…" he reached back out to grab her, to pull her back to him. Yes, the Curse was broken. And yes, with magic restored, he was free to find his son. But she was a reminder that there were still things he needed to do here before he could leave. Including one task he hadn't planned on. Not until he'd seen her again. "You have to tell me what happened to you."

"I was abducted," she answered quickly. There wasn't a single bit of hesitation in her voice, no desire to question what had happened because she knew it to be true. She hadn't left of her own free will when he'd dismissed her and been in hiding. She'd been taken from him. And he had a feeling he knew who had done it. Not her father, believable as that was, but rather the woman who had tried to convince him it was her father in the first place; the woman who had done everything she could to control the narrative...

"Regina…" he growled.

She frowned but nodded in confirmation. "She locked me away until her curse, and I've been in the asylum ever since."

"For twenty-eight years?"

She nodded, and he felt his body tense as the newly returned magic inside of him longed to flex its power in any way...even this one. An asylum. His Belle? The most level-headed intelligent person he'd ever known. And Regina had kept her in a place like that, a padded cell all this time?! Nearly three decades!

"All these years, you've been here," he snarled. "Alive!"

"Is…is that why you did this? Why you wanted magic?" Belle pressed, coming closer with a look of suspicion on her face. "For revenge?"

"Oh no. But it might come in handy…"

"No."

Indeed, his mind was already beginning to fill up with all matter of fair punishments he could bestow upon the woman he no longer needed. He'd tolerated her as long as he had to in the Enchanted Forest because he needed her to get here. Here in Storybrooke, he'd gone through the hassle of handling her because he'd needed her to get Emma to play her role. But now that they were here and the Curse was broken, he had no more use for her. And he wasn't going to let her get away with this.

"No!" Belle cried, forcing his attention back on her. But she couldn't understand, didn't understand. And his magic…oh, his magic wanted out so badly!

"I cannot let this stand, Belle. I will not let this stand!"

"Look…" And then she took a step closer so that it made his breath catch and the darkness inside of him flinch. He could still hardly believe that she was alive, let alone close and…touching him. Her hands reached out to hold his own. They were warm and just as steady as her eyes. It was like a balm for his temper.

"Promise me," she whispered. "Promise me you won't give in to your hate. Promise you won't kill her."

No. No, absolutely not! He huffed and shook his head. He would do many things for the woman before him, but he couldn't promise such a thing. He and Regina had a precarious relationship as it was; if he just let this go, let her walk away after holding Belle hostage from him and attempting to free her with terrible, half-assed agreements, she'd take the upper hand, she'd think he was weak. It would be so much easier to simply-

"Promise me," Belle insisted, gripping his hand tighter so that she recalled his gaze again, "and we can be together."

The voices inside of him hissed to life, excited and eager.

Deal, they hissed.

It's a deal!

Make a deal!

Just as his magic wanted to work, to stretch, to be active, the Dark Ones were just as eager to do their part again as well. And what Belle had said…

It was a deal. It might not have sounded like it, but that's what it was. Don't kill Regina, and in return…they could be together.

He felt something in his chest shudder and melt, leaving him breathless. "Be together." Two words with a very serious implication. She wanted to be with him, to stay with him. Not as they had been before, living in the castle as two separate entities but...together! The thought of it left him trembling. His eyes filled with tears at her wishes, and he was shocked to find her own did as well. He'd dreamed of this, imagined it, and hoped for it even when he'd thought she was dead. But to hear it from her mouth! He wanted what she wanted. She wanted what he wanted. All these years, he thought he'd just wanted Baelfire, but now that she was here beside him again, he wanted her too, just as he always had in the castle. He wanted to talk with her, to hold her, to laugh with her. He wanted to experience everything he'd seen in those visions of her. He wanted to keep touching her. And maybe even do a little bit more than that.

Don't kill Regina, and he could have it…he could make that deal.

"Oh, Sweetheart…" he reached out and let the back of his knuckles graze against her cheek. She didn't pull away from him or hesitate, just stared at him with anticipation and fear. She needed to hear the words, he realized. After what had happened in the castle, after he'd favored Regina and sent her into the world to be captured, she needed to hear that he was choosing her this time. Even as the voices opposed it, he chose her.

"I promise," he nodded with a simple smile.

She smiled too, taking a timid step toward him that made a resolve he hadn't known he'd been carrying since he left the shop snap.

He chose her. He wanted her to know he was choosing her.

So even as she came closer, he let the hand at her cheek wrap around her neck and gave her a gentle tug forward. He braced himself for the kiss, allowed his Curse to reclaim those burrowed holes within his soul, and dig their way in before he did it so that True Love's Kiss couldn't threaten him as it had before. He braced himself…but there was still no preparing for it.

He'd wanted to kiss her for decades, to be the one bold enough to do it right. He wanted to be gentle, to close his eyes and just relish in the feel of her lips on his as he hadn't before. But he couldn't be, not when that was the painful memory that rose to the surface of his mind. "Kiss me again," she'd begged once upon a time. Then he'd forced her away. Never again.

So he wrapped his arms around her and drew her closer, hip to hip, chest to chest. She gave as much as she took. He felt her fingers in his hair, pressing into the base of his skull, felt the way her arms wrapped around him like she didn't want it to end either. Passion, heat, gratitude, love…he felt it all. He'd never had a kiss like that before. He'd never given one like it before, and he knew he never would again. Not to anyone but her.

The need for air demanded they stop, let themselves breathe. He let his eyes drift open to the sight of her still only inches away from him. He wanted to do it again. He wanted to kiss her a hundred times over, to live in that feeling forever. But the smile that she gave him was unique and special all on its own. And when she closed her eyes and lowered her head to his shoulder before he pulled her closer, he realized there were other forms of intimacy he couldn't wait to experience with her too…

Just as soon as he'd taken care of Regina.

Don't kill Regina, and he could have this…he realized as he held her tighter to him.

Don't kill Regina…there were so many loopholes in that request.