been wanting to do this for ages so i've finally knuckled down and done it :)

Breathe Underwater

Pairing: Antonin Dolohov x Pansy Parkinson

Setting: Modern, non-magical AU

Word Count: 1,013

It’s a hot, humid night in late July.

“Why are we here,” Pansy bleats. She glances around the interior of the bar—which had looked like a fucking barn from the outside—and sees thick reels of obviously fake rope coiled like snail shells along the walls, as well as a pleather-saddled mechanical bull lurking in the far corner. “Daphne. Daphne. Why are we here.”

Daphne blinks. “Like…here? Existentially? Or—”

“No,” Pansy interrupts, sneering at a girl who’s wearing a tacky red bandana as a dress. “Like, here, here. Specifically, this dumpster fire of a fucking drinking establishment in the fucking 909.

Oh,” Daphne coos, nodding sagely. “You mean here. I just—I thought it would be fun to do something different tonight, you know? Like. Pansy. They have square dancing here. Look at all the cowboy boots.”

Pansy pointedly inspects Daphne’s twelve-hundred dollar Louboutins. “Fun,” she repeats, acidly. “Right. Super fun. Flannel shirts and illegally lifted pick-up trucks. Bathrooms that smell like Bud Light and cough syrup. Remember that scene? In that weird Reese Witherspoon movie with the Alabama people? Where she’s, like, you brought your baby to a bar—”

Pansy’s cut off by an elbow—large, leather-clad, masculine—catching her in the ribs.

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Day 8 - Gold

Damen took the crown in his hands – the golden laurels for him, the sapphires and starburst for Laurent. It would suit Augustine better than he’d ever suited them.

If he had to find something he regretted, in this marvel of a life he’d been given, it was not having more children.

It wasn’t a wish he had harboured during youth. Even when Jokaste had presented him with the possibility of fatherhood, what he’d felt had been duty, not longing.

Kings needed heirs. It was the way it was. His own mother’s miscarriages had sorrowed the entire kingdom. From tales of those times, and of Kastor, and from the extent of Kastor’s deeds, he’d learned that the sooner there was an heir, the more solid would be his reign.

He realised now, with some irony, that he’d never had an heir at all. He had an heiress.

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Tucked In

Summary: After a startling (or not so much, really) confession, Robin reads Regina a bedtime story. Unedited - apologies for any mistakes.The idea just wouldn’t leave me alone.

He’s watched her so many times, curled up on Roland’s bed with the boy cuddled into her side and Henry perched at their feet (too old to be read bedtime stories, he says, but never misses a single one of Roland’s). He’s listened so many times, let her deep, rich voice wash over him as talking animals and mischievous children have come to life before Roland’s imaginative, twinkling eyes. When she claps the book shut, slips from Roland’s sagging, sleeping form, and tucks both boys in (Henry protests, but only half-heartedly, and only half of the time), Robin’s heart soars and he thinks bedtime stories must be one of most glorious things ever.

Tonight, Regina shoves the book into his stomach playfully and reminds him they’re supposed to take turns reading, that he’s been slacking off. Robin has no defence other than that Roland keeps specifically requesting her, and his mock-injured tone elicits a grin from her. Her expertise, he mumbles into her ear in perfect sincerity, is truly remarkable.

A sigh escapes her, and he knows her, this sigh means trouble. He knows something’s wrong even before she slips from his arms.

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This will probably end up in my Simple Pleasures series but I’m not certain parts of it are that pleasurable or that simple to be honest.

If you’re a bit spider squeamish maybe miss a few paragraphs.


“Is it gone?”


“Gone as in it ran into a cupboard. Or gone as in you caught it and took it to Toorak?”

A chuckle. “The latter. Although not as far as Toorak. Your rose bushes.”

“Not far enough, Jack.” She emerged from the bathroom however; in her silver robe still on her guard, looking around her boudoir as if the spider were about to launch itself from the ceiling and cover her face in its eight legs and furry, spiky body.

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