gleam girl

Alex’s Sorting

Prompt from the lovely @iamdeltas – “Maybe something about when they first get sorted into their houses, and Alex is really upset about being in Slytherin.”

(Note: in this minific, Kara came to live with the Danvers a few years earlier than she did in canon, so before Alex was sorted.)


Eliza would have been most pleased with Ravenclaw.

“Oh, the good you can do with that mind of yours, Alex, why would you ever put that to waste?”

Alex supposes Eliza would be okay with Gryffindor, too, because even though that’s the House for those “hard-headed ruffians would put brawn and ego before brains and forethought,” a little bravery would help her protect Kara better, wouldn’t it?

And hell, herself.

Though that never seemed to be a consideration of Eliza’s.

Hufflepuff?

Eliza just wouldn’t believe it. And, frankly, neither would Alex.

Before Kara came to live with them, she thought of herself as a toss-up between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.

Her father always was telling her how selfless she was. How willing to put other people before herself. The way she loved, hard, fierce, with everything she had.

And she had a lot.

But then Kara came to live with them, and Eliza cornered Alex into being a third parent for her little sister, and then Jeremiah…

Everything she’s had to be, everything she’s had to bury, everything she’s had to become…

She’s got no chance at Hufflepuff, now.

She knows that.

But Slytherin?

Eliza would send a Howler for sure.

Because “Alexandra, it’s a disgrace to this family, to have such hatred in our midst” and “don’t you know their reputations, Alexandra, how could you possibly embrace those parts of yourself?” and “what on earth will Kara do when she gets to Hogwarts? Because they certainly won’t accept her into that elitist House of yours.”

Alex won’t comment on the irony. It’s always useless, anyway.

She’s useless.

Useless, because the Sorting Hat hears her pleas for Ravenclaw.

“Well you certainly have the brains for it. My my, what smarts there are in here.”

But that’s not all the Hat has to say.

“But courage, too, oh my dear, the courage of a lion indeed.”

And the damn Hat still isn’t done.

“So much buried in such a young heart; so much determination to do right by your sister, your mother, the memory of your father… Slytherin would serve you well, you know – oh, now now, resistant to the idea, I see – they’ll teach you to look out for yourself, you know, and the people you love, instead of looking out for the people you love at the cost of your own life – “

And it’s that.

That idea – the idea that she can protect Kara, and also, somehow, learn to look out for herself, too – that makes Alex’s brain buzz. That makes Alex’s heart leap.

That makes the Hat crack into a muffled smile and shout, “Slytherin!”

But she still cries in the bathroom.

Still cries when she slips away from the other first years, because she knows, lord, she knows, that when the owl post comes in the next morning, it is not going to be pretty.

Hogwarts was supposed to be her escape.

And now it’s just going to be something else she’s done wrong.

“Hello?”

The voice is small and the voice makes her crying stop cold. Makes her freeze and makes her heart do something she’s never felt before.

“What?” she snaps from inside the stall, and she thinks maybe the Hat was right about her, after all.

“It’s Danvers, right?”

“Who’s asking?” she snaps again, but even she can hear that her words are muffled by snot, by tears, by agony.

“Uh, sorry, I don’t mean to get in the way. I um… I’m Maggie. Sawyer. Maggie Sawyer. And I saw you slip away from the other Slytherins and I thought maybe… I thought maybe you could use a friend. Or something.”

Alex scoffs, still inside the stall, still not able to put a face to this name.

But she does remember the name.

And it figures, it really does.

“Hufflepuff, huh?”

She can’t see the girl, but she can feel Maggie bristle, can hear it in her voice.

“That a problem?”

Alex cracks a smile, and she’s glad this Hufflepuff girl can’t see. She rubs her eyes and she wipes her nose on the sleeve of her robe, and she unlocks the stall.

Her heart leaps, and she’s not quite sure why.

The girl is pretty. The girl is more than pretty.

She’s got these deep eyes, and this cute ponytail under her hat, and she’s got these adorable dimples. Alex can tell because the girl – Sawyer – smiles when Alex pops out of the stall.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

“So is it a problem? Me being a Hufflepuff?”

“Not if it’s not a problem that I’m a…”

“Is that why you’re crying?”

“I’m not crying.”

Maggie just looks at her, and somehow there’s no judgment on her face.

“Well, I don’t know much about… all this. But I met this boy, James – he got sorted into Gryffindor, we sat together on the train – and he says sometimes Slytherins are the bravest and smartest and most selfless people. That you can’t tell who someone is by the color of their tie.”

“You’re a strange one, Sawyer – anyone ever tell you that?”

Maggie chuckles, like she knows Alex means it like a compliment – because she does.

“Only every day.”

They giggle softly, almost sadly, and they jump when the bathroom door opens.

“Oy! First years, aren’t you supposed to be with your Prefects?”

“I… I got sick. Too much pudding at the Feast. Threw up. Sawyer was helping me.”

The strikingly beautiful, older girl in Gryffindor robes, with a gleaming Head Girl badge, arches a careful eyebrow, like she knows Alex is lying, but she doesn’t mind.

“Alright you two. Come on, I’ll show you to your common rooms. Well, as far as I can go through the dungeon, anyway, for you – Danvers, is it? – and to the kitchen for you. Sawyer, right?”

“Yeah. Um, thank you…”

“M’orzz. M’gann M’orzz. Come on then. You can continue this risque inter-House friendship in the morning.”

Alex gulps, and Maggie does the same.

Friendship.

Ten minutes ago, the thought was relatively foreign to both of them.

Now?

Now, the morning is suddenly something to look very much forward to.

Loved


“Daddy?” The little girl gleams up at her father, showcasing uneven teeth and gums as he tucks her into the soft bed. Her father hums, drawing out the question until she’s properly tucked in and ready to sleep. 

“Yes, sweetie?” He finally smiles, slowly falling to his knees beside her bed. The little girl chuckles shyly, pressing out her question between small giggles; 

“What did you think when you first saw mama?” 

Her father doesn’t answer at first, causing his young daughter to squirm impatiently underneath her covers. Finally, her father bursts out into his own shy chuckles, recalling the very first moment he saw the girl’s mother. “Wow-” He starts, his lips stretched back into a smile that his daughter mirrors. “was what I thought. Wow, she’s beautiful.” 

“I don’t think I love you anymore, Y/N.” The raven headed man tells the young woman, his plump lips so beautiful and plump as they mutter out those mortifying, heartbreaking words. 

The young woman freezes in return, her back tensing as she can feel his blunt, dark eyes on it. His words bring tears to her eyes within the short seconds she spends, taking them in. 

“Y/N, I’m so sorry.” The man sighs. “Please say something.” 

“I want to think the same thing when I meet my husband.” The young girl then pipes up excitedly, her mouth sounding out the same childish, shy giggles as her father stares adoringly at her. 

“I want you to think the same thing too.” He nods before furrowing his eyebrows, pointing a playful, accusing finger at her. “Future husband, you mean - also; in 15 years, okay?” 

“What do you want me to say, Kyungsoo?” She wonders out loud, a single tear escaping through her facade and trilling down the curve of her cheek. She sighs as well, her usually so gleaming eyes dull as her fiancé stumbles over his own words behind her. 

Finally- “Anything, Y/N, please.” 

Her father then lets his light smile fall, only slightly, as he takes a hold of her more petite hand, caressing the top of her hand, speaking with a tone he hoped she would take seriously; “You deserve happiness, my sweet baby girl, you deserve love and you deserve respect and you need to look for the one that can give you that.” 

“I’m heartbroken, Kyungsoo. I still love you, you know that- and it’ll take a long time before I don’t love you anymore.” She could clearly hear the man’s breath hitch as she paused, the cold temperatures of the room causing goosebumps to cover her lower back and exposed arms. 

“My father taught me that I deserve happiness, love and respect. I still do, and it’s alright that you’re not the one that will give me that anymore.” 

“You hear me?” 

“I loved you, Y/N, I gave you happiness and I respected you.” 

She sighs again. “You did, that’s true.” 

Then, she finally turns, only to be met with a sight she never thought she would be met with 15 or so years back. The man quickly dries his tears when she turns, tugging on the large duffle bag over his shoulder before his eyes meet her’s in their last moments. 

“But no longer, I suppose.” 

“Yes, dad. I deserve happiness, love and - eh, respect.”


Memories Remain

Day Five of Adrinette Month is Coffee Shop AU!!  This drabble takes place when our heros are in university. It assumes that Adrien never went to school with Marinette and her friends. While writing this, I listened to Coffee Shop by BAP, which I think fits pretty well. I hope you enjoy!

Also on AO3


Adrien didn’t mind the night shift. It was quiet. Generally only one or two customers came in during the late hours, and Adrien spent his spare time reading behind the counter. 

Tonight was no different. It was about midnight, and the only other person in the shop was one of his daytime shift regulars. She was a very pretty university student who lived nearby. Normally, she came by in the mornings for a caramel macchiato before class. They rarely spoke more than a few words to one another, but he always remembered her. She had long, black hair and big, bright blue eyes that reminded him of another girl that used to make his heart pound. 

Keep reading

the covens of paris

we give a girl a coin when we see her on the street. we give her one bright flicker of gold, and assume she is innocent because she is lovely,

but she is alone. she raises an army of corpses from the cimetière de père lachaise and calls them kin. she raises her hands to their rattling sternums and conducts a symphony of war.

keys are dropped in the seine. pigeons with silver wings eat breadcrumbs in the jardin des tuileries. we throw our hands up towards a slate sky.

did you see them in the alley, we whisper, did you see the handfuls of fire, did you see the crimson smoke? there is a bleached-white bone cavalry marching on la tour eiffel,

lead by a gleaming slip of a girl. a phantom of a girl. they say there is a witchboy who lives in the gare de montparnasse, and he will not refuse any request.

they say there is a demon in the catacombs who will take your jaw in hand and pull out your teeth. dark magic rises there, cut through by the sharper power of the métro.

there is freshly-baked bread to be bought in the morning. there are violets to be scattered to an april breeze. beneath l’arc de triomphe, a boy has lit his hands on fire,

and he does not feel any pain. did you see the way he smiled, did you see the way they shook hands? we fall asleep to the rattle of skeletal feet on cobblestones.

the girl is now asleep, or perhaps she has died. there is no way to tell and it hardly matters anyway. her soldiers bear her body to the louvre and crown her queen.

in the morning the allegiances have shifted but we cannot find them in our coffee cups, or glowing gold along the streets. we eat breakfast. we put on our red scarves.

nothing can be done about the wine-filled fountains. nothing can be done about the restless cemeteries. this is not my war, we say, and we step over the bodies on our way to work.

Imagine Being Alfred’s niece and visiting him at Wayne Maynor.

Title: You Can Call Me Bruce.

Warnings: Age gap.

Summary: Alfred’s twenty six year old niece comes to pay him a visit at Wayne Maynor. Taken by surprise, Bruce tries to warm up to her and make her feel at home, but things begin to go further than planned, and he begins to worry he’s gotten himself into a compromising situation.

A/N:

Guess who’s started writing DC imagines?

I hope you like it!

***

Bruce stands in the doorway, a perplexed expression of confusion plastered upon his face. His brown eyes are squinted, and his brows are pulled together in one thick line of concentration; his eyes are trained on the two figures standing at the doorway, smiling and laughing with each other. One he can at least identify as Alfred. Smiling warmly and nodding, he converses with the other figure whom Bruce isn’t familiar with.


A girl.


He’s been standing here for the past two minutes waiting to see whether or not Alfred will notice his presence, abandon the girl, and come over to explain to him what’s happening. But he doesn’t. He hasn’t. Up to now, Bruce has been standing at the corner, sipping on his coffee as he stares down the form of the girl at the door.


She’s tall. Towering over Alfred the slightest in what he assumes to be high heels, and her hair, a deep shade of coffee brown, falls down her shoulders in big curls and ringlets. The outline of her silhouette looks as though she’s wearing a trench coat. The weather outside is misty and the sky is grey and wet—that would explain it. And from the way she stands with her back to door, light flowing in from behind her, her face is masked by darkness.


Who is she?


Today, the lower half of his face is tainted darker from the light stubble blooming from his skin, as he scratches it absentmindedly. Who is she, Bruce wonders? Who is this strange girl without a face, casually conversing with his butler? Why was she here? Bruce takes another sip of his coffee, eyes never leaving the duo at the door. He then notices Alfred glancing back over his shoulder, catching the scrutinizing gaze of the dark-haired man.


Alfred gestures for the girl to wait, and then makes his way over to his master leaning against the wall in his work attire. White pressed shirt. Black tie. Black slacks.


His hand is fixed in his pocket, while the other holds his mug. He pulls it away from his lips.


Alfred smiles warmly, his grey eyes creasing behind the frames of his thick-rimmed glasses. “Master Wayne—always the early bird I see.”


“Who is she, Alfred?” Bruce cuts right to the chase. He has no time for beating about the bush: work starts in thirty minutes and he must be on his way, but there’s no way he’s leaving without knowing who has just entered his home.


The grey-headed man casts a cursory glance over his shoulder, turning back to Bruce. “Oh! I haven’t introduced you, have I?”


“No, you haven’t.” Bruce’s gaze travels to the girl waiting at the door. “Who is she?”


“Ah,” Replies the elder man, “all in good time, Master Wayne. She’ll let you know herself.” He turns on his heel. “Y/N!”


The young-lady’s attention is grasped. She turns her head to them, and Alfred waves her over.


She ambles towards the pair of men, smiling shyly, with her hands both crossed over each other. When she comes out of the curtain of darkness, Bruce can finally see her face.


He was right: she is short. A pair of heeled copper boots are what add a few extra inches to her height, and her body is indeed clad in a burgundy trench-coat. Beneath it peeps out what looks like a plaid shirt too big for her tucked into a black pleated skirt, and when his eyes travel up, he meets her smile.


Alfred places a warm proud hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Master Wayne,” he begins,” this is my niece.”


Bruce’s gaze bounces from face to face, wrinkled to smooth and youthful. They rest on the young-girls gleaming expression; her lips are curled into a thin smile, her cheeks ingrained with dimples, and her brown eyes sparkle as she reaches out her hand.


“Y/N Y/LN.” She offers a frail hand so small Bruce fears he might crush it if he takes it.


He reaches out anyway and shakes her hand, nodding along as the wheels in his mind begin to click. Of course, he reflects. Of course it’s Alfred’s niece. He’d told Bruce that she’d be flying in from Metropolis to visit, stay the a few nights—he’d even given him permission to have her stay in his guestroom. How could he have forgotten?


His eyebrows raise in realization then turns to Alfred. “Oh, so this is the famous niece?”


“Indeed.” The elder man nods proudly. “I’m sorry I forgot to remind you about Y/N’s arrival, Master Wayne, but she too took me by surprise. I didn’t expect her to be coming in so early.”


“Sorry about that.” Y/N chimed in.


Bruce’s gaze flew to her, finding an apologetic smile on her face. She shrugged her shoulders.


“It was a bit of a last minute decision on the train—I thought “Uncle Alfred’s in Gotham. Why not pay him a visit?” Y/N laughed nervously. “So I…just dropped by. I can leave if it’s too much tr—“


“No!”


Bruce cut her off. The young girl’s eyes widen, and out of the corner of his eyes he feels he can say the same for Alfred. He licks his lips, staring into her gaze. Brown on brown. Her eyes are doe like, almond shaped and laced with thick mascara while the rest of her face remains bare. Her skin is dotted with little freckles and scars. A few pimples here and there, but it’s understandable, taken the fact that’s she’s a teen.


Nineteen, twenty two, twenty six. Whichever, Bruce stills sees her as a teenager—a toddler even, compared to his prehistoric self.


“It’s no problem.” He tries to add a nod for extra confirmation. “Really.”
Y/N’s eyes glint with hope and excitement as a smile crawls onto her face. Small and shy.


“Really?”


“Really.” Bruce nods again, and he can feel his lips curling along as well. He doesn’t know why, for it is so faint and tiny, but her smile is infectious. He can’t help but mirror her.


The young girl lets out a titter of joy, then shakes her head frantically. “Okay—great.” A few strands of brown fall into her eyes as she turns to Alfred. “This is okay with you, right Uncle Fred? Me staying here?”


“Don’t be daft, child, of course it is.” He replies, smiling assuringly as he places a hand o her shoulder. Bruce watches from the sidelines with a content smile he’s not sure about, but he acquiesces it gladly.


Alfred lets go of Y/N’s shoulder. He turns to Bruce. “Master Wayne, I see you’ve already fixed yourself coffee. Anything you’d want to go with that?”


“Uhm…” Bruce glances down at the cup then back up. “I think I’m fine. I’ll be leaving soon anyway.”


“More for us then.” Alfred smiles at his niece, before heading off to prepare breakfast for the two of them. Bruce won’t be here to sit down and have a chat with Y/N over a cup of coffee or milk or whatever it is an infant like her drinks with her breakfast, so he decides to use now to his advantage. After all, she will be staying in his house, eating his food. He should at least get to know her a bit.


The young girl’s gaze follows her uncle down the hall until he disappears, and then floats to Bruce. She forces a smile.


“Master Wayne?” She morphs her awkward smile into a smirk, and Bruce laughs.


He shakes his head. “He’s the one insisting on that. Countless ties I’ve told him Bruce is just fine, but he….”he gestures wordlessly in the direction of the hall.


Y/N laughs. It’s smooth and sweet, like honey drizzled milk.


“Yeah, he’s a bit traditional. I can believe that about him.” She says. Her voice is resonant, but not loud. No. Clear as ice, and captivating, reaching your ears in a warm embrace. Bruce can hear her very clearly, but he still pretends that he hasn’t, too caught up in his own thoughts about a young girl’s baritone.


“Sorry?” he twists his brow.


“I said I can believe that about Uncle Fred—it’s kind of part of who he is.” She repeats, fingering the strap of her bag.


Bruce nods, chuckling slightly, and his gaze over her shoulder to her luggage. It’s still at the door, soaking up the drizzle and mist floating in the air.
He points past her. “Don’t you think they’ll get wet?”


Y/N cranes her neck to see what he’s talking about, and her eyes go wide as she realizes.


“Crap!”


She quickly scrambles to bring her things in. She drags them into the house by their wheels, leaving trails of water. She rests them, and bends to inspect whether or not the water has leaked through, tsking distastefully.


“I’m an idiot.” She sighs as she runs her fingers along the seams and zippers of her suitcase. He’s about to offer help, but everything is fine, Bruce assumes when she stands up, and grabs the handle.


“Is everything okay?” Bruce asks.


She nods, and waves a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. Just a little drizzle on the outside. The inside’s probably safe.” She turns to face him fully and asks, “Could you point me to the guest room, please?”


Please. Bruce can’t say no to that. He doesn’t want to, but even if he did, it would be beyond impossible. It’s too sweet and young and naïve. Just like her.


“Right down the hall,” He points to the left, and she nods. She goes to pick her things up, but Bruce stops her.


“Oh, here.” He places his coffee mug down somewhere nearby, and bends to pick her suitcase. “Let me help you with that.”


“It’s fine, mister Wayne.” Y/N chuckles, trying to pry the bag from his hold, but he merely smirks and pulls away.


“You’re no different from your uncle, I see?” He teases, and she laughs, shaking her head.


Again, the sound is infectious somehow, and Bruce joins in. He gestures for her to follow him as they amble down the hallway, Y/N keeping close behind.


“Well, I guess courtesy runs in the family.” She says.


“It doesn’t have to.” He says. They reach the bedroom at the end of the hall. A large olive wood door stands as the threshold, and the dark-haired man opens it with his foot. It swings open, revealing the inside of the guestroom.


“You can call me Bruce.”He turns back to the young haired girl. She’s smiling at him, but when he spots her, Y/N looks to the ground, abashed.


A nervous laugh escapes her, as she nods. She then looks up at him, and the timid demeanor is gone, now revealing her former self. She reaches out, and takes the suitcase from him.


“Thanks, Bruce.” She nods for emphasis. And Bruce can’t help but smile.


Because it’s infectious.


“You’re welcome.”

***

Thanks for reading. If you liked this, feel free to like, reblog, or follow to keep updated when I post part two, or any other imagines/oneshots. Wirter for Supernatural, X-men (mainly quicksilver), and now, DC :) .

Have a nice day!

nonukesthanks

(( i hope they are ok with a calico runt ))

The two queens of the household -long girls, lean girls, big-eared girls with gleaming black pelts and long, long, long tails- are engaged in their favorite hobby -that is, sitting in the dog’s favorite spot on the couch and batting at his ears if he comes too close, meant to teach him the universal rule that they are glorious good, good girls and he is but a lowly stink dog, very bad in all possible ways with nothing good at all except for when they use him as a pillow. 

The Big Man is sitting on his chair instead of making them dinner (dinner from a flying thing?  dinner from a walking thing?  dinner from a many-legs thing?  dinner of a swimming thing, maybe?!)  like he should be doing, but it’s still early enough that neither of the two women are willing to expend the energy to get up and scold him for shirking his duties.  The Big Man is the ugliest cat they have ever seen.  He doesn’t know how to walk properly.  He doesn’t know how to talk properly.  He has no tail and his ears are in the wrong place and where is his fur?  What happened to it?  Who took it?  But ugly though he may be, he’s a warm man and a sleep man and a dinner man and sometimes a special yummy treat for good, good girls man, and they have decided that they can excuse him for being ugly.

Suddenly, a noise!  The noise of a door opening!  What could this mean?  Vesta reacts to this abrupt change in reality by making herself very, very long and skinny with big eyes.  Venus’ ears prick forward but she is a cat who knows things, so she does not startle like the smaller one does.

It’s only the Warm Man.  A Warm Man is nothing to get startled over, not a bad, scary invader in their territory but a good cat to sleep on and maybe get petting on the chest but not the stomach, never the stomach, a bad place for a petting.  The male cats don’t know how to talk properly but they understand each other.

But what’s this?  The smell of a stranger cat…and could it be, the sound of a stranger cat?  A squeak!  The squeak of a kitten!  How could such a thing happen?  A kitten, here?  A kitten cannot be here.  If a kitten is here, then its mother will come and the mother will be an invader and try to take all of their warm places to sit and all of their food and a biting and a clawing will have to happen to establish peace once again.  This cannot happen.  Vesta is still young and innocent but Venus has seen the ways of the world and knows many things and knows that this is a very bad thing, possibly the worst thing.

And the stranger kitten squeaks again.  Venus makes a big hiss, the biggest hiss, and retreats under the couch to think up a strategy while hiding in the shadows where no angry mother of a kitten will find her.  Vesta -hesitatingly, cautiously- creeps forward, her fur raised, tail very large and very puffed, and investigates the stranger kitten until it’s just too scary and, crying, she dashes into the other room.

Yves doesn’t understand why the two are scared of a harmless little kitten.  Cats.

First attempt at fanfiction. Sorry if it’s bad \(._.)/

Based off of my Headcanon #2 in which Rowan teaches his daughter how to knee guys in the balls for protection. Some Rowaelin moments as well.

The minute Rowan Whitethorn stared into those brilliant turquoise eyes rimmed with solid gold, the famous Ashryver eyes, and brushed a hand through the short wavy silver hair of his newborn daughter he just knew that she would put a spell over every single boy she’d encounter. Just the thought of any uncouth boy attempting to court or harass his daughter in hopes for her returned affections made his hackles rise. A protective low growl escaped his lips.

Almost immediately a hand struck his back.

Rowan whipped around to find a lovely though somewhat bedraggled woman giving him an incredulous look.

“You’re not seriously already slipping into that alpha-male persona are you?” Aelin Ashryver Galathynius asked her husband. When he didn’t answer, Aelin’s eyes, the exact replica of their daughter’s, narrowed into two turquoise slits.

Rowan backed up in response, clutching their daughter closer to his chest.

“Overbearing territorial Fae bastard…” she muttered. Aelin then folded her arms up against her chest and said in that authoritative tone Rowan only ever heard her use in court meetings, “Listen up Rowan. I put up with your alpha-male nonsense because you’re my husband and mate. But this is your daughter and if you even try to threaten and scare the shit out of any boy that she meets in the future, I will incinerate your sorry hide.”  

Rowan glared at Aelin. “I’d like to see you try.”

Aelin smirked and held her palm out to summon a small controlled red flame decorated with blue embers.

Time to switch tactics.

Silently Rowan pleaded with Aelin. She’s my daughter and you know males only have one thing on their minds. I won’t have them taking advantage of her.

Of course males only have sex on their mind. How else do you think our daughter was conceived? Aelin shot back silently.

That was a good night. Rowan grinned mischievously at Aelin causing her to inadvertently smile back.

We had to hold the wedding earlier because of you and your insatiable appetite you big brute. Though the tone of her silent voice was filled with disapproval, her eyes were dancing with affection and mirth.

“Anyway,” Aelin continued out loud, “I refuse to allow our daughter to become the first spinster queen Terrasen has ever had. You wouldn’t deprive our kingdom of a potential heir just because of your fatherly urges. Would you?”

Rowan grimaced, “Of course not.” He swiftly turned his back to his wife, still softly stroking the head of the slumbering infant, so she would not detect the lie in his eyes.

Six Years Later

“Where are we going papa?” A precocious young girl with gleaming silver hair asked, clutching on to her father’s large tanned hand.

“We’re going to the training rooms, Eowyn.” Rowan responded.

“But mama said that-”

“Your mother says a lot of things that don’t make sense.”

“But-”

“We won’t tell your mother,” Rowan said crouching down to look his daughter in the eye, “It will be our little secret.”  His daughter eyes glittered with excitement. She had never kept a secret from her mother before!

“Okay!” Eowyn answered gleefully before running off without her father to the room filled with an assortment of gleaming swords and daggers hanging on the walls. Green and silver, the colors of Terrasen, targets were mounted on the wall for archery and dagger-throwing practice. Foam dummies covered in the little divots knives had left lie forgotten on the hard ground.  In the center of the training room, sitting on a large wooden stand, was the famous sword Goldryn that her mother had wielded against the deceased corrupt King of Ardalan. The sword of Orynth, as usual, was not present as it was resting in its scabbard on her mother’s hip.

“What I am about to teach you is very important. It is vital that you master it,” Rowan said seriously. He waited for Eowyn to solemnly nod back before he continued, “Remember, males only have one thing on their mind.”

“What is it?” Eowyn asked innocently having no idea what sexual intercourse was.

“Never mind what it is,” Rowan said roughly, “Just know that what they have in mind is more horrendous than the nightmares you have at night. The things males think of could utterly destroy you from inside and out. It makes the crimes the past King of Ardalan committed look like child’s play.” His daughter shuddered having heard the stories first hand, albeit a watered down version, from her parents and her tutor. Then all of a sudden, a look of utter horror graced his daughter’s facial features.

“Wouldn’t that mean you’re a baddy papa?”

“I’m different.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your father and I love you more than anyone in the world.”

“Including mama?”

“Including her. But don’t tell your mother; she’ll get jealous.”

“It will be another one of our secrets!” Eowyn giggled, ecstatic to share yet another secret with her father. Rowan chuckled and ruffled his daughter’s silver hair before rearranging his facial features to appear sterner.

“Listen carefully,” Rowan said seriously, “There’s an area where all males are vulnerable.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s right between a male’s legs. His privates. Hit him there, and he will feel a crippling sort of pain shoot up from his groin all the way up to his stomach. It won’t be enough to kill him, but it will be enough for you to incapacitate him and run away and search for the nearest help available. With any luck, he’ll remain immobile for a long while.”

“Okay.”

“Now look at me demonstrate on this dummy and then you can try after.”

Rowan put the dummy’s arms around his shoulders, before he smashed his foot into the foot of the dummy and brought up his knee straight into the groin. Eowyn immediately copied her father.

From then on, Eowyn spent the week with her father perfecting that same move while her mother was dealing with kingdom matters.

When her father felt that she had mastered that method, he taught her other ways to incapacitate males well up into her teen years.

Twelve Years Later

Princess Eowyn Whitethorn Galathynius was finally eighteen years old.

A legal adult.

A legal adult who was about to celebrate her birthday in the biggest royal party ever thrown.

And it was all in her honor. She was practically salivating from her mouth when she thought about the rich and sweet chocolate confection that was being baked in Emrys’s kitchen for her. She had attempted to sneak down to get a lick of the chocolate batter, before Emrys had appeared with a wooden spatula dangling dangerously from his old callused hands.

“You’ll get a taste of your cake at your party,” he had said sternly, “Now off with you!”

So Eowyn left the kitchen; but not without first secretively dipping her finger into the chocolate frosting.

Her mother’s royal friends from Ardalan were to attend her party. Although Eowyn had seen Uncle Dorian, whom she adored and had had an embarrassingly huge crush on as a child, several times in the past, she had yet to see his son.

Eowyn brushed a hand through the bushes of flora which emitted a lovely but light sweet fragrance. The white gardenia flowers had been planted throughout the entire garden to give off the illusion of having an area covered in twinkling stars during the daylight hours. During the night time, her mother would have flames flickering from every single candle encircling the garden.

Eowyn was expected to descend from the terrace in the garden with a single unlit candle in her hands, glide through the pathway that was lit up by the candles, and accept the silver tiara that would be bestowed to her by her mother and father to signify her shift into adulthood. Eowyn was to then light up the candle with her own flame.

She was at least capable of lighting a tiny little flame, having inherited much of her father’s ice and wind powers.

Lost in her absentminded thoughts, Eowyn failed to notice the tall male standing in the path directly ahead of her.

She crashed right into him.

Groaning and massaging her aching head, Eowyn swore.

“Holy fuck. Since when was there a wall installed here?”

“Um…” A distinctly deep and warm male voice echoed in her ear. Eowyn looked up startled and stared directly into a pair of warm sapphire eyes.

A pair of eyes that seemed to suck her right into their very depths.

It was if Eowyn had suddenly lost the ability to speak as she stared into the most handsome face she had ever seen. The male had black messy hair that fell into his eyes in an almost artful way. His lips were soft and pink.

They were lips that Eowyn was very tempted to brush with her fingers just to see if they were as soft as they looked.

All of a sudden, her father’s strong voice shouted and reverberated within her brain, “Males only have one thing on their mind!”

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Eowyn sent a quick apologetic look to the boy before driving the heel of shoe into the male’s foot.

Not even hearing his howl of pain, Eowyn quickly brought up her knee, exactly the way her father had taught her twelve years ago, to smash it into the male’s groin.

Immediately the male keeled over onto the dirt covered ground. He was clutching his stomach while yelling out some choice invectives that seemed to make the ones she had heard uttered from her mother and father’s mouths during one of their sparring matches seem tame.

Eowyn ran as quickly as she could to find her father and bring him over to punish the male for his indecent thoughts.

She found him in the company of her mother and King Dorian.

Giving Uncle Dorian a quick but well-meaning hug, Eowyn quickly turned to her father to tell him of the boy she had defeated in the garden.

“You did what?!” Her mother snapped. Eowyn saw her mother cast her father a suspicious glare who suddenly seemed quite keen on an invisible speck on the stone wall opposite of the little party.

Before Eowyn could answer, the male she had hurt came hobbling into the room.

“You!” He exclaimed wrathfully before turning to Uncle Dorian, “Father this girl kneed me…well she kneed me in the balls moments before when I did absolutely nothing!”

He turned his arrogant face over to Eowyn, triumph painting his sneering features. He likely thought his father would have her dragged into prison for her actions.

She couldn’t believe she had just injured the crowned jewels of the crown prince of Ardalan.

She couldn’t believe he was the crown prince of Ardalan.

She couldn’t believe she thought he was handsome. Not when he had such a smug look on his face.

The smarmy bastard.

But to the prince’s surprise, King Dorian just dissolved into hearty chuckles. Dorian merely patted his son on the back before choking out the words in between his tears of laughter, “Son, this is the princess and future queen of Terrasen, Eowyn Whitethorn Galathynius. Eowyn, my dear, this is my son Cyrus Havilliard.”

Cyrus’s eyes bugged out from their sockets in disbelief.

“This is the so called princess I’m supposed to meet and congratulate on her birthday?”

“Be polite,” Dorian hissed pushing his son towards Eowyn.

Cyrus pasted on a bland smile before extending his hand to Eowyn.

“Nice to meet you,” He managed.

“You too…” Eowyn said. She stared into those damn sapphire eyes which seemed to be saying: I’ll make you regret hurting me later.

Eowyn merely grinned at the prince, her slightly elongated canines, courtesy of her Fae heritage, glinting in the light. She turned to meet her father’s gaze which were glimmering with unadulterated pride and joy.

Oh it was totally worth kneeing the prissy prince in the groin.

One year later…

Rowan’s pointed ears could hear the high pitched giggling of his daughter followed by the low seductive-he wanted to vomit when he thought of that word-voice of Dorian’s effing son echoing down the hall.

His nostrils flared when he smelled the arousal of both his daughter and that blasted prince’s. Abruptly standing up from his chair within his and Aelin’s quarters, Rowan made to stalk out of the room to interrupt what was surely to be the beginnings of heated love-making.

Before he could even make one step out of his chair, Aelin grabbed his arm.

“If you dare to interrupt the two lovebirds, I am going to make you sleep on the couch tonight.”

“But-”

“No buts.”

“I thought they hated each other.”

“We loathed each other too in the beginning in case you forgot. Look at us now!”

“She’s only nineteen.”

“So was I when we decided to have sex.”

“She’s only nineteen.” He repeated. His eyes hardened as he tried to persuade Aelin to let him go.

“So what? Frankly I’m quite happy for her. I was beginning to think there was something wrong with her. She’s had no lovers for all her life until now.”

“I’d rather she remained celibate till her dying day,” Rowan muttered murderously.

“You knew this day would come whether you liked it or not.” Aelin pointed out logically.

“I knew it would come,” Rowan snarled, “But couldn’t she have picked to have defile another location with that boy outside of the palace? It smells foul.”

Aelin burst out laughing before coming up to fling her arms around her mate. She stroked the cheek with the dark tattoo. Rowan closed his eyes at the soothing gesture, a growl rumbling through his chest.

“I guess I’ll just have to make you forget about our daughter and her shenanigans,” she whispered sensually into his ears before placing an open mouthed kiss on the hollow of his neck.

“Aelin,” he groaned.

Conversation between the two mates ceased and gave way to wordless communication exchanged between the brushing of lips.

Rowan quickly forgot the stress he felt upon scenting his daughter’s loss of virginity.

Although his anger towards the Havilliard boy returned when he once again smelled the arousal of his daughter and the prince in the early morning.

“Can’t they control their hormonal urges?” He protested burying his nose in Aelin’s neck in an attempt to smell something much more pleasant.

“Just shut up and sleep, you bastard.”

Surprise - Part 5

Pairing: Rob Benedict x Reader
Word Count: 5,732
Warnings: cussing, sexual content (no sex though), anxiety
Authors: Sam and @crowley-you-sinnamon-rolle (Caitlyn)
A/N: Sorry that these parts are coming out slow! With grad school picking up for me (Sam), it’s going to be harder for me to take the time to write! I will try to get anything out when I can! Please be patient I love you guys! :)

Keep reading

You Can Call Me Bruce (Part 3)

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

Warning: Age gap

Summary:Alfred’s twenty six year old niece comes to pay him a visit at Wayne Maynor. Taken by surprise, Bruce tries to warm up to her and make her feel at home, but things begin to go further than planned, and he begins to worry he’s gotten himself into a compromising situation.

Part 1

Part 2

A/N: I liked writing this. Dedicated to: @sammythelittlemoose, @doubtinglord, @tori525, @hotcrazycatlady, @carolina-brumblr-love, @brooklynbridge96, @thewigglyjo, @disneymarveldcunivere15, @laughingcherries, @bookgirl617, @sarcasmisthyname, @incendia8, @maximofftrash, @wonderfulmagnificentrose, @loveyourmockingbird, @raptornsain, @unlikelyinternetprincess, @infinite-bubbles, @andreasteed1894, and @oathbreaker-paladin

Names selected at random, and I apologize if i forgot you, but feel free to shoot me a message and remind me so that I can tag you in the next part :)

~Enjoy~

                                                  ~*~*~*~

Bruce can’t sleep.


Even if he wanted to, even if he tried and tried and counted as many sheep as there are stars in the night sky, he can’t. He won’t. His body is too tired as is his mind, and the call of the night in whistle and whisper of wind and birds in the trees is too captivating.


It’s no earlier than three am, and he can’t help but wonder what bird is up at this hour. Until after moments passing, he realizes the chirp under his window is that of a cricket, and Bruce’s mind is put to rest at least a bit from knowing. A cricket. A little, tiny noisy cricket.


He’s been staring at the ceiling for so long that he’s sure he can draw out every crack and pattern and shadow cast upon it from memory. It’s plain white. Darker during cold and insomnia-ridden nights than it is during the day, and there are a few marks and scratches here and there whose origin he can’t even remember. Because he doesn’t want to. He’s not trying to. What he’s trying to do now is sleep, and even that seems a far-fetched dream that he’ll never catch up to.


So does she.


Immediately the thought pops into his head, Bruce curses, clamping his eyes shut scornfully. Stop. Just stop. This is wrong and you know it, he tells himself. But apparently he’s not listening, because the very same thought pops up yet again, and Bruce lets out a frustrated groan.


His eyes open and he’s staring at the ceiling again.


This time it’s darker. Everything’s darker. He feels a heavy wave of shame and guilt wash over him, and right outside his window, the cricket begins his midnight cry once more. He can’t sleep.

                                                  ~*~*~*~

The rain has stopped. Bruce, standing at the window, a picnic blanket folded in his arm and observing the outside, finally turns to Y/N.


“It’s stopped.” He says, looking hopefully at the young girl sat opposite him. Her chin is resting in her palm and a bored look is plastered on her face—until his words register, and she perks up, eyes widening.


“Really?” She inquires.


Bruce laughs heartily and nods. “Really—look.” He points out the window.


Y/N’s eyes follow his hand; he’s right. The sun is peeping out from behind heavy grey clouds, a bright yellow glow radiating onto the city of Gotham as the rain lessens, and she can see, as clear as the blue sky blooming, that it’s safe to go out.


A wide grin forms on her lips, and, bouncing onto her feet, Y/N wastes no time. “Come on!” She grabs Bruce by the hand. He’s taken aback by the contact, but even more so the pace at which Y/N dashes out of the room, the elder man following with stumbling steps.


Bruce follows, strung along like a little doll as Y/N teeters down the patio steps, jumps over a small boulder, and then runs into the open green garden. She releases his hand, and Bruce manages to steady. He halts a few feet behind. The sun is out now—fully. She can feel its rays dance on the apples of her cheeks, and Y/N revels in the feeling. She turns to Bruce still steadying his footing.


“It’s even more beautiful after the rain. “Y/N observes with a rueful smile, turning to look at the sky.


Bruce straightens out, eyes trained on the girl before him, before they shift to the bright blue sky hovering above his head. And yes—she’s right. It’s beautiful, he realizes, as he takes in the feel of wet grass beneath bare feet wind tousling grey hair and a certain gleaming h/c –headed girl before him.


It’s all so beautiful.


Whipping around, Y/N grins at him and then takes the picnic blanket from bruce’s hand. “It’s a good thing we brought this, huh?”


“And you said we wouldn’t need it.” Bruce hands it to her with a teasing smile and Y/N rolls her eyes, going to set up their post. They are out here for a reason; for Y/N. Her work. Bruce agreed to have her interview him for a holiday-assignment for one of her journalism classes, and with a week so busy at the company, he’s only had time to sit down with her just now. Stunted by the abrupt rain, they would have started earlier, but this is just as fine.


Y/N smooths out the blanket and then glances back at Bruce. “Alright, we can start.”


“Okay then.” He moves to sit beside her, keeping his distance, before the young girl excuses herself and rushes inside to grab her notebook and recorder. Bruce almost laughs at her eagerness; she’s like a child ecstatic about having a tea-party with a dinosaur like him. And it’s adorable. And she’s adorable.


And when Bruce catches him thinking this, he stills.


Adorable?


Well…maybe not so. Cute, perhaps. He can’t help but think it makes her sound like an infant, maybe a bit too much. In the past few days getting to know her, Bruce has realized that Y/N is much more mature than that, and he’s been trying to refrain from seeing her as a child as much as possible despite the truth behind it.


Bruce is pulled out of his trance by the sound of footsteps p[adding towards him.


He looks up, and she’s running right at him, and she’s smiling, laughing almost, so giddy and excited because she’s been excited about this all week…and all Bruce can do is remind himself to not call her adorable.


Y/N flops down on the blanket, still grinning, still idyllic, and clutches her pen hard in her hand. “Okay.” She says. “ Shall we begin?”


And Bruce gives her the green light with a curt nod.


She asks him questions—about him, about his work—and he answers them honestly and as vastly as he can. They go on and on with the interview, but each time Y/N asks him a question, Bruce can’t help but end up straying with his answer.


It’s happened four times now. Somehow they’ve ended up from the topic of work and on aliens, and before it was golden retrievers and which dog they’d be if they could.


Y/N laughs wholeheartedly. “So you believe they exist?”


“You don’t?” Bruce quirks an incredulous brow. The young girl shrugs. Bruce tries not to notice the way her falls over the side of her face, and even harder tries not to reach out and brush it back.


“No.”


He scoffs. “Explain crop circles then. U.F.O sightings? Extra-terrestrial life on mars?”


“I can’t.” She’s packing up her book and recorder, and that’s enough to signal that their interview is over, Y/N most likely tired of Bruce’s straying and evading her questions. That’s fine; it was fun while it lasted. “I’m a journalism major, not a scientist.”


“Just say you’re too young to understand.” The elder man smirks. Then Y/N punches him in the shoulder jokingly.


“I’m not too young.” She quirks a competitive brow. “ You’re just archaic.”


“Ouch. You’re hurting my feelings there, Y/N.”


“Master Wayne!”


Bruce turns his head to the house, the sound of his voice being called bringing him back from cloud nine and to the earthly plane. Alfred, standing on the patio deficient of his glasses, and scouting out the horizon.


“Over here, Alfred.” He says. The old man turns in Bruce’s direction; with the squint of his eyes, he can tell they’ve been spotted.


Alfred approaches, holding out the phone. “A call for you.” He says as he hands it to Bruce who holds it to his ear immediately. Bruce’s brow wrinkles subtly. “Hello?” He asks. He then hears the familiar tone of Dick from work asking him about the upcoming board meeting. He sighs.


Turning to Y/N, Bruce excuses himself. “Business call.” He says. She releases him, and he retreats to the house talking into the phone and leaving Alfred standing in the garden with his niece.


Bruce is gone now, somewhere in the middle of the house talking money and business with one of his colleagues, and Alfred turns to his niece. Y/N stands watching the house with an entranced, almost mystified look; the very one she bore moments ago, as his friend left. She twiddles with a loose thread on the picnic blanket. Alfred speaks.


“Something bothering you?” He asks as he notices the somber expression taking form on the young girl’s face. Y/N’s head turns. She stares at him silently, briefly, and then turns away with a shake of her head.


“No.” She says. “I’m…” She falters slightly, before regaining the pep in her voice. “I was just thinking about my interview with Bruce, whether I should submit it now or wait till school re-opens.”


Y/N then turns to her uncle and smiles, but it doesn’t meet her eyes.


And just from that—just from that vacant glint in her eyes, and the somber mask on her face, and the way she’s trying so hard to make it look like nothing is wrong, Alfred can tell something nudges at the back of her mind that Y/N refuses to voice. But he won’t push.


He won’t demand. If she chooses not to tell him, he decides, then it’s best he doesn’t pry any further. “Why the rush? Just hand it in when you get back home.”


“You really think so?” Y/N meets his gaze. Her face is twisted in one of her unsure smiles as she fiddles with the thread around her finger.


“I do. Come now. Lunch is almost ready.” Alfred says, and then, resting his arm warmly around her shoulders, he guides her back into the house.


Bruce is nowhere to be seen when they get back. He’s left a note; apparently there was an emergency at the office, and only his hands could handle the weight of the situation, so he left, claiming to be back late evening and advising not to wait up for him Alfred doesn’t really care—he’s used to Bruce running of, sometimes for entire days even— but, when he sees the disappointed look on his niece’s face when she reads the note, something twists in him.


He can’t keep quiet anymore.


Y/N fists the piece of paper in her hand, breathes in for a moment, and then regains her composure. She goes to set the table. They’re having stake for dinner. Stake, and a side of truth-serum.

                                              ~*~*~*~

He’s been noticing things about her. Little things.


Like the way she chews her breakfast in the morning, the sound of her voice each time she says his name, and even, as shameful as it is, the curve of her spine.

                                             ~*~*~*~

When Bruce gets back, he can feel the literal ache in his bones from work. Harley never went easy on him, not ever, and so he doesn’t know what exactly he was expecting when he showed up at the bank and there she was, holding a bloodied revolver to one of the cashier’s heads. Taking her down was a chore, but he did it.


Normally after such tedious turns of events, Bruce would want to take a hot bath, climb into bed and sleep away the gnawing pain in his abdomen….But tonight is different. Tonight, something calls to him. Someone.


Is she asleep?


Rolling up his sleeve, he checks his watch. Nine. Y/N always goes to bed at ten or so, right after she crammed a bit of calculus for school and editing her CV, and Bruce figures she must be up. Maybe. Possibly. If she isn’t, then he doesn’t want to make the mistake of waking her with a boisterous knock at the door.


And yet still…that won’t stop Bruce from trying.


His knock at her door is ginger, reluctant and he hopes that he’s not disrupting her rest. Apparently not. Y/N pulls the door open, and their gazes meet. Bruce smiles briefly. Tiredly. He can’t muster up the strength for a grin.


“Evening.” He greets. “Can I come in?”


Y/N looks up at him, eyes wide and surprised like she didn’t expect him here. Bruce spots a blush crawling up her neck to the tips of her ears. He’s too tired to analyze it though, and instead, waits for a response.


But it doesn’t come…


“Uhm….” She blushes even harder this time. His eyes then regard Y/N curiously as she fumbles for words.


“Uhm?”


“Now’s not a good time.” It’s not Y/N’s voice. Bruce turns, and Alfred is standing six feet away, clad in his day-clothes reeking of smoke and with a look that says he’s out for blood.


Why?


Surprised to see him, Bruce’s brow furrows. “Alfred?”


“It’s late and Y/N needs to rest. I expect you’ll be leaving now.” He says…threatens? Alfred never threatens Bruce. Ever. The most he’s gotten for him is snide sarcasm and quick wit.


But from the way the elder man’s eyes are narrowed, and the protectiveness of his stance….well…apparently Alfred is threatening Bruce.


For what?


“Go to sleep, Y/N.” Alfred says over his shoulder.


Bruce turns, but all he’s met with is the hurried shut of a door in his face, a gust of wind billowing at him. He turns to Alfred. “Is something wrong?” Bruce asks.


And Alfred doesn’t respond as he walks away, leaving Bruce tired and confused and nebulous in the middle of the hallway.

~*~*~*~

She’s been noticing little things about him.


The way his eyes are narrower when he’s concentrated, or the shy look he gets when she finally gets him to laugh. Even his smiles…


His smiles. She mentally rolls her eyes. Y/N feels like an absolute maniac for knowing each and every one of them and what he’s feeling when he wears them. And she reminds herself, everyday, of the un-importance of taking note of each and every one of these trivial little details, but….


It’s hard not to.

*~*~*

Gaddam! The tension!

All will most likely be resolved in the next installment, which will probably be the last, depending on how things pan out in my mind and how much of it I write. In the meantime, if you enjoyed this, don’t forget to like, reblog and/or follow to stay updated when part 4 is posted, and maybe even have it dedicated to you.

Have a nice day!

Sometimes, It All Feels Like a Little Too Much

I Have Loved You Since Series: Sometimes, It All Feels Like a Little Too Much

Masterlist

Your head had been hovering over the toilet seat all morning and every sudden movement you made within your skin, made you feel ill to the stomach. With a very tired Harry sitting beside you on the bathroom floor, you watched as he continued to slip from the hand that held his head up. He was absolutely exhausted and deprived of sleep. You were at the start of your third trimester and you constantly found yourself crawling out of bed in the middle of the night and throwing your head over the toilet seat because the morning sickness was beginning to take a toll on you once again.

“Go back to bed,” you grumbled. Harry’s eyes slowly opened before closing again and he shook his head, continuing to rub your back in attempt to comfort you. You felt bad he had to suffer along with you; you always found him yawning here and there throughout the day but he’d refuse to leave you unattended and go to sleep for a little while. 

He sat up from where his back rested against the cabinet and pressed a gentle kiss on your temple which made you cringe a little to his scent. Anything that seemed to have a smell to it made you gag and want to retch even more. “I’ll make you some tea,” he drawled, his voice was raspy and his accent was thick. His heart ached every time he heard you shuffling into the bathroom in the midst of night; he knew what was to come and he hated how you couldn’t have one peaceful night. He’d spend hours on different pregnancy websites reading paragraphs and paragraphs of detailed texts to see if there were any remedies or anything he could do to help your nausea but there wasn’t much he could do himself. It was just another step the two of you had to undergo.  

He crept into the cold kitchen and the frigid air drew chills to his skin. It was a quarter to six and he could almost see a little bit of March sunlight over the meadow behind his house. He switched on the stove and waited for the water to boil. He could barely keep his eyes opened and had decided to take a second doze before the whistling sound from the kettle awoken him.

Your body had finally decided to settle and you limped back into bed with what seemed to be half a brain. You weakly pulled over the duvet before slipping your toes back under the warm sheets and drifting back off to sleep. Harry stumbled in through the bedroom doors with a cup of green tea in his hands and he felt a bit relief when he found you under the duvet, eyes closed and breath steady. He set the mug aside before restlessly joining you on his side. 

***

You winced to the kick that pressed against your core and you sat up slowly, holding your belly, trying to calm the little human inside of you. Harry was in a deep slumber, snoring his nose away and you didn’t dare to bother him. He needed sleep and in the longest time since forever, he was somewhat serene.

***

The door bell continued to ring and you were beginning to get frustrated by the fact that you couldn’t find your other earring. “Harry!” You called out, hoping he’d answer the incessant ringing but he was still in the shower humming along to the running water. 

You huffed and dropped the one earring you had before slowly skipping down the stairs to see who the impatient person was. You swung open the door only to be met by the charming Irishman who looked guilty with his finger on the doorbell. “I heard you the first twenty-six times,” you gibed with one eyebrow cocked up in place. 

Niall shrugged casually before his grin formed and you opened your arms to welcome him inside. “So how ya doin’,” he chirped, embracing you. “Baby comin’ anytime soon?” 

You chuckled, closing the door behind you and shaking your head. “No, I don’t think so.” You stepped aside to the table against the stairs in the foyer and grabbed a few essentials to pocket in your purse before you spotted a very wet headed Harry at the top.

“Who’s here,” he grinned, skipping down with a wet towel around his shoulders. 

“Prince Charming,” Niall snickered, sitting himself in the den. “Get some clothes on, will ya? We’re going to be late.”

***

Sophia had called for a immediate brunching this afternoon as she and the family had just gotten back from their holiday in the states. Audrey and Adrianna both begged to tell their tales of meeting Mickey and Minnie Mouse. Being it was their first time in Disneyland, the two four year old girls were euphoric.

You found yourself closer to Harry’s seat, your head resting on his shoulder with a big grin while his hand splayed onto your thigh. You watched as his eyes gleamed at the girls as they spoke; he paid so much attention to them, it was amazing. You knew he was going to be an extraordinary father when your little girl came and there was no question to it. 

“Have you?” Harry bellowed with too much enthusiasm, making the two girls giggle. It was no secret, Audrey fancied Harry but who wouldn’t? He was quite a catch! Harry moved his focus back onto you when moments went by and you stayed silent. “You okay?” He whispered in your ear, earning an nod from you. He smiled and pressed a kiss on your temple before the twins tugged on his arm for his attention.

“So how’s the baby ride coming along,” Sophia smiled, taking a sip of her tea. “Your bump is certainly coming along beautifully.”

You chuckled, “I sure don’t feel beautiful. The morning sickness has returned and I’m heaving over the toilet seat every morning.” You sighed and Sophia was quick to share some remedies to ease the retching and gagging. Liam kept his eyes on his wife as she talked while Harry and Niall continued to chat with the girls. 

“Alright, we done here?” Niall asked, looking around and earning a satisfied nod from everyone at the table. He asked for the check and each of the guys chipped in to pay for it. 

Harry reached for your coat sitting on the back of your chair before helping you slip into it and doing the same after. He checked to see if he had left anything behind before hugging Sophia and the twins goodbye and bidding Liam and Niall as well. 

He took your hand and began to dig through his pockets for his car keys. “Drive safe,” you called out, you and Harry being the last to leave.

You began to feel nervous when you noticed the camera flashes from the other side of the glass wall. Paparazzi were annoying before but now that there was a baby coming along, they were irrational and wanted every little detail from you going to a doctor’s appointment to you leaving brunch.

Harry knew you were uncomfortable with the paparazzi and he tried his best to keep you out of the media but sometimes, it was inevitable. “Just hold my hand and stay close,” he told you with a reassuring smile. He gave the doorman a friendly smile before pushing the door open and leading you outside.

“Harry! Harry! Over here,” they all called out. 

You kept your head down, keeping your eyes glued to your feet and hoping you wouldn’t trip and fall but someone kept pushing you. You felt something sharp push against you and you quickly moved closer to Harry only to be tugged away in another second. 

“Hey, watch it!” Harry grunted, his grip on you tightening. 

“Harry! Are you sure the baby’s yours?” Someone else called out. 

Before you knew it, the pushing and shoving grew stronger and you slipped out of Harry’s grip. The weight resting on your belly acted and you felt unsteady when another middle-aged man shoved your side, pushing you to the ground. The crowd gasped and it suddenly became quiet but it didn’t last long until the cameras started flashing again. But this time, they were focused on you.

Harry didn’t take long to push through the crowd and meet you on the ground. His face was filled with panic and his lips were pinker than usual. You gripped on tight as he lifted you from the ground and helped you to your feet. Quickly opening the door to the passenger side, you slowly climbed in and he raced around to the other side. 

“Is she alright, Styles?” One shouted, trying his best to shove the camera lens into the car. “Did she lose the baby?” 

“Piss off, prick!” Harry was angry now. He was furious, more than furious. He stepped back from the door and pushed his finger against the man’s chest. “God forbid if anything happens to her or my baby, I will make you regret seeing the light of day!”

He climbed into the Rover and slammed the car door shut before starting the ignition and racing out of the parking lot. 

***

He pulled up into driveway and tugged the keys out of ignition before dropping his eyes on you. “A-Are you alright? How do you feel? How’s the baby?” 

“I’m alright,” you sighed, taking a deep breath. 

“Are you sure? I think we should still go see a doctor. Make sure the baby’s okay?” He rushed, lungs closing and getting harder to breathe. “I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry I didn’t hold on tighter. God, I fucki-”

“Harry,” you cut off. “It’s okay, I’m fine, I promise, baby.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “If it weren’t for m-”

“Harry, it wasn’t your fault,” you insisted, giving him a small smile. “I’m fine and so is the baby. I don’t think I fell too hard, my love.”

He continued to shake his head, dropping his chin to his chest. “I should have held on,” he grumbled. 

You reached over the console that sat in between you and intertwined your fingers with his, giving his hand a rub. He looked over at you with sad, puppy eyes as if he were in trouble before you gave him another reassuring smile, the ones he always gave you when you weren’t feeling like yourself. “You did the best you could,” you spoke. “And that’s all anybody could do.”

-

There you go, lovelies. Thank you to the anon who requested this! I hope you along with everyone else enjoyed! Happy Sunday! 

Let me know what you thought

I love you lots. Xoxo

Black is my uniform.
The one they made me wear.
Black is dull and lifeless
Neutral
Opinionless.
Black has no emotion.
No personality.
It is like death.
It was the existence
That they gave me.
It was nothing like
The life I had with you.


I remember
Our life was one of color.


Red was your fierce blushes
That you hid behind your hand.
Red was your lips
Swollen from kisses.
The blood we spilled
In all those fights
Little and big
Was red.
But the blood brought to our skin
As we made love
For the very first time
Was a better kind of red.


Pink was our flushed faces
When we were children
Playing ball in the alleys.
Pink was the sunrise
Arching over the Alps.
The cotton candy
That we got at Coney Island
Was pink.
The rose I gave you was pink
But I told the florist
It was for my mother.


The city sky at night
Was a dull orange.
Those medals
That were pinned to our shirts
Gleamed orange.
Flashes from bombs
That we and others rained down
Were orange.
The explosion at the facility
That lit up your face
Come to save me
That was orange too.


Yellow was the sun
Illuminating your face
Turning your skin gold.
My father’s liquor
That we stole
And the champagne at clubs
Looked yellow.
Girls’ jewelry
Gleamed yellow.
The blast of my gun
Looked yellow
Just for an instant.
Your face when you were sick
Was yellow too
But so unlike
The glow of the sun.


Central Park
Was the kind of green
Rare in our city.
The army uniforms
Were an ugly green
But somehow still flattered you.
Mountain forests
Deep in Europe’s heart
Were a deep dark green.
The veins in your wrists
Were green like copper
Deceptively dull
Hiding your powerful heartbeat.


Your uniform
As you became 
America’s sweetheart
Was always blue.
Summer nights
When you made love to me
Slow and gentle
Were a deep blue.
Your gorgeous eyes
Were blue
Like forget-me-nots.
Worn jeans
For labor at the docks
And painting alike
Were a faded sort of blue.
Winter skies
Were icy cold blue
But I wrapped you up
And kept you warm.


Our bruises were purple
Both the ones
We got from fighting
And that you left on my neck.
The violets that bloomed
In your mother’s window box
Were purple.
My sister’s dress
That you picked for her first date
Was soft purple.
Clouds in a lightning storm
Were violent purple
Their rain was fierce
And we let it soak us
As we danced in the streets.


White.
White was orgasms.
White was your teeth
Flashing a smile.
White was early morning light
Framing your face.
White became snow.
White became winter.
White is now clean.
White is my rebirth.
White is me.
I am a blank canvas
That longs for your color again.


Be the artist
Take up your brush again
And paint yourself all over me.
You were
All the color
In my life.
And you will be
All the color in my life
Again.

—  J.B.B

I honestly don’t know what to say, I just feel so amazed and happy to see what changes have happened over the past 5 months.

For anyone out there who is anxious to start their transition because they don’t think HRT will do anything I hope this helps because
1. The progress I’ve made has been an incredible feeling to watch along the way and will continue to be.
2. It shows in my pictures for sure, but I’ve gone from the saddest most serious person to a glistening and gleaming girl in these past months and it’s been incredible.

Keep your heads up darlings and stay beautiful ❤

stannisisawesome  asked:

Why do you think Maggy, in her prophecy to Cersei, uses the Valyrian term "Valonqar" instead of just saying little brother in the common tongue? Does this have any significance as to the identity of the Valonqar?

To be mysterious and obscure and to delay the reveal. Wait, no, that’s why GRRM did it. Let me explain.

The first time we see the word valonqar in ASOIAF is in Cersei’s first POV chapter, on the very first page:

She dreamt she sat the Iron Throne, high above them all.
The courtiers were brightly colored mice below. Great lords and proud ladies knelt before her. Bold young knights laid their swords at her feet and pleaded for her favors, and the queen smiled down at them. Until the dwarf appeared as if from nowhere, pointing at her and howling with laughter. The lords and ladies began to chuckle too, hiding their smiles behind their hands. Only then did the queen realize she was naked.
Horrified, she tried to cover herself with her hands. The barbs and blades of the Iron Throne bit into her flesh as she crouched to hide her shame. Blood ran red down her legs, as steel teeth gnawed at her buttocks. When she tried to stand, her foot slipped through a gap in the twisted metal. The more she struggled the more the throne engulfed her, tearing chunks of flesh from her breasts and belly, slicing at her arms and legs until they were slick and red, glistening.
And all the while her brother capered below, laughing.
His merriment still echoed in her ears when she felt a light touch on her shoulder, and woke suddenly. […] A dream, that’s all it was, a dream. I drank too much last night, these fears are only humors born of wine. I will be the one laughing, come dusk. My children will be safe, Tommen’s throne will be secure, and my twisted little valonqar will be short a head and rotting.

–AFFC, Cersei I

From the context, it’s not certain what “valonqar” means, nor even what language it is. Cersei is obviously referring to Tyrion, but the exact definition is still obscure. And her use of the word at the end the chapter doesn’t help. 

“Your Grace?” said Blount. “Shall I fetch a cup of water?”
It is blood I need, not water. Tyrion’s blood, the blood of the valonqar. The torches spun around her. Cersei closed her eyes, and saw the dwarf grinning at her. No, she thought, no, I was almost rid of you. But his fingers had closed around her neck, and she could feel them beginning to tighten.   

–AFFC, Cersei I

At this point, “valonqar” could mean “dwarf”, it could mean “monster”, who knows, but the reader certainly doesn’t yet.  The “monster” possible meaning gains some traction a few chapters later into Cersei’s POV:

She thought of Joffrey, clawing at his neck. In his last moments he had looked to her in desperate appeal, and a sudden memory had stopped her heart; a drop of red blood hissing in a candle flame, a croaking voice that spoke of crowns and shrouds, of death at the hands of the valonqar.

–AFFC, Cersei VI

Hmm. In the previous Cersei chapters, we learned a bit about Maggy the Frog (briefly previously mentioned in ASOS by Kevan Lannister as Jeyne Westerling’s great-grandmother), an old crone (Olenna Tyrell reminds Cersei of her) from the east (Taena’s accent is similar), who once told Cersei some kind of prophecy when she was a girl, about how she would be queen until she was supplanted by another. Now we know that the “valonqar” is connected to this prophecy as well… and that Cersei remembered it while seeing her son Joffrey choking to death. But why Cersei knows “valonqar” means Tyrion, or whatever else it means, we don’t yet know. However, soon after this, we get a vital piece of information:

The man proved to be Tyroshi; short and stout and sweaty, with an unctuous smile that reminded her of Varys and a forked beard dyed green and pink. Cersei misliked him on sight, but was willing to overlook his flaws if he actually had Tyrion’s head inside the chest he carried. […]
“Your Grace,” the Tyroshi murmured, bowing low, “I see you are as lovely as the tales. Even beyond the narrow sea we have heard of your great beauty, and the grief that tears your gentle heart. No man can restore your brave young son to you, but it is my hope I can at least offer you some balm for your pain.” He laid his hand upon his chest. “I bring you justice. I bring you the head of your valonqar.”
The old Valyrian word sent a chill through her, though it also gave her a tingle of hope. “The Imp is no longer my brother, if he ever was,” she declared.

–AFFC, Cersei VIII

Ohhh. Now we know that “valonqar” is a Valyrian word, and that it seems to mean “brother”? Or at least that’s how it looks like the Tyroshi is using it, and Cersei seems to agree.  Note, btw, that “valonqar” is apparently common enough in the low Valyrian dialects of the Free Cities that a man speaking the Common Tongue just uses it offhand… though maybe it has some kind of significance, which is why he says it like that. Anyway, later in this chapter, Cersei dreams and remembers her visit to Maggy the Frog in full:

The old woman was not done with her, however. “Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds,” she said. “And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.”
“What is a valonqar? Some monster?” The golden girl did not like that foretelling.

–AFFC, Cersei VIII

Heh, young Cersei thought “valonqar” meant “monster” too – and first impressions are important. Even after she learns the word’s true meaning, she will always associate “valonqar” with monstrousness, which is why she only thinks of it in connection with Tyrion and no-one else. Though we get one final clarification:

She woke shuddering in Taena’s arms. “A bad dream,” she said weakly. “Did I scream? I’m sorry.”
“Dreams turn to dust in light of day. Was it the dwarf again? Why does he frighten you so, this silly little man?”
“He is going to kill me. It was foreseen when I was ten. I wanted to know who I would marry, but she said…”
“She?”
“The maegi.” The words came tumbling out of her. She could still hear Melara Hetherspoon insisting that if they never spoke about the prophecies, they would not come true. She was not so silent in the well, though. She screamed and shouted. “Tyrion is the valonqar,” she said. “Do you use that word in Myr? It’s High Valyrian, it means little brother.” She had asked Septa Saranella about the word, after Melara drowned.

–AFFC, Cersei IX

OK, so, not just brother, but little brother. Hmmm, I wonder if Septa Saranella told Cersei verbatim “little brother”, and not “younger brother”… and since Tyrion is “little”, that too would be a reason why Cersei would associate “the valonqar” only with him, not remembering that since she’s the older twin, that Jaime is her younger brother too.

So, you can see why GRRM used the word in High Valyrian – to be mysterious, to build suspense, to create a strong connection between “valonqar” and Tyrion in the minds of both the reader and Cersei herself, and to obscure its true meaning and true significance. So in the end, when the reader and Cersei are shown the full meaning of the word and the true identity of the valonqar, we’ll be stunned and shocked by the tragedy and irony.

(By the way, note GRRM has done this kind of thing with Valyrian words before. He first introduced “valar morghulis” when Jaqen says it to Arya in her second-to-last ACOK chapter, and she uses it through the rest of that book and throughout ASOS without knowing what it means. It’s only when Dany is speaking to Missandei, a translator, and when Oberyn is speaking to Tyrion, that we (the reader, not Arya yet) learn that “valar morghulis” means “all men must die”. But even though we got that answer, GRRM pulled one more trick – at Arya’s last ASOS chapter he has a Braavosi say “valar dohaeris”, and the meaning of that phrase was a subject of much debate during the five years between ASOS and AFFC.)

As for Maggy herself and her use of the word “valonqar” – there’s several reasons why she may have chosen to use High Valyrian and not the Common Tongue.

  • She was from the Free Cities, and as we see with the Tyroshi, it may be that saying “valonqar” and not “younger brother” is just common to how they speak when they speak the Common Tongue, interjecting it with words from their native language.
  • It may be there’s some specific significance to the word that Septa Saranella wasn’t aware of. (Another possible reason why the Tyroshi said “valonqar”, that he chose to use High Valyrian for some particular meaning.) If so, we’ll find out shortly, I’m sure.
  • Cersei irritated Maggy from the moment she burst into her tent and woke her up, treating her like dirt, showing no respect for her or her powers. It might be that Maggy foresaw the chaos and the trouble that would be caused from obscuring her words like that (same with the “younger queen” and its possible meanings), and deliberately did so in order to get her revenge on the girl. (“Malice gleamed in Maggy’s yellow eyes.”) Don’t piss off a maegi, they can and will fuck you over hard, as Dany also learned.

Hope that helps!