“-and that’s if the woman could be bothered to actually do any work.”
Coran sighed and fought the urge to roll his eyes. Of course it would be today, when he had offered to take Allura and give Illyere a few hours to herself, that one of the governors would come in with a bug up his nose and several grudges to air.
The fates did tend to conspire against him after all.
“Your lordship, I assure you, Her Majesty has been quite diligently dealing with the problem-” The imperiously disbelieving sniff Governor Jorpek made in response made his metaphorical hackles raise, but his attention was caught by an insistent squirm in his arms. “-eh? Allura?”
“Hmn!” He’d forgotten she was awake, and the infant princess had wiggled from her sleeping position into a sit-up, and was reaching out for the governor, who blinked at her in surprise. “Hnn!”
Coran was no less caught off guard. Allura never reached for anyone unless she liked them, and why she would like that pompous-
“Augh, get her off!”
Tiny fingers had latched into the old man’s beard with a claw-like grip, and the small bundle was nearly ripped out of Coran’s arms when Jorpek reeled back with a howl of pain. Momentarily stunned, Coran quickly recovered and tried to pry her loose, only to find that it was like trying to wrench open an Orichian-made latch-vice, and in the end, Allura came away with a fistful of hair.
“Well!” the governor snapped, gaze blazing as he pulled up a holo-mirror. “It’s clear the little monster takes after her demon of a mother!”
He didn’t get the chance to finish his rebuke as he man swept out of the room. Good riddance. They’d have to handle his kullashit later, but for now, Coran didn’t want the headache.
There was the handful of hair Allura was waving around like a battle trophy to be dealt with.
“-and she’s never done anything like this before. Not to your face, certainly.”
Alfor bounced their daughter in his arms, and she giggled up at him, wrinkling her nose happily. “Maybe there was something in particular about him she didn’t like. His voice?”
“Hm… well…” Coran scratched his head in thought, then his eyes lit up. “Ah! Allura,” he said, and the infant turned her head to look at him. “Your mama’s ugly.”
And he ducked as she puffed up her cheeks in a scrunched up scowl and chubby fingers immediately made a grab for his hair.
Alfor cracked up in a bark of laughter. “Hah! It seems Miss Illyere’s picked herself up a new guard! Our nobility will have to be more clever about their insults from now on.”
“Indeed,” Coran said with a grin, then patted Allura on the head. “I didn’t mean it, sweetbug,” he said, leaning in to kiss her on the forehead. “Your mama’s the prettiest flower in the garden.”
“Hnn!” Allura continued to scowl up at him, as if threatening him that he better mean it, and he and Alfor both laughed all the harder.
This fic was written as part of an ongoing challenge. We each select random numbers and are given a specific emotion from the book 1000 Feelings For Which There Are No Names. To read the other fics written in this challenge, click here, or you can find the masterpost on tumblr here.
This fic was inspired by prompt number 672: “The worry that everything’s already been said.”
Harry reaches out and pats Louis. Sometimes, late at night, lying next to his husband of twenty years, he can’t help but feel a little lonely. It’s a good life they’ve built for themselves, he reminds himself, an incredible life. They’re both blessed to be working in their fields, they’ve got three amazing kids, they’re both still healthy and active with very little lower back pain, but late at night, deep in the dark, a still, small voice from somewhere inside of Harry wonders if this is really as good as it gets.
But then, the fates conspire in Harry’s favor, and provide him with the perfect opportunity to help Louis and him get their groove back.
I wrote an unbeta’d baby bit on the plane today based on my own theories and speculation for CS post 7x02. Even though they found their HEA, I can’t help but add a little angst to Killian Jones’ life. Sorry?
It’s a question that comes up often now that word of Emma’s pregnancy is public knowledge. Like most expectant parents, he parrots back the answer, “I could hardly care what our babe is, as long as he or she is healthy, I’ll love them regardless” hoping that his voice doesn’t betray his true feelings regarding the matter of his child’s biological sex.
Killian Jones isn’t lying when he says that he will love his child regardless of how he or she is born. Boy or girl, the knowledge of their mere existence is miracle enough to bring him to his knees. But, he’s a superstitious man and the fates have conspired against his family and loved ones one too many times to make him quake in his boots over one thing – a daughter.
Once upon a time, he hadn’t been afraid. In fact, if pressed, Killian might have admitted he wished for a daughter. He can picture her perfectly – Emma’s hair, his eyes – a perfect combination of both. A girl would mean one of each for Emma, a son and a daughter, and gods does his wife deserve to have everything life would have to offer.
But then Killian met him, and everything changed.
He can recall with distinct clarity the moment he felt as if he were looking into the mirror several years in the future, encountering his older self from Emma’s wish, alive and real and broken. And then all had come to light – the other man, the other him, had a daughter, but also lost one.
It’s a tale that’s haunted him for the past few months. He doesn’t share his anxieties with Emma, unwilling to add extra stress to her pregnancy. They had tried for so long and had their hearts shattered over the years in an effort to have a child, that Killian is unwilling to add any unnecessary pressure if he can avoid. After all, he doesn’t know if his fears could ever come to light. He only theorizes, but gods, he prays to whichever god will listen that he’s wrong.
He can’t help but wonder that if he and Emma have a daughter, that the fates might conspire to steal her away – lock her in a tower, place her in a wardrobe and whisk her realms away. He knows not everything is the same between he and his other self, but enough is to make him question just what his and Emma’s future hold. The other Killian Jones has his face, his hook, and his name. If they share the same past, could they also share the same future?
Logically, he knows there are differences. In this world, he has Emma. If the child growing inside Emma proves to be a girl, he knows the science enough to know that she wouldn’t be the same as the one sired by his other self. But Killian also knows that though the DNA, as he’s learned, is different, some things are always the same. Snow White bites a poisoned apple. Sleeping Beauty falls under a sleeping curse. Cinderella loses her glass slipper. Could he be fated to have a daughter and lose her, no matter the realm?
It’s something he can’t bear to find out. Killian isn’t sure how he would survive failing both Emma and their child. After everything Emma suffered with Henry, he will not let her miss more years with her second child. And he, himself, refuses to allow his child to grow up like he and Emma had – alone, scared, and without a set of loving parents.
He would die to keep his family safe, already has done it before. He prays the opportunity never arises, and perhaps, perhaps a son might prevent that. But fate’s a strange mistress, and it’s with Emma gripping his hook, he learns just who his child might be.
“Congratulations! It looks like you’re having a girl.”
Thank you all for your lovely writing! I always look forward to it :) Any chance we'll get more of The Getaway? I would love to see Jamie and Claire navigate these next few months/years of becoming such young parents.
Soon, Anon, I promise. Have some Chain of Command whilst you wait <3
With their nuptials now out of the way and the wedding night over, Claire and Jamie settled into a new routine. Unwilling to give up her duties, Claire went back to work alongside Mama Crook though she moved her belongings out of her own wee rooms and upstairs into Jamie’s room. It was strange at first, having his company in bed but she soon calmed and the nightmares she’d been having eased.
Pounding the dough, flour puffing up around her in a cloud, Claire hummed to herself. At nearly eight months gone, it had taken her this long to convince Jamie that she didn’t need a constant escort. In need of supplies, Jamie, Brian, Murtagh and Mrs Crook had taken the cart into Inverness, leaving her pretty much to herself.
Ellen and Jenny were spending the day pottering around in the gardens and Claire liked knowing that she had family close. But hobbiting away in the kitchens, she found a certain solace in the quiet hum of the preparation rooms. She smiled to herself, remembering the week before and the night they’d spent together just before Jamie had left. He’d been more than attentive, making sure that she was happy and healthy and that the baby was moving as he should.
Jamie had a certain way with the unborn bairn. He only had to place his hand gently over her belly and whisper and he’d writhe and dance like fireflies in the mist. On the odd occasion the baby had even put his hand square against the top of her bump, pressing his wee fingers into her flesh in order to reach out to his da.
Those memories made Claire ache. One week was a long time after two whole months of having him by her side almost constantly and even though she’d convinced him to go, she now felt more than a little heart-sick.
“Stop being foolish, Fraser,” she castigated, punching her fist deep into the dough until her knuckles reached the table below. The use of her married name warmed her from the inside out and she closed her eyes to bask in the sensation.
A sharp pain dragged her from her musings and her nails dug into the wood of the table. Breathing through it, she shifted her legs to try and shake it out of her limbs. “It’s alright, wee man,” she whispered, rubbing her flour-coated hands over the ever-expanding arch of her belly.
Swaying her hips now, Claire separated out the dough into small balls, bread-roll sized, in perfect domes before placing them on the baking tray. Her womb was still contracting a bit, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. Flinging more flour on the countertop, Claire busied herself by trying to kneed more bread, although, with the amount she’d made, she would still struggle to fit them all over the fireplace to bake.
“Please, wee ‘un,” she pleaded, the hours having passed with little sign of her pain abating. Bending over to lay her forehead against the wood as she swallowed, ignoring the faint scent of burning bread as her knees shook with the force of this new contraction.
It was too early, way too early. Claire had hoped that he was just moving with more fervor but as she felt the sudden gush of water between her legs, the cloth of her slip drenched as it splashed on the cold stone floor, she knew that time was no longer a factor.
Claire was alone and in labour.
Using the preparation table to prop herself upright, Claire struggled to stand. Her rooms still lay empty and so instead of trying to give birth in the frosty confines of the lower kitchens, she pushed herself towards the door that would lead her into a more palatable space.
“Jamie,” she gasped, a small contraction hitting her out of the blue as her knees buckled. If this was the beginning, she thought, sweat pouring from her, how was she going to cope by herself. Part of her prayed that calling out for him would miraculously bring him to life before her. With no such luck, Claire continued into the tiny living area that had been her home for so many years.
Sliding herself into a corner, Claire spread her legs, her knees resting carefully against the walls either side of her as she thrust her head backwards. She wanted to push, her whole body begging her to allow the baby out, but something told her she needed to just breathe through the pain.
Muddled between body and mind, Claire tried desperately to cling to some rational thought. She’d been present during births before but she couldn’t quite call to mind the words of the midwife as her panic began to rise.
Fatigue was beginning to set in as the glare of dusk splashed through the tiny window. Shaking and covered in a thin sheen of moisture, Claire breathed erratically through each agonising contraction. They were coming thick and fast now and Claire had almost doubled over onto her knees with her feet resting gently against the wall. Her head was bowed a little, her forehead nearly touching the floor as she bit her lip before crying out. Equal parts frustration and distress fell from her mouth in the form of an anguished caw as she cursed herself for sending Jamie away at such a late stage in her pregnancy, now her and the bairn might pay the ultimate price.
With hours passing and no sign of either Jamie and Mama Crook or Ellen and Jenny, Claire was growing wearier and wearier. Five hours she made it, and that was only after her waters had broken. Strange, she pondered, between contractions, that the whole place seemed to have been abandoned at the most inopportune time. Fate was conspiring against her, the ethereal specter of the black, hooded figure that’d haunted her dreams seemed to have leapt forth from her mind and taken up residence in the opposite corner of the room. He was laughing, the subtle shudder of his shoulders mocking Claire as she blinked languorously.
Her vision blurred, her chapped, dry lips parting as she lifted her heavy head from the floor to focus on the ever expanding torment that lay before her. A sudden twitch of her thighs and Claire pushed through the newest contraction, all her inhibitions blown to smithereens as the pain virtually knocked her to the ground.
Bloodied and torn, her nails scratched fruitlessly at the dry stone beneath her as she screamed and pushed with all her might, her back tensing and arching as her knees scraped backwards.
Had she been lucid enough, Claire would have heard the steady footfalls on the wood above her, but as it was, she was too focused on the blinding cramp that was emanating from her womb outwards. No longer able to contain her cries, she was panting wildly. Her hair, freed from its cap during her drawn out labour, had plastered itself to the sides of her face, the damp sweat that gathered there collecting stray strands as Claire’s head bobbled up and down.
“Claire…” She heard, a voice piercing the painful fog that had surrounded her for the past few hours, “Claire, lass, where are ye?”
He sounded panicked, his footsteps -which had started out careful and measured- now skittered across the floor as he tried to find his way to her. Jamie was lost too, her cries should have alerted him as to her direction but he couldn’t focus, his mind throwing up all manner of awful situations as he slammed into the table, his hip colliding with the side of it in the dark as he tried to reach the partly open door that lay at the other end of the kitchen.
“J-Jamie,” Claire huffed, her lungs throbbing as she tried to fill them with enough oxygen to breath, push through yet another contraction and call out to him. Closing her eyes, Claire dozed off, just for a second. Shimmying her hips, she rolled her bottom down towards the floor, her legs shaking with the immense pressure of keeping her balanced and stable. She was fast approaching empty, her energy levels depleted by the sheer force of the delivery. “Jamie,” she repeated, her heart beating double time as it started to slow before picking up pace once more. A deep burning sensation was increasing between her legs and she could barely open her eyes anymore. “I can’t, n-not anymore…I’m sorry…”
Jamie, his eyes wide, finally reached Claire just in time for her to collapse into his arms. “Jesus, Claire,” he whispered, cradling her slumped form against his chest. He instantly felt the moisture seeping through his thin shirt and he had to breathe deeply to stop himself from weeping. His fear would do her no good. “How long?”
“S-since lunch…” she managed, her fingers digging into Jamie’s arms as she rocked forwards and back through each new contraction. “I was i-OH-in…pain.”
“S’alright,” Jamie soothed, hushing her as she tried to give him specific times, “I shouldna have left ye…I should…”
“N-no, Jamie, no. Just…is he going to be alright?” Claire said, her voice little more than a sobbed-whisper as she fell in and out of a disoriented sleep, her body allowing her a moment’s rest before nudging her to push when it was required.
“We’ll make sure he is, mo nighean donn. Me and you together. Just push now, aye, push…”
Claire didn’t know if Jamie truly knew what he was doing, men usually being banned from this sort of activity, but she trusted the certainty in his voice. Still fully clothed, the loose laces of her bodice felt as if they were crushing her ribs now as she gritted her teeth and forced herself to stay conscious.
“I need to get ye upstairs, Claire,” Jamie whispered, looking to the ceiling as if to muster the energy to finally move her. Worry coloured his features as he watched her heave a huge sigh, her belly rolling beneath her skirts as she shifted her hips.
Claire ached. Her whole body was teetering on the edge of such extreme fatigue that she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Pulling at her bodice, she braced herself for a powerful contraction. An almost silent roar came from her as the sweat mingled with her tears, her vision blurring as she tried to open her eyes.
“I…” she panted out, her hands clawing at Jamie as her head bobbed against his chest, “I n-need to get out of this…p-please, it’s suffocating me…” she managed, her words low and pained as she grunted and pushed once more. The pain was coming hot and fast now, with almost no respite in between each contraction. “Just get it off me. Now…NOW!” She cried out, her head falling backwards, the veins standing prominent in her neck as she battled to birth her baby.
Turning her around, Jamie used the wall and one arm to rest her safely whilst he tugged at the knotted laces that bound her into her corset. It wasn’t tight, or at least it hadn’t been when she’d fastened it up in the morning but the brutal nature of childbirth had caused the material to shrink. It was filled with moisture, the thick fabric drenched in Claire’s sweat. Sliding a small knife from his sock, Jamie slit through the rope, his patience wearing thin as he noticed Claire’s bright red face twist towards him.
She opened her eyes a little to look at him. In her delirious state she could barely make him out, but the pressure had decreased from her chest and she was beginning to breath easier which made focusing less difficult. It wasn’t an entirely effortless process, but she began to regain feeling in her lower extremities once more. Jamie watched as the redness in her cheeks subsided, a more normal hue taking its place as she steadied herself and looked at him properly for the first time since he’d found her.
“Jesus, Claire,” Jamie whispered, spurred into action now as he slid his arms beneath her legs and hoisted her up, “I didna even think…I’m sorry, so verra-”
“N-no, Jamie,” Claire sighed, her tender thighs still throbbing as she rode out another burst of contractions in his arms, “no time for sorry, just make sure he’s safe…”
She sounded very far away, her voice so soft and gentle that the words seemed to flutter away on the breeze left behind them as Jamie carried her up to their chambers. The house was still eerily quiet, his mother and Jenny nowhere to be seen. He’d come home a little earlier than the others, needing Claire’s company more than that of his road companions. Evidently it had been a good move on his part, any longer by herself and Claire might have passed out. The pressure of the corset along with the stress of the early birth might have taken her from him indefinitely.
“I can hear your brain working,” she whispered, her fingers digging painfully into the skin of his chest as she grappled with consciousness. Tensing, she scrunched her face up but made no noise as Jamie placed her on their bed. Lying her on her side, he pulled her knee up as he remembered seeing a midwife do once before laying himself nose to nose with her.
“Aye, can ye…is it that loud?” He joked, no humour in his tone.
“It is, Mr Fraser. But you can’t be here,” she said, reaching her hand slowly to touch the side of his face. She was cold and it frightened him. “You have to make sure he’s alright, you have to be ready for him…when he comes,” she grunted, riding through her contractions, pushing and pushing as she coaxed Jamie to do what his mother would have ordinarily been there to do instead.
Shifting himself downwards, Jamie took one tentative look between her legs, his hands gently holding her thigh up so that he could get a better look at the situation. Stilling he held his breath as he watched in awed silence. He wanted to speak; he wanted to tell her what he could see but he couldn’t, the sight rendered him speechless.
“J-Jamie?” Claire questioned, pushing again twice as hard, biting down on the pillow now to stop herself from screaming and then fainting with the pain of it all. It was almost unbearable now. The tiredness, stress, panic and general lethargy that birthing brought weighed heavily on her chest as she took one deep breath after another. “Tell me…”
“I can see him,” he finally answered, his hushed tone easing some of Claire’s worry. “His head anyway.”
Ellen had been coaching Claire for the last few weeks on the sorts of things that could and might go wrong during her birth and, although half asleep now, she tried to bring them to mind in order to help Jamie gauge how serious (or not) this birth might be. She didn’t feel as if she’d been torn, but the whole middle of her just tingled now so she couldn’t be sure.
“Nay blood, Claire, just his head. No’ long now, Claire,” he said, his eyes watering as he rested her leg over his shoulder, lending his strength to her through the position of his body. “Just keep pushing, a ghradh, push wi’ all yer might…he’s not far off, come on, Sorcha.”
Buoyed by the optimism in Jamie’s voice, Claire dug her shaky fingers into the quilts beneath her, her muted cries blocking out the sound of the door as it flung open revealing a very bedraggled looking Jenny.
“Oh Christ!” She cursed, wiping her fingers on her apron as she rushed across the room her eyes darting between Claire, Jamie, the door and back again, “how long has she been in labour?” She asked, concern lacing her voice as she tore the stained smock from around her neck, tearing the fabric.
The sound of one long yelp from Claire covered the sound of Jamie’s reply and he turned in time to catch the head of the wean as she lurched upwards during the penultimate push. Scrambling to keep her upright and catch the baby, Jamie forced his sister from his mind. Her question was useless now, anyway. They just needed to see Claire and the child safe - then they could discuss the incredible mess that’d transpired whilst they’d all been preoccupied.
“One more, Claire, just one…I promise. Can ye do it lass?”
Claire nodded, her whole body trembling as she clung to Jamie’s voice. Anything to stay awake. Anything to deliver her baby safely into the world.
Gritting her teeth as she straightened her spine, Claire rallied for any energy she had left, her muscles pulsing as her heart rate dipped just a little before pounding back to life in time for the final contraction.
“Now, Claire,” Jamie whispered, his hands wrapped gently around the head of their bairn as Jenny held Claire’s leg aloft.
She felt it, that sudden release of pressure as the head and shoulders fell free. Knowing the hard part to be done, Claire flopped against the bed, her chest rising and falling unevenly in the aftermath. Jamie, holding onto the baby whilst his hands shook, did the rest of the work. He didn’t even think of the dangers involved in pulling their child free, but before he knew it, he had the wee one clasped in his palms. The infant was tiny and covered in muck and filth from his birth, but one loud craw proved that he was very much alive.
“W-what…is he? She?” Claire mumbled her words merging together sleepily as she fought to sit upright. Although she could hear the cries, she needed to see for herself.
“Easy, Claire,” Jenny soothed, levering Claire upright as she wrapped a blanket over her legs, checking subtly to make sure no damage had been done. The afterbirth would be along soon, but in the meantime it would do Claire some good to see her child and hold him close. Seeing no blood or injury, and pleased with the state of affairs, Jenny tucked the sheet under Claire and stood back leaving Jamie to deliver the news.
“He, Claire,” Jamie said proudly, “we have a wee son.” Crawling up beside her, he held the naked lad up, the tuft of bright red hair coating his tiny head as he burrowed neatly against Jamie.
“Hello baby boy,” she cooed, her eyes opening and closing languorously, her lids heavy as lead. As if to answer, he twitched, his small hands unfurling and reaching out in her direction as he squirmed and wriggled in Jamie’s arms. “Oh,” she whispered, her head desperate to hold her baby, her body desperate to rest.
“You need to sleep, Claire,” Jenny piped up, her arms filled with tiny blankets, all just large enough to cocoon the newborn whilst his mother slept. “Me and Jamie will-” she started, her eyes darting to the door as her mother and father appeared, their eyes wide, their hands entwined.
“What’s amiss,” Brian said, his brows drawn together in confusion. The pair had obviously missed the hive of activity above and neither seemed to anticipate the soft keen that came from the baby snuggled, still bare, in Jamie’s arms.
“Oh…Claire!” Ellen exclaimed, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as she and Brian glanced between Jamie, Claire and their newly birthed bairn. “All by yerself?” She continued, the admiration obvious in her tone.
“Mostly,” Jamie replied, his eyes not leaving his son.
“With a little help from Jamie,” Claire added.
Ellen cursed under her breath, watching carefully as her daughter-in-law curled up in a small ball against Jamie her hand slowly making its way upwards until it rested lightly next to her baby.
“Jamie, lad,” Brian whispered, forcing Jamie to look up, “maybe we should let Claire sleep now, as Jenny said, aye?”
“Don’t leave…” Claire sighed, her grip tightening as if she feared he might be cajoled into leaving her at the request of his father and sister. It wasn’t that she didn’t need rest, she did, but she’d been alone all day with and the idea of being abandoned now - even for her own good - made her gut twist. “Please, Jamie, no.”
“Hush, mo nighean,” Jamie soothed, angling himself closer as Claire shifted again, hissing in pain as the irritation peaked.
“Leave them,” Ellen whispered to her husband, begging Jenny with her eyes as she quickly fetched a jug of mead from the fireside and placed it by Claire and Jamie’s bed. “Just make sure, my boy, that she gets plenty of liquid in her. She’ll need it after that.” Taking the baby blankets from Jenny, Ellen placed them on the bottom of the bed, passing one up to Jamie as she ran her hands gently over the top of Claire’s head in a very motherly gesture. “I’m sae sorry, love, that we werena here for ye…” her eyes welled with tears as she took one step backwards. She knew the dangers of birth, she had been there herself and the prospect of doing it alone was a daunting one. No wonder Claire didn’t wish for Jamie to leave her, she needed all the comfort she could get.
“S’alright,” Claire muttered, her eyes remaining closed as she smiled, her nose nuzzling under Jamie’s arm as he shifted their son to allow both mother and baby to cuddle up against him. “Over now. Just don’t make them go.”
“We won’t,” Brian interjected, “I’m sorry too.” His shoulders slumped. Having nearly lost Ellen to childbirth, he could see the weight of the terror still hovering over them both, even in the joyous aftermath. “Yer fair strong, Claire,” he added, pulling Ellen back into his arms as he stood aside for Jenny to pass, “getting through those long hours alone.”
“Aye,” Jamie whispered over the top of Claire’s head, watching as her chest rose and fell more gently now as she finally collapsed, fatigue softly pulling her under, “she is at that. My strong lassie.”
you love me and I love you
it’s a fact that our eyes whisper every time we look at each other
for reassurance, for hope, for support
it’s something we scream every time we utter the other’s name
like an oath, like some twisted kind of absolution
but the words get stuck in the roof of my mouth
it’s like the signal’s jammed
like the words don’t belong as goodbye or spoken in the middle of war
I think fate conspired to have us in each other’s lives
because everywhere I look, you remain beating in my heart
and because every time I try to run, I find myself missing you
I think I gave you access to my soul before I knew what I was doing
my atoms were formed to complete the puzzle that is the pieces of you
be so disappointed if any future drama that contains a concubine selection sequence
does not have this trope, where the demure innocent girl from a lesser family
spills water/tea/soup/insert-liquid-here on the snotty, bratty rich girl from
the powerful family, requiring the plucky female lead who is a Strong Female
Character™ to come to her rescue and have an argument with the bratty girl
in the middle of the palace.
related is the trope of the plucky female lead who is a Strong Female
Character™ entering the palace for concubine selection, planning to hide her
talents because she doesn’t want to be chosen, but Fate conspired against her
and made her reveal her talents anyway, leading to her being the Chosen One,
thus starting off a whole epic herstory of palace rivalries and intrigue.
Anita: I don’t think you should be drinking, do you?
doesn’t have to look at her face to guage her mood.
Joël: I’ve only had two. And it’s a few hours before I have to drive to work. So there’s no need for you to use your cop voice on me. Anita: My cop voice? Really? Joël: Yes. Really.
They are standing side by side, their arms nearly touching, but it feels as if there is a yawning chasm between them. Joël gulps his drink. Anita gives him a brittle smile.
Anita: I suppose that’s appropriate, in a way. Because I kind of want to interrogate you about Georgina. What’s going on between you two?
Behind them Roy is laughing with Chantal. She’s perched on his lap.
Roy: That skirt looks really good on you, baby. You know what else would look really good on you?
The answer is lost in the chorus of the song thudding through the speakers. Chantal response is to make little yelps of delighted outrage. Sonia shakes her head at him in disgust.
Sonia: Oh, for goodness’ sake, Roy! Stop being such an embarrassment and make yourself useful. Go into the kitchen and fetch some lemonade and orange juice. There’s nothing out here for the children to drink.
Roy gets up, grumbling about how fate is always conspiring to tear he and Chantal apart. Joël turns his attention back to Anita.
Joël: Nothing’s going on. Anita: Joël- Joël: Nothing. Jesus. We just had a thing when we were teenagers. Anita: Teenagers? Joël: Yeah. Teenagers.
Anita is still, her face blank and unreadable. From the corner of his eye Joël can see Roy walking up the stairs to the house.
A/Note: I wasn’t able to write as much as I wanted for NaluWeek2017, but here is my third story, using the prompt for Day 5: Mask Day
The story is set in a kind of early 90s university AU, but the concepts
and characters are mostly canon. I hope you enjoy it!
Words ~ 2300 | Also available now on FFN and AO3 (Impracticaldemon)
He Sees Beneath Her Mask
Prompt: Mask Day
Lucy’s first day of university was unremarkable—at least, it was
unremarkable if you were the sole heiress to the Heartfilia fortune and used to
your father being far more concerned than you were about outward appearances.
In the midst of rushing walkers and bikers of all descriptions, Lucy was
ushered onto the sidewalk in front of the registration building by the
reliable, middle-aged chauffeur whom she’d known for years. While the majority
of the students around her wore t-shirts of all descriptions paired with
“lived-in” looking jeans, Lucy looked trim and demure in a crisp
white blouse, perfectly-tailored navy capris, and pretty, matching sandals. She
had the kind of accessories that didn’t need a logo to tell you that they were
Her father didn’t get out—he was already taking time out of his busy day
to ensure that Lucy arrived on time and in proper style—but he did roll down
his window and briefly clasp Lucy’s hand. His words of farewell were more
admonishing than encouraging, however:
“I’m still not sure about this place, Lucy, so remember our
bargain: you can go here as long as you don’t let yourself get dragged into any
trouble by some of the weirder types you sometimes seem to hang out with—and as
long as you meet your social obligations for the family and the company.”
“Yes, Father. I understand. And I haven’t forgotten next week’s
charity ball on Thursday evening.” Lucy’s serious, deep brown eyes stayed
focused on her father, despite the stares she could feel from her soon-to-be
classmates, especially the girls—women, she corrected herself silently.
Jude Heartfilia accepted Lucy’s assurances, cast a last, scathing look
at the chattering, excited students, and waved the chauffeur back to the car.
He managed a tight, unconvincing smile for his daughter, and then put up his
window and leaned back in his seat, a big, shadowy figure behind the tinted
glass. Lucy’s smile in return was more convincing and yet somehow also sad. She
watched the big car glide away, and as soon as it had disappeared around a
corner she sighed, squared her shoulders, and turned to hurry toward the
registration area. Unfortunately, she stepped right into somebody’s
path—although ‘trajectory’ might have been a more accurate word.
“Ow! Sorry!” Only long years of dance and gymnastics kept Lucy
“Hey—look where you’re going!” cried the human missile, as he
spun around with Lucy in a rather tight, although apparently unintended
embrace. He was more agile than he seemed, though; he didn’t stagger as they
parted, and his hand under her elbow helped her own efforts at balance.
Not surprisingly, they eyed each other curiously once the world stopped
spinning. The human missile was actually a young man of medium height and
decidedly athletic build, with spiky, cotton-candy pink hair, dark grey-green
eyes, and a dusting of freckles. Lucy saw the dark eyes widen slightly as he
examined her in turn. The clothes and shoes and so on were bad enough, she
thought, but anybody would stare at her up-swept golden hair, which had been
formed into a perfect chignon at the back. It was very pretty—and made her look
like a 1940s actress at an evening party rather than a regular university
student of many, many decades later.
“Are you going in to register?” Lucy asked, determined to be
friendly and polite.
“Huh? Oh, yeah—I think so?” The pink-haired guy ran a hand
through his spiky locks and then grinned cheerfully. “I mean yeah, yeah I
am! That’s a pretty good hairstyle—is it a new thing? I’ll bet you could hide
notes and weapons and stuff in it!”
Yes, I’m on break but I’m too fucking excited right now. I’ve been kicking around a fic idea since April when a friend mentioned it. I’m finally getting around to it and I’m FUCKING excited!!!
It’s a high school AU featuring songs by The 1975, Bastille, Imagine Dragons, and Marinas Trench.
It’s very song and lyric heavy, but it’ll make sense during the fic. This one is going to be REALLY long.
I wanted to give you guys a sneak peak. Anything in asterisks will be italicizes.
Welcome to AP Biology two. I hope you’re as excited as I am about this course and are willing to work hard. It’s an enlightening class and will open a lot of doors if you put effort into it,” the teacher said, smiling at the class, “I also like my students to work with people they aren’t familiar with, so grab your belongings and stand in the back of the room. I’ve already paired everyone up. When you hear your name, please go to the table with the corresponding number.”
Yuuri picked up his backpack off the floor and hugged it to his chest. He was the youngest in the class since he was in the accelerated program and didn’t know anyone. While he was one of the smartest in school, it often put him at a disadvantage as the others were usually older than him. He recognized a fewer upper classmen but they ignored him. He was used to it though, only speaking with his classmates when he was grouped with them for projects or tutoring sessions.
But when the door opened and *he* walked in, Yuuri wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole.
Yuuri had been infatuated with the grey-haired senior the minute he’d laid eyes on him the year before. He had gaped at him, wondering how such perfection could exist in one person. They’d passed in the hallway occasionally and exchanged civil greetings that would leave Yuuri’s heart racing out of control. But a class with him was beyond a dream come true.
“Smith and Moore, table one.”
Yuuri focused on the floor tile in front of him but caught himself peeking to his right, stealing glances at the boys talking near him. He was so happy he was on the verge of giddiness. Trying to fight the smile threatening to break out, Yuuri paid attention to the teacher and waited for his name to be called. The next time he looked up he thought he was going to melt when he saw the heart-shaped smile. He was beyond gorgeous, bordering on the line of godly.
“Duncan and Roberts,” the teacher said, looking up when he saw three students step forward, “Erica. Table two.”
The crowd in the back thinned as names were called out and the tables filled. Yuuri’s heart was beating in his chest when there were only three tables left and the object of his affection was still standing. His friends had already been called so he was standing next to Yuuri. Yuuri looked up and saw beautiful arctic blue eyes shift to him before the smile appeared again. He was mortified he had been caught and stared at the ground again. He almost had his nerves calmed when he heard his name, but the one called after his paralyzed him.
“Katsuki and Nikiforov, table twelve.”
Yuuri jerked his head up and stared at him. He knew by the grin from the older boy he must have appeared shocked at the turn of events. When a hand was held out in front of him, Yuuri nodded once and clutched his backpack tighter before walking to the table. He sat on the stool and dropped his pack to the floor, gripping the concrete surface to steady himself. He felt a presence in the stool next to him and gulped before he looked at his new lab partner.
“Hi,” he said, giving Yuuri his infamous heart-shaped smile and holding out his hand, “I’m Viktor.”
“I know,” Yuuri said, gripping his hand gingerly and shaking once, “Yuuri.”
“Nice to meet you,” Viktor said, “I’ve seen you around but we’ve never been properly introduced. I’m looking forward to this class. How about you?”
“No, maybe…” Yuuri muttered before meeting Viktor’s gaze, “Yes.”
“Worried about it being too difficult? I’ve heard you’re really smart,” Viktor said, “Jeff and Kyle said they hoped they got you as a lab partner, but looks like I lucked out.”
“Oh,” Yuuri said, his heart dropping to the floor, “Yeah, lucky you.”
Yuuri was used to this feeling though he didn’t want to experience it with Viktor. He had English class with Jeff and Kyle the year before, being teamed up with a couple projects. While they didn’t make him feel taken advantage like most left him, Yuuri still felt like he carried most of the workload. He had hoped it would have been different with Viktor but fate was conspiring against him.
“Why does that sound bad?” Viktor asked, his brows knitting in confusion.
“Just used to the ‘Yay, I’m teamed up with the smart kid’ thing,” Yuuri mumbled.
Yuuri turned his attention to the front of the room and took the stack of papers from the person beside him. He took a packet and passed the rest to Viktor before looking at it. The syllabus was the largest one he’d seen and left him wondering if he had exceeded his academic limits, but the guidance counselor said the class would be perfect for him. He listened to the teacher drone about coursework, their textbook, labs and expectations for the year. He was so absorbed in the lecture he jumped slightly when he felt a tap on his arm. Looking over, he saw Viktor slide a scrap of paper to him. Tilting his head, his spirits soared when he read the message.
*I didn’t luck out because you’re the smartest kid in the class. I did because you’re the nicest. I’d really like for us to become friends. Would you like to get a milkshake after school and talk about class? My treat? Has to be chocolate though.*
Yuuri smiled and scribbled a short note before passing the paper back to Viktor. He listened to the teacher go over the supplies and the fees for the class. When another tap touched his arm, he reached down for the paper and read it.
*Chocolate is my favorite too. Let me know if your mom says it’s ok. Meet you at the fountain outside five minutes after school ends. I hope you can go.*
In the likely event that I don’t get the privilege of growing old with you, if we don’t get that chance. If the universe conspires against us and oceans stand in our way. If the fates betray us and our story fades.
I will settle for one minute, a few moments, a fleeting second, just to know you have lived.
falling in love starts with her smile
she shocks you speechless with her beauty
but it’s when you see her in the firelight
that you know that you’re a goner
because the fates conspired to make you two meet
the universe rewrote itself to craft a legend and a love story
but fate, the stars, they hold nothing on her
she’s the reason your heart beats
the reason your soul sings
and she ignites a war within your veins
of course you love her, that was never in any doubt
because love is friendship set fire and legend inflamed by desire
and the two of you outshine the stories in the constellations
the two of you are infinitely powerful and desperately devoted
And The World Bows by Abby S
HAPPY BIRTHDAY CAMS @blyedeeks!!! there are not enough words in the english language to describe how much I love you and how much you mean to me. I wish you the very best for all your tomorrows and all your todays because if anyone deserves all that the world has to offer it’s you!
[Card Reveal] A parent’s feelings when dwelling on one’s child… That is the purest love of all. Deirdre, resting within a forest, and Seliph, her son. Theirs is an eternal bond. Yes, even if fate should conspire to separate them… (Illust. AMG)
People like this I guess? :p But this is probably where I’ll lose some of y'all, lol. Due to the… nature of this universe, individual ships will only be tagged if they’re the main focus of the chapter, but after this you’ll know which ships might appear.
Weiss sat at the cramped table in the dining area, hiding her rolling emotions behind a smooth, patient, polite mask. It never failed to sting, how she carried so many memories in her heart while those she longed for remained blissfully ignorant. After all this time, she’d turned the entire process into a simple pattern, tailored to the one she found first. Despite the agony of slowly explaining, she took more than a little solace from having found her sweet Nightowl first.
“So… let me get this straight,” the Faunus said, both hands wrapped around her cup of hot tea. Weiss had suggested it the moment her question brought back more suspicion than before, feline ears laying back into midnight hair. Usually, tea helped Blake think and calm down, but modern blends never quite reached the same quality, the same taste, and the slight frown on her lips hinted that she might finally know why something never seemed quite right. “You’re a goddess from over three thousand years ago, forced into immortality that you’ll lose without receiving enough… praise, and I used to be one of your priestesses?”
“That’s the basic gist of it,” Weiss replied, a small sigh slipping past her lips. She’d learned, through trial and error, that too much, too soon, would do her no favors. Forced to rely on vague summaries, she did her best to convey the important details, the ones that stood a chance of jogging memories. “There’s a few more details, but we can cover those later.”
For @m-alycin who requested angst prompts ‘This is what I was trying to avoid’ and ‘I am not a prize to be won’ Post ‘The Truth’ Scully POV
Mulder has always been closely guarding of his emotions and like me is a master at hiding his pain from those around him. But as the days and weeks had passed us by in a blur of dusty roads, of non-descript motel rooms of a banal sameness that suffocates the air around us I found myself searching for anything, any tiny cue from him that might give me some insight as to what was going on with him.
Because aside from necessary communication, he had retreated inside himself and while we have had periods before where one or both of us have found solace in silence, our words have always somehow managed to find a way to reach each other; to offer some semblance of comfort even when all seemed hopeless. To bring our own version of light to brighten even the most darkest of hours.
But honestly, there was nothing and as his disconnect increased by the day I was starting to feel like I was living with a ghost, as if simply dreaming and in fact, I would wake up back on my apartment floor where I lay curled and shaking, unable to breathe let alone speak at the numbing finality of the news John delivered to me that night not so long ago when I truly thought all was lost; that we had failed and that this time, there would be no miraculous return.
Yet we had found a way - or rather Skinner had found a way to bring him back to me, for us to be together regardless of how great the sacrifice I chose to make in order to be with him.
Because even if there is nothing left of my tattered life to hold on to, I have always found solace in the belief that despite everything, we belong together. In life, in death and into eternity however long that may be. It’s the only way I could live with myself after doing what I did even though there’s not a moment where I don’t hate myself for my cowardice, my weakness for sending our precious son away.
And as the weeks have passed since we began this strange nomadic half-life I was becoming increasingly afraid that Mulder was beginning to hate me too.
He no longer touched me, barely spoke and more and more it seemed as though he was waging a constant battle with himself to even stand to be in the same room with me. It should have made me angry - the apparent casual disdain of me when I have literally given up my life to continue being a part of his - but while his actions told me one thing, his eyes toldl me something different altogether. Those beautiful hooded eyes that betray his absolute and all encompassing misery; flecks of gold and green that once roamed my body with such intensity it was as though he could set me alight with a single glance, such love and respect for me that I always knew that no matter what, if we were together we would always prevail.
But I no longer believed it; because when he looked at me it was heartbreakingly obvious that he no longer saw me in any substantive way, his expression so empty, so fathomless, so full of guilt for things that can never be for us, that I couldn’t reconcile him with the man I thought I knew.
Not once had he mentioned his son. Our son. And I think that hurt me more than anything else.
Because his lack of acknowledgement somehow made the relationship we once shared so much lesser and that if he could persuade himself that William never existed, he could find a way to also push me away, to compartmentalise us both into a section of a life we lived before and one which has no place in this strange new world where we are simply trying to survive.
Last night we argued, or at least I shouted while he just stood there and took my anger, absorbed it just as though he felt himself unworthy to even attempt to counter my angry words and the less he reacted, the angrier I got. I’m not proud of my actions, not proud of the accusations I hurled at him across this tiny, shabby room that so closely resembles every other we have found ourselves in over the past few months that I could literally lose my mind from the unending sameness of it all.
I had broken down, begged and pleaded with him to come back to me, ugly tears streaming down my face as I clutched at him, trying to evoke some response, some emotion, some fucking sign that he was still with me; that he still needed me in the way I needed him - in the way I had always needed him. Because God knows he is all I have now. But there was just nothing there; this shining, passionate, intelligent man he had once been was just gone. Broken and used up and unreachable to me, to himself and to everything we used to be.
And when he gently pushed me away from him, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was literally falling apart in front of him, not willing even to offer the comfort I craved, shrugging off my arms when I tried to embrace him, needing to feel something solid to ease the ache that was ever present and no longer filled by our precious baby boy, he had instead simply stepped away from me, refusing to meet my eyes as his quiet, emotionless words pierced the sudden silence between us and which were so unfathomable to me that they literally sent me down onto my knees.
“I can’t let you do this anymore Scully. This is what I was trying to avoid when I left the first time. To protect you from this; from me.”
I think my heart actually ceased beating for a few seconds, the weight of his words settling like a vice that literally stole my breath from my body. Because it became blindingly clear that he didn’t want me here. After everything we had been through, everything we have sacrificed and fought for, he wanted me to go. Just like that.
He reached down then and helped me to my feet, holding me at arm’s length as I felt the tremors resonate through my body, tremors that he must surely have felt too because for the first time in weeks he began to draw me towards him, perhaps allowing himself to give way to his emotion now he had managed to clear his conscience and ease his guilt.
“I don’t deserve this Scully; I don’t deserve you. I never have.”
And though his words were meant to comfort me in some way, to add meaning to his denial of me, I suddenly found myself more angry with him than I think I have ever been and I felt a brief satisfaction as my palms connected with his chest and I pushed him so violently away from me that he very nearly landed squarely on his fucking stupid stubborn ass.
“How dare you? How fucking dare you after everything we have been through, tell me you aren’t deserving of me? I’m not a prize to be won Mulder, to be bestowed upon only those who deem themselves worthy. Is this what this is all about? As though I have no free will to make my own decisions about what is right for me?”
“No. I don’t want to hear it. None of it, because if I didn’t want to be here with you I wouldn’t be here and this is what I want Mulder. It’s about us both, not just you and your self-indulgent fucking guilt you selfish bastard.”
I think under different circumstances I might have laughed out loud at the expression on his face because I think I threw more profanity at him in the space of thirty seconds than I had done previously in the nine years of our turbulent partnership. But the notion was fleeting at best, my throat closing painfully as he turned away from me, stumbling to the bed where he collapsed heavily, covering his face with his hands as he unconsciously curled himself into a defensive posture, his whole body shaking with the force of his distress.
Of course I went to him then, just as I have always gone to him when he is hurting, fitting myself against him, two pieces of a jigsaw that have somehow found a way to be together even when the world around us seemed at odds with everything and when the fates conspired to tear us apart again and again.
But not this time.
It can’t happen. I won’t let it happen. Because to leave him is to kill him; maybe it would kill us both.
And as we lay together on that tattered blanket that smelled of sweat and mildew, I held him tightly in my arms, feeling the shudders slowly leave his body; months of guilt finally finding release through tears and touch and softly whispered assurances that I wouldn’t leave him; that I couldn’t ever leave him, rewarded finally as the shadows lengthened into darkness and I realised that finally, he was holding on to me just as tightly as I held him.
I know it’s late, and our hearts stay far
Apart now, but I want you to have stars
And the moon in your thoughts tonight Because while our love faded
The roof top memories of our distant and jaded spring stargazing did not
I know it’s late, and maybe simple fate conspired against us
Because with every new day
We simply found one more way to be ineffective with each other
So look at the stars, look at the night and Mars because while we faded they will not.
I know it’s late, and while you may hate
My metaphor’s meandering styles
Because that’s my only wild chance of one last midnight dance with you.
And right now I’m just gazing at the moon.
Scenario where Hanamiya likes a girl that is also known for being a badass and is scared to confess to her but it ends up going well and they start dating
changed this a bit since i can’t imagine hanamiya being scared of something
warning: there is some swearing here (but only like two words)
As you walked past, tattoos contrasting vibrantly with your dark leather jacket, Hanamiya couldn’t hold his head from rising to watch you go. Here you were again, a girl with an otherworldly design- not made to match with her short-skirted classmates and their squeaky voices- and he couldn’t help but appreciate your existence.
What would have been useful, however, was if that appreciation hadn’t turned to something more powerful, dangerous, wild. If it hadn’t turned into a passionate crush and later obsession.
A crush that would never be fulfilled- basketball had to remain his sole priority. It hadn’t time for girls, or boys, or any form of relationship.
“Hey Hanamiya,” your voice called and he matched his eyes to yours, staring at you calmly.
“Someone told me you wanted to talk to me.”
Eyes growing cold, he turned to stare at Hara’s chortling form and raised his middle finger in the direct, not noticed by you.
“Do you want to be my girlfriend?” Well, when fate (and shitty teammates) conspired, maybe it was best to change these priorities around. Just slightly.
You looked him up and down, as if trying to make him uncomfortable but not succeeding to do so, “You say that even though you’re very goddamn ugly?”