#i am holding this post like it is an infant baby child

[sgrplumditz]

You had his baby and he didn't know (Pt. 2)

A/N: Thank you for all the positive feedback! I am so beyond grateful that you guys enjoyed the 1st part. I never fathomed to get this much attention from my first post, which means I didn’t really intend on making a part 2. But with such gratitude and motivation… here it is!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She had told him everything, and through it all he did nothing but soothe her, keeping her small hands in his as her soft voice filled their ears. It wasn't until now that she had realized how absurd it was to feel nervous to tell him the story of her unaccompanied pregnancy, and her introduction to motherhood.

Like herself, he also held no resentment, or distaste toward the secrecy behind the conception and birth of their beautiful baby girl. Simon's only intention was to understand her and her decision to keep their child a secret from him, but in the midst of her reminiscent disclosure he couldn't help but feel alienated, guilty and a rollercoaster of many other emotions revolving her and his daughter.

His usually hard, and stoic gaze had softened for her -- which wasn't an unusual occurrence for him when it came to her, the mother of his child. "Hey, you're alright" he soothed when he noticed a stray tear race down her soft cheek. His thumb instinctively coming up to stop the salty drop of emotion in its track, and likewise she instinctively leaned into the feeling of his large hand that cupped the side of her face.

The moment was tender, intimate, comforting -- it was everything that she craved from him from the moment she found out she was carrying their child. Their baby girl seemed to be emotionally connected to her mother. The sound of her fuss and whimpering coming from the playpen where she had been placed to rest. Both her and Simon's attention was drawn to the infant the moment her restful cooing was replaced with the sounds of discomfort. Her mother knew that she was most likely hungry, but her father, Simon seemed to only be alarmed by the sudden crying. It was evident that his protective nature had taken over -- a quality of his that could not be tamed or ever be put to rest.

"She's just hungry, Si" she spoke, breaking the silence between the two. The melancholy aura of the room immediately being lifted as she chuckled softly at his high alert behavior as it only reminded her of the first few nights that she was home from the hospital with her daughter.

As she normally would she gently picked up their daughter, making sure to keep a firm hand on the back of her neck to support it. Her maternal nature was in full effect as she spoke sweet and soft words to the baby girl. Her cries being soothed, and her simple mind now distracted at the sight and sound of her mother. Simon watched this all divulge in front of him. He didn't know whether his heart ached because he had missed hundreds of moments like these or if he felt such sorrow because he didn't share the same bond with the tiny being that he helped create.

He let his the thoughts and endless "'what if" possibilities consume his mind while she prepared a bottle with the infant still resting in her arm. She was small, measuring out the length of her mother's forearm. Normally she would make the bottle with ease, but as time went by and the baby girl grew, the process slowed down. She was careful and calculated making sure that the baby was always safe in her arms.

"I can take her if you're alright with it" spoke Simon in a mildly nervous tone. “It’d make it easier for you to prepare her bottle, yeah?” he spoke again, using the feeding time as an excuse to finally hold their daughter. But he was nervous? Simon doesn’t get nervous. He has always been incredibly calm and collected to the point of mastering stoicism. He wasn’t nervous to hold the infant — that was the less of his worries.

There were so many special events that he had missed while he was away. Core memories that he doesn’t have with her or her mother. He missed the pregnancy, the first kicks, the birth, the first powerful cries from her little lungs, the first feed from her mother’s full and lactating breasts, the first skin-to-skin contact —which he read was essential for bonding in newborns, the dad walk out of the hospital after being discharged as a family — the one where he knew his overprotective nature would automatically take over.

So many factors playing into the aggregation of his nerves, but there was a single one that was keeping him on edge the most. Simon was nervous that he wouldn’t be able to bond with the small and fragile being that shared half of his DNA. Being absent for so many critical events made him doubtful in his ability to be and feel like a genuine father. All of his nerves dwindling down and relying on this very moment.

But none of it mattered. The pessimistic thoughts that lingered in his brain practically disintegrating. As if the warmth of his daughter’s small body destroyed every doubtful fiber in his own. She was no longer just his biological daughter, but a part of him. His soul was tied to hers, his emotions was connected to hers, his breath was for her. His entire being was engulfed by her.

The baby adjusted herself in his broad, tattooed and muscular arm by leaning her small face into his chest, as if she sensed some sort of familiarity in him. Like mother like daughter.

She watched their entire interaction curiously. She saw his hardened exterior breakdown at the moment their daughter’s infant body fit into his arm like a puzzle piece. It was obvious. Just like she felt her daughter was made for her, she was just as equally made for him. The instant connection between the father and daughter was electric. This was everything she had wanted and more.

She always knew Simon would be a great father — he was a great guy after all — he was attentive, protective, polite, masculine, and so much more, but she never fathomed that it would have been as magnifying as she felt it to be.

Simon’s gaze turned to her and she swore she saw his eyes glistening, tears threatening to spill. No words were exchanged between the two, but she knew exactly what he was feeling and thinking. As their daughter’s mother, she felt those exact emotions as well.

She was then engulfed by his scent. His arms embracing the two most important girls in his life, but it was not just a typical embrace of joy — it was firm, passionate and filled with urgency. He needed them.

With their daughter still resting in his arm, he used his free hand to remove a stray strand of hair from her face before he firmly cupped it. A soft kiss landing on her forehead.

He pressed his forehead to hers and exhaled softly before breaking the silence, “I am so proud of you” he said — his english accent thick and correlating respectively with how emotional he was.

“I am so proud of you” he repeated again, “but you are never doing anything like this alone. We do it together. As a family”.

[certainlynotasimp]

Okay, first of all, how are you? Hope you’re doing well! Drink plenty of water, stay hydrated- Second off, your Sunny fics? *chef’s kiss* so mainly, what if anybody made Sunny cry and Miguel had to find out about it? And Sunny’s trying not to make it seem like a big deal in order to keep Miguel from, you know, absolutely obliterating anyone.

Come on, Baby, Cry.

((Miguel O' Hara X Female! Reader))

A/N: Oh my goodness, thank you so much for the compliment. All my readers? *Extra chef's kisses* I am very hydrated and I got so excited to write this for you and to add some angsty content lol. I hope you enjoy this and let me know if you are disappointed or if you love it.

A/N: I also wanna address two things before I post this too. 1) thank you so much to the anon who asked me to include translations for the Spanish phrases as I was honestly not thinking about doing that. I will do better to include the translations at the end of the fics. 2) There are gonna be some triggering topics explored in this one-shot so if you don't want to hear about near injuries to children or child loss, then I understand if you don't want to read it. Feel free to enjoy my other fanfics and here's the post where you can stay notified on happier Sunny and Miggy fanfics.

Warnings: Grumpy x Sunshine, Barely using (Y/N) ((Sunny is just their nickname, not their actual name.)), Female pronouns, PTSD, Mentions of Child Loss, Endangerment of a Child ((No children were actually hurt, just traumatized)), Trauma, Comforting, Fluff, Angry Miguel, and Google Translate Spanish.

The room fills with squeals and giggles as the chase between the chubby toddler and the jumping spider. Mayday swings her little self around the corridor as the young woman follows behind amused by how agile the little tyke was. 

‘Maybe she’ll make a good sidekick in the future.’ The smiling woman muses in her mind before a bloody image flashes in her mind. Shaking her head, she clears the idea out of her mind as Mayday reaches an open window. 

Her quick scream of horror as she accidentally swings herself out of the window causes the woman’s blood to run cold as she flings herself out of the window after her. “MAYDAY!”

The adrenaline coming from her heightened fear causes the whole thing to appear to be trapped in time as the spider woman falls with the screeching infant falling inches away. Tears clouded her vision as she shoots out her webbing to the pillars around them as the images of flames lick at her eyes. 

So many flames, and too many buildings at once. Screams and pleas from below as she tries to be there. They didn’t matter to her, not at that moment. The only one who mattered was him. Did he scream like that too or did he not even feel it?

Using her webbing, she quickly creates a hammock for Mayday to fall on a few feet from the ground, thankfully trapping the wailing infant so she can’t escape. Unfortunately, reality doesn’t set in time for the spider as she slams into the titanium flooring below, knocking the air out of her lungs.

Many spidermen gathered as they heard the commotion, but she could only focus her blurry vision above her as she tries to regain her sight. A familiar blur of bright pink swings up and grabs the ball of ginger hair in a muddled mess of cries. He quickly drops down to where the disoriented woman was splayed out below with the whimpering infant in his arms.

“Hey, Sunny, you alright?” Peter calls his friend. The damage didn’t look bad from the outside, but he was sure she had some nasty concussion with how she was looking at him.

Hobie crouches down beside the crumbled girl and carefully lifts her head up with one hand. “Oi, Sunshine, you there?” He mutters as he looks into her eyes. He holds up his hand and makes three fingers pop up. “How many fingers do you see, love?”

With a cough, the woman croaks out, “Three?” Her eyes begin to focus as her enhanced healing works out the stars in her vision. With the help of Hobie and Peter, she stands up with a whimper at the feeling of her shattered ribs forming back together. “Damn, I forgot that falling several feet actually hurt.” She attempts to joke despite her wheezing breath. The crowd around them laughs as Peter sighs in relief.

“Thank god, you’re alright.” Peter mourns as a glint of regret shines in his eyes. “I’m sorry for all this, Sunny. I shouldn’t have let her bring the web shooter here. She almost swings herself out of the window all the time and MJ told me that one day I won’t be there to help the next time it happens.” Mayday’s cries end as she sees her favorite play partner up and well as she shows off her gummy smile.

“Well, luckily I was here to save the day.” The disoriented spider muses as she returns the infant’s smile as the men chuckle. The crowd dissipates leaving the injured spider with her two friends.

“I’m still really sorry, P. I got distracted and didn’t see that the window was open.” She winces as she blames herself for being so neglectful.

“Don’t sweat it, kid. This little rascal will probably send me to an early grave with all the mischief she causes.” Peter jokes as he tickles his now roaming daughter, chuckling at her excited squeals.

“Good thing you don’t have a kid, Sunny.” Hobie chuckles. “You would lose them in a heartbeat.”

The bright atmosphere shatters as the woman abruptly pulls away from her friends. The men look at her confused until they saw the look in her eyes. The normal warm and inviting gaze that they all thrived under was gone, only a dark void was staring back at them. Their light now shining in hurt and sadness as memories cloud her mind. Her lip trembles in a tight line as tears begin to roll down her face. 

Hobie looks confused at the sudden shift, but Peter realizes something as he looked at his trembling friend. Her eyes burned with tears as they locked with his. She had a haunted look about her. It's a look only parents can ever understand and fear. The look Peter himself almost experienced. “Hey,(y-” Before Peter can comfort her, she activates her mask and turns invisible before running off, her muffled sobs leaving them speechless.

Hobie groans as he realizes two things. One, he just made the sweetest person in the world cry. And Two,...

Miguel is gonna kill him.

~~~~~~~

The warm glow of the portal illuminates the surveillance room as the blue spider steps out covered in a musty yellow goo. Lyla smirks as she observes the little chucks slipping onto the ground as Miguel attempts to dust off the slime from his large shoulders.

“Was your mission successful, boss?” The assistant snarks as she sends out a little robot to follow the annoyed Spiderman. The little bug-like contraption eagerly swallows up the disgusting mess Miguel left as he walks up to the platform. “The anomaly was captured and disposed of. Next time, warn me if William Baker is made of anything except sand.” He grumbles as the sound of the little robot annoyed him even more. 

“I’ll make a note of that.” The AI giggles as she downloads the mission info from Miguel’s gizmo. “Also ‘Miss Sunshine’ is here and she doesn’t seem too happy.” She says before fading out.

Miguel’s eyes widen upon hearing that his sunny partner was upset. She was never upset. Never. With concern eating away at him, Miguel shoots out a web and swings himself to the platform above. He lands softly as he sees the scene in front of him.

His sunshine sat in his usual seat in front of the monitor. Her costume was dirty with a chest compression brace wrapped around her ribs as her choked sobs wheeze out of her. Her mask was off as her head rested against the ice pack in her hand, her back leaned forward as her attention was focused on the image before her.

He already knew what was on the screen.

He knew that file name by heart just like how he knows Gabriella’s.

File SW-0001425

World 16457-0

Spider-Woman- (Y/N) (L/N)

Age of infection- 23

Occupation- Intern Medical Research Assistant in the Genetics Department of { REDACTED } working under Dr. {REDACTED}

Sacrifice: Ben (L/N), age 4, Son of (Y/N) (L/N), 1 year into being Spiderwoman

Cause of death: Blunt Force trauma and Smoke inhalation caused by a multi-location attack caused by { REDACTED}

Status of Universe: DESTROYED

On the screen, the laughing face of a younger Sunny shines as a chubby cheek of a baby boy with dark curls smooshes into hers. The faint sound of a child mimicking the smooch of a kiss can be heard as the overexaggerated gasp of the woman causes the toddler to squeal. “That was such a sweet kiss, Benny. Can mommy have another one?” The sweet voice soured the air as the sobbing woman mournfully watches her baby boy.

The baby she failed.

Miguel approaches behind her and slowly takes the mouse from her weak grasp. The broken woman sighs as she realizes her miggy is here with her now, but doesn’t turn to look at him as he pauses the video. Her baby’s matching eyes stare right back at her before Miguel turns the chair around to face him as his mask disintegrates. His eyes glow red under the light of the monitors as he searched her sore eyes. Her face was red with a noticeable bruise along the left side of her face. Tears and snot crusted over her soft features as her lips remained turned into a trembling whisper. Her pupil shone in self-loathing and searching for his comfort. He could tell that this episode isn’t just one of her low days, something happened.

Something happened and he wasn’t here to stop it.

Miguel closes his eyes as his hand caresses her cheek. The warmth of her flushing face nuzzling into his palm allowed him to ground his rage as he focuses his gaze back onto his beloved.

“Mi luz, ¿qué pasó?” He seethes as he looks deep into her eyes. 

She shakes her head as she tries to avoid looking into his concerned ruby gaze. The glass bridge was already cracked as she internally debated with sobbing everything that happened into his warm embrace or to protect her friend from the wrath she knows Miguel will unleash if he knows what was said. The warmth of his other palm cupping her cheek, guiding her to a wandering eye to look at his frowning face nearly broke her.

“It was nothing, Miggy…”She whispered as her voice trembled again. She tried to control her eyes from unknowingly confessing while she tries to bite the wobbling pout. “It was an accident…”

“What.” Miguel runs his thumb under her abused mouth as a piece of her disheveled hair was swept back. “Happened?” His demand is punctuated as he holds her in his stare. His eyes burned with barely contained fury and protectiveness as he studied her reactions. “Odio verte como la suya, mi amor.” He admits with a sigh.

Leaning forward, Miguel places a firm kiss on her forehead as his beloved’s breath shudders at his touch. The gentle heat under his touch left her trembling as the glass began to crack. “Let me ease your pain…” He whispers as he trails his kisses down to her eyelids. “These eyes are meant to be filled with happiness, not sorrow…” The cracks deepen as he gently kisses her nose. “I can’t undo what has happened…” The corners of her lips were caressed by his as his nose brushed against her cheeks causing her eyes to meet his mirrors. Her sorrow and helplessness are reflected in his ruby eyes as he kneels on the ground between her legs. A silent plea breaks the resolve she built as he mutters into her ear.

“Please, mi sol, at least let me feel your pain too…It's me and you against the universe remember…Por favor no me dejes solo ... No quiero perderte de nuevo.” He begs as the tension shatters. 

With her arms snaking around his shoulders, the little spider confesses all that happened hours prior into his ear. Each detail, each scar, burned into his mind as she clung to his neck and hair. His inferno of rage almost imploded until he looked back into her eyes again. The relief of letting go of all of her troubles made her face look years younger as she looked at him with her big vulnerable eyes. 

Hobie will have to wait. His love needed him now.

In a silent nod, Miguel wrapped her weak legs around his waist before he stood up. Feeling her snuggling into his throat, he carries her toward her room down the hallway while the annoying robot follows them to clean up the mess. As he enters the room, he releases some of his anger by smashing the bug with his foot. 

“What was that, Miggy?” She croaks as she weakly tries to look over his shoulder.

“Just a bug,” He sighs as he approaches her dresser and grabs his spare set of clothes from his drawer. “You want your clothes or mine?”

“Yours…” She shyly admits as he feels the heat returning to the cheek on his neck. 

“Muy bien, niña bonita. Lo que quieras.” He whispers as he grabs another set of clothes that he knows will swallow her. With that, he carries them into her personal bathroom and spent the night slowly bringing back his sunshine.

~~~~~~~~

A deep scream rings out through the Lobby as they see a flash of blue fury tackles the residential metal head into the ground. Peter hurries to save his colleague along with a few other Spidermen as Mayday laughs at the anarchist getting thrashed by the clawed man spewing Hispanic curses at him.

~~~~~~~~~

Translations:

Mi luz, ¿qué pasó? - My light, what happened?

mi sol - my sun

Por favor no me dejes solo ... No quiero perderte de nuevo. -Please don't leave me alone...I don't want to lose you again

~~~~~~~

taglist:

@ameliadraws 

@tojisrightnut

@whyareyoubored

@silly-lovestruck-em

@luvil1y

@chims-kookies

@himesuedi

@22carolina08

@chaoticevilbakugo

@boredwithlifeatthispoint

@hoshhoshh

@isaidoop

@pheroineux

@rosiepetalss

@aniya7

[oksurethisismyname]

A continuation on my transmasc postpartum Sanji thoughts, this version had top surgery at some point in his life.

When Sanji got pregnant, one of the unfortunate prenatal questions his amazing Dr. Chopper asked was “do you plan on chest feeding?” For someone else with less trauma around being fed and their body, this question wouldn’t be awful. But for Sanji? This question hits him like the sea train hit Franky. It rips him up. His thoughts spiral.

Can I even do that? Do I still have those… organs or whatever the fuck? What if my baby can’t eat because of me fuck shit I didn’t think it through enough I wanted to look a certain way holy shit I can’t believe I was so selfish I can’t -

It’s not hard for Zoro or Chopper to see Sanji spiraling. Honestly, Chopper expected some dysphoria but he didn’t think this would be the moment. Zoro has to gently pull Sanjis hands from his hair. After some uncomfortable moments of calming down, Sanji shares his concerns. Chopper doesn’t lie, doesn’t sugar coat it. It’s possible he can still chest feed which is why he asked if that was something he wanted or planned to do. It’s possible there won’t be enough milk, they can’t really be certain ahead of time, so it would be smart to think through alternatives.

So they make a plan. Sanji tirelessly researches safe breast milk alternatives, with Robin and Choppers help. Goats milk? Cows milk? There was one book that suggested donkey milk but where would they even find that? One island in the new world feeds infants a mixture of wine and honey but Chopper is adamant that, while he respects and learns from different cultural medical care, this is not one that should be practiced.

And when the baby comes, they miraculously latch and Sanji thinks maybe it’ll be ok maybe he’ll make enough maybe he’s capable. And then it’s every 2-3 hour feeding, regaining birth weight, nursing and then having some goatsmilk while held in a chest feeding position. This goes on for weeks? Maybe? Sanji can’t tell, he’s waking up every 2 hours. Zoro offers every night to feed the baby so Sanji can get 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep but Sanji can’t accept that help. What is he good for if not this? His job is to feed his crew and his child. If he can’t do that what’s the fucking point?

When the baby finally gets back their birthweight and starts sleeping for longer stretches, Sanji allows himself to rest. Chopper is constantly bringing him electrolyte drinks and protein packed foods; Nami has started forcing him to sit with her when she’s on deck sunbathing to get some sun on his skin and fresh air; Zoro is changing every diaper claiming that if “sanji deals with what goes in the baby all by himself, I can deal with what comes out.” Sanji kicks him softly in the shin for that.

Months pass and Sanji is depressed. He barely has the effort to shower let alone care for this baby. He thinks he hates this baby. He’s suffocating on intrusive thoughts. His thoughts scare him. He thinks about throwing the baby overboard. Dropping the baby down the stairs. Pouring coffee on the baby. Why can’t he stop thinking these things?

What kind of monster hates his own child? I swore I’d never be like them is this the beginning am I losing myself will zoro have to keep his promise he’ll be devestated I can’t believe I put this burden on him fuck I’m so useless I can’t even -

Zoro, Chopper, and Nami hold what some might call an intervention. They know he’s struggling with post partum depression and they think maybe if he stops chest feeding that will help. They tip toe around it until Zoro finally says it aloud. He’s never yelled at a woman before but he screams at all of them, Nami included. He yells. He cries. How dare they tell him what to do with his body! They don’t fucking get it! The only time he feels connected to that baby is when he’s nursing. It’s the only time he looks down and feels actually connected, actually useful, actually wanted by this child.

He doesn’t stop chest feeding. He gets worse. Around month 7, the baby starts gnawing on his nipples. It fucking hurts but he’ll get through it. He’s dreading when he’ll need to start weening. What if they don’t ween until the baby’s 2 yrs old? Will he even live that long? He doesn’t share those thoughts, he knows they would scare his crew.

He’s getting treatment for his post partum, he’s doing his best to get better when he has the energy to but it’s so hard.

And then one day, the baby won’t nurse. They’re distracted, they’re full, they’ve started eating soft solid foods and purées recently. Sanji breaks down crying, sobbing because if he can’t do this one thing what’s he good for?

Surprisingly, or maybe not, it’s Luffy who is able to calm him down. He’s so straight forward, everything is an adventure or a battle to win.

“Sanjis the best cook in the world! You did such a good job feeding all of us, especially the baby! You did it! That baby is strong and big and chunky with the fattest cheeks like when I’m eating a lot of food and shi shi shi they’ve got those thigh rolls and Robin says that means the baby is healthy and I think I saw them eyeing my turkey leg oh my gosh that was so good can you maybe more? Please please please please”

Sanji sits there repeating the words in his head, over and over he thinks I did it. Yeah. I did do it. I did it. I did it. I did good.

[thesparklingwriter]

@venexus | 𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔

tags: fem!reader, newborn baby, zhongli is getting bullied by his wife and infant daughter, xiao gets a cameo, fluff, fluff, and more (you guessed it) fluff

word count: 1080

an: i have tried to post this five times and tumblr keeps deleting it and i am on the verge of tears and i can’t take it anymore the spacing won’t stop being weird and

Zhongli knocks on the front door a couple of times, holding the warm bundle of joy you’re bringing home close to his chest. He hasn’t relinquished the baby since you woke up from your nap, arguing that you deserved your rest, and as much as you’d like to argue against that, it’s true. You’re exhausted.

“You can just give her to me, you know.”

Zhongli shakes his head. “There’s no need for you to be putting unnecessary pressure on your body. You need to rest, and if I have to force you to do it, so be it.” The baby whines softly, pressing her face into her father’s chest. “See? She’s more than happy here. You should rest.”

You sigh, about to complain some more, when your door is slowly pulled open. Zhongli, being the cautious man he is, suggested that you both stay somewhere closer to doctor Baizhu should something happen during the birth of your child, and hence you found yourself away from home for almost two weeks. You’d come to miss home, even though you were slightly anxious about the doctor not being a few minutes away.

“You’ve returned,” Xiao mutters. He wasn’t entirely overjoyed to be stuck on the detail of house and dog-sitting, but you’d been kind to him, and he figured returning the favour was the very least he could do. “I’m glad you’re well.” he says to you. Despite the fact his voice is somewhat monotone, you know he’s sincere.

“Thank you,” you smile gratefully. “And thank you for keeping an eye on Amber for us.” Xiao seems to become uncomfortable with the earnestness in the air, unsure of what to say, so he nods carefully, excusing himself as you crouch down to pet your dog. She wags her tail excitedly, following you as you try to track your husband down.

Sometimes, you end up missing your baby. Zhongli’s so insistent on making sure you don’t strain yourself that you really only end up holding her if you’re sitting down. Which, you suppose you’re doing a lot since he’s handling pretty much everything else.

You find him in the bedroom, putting her down for a nap. He’s singing softly under his breath—as lullaby he often sings to her that seems to hail from centuries before you.

“You never told me what the lyrics of that lullaby mean,” You say to him, wrapping an arm around his waist as you watch over your baby. He reciprocates, lifting an arm to stroke your hair as he kisses your forehead.

“I’m not sure about the direct translation.” He says carefully. “Something along the lines of growing up strong and annihilating all your enemies.”

“How sentimental.” You sigh.

“How are you feeling?” Zhongli asks you the same question every day, more than once. If it weren’t for the fact that you knew he had reason to be worried, you’d be complaining right now.

You contemplate for a couple of seconds, humming lightly to yourself. “I’m hungry.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I feel perfectly fine. Amazing even. So now you can let me hold my own baby without being worried I’m going to keel over.”

Zhongli laughs at that. The baby smiles too, something in her dreams bringing fond memories to light.

“See, it’s a sign.” You grin, leaning forward to stroke her cheek. “You should stop being so paranoid, you know. I’m not going to die, I promise.”

“I am not concerned about your death. I am simply concerned about you over-exerting yourself before you have the strength to do so.” He says. “I suppose you have a point though.”

~

Having a baby at home is vastly different to what you expected it to be. You expected it to be pure chaos, nappies everywhere, laundry piling up to the ceiling, the house trashed from every corner. In reality, it wasn’t that extreme. Yes, maybe you ran the laundry twice as many times than usual, and yes, sometimes little Jingmei would manage to leak through her clothes. But as she got older and you all fell into the swing of things, if anything, having her around was less stressful than life was before her.

“What do you want for dinnner?” Zhongli asks you. Jingmei, old enough now to have the slightest inkling of a personality, babbles thoughtfully in response. Amber hops onto the sofa beside you both, and Jingmei’s babbles become more passionate. “Jingmei, my love,”Zhongli smiles. “Can you please enunciate your words? I can’t understand you.”

You scowl at Zhongli. “She’s trying her best. I can understand her perfectly fine. She’s saying she wants to go to Wanmin restaurant and eat so much she empties your wallet.” You grin at her, pressing your nose to hers. “Aren’t you, baby? We can even go say hello to Tao Tao, can’t we?” Jingmei giggles, the sound of her excitement even making Amber jump up in anticipation. You turn to look at Zhongli with a mischievous smile on your face. “You can’t say no now, Li. Even Amber’s excited.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He chuckles. “I had accepted the proposal the second you said it.”

“Lies.” You smile, standing up to face him head on. “Jingmei and I both know you’re lying.”

“The fact that you’re using a child who can barely speak to further your point lessens its validity. You are aware of that right?”

“You are just one big party pooper. You know that, right?” You hand Jingmei, who has been relentlessly making grabby hands at her father, to him, turning on you heel to go upstairs. “I’m going to get ready. Do not, under any circumstances, tell her any more stories about you thrashing your enemies in the Archon war please. She keeps trying to reenact them with me.”

“I’m training her in the ways of the world. She finds the stories entertaining. That’s all that counts.”

“I don’t find her pulling my hair out entertaining. If you’re going to tell her stories, can you please tell her age-appropriate ones? Like about princesses befriending dragons and becoming doctors.”

“I’m glad you have grand plans for our daughter.” He scoffs. “Ignore your mother.” He says to Jingmei, and she giggles at the mere thought of disregarding your words. “I’m going to regale you with the tale of the time I cleared Liyue of pests.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unexpected 39

Sequel to Unsolicited

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, pegging, Lloyd being the worst, post partum, csection, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The doors of the operating room fade behind you as the anesthetic takes you under. The splitting pain dulls as you sink beneath the veil of artificial sleep. Laced within the clouds of your unconscious you hear the beeping of machines, the clinks of metal tools in the tray, and the deep voice of your unshakeable pest; Lloyd Hansen.

The dread and horror are equally muddled by the intravenous flow. You feel a distant tugging, a plucking deep within, and somewhere beyond, you hear squalling. You’re vaguely aware of the sudden weight taken from you, and that new one that settles in its place. Tight and tender.

You float back to the surface slowly. Wading up above the layers of oblivion until you hear that steady rhythm, feeling it in your chest. That incessant tempo of your pulse mirrored by a digital beep. You groan and suck back a dribble of drool along your lip.

A longer, louder noise rolls from your throat. The pain nips its way through and your lashes flutter lightly, giving short glimpses of the world that awaits you. You hear fussing, low whispers and the soft murmur that responds. Hushing and humming that draws you in.

“Grhhhhsh,” the gibberish slips from your lips and your hand bounces off the rail clumsily.

You open your eyes, vision fuzzy and ears thrumming. A shadow approaches as you turn your head, blinking as you try to see past the sheen of sleep. You smile dopily as your head swims. Your other hand lingers on your thigh and you cautiously feel higher; you’re now doughy where the flesh was once taught.

“Bay-bee,” you pronounce, “girl.”

“Ah, sweet cakes, yes, you have a beautiful daughter,” Dottie’s voice drips into your ears, comforting you as it pools in your chest, “she was just lookin’ for ya.”

“Dot,” you utter weakly.

“Yes’m,” she touches your arm gently, “you want the precious bean?”

“Dot,” you open and close your hand, reaching for her without finding her, “where… Lllllll.” you swallow and lean back heavily, “tired.”

“Here,” Dottie leaves you, returning in an orb of red and pink. She takes your arm and hooks it around the warm bundle she eases onto your chest, “there, there. Look at that cute little peach.”

You look down. You feel the tiny form squirm and your eyes pinpoint on her face. A baby. Your baby? Yes, your daughter. The girl without a name.

“Harlan’s just gone to get the nurse,” she comforts as she stays close, “we’re just waiting to get the paperwork done. She needs a name and all that.”

You stare at the infant. Your heart feels like iron. Still and cold. You curl your lip and turn your chin up.

“Take her,” you murmur.

“You okay, darling?” She rubs your shoulder.

“I said take it. Now,” you demand harshly, “I don’t… I can’t.”

“It’s alright,” Dottie lifts the child from your arm, “you been through a lot, we’ll just give you some time to get your bearings.”

You scowl and don’t say how you don’t think you’ll ever want to hold that thing again. The way it wriggles and whimpers, so quietly. It’s so light and small, it may as well be nothing. 

“Well, whatcha wanna call her?”

“I don’t care,” you sniff, “ask him.”

“Well, we had some ideas but Marion didn’t say which he liked,” she explains as she lays the baby back in the small rolling crib.

“How about Marion? After the father?” You snap dryly.

“Hmm, I dunno,” Dottie hums, “you want some water, I got some here–”

“I don’t want to be here,” you retort and immediately cringe, “I’m… sorry, I’m just…”

There’s no way that baby is yours. You can’t remember anything more than the gripping agony in your gut. And now, the pain persists. All that and for what?

“I’m tired. Hurting,” you lie, only in that it’s not the reason you lashed out.

“Right, honey, that’s okay,” she assures once more.

“Just going to doing a check,” The nurse enters.

You glance up and see Harlan dip in behind her. You smile at him and search behind him, expecting another to follow. Nothing but an empty doorway.

“How’s the pain, scale of one to ten?” The nurse asks as she fiddles with your IV.

“Ten,” you grit out.

“Mmm, we’ll see what we can get you for that,” she says, “gotta make sure you’re able to feed your daughter.”

You frown. Feed? You look down at your swollen chest and moan at the fullness that throbs in your tits. Fuck.

“We can have an advisor come to help you with latching,” the nurse offers, “you should feed soon.”

“Fine,” you shrug. “When can I leave?”

“It’ll be a couple of days so we can keep an eye on your recovery. We’ll make sure you know the proper aftercare before you’re discharged.”

“Days?” You grumble.

“Yes, you have a new incision so you can’t be moving too much. Once you’re home, you’re going to be limited, no lifting, no strenuous activity…”

“Great,” you shake your head.

You stare at your body, deformed beneath the flannel blanket. You can feel it. You're totally ruined. You weren't ever a supermodel but the damage is done. Worn and loose and gross.

“Baby’s getting hungry,” Dottie says softly, “please send in the therapist so we can get her fed.”

You stay silent. The nurse leaves as you glare at the door. He has to show up any minute now.

“Where’s Ll–”

“Now we were just talking about names,” Dottie interjects, “Harley, why don’t you tell her the one you liked.”

“Oh, uh, hope I���m not to forward sayin’ so,” he says.

You look at him. Just say it. At this point, they can choose.

“I liked Luna,” Harlan says, “cause that little moonlight in her nursery, ya see… always liked the looka the moon.”

You nod. It’s pretty. You can’t think of much else and they definitely wouldn’t want you calling her the leech.

“I like Luna,” you agree flatly, “fine with me.”

“Well, that’s a nice name,” Dottie chimes, “yeah, Luna, it suits her. Shining and all.”

“Where is Lloyd?” You ask curtly.

Dottie smiles and looks at Harlan. His lips are straight and set. He swallows tightly.

“Now, hon, he… just went out to deal with some stuff, to make sure you can go home,” she explains, “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

“Oh.” You accept bluntly. “Right.”

“Too bad you didn’t see him,” she takes out her phone, “but I got a picture.” She holds up the screen to show you the image of Lloyd holding the bundle child. His eyes are wide as he stares at her. “Baby looks just like you, sweetheart.”

“Does i– she?” You ask.

“Well, I think so,” Dottie says, “but you know, babies always take after their daddies early on.”

You nod and play with the string of the linen gown. You watch the door. Waiting. This isn’t your mistake, it’s his.

[maegalkarven]

Family matters.

m!(trans)Dark Urge x Enver Gortash.

Brainworms finally got to me, I caved in and wrote a oneshot on the topic of "but what if Durge and Gortash had a child prior to all that mess"

Featuring my Dark Urge Levi, pre- and post- memory loss.

There was a living, breathing infant child in his arms; and for the first time in a long while Lord Enver Gortash was in complete loss at what to do.

“What is it?” fell rather flat down, a poor excuse of a question.

Leviathan rolled his eyes.

“A meaty flesh of some newly created life,” he huffed, visibly annoyed. “Also known as a child. I assume you’ve met their kind?”

Enver felt anger rise alongside with deeply rooted annoyance. Whatever spectacle the bhaalspawn decided to partake in, now was not the time for that. Neither it was the time for his witty itty remarks.

“I am well aware it’s a child,” he argued back just as sullenly, the said child held loosely in his arms. In his arms. Why was there a child in his arms? They were not made for holding babies.

“I’m asking why is it a child and why is it here. The questions any sane person in my place would indulge in.”

There was something...off about the bhaalspawn.

Not only Enver hadn’t seen the man for almost the entity of a year, an assassin always claiming some task of utmost importance, but now he decided to pop out of the thin air with a live child in a tow and immediately push said child into his, Enver Gortash’s, not so open arms.

It was alarming, to say the least.

“Oh, that,” Levi waved him off like it was a casual annoyance and not a conversation two adults, so-conspirers - partners - had. Like Gortash imposed himself into his free time and personal space and not the other way around. “It’s yours.”

It’s what?

“Or at least I assume it’s yours,” Leviathan followed as Enver’s thoughts came to a rapid halt. “Since I haven’t touched anyone alive but you in a long time. And look where it led me,” the look of pure disdain was all the child was getting, it seemed. “A freshly made meaty cage for a new soul. Disgusting. You’d think Father would make this shit stop and would not allow a child of banite to be born, but I guess any bhaalspawn is a good little pawn under his merciful gaze. Anyway,” a wild, excusing gesture of a hand. “I don’t have any use for this...thing. Sceleritas suggested to bring it into the fold and let my men do all the work, but well, the bother. So you can take it instead,” a winning smile what would work wonders if not for the whole absurdity of the situation Gortash just found himself in. “Think of it as of a gift. A proof of my loyalty to our cause, hm?”

Sometimes the bastard was more annoying than he was charming and his presence took a toll on the man.

Sometimes Enver wanted nothing more than to break Levi’s pretty slender neck.

That was one of these times.

“And what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Oh, whatever you want,” another wide, generous gesture. This asshole truly thought of that...child as if of a gift to be given away, didn’t he?

Enver shouldn’t have been surprised, not really, he knew Leviathan’s stance on children.

“Taste good, not much of use when alive, it’s funny when they die first” – was as good of a take as one could expect from the leader of the Cult of Murder.

“You can throw it away or feed it to the dogs. You can raise it or give it to a hag or even sell it to the devil,” another smile that’s more malicious than anything else. “I don't really care, if I'm being honest.”

Unfortunately, killing a bhaalspawn when you were holding just another bhaalspawn would prove to be close to impossible.

It would have to wait, and Leviathan Anchev still had his uses, bratty as he was.

And his appeal, as deadly as that ordeal proved to be. Or how complicated.

A child, huh? Well, Enver supposed every ruler needed an heir.

“Bring me the wizard,” was the first order out of his mouth when bhaalspawn left. The child was safely given into the care of the first competent older servant, who looked just as bewildered as Gortash himself felt. “Tell him to scan the...the-“

“The boy, my lord.”

“Right, tell the mage to scan the boy’s heritage. Let’s find who his parents are, shall we?”

Trusting a psycho murderer was an awful idea even at the safest of times, and now were not those. Levi would lie just to fuck with Enver. Levi had to lie, because there was no way this infant boy was actually his, Enver’s, flesh and blood.

***

Leviathan Anchev did not lie.

***

Levi moved away to sprawl his body across the bed, the creature of leisure he was. He sniffed the air and then wrinkled his nose, closer to an animal than any other person Gortash has ever known. More appealing in that, in his beast-like fluid grace.

“You still have this thing around,” the man commented, frowning. “Why? Playing the dollhouse? How...quant.”

“This thing has a name,” Enver couldn’t not parry. “Noah.”

Leviathan groaned.

“Oh, spare me the details; I want nothing to do with that flesh meat. Having to carry it inside my body for almost a year was a bother enough. Almost cut it out myself on multiple occasions, but Sceleritas insisted the internal damage I’d deal would be too great to handle. Idiot.” A moment of a thoughtful pause.

“You know what my destiny is, right?”

A searching gaze, reaching hands, clawed fingers cupping Enver’s cheeks almost gently. Something changed between them some time ago, but what it was Lord Gortash could not pinpoint. 

Yet something...Shifted.

Levi searching his face for some kind of acknowledgement was a sign of this.

Leviathan Anchev Enver first met would not care less about his approval. Leviathan Anchev of now was Enver’s nearest and dearest and it was pretty much a mutual kind of thing.

“I know.”

To kill everyone in the world and then himself. In Bhaal’s name. A gruesome fate, and pointless. Dull, lacking of any grandiose his, Enver’s, path had.

If only he could break off this deadly conviction in his dear ally, if only there was a way to make him stray out of this path...

They could be good for each other. They could rule together as the gods of the new age; glorious, undefeatable, perfect.

The rulers Toriel truly deserved.

“Then you know I’ll have to kill this...thing,” a moment of barely noticeable hesitation. “This... Noah.”

Enver also knew he would rather see his lover bleed on the altar of his dreadful father than let it happen.

“I do.”

“I,” another uncertain pause. “I was planning to leave you for last. To kill you and myself in one final blow; a perfect tribute to Father. But,” and really, those damn pauses were starting to get on Enver’s nerves. Levi was never short of words before, so what in the nine hells had happened? “Would you rather prefer I’d do you and...Noah... together? To kill you two in one blow?”

Ah.

Enver saw it for what it was, in the uncertain, searching gaze of his unlucky lover, in the carefulness with which he produced words.

Something warm flooded out the irritation from before; something warm and soft and entirely fragile.

It was mercy, the only kind of mercy the bhaalspawn could know. Leviathan Anchev, the man fully capable of destroying everyone and everything on his wake, offered him a tiny piece of his own surrender. A confirmation of his affections, almost a confession.

In some ways he did care.

“That would be very considerate of you, yes,” he agreed, bringing bhaalspawn close. His bhaalspawn, his ally, his lover. The father of his son.

If there was a way of bringing Bhaal down without bringing Levi with him, Enver would find and utilize it. Otherwise he’d have to kill the best partner in crime he has ever had.

And that would be...unfortunate.

Levi leaned into the touch, soft and gentle in a way he has never been before; almost fragile.

Trusting.

“Does it...know about me?” came out in a whisper, almost unbidden.

“He knows you exist,” was all the response Enver could give, enveloping his assassin into his arms, holding him closely, firmly, painfully so.

The bhaalspawn squirmed for a moment before finally settling in.

“Oh,” he breathed out. “I didn’t think you would...What you would tell him I do. Exist, I mean. I’d expect you’d spin a tale of some tragically dead wife or-“

“There is no tragically dead wife,” Enver cut off, feeling rather irritated. A mystery of complications, his dear murderer. “Only a lunatic of a murderer for a father. Not what Noah knows that, he knows we’re working together and what you’re a very busy man.”

“Hmph,” Levi’s breath brushed Enver’s neck. “I guess that is true.”

“Do you want to,” and now it was his time to be a hesitant bother. “Meet him?

At that Leviathan actually laughed.

“Oh, absolutely not, keep him and that strange dollhouse of yours as far away from me as possible. I have things to do, people to kill, empires to rule. I don’t have time for meat-things, of my own creation or not.”

And just like that, it was as if nothing has changed.

***

The alarm goes off the moment Karlach finishes the last of the Hands and flies into a wall by the force of the explosive detonating right into her face.

Enver doesn’t stop to register that, or to look around at the bodies of his faithful, to mourn his perfectly constructed plans – his watch, the Iron Throne, the little fireworks shop – because the alarm in Noah’s private chambers went off and it only means one thing.

Intruders.

He skips one step at the time climbing up the steep steps to the higher, more private level.

Could that be the remaining of Orin’s assassins?

Levi said he dispatched of them all, but surely some had to survive by the sheer luck of not being in the temple at the moment. Are those Ravengard’s forces, Florrick’s?

Is it Leviathan, finally coming to sniff out the life he himself created?

He is vaguely aware of the younger Ravengard and the pale elf taking the chase after him, of Karlach joining in.

They think he is escaping.

Idiots.

Enver tries not to think what he is leading the enemies right to his son; he’ll deal with them later. Right now there’s blazing alarm shrieking what something is wrong – and indeed it is, as he discovers with the first body lying dead on the floor. Then the second. Then the third.

All of them – with their throats ripped open, Leviathan’s favorite style.

Enver turns the corner and reaches for the door handle – the door is unlocked and half open: this is bad, bad, bad-

Then he hears a laughter and pauses.

He opens the door slowly and carefully instead of throwing it open as he intended at first.

And sees...

Levi is sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning slightly forward.

Across of him, sitting in the exact same – ridiculous – pose sits the boy not older than five. He has a dark messy hair, blazing green eyes what betray his nature, and the new game Gortash brought to him just recently. He is trying to explain the rules to the tiefling in front of him, who listens attentively, nodding here and there.

“Wow,” Leviathan Anchev comments with an air of nonchalance he didn’t have before. “I did not understand a thing. But good for you, lil one, good for you.”

“It’s really not that difficult,” Noah insists. “I can teach you! We can play together.”

Enver steps closer, somehow is still not detected neither by his son nor by his...his what?

Karlach almost crashes into the doorframe after him, but somehow manages to steady herself, takes in the view in front of her – and freezes.

So do the other two of Levi’s unruly companions. Gortash especially doesn’t like the pale one; he has a habit of sticking way closer to the bhaalspawn than it is proper.

“I am not that good at these kinds of games,” Levi admits as his tail flips from side to side and nostrils flare; he has detected him. Probably smelled before sensing. “But I have a friend with a real knack for them. He is a wizard and knows a lot of fun things; I think you’d get along.”

Noah looks uncertain.

“Are you sure?” he looks down. “I don’t think...I’m not allowed outside.”

“Really? And why is that?”

“Well,” the boy fidgets with his game. “Father says people who oppose him would try to use me against him, if they knew I existed. So I am kind of...a secret? It’s for my own safety!” he immediately adds, seeing Leviathan’s face blank out. “There’s a murderer on the loose, she really doesn’t like father despite supposedly working with him. Father says she will kill me if she finds out I exist.”

“Oh,” Levi looks taken aback at that. “I don’t think you need to worry about that anymore. If you’re talking about who I think you’re talking about, then she has been dealt with already.”

“Oh!” Noah brightens. “By whom?”

“By me. But say,” the spawn looks quizzically at the child in front of him, frowning slightly. “Is it just your father and you? Where’s your mother?”

“I don’t have one,” and this is definitely the moment then Enver needs to intervene, but he is just...frozen in place, turned to stone.

Leviathan Anchev he knew hated children.

This Leviathan Anchev is talking to a child as it was his best friend.

“I have a dad though!” Noah is a sweet fool, Enver taught him much better than telling complete strangers his entire life’s story. Stop. Talking. “He is...working a lot and is too busy to visit,” the boy looks down gloomily. “But! He and father are very close; they even stole from the devil together!”

Levi blinks. Then blinks once more. Then again.

“The devil, you say?” and is it just Gortash’s imagination, but did the man’s voice just rise up an octave?

“Yes! And not just any devil, the achdevil Mephistopheles!” Noah looks so absurdly proud of that it hurts. “They snuck right into his home, stole a crown from his vault and returned here. Unspotted, unstopped. Victorious.”

“What the fuck?” Karlach lets out and both the boy and the bhaalspawn who created him turn to the door.

Noah’s face immediately brightens.

“Father!” he exclaims, hastily getting to his feet and rushing to him. Behind the boy Levi gives the man the most bewildered stare he has ever seen.

“You have a child!” young Ravengard speaks out with the accusation in his voice. Enver really isn’t sure whom the man is addressing.

Noah is unperturbed.

“Father, I met a really cool guy, his name is Levi and he must be your friend because he came here with no problem at all; and he has children at his camp, two girls named Yenna and Arabella. Arabella is a druid because she stole the idol of Sylvanus and it gave her powers, and Yenna has a cat! But the cat is anxious so I shouldn’t pet it, but I can look at it! Please, can I look at Yenna’s cat? Levi said the evil murderer is dealt with, so it’s probably safe. And Levi can guard me if needed. Also there’s a vampire spawn in his camp and-“

The pale elf coughs.

“Hello there,” he tries, pulling a not entirely convincing smile up his lips. “A vampire spawn speaking. And you would be...”

“I am Noah!” says Noah right away; and did Enver shelter him too much? Damn, he has sheltered him too much. Look at the boy, he wants to befriend a vampire spawn. “I’m the son of the Archduke! Hello.”

“Yes, hi,” the elf looks at Levi uncertainly and back. “So...”

“So,” the bhaalspawn steps forward, the bewildered look stuck to his face. He crouches down to Noah’s level and takes his hands into his calloused and clawed ones. “So Noah...Your dad is the man who helped your father to steal the crown from the devil, is that right?”

Noah nods vigorously and Enver takes his time to observe the scene; the two bhaalspawns in front of each other, Levi’s posture, his relaxed shoulders, his slightly shaking hands. The tail that seems to have a life on its own and moves agitatedly behind its owner.

Three companions of the bhaalspawn, all somewhat stuck in place, with different levels of surprise stitched up their faces. The pale elf – a step closer, almost lingering at Leviathan’s side. Annoying.

Yet somehow, no matter how hard Gortash looks at it, he doesn’t sense any danger. Doesn’t see it, even with Karlach still aflame by the doorframe.

“Yep,” Noah agrees eagerly. “I wish he’d come to meet me soon. He will come, right? Once the work is done and all,” the boy sighs. “I mean, I am his son, surely he would care to come to meet me.”

“Um,” the tiefing looks uncertain. “And what if...something happened to him? What if he, say, lost his memories?”

“How? Did something hit him in the head?”

The vampire spawn chokes on a laugh and Levi rolls his eyes at him.

“Sure,” he agrees. “Let’s call it that. So...what if he doesn’t...exactly remember having you?”

“You mean if he’s lost and doesn’t know he needs to come back?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I guess I’d come looking for him. He is my other father. It’s important.”

The force of conviction behind these words hits harder than a thunderwave.

Leviathan blinks hard, clears his throat, and then-

“You...don’t have to. I don’t remember much about my life before...certain events, but it was made adamantly clear to me I was the one to break into the Mephistopheles’ vault with your father. And if your dad is who did that, then,” he stops. “Then I guess- Enver, are you really just going to stand here like a fucking statue? Tell me if this is what I think it is or not.”

“You swore!”

“No, the fuck, I did not. Enver-“

“Now you swore twice!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake-“

“So,” Gortash steps forward, a lazy smile dancing on his lips. Gods only know how much this smile costs him. “You have known your son for the entirety of twenty minutes and already taught him a swear word. Really impressive.”

“Father?”

“Oh, listen here, you poignant prick-“

This, Enver thinks, is what family feels like.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 7: Final Tribute]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: I am wishing a very Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate! I am so thankful for all of you and your support of this fic. Only 1 more chapter left! 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, violence, babies, dad!Aemond, show events, drama at dinner, sexual content, witchcraft, death and destruction, dragons, a very very long chapter so maybe plan for a snack break...might I suggest a nice roasted pig??

Word count: 10.7k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow @tclegane @daddysfavoritesexkitten @poohxlove @imagine-all-the-imagines @nsainmoonchild @skythighs @bratfleck @thesadvampire @yor72 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @loverandqueenofdragons @omgsuperstarg @endless-ineffabilities @devynsshitposts @vencuyot @ladylannisterxo @cranberryjulce @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz​ @liathelioness​ @mirandastuckinthe80s​ @haezen​ @fairaardirascenarios​ @darkened-writer​ @weepingfashionwritingplaid​ @signyvenetia​ @abrielleholland​ @crossingallmine​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @yummycastiel​ @lol-im-done​ @lovemissyhoneybee​ @nomugglesallowed​ @witchmoon​ @yoshiplushie​  @torchbearerkyle​ @sweetashoneyhoney​ @quartzs-posts​ @lauraneedstochill​ @nctma15​ @queenofshinigamis​ @rapoficeandfire​ @hinata7346​ @curiouser-an-curiouser​ @meadowofsinfulthoughts​ @imjustboredso​ @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine​ @myspotofcraziness​ @bregarc​ @mikariell95​ @doingfondue​ @justconfusedperiod​ @mommyslittlewarcriminal​ @graykageyama​

Aemond holds her so that her feet can skim the warm, sun-sparkling surf. Laurel smiles, squeals merrily, makes ineffectual little kicks. She gawks down at the water with eyes that seem to fill up her whole face. She is scrawny still—no matter how much she is fed she remains small, much smaller than other infants her age—but tough and dauntless. She rarely cries. She reaches for everything. She watches you with those enormous eyes that hold an eerie sort of awareness, a stoicism that comes from something, somewhere, that predates her two short months in this world. It should not surprise you that she is a rare sort of child. She is built of bloodlines that run thick with magic.

Jaehaera and Maelor are constructing a sandcastle, decorated with stones and shells and flags made of driftwood speared through strips of dried seaweed. The handmaidens are attempting to prevent an irate Jaehaerys from stomping it into rubble. Helaena is staring out into the ocean towards Bearstone, her face grim and remote. Gulls swoop and squawk overhead. The end of the day is golden and hot and perfect; the sun is sinking rapidly into the horizon.

Aemond straightens, cradles Laurel to his chest with one arm, and offers her a small pink cat’s paw seashell. She clutches it, considers it, tries to eat it. Aemond laughs and takes the shell away, tossing it back into the waves. Laurel begins to fuss in protest, but settles when he kisses her short silver hair and soothes her like he always does: “Shh, shh, lykiri, shh.” She peers up at him and bats at his eyepatch with her tiny fist. When you are in private, he goes without it so she can get used to his sapphire, his scar; she is entranced by the cool blue glow, finding only beauty in what some would call monstrous.

A maester appears, ambling with some difficulty across the sand to meet the prince. You take Laurel from Aemond so he can receive the scroll. He unrolls the parchment and reads it, his brow furrowed.

“Who have you been colluding with?” you tease. “Your maester friends in Dorne?”

“Something like that.” He stows the scroll away in his tunic. His boots sink into the wet sand like a punctured ship into the depths. The wind gusting in off the sea tears at his long hair. You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. Laurel grabs at your moonstone pendant.

Far above in the orange-indigo sky, there is a flash of crimson and a shrill, clicking sort of shriek. The handmaidens gasp and duck their heads. You look up to see a dragon soaring over the walls of the Red Keep: blood-red, lithe, lightning-quick, unapologetically lethal. You’ve only ever heard of one dragon that fits that description. Caraxes. Daemon. You turn back to Aemond.

“They’re here,” he says simply.

“Since when?”

“Since this afternoon. I saw Jace and Luke in the courtyard. They did not accept my invitation to train.”

“And have they grown up to be…” you begin. Aemond smiles, dimples springing up in his cheeks; he already knows what you’re going to say. You are a book he has poured over for nearly a year. For the first time, you wonder if he’s memorized the rhythm of your footsteps, the lines of your shoulders, the slope of your jaw. You wonder if you have any new pages left for him to read. “Strong boys?”

“I wouldn’t say they’ve grown very much at all.”

“Why are they in King’s Landing?” Rhaenyra has been biding her time on Dragonstone for six years; it must have taken something truly urgent to lure her back into such an unfriendly court.

“Vaemond Velaryon has disputed Luke’s claim to Driftmark. His grounds are…obvious. The boys aren’t Laenor’s, thus they cannot inherit his titles. Rhaenyra has come seeking judgment in her favor.”

“Very interesting. Best of luck to her.”

“I wouldn’t be too optimistic. Otto and my mother are the ones doing the judging.” He lifts your chin, kisses you, nudges his nose playfully against yours. He has been like this since you had the baby: attentive, affectionate, but chaste. He does not touch you with heat, with lust. And at first, that had been more than alright; you were recovering, and then you were consumed with caring for Laurel—always so small, always so spellbinding—and even now you are only just beginning to feel like yourself again. Yet there are moments when you catch glimpses of that familiar, animalistic longing in your thoughts, your body: a memory here, a twinge of yearning there. That part of yourself is waking up like embers fueled with fresh air. You hope that Aemond still desires you in the same way he once did. You hope that when your flesh reunites you will not disappoint him. Now, he studies your face. “Do you pity them? The bastards?”

“I don’t blame them for who their father is, they cannot help that. I do blame them for what they did to you. What they have never atoned for.”

“Well, we will soon have the pleasure of seeing them humiliated,” he says brightly. “Tomorrow. In the Great Hall.”

“I’ll dress for a bloodbath.”

He chuckles, touching his lips to your forehead. “I’ll meet you upstairs. I need to send a raven first.”

You and Helaena take the children inside: you rocking Laurel to sleep in your arms, Helaena carrying an almost-too-heavy Maelor on her hip, Jaehaera trotting along beside her, Jaehaerys trying to clomp on people’s heels. The exasperated handmaidens struggle to corral him as you glide through the hallways towards the royal family’s chambers. Helaena is telling you about the web patterns of spiders when you round a corner to find an unfamiliar face.

She’s Princess Rhaenyra, she has to be. She has white hair and pale eyes and wears the black and red of House Targaryen. And yet, she is different than you had imagined her; she is regal but soft somehow, placid, subdued, some might even say diminished. She does not look like someone who would carry on a torrid, profoundly reckless affair. She does not look like a woman who would set the realm ablaze for a chance at the Iron Throne. Perhaps motherhood has smoothed over her roughest edges; perhaps suffering has humbled her.

You stare at each other in the middle of the hushed hallway—you flanked by Helaena and the handmaidens, Rhaenyra accompanied by two girls who can only be Daemon’s daughters by Laena Velaryon—and try to think of something to say. At last, Rhaenyra’s gaze drops to Laurel, bundled in a blanket stitched with a green dragon.

“Oh, she’s a brand new little thing! Might I see her?”

You do not relinquish your daughter, but you position her so Rhaenyra can get a better look. She stirs and stretches but does not wake.

“A darling,” the princess declares diplomatically. Her eyes linger on the baby’s silvery hair. “What do you call her?”

“Laurel.”

Rhaenyra smiles, just barely, as if she’s won a victory. And for the first time you see the venom in her. “Not a Targaryen name, that’s for certain.” She lays a hand on her pregnant belly. “We are expecting another in a few months’ time. After five sons, I am convinced this one is a girl at last. We plan to call her Visenya.”

It occurs to you how many things you have in common: mothers lost in childbirth, arranged and dispassionate first marriages, tenacity, magic, merciless love for a Targaryen man. And yet here you stand on opposite sides of a gaping chasm. “Congratulations.” What else can one say?

“It’s terrifying, isn’t it?” Rhaenyra asks. “When you realize what you’d do for your children.”

“Yes. I think if someone cut out her eye, I’d burn them alive.”

The princess blinks at you, stunned; and there is a moment when it is possible to unravel these generational knots of resentment and bloodletting ambition. There is a version of this exchange in which Rhaenyra apologizes for what happened to Aemond, for her callousness that night, for prizing a single lie above untold lives, for wielding her father’s fondness for her like a blade with which to cut others’ heads off. She considers it, surely; and instead she hardens, sharpens, grows claws and fangs. “I have heard of you, Lady Mormont. You’ve reached very high.”

“And you’ve stooped low.”

Rhaenyra blows by you like a storm wind, her footsteps echoing through the hallway. One of Daemon’s daughters bows her head demurely, but the other—Baela, you think her name is—flings you a glare of prideful, poisonous malice. She is very much Daemon Targaryen’s daughter. She is the type of woman who Aemond might say he’d met his match in, had they been born into different circumstances.

You can hear voices rising throughout the Red Keep. The handmaidens are gossiping frenetically among themselves. Jaehaerys growls and kicks at the wall. Beyond the glass windows, rain starts to fall and thunder booms. In your arms, Laurel begins to cry.

“He comes home late, covered in rain,” Helaena murmurs, looking at fingernails she’s chewed down to the quick.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your dresses are a kaleidoscope of gemstones: ruby, onyx, emerald, turquoise, rose quartz, pearl, tiger’s eye, sapphire, moonstone. On your vanity are pieces of jewelry to match. There are also twenty-seven blue winter roses, dried into shriveled, perpetual life and kept in a white vase.

“You should wear your namesake,” Aemond says. He stands behind you and rests his hands on your shoulders. You smile at each other in the mirror’s reflection. He is in good spirits, eager, proud. A part of that is the shame that Rhaenyra and her sons are sure to suffer. A part of that is his own prowess: his swordsmanship, his intellect, his dragon. And, you have come to realize, a part of it is you as well. He is impatient to show you off. You have no eminent blood relatives, no wealth, no sons…and yet to Aemond you are a fortune. You choose a billowing, ethereal gown that sparkles when sunlight hits the fabric. Your husband weaves matching chains of moonstones into your hair.

You enter the Great Hall with the rest of the Greens. Otto Hightower, in the king’s absence, will preside over the dispute. Alicent wears a jade-colored dress and seven-pointed star necklace like armor, like it will keep all her encroaching enemies at bay. Helaena is wide-eyed and jittery. Aegon is, much to his own regret, hungover but not inebriated at the moment; Alicent and Aemond have bullied him into relative sobriety for the duration of Rhaenyra’s visit. You stand between the brothers, always on Aemond’s good side. He periodically touches your hand, your hair, your shoulders. Sir Criston remains by the queen, watching her like a sailor studies the sky for signs of a storm: dark clouds, spiraling winds, scattering flocks of birds.

As Otto ascends the Iron Throne as Hand of the King and Vaemond Velaryon states his claim to Driftmark, you take stock of Rhaenyra’s eldest sons. It is clear why Aemond is so heartened by their presence, here in King’s Landing for all the nobles to see and spread word of throughout Westeros. Jace and Luke, whatever their favorable attributes, are utterly unlike what the world expects from Targaryens or Velaryons. They are short and dark-haired and somehow benign in their features: homey, ordinary, pug-nosed like the Strongs are known to be. They do not sweat that unnerving, commanding otherworldliness from their pores, that magnetism that totters on the blade’s edge between greatness and insanity.

Aemond smiles darkly as he ghosts his fingertips across the back of your neck. He has the looks of a true Targaryen. He has a full-grown, legendary dragon. He has you. The gods have set things right again, they have put the universe back in order. He is at the top of fate’s wheel; the bastard boys and all their defenders are at the bottom.

When Rhaenyra tries to refute Vaemond, Alicent scolds her like a child, reminding her to wait her turn to speak. The futility of her cause is becoming evident on Rhaenyra’s face. Otto and Alicent will never acknowledge her sons’ legitimacy. Not even Luke seems especially enthused by his own claim to Driftmark; he looks skittish, almost anguished. His doelike dark eyes land on Aemond and then bolt away. Aemond only grows more amused.

Aegon turns to you. Is this over yet? he mouths, then mimes swigging a cup of wine.

It is Rhaenyra’s turn to plead her son’s case. She steps forward. Daemon watches her in a way that is somehow familiar to you, and then you place it; it is the same way Aemond watches you, proud, possessive, linked by a gravity that is bone-deep and older than words. Daemon even looks and moves a bit like your husband, albeit less controlled, less premeditated. You remember once being able to tell that Aemond had never killed a man. There is no mistaking the fact that Daemon has spilled a tide of hot pulsing blood, and furthermore would be delighted to again.

Rhaenyra speaks as her time here draws short, as Luke’s claim to Driftmark dies. Everyone knows it, Blacks and Greens alike, they’re just waiting for the judgment to be handed down. And then, and then…

The doors to the Great Hall open and his entrance is announced. In nearly a year, you have never once seen the ailing King Viserys. He was not roused from his sickbed by the joust, by the feasts, by your imprisonment, by the trial by combat that nearly claimed Aemond’s life, by the birth of your daughter. Aemond rarely speaks of him. He doesn’t seem to have many memories of the king at all, the man who watched as the mangled flesh of his son’s eye was sewn shut and felt no outrage. Only now does Viserys appear to take his rightful place as king. Only for Rhaenyra.

Otto dutifully surrenders the Iron Throne and comes down to stand with his family. He and Alicent exchange a wary glance. As Daemon helps Viserys—weak, emaciated, decaying—to his seat, Aegon raises his eyebrows at you. Helaena fidgets anxiously. You tug on your moonstone pendant. Aemond is a pillar of stone. Here is one thing Rhaenyra and her sons have that he never will: the king’s unconditional love.

The winds have changed direction. Rhaenys announces her and Lord Corlys’ support for Luke’s Velaryon inheritance, as well as her intention that her granddaughters Baela and Rhaena marry Jace and Luke. Vaemond’s face is furious, while Rhaenyra’s grows cautiously assured; House Velaryon has chosen a side in the coming war, the one everyone knows of but cannot yet name.

King Viserys did not protect Aemond when his eye was cut from his skull and his life endangered, but he protects Luke now, not from jeers or blades but from his mother’s obvious indiscretion: he affirms Luke’s claim to Driftmark. The Great Hall is hectic with whispers and cynical looks. The nobles here at court may never have fully warmed to you, but many of them loathe Rhaenyra: due to her arrogance, due to her lies, due to her marriage to the rogue prince…and yes, due to her womanhood as well. While you cannot fault her for this last fact, there are plenty of shortcomings left to weigh the scales against her. Only Vaemond Velaryon, after exalting the longevity and uninterrupted bloodline of his ancient house, is willing to give voice to what so many others are thinking.

“My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And gods be damned…” He turns to Luke, trembling with rage. “I will not see it ended on account of this…”

“Say it,” Daemon dares, his icy deep-set eyes gleaming, and again you can see shades of Aemond in him.

“Her children…” Vaemond says. “Are bastards!” He looks to Rhaenyra, briefly, with palpable revulsion. “And she…is…a whore.”

Aemond is smiling again. His father is less pleased. King Viserys, slow and feeble and wheezing, yanks a dagger from his belt. “I will have your tongue for that.”

There is a whistle of steel through the air, and Daemon’s blade Dark Sister severs Vaemond’s skull crosswise just above the mouth. Helaena whirls away, clapping her hands over her ears; both you and Alicent reach out to console her. The man—now a corpse—drops to the floor, spilling out blood and brains like wine sloshed in a too-full cup. The room erupts into gasps of shock, disgust, dismay. If the noble families of Westeros required any further proof of Daemon’s undomesticated savagery, they now have it.

“He can keep his tongue,” Daemon says, smirking down at Vaemond’s body.

“Disarm him!” Otto Hightower bellows.

“No need.” Daemon wipes his sword clean and sheaths it.

Helaena is whimpering as you embrace her. Aegon is clearly regretting his sobriety. Aemond is staring at his uncle, his blue eye alight, entranced and awed and hungry; for it is not often that he meets his match in someone. As you watch, his finger go—unthinkingly, instinctively—to the dagger at his belt, and they rest there on the hilt shaped like the roaring bear of House Mormont.

~~~~~~~~~~

Somewhere in the few hours between the audience in the Great Hall and the dinner arranged by the pitiful, dying king, Aegon managed to rectify his dreadful lack of intoxication. He is now quite drunk and delighted to be back in his preferred state. Aemond is berating him in the corner of the dining room.

“Perhaps I don’t drink too much,” Aegon says, swaying as he pokes his brother in the chest. “Perhaps you drink too little.”

“I drink exactly the correct amount, thanks for your concern.”

Aegon slurs, speaking to you this time: “Don’t you think he drinks too little?”

“I think you should find your seat at the table before you end up under it.”

“Well alright then.” Aegon staggers off.

“Tonight is important,” Aemond tells you, low enough that nobody else will hear. Servants are lighting candles and setting the vast table; Alicent and Rhaenyra, sitting just a few paces apart, pretend not to notice each other. “I asked him to be responsible, to be prepared, to for once put duty before self-indulgence—”

“Let him have the wine. A time will come…a week from now, or a month, or a year…when he will have to renounce his vices for the good of the realm, but that time is not now. Let him enjoy his hedonism while he still can.”

Aemond frowns as he glares in Rhaenyra’s direction. “Even when the noose is tightened, they expect us to break bread.”

“Perhaps there is an advantage in it for you,” you say, laying your hand against his cheek, his scar. “Perhaps this is your chance to study them, to learn where all their bruises and cracks are.”

He smiles, lifts your hand from his marred face, kisses your palm. Candlelight illuminates him like flames. “You are truly a terrible influence, wife. You’ve made me so tame.”

“I’ve been known to ride a dragon too, you know. A very fearsome dragon. Tall, silver-haired, spends long hours in the library reading about philosophy…” You wink and turn to go to your seat. Aemond pulls you back, hooks a hand beneath your jaw, devours you with his roaming, ravenous eye: your parted lips, your throat, your breasts, your hips, lower. You can feel your muscles unraveling, opening, growing supple. You can feel all of your self-conscious trepidation melting away. On the blurred, firelit periphery of your vision, you can tell that Daemon is watching.

“I want you,” Aemond whispers.

“So take me.”

The doors open and King Viserys is carried in by the Kingsguard, propped up helplessly in his chair. Aemond releases you and stands with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture diffident but his lips still curled mischievously, distractedly. You can guess what he’s thinking, what he’ll spend the entire meal playing out in his mind before he gets to have it. When King Viserys is positioned at the center of the table, Aemond takes his place at the Green’s end. You sit between him—always on his good side—and Helaena. Your eyes scan the guests; Jace and Luke are ogling you with a mix of horror and fascination. Daemon is smirking with his chin propped on the heel of his hand. Alicent is staring blankly at the wall.

Aegon bends across Helaena so he can say to you: “That was very decorous. Entirely appropriate for a family dinner. Maybe when they serve dessert you could fuck on the table, right between the apple cake and the blueberry tarts.”

“That’s a fine idea, I’ll certainly consider it.”

He cackles and slumps back into his seat, guzzling a cup of blood-red wine.

“How good it is to see you all tonight,” the king says. “Together.” His eye—he has only one remaining, and surely that is the work of the gods’ irony—floats over you without much interest. He barely acknowledges any of his children with Alicent, nor do they strive to capture his attention. Perhaps they learned the pointlessness of such efforts a decade ago. Perhaps the part of them that longed for the king’s affection and approval died with his rotting flesh.

“Prayer before we begin?” Alicent prompts, and the king agrees. “May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love…” Beneath the table, Aemond nudges his knee against yours. You return the gesture. “May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long…” From the opposite end of the gathering, Luke stares at Aemond as if still trying to puzzle out how the runt of a boy he blinded grew up to be…well…that. “And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

Daemon sighs and rolls his eyes dramatically. “Yes, and perhaps they can find a new wife for Axel Hightower too.”

“If he’s fortunate, he’ll be freed when I suffer an entirely coincidental fall from a horse,” you pitch back. Aemond chortles, a low rumble from deep in his chest.

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems,” the king continues forcefully. Through a forest of flickering candles, Daemon’s eyes dissect you as he twirls his wine cup, thoughtful and amused. “My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses.”

Aemond says nothing, but you can read the words in the lines of his face. Further bolstering the strength of the Blacks, you mean. Absentmindedly, he skims his fingertips across your knuckles. Goosebumps spring up on your arms.

The king raises his cup. “A toast to the young princes and their betrothed.”

Everyone obediently lifts their cups, but their expressions are less than celebratory. Otto Hightower broods. Alicent bites her lower lip. Luke blanches; he is young, so very young.

Aegon taunts: “Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman.”

“And perhaps just the one,” Jace returns. “You wouldn’t be acquainted with the idea.”

The king says: “And let us toast as well Prince Lucerys, the future Lord of the Tides.”

Cups are raised again. Rhaenyra beams with pride. Aemond leers at Luke as he drinks.

“You’ll be great,” Rhaena tells her future husband. She is a sweet girl, wise and sympathetic and grounded. She must be more like her mother. That’s good; she’ll make a fine companion for Luke when he’s sent off to rule Driftmark.

Aegon leans into Jace again. Jace flinches away. It does take some getting used to, as you are well aware; Aegon has, at best, a tenuous understanding of personal space. “You do know how the act is done, I assume? At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that.”

“Let it be, cousin,” Baela warns. You find it unfortunate that she was born to be on the wrong side of this war. She would have made a valuable ally.

“You can play the jester if you wish,” Jace tells Aegon. “But hold your tongue before my betrothed.”

Having not received the reaction he was hoping for, Aegon returns his attention to his wine. Luke and Rhaena are whispering back and forth, giggling innocently; she’s finally gotten him to smile. Aemond reaches beneath the table to rest a hand on your thigh. It skates upwards, and then back down again, very slowly. You sip your wine and try not to react visibly, but hot blood rushes into your face. Aegon squints at you and Aemond with bleary eyes, his mouth stretching into a grin.

The king hauls himself to his feet. Aemond’s hand stills but remains on you. “It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world…” Aemond shakes his head, just barely, just enough for you to notice it. His face was not dear enough for his father to mourn its butchering. He does not look directly at Viserys. He looks at you instead. Again, Daemon is watching. “…Yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.”

The king reaches up to the golden mask that covers half his face. It takes you a moment before you realize he’s going to remove it. Alicent takes a series of shallow, uneasy breaths. Aegon grimaces and gulps his wine. Beneath the mask, there is a gaping, wet cavity where the king’s right eye once was. His cheek is mostly disintegrated; one can glimpse his teeth and tongue moving behind the curtain of dark, shredded flesh. To her credit, Rhaenyra does not turn away. There is horror on her pale face, but there are other things too: compassion, mourning, loss. She does truly love him, you think to yourself, and you wonder what Alicent’s children’s lives could have been like had Viserys not already filled the chambers of his heart to the brim with Aemma’s daughter.

“My face,” the king pants. “Is no longer a handsome one, if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king, but your father…” Aegon forces himself to raise his eyes to Viserys, then immediately regrets it and buries his face in his wine again. “…Your brother, your husband…” Alicent winces like she’s been hit, but tries to hide it. “And your grandsire. Who may not, it seems, walk for much longer among you.”

You are struck with a sudden vision of Otto Hightower holding Laurel, talking to her like she’s already his closest confidant, tickling her toes, singing to her some ridiculous tavern song common in the Reach, kissing the crown of her head again and again. To your knowledge, King Viserys has never once asked about your daughter.

I cannot pity this man, you think, contemplating the dying king. You do not avert your gaze from his hideous affliction. You do not forget all the ways in which he has failed Alicent’s children. In fact, I might even hate him.

The king says as he lowers himself back down: “Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong—”

“Interesting choice of words,” Aegon mumbles.

“—If the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances, if not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.” Exhausted from the effort, the king languishes in his chair and sucks in rattling breaths. Alicent comforts him and helps him refasten his mask. No one speaks, but all the Greens are thinking the same thing. It is easy for the king to urge forgiveness when he was never wronged: never ignored, never dismembered, never groped with unwanted hands, never sacrificed on the altar of Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne, a claim so much of Westeros refuses to support. He would set the world ablaze for her, and expects you all to smile and toss sticks into the flames as they lick around your ankles.

Ever the favorite child, ever affixed to the king, Rhaenyra offers a toast next. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the queen.” Alicent peers up at her reticently with large, tearful eyes. “I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that she has my gratitude…and my apology.”

“Apology for what?” Aegon hisses under his breath. He is right; the words are worthless in their ambiguity. Apology for monopolizing the king’s love? Apology for cursing Alicent for complying with old men’s schemes and marrying Viserys? Apology for what happened to Aemond? Apology for the interminable enmity that remains? Apology for dividing and jeopardizing the realm? Apology for WHAT? No matter her meaning, Daemon is not enthused. He glowers and sulks. Daemon Targaryen is not a man who apologizes for anything.

Alicent collects herself before replying. “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers, and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow.” She stands and toasts Rhaenyra. “I raise my cup to you and your house.” She pauses, then adds: “You will make a fine queen.”

Otto Hightower raises an eyebrow. Aemond’s forehead wrinkles before he can smooth it again; his hand squeezes your thigh. Is it a lie to soothe a dying man? Is it to deceive Rhaenyra, to disarm her? Is it wistful thinking for a miraculously peaceful end to all of this? Surely Alicent cannot think it possible for Rhaenyra to reign. As long as Aegon lives—and then Aegon’s sons, and then Aemond, and then Daeron—there will be tens of millions who raise banners and swords to try to put them on the throne. It is a truth that is larger than any of their individual wills. Rhaenyra cannot let them live if she hopes to be queen. Even if she wanted to spare them, Daemon would not stand for it. She must either be kept from the Iron Throne…or she will wear the Greens’ blood like rubies. The dinner guests ignore this fact, for tonight at least. They nurse their wine and clink silverware against their plates as they eat. Candlelight paints you all in flames and shadows.

Aegon is sorely disappointed with the dearth of chaos he’s caused this evening. He gets up to refill his wine cup and snakes between Jace and his betrothed. “I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” he tells Baela. “But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

Jace jumps to his feet and slams his palms on the table.

Baela tries to calm him. “Jace…”

Beside you, Aemond rises. He doesn’t say a word; he just stares, wearing firelight like furs, his scar very loud. Aegon meanders back to his seat. Jace does some quick calculations, trying to figure out how to deescalate while saving face. He is bolder than Luke, but still far from ferocious. And he is clever enough to know how to keep the king’s love. He pounds Aegon’s shoulder and raises his cup.

“To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond,” Jace says. “We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope that we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles. And congratulations, Prince Aemond, on the recent birth of your only child, your…” He hesitates deliberately. “Daughter.”

The table is hushed, all eyes on Aemond. He is examining Jace like he’s trying to decide the best spot to place a blade. Aegon observes his brother, waiting for a signal. Aemond looks to you. You shrug, ever so slightly, sipping your wine; you are determined not to be bothered. The Strong boys’ time of reckoning will be upon them soon, but not here and now. At last, Aemond sits. The table comes back to life like the earth at springtime.

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena says.

“Well done, my boy,” the king praises Jace. Aegon gags audibly.

Helaena stands next. “I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon.” She offers a soft, sympathetic smile. “It isn’t so bad, mostly he just ignores you…except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

There are awkward titters. Helaena isn’t sure what they’re laughing at. You reach out to grasp her hand when she sits. “That was very, very kind of you,” you say. She nods gratefully.

“Good,” Otto adds, and Helaena beams.

The king calls for music. The dining room blossoms with the noise of lively, cheerful strings. Jace—quite unexpectedly—offers Helaena his hand for a dance, and she is delighted to accept. You fill your plate with meat and fish and vegetables but eat sparingly. Aemond eats nothing. He watches you, and he watches Helaena, and he adds spoonfuls of dishes to your plate that he thinks you might like but declines to taste them himself. Aegon drains cup after cup of wine. Alicent tends to the king. Daemon tends to Rhaenyra, his arm draped across the back of her chair, making her laugh and feeding her morsels of food with his fingers. He is the mate of her choice, that’s for certain; she glows for him, she would kill for him.

When the king’s pain grows too great, he retires to his chambers for sleep and milk of the poppy. As Viserys is carried out, a large roasted pig is brought in. The scent is rich and fatty and mouthwatering. The servants place the pig in front of Aemond, and he immediately begins cutting into it to serve you a portion. That’s when you hear the snickering. At the other end of the table, Luke is smirking. Rhaena stares at him, not knowing what it means, but you do; Aemond has told you about the Pink Dread. Aegon has too, for that matter. It rolls across your husband’s ravaged face like a wave: the taunting and cutting and stitching, the excruciating cleaning of his wound each day for months afterwards, the muscle memory of trauma that never quite forgets the blade, the howling absence of repayment. A debt is still owed. A debt will always be owed.

Aemond brings his fist down on the table and stands. The music cuts off. He raises his cup. “Final tribute,” he says, and glances down at you. You would not stop him, even if you could; these words are long, long overdue. Aegon has perked up, though his eyes are still glazed with drink. Alicent is gnawing anxiously on her thumbnail. Across the table, Daemon is grinning. “To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey.” If his intentions were not clear before, they are now; he has conveniently left out Rhaenyra’s sons with Daemon. “Each of them handsome, wise…”

Don’t, Alicent’s eyes plead.

Do it, provoke Daemon’s.

Aemond continues: “…Strong.”

“Aemond—” Alicent begins.

“Come,” Aemond says, ignoring her. You and Aegon hold your wine cups aloft. “Let us raise our cups to these three strong boys.”

“I dare you to say that again!” Jace shouts.

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment,” Aemond says, stepping towards him. “Do you not think yourself strong?”

Jace’s fist collides with your husband’s face on his blind side. Aemond barely recoils; his wine remains undisturbed in his hand. When Luke bolts to his feet, Aegon—no great foot soldier, but committed to the cause nonetheless—smashes his face into the table. Luke yells and struggles. The room is in uproar, but when Aemond shoves Jace to the floor and turns back to you, he is smiling. He has tasted the Strong boys’ power and is wholly unimpressed. Guards rush to restrain Jace and Luke. Rhaena detains Baela, who is swiping at Aegon like a shadowcat. Aegon circles back to the Greens, probably a little terrified of her. Helaena has fled to safety at Otto Hightower’s side.

Alicent grabs Aemond’s forearm. “Why would you say such a thing before these people?!” What she means is: Why would you sabotage what little chance we have at peace?

“I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother.” Aemond rips his arm free. “Hm, though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs.”

Jace breaks away from the guards. “It takes courage to speak of bastards when your child was born to another man’s wife!”

Aemond reaches for his dagger. Jace fumbles for his own. Daemon steps between them.

“Wait, wait,” he says, and Jace instantly retreats. Rhaenyra sends her children from the room, as if they needed help appearing any more juvenile. Then Daemon turns to Aemond. They measure each other in a taut, razor-sharp silence. You go to Aemond’s side, not to stop him but to show that you support him even when his own father does not, that you will always and unconditionally, that you do not shy away from battles. Daemon’s menacing, deep-set eyes flick to you, linger there, and then return to Aemond. There is a cunning sort of understanding living in those eyes like fanged animals in caves. The viciousness on Aemond’s face dies. It is replaced by something unsettled, something fearful.

“Hm,” is all he says. He nods towards the doors, telling you to leave first. You cross through the threshold and Aemond swiftly follows after you. You hurry through halls and doorframes and empty rooms. Together, you enter the deserted Great Hall.

“What was that about—?”

Aemond pushes you against the wall, kisses you breathlessly, runs his hands up the length of your body from your hips to your throat. “It doesn’t matter.” You moan into him as he pushes your thighs apart and kisses you again. He tastes like wine and heat and bloodlust. He tastes even better than you remember. “I want you,” he says. “Now.”

“Yes,” you answer. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“They’re going to come looking for me, Mother and Otto. They’re going to want to discuss what I did and pick it to pieces and start drawing up plans. If we go to our chambers they’ll find us, probably within five minutes—”

“Then do it here.” You glace to the stairwell where he took you that very first time, back when you were a widow and he was a prince in need of a politically expedient marriage and Rhaenyra was tucked neatly away on Dragonstone.

He caresses your face, suddenly gentle. “Are you sure you’re ready? I won’t be angry with you if you’re not.”

In reply, grinning and flushed, you take his hand and lead him to the stairwell. You descend together past the cobwebs and jagged stones walls and cold drafts and the torches, bathed in firelight. In the abyss of this secret place, he strokes you and tastes you and is so impatient that he rips pieces from your gown like the missing scraps of membrane on Vhagar’s wings.

When you gasp as he slips into you, he stills. “Pleasure, yes? Not pain?”

“Pleasure,” you agree, biting at his neck, the movement of your hips guiding him back into a rhythm.

“You are mine,” he whispers when you are both spent, sweat-slick and drenched in each other, throbbing with long-awaited release. He kisses the side of your face again and again as he catches his breath. “You are mine, you are mine, you will always be mine.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There is sunlight on your bare skin. There are gulls crying outside. You can hear the crash of waves, the rustle of wind through the leaves. King’s Landing is awake again.

Your eyes still closed, you reach out to Aemond. His side of the bed is empty, and this is not so unusual; he often wakes before you to train or hunt or strategize with his family. Last night, Otto Hightower had indeed been waiting when you and Aemond returned to your chambers; he had politely diverted his gaze from your ripped gown. Perhaps the Greens’ ambitions have called your husband away again already. There is nothing to fear: Rhaenyra and Daemon have returned to Dragonstone, King Viserys has returned to his sickbed, the world is back in order. You open your eyes.

You bark out a startled yelp when you see Aegon. He’s perched on the writing desk with a cup of wine. You groan, sitting up and rubbing your face with both hands. “Why do you insist on doing this?”

There are deep, violet circles under his eyes, even more pronounced that usual. His clothes are stained and common. He wears a strange, mournful smile. “I’m just saying goodbye.”

“…You’re what…?”

He hops down, gulps the rest of his wine, tosses the cup on the floor, and walks out of the room.

“Where are you going…? Aegon?” You stumble out of bed and yell after him: “Aegon! Where are you going?!”

You dress yourself as quickly as you can and venture out into the Red Keep. Something is wrong. There are no footsteps, no pleasant jabbering, no laughter, no frivolous droves of nobles. Aegon isn’t in his rooms. The courtyard is empty. You feel a sudden stab of fear and rush to Laurel’s bedroom, but she is dozing peacefully under the supervision of her wetnurses and handmaidens. You depart to find Helaena. The princess is in her chambers, but engrossed in embroidering a black-and-red spider and says only that Aegon isn’t there, and of course you already knew that. Aegon is almost never with his wife.

“Do you know where the others are?” you ask her. “Aemond? Sir Criston?”

She shakes her head. “It comes from the sky.”

“Helaena, please…”

Her hand juts out to snag your wrist. “Stay away from the fire,” she hisses, gripping you so fiercely that her fingers leave pallid imprints in your flesh. Then her face clears and drops back down to her embroidery.

You are headed to Alicent’s chambers when Aemond intercepts you. His height fills up the hallway, blocks the sunlight, casts shadows. “There you are! I was looking everywhere—”

“Have you seen Aegon?” he asks, his voice urgent.

“An hour ago, but not since. Why?”

“Did he tell you where he was going?”

“No. He just said that he was saying goodbye.”

“Seven hells,” Aemond exhales, aghast.

You take his hands. When you do, he brings your knuckles to his lips and kisses them absently, his thoughts far away. “What’s happened?”

He looks at you for a long time before he speaks. It is a moment you can never come back from. “The king is dead.”

You know what this means. You’ve always known; you just thought you’d have more time. Aegon knows what it means too. And when he felt its full and final and crushing weight…he tried to escape it.

“We have to find Aegon,” your husband says. “He ran, and if we can’t drag him back…if he gets out of the city…” He shakes his head. “We need him to be king. We need him to send terms to Rhaenyra. We can probably convince her if we move quickly and our side has enough strength. She’s not stupid and she’s not suicidal, and if she is offered generous conditions for herself and her bastards she might concede and the realm need not burn. That is my mother’s most ardent wish, and so we will give it a chance. But we need Aegon. As long as he lives, it has to be him. He’s the firstborn son. He’s the true heir. The people will not follow anyone else.”

“I’m sorry it can’t be you,” you say softly.

“That’s done. There’s no use fighting it. It can’t be changed.” He gazes through the window into the mazelike alleyways of the city. “Do you have a spell for this, Moonstone?”

“For locating a lost person? I’ve seen one performed before, but never done it myself.”

“What would you require?”

You try to recall. “Ashes. A mirror. Willow bark. A candle of transparent wax. An object belonging to the person, like blood or hair or a sweated shirt. And something beloved by them…in this case wine, I suppose.”

“How long will it take?”

“Not long. I think I can find everything here.”

“Ask the maesters if you need any assistance,” he says. “They will help you.” And that’s true; they are devoted to Aemond, and so they will cross oceans for you as well. “Sir Criston and I must search the city. If we cannot locate him by noon, we will return for your counsel.”

You smile up at Aemond, combing your fingers through his long silver hair. “You make me sound so important.”

“You are,” he replies, as if it is obvious, and before he can vanish he remembers one last thing. He reaches into his belt to give you back your dagger from Bear Island. He balances it on his palm like scales of judgement. “I suppose you’ll need this.”

“You’ve grown attached to it, haven’t you? You like to think you own it now. That you’ve claimed it, perhaps.”

“I’ve grown attached to everything about you,” he says. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

You find ashes in the fireplace. You find a mirror on your vanity. You obtain pulverized willow bark and a clear candle from the maesters. In Aegon’s bedroom, you remove a handful of white-blond strands from his hairbrush. In the Red Keep’s kitchen, you procure a flagon of red wine.

It is risky to perform a spell in broad daylight, but the circumstances leave you no choice. You spark the candle to life with your dagger and flint on the side of the heart tree that faces away from the castle, and you pray to the Old Gods that nobody spies you and gets too curious. You burn Aegon’s hair in the flame. You scatter the ashes and willow bark over the cold grey glass of the mirror, and then you sprinkle on drops of wine from your fingertips, repeating the words you once heard your mother say when two of your brothers went missing during a hunting expedition: “Lost in the waves, lost in the trees, lost in the sky, now show me what they see.”

As you are about to wipe the glass clean, Aemond and Sir Criston appear in the godswood. They are both wearing cloaks to conceal their identities as best they can…as if there are a plethora of towering, silver-haired, one-eyed men running around King’s Landing. They are also emptyhanded.

“What on earth is she doing?” Sir Criston asks with apprehension. He is aware on some level that you dabble in the occult, but adamantly avoids the details. He is a devoted follower of the Seven, after all; although perhaps he would have absorbed whatever religion Alicent subscribed to with the same zeal. Perhaps she could have had him chanting to the Old Gods under a heart tree within an afternoon. “I don’t need to kill any more bears, do I?”

You chuckle. “No, Sir Criston. Not just yet, anyway.”

You clear the mirror with one sweep of your hand. Then you tilt the glass so the sun ricochets off of it, igniting the reflection in blinding white-gold light. Squinting, your eyes pained, you peer into the mirror. There is candlelight, and stones, and a large hollow space, and…and…

“This is ridiculous,” Sir Criston laments. “This won’t accomplish—”

“Quiet,” Aemond says.

There is a face. No, not a face, a statue. Not just a statue. A sculpture of the Mother, and then the Smith, and then the Warrior, and then the Stranger. They revolve in a ceaseless pattern like the clouds passing by overhead.

“Oh, what irony.” You look up at Aemond and Sir Criston. “He’s in the sept.”

You are waiting in Aegon’s chambers when they bring him back. He is struggling and shrieking and sniveling, dragging his feet like a petulant child. His cheeks are scraped and bloody.

“You bitch,” he says when he sees you, but he is more heartbroken than wrathful. “I wouldn’t have given you up.”

“I wouldn’t have run.”

Aegon ruptures into red-faced sobs. His limbs hang lifelessly, brokenly as Sir Criston and Aemond hold him. Your voice turns kind. You lift his shagging hair out of his eyes. They glisten with tears, with misery, with dread. “We need you, Aegon.”

“You don’t,” he chokes out. “I could disappear, I’d be happy to in fact, I could go to Pentos, or Volantis, or Myr, or…or…”

“As long as you live, you are the heir,” you tell him calmly. “And none of us would harm you.” You cradle his swollen, battered face in your hands, and he lets you. “You can do this, Aegon. You are capable of it. You will grow into it. And we will help you.”

He lets loose a bray of cynical laughter. “Do you have a spell for that too, witch?”

And Aemond wrenches his brother roughly off his feet and drags him away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is less than twelve hours later when you find yourself back in Aegon’s chambers, this time carrying a pouch heavy with dust the color of pale rose quartz. The prince is under heavy guard to prevent another escape attempt, but he has been allowed some comforts: there are, from what you can discern in the frenzied nest of blankets, no less than two women snoring faintly beside him. Aegon is turned towards you with his eyes closed, his chest bare, slack-jawed and drooling, one hand dangling down to the floor. His coronation will be tomorrow.

You kneel to spread the fine shimmering powder beneath his bed: rosemary, sage, sea salt, black jade, a handful of teeth from a bear, a single fang from Balerion. Aemond did not suggest this precaution, although he went with Sir Criston to supply the bear teeth; he knew you would have thought of it already. When you rise, Aegon is staring at you.

“This is a strange reversal of roles, Moonstone,” he says. It is the first time he has ever used Aemond’s name for you. You weren’t even sure he was aware of it. It glides off his tongue effortlessly, like he’s known it all his life. He speaks no apology, but it is there swimming in his watery blue irises; it passes between the two of you in the blade-cool moonlight. “Now you are watching me sleep.”

You lay two fingers against his full lips. “I wasn’t here.”

“I’ve already forgotten you.” And then he rolls over, pulling up the blankets to cover his head.

~~~~~~~~~~

The smallfolk who have been corralled into the Dragonpit like cattle gawp with wide, wheeling eyes. They aren’t sure why they’re here. They’ve heard rumors, surely—and rumors can be powerful things—but they are slow to find their footing in this brand new world. They are so desperately afraid to hiss or clap at the wrong moment and end up hanged as traitors.

On the platform beneath a massive glass window that lets in sunlight like a downpour, you stand on Aemond’s right side. Helaena is to his left, and then Sir Criston and Alicent. The old queen is anxious, clasping her hands tightly together so she will not reveal too much of her humanity by wringing them. Most nights, you and Helaena bring the children to Alicent’s chambers and spend several hours there with her. She doesn’t quite feel like a mother to you yet, but you have learned enough of her to know that one day soon she will. She sews green blankets for Laurel decorated with seven-pointed stars and white watchtowers and dragons…and, occasionally, the roaring bear of House Mormont.

Otto Hightower addresses the crowd. He tells them that the king is dead and there are alarmed, doleful murmurs, perhaps less for the king—a sick old man who they have not laid eyes on in years—than for those who will survive him. An unclear succession can bring war, chaos, fire and blood…and Rhaenyra’s inheritance has been the subject of tipsy tavern debates since long before Aegon was born. The smallfolk might have less love for royals than you would care to admit, but they have more than enough for themselves: their families, their companions, their painstakingly scrapped out existences. You look into their filthy, creased, indomitable faces and are reminded of Bear Island.

“But it is also the most joyous of days,” Otto announces. “For as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish: that his firstborn son, Aegon, should succeed him.”

There is a tentative reception to this news from the crowd, scattered shouts and applause. They have heard rumors about Aegon too, but they cannot say they know him. The guards file in. The horde parts to make space for them, common men and women jostling for the best views. The trumpets sound to proclaim the new king’s arrival. He appears—white-haired, raccoon-eyed, with an all-consuming dread that could be mistaken for dignity—and approaches the platform through an archway of drawn swords, a rainbow of cold clanging steel. The smallfolk peer at him with desperate curiosity, trying to discern what he carries in the lines of his shoulders and spine: competence, wisdom, pride, brutality, disaster. In turn, Aegon glares up at his family with bitter animosity. Tears burn in his eyes. Aemond and Otto chose his clothing, his crown, every detail of his coronation. Aegon can choose only his own grudges, fed and fattened like rats lapping up splashed milk in alleyways.

When he ascends the steps, Alicent kisses Aegon’s forehead and then moves to stand by his wife, the new queen. Helaena is dressed in a delicate, mournful blue. There is a ladybug clinging to her right index finger. She looks at you miserably. You offer her a small reassuring smile. Helaena does not smile back.

Aegon glances to Aemond, to you, and then he kneels. The septon anoints him and prays for the blessings of the Seven. Aegon’s mouth quivers; his hands shake. The smallfolk study him like a constellation they are still trying to discern the shape of. Sir Criston brings forth the crown of the Conqueror—black and red, onyx and flames—and places it on Aegon’s head. Aemond watches with an expression you can’t quite read. He breaks his concentration and warms, beams at you, brings your knuckles briefly to his lips. You catch several people in the crowd chuckle at the exchange, astonished, endeared. Regardless of the rumors, they have never properly met Aegon before; and they have never met you, either.

The smallfolk are growing louder. They are clamoring, nodding. Whatever they have heard, here is a young and able-bodied king, here is a dragonrider, here is an uncontested Targaryen, here is a man they can cast as a hero. Alicent bows to Aegon. So do Helaena and Aemond and Sir Criston and Otto. You bow lower than any of them. Aegon’s lips curl up at the edges when he sees this, just barely. And as he is introduced to the city for the first time as king, the crowd erupts. Something changes in Aegon’s drawn face; something brightens in his eyes. He unsheathes the sword Blackfyre and waves it in the air, and the cheers and applause become deafening thunder. Helaena can’t bear to look at Aegon, but you can’t take your eyes off him. He is radiant, ecstatic, ablaze. For the first time in his life, he can feel a worthy purpose surging through his veins. He can feel love.

“Long live King Aegon!” the people exalt. “King Aegon! King Aegon! Long live King—”

And then the stone floor explodes under them. The Dragonpit fills with dust, screams, the hellish shrieks of a dragon. Aemond grabs your arm, pulls you behind him, draws his sword. It is pointless; there is nothing in the world that could stop this fire from devouring you if it is loosed. From behind the curtain of churning debris, Meleys growls and screeches. Her massive red tail sends smallfolk hurtling into the walls, crushing bones, severing arteries. When the sun rose this morning, Princess Rhaenys was under lock and key in the Red Keep; yet now she is here, enraged, betrayed, armored, deadly. She has chosen her side after all. You’re on the wrong one.

Otto is yelling for the doors to be opened so people can escape, but there is no escape for the Greens. You are cornered. You are staring into the scorching golden eyes of a dragon.

“Get Helaena!” Alicent commands Sir Criston, and as he lunges for the new queen Alicent steps in front of her firstborn son. She and Aegon cower there together, united at last in these dwindling final seconds of their lives. And then you have an idea. You attempt to shove past Aemond, but he pushes you back. You peer around his shoulder, trying to catch Rhaenys’ eyes.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer, you scream soundlessly. There is no man so accursed as the kinslayer.

The uncertainty hits Rhaenys’ face and ripples out like a stone tossed into water. Her eyes go blank, empty. The reins go slack in her limp hands. Aemond turns to you, only now realizing; he is hopeful and yet so bone-rattlingly afraid to hope.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, KINSLAYER.

Rhaenys reappears. She gathers up the reins again. A decision has been made.

Meleys opens her jaws and roars. The walls quake, the destroyed floor rattles, the whole world shudders beneath her fury…and yet no dragonfire burns you to ash. Meleys whirls away, takes flight, soars out of the Dragonpit and into the clear blue sky. Alicent’s knees buckle and she collapses into sobs of relief.

Rhaenys carries the threat of murder away with her, for the moment at least. She will also carry word of Aegon’s coronation to Rhaenyra.

~~~~~~~~~~

He stands before Vhagar in the dying light. The day’s last sunbeams are speckled over the choppy waves; a storm is rolling in. His coat whips and cracks in the wind like sails. You hold Laurel in your arms; she is drowsy but valiantly battling sleep. You have both come to the cliffside to see him off.

“Storm’s End isn’t far,” Aemond says. “I’ll stay one night and be back in the morning.”

“That’s what you think now. Just wait until you wake up to find all four of Borros Baratheon’s daughters in your bed.”

He laughs, shakes his head, grazes his thumb across your cheek. “I’d tell them to assume new identities and flee to Essos. I’ve acquired a rather formidable wife.”

You search his face, not wanting to be afraid, not wanting to be weak. Rhaenyra is out there somewhere, in the mist, in the nightfall. So is Rhaenys. So is Daemon. “Do you have to go alone?”

“Aegon is needed here. There are other tasks to be attended to. And if there is an attack on King’s Landing, he and Sunfyre can defend the city until I return.”

The prospect of Aegon defending anything would have once been dubious at best; now it is a surety. He has been king for three days. With each sunrise, he wakes earlier, works longer, drinks less. He grows confident. He grows content. “Of course.”

“It is my responsibility, Moonstone,” Aemond says softly, and you understand. He is the reason why the Greens cannot assume the aid of House Baratheon. Axel Hightower’s words echo in your skull: The great houses of Westeros will not forgive this slight. You will have to crawl on your knees begging them to support you in what comes next. “I will bring my regards, my apologies. And I will also bring an offer of Daeron’s hand in marriage to whichever daughter Borros chooses.”

“Hopefully not Floris. Unless Daeron has a fondness for donkeys.”

“I prefer bears myself.”

You clutch Laurel to your chest with one hand and hold out your dagger from Bear Island with the other. “For luck,” you say. This is a joke; Aemond is not a man who believes in luck. He believes in magic. “I want it back when you return.”

“You can try to take it from me.” He grins and tucks the dagger into his belt. “Fear not, wife. This war hasn’t even begun yet and it’s already almost over.”

You balance on your tiptoes to kiss him, to breathe him in, to twist your grip into the collar of his coat and drag him in closer. His long silver hair thrashes around you in the wind. His forearms and neck are dusted with your protection spell; Sir Criston jests that his title should be changed from Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to Chief Bear Executioner. Aemond traces the wrinkles on Laurel’s velvet-soft palm; her tiny hand closes around his finger.

“You know what I’m going to say,” he tells you. “It’s what I always say.”

“You’re coming back.”

“I’m coming back,” he agrees.

He tears away from you both, climbs up the rope netting to Vhagar’s saddle, disappears into the southern sky as the dusk snuffs out those last threads of fiery, golden light.

~~~~~~~~~~

Storm’s End is only four hours away by dragonback. Rhaenyra waits all night for Luke to return. He never does.

At first, she tells herself that Lord Borros Baratheon surely offered her son a feast and lodgings, that he is perfectly well—overindulged, even, plied with wine and meat and flirtatious serving girls—and that he will travel back to his own House the following morning or early-afternoon. But as the sun sets over the Narrow Sea exactly twenty-four hours after Luke’s departure, there is still no sign of him. Daemon flies on Caraxes to fetch the prince. He returns with Arrax’s severed head, washed up on the thunderous, stony beach of Shipbreaker Bay.

There are more than mere rumors; there are witnesses. Daemon tells Rhaenyra everything. Aemond threatened Luke in Lord Baratheon’s hall. He pursued Luke on Vhagar. There were roars and fire and shouts in the lightning-split sky. There were ragged pieces of Arrax that fell into the sea like rain. Luke did not reappear. He never will.

Rhaenyra’s wails hemorrhage from her in wrenching, gasping torrents. She cannot stop. She cannot bear it. Each time there is a sliver of silence she hears his screams. Each time she closes her eyes, she sees her child—his outstretched hands, his dark matted hair, his face contorted in shock and terror—tangled in Vhagar’s entrails, alone in the darkness, in the gore. She will never be rid of this. It will be a cavernous, inescapable loss. It will be a hatred that replicates in her bone marrow until no part of her can remember a time before.

“I’m so sorry,” Daemon says as he cradles her like a child, his hands smoothing her hair, long and loose and bone-white, the mark of the magic in their blood. “I’m so, so, so sorry.”

“He has done this.” Rhaenyra’s words are gutted and pitch-black. “That monster. That vile beast of a man. It is not enough that they stole my father from me, that they murdered Harwin Strong, that they killed my daughter in the womb. Now they have…they have…” She cannot speak of it. The words do not exist.

“We will burn Arrax’s remains as a true Targaryen. And we will have vengeance.”

“What will happen to Aemond’s child? What will happen to the Mormont girl?”

Daemon considers this. “He will send them away,” he decides. “That’s what I would do. He will send them somewhere he thinks is safe. He will hide them until the war is won.”

And in the bloodstained silence, the two of them—uncle and niece, husband and wife, rulers of Westeros in name only—look at each other for a long time.

[glitterguts13]

How would the HSR men react to Caelus going through Post-Parteum Depression (i.e. finding him stressed out, holding a pillow standing by the crib or by the kettle?)

In the mood for angst.

I too, am in the mood for angst. Please remember everyone, postpartum depression is a very real, very serious issue and if you think someone you know might be suffering with it, get them help any way you can! Also this was so long I'm going to have to do a part 2, and maybe a part 3-

TW: Topics of depression, self-harm (detailed), suicidal ideation, binge drinking, and intrusive thoughts about harming a child (no children are actually hurt) Please do NOT read on if these topics are triggering!!

Argenti "My love?" waking in the middle of the night to find Caelus missing from his side, Argenti quickly shuffled off to the nursery. A large silhouette is shadowed over their sleeping babe's crib, an odd stillness filling the dark room. "My love, are you alright?" moving forward, Argenti lays a hand to Caelus' shoulder. "No." voice strained, throat closing, Caelus grips the edge of the crib tighter. "Darling, what's wrong-" "Everything!" the force of his shout startles Argenti back a step, "Everything is wrong!" tears spill down Caelus' pale face, "I don't...I don't feel anything! I don't...love her. I'm her mother, and I don't love her..." covering his face with his trembling hands, Caelus sinks to his knees, sobbing, "It isn't supposed to be like this, it's wrong! I-I'm like her-my 'mother' I'm...like her, aren't I?" kneeling down in front of the young man, Argenti pulls him close, "Darling...why didn't you say something sooner...we'll figure this out, alright?" he pulls back, cupping his lover's face in his hands, "You're nothing like that woman...please...don't compare yourself to her."

Arlan The sound of metal crashing to the floor and the screaming of their infant son sends Arlan skittering into the kitchen. "Get him out of here!" there's a mixture of rage and panic stirring in Caelus voice, tears brimming his eyes as a red hot pan with the remnants of dinner was scattered over the floor. Arlan doesn't question, snatching their baby from his bassinet. He quickly looks him over, content to see no visible injuries, and settles him into his crib before returning to Caelus. "What happened." Still standing over the stove, completely still, Caelus sucks in a shuttered breath, "I-I don't know-I just...I wanted to hurt him-" he turns, tears dripping down his cheeks, "I don't want to hurt him-I had the pan in my hands and I-I threw it, I was going to do something bad-Arlan, I'm sorry-" pulling him into a hug, Arlan tightens his grip, "We're going to see one of the ship's psychologists, ok? We're going to get you help."

Aventurine (TW: Self Harm) He should have seen the signs, guilt creeping up his spine as Caelus yelped in shock. Long, angry red lines weeping blood run up the course of his thighs, broken razer still in his shaking hands. Without thinking, the blonde grabs it from his lover's hands, yanking it away by the blade and slicing his plan open as he does so. "Aven-" "What the fuck are you doing?" there rage tinting his tone being spurred on by the sheer terror in his gut, "Caelus, those are so deep, you have a fucking artery there-" of course Aventurine knows, he knows too well. "I-I-" the words are dead on his tongue, tears falling down his cheeks, "I don't feel anything. I don't feel anything at all, and I'm scared." a chill rushes down Aventurine's spine, eyes going wide. How did he miss all the signs? Why did it take till now? Grabbing a towel and pressing it to the worst of the wounds, he pulls his cell phone from his back pocket. "I'm calling for help. I'm going to get you help...just...don't do this again, for the love of all that's holy don't do this again."

Blade The glint of the blade catches his eye before anything else. Reflexes kicking in, fingers curling around Caelus' wrist and wrenching the object from his grasp. "Don't hold shit like this near her-" he stops, eyes narrowing. No, Caelus would never- Why though? Why was he holding a knife while looking over their child's crib? No, he would never- "I'm sorry," hallow and unfeeling, the words almost cause Blade to feel frightened, "I...I thought...was if...she was like you...can she die?" all at once, as if the trance was broken, Caelus jerks back from the crib. "Aeons, why...why was I thinking that? Blade- Blade, I-I don't know what happened-" placing the sharp object aside, he lays a hand to the man's shoulder. "Leave him to me...I think you should speak with the other Nameless, they...might be able to help more than I can, but for now, I think it's best you leave."

Boothill (TW: Suicide attempt)

The gut-wrenching scream that comes from Caelus almost makes the cyborg feel some phantom sense of nausea in his non-existent stomach. The rope was tied, he was seconds away from disaster and Caelus was a heap on the floor, screaming. "Why did you stop me?!" he sobs, "I can't do it-I can't do it anymore, I just wanna make it stop!" "Get ahold of yerself!" Boothill grabs his shoulder, giving him a shake, "What the hell are ya thinking?! Ya wanna leave yer daughter without a mother-" he regrets the harshness of his words as soon as they pass over his lips, the desperate sound leaving Caelus only sending another wave of terror down the back of his neck. "She doesn't need me!" he sobs, "I'm a horrible mother...I don't feel anything when I hold her...I'm a monster..." "That...ain't true...." Boothill looks around, desperate for a fix to this problem, "Just...stop strugglin..I...I'll call someone, I'll find help for ya just...stay with me."

Dan Heng/Lunae "Caelus, what are you doing?" he swears up and down his eyes are deceiving him, "Turn around, look at me." Caelus doesn't move, pillow clutched against his chest, tears dripping from his face and into the crib below him. "Caelus, you have to talk to me, I can't help if I don't know what's wrong." he steps closer, gently pulling his lover away from the crib. "I don't know whats wrong," he whispers back, "I'm...I'm thinking thinks...bad things..." Swallowing thickly, Dan Heng nods, "Thank you for being honest...a lot of mother's go through this. It isn't just you." of course he'd read about such things, but never had he expected to be faced with the reality of it. "I'm a horrible mother, I don't deserve...any of this..." Holding his face, Dan Heng rests his forehead against Caelus, "The Herta Space Station has some of the medics around, we'll go visit them right away and find out how to help you."

Dr. Ratio The signs had been there, he's spotted them instantly, but there was an irrational part of his logical brain that told him, wait. Maybe it was nothing, observing how things happen was second nature to the man after all. "Caelus, we need to speak with something about your recent behavior." the cold, clinical way he speaks causes the young man to jolt from his spot on the sofa. "What are you talking about-I haven't done anything!" "Precisely my point," Ratio says, "You haven't been feeding our son, you haven't bathed him once, you only hold him when I tell you-" "Don't analyze me like I'm one of your test subjects-" the pure venom in the Trailblaizer's voice knocked Ratio's confident personal off ever so slightly. "Caelus, that wasn't my intention. I simply believe I've observed concerning signs of postpartum depression-" "Well maybe instead of observing you could have helped me!" the pain lacing that statement makes Ratio feel ill.

Gallagher There's a trail of empty wine bottles leading from the kitchen to the bedroom, shattered glass covering the floors and red strains splattered over the walls. The sound of a baby crying out in hunger catches his ears before the echos of defeated sobs. "Caelus what the hell-" Curled up on the floor in front of their child's crib, Caelus clutched a half-empty bottle of wine to his chest, sobbing into the carpeted floor. "Make it stop...just...make it stop crying...please....Gallagher it never stops...nothing I do is good enough-" Hiccuping, Caelus curls further in on himself, sobbing harder as their newborn wails louder. "Ok, alright, kiddo, come'er-" Gallagher takes the baby into his arms before stepping right outside the nursery, phone in hand, "Hey," he swallows thickly, "Siobhan? Yeah, I need a favor- No, close the bar and come by my place right now. I'll explain later just, get here, fast."

Gepard Stepping into the bathroom, Gepard's heart sinks. "Caelus- What's happening?" it's cold, nearly freezing in the tiny apartment bathroom. Their child is nestled on a bed of blankets and towels, wrapped snuggly and just within view of the bathtub. Caelus, however, was sitting in a pool of ice-cold water, fully dressed and shivering violently. "Caelus, you're going to catch Pnemona, get out of there right now." taking their child from the floor, Gepard is relieved to see them perfectly unharmed and sleeping peacefully. Caelus, however, doesn't respond, only turning his head away. "Caelus-" "Go. Away." Gepard moves closer, reaching into the freezing water and pulling the plug to the drain. "Caelus, tell me what's going on-" "If I don't do something, I'm going to go insane!" nearly snarling at the blonde, Caelus drags his fingers through his damp hair, "I just...I needed to feel something, anything! This was the only thing I could think to do and...it...didn't help..." he trails off, soft, defeated, looking up at Gepard with wide, tear-filled eyes. "Caelus, get out of the tub, change and dry off. I'm going to call Serval, maybe....maybe she can tell help..." unsure and confused, Gepard steps away, brows knitting in concern.

[fancyfeathers]

I feel like James definitely wants to see his grandbabies and his daughters and will do so no matter what he has to do.

(I am assuming you are talking about William with this)

But yes, he would want to see them, and also post time skip he would fall around 39-43 because it was not uncommon in the Victorian Era to have children young, just because I do not think I put that on the timeline and I have not decided when his darling had Eloise and she is 19-20 post time skip. I just don’t think I have posted that before so just doing it now.

Madeline would be the one to easily find, attending university classes early or already graduated and teaching physics classes at an all girls school, most likely as an assistant teacher since she is only 17-18. She has no social standing like her sister and cousins have, she left that all behind, only having a teaching job and a small cottage in the countryside. It would only be a matter of time before one say she is sitting at her desk in her bedroom, grading papers in the evening, and she hears a knock on the front door and she goes to answer it and she is just standing there but stunned and scared when she sees her father. Madeline had always been the mentally weaker of the two, more prone to manipulation, and it would likely be possible for William to convince her to at least talk to him and perhaps come back home to see her mother, uncles and their darlings, her aunts, but chances are if she agrees to go she will not leave again.

Eloise on the other hand, has her walls, has power and titles, her husband is a powerful man, being a Duke and working with Andrei to stop out any underground crime activity to prevent any mass crime outbreak from happening again. But then due to Eloise’s own career as a detective she is often out and her children are left with a governess. He could easily encounter her eldest child, an adopted girl she saved during one of her cases, while she is out at the store with her governess. She will be at the flower market at Vauxhall and the wind will blow off her hat for it only to be picked up by a stranger with bling hair and the same red eyes her adoptive mother has, he will smile and hand it back to her and adjust her hair when she puts it back on. Soon enough her governess will call for her and she has to say farewell to William before running off, but say if her governess lost her while she ran off to catch her hat, well then lucky she has someone kind who is willing to help her find her way home…

When Eloise’s eldest child goes missing, she immediately begins to panic and looks for her, dropping all of her cases and spending all day and almost all night looking for her. Her husband does the same, using his higher up connections to see what strings he can pull to look for her. Eloise will return home one day, nearly passed out from exhaustion, her husband is at a meeting with an inspector at Scotland Yard who is helping look for their daughter and the staff is asleep for the night. Eloise goes to check on her twin infants, of which she had in a cryptic pregnancy which scared her half to death when she thought of all the things she did during said pregnancy that one should not do during a pregnancy, when she goes up to the nursery she notices the door is slightly ajar and when she opens it fully.

“She looks like you when you were this small.”

She nearly screams when she sees her father sitting in the armchair while cradling her sleeping baby girl while her son lay in his cradle. When she gasps at the sight of her father he merely holds his finger to his lips and reminds her to be quiet since the babies are sleeping.

[mcalhenwrites]

Season kids when they were ages 0-3

I definitely wanted to type up a post about the Seasons characters during their earliest years (approximately ages 0-3), covering infancy and those toddler years. There are some spoilers all the way to the end of Seasons, so it’s up to you if you want to read further. I’ll put everything behind a cut so you can decide how much you want to know!

I am going from oldest to youngest.

Shannon

After the initial scare that he wouldn’t survive and the discovery that nectar is required for Cosmos/Seasons babies to survive, he went from a squalling infant to a very quiet one. A few soft whimpers let his parents know if he needed food or changed.

He learned to crawl and walk fairly early, but he liked being held. He was a clingy kiddo and during those days, liked to be close to Vivian. (Imagine that and let it break your heart. He loved his papa so much…)

He did a lot of private babbling, but he’d quiet if he had an audience. Once he started being able to hold conversations, though, he opened up a bit more.

Like a lot of children, he wanted to be a lot like his parents. He’d emulate them as a toddler, from the way they ate or gestured. He could be somewhat fussy to put down for naps and bedtimes, because he slept better when one of his parents was nearby. This is especially true as a summer child who needed to be warm at all times.

He enjoyed being outside in the sunlight and playing for hours on end, and most of his toddler fussing was related to being brought inside against his will.

Sophie

As with most of Sophie’s childhood, she has no trouble expressing her emotions strongly. If she was uncomfortable as a baby, she let her parents know quite loudly that she needed changed or fed. When she was feeling unwell (Seasons can’t get super sick, but they can deal with stuff like indigestion and weather changes), she was extremely fussy. No one else in the house could rest for days.

Aside from these inconveniences, however, she was a pretty happy baby! Lots of giggling and bonding time with her fathers and big brother.

She liked to roll around as a baby and did minimal crawling. Then she learned to walk, and soon was dashing around everywhere. She amused herself indoors as easily as she did when outdoors. She was an incredibly independent small child in all the ways Vivian approved: she was sharp and loved learning, she liked to clean, and she picked up easily on rules and followed them. (Often without needing to be told.)

She was also opinionated and even a little bossy, but this often led to amusing conversations with her. She learned to talk earlier than Shannon, and she could keep going for a while.

She did not like peppers of any kind, and Vivian tailored meals around her tastes and didn’t force her to eat any spicy foods.

El

El was not quite as quiet as Shannon, but he was an “easy” baby to care for. He was a rather sleepy baby who used his cries sparingly but still could be loud when the moment arrived. He was frequently happy and could easily amuse himself with the toys provided to him. He delighed in Sophie’s company most of all. She fostered his strong love of reading from an early age by acting out the scenes with different voices and displays of magic.

He kind of skipped over the crawling period and was on the slower side of child development for walking. He didn’t enjoy being outside much, although he did enjoy romping in the snow when it was available.

Like Shannon, he privately babbled. He also privately practiced words. He didn’t talk much, and his parents were actually concerned about his development in general.

As a toddler, even his infrequent tantrums were quiet. He would flare nostrils and cross his arms, sometimes holding his breath or trying to go dead weight. The most common situations for him to throw tantrums were over foods he didn’t like or leaving the house for family errands and outings. Putting shoes on him could be a challenge for that last part.

Howie Howie took after his big sister in many ways by being loud when something was wrong and expressing his joy with lots of giggling when he was happy. He also had a lot of quiet moments, because something would capture his attention, and he would be fascinated. This started even as a small baby.

He liked being held for short periods, but he often wanted to be left to his own devices. But he’s still a child who needs physical affection, so sitting in laps watching people and playing with toys was perfect for him as an infant.

He was an absolute clown as he grew up. He climbed before he crawled much, and he was very eager to get on his little legs and start running. Once he got to his feet, he made Sophie look lethargic in comparison. He would tumble around on the rug or pull Vivian or Graham by the hand to show them something he found–he really liked discovering new things and did this often.

Like Sophie, he was eager to start talking, and once he started learning, didn’t easily shut up.

He could play outside for hours in a variety of weather. Romping in the snow with El, dashing through mud puddles in the spring, flinging himself into piles of leaves in autumn.

He was probably the most expressedly happiest child out of any of them, but his energy levels were high enough to leave his parents pretty exhausted. He also did have tons of determination, and when something didn’t go as he planned, he would have a tantrum. Vivian and Graham had it far too easy with the three other kids as babies/toddlers, so Howie was a new challenge.

Then came…

Bee No one could prepare this family for this little spring bee. He had colic for a good couple of months. He was also demanding while being indecisive, and when he did know what he wanted, his parents had no clue. What a fickle infant he could be. He’d change his mind within minutes, too.

He did not like being alone. He required lots of attention. No, not El’s, not Daddy’s, he has to have Papa. No, he wants El now. No, Howie–who, by the way, did not care for Bee at first and complained about having him around.

When it came to crawling and walking, he learned at an average pace. Wasn’t in a hurry, but he didn’t delay like El. It was convenient, though. Now he could go after what he wanted himself. Or so he thought. If it didn’t work out, he was back to screaming and crying.

He learned names and important words. He didn’t care about speaking all the time, but he learned to shout out what or who he wanted. If he didn’t know how to express himself, he’d fling down on the floor and go red in the face from crying and screaming.

He could shriek if he was particularly upset.

The toddlers who want something and cry when they get it because they didn’t actually want it or something was ever slightly off for them? Yeah, that was Bee.

Not to say he was unhappy. He definitely giggled and laughed and played hard. He would even shriek joyously when being chased around the yard. (Actually, that’s not something he ever grew out of…)

I think Graham and Vivian were both like, “Thank goodness this one is our last.”

Oops.

Jacy This one slept hard for her first few weeks. Being a sudden live person is hard work, and this one decided to just sleep a lot. She certainly fussed if she needed something, but she mostly just wanted to rest.

Vivian suspected she would be easy, like El.

Jacy ended up being the second fussiest infant, but she was never anywhere near Bee’s levels with crying and tantrums. She was a very clingy child, though, and seldom tolerated anyone else holding her other than Vivian for the first year of her life. The exception? Phineas.

Even Shannon would hold her, and no, just because he looks like Papa? Definitely not, she knew the difference. Knew the smell. (And I think Seasons and Cosmos babies can sense something “off” about signatures, even if they’re far too young to read them.)

She crawled a lot. Absolute speed demon on all fours. Then she somehow slowed down when walking, just as Vivian expected her to be more like Howie and Bee when she got on two legs.

She loved being held often. Once she stopped insisting only Papa (and Phineas) could hold her, she let Howie and Shannon and everyone else cart her around. Bee let her ride on his back like he was a horse. One of her favorite games as a toddler.

She picked up on speech and using it pretty fluidly. I think part of this is due to her being around Jasper all the time, who didn’t talk at all for the first four or five years of his life. She filled the quiet for them. Suited him just fine to let her do all the work. He’d later only talk when he felt it “necessary” to do so, and luckily she often did all the asking for treats and favors for both of them. Nice of her, isn’t it?

She would be very playful and energetic into her toddler years. A mellowed version of Howie, really. She needed more “downtime” than her fellow autumn sibling.

Very much the “sleep hard, play hard” kiddo of the bunch.

[dainesanddaffodils]

FFXIV WRITE 2024 DAY 23: ON CLOUD NINE

(Unbearably sappy today, kids)

Cimorene - and those dear to her - welcome her child into the world | Post-Dawntrail, mild spoilers | Rated T | 540 words

The girl who had first come to Gridania, quiet and withdrawn, orphaned before her 20th summer, wandering without a tether to any one person or place could never have imagined the scene that Cimorene is currently watching unfold in her bedchamber.

Not an innroom; in the final weeks of her pregnancy, Vow Wuk Lamat had insisted she take a room in the palace, something she had been very grateful for in the last few days.

“How are you feeling?” Y’shtola asks, still sitting at her bedside.

“Tired,” Cimorene answers immediately, earning her a laugh; that hadn’t needed to be said. “But well, I think. Thanks to you. My apologies if I broke your hand - I fear I have quite the grip.”

Her dear friend shakes her head. “You would not be a very good dragoon otherwise. Rest assured I am unharmed and am glad I could ease your ordeal.” She looks ready to say something more but is distracted by the rest of the room. “He’s not going anywhere, you two. Stop crowding him.”

The two in question, the twins, look up in unison with matching chagrined expressions. The him they’re crowding is either reference to Estinien or the infant bundled in his arms. Possibly both. Likely both.

Alphinaud and Alisaie had been the only two of her friends in the city proper when she went into labor, and together they had ushered her to her room while on linkpearl with every companion with healing magic. The one closest and, as it turned out, the only one who had dealt with this sort of thing before, was Y’shtola. Privately, Cimorene had been glad as the archon would have been her first choice regardless.

So the company for her birth had been Y’shtola, the twins, and of course, Estinien. Her lover had been just outside the city when the call had come and he had leaped back to the palace with such speed that she hadn’t even gotten back to her room before he reached her.

Presently, he has done nothing to shoo off the two youths who are clamoring to hold their ‘nephew’ because, as far as Cimorene can tell, he hasn’t even noticed they’re there. Right now, his world both starts and ends with his son. The look on his face would make her cry if she possibly had the energy for it.

Y’shtola gives her hand a far gentler squeeze than what Cimorene had been giving her throughout her labor. “I’ll grab them and let you two - you three, rather - have a little peace. I ought to let the rest of our merry band know that all went well.”

Cimorene closes her eyes with a smile. “Thank you.”

Her friend indeed ushers Alphinaud and Alisaie out of the room with promises that there will be plenty of time to hold the baby later - and Estinien seems to finally remember there are other people in the room.

He finally raises his eyes from the small swaddled child, meeting hers. There’s no small amount of healthy fear in his eyes - this is so terribly new to the both of them - but such warmth as well, such joy.

Cimorene finds she has enough energy after all, as tears of happiness overflow.

[coochiequeens]

Babies are not props to be used to validate gender feelz. And unfortunately this is just the start of a long list of why this guy should not be around kids

By Genevieve Gluck February 26, 2024

A trans-identified male residing in Canada who claims to be HIV positive and inserts progesterone rectally has been allegedly “breastfeeding” his child with the support of established medical clinics. Former men’s rights activist Murray Pearson, 52, who uses the name Margaret (Margie) Fancypants on social media, has been criticized after he shared an image of himself at a lactation clinic holding a young infant.

The photo was first posted three months ago on Reddit community titled r/TransLater, a board dedicated to males who transition later in life. In a post titled, “Milk, baby, milk! MTF 52,” wherein Pearson appears ecstatic that one “benefit of being transfemme” includes “that you can be pregnant and get drunk” with no undue problems.

“I have a baby almost 9 months old… I cannot wait to connect through feeding. And yes, I will stop drinking before it negatively affects anything they drink!” said Pearson

“This is a wish I have had for decades. My egg cracked a year ago on December 12 and I realized I could nurse my baby already on the way. That lit a fire under me, and I have gone from having lean pectoral muscle in March to full B-cups now and growing fast,” he added.

Pearson continues on to claim to have the assistance of “medical expertise,” including “five physicians in three clinics in two world class hospitals,” with one of the clinics named as the Goldfarb Clinic in Montreal.

“Two endocrinologists, Newman and Goldfarb, created a protocol to induce lactation in adoptive mothers,” Pearson explained in the comments. “It works for trans women as well, it works best when breast growth is mature but I am taking domperidone while my primary breast growth is underway. By an astonishing coincidence, I live right next to their breastfeeding institute!”

According to statements Pearson has made on social media, he began identifying as transgender in December 2022, and the following year, began taking progesterone. Approximately eight months ago, Pearson announced that he had found his “true self” as a result of performing in a drag show for a friend’s birthday celebration.

Earlier this month, Pearson described the first moment he believed he was a woman after trying on used women’s clothing at a thrift store. “I realized that the beautiful curvy woman in the mirror was the real me and I could be her every day… after more than two decades of stealth resistance. 87 days later I started spiro, 14 days after that estradiol, and now I am looooooving my boobs. Having curves without fakery is AMAZING.”

In a post made to the TransLater community last week, Pearson described how to insert the female hormone progesterone rectally, as a suppository, rather than swallowing it as a tablet.

“My breasts get a wonderful plumpness and pleasing jiggliness when I have had progesterone the night before…. You’ll need some lubricant (personal lube such as K-Y jelly or similar, or silicone personal lube which may be overkill, or some sort of non-irritating oil; I use my own mixture of cocoa butter and shea butter) to allow free clearance for the capsule… Some people simply pop the capsule in their mouth to use saliva, but I like a more effective lube,” he commented.

Pearson has also shared images of himself in a blue and pink wig attempting to eat ice cream containing the hormone in a seductive manner.

Disturbingly, Pearson has also revealed that he is HIV positive and is aware that the deadly virus can be transmitted through breastfeeding.

“I am HIV+, continuously controlled for 18.5 years now,” said Pearson in a Reddit post six months ago. “The viral suppression into undetectability [sic] makes sexual transmission impossible. But transmission through milk IS possible if viral load becomes detectable so I will test viral load monthly (opposed to semiannually) to keep a VERY close eye on that.”

In a shocking display of further disregard for the child’s health, Pearson speculated as to whether his experiment would qualify him as a candidate for the participation in academic research.

“Fortunately, Dr Lenore Goldfarb, creator of the protocol, has her clinic at the same hospital we birthed our baby in. I may even end up in the medical literature.” While again discussing his HIV status in relation to ‘breastfeeding’ a child, Pearson alleges that his case is being documented by infectious diseases researcher Dr. Marina Klein, who is affiliated with McGill University.

Pearson in a “before” picture posted to Reddit tracking his transitioning progress.

Reduxx reached out to Dr. Klein to request information on her involvement in Pearson’s experimental lactation, and she confirmed that she had been monitoring Pearson for his HIV infection at the Chronic Viral Illness Service of the McGill University Health Centre. However, she stated she had not been involved in his transition nor had she been consulted on his induction of lactation.

“It’s important to emphasize that we do not recommend breast feeding for people with HIV as this is the only way to be certain that no HIV transmission will occur after a baby is born,” Dr. Klein said in her response. “However, guidelines have evolved over time with the recognition that the risk of transmission is very low when HIV infection is undetectable with effective therapy … If, after informed discussion, a person expresses a wish to breastfeed they may chose to do so provided they are willing to follow a close protocol of viral monitoring and have their baby followed closely with pediatric specialists who would generally recommend that they receive preventive medication.”

Dr. Klein further states that Pearson had expressed a desire to breastfeed and then had been referred to an endocrinologist.

Prior to identifying as transgender, Pearson was involved in politically advocating for the US-based, anti-feminist men’s rights non-profit A Voice for Men (AVFM).

The organization was founded in 2009 by Paul Elam, who has said that there would no longer be “any place to hide on the internet” for “lying bitches,” and members associated with the group have previously published personal information about women who opposed their activities.

Pearson has linked to the organization’s website on his YouTube channel biography, where he has uploaded videos of himself advocating positions held by AVFM, such as accusing women of lying about sexual violence.

In one video shared in July 2013, titled “Rape, Posters, Traffic Lights and Consent,” Pearson claims that he was previously drugged and raped by a woman on the University of Alberta campus.

He also encourages discussion of posters produced by Men’s Rights Edmonton which featured the headline, ‘Don’t Be That Girl’, created with the intention of parodying an anti-rape campaign designed by a women’s rape crisis shelter, Sexual Assault Voices of Edmonton (SAVE), which used the slogan, ‘Don’t Be That Guy.’

Pearson has also been active in a Facebook group for “trans lesbians,” a term which labels men who call themselves transgender as same-sex attracted women.

Criticism of Pearson’s claims to be “lactating” and “breastfeeding” have focused on concerns that he is “motivated… to experience sexual arousal from lactation,” as one X user, Lulu Solomon, said.

“Because it is not motivated by what is best for the baby it’s automatically risky because the baby becomes a prop in the fantasy,” she stated, alongside a photo of Pearson at the Goldfarb clinic.

This is not the first controversy that has involved trans-identified males breastfeeding babies, with a number of recent examples triggering concern over the past year.

Last year, a lactation professional in Australia along with a women’s rights campaigner were warned that they had broken the law after criticizing a trans-identified male who had boasted of breastfeeding his infant. Shortly after, a trans-identified male in the UK dismissed critics of the practice as “transphobes” after he posted images of himself with a baby latched to his nipple.

UPDATE 02/26/24: The article has been updated to include comment received from Dr. Klein.

[bakedbakermom]

making a hard decision today

so before momlife, i was the owner of a small business making silicone mermaid tails. here's one of my favorites, modeled by the client who commissioned it.

it was fun, fulfilling, creative work that i mostly loved (outside of a few really hard clients).

then child came. these tails were labor-intensive, as you can imagine, and there were some processes that lasted 4+ hours with no way to take much of a break in between - not exactly a schedule conducive to momming an infant. plus some of the chemicals i use really should not be in any kind of contact with a baby, and no matter how carefully i ppe and wash up after i just didn't feel safe. daycare was more expensive than what i made selling tails, so husband and i decided that i would stay-at-home mom for a few years and put the tail business on hold.

we started kiddo in daycare right around the time she turned 3, because she needed the social development and i needed to be more than a mom. i started cleaning up my studio (spare room in the basement), making some new sculpts, prepared to reopen...

then covid. preschool shut down. no one has money for tails. fuck.

since then i have tried several times to get my business back up and running. each time there's been an illness or an injury that set things back. facebook and instagram, where i used to post religiously to try and catch clients, have devolved into a nightmare that i just do not have the energy to navigate, not to mention the skin-crawling ick factor of that horrid corporation using my and my clients' hard work to create ai to drive real humans out of business. the mermaid community has changed as well, with everyone trying to be the next big name, and i am lost in a sea (pun intended) of other micro-makers and can't get traction.

my studio has become a graveyard of half-finished moulds, accessories that never sold, expired supplies purchased for a comeback that never came back. it bums me out every time i go in there, and the prospect of starting again does things to my insides that i should probably listen to.

i need creativity in my life to stay sane, but i have learned in the intervening years that creating for money sucks the joy out of it.

i think... i think it's time to quit for real. every august i get a letter from the small business arm of the secretary of state to renew my llc and i'm sitting here staring at it and thinking, why. why should i pay $100 a year to renew a license for a business that hasn't made a single sale in 8 years. why should i go back to something that sucks up all my time and energy that gives me nothing back anymore. why should i have an entire room in my house that i can't go into or even think about too hard because it makes me weep to feel like a failure? (i know i'm not a failure, but no one said feelings were rational okay.)

i made beautiful things. i met wonderful people. i had fun. but i think it's time to let go.

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

back at it again with the 2 billionth joker request 🤭 I keep getting ideas LMAO

after you made that post about him being abandoned by his mother & having a child of his own he can't bear (or bare idk) to leave I've been thinking about it for quite some time now, a scenario where the s/o is giving birth and once the child is here he cried with child 🥲

how dare you make me write this with my own two hands-

DISCLAIMER: This piece is accompanied by a section of lyrics from the song “Piece By Piece” by Kelly Clarkson! I don’t own the song, don’t claim to, and am not profiting off this piece at all.

piece by piece, I fell far from the tree I will never leave [him] like you left me and [he] will never have to wonder [his] worth because unlike you, I’m gonna put [him] first.

When JOKER gets the message that (Name) is in labor, he’s surprised his heart doesn’t burst right out of his chest.

He’s there within minutes, and he thinks he would have been there in seconds if it were physically possible. Nothing else really matters right now, except being there to see his child come into the world. This is the moment he’s been waiting his entire life for! He can’t miss it…

All he can really do as he crouches there next to his beloved, holding their hand, is pray that it’s an easy birth. He’s heard so many horror stories of births that last a full day or more, and imagining his darling struggling through that, being in so much pain, just to bring their little baby into the world, is like torture. Especially because, well, there’s nothing he can do to prevent it or make it easier.

“Ye got it,” he murmurs in what he hopes is a supportive voice as he lets (Name) clutch his hand. It’s his good one, just so their agonized grip doesn’t risk breaking the prosthetic. (He can just hear Doc’s scolding of, “You didn’t realize they could break your hand while giving birth?! Imagine trying to squeeze out a tiny human and see if just the thought doesn’t give you ungodly strength! You have to be more careful!”)

The other hand, what he’s always thought of as his ‘bad’ one, runs gently through their hair. “Ah, ye’re doin’ so good, my love. It’s… it’s gonna be jus’ fine, alrigh’? I’m ‘ere, an’ ye’re doin’ a great job, jus’ breathe.”

Breathe they do, in between wails of pain. Speaking of Doc, he should probably be here to help things along, but… Beast is doing well enough as a stand-in midwife. Much as Joker is thankful to Doc, the idea of it being just family to witness the birth of their child is more appealing to him. If anything goes wrong, they’re close enough that they can rush (Name) over to the medical tent.

It seems that for the first time in his life, God has decided to answer Joker’s prayers. Things don’t drag on for too much longer before Beast pops her head up to speak to (Name). “Alright, c’mon! Give us one more big push, sweet’eart, I think that’ll do it!”

“It hurts so bad,” (Name) sobs. “I don’t know if I can take it!”

Beast gives them a pat on the leg. “Yes, y’ can! Y’re doin’ great, jus’ give us one more push ‘n’ it’ll be over! Deep breath, ‘n’… push!”

The rest of it is a blur, and Joker can imagine that it all doesn’t matter to (Name) too much either, not once the baby is actually here. Beast, bless her heart, works fast — cutting the umbilical cord, helping (Name) through getting the afterbirth out, cleaning the screaming infant up. After their baby is delivered, it feels like the rest of the process takes all of ten or so minutes.

Joker stays with (Name) as they hold their son for the first time, and he notices that Beast quietly slips out to let the new parents have their moment of privacy. He gives her a grateful smile before turning back to his partner. He continues to praise them in a low voice, that they did so well, that finally their little boy Ellis is here, that this is such a beautiful start to their family, that he’s proud of them.

At last, (Name) gestures for him to move closer, toward their arms. “Here, my love. Come hold your son.”

Just those words, your son, are enough to bring tears to his eyes. Despite the fact that he tries to hide it, he feels so much, all the time, and a lot of those feelings are distracting or unpleasant.

This is the best possible mix of emotions he could be overwhelmed by. There’s some worry tingeing it all, but he doesn’t want that to ruin the rest of it.

He reaches down, both hands shaking, and gently takes the baby in his arms. All Ellis is doing is crying; with an air of amusement to his thoughts, he decides he can’t blame the little one. Coming into existence must be just as hard as continuing to exist.

“There’s my wee babe,” he coos as he straightens up. Cuddling this tiny life against his chest, looking down at this incredible child he helped to create, his thoughts suddenly turn to something else.

… His mother. He doesn’t know if his father was any different, but the little he knows about his mother is enough to make his head spin.

She left him, a baby, and he doesn’t even know how. Did she leave him on someone’s doorstep and knock, ensuring that he’d be taken care of, because she knew she couldn’t take care of him? Did she leave him in some box in the gutters, rain-soaked and next to the filth of London’s streets, because she didn’t know where to go?

Did she want him? Or was he just… a mistake? An accident?

Even if he was, people still manage to love babies who weren’t planned. Hell… he and (Name) didn’t plan Ellis. They weren’t trying to get pregnant.

And yet, he still loves his son. He loved this baby for so long before Ellis even arrived.

Now that Joker has his baby in his arms, looking down at this small person who’s less than an hour old, he doesn’t think he could love his child more. But he knows he will tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that until he dies.

The thought of just leaving Ellis somewhere and walking away, never coming back, makes Joker feel physically ill. Tears are rolling down his face before he knows what’s going on, because his thoughts are a jumbled mess as he tries to make sense of his past.

How could she leave him? Aren’t mothers supposed to be the first one to love a person, even if it’s not quite instant? Didn’t his mother have some kind of responsibility to make sure the life she brought into the world was cared for, even if she didn’t have any good options to take care of him herself?

He can’t imagine leaving Ellis on a doorstep or in an alleyway or wherever his mother left him. He can’t imagine not feeling a sense of duty to ensure his child has everything he needs.

It wasn’t so black and white for his mother. That’s something he can understand, at least a bit; the little he knows about her is that she was a prostitute, a line of work that all but ensures a woman will end up pregnant, and a line of work most people look down on. It wasn’t as if she could just walk up to someone and hand them her baby and say, “I need you to take care of him because I can’t.”

There just… there had to be something she could have done, hadn’t there? Anything other than washing her hands of her child entirely?

He tries so hard not to be bitter about it. Those thoughts just run wild sometimes, wondering how she left him and if she ever loved him at all.

The bad ones have taken root in his mind like weeds in a garden, convincing him that she threw him away. That she left because she saw she’d given birth to a baby with only one arm. That she was disgusted by him, that she left him somewhere to die instead of leaving him somewhere that gave him a chance.

And if his mother never loved him, then who else could? If the person who brought him into the world saw something so wrong with him that she abandoned him, what could anyone else see in him that was worth loving?

The part of him that wants to hope pushes back with, (Name) did. They saw someone with a sweet smile, a kind heart; someone loyal and devoted who’s willing to do anything for the people he loves. They saw you and they loved you and they will love you until the stars burn into ash. And now they’ve given you a child to protect.

Whatever else his life will become, whatever similarities he shares with his mother, he will not walk away from his baby like she walked away from him.

He doesn’t care how hard life gets. He doesn’t care what struggles he’ll face. He doesn’t care what he has to do.

Abandoning his child just isn’t an option for him.

Ellis will grow up knowing that he is loved, and he won’t ever have to guess whether his parents wanted him. He won’t have to wonder if there’s anything wrong with him.

By this point, even Joker doesn’t know if he’s crying or laughing as he rocks Ellis in his arms. Both, most likely.

“Papa’s ‘ere, Ellis,” he whispers to his child. “I’m ‘ere. ‘N’ I always will be. I ain’t never gonna leave y’. I promise.”

This might be the only promise he fully keeps in his life.

But by God, he is going to keep it.

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

I Have No Mother, Only A Brother

Warnings & Information: A sequel piece to my Nice To Meet You, Brother “drabble”. Expanding more on dear little Canvas’s story when I originally didn’t plan to when I first got inspired. Inspired by a quote I saw on Pinterest from something Karen Traviss wrote regarding how Clones cried out to their brothers for help on the battlefield since they don’t have mothers? Can I find that post now, six plus hours later? No, of course not.

Good amount of angsty feels and some allusions to canon-typical violence/death with Clone OC backstories + how they died. Allusions to bad health conditions as a result of Sep. blockade. No big name-drops for what Jedi or Captains/Commander Canvas and his fallen brothers serve under just like in NTMY,B. Canvas doesn’t like the Kaminoans, he’s rather scared of them. My usual use of italics. No Mand’o-speaking Clones here. Swearing. 

[Additional warnings to be added as necessary if you feel I’ve missed something while posting this around/after 1 AM.]

"Isn't it a little sad?" the nat-born child who's been asking so many questions starts up again after five minutes, the allotted break time as asked. The little one's parents sigh wearily. Here we go. There's beckoning hands, straining arms. 

"Is what sad, little mite?" The trooper only resituated their hold on the child with a twisted ankle they'd been carrying for several klics now. They still had a long way to go before they reached the Republic camp where these starving people on a far-flung planet had been subjected to horrid war crimes by the Separatists. No; let me hold them a little longer, it's fine. They weigh far less than a supply crate, this is easy for me. 

"Well… is it true that you don't have a mommy like people say?" This little one was born just before or near the very start of the Clone Wars, supposedly, and part of a humanoid species, so they're different from human nat-born children and develop differently… but the level of intellect and insight is still surprising. 

"It is," the trooper starts, mentally shaking away the thought that he'd have to dumb this down for the toddler who was meeting Clones in the flesh for the first time now. "We don't have any mothers, except for Kamino. That's where we come from." Don't think of the long-necks. Don't think of the long-necks. Don't think of the long-necks; think of your brothers! 

"So isn't it sad?" they ask again, cuddling sweetly against the stiff and impossibly firm surface of plastoid that encircles the trooper's body with a great pout on their face. That can't be comfortable for the kid. The trooper wishes he could take off the helmet so the little one can see the sympathetic smile, touched by the concern and sadness a nat-born child has for a man without a mother. But he's offered to carry this child until they get to the camp and the hospital tent where a medic-brother can splint the bad foot. There's not a great way to carry his own helmet should he remove it; other hands are busy with helping men, women and children too emaciated and weak to make this trek unsupported, or are leading the livestock with firm hands, or like the little mite's mother, carrying even littler children. An infant. 

There are so many infants. The Generals have cut their cloaks into long strips so the brothers who have volunteered themselves to carry a suffering family's baby have something to buffer and soften the swaddling arms in plastoid armor. The three brothers who carry the five orphans of the village are quiet. They move so gingerly and are so tender to allow these little ones to sleep as long as they can; the best sleep these little ones have had since losing their mothers. 

"I guess many would see it that way. But it's hard to be sad about it when I have so many brothers to keep me company." The little one looks up at the trooper in awe and excitement. Brothers. They had something in common! The baby swaddled to the woman's chest with a meager blanket is a little boy, apparently. Born just before the Separatist's blockade and occupation. 

"How many brothers? Hundreds?" That'd been the popular guess when he and his brothers showed up with several Generals to offer aid and support to one of these many villages clustered near one another in this sector of the planet. 

"More than that."

"A thousand?" 

"Haha. More than that, little one." 

"Ah… a million? O-or the one that's bigger than that! That many brothers?" 

"That'd be "billion". A billion is bigger than a million." 

"You have a billion brothers?!" 

"Probably. Even I don't know. There's not enough time to meet all of them when we're helping people like you, ya little mite." Some he'd never get to because they were already gone. Some were already lost to this war well before he stepped off Kamino. Some shortly after. 

Cocky nerf-herder though he was, brave Gunnar… he'd been the first. Selfless. He wasn't immediately fond of the Force-wielders. The Jedi. Not like the other Shinies. “We're their canon fodder, they don't care about us. Throw enough brothers at the problem until it goes away and then don't so much as mourn us!” It changed when their General was cradling the body of a badly-injured brother while they were waiting for the team medic to find their position. Their first General held the dying trooper and promised the medic-brother was on their way, “just hold on, son. Yes, he's coming. H-he's going to take care of you. You were very brave out there trying to keep your brothers safe.” When the battlefield medic trooper had finally reached their position and could take over for the General in taking care of this brother, he'd succumbed to his injuries only seconds later. Their General got up and left, stoic and unspeaking, and Gunnar had enough and wanted to give the General a damn tongue-lashing. But when Gunnar found the General, back pressed into the dark trunk of those towering trees and weeping silently, he suddenly realized he had their first General all wrong. 

"I think I had 'em all wrong… guess some of those Jedi really do give a banthashit about us. Found the General mourning that brother who died as soon as the medic got here. They're imperfect, brother. These… peacekeepers aren't sure how to be warriors. Not all of 'em. They're tryin'."  

Cryfar had been the second to perish. Oh sweet, well-meaning Cryfar. To their batch, it was an in-joke that it was a miracle this son of Kamino had made it as far as he had. Either one too many blows to the head during a session of hand-sparring in one of the training centers, or something went awry with his jar, but the kid could not get his left-and-right or his phrasings sorted out when he got overexcited. Which was often. "Hahaha! Just wait til I send those Seppies runnin'! This war'll be a cryfar from-" The entire batch groaned, Gunnar the loudest before taking a breath to explain why the other, older brothers were laughing at the excitable Shiny with a glowering look over his shoulder. The seasoned troops stopped, recognizing the look. "It's "a far cry from", brother. It's okay. They don't mean to be mean to ya, I'm sure… You just get excitable. Not your fault. Remember to be careful, right?" 

"R-right! I'll be careful!" 

"Watch out for the pits, too." 

"Sure thing!" 

Faro had been third. Pushed the other two brothers out of the way of danger time and time again. They'd lost Gunnar, and they'd lost Cryfar. Faro was not going to lose these brothers too. He was gruff and stoic much in the same way like Gunnar without the impulsive streak, but about just as much patience as Gunnar had. ("You were going to kriffing lecture the General? No of course this Jedi cares about the Clones if you just paid attention to them for five min- That's the stupidest- If you would stop being so gun-ho about certain things for five minutes the COs would finally let you in the gunner's mount like you've been asking and- What's that look for!?") Every time he'd saved their skins he'd simply sigh sharply at them before asking if these two bucket-heads really expected him to save them every time. So that last time… he looked at those yet-unnamed brothers and fondly murmured he'd do it each and every time in a heartbeat, staring up into the great and endless starfield above him with the remnants of a BX-series droid commando scattered around him. "It's just gonna be the two of you now, brothers. I-I don't think I can watch out for you anymore. Clanker bastard got me real good with that fluke shot… but I'd do it all again in… a d-damn… heartbeat." 

Fluke took the name from Faro's dying words as a way to remember him. Maybe he shouldn't have. The word became a curse, an omen. It seemed to seal his fate. He shouldn't have survived that droid commando encounter, it was just a lucky chance that Faro accidentally strayed a little too far from his post and found his brothers getting attacked when he did. He was thrown from a speeder-bike after getting shot and narrowly avoided plunging into a deep chasm. Two sets of ration packs fell out of the supply crate and were exposed to direct sunlight for several hours before anyone noticed and put those back in with the others. He and another brother both felt a little sick after dinner and each said he'd be turning in early to try to sleep it off. "Guess it's just not agreeing with me, or something. I'm sure it's nothing… I'll see you in the morning, yeah? Love ya, brother." 

"Love ya too, Fluke. Goodnight. …..  G'morning Fluke, you feelin' any better? Want me to get the medic to… Fluke, c'mon brother, this isn't funny; talk to me. You really feeling that bad? Y-you're cold! Wh-why are you so… FLUKE!!"

"Do you get along with all of your brothers?" The Clone unit escorting this village's survivors were getting closer to the refugee camp, so it was time to squeeze in some last questions and they'd been quiet for a while now. Canvas just chuckled. He'd been carrying this little one for a while now, watching as they turned one of his most precious possessions in their hands over and over again. The whittled nest of endangered birds from his first campaign. They'd taken great care not to drop it. Carver would've appreciated hearing that such a crude replication still held up to approval; he'd gotten so much better and thought all his old stuff was junk (save for the General's Mudhorn and this nest-set owned by Canvas). 

"Some better than others, but I get along with most of them, yes. All siblings have their squabbles; even us Clones. Maybe one day you'll drive your parents crazy by arguing with your little brother once he's big enough." The toddler grinned brightly up at the dusty helmet peering down at him and once again smoothed their hand over Fluke's scuff. Then Faro's. Cryfar's after that. Lastly, Gunnar's. Canvas's brothers all within easy reach, surrounding the scuff mark across the chest plate this little nat-born child was leaning against. Surrounded by the memory of his brothers, those who never judged him for not yet having a Name and respected his wishes not to Be Named yet. 

"Nuh-uh. I love my little brother! I never wanna argue with him when he's big enough." The little one's parents just smiled quietly in the lengthening shadows as the sun sunk behind the hills. They knew it wouldn't end up staying that way, but the sentiment was too sweet to correct. One day the screaming matches would come, and the accusations that they weren't sharing toys would rattle their eardrums, and a million other things. A welcome future to look forward to because the Republic answered their desperate plea for help and promised the inhabitants necessary aid.

"He'll tell you how lucky he feels one day that you love him so much." Canvas replied sagely, eyes staring ahead into that middle-ground where the light of the camp crept over the last ridge. That red splatter he was looking for was flying high over the center of the camp. Good. They'd gotten the medical tent set up.  

"One last question for the nice trooper before your father carries you to the medical tent, little one. Better make it count before he has to return to his commanding officers." the child's mother warned in a sweet voice. Oh he hated the way the little one frowned, Maker help him. His hold firmed up one last time. 

"I can carry the little one to the tent. It's no trouble."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes ma'am. It's no trouble." Canvas nodded affirmingly. 

"Thank you… ah, I don't believe we ever asked you your name, I am sorry." 

"Canvas. My brothers named me." he says with pride. How one came to Be Named by a brother happened in a variety of ways. Sometimes it was mockery. Sometimes it came from a joke. Even done completely unintentionally. But often it was done with love as they helped one another find an identity. More than a string of two letters and four numbers, brother. 

No mothers to name us, only brothers. 

"Your brothers named you?" the talkative toddler inquires, brightening up as Canvas continues to carry them through the camp. There was time for more questions after all. 

"They sure did." 

"And do you like your name?"

"I love my name." That name was a gift from his brothers. All of them. Its poetic origin meant too much to do anything but love it. 

"Which brother gave you your name? Was it one of them?" The little freckled fingers touched each scuff mark reverentially. (Maker, to think his own fingers were ever that little for a short time.)

"One of my commanding officers." They pass by a commanding officer with these words, entirely a funny little coincidence. But it's not Canvas's, this officer bears a different color. 

"Umm… Who has the funniest name? A-are there any?" 

"I have a brother named Scruffy." It's safe to make fun of Scruffy's name. Scruffy makes fun of his own name all the time because he knows the circumstances behind Being Named (accidentally) were silly. 

"Whoops, hair's gotten an inch past the standard cut… Think I'm starting to look a little-"

"Ahem."

"A-a little, uh, unkempt! I was gonna say unkempt!"

"Sure-sure…" 

Just three tents away from medical. 

"Who made you the bird nest again?" Canvas takes the whittled treasure back, tucking it away in his utility belt alongside the wooden worry stone. 

"My brother Carver." he reminds the toddler. Two more tents. Something's cooking nearby. It smells good. Really good. The families making their way to the camp will have their first good meal in a long time tonight. There's neatly stacked crates in front of the medical tent. That has to be Cairn's doing, but Canvas doesn't see any sign of the brother in the flesh. 

"So if he made you the bird nest, are birds your favorite animal?" 

"One of 'em, yeah." Canvas chuckles, nodding down at the child and then back up at the brother with the shattered cross painted on his plastoid. "Kid's in need of a splint, think you can help the little one out, brother?"

"Sure can, Canvas. Set up on the second cot for me, and grab yourselves a hydro pack each. You marched a long way in if you came from the southwest. No one's getting dehydrated on my watch." 

"Thank you, brother." Canvas nodded gratefully as he nabbed two foil pouches of filtered, treated water from a crate. He opened one and gave it to the child after gingerly lowering them to the second cot as indicated, and finally shucked the dusty helmet, hearing that familiar hiss as the vacuum broke. Much better. Was getting stuffy in there. "Hope you're ready for a talker." 

"Always." the medic laughs. It's promising. "I like the talkers now and then. You sit down and rest your feet." 

"But I should really go report in to the Cap-"

"Medic's orders, brother." Oh very well. Canvas just concedes; it'll be easier than trying to sweet-talk a brother who takes the mantra of "brother looks out for brother" so deeply to heart that he makes it a specified pathway beyond just his creation as a soldier. (Don't think of the long-necks… think of your brothers.) You're a fool to make these brothers upset with you. He takes a seat on an upturned crate put out for visitors to the med-tent, balancing his bucket on his knees as he cracks open his hydro pack and takes a deep swallow of water. He regrets it, but he'll be scolded for spitting it out.

Ugh. These are not the chemicals he's used to in Kamino's filtration and emergency desalinification systems. What planet treated this water? Coruscant? It's so bitter and heavy on his tongue… There's no touch of sweetness in the water like that of a bolster of emergency supplies from Naboo that had been sent by Senator Amidala. It's sour and tangy in such an unpleasant way. 

But that's not worth fussing about when he gets to listen to the little one start peppering the medic-brother with questions now as he prepared to set the bad foot in a splint so it will heal correctly and quickly with proper support. 

"Do Clones have a favorite brother?" Woof, what a loaded question to ask a medic. 

"Hah, get a load'a this kid, asking the tricky questions. Some do! Some brothers grow very close together, practically joined at the hip and I have to let the other brother stay so I can take care of the sick or injured one. Then there's Clones, like me, who love all their brothers equally. No favorites. Too many brothers to love and take care of for me personally to have favorites. But I know of a few who are someone's favorite brother." 

The medic-brother looked at Canvas over his shoulder briefly to first make sure he hadn't slunk off before he was properly rested AMA, but even in that quick look, Canvas knew there was another meaning in those warm, smiling eyes. Seasoned troopers tended to hear if a fresh-faced brother needed some extra support and became a favorite; whether that was for life, or until the Shiny found their feet under themselves. 

Canvas knew that applied to him in each sense; he was so grateful for it now. Grateful for those brothers who took care of him because they had a rather… unique mother. (Forget the long-necks.)

If Kamino was their mother, and all her sons were brothers, then they should take good care of one another. 

We have no traditional mothers. Just a billion brothers.

[FIRST INSTALLMENT] [NEXT INSTALLMENT]

[thebogmonster]

ellie williams psych analysis part I: early childhood experiences & issues with attachment

i made a short post about how i view joel's mental health and psychology and some people seemed to enjoy my thoughts, so i am going to do a multi-part analysis of joel and ellie. i want to start with ellie because we know the most about her childhood (ofc)

The presentation that we see of Ellie in the HBO show is a very bright young girl who has been constantly thrown into incredibly disturbing circumstances since her literal birth. She is impulsive, resourceful, and fiercely independent despite having a deep need for connection. She is often violent and appears to hold a considerable amount of rage. We know she has experienced multiple traumatic events and due to the nature of her upbringing in FEDRA, and in the apocalypse in general, she carries an underlying current of tension.

Additionally, we know that Ellie's mother was under a significant amount of stress not only throughout her pregnancy, but immediately before, during, and after birth (the prenatal and perinatal environments). Thus, cortisol and other stress hormones were predominant in her body and nervous system. This imbalance of hormones and neurotransmitters will have effected Ellie.

There are a variety of implications that we can draw from this information about Ellie's perinatal environment. Ellie is likely going to have a slightly different brain structure and different hormonal and neurotransmitter levels than a normal infant. Of course, we can assume that for most babies born into the apocalypse. They are likely going to have issues regulating their emotions, and they'll be at risk for depression, anxiety, psychosis, aggressive behavior, and a general level of hypersensitivity. We can see where some of that applies to Ellie - she's been shown to have aggressive, anxious, and depressed sides.

Another important factor is the death of Ellie's mother. We know that that Ellie never had a stable adult in her life - she never formed a secure attachment with a caregiver. This is a form of socio-emotional neglect. The first selective attachment should form in early infancy, around 2-4 months. At this time, Ellie may have been in Marlene's care, although we know that Ellie is not aware of meeting Marlene until she was 13 or 14. This means that she was placed in the FEDRA boarding school very young. As an orphan in a FEDRA boarding school, she likely rotated through caregivers and was unable to form selective attachments. We know that she entered the Boston Quarantine Zone at 13 (according to comics), and she is introduced at age 14 in the main storyline. Thus, we can assume any attachments formed between 4mo to 14yrs were unstable and those that formed were ultimately disrupted. This suggests that Joel was her first long-term caregiver.

The best evidence we have of Ellie's lack of secure attachments is her own statement: "“Everyone I have cared for has either died or left me. Everyone - fucking except for you!” Joel is Ellie's first secure attachment to a caregiver, but also to anyone.

Two patterns may arise from those early childhood experiences of socio-emotional neglect and an inability to form secure caregiver attachments. The child may be withdrawn, not seeking comfort or not responding to comfort, and struggle with emotional disturbances; or incredibly outgoing and overly familiar with strange adults. Ellie likely falls into the first category. If we are taking a pathology-based approach, where we consider her response a traumatic disorder, we could say Ellie has Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD). We can also see this as Ellie’s overarching trauma response.

Throughout the show, we see multiple examples of Ellie being emotionally withdrawn and not responding to comfort. In Episode 4, Joel attempts to provide comfort to Ellie after she shoots Bryan. Ellie does not engage with Joel's comfort, rather, what she responds to is being given a gun. We see that pattern again after she is traumatized by David.

The other part of this response to socio-emotional neglect and a lack of stable caregivers is emotional disturbances. For a diagnosis of RAD, at least two of the following is required: a lack of social and emotional responsiveness to others, limited experiences of positive emotion, and episodes of irritability/sadness/fear. Ellie does express social-emotional engagement with Riley and with Sam (and in adulthood, with Dina). Her pattern of social-emotional disengagement seems to be focused on caregivers or adults in general. However, Ellie does display some degree of limited positive affect - while she does express joy and humor, we also see that beneath that she carries a significant amount of fear, sadness, and survivor's guilt. Additionally, Ellie does display episodes of irritability in nonthreatening situations with adult caregivers. We have seen that she can be aggressive and easily angered. Additionally, she displays a preoccupation with violence (ie, her obsession with guns), she is argumentative, argumentative, distrustful, and seems to have some feelings of detachment or emptiness. Another interesting sign of this is a pattern of nonsense chit-chat and questioning of adults - something she does to Joel quite a bit.

Essentially, Ellie's early childhood experiences have set her up to struggle with attachments and relationships to others. It is might be hard for her to recognize and understand her emotions. She is going to be at risk for developing substance abuse issues or an eating disorder. Additionally, she is to really push for her independence at some point, which we see early int he second game.

I'm going to write a second part to this and focus on her response to acute trauma and her display of PTSD.