#like elf on the shelf every morning it's in a different place

[anadiasmount]

christmas morning with you - jude bellingham x reader.

quick sum: the anticipated time of year arrives. after sharing a night full of laughters, joy and some nerves, dad! jude surprises his babies as santa on christmas morning. insta au at the end! 🤍🎄

wc: 2.6k | masterlist | jude’s masterlist

psa🗣️: i refuse to believe christmas is legit two days away cause what? but dad! jude once again for us girlies! hope you enjoy 🤍🎄

“i look hideous!” jude yelled, trying to fix the super loose santa costume on him. you cried your eyes out laughing, having to sit on the bed and cross your legs or you would pee from laughter. “no please i’m sorry, i’m sorry, not really but i’ll say it so you won't change,” you wiped your eyes and stood up, walking over to jude who was ready to get out of the costume. 

“it’s supposed to be funny and cheery baby, you said you wanted to do this? surprise zion and esmeralda?” you reminded him, tiptoeing up to fix the santa hat that clearly was to small for his head. “yes but now instead of them being happy they’ll cry, and i don't like to see my babies crying,” jude sighed. 

ever since you had your two little ones, jude was an emotional mess. he would cry just by listening to their small pleads and sniffles to stay when he had away games or international break. jude would tear up at the smallest things zion would do. when he first kicked a small football, to saying his name, even when he spent relentless nights in jude’s arms. looking at zion right now, he looked like baby jude. jude spent so much time that he eventually recognized his small footsteps anywhere around the house. 

esmeralda? she was the spitting image of you but had her daddy's eyes that anyone could say the same. she was almost a year old, and jude would often tear up at the fact she's all grown. he brushed the smallest coils and curls back into pigtails, dressed her into baby pink onesies, and held her in his arms when she slept. esmeralda was a chunky toothy baby, who was a daddy’s girl over anything. 

“they won't cry trust me. they can recognize you from a mile away. plus i think the illusion they have of santa has been pretty positive after they took pictures with him and didn’t cry,” you reassured him, your thumb stroking his cheek watching him smile and relax into your palm. 

“but that’s because they saw the other kids happy, this time santa is in their home,” jude nervously stressed. jude went to sit on the corner of the bed clearly upset now of the idea of surprising the kids. “baby, you're stressing for no reason,” you sat on his lap, a hand resting on one of his shoulders and the other over his chest, “everything will go to plan, they said bye to the elf, and they left cookies and milk. if anything i think this would be the light of their year.”

the elf on the shelf was a new tradition introduced this year. and zion loved it more than anything, the first to wake up to see where it had moved or had done. but it cost small disagreements about where it would go or what it would do between you and jude. while you wanted a sweet and mannered elf, jude wanted to make it seem it was naughty and mischievous. 

after spending an hour tonight to find a place in the house, the two of you settled with the elf placed on top of the fireplace with a bitten cookie. the cookies the four of you made together after coming home from christmas eve dinner, jude holding baby esmeralda as he decorated the cookie, zion eating the frosting instead of using it, esme watching her daddy's every move, while you kept perfecting every cookie and poured milk into a glass. 

“the last thing i want is them a crying mess and forever being traumatized by christmas,” jude recalled leaning up to kiss you. “stop you’re distracting me,” you push back after getting lost into it. “i’m trying to ease your nerves but you have different ideas,” you state. “if you say everything will be fine and no crying babies, than i trust my love, ok?” he smiled wide and then smirked. 

you rolled your eyes at his smirk, and his flimsy hands that made their way up to push the straps of your top down. “so you’ll wear the costume?” you asked in a low voice, he hummed his thumbs drawing small circles on your skin. “good, now change out of it for tomorrow morning,” you smirked and then got up. 

“worst comes to worst, they cry and that’s it, but you're their favorite person so they quickly get over it,” you say fixing the straps that felt loose. “you make it sounds like they prefer me over you,” jude replied after taking the santa costume off, putting a loose white tee over his black boxers. 

“because they do baby,” you stifled a laugh sounding a bit unsure, getting under the covers and checking the baby camera to make sure the babies were okay. “that’s not true y/n. you spend almost all the time with them, even when you work. they love you and me equally,” jude frowned, sitting on your side of the bed where you lay, jude tucking your hair behind your ear. 

“not only are you an amazing mommy to them, but the most wonderful fiance to me. you care for us during the good and bad, not once losing your cool even when you feel like that. they don't have favorites. don't doubt their love because they smile the biggest when you walk into the room. i love you, my sweet girl,” jude rambled, his eyes never leaving yours even when his hand interlocked with yours kissing over your ring finger. 

“i didn't want to cry, jude, but oh my gosh you make that hard with this,” you got up and hugged him, kissing over the small scar on his collarbone, “i love you so much. you’re the greatest gift in my life along with our babies zion and esmy. being able to spend christmas with you after is truly the most thing i’m thankful for, because i wouldn't ask anything more in the world for our family to be together,” you sniffled, hearing jude chuckle and kiss your head. 

“cmon. i know you're tired after moving up and down all day to make christmas eve perfect. which i kept forgetting to thank you by the way,” jude rubbed your back before going over to the other side and laid next to you, bringing you into his chest. “stop making it seem like it did all the work. i wouldn't have done it without your help jude. listening to my idea or making comments where stuff should go, that’s why i got you a gift,” you giggled at when he let out a small gasp in shock. 

“we agreed on no gifts!” 

“i know, i know! but i had to, i promise you will love it, and it’s something that will be a reminder everyday,” you had to force yourself to shut up, knowing you were the type to tell someone about their gifts before the day could come. jude hummed in a “we will see” manner, kissing you a last time before going to sleep. “goodnight santa,” you whispered hearing him laugh. 

“quit it!” 

during the night, the babies joined you in the bed. esmeralda due to being hungry and wanting to be fed, and zion because of a small nightmare he claimed to have. jude was up before any of you, placing a kiss on the babies cheeks and on your forehead. the three of you were heavy sleepers, jude was not, waking up at any small movements or noise. 

jude whispered quietly to wake you up, not waiting any longer to surprise his babies and watch them open their gifts. “y/n? wake up its almost 9am, im gonna go change and wait downstairs okay?” you squinted your eyes and nodded, looking at zion and esmeralda sound asleep, small snores leaving their mouths. “i’m gonna change her diaper and we will be down okay? Make coffee please,” you pleaded with your eyes and pout. 

“okay hurry please!” jude said with anticipation, quickly grabbing the red santa costume and hat. jude waited by the tree, holding two gifts that belonged to the kids, his white beard helping not give his appearance away. jude heard the small scream zion let out saying it was christmas, and his whines to make you hurry up so they could open gifts. 

“zion please be careful! don't run down the stairs or you could get hurt baby,” you scolded but laughed at his cheery mood. esme kicked in your hold, her messy curls everywhere as her face was still slightly puffy after she woke up. zion gasped, and slowly walked forward, “is that santa, mommy?” he asked you with a quiet voice, feeling his small hand hold yours. 

zion came to stand behind your leg slightly timid or scared, as esmeralda gave you curious eyes. jude for a second thought this would take a turn and go the opposite way. zion was like this, if he didnt recognize anyone at first he got shy, but jude knew he was quick to happy and cheery. you seemed to have your way as all of the sudden zion peeked his head and then walked to stand back into his original spot. 

jude held back a laugh, and walked close to where the three of you were. “it is zion, and look he has your presents! go say hi baby, don't be scared,” zion ran over to jude who slightly stumbled back at the sudden push from the smaller three-year-old as he hugged his leg. “i can’t believe you’re here!” zion laughed and jumped up and down excitedly. 

“mommy don't be rude come here and say hi,” the small toddler urged giving you an attempted look of being grumpy. “hi santa,” you said with a laugh sitting on the couch as esmeralda crawled to her brother. “look esmy, that santa! and he's here with our presents,” zion crouched down to say to her. she sat on the floor and pointed at jude with her chubby finger, “dada?, but her brother laughed in denial. 

“no esmy, that santa not dada!” the toddler replied. jude’s heart warmed when he heard his babygirl call for him, but he didn't want to spoil anything, it was going to plan and he wanted it to remain that way. The fear and anxiety leaving his body, being afraid they would cry and get scared. he knew it wasn't the case when zion hugged him again, and couldn't stop smiling.

after zion and esmeralda opened the gifts jude had in his hand, zion kept asking question as to why he was here, how many kids he had visited, if he liked the cookies you guys had, if he the eld you guys had, needed to go back or stay. esmeralda knew it was her daddy, as she immediately crawled into his lap and began to tug on his white beard. jude took the whole santa act seriously, changing his voice to go deeper and instead of laughing he did the infamous “ ho ho ho”. 

zion believed every single second of it, not even noticing it was jude underneath. jude or well santa had to go back, zion pleaded for him not to go, but jude explained he needed to feed the reindeer, and give him them carrots. that the north pole needed santa claus back or the workshop would fail and there would be no christmas. zion hugged santa tight as possible making him promise to come next year. 

jude passed esme to you, giving you a wink before he left through the front door, zion screamed out that he couldnt believe it, that santa was here. he even walked over to the elf and thanked him for making this happen as apparently, it was one of his christmas wishes for santa to visit. 

“daddy! daddy! oh my god, santa was here you missed it!” zion yapped, explaining to jude who had the biggest smile on his face as he heard his little toddler ramble and stutter. esmeralda went back to her daddy as you grabbed you and jude a fresh brew of coffee in the christmas-themed mugs, kissing his lips and greeting him a good morning.

the next hour was spent watching your babies laugh and thank you repeatedly at their gifts, zion continuing to talk about santa being here. you took small pictures and videos to look back at the memory, jude kissing your shoulder from time to time, his brown eyes staring into yours. 

when you saw the time was right, zion and esme playing with his new toys, you walked over to grab both gifts. the presents neatly wrapped in the red wrapping snowman-themed paper with a small card dedicated to jude. when you sat down, jude did the same, bringing your gifts over to you, where you shook your head in disbelief. “i know we said no gifts but i couldn't help myself. i love to spoil you,” he said. 

after you and jude opened every gift, you gave him the final one. jude furrowed his brows, gently unwrapping the gift paper, continuing to eye you. you watched as he opened the red velvet box, and inside was a gold neck with three charms. your baby's heartbeats from your early pregnancy days, and an engraved hearth charm where it was custom themed, your hand writing spelling out ‘jude + y/n’ and your anniversary date where he asked you to be his gf. 

jude inspected every piece, his eyes welling up with tears feeling overjoyed with emotion. “there’s one more,” you reached behind you and grabbed the album of photos, jude letting out a nervous laugh as he began to look and reminisce you early relationship days, finding out you were pregnant, the trip to bahamas, zion and esmy when thet were tiny, and your proposal. jude brought you to his lap, where he wiped the tears away and snuck his head into the crook of youe neck. 

“i can’t thank you enough for this y/n. for this,” he gestured to the necklace and charms, “this” then the album still in his hand, ���and for our little family,” jude felt over the moon. feeling speechless after the christmas morning went better than he imagined. He pulled you in closer, feeling more in love by you, a piece of him being complete after the gift you gave him.

“you’ve made this christmas and year so memorable, and im so lucky to have you jude. it’s the least i could do after everything you've done for me and our kiddos. i’m thankful to have met you, and to have person look after us 24/7. i love you so so so much,” you persisted, wiping the tears still present onto his cheeks. 

“i love you more than life itself,” he kissed you, holding your chin as your kiss felt like heaven. your lips made for him to taste and relish, molding perfectly with his. his hand tugged on you hair, not wanting to let go and keep you like this forever. jude had to resist and pulled back feeling breathless, you the same. 

hours later, jude was wearing the gold chain necklace, he had fallen asleep on the couch, baby esmeralda on his chest, while zion slept safe and sound, his head leaning onto his shoulder. he spent hours playing with them, the whole morning filled with laughs and screams from them. Jude had woken up, and went to place each baby in their rooms. 

he looked around for you, and called out for you and stumbled back in pure shock. you leaned on the door frame wearing nothing but a red lingerie set. a lace bra and thong, and thigh garters that were clipped onto the top waistband. he approached you, getting hard immediately, enamored with your body. he wasn't expecting this, but he sure as hell wasn't going to complain as you stood there with innocent eyes and a smirk on your face.

“you could count this as your last present.” 

————————

judebellingham posted on their feed!

judebellingham and ynusername

liked by: ynusername, jobebellingham, camavinga, realmadrid, brahmin, gioreyna, and 3,235,333 others.

judebellingham: feeling the love more than ever this year! happy holidays to everyone, and cheers to the new year! 🤍🎄

comments.

username30: i forget he’s a dad of two sometimes…

user54: YN APPEARANCE. NOBODY MOVE.

camavinga: feliz navidad bro ❤️

↪️ judebellingham: igualmente bro ❤️

vinijr: merry christmas ❤️🎄

↪️ judebellingham: merry christmas vini 🎄

realmadrid: enhorabuena jude! disfruta con tu familia.

liked by judebellingham!

ynusername: i love you endlessly 🤍

↪️ judebellingham: imposible bc i love you more prettygirl 😍🤍

jobebellingham: do you still have leftovers? will be coming over if you do.

↪️ judebellingham: we do but none for you

↪️ ynusername: ignore him, food will be ready soon, just come by!

gioreyna: miss you bro ❤️ happy holidays

↪️ judebellingham: happy holidays from my family to yours 🤍

user8238: their baby dressed as santa i cant 😣🥹

username328: i legit cant with them ☹️

username76: merry christmas and happy new year!

[talkfantasytome]

Elf on a Shelf

Rowan and Aelin love the Elf on a Shelf tradition. Because isn't life more fun when you make everything a competition?

Warnings: None | Word Count: 2,485 | Read on AO3 | ToG Masterlist

Happy Yulemas @julemmaes!!! Hope you enjoy! 💕 Your comments on what you like were really helpful! Though, admittedly, I did actually start an entirely different story that, after about 2k+ words written, I realized was not going to hit your asks as much as I wanted to. 🙈 I so rarely write established relationships and stuff with kids, so really hope I did it justice here for you! 💕

Rowan paused to admire the bouncing locks of golden hair. Their soft curl swayed with Aelin's head as she finished cleaning the dishes.

It was the perfect view after the struggle of putting their girls to bed.

He'd literally had to fight Ollie into her pajamas, and Ellie refused to leave the bathtub until the water began to chill. And then came the saga of the prune-fingers. It took the promise of an extra story to keep her from screaming and sobbing about the wrinkles until Aelin came up.

For such an ardent believer of Santa Claus, she sure was skeptical when Rowan promised her fingers would be back to normal in the morning.

But, after two stories and extra bedtime kisses, the twin girls were snuggled in their beds, silver-star night light on, and a bell hung on the shut door to ensure they didn't sneak out again.

That was something they'd started the year before, after one too many nights catching their girls sneaking down stairs to try and catch the elf leaving to report to Santa. It worked most nights, though on Christmas Eve all bets were off. Last year they told the girls that Santa would take back the presents if they caught him - it didn't stop them. Rowan and Aelin still hadn't figured out what they'd try this year to keep them in their room.

Smiling to himself, Rowan tiptoed toward his wife. Ever so carefully, he wrapped his arms around her waist and bent down, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Surely the dishes are clean enough," he sighed, giving her a quick kiss on the neck.

Aelin chuckled softly leaning back against him. "Blame the man who cooks using a thousand pots and pans."

"You weren't complaining when you helped yourself to seconds of tonight's pasta."

Finishing with the last dish and turning off the sink, Aelin pivoted in his arms and breathed, "Well, it was very good." She grinned widely at him and brought her arms up to his shoulder, linking her hands behind his neck.

Aelin leaned in closer and a tingle traveled down Rowan's spine. "Are you ready?" she whispered into his ear.

Rowan grinned widely at her. "Close your eyes." She gave those bright, turquoise irises a big roll before adhering to the request.

They detached and Rowan went to grab the elf. The silver-haired elf - bought by Aelin specifically for him because it matched his hair - was still laying in a banana suit by the bananas. A masterful placement. It had taken the girls all morning before school to find him. They were actually almost late because of it. But that always seemed to happen when it was Aelin's turn to hide the elf.

No matter what, his wife always thought of the perfect spot to place the elf. Each one harder to find than the last. They'd been timing every morning, and literally each time she hid the elf, the time to find increased. Rowan's, on the other hand, had been decreasing.

Ollie found it in less than five minutes the day before.

He thought he'd been so clever, hiding the elf in plain sight, but not in a typical spot. The glass cabinet where they keep their glassware seemed perfect. It only holds the fancy glasses, and sits over a part of the kitchen counter only used when he's using the mixer. No one spends much time over there. He'd snuggled the elf comfortably into a crystal bowl they had, making him look like he was laying in a tub, and that was that.

Aelin still wasn't letting him live it down.

"I don't know why you bother!" she called from where she stood in the kitchen, a hand over her eyes to keep her from peeking. "You'll never find a better hiding spot than me."

"Yeah, yeah," Rowan mumbled as he made his way toward the tree.

There was a good chance Aelin was right. She was a genius at this, especially considering their main rule: the elf's face - at the least - must be visible without moving or needing to open any items. No hiding him in the refrigerator or the stockings, or underneath the mail. It made the task exceedingly difficult, as every idea Rowan came up with seemed obvious to him.

But not tonight. Tonight he was sure he had the right idea.

Getting on a step stool and reaching up, Rowan adjusted the elf so that it was hugging the star atop their tree from behind, the little head poking out between two of the points. It took him a minute to get the arms and legs just right, but when he stepped back it looked perfect.

The tree was large enough that, even with a stool, only Rowan was tall enough to reach the top. And with the elf having hidden on the tree just a few days before, he was certain the girls wouldn't think to look there again so soon. Plus, the tree was decorated with bright, colorful lights and big, flashy ornaments - a lot of distractions to get past before one's eyes would reach the star.

Ever so carefully, Rowan folded up and put the step stool away. He then tiptoed past the kitchen and began stomping and opening and closing doors loudly on the other side of the house, near one of the powder rooms and his office. Just in case she was listening closely.

Only after he made a proper raucous did Rowan make his way back into the kitchen. "All done."

"You know you don't have to try and trick me. I'm allowed to know where you hid the elf," she teased.

Rowan chuckled softly and leaned his hands on the counter as he threw back, "Alright, tell me where you're going to put it tomorrow night, then."

Her turquoise eyes narrowed at him, marking the shit-eating grin he was wearing. Aelin pursed her lips and crossed her arms like a stubborn child. He only smiled wider, stepping toward her and wrapping his arms around her waist. "I don't know yet."

"I'll make you a deal. You tell me tomorrow night, and I'll tell you the next."

"You're such a child," she sighed. Rowan went to open his mouth, but before he could say anything she added, "And if you say 'takes one to know one', I'm going to eat the rest of the chocolate-hazelnut ice cream and keep you up all night." She held an extended pointer finger toward him to emphasize her point.

Leaning down, Rowan brushed his lips against hers. "That wouldn't be the worst thing."

Slapping her hand lightly against his chest, Aelin groaned, "Then I'll send you straight to bed now. No dessert."

Rowan pushed his lower lip out, but could barely hold the pout, a laugh breaking through as Aelin held her 'stern' face. She was always so adorable when pretending to be mad at him. Actual anger was another story, but this - she reminded him of a kitten. He gave her a quick kiss to the top of her head and then walked to the refrigerator.

"How about we meet in the middle?" he suggested, bending over to open the freezer and pull out the ice cream. "Eat a normal amount of ice cream, and maybe we do some present wrapping. We've got a lot to wrap this year."

"Only because you spoil the girls."

"We spoil them," he argued. "I wasn't the one who bought Ollie that fancy doll house, or that massive track for the toy cars for Ellie."

Aelin shook her head and snagged the ice cream carton from Rowan. "And I didn't buy them each little cars they can actually drive."

"You know as well as I do that I couldn't just get one. Could you imagine the chaos and fighting?"

He watched his wife scoop some ice cream into a bowl as she huffed out a laugh. The corner of her lips curled slightly, a secret agreement. Rowan couldn't help himself. He sidled close to her and stroked her cheek gently. "You gave birth to two little Aelin-clones," he whispered, unable to hide his own smile.

She leaned into the touch, her eyes finding his. As Rowan always did, he dove headfirst into her gaze, into the sparkling waters and golden ring of sand. It warmed his entire body, gazing into Aelin's stare, and by the flush in her cheeks, he knew it was doing the same to her. It was enough to freeze him in place, his mind wandering to all the things he could be doing with and to his wife at that moment. But she'd never forgive him for letting her ice cream go to waste.

"You're right. I would never have let Aedion drive it if we'd been given a car like that as kids," she admitted.

"I know." He gave her cheek one last stroke and then stepped away, putting the carton of ice cream away and grabbing out the whipped cream for her as she grabbed the chocolate syrup from the cabinet. "You know, ice cream can be great without all the toppings."

"Says the man who only ever eats plain vanilla bean. Ice cream is always better as a sundae." She all but dumped the bottle of syrup onto the ice cream, and then topped it with an exuberant whipped cream swirl.

Twelve years together. Nine years married. Aelin still hasn't gotten over Rowan's distaste for most sweets. There was even a moment when they were first dating when Rowan thought it was going to be a deal-breaker…until Aelin told him he was being an idiot and she'd just have to learn how to enjoy all the sweets being for her.

What a sacrifice.

He put the whipped cream back in the fridge and then grabbed the bowl before Aelin could get a bite, eliciting a rather loud protest from Aelin. "In the living room."

Using the ice cream, he led his wife through the house, setting the bowl down on an end table next to their plush sofa. Rowan then got to work, grabbing the wrapping paper and gifts out from the closet under the stairs. They were going to need to find a better hiding spot. Or get a high-security lock for it. Rowan doubted they had more than a year or two before their girls started actively searching for their gifts.

It was slow work, wrapping the gifts. He was never satisfied unless the folds and corners were absolutely perfect. But it was better doing it alone. Aelin's presents always looked like…well, like their daughters had wrapped them. Even when she added a big bow to try and hide the imperfections. Easier to just have him do it, than to end up wasting paper when he'd inevitably re-do the gifts she wrapped.

"What a great way to end the night," Aelin sighed as Rowan cut down a roll of paper. "Ice cream and a view."

"Glad I can entertain."

"Mmmm." Rowan chuckled at Aelin's hum and then looked over his shoulder, his wife's eyes drooping.

By the time he'd finished with the gift, she was fast asleep. A bit of quick cleanup and re-hiding the gifts, and Rowan was holding Aelin close, carrying her up to their room.

He had to wake her up to get her into her pajamas, but within another five minutes she was dressed and in bed, passed out to the world.

Rowan watched her as he brushed his teeth. And when he came back into the bedroom after changing into his own pajama pants, he walked to her side first. Her hair was sprawled out across the pillow, but her features were relaxed. No worry lines or furrowed brows, no noticeable cares in her cheeks, no worries at her lips. He wished he could know what was going on in her head while she slept. It must've been glorious.

He brushed some of her hair out of her face and then walked around the bed to his side. He snuggled in close to her, wrapping his arms around her as he spooned Aelin. She probably couldn't feel him at this point, but that didn't stop him from giving her a quick kiss on her shoulder before resting his head on his pillow and letting sleep take him, too.

Rowan was still heavy with sleep as he made his coffee the next morning.

Half-way through the mug, but it wasn't the caffeine that finally full woke him. It was the pitter patter of little feet running down the stairs.

He smiled to himself, slowly walking to meet his daughters by the stairs. He wanted to watch them frantically search the house. To hear the little complaints about needing to take a break from searching to get ready for school.

It was exciting. And he was getting his lips ready to grin widely at Aelin when-

"Oh my gosh, look how cute!" Ellie called as she stepped off the stairs and into the living room. "The elf is on the star!"

Rowan nearly dropped his mug as his girls crowded around the tree, staring up at the topper and the little elf attached to it. The back of those little blonde heads stared at him, the curls waving as the girls swayed and giggled, waving up at the elf.

He felt delicate arms snake around his waist and a kiss that couldn't hide her smirk against his back.

"How do they do that?" he whispered, still frozen in shock.

Two seconds. It took his daughters two damn seconds to find the elf.

Aelin chuckled against his shirt. "They're clever. Just like their dad."

"Cleverer than that, apparently," he huffed. He glared up at the stupid elf, and he could've sworn it was mocking him. That little smile was just a taunt, reminding him he absolutely sucked at hiding the elf.

Brushing her hands up Rowan's arms, Aelin said, "You'll get them next time."

Rowan shook his head. "Next time they'll probably find it in one second."

Moving around Rowan, Aelin was now in front of him, hands interlocked behind his neck, eyes soft as she looked into his. "Then next year. You have eleven months to plot out your hiding spots."

Rowan huffed out a laugh and leaned his forehead against hers, breathing in her lemon verbena scent like it was his source of life. "Next year. Or the year after that. Or the one after that. I've got all the time in the world to finally beat you at this."

"Our girls are going to grow out of this eventually."

"Then maybe we talk about having another," Rowan suggested softly, only realizing as he said it that it wasn't entirely a joke.

Aelin beamed brightly up at him and pushed herself onto her toes, bringing her lips to his. "Maybe we do."

@danibutterr @boredserpent @thestoriesyoutell @superspiritfestival @lemonade-coolattas @thegreyj @live-the-fangirl-life @morganofthewildfire @backtobl4ck @nesquik-arccheron @sayosdreams @autumnbabylon @charlizeed @rowaelinyulemasswap

[delightfulcrasher]

How do you think it would go if Lord dimitrescu and sons went on a trip to walmart with s/o?

A trip to walmart:

Even though living in the village has its luxuries, the lavished living is nice and the food always fresh, there are times where something is missing. Something you need. An item from the outside world. And when the Duchess isn’t able to offer her services, there is only one place to go.

Walmart.

Of course, everyone is giving them strange looks. And not just because the son’s look like every teenagers vampire wet dream. It’s because there’s an almost ten foot tall man trying to get through the door which keep closing on him.

Dimitrescu is the only one actually helping his s/o find what they need, which comes in handy when you are a very tall man. He can scan the aisles and find whatever you’re looking for quickly. Just go straight and take the fourth turn on your right. It’s deliciously efficient.

I can definitely see Cassandros and Daniel messing about with the trollies as Belmont tries to track them down. Daniel sitting in the vehicle as Cassandros pushes him around, causing havoc in the dairy section and chaos by the pet food. Security can’t catch them, least they be swarmed by hundreds of flies. Even the Karen's tremble in fear of the though of bugs ruining their latest bad haircut. The Lord doesn’t stop them, he lets his sons have fun. The s/o has to tell them to stop.

It’s never as simple as getting what you came for, there is always that one extra item that was just begging to be taken off the shelf. In this case it happened to be one of those singing dancing saxophone playing cactus. Daniel was taken by it the moment he heard the cheesy jazz song. The Dimitrescu’s eventually leave, with a handful of shopping and a lifetime ban from the store. 

[charlie-pippin-faraday]

headcanon: every night for like a week or two sibuna steals corbierre and hides him in a different place in the house for victor to find every morning like elf on the shelf

[greeneyesandtea]

Elf on the Shelf

The Elf on the Shelf was a huge deal in the Styles home this year with Baby boy Styles declaring he is now Big boy Styles due to his promotion three weeks ago when Scorpio baby Sebastian or Bashy as Alex had taken to calling him arrived. Now that Alex came to the age of realizing the purpose of the Elf on the Shelf Harry saw on pinterest like any other mom it relatively soon became Lia’s job to organize and create a cheerful but messy Elf on the Shelf idea every night from November because  quarantine already has made things gloomy babe and tonight was no different in the Styles home.

“So I saw this one it looks pretty cool. We throw flour on the table and have Lala walk across the house tracking flour all the way to the kids rooms.” Harry said, pointing his screen to her back as she was facing the stove,Lia quickly turned around to see the mess Harry wanted to cause and her eyes rolled so hard that she could practically see her skull.“Your face is screaming shut the fuck up Harry.”

Lia was putting the water to boil for the bottles that Bashy uses during the night feedings since Harry found it was the best time with his little mate.He now had a little lad and best mate,all he wanted for years and now that he’s got it his world has been completed.Lia’s world as well has been complete but that doesn’t mean their perfect world hasn't come without their challenges.

“Because you just suggested I track flour though the home I clean everyday with a baby strapped to my nipple.” Lia turns her body around completely this time to make full eye contact. “You make the mess.You clean it up.You and Alex can both learn the lesson together now.”

“We know the lesson.I know the lesson. I just like seeing you bent over in those green panties you call shorts during breakfast.” Harry stands from the island padding on his hanukkah sock covered feet, a gift from Ben and Mer and wraps his arms around his now grumpy wife, his chest to her back and  “I’ll help clean.” Lia cranes her neck to look at her husband and raises a brow at him. “This time I promise.Jeez a man doesn’t do it once and he never lives it down”

Placing the last bottle in the pot and placing the lid on it,the couple takes a minute after to soak the warmth and smell of each other in the oddly quiet home.The home was usually filled with baby gurgles and whines of  mommy please! One more snacky! and the music Harry plays as background noise.

“Something else babe please I really don’t want to have a hectic morning tomorrow. Bash hasn’t been still for days now I don’t want to deal with a crying baby and a mess.Let’s just keep looking,let’s see what mess Lala can get into tonight yeah?” Lia turns herself around placing a soft kiss on the tip of his chin and grabs a hand that fell on her ass and walks him over to the table where they eat breakfast because of the bench Harry just needed to have there because one day that bench would be filled with Styles babies.

After a few scrolls through google and pinterest before Lia saw it! Mischievous Lala was going to cut a few pieces off the boys pajamas and on the white board she was going to tell the Styles boys that Santa needed proof Lala was watching to see if the boys were being good or bad.

“Look baby.Lala can cut some holes into their pajamas,they’re growing out of them anyway.” Lia took the side of her thumbnail and started biting at the cuticle and showed Harry her Pinterest board of Elf on the Shelf ideas.

“Stop that!” Harry batted Lia’s hand away from her mouth and ghosting his lips on hers quickly Lia almost missed it because of how fast it was. “Well let’s get the scissor and start cutting.I’ll write Lala’s message.” With a pat on the bum the couple springs into action.

Slowly making her way into Sebastian’s nursery taking in the sound of her baby’s gentle breathing.Lia took the swaddle off on one side and cut three small holes.One on each shoulder blade and one right on his breast milk filled bloated tummy. Lia quickly swaddles Sebastian back up before he feels the breeze come from the hallway that will surely wake him up and one thing she knows about her new addition is that no one absolutely no one wakes him up from his peaceful sleep.

As Lia was walking out of the nursery Harry had just finished taking the final piece off of Alex’s pajamas which had more pieces cut off. Alex being a stomach sleeper like made Harry let out a giggle as he cut two big pieces right where Alex’s bum cheeks where kept warm by the pants but due to Harry’s humor now missing one patch in fabric on the center of each bum cheek and two holes on each sleeve but worst of all was Harry took it upon himself to give Alex a trim.I piece of curl that kept getting in his eye it didn’t drastically change his hair but with lockdown both parents decided a haircut was not worth the risk of getting anyone sick.

Waiting for Harry to leave the big boy bedroom only to meet his missus in the hall.Everything was fine until Lia trailed her eyes from her husband's face to his hands.

“Harry Styles!” The parents have mastered the whisper yell very well and this is what Harry knows is a true I fucked up moment  “I said cut a few pieces of his pajamas not cut his hair! Harry Oh my God your nan is going to have a fit she loves Alex’s hair.” Taking the hair from Harry’s hand and seeing the stand that now in Lia’s hand looks much longer than it did in the Sunflower shaped night light dim.

“It did not look that long in the room.I swear!” Their eyes zone in on the little bundle of hair and little giggles escape from both their lips.

“It’s okay.” Lia turns to walk down the hallway and turns around before she takes a step down the stairs. “I like being the only woman in this house and Lala fucking up Alex’s hair only secures that.”

With a white board and dry erase marker and a small tiff on whose handwriting is better You’ve spelled your own name wrong dummy the pair went to sleep peacefully holding each other.Harry’s arm around Lia’s waist and a leg between her knees and Sebastian only waking up once during the night. It was going to be a good day tomorrow was Harry’s last thought before he drifted into sleep holding his wife.

Harry’s high point ended at 9:30 am because a sob rang through the home,the sob came from Alexander Nash Styles.Alex was standing at furthest five inches from Lia’s face.

“Mummy.” The choked out sob rang through and Lia opened her eyes confused and then had wide eyes after she registered her baby was in tears and had a bright red face damn near hyperventilating.

Both parents springing up from their position wrapped in each other to pull their four year old into bed with them.

“What’s wrong baby? Did you throw up, it's okay.” Lia asks with her sweet Alex perched in her lap.

“No.” it barely came out but when it did the force of the cry almost made him throw up.This was not a normal cry for Alex this sweet boy who barely cried as a baby let alone a toddler was having a full on terror cry.Shoving his face in his mom or Mum as Harry insisted chest,Lia could only rub his back and shh his until he calmed down after a few more sobs.

“Now that you’ve calmed down,want to tell momma what’s wrong?” Lia took a hand and placed it on the side of his face and placed a kiss on Alex’s puckered lips as he already knew that was his mummy’s motives. “Thank you for the kiss.Now let’s wipe these tears and tell mummy what happened.Did you have a bad dream?”

Alex shook his head so hard it collided with Lia’s collarbone making her wince a bit.

“Lala cut-” little whine slipped from his throat. “Cut my pants on my bum and then...cut my curlies.” The cry started again Lia and Harry shared a look and then a giggle which caused Alex to look at his parents. “Oh no Bashy.What is Lala cut Bashy too.”

The thought of his baby brother getting a tailor job from Lala scared him so much and took him to protective brother mode.Alex made a mad dash to the nursery making both parents move  out of bed because Bashy could not be woken up on due to someone else.

“Careful it’s only been three weeks!” Harry warmed his wife who was quick to jump out of bed but Lia waved him off speeding down the hall in her green sleeping shorts to see what Alex was going to do after one noticed that Bashy had fallen victim to Lala as well.

Lia was met with a plea from Alex to get his baby brother out of his crib and check him.

“No,Alex come on let’s wait for him to wake up on his own unless you want a cranky brother.” Lia keeps her voice down as Harry goes to pick Alex up and starts to walk him out.

“Let’s let baby brother sleep,I'll check him later.You and I can make breakfast,let mummy and Bash sleep for a little longer.” Harry said as he walked down the stairs but before he could respond Sebastian’s cry rang through the house and caught the attention of Alexander to which Harry threw his head back and hoped Lia could get the message telepathically and change Sebastian fast before Alexander threw another fit.

“Put me down daddy! I need to check Bashy now!” The four year old thrashed himself in his daddy’s arms and had more strength than Harry had thought.Alex was a little man on a mission running up the stairs and down the hall to his baby brothers room.Harry chased after him but was not fast enough because he heard the cry that came from Alex.

“Oh no!Lala got Bashy too!”

And the sob continued leaving Alex’s mouth which caused Bash to let out a cry and the parents at a loss for words.For the first time in three weeks both their babies were crying at the same time and neither knew how to begin consoling them.

“I should have just let Lala track flour through my house.”

[alolowrites]

The Helpful Elf

Summary: The Hippity Hop Cat toy is the toy on every kid’s wish list this year, including Eri’s. With the toy flying off the shelves, you desperately ask Mirio, the Helper Elf at Hazuki’s ToyLand, for help. And Mirio doesn’t give up, especially when it comes to you.

Author’s Note: Hello everyone!!! Real life is being a pain right now, but I’m so glad I managed to finish this story right on time! It’s pretty long (for me lol) and it’s my first with Mirio so yay!! I also wrote it for the BNHASanctuary discord server’s winter collab (first time I ever participated in any collab), so I’m very excited about this. I’ll link and share the masterlist once it’s up. I can’t wait to read everyone else’s stories :D 

Please enjoy!

Word Count: 2.5K+

With October long gone and December in full swing, it meant one thing—the official start of the jubilant holiday season. Every year, Japan’s most iconic department store in Tokyo, Hazuki’s, transformed its ten floors into a magical winter wonderland. Around the country and around the globe, customers ushered through the doors to catch a glimpse of the glamorous store glittering with festive decor. 

Dazzling lights twinkled around the window displays that stretched around the block. Vibrant ornaments hung high above the ceilings like luxurious bubbles. And pine garlands peppered with red berries wrapped themselves along any rails that ran off forever. 

Hazuki’s was the place to kick start the holiday season and the one place to find everything and anything on one’s holiday shopping list. Especially the highly coveted toy of the year—the Hippity Hop Cat. 

Or so you thought. 

“Mirio!” 

“Huh?” Said man’s elf hat jingled when he looked away from his display. His blue eyes beamed at the sight of you. Mirio chirped out your name as you rushed forward, nearly knocking him over. “Whoa, you alright?” 

“I need your help,” you blurted out, catching your breath at the same time; those pesky escalators were no use at all. Mirio offered to get water, but you waved him off. “No, no…no time for water. I need your help. It’s urgent!” 

“Uh, sure, what can I do?” 

“I need a toy, but not just any toy.” Mirio blinked when you suddenly inched closer to him. You scanned the area as though someone was lurking around to eavesdrop on your top-secret conversation. “It’s the Hippity Hop Cat, you know—” 

“The cat whose hops are out of this world?” 

“Yes, that one!” You clung to his shoulders like a desperate parent trying to find some shred of sanity in this chaotic store. Shaking the blonde man, you begged, “Please tell me you have one in stock?”

“Oh man,” Mirio scratched his forehead as he recalled the inventory from this morning. He glanced at your hopeless eyes and tight fists curling on his work uniform. There was no way Mirio could leave you hanging like this; it didn’t feel right. So he flashed you his famous smile that outshone the star twirling above you both. “Come with me. I’ll check in our system.”

“Gosh, you’re a lifesaver.” 

Mirio humbly rubbed his neck as he led the way to the backroom. You eyed the uproarious floor covered with thousands of toys that rivaled Santa’s Workshop in the North Pole. It was like walking through a child’s dream. Every toy imaginable—dolls, electric cars, robots, board games, you name it—was here. Hopefully, that stayed true with the Hippity Hop Cat. 

The door closed, muffling the sounds of frantic parents buzzing through the aisle. Mirio typed away on the keyboard as you paced behind him. You cursed yourself for procrastinating this long to buy the prized toy. Christmas was in less than two weeks!

“So who’s the gift for?” 

“Oh!” His deep voice pulled you back to the present. You walked forward with folded arms, anxiously hugging yourself. “It’s for Eri, a sweet little girl my next-door neighbor, Shouta, adopted earlier this year. She had a rough upbringing, but fortunately, she’s living with someone who cares for her deeply.” 

“I’m glad to hear that.” 

“Yeah,” you smiled softly at Mirio, making his fingers freeze above the keyboard. That smile of yours took his breath away; he nodded but secretly tried controlling his heart that beat like a bass drum. It was difficult since you were so close to him. “This will be Eri’s first Christmas, and she wants the Hippity Hop Cat; I told Shouta I would buy it for her, helping ease some pressure off his shoulders.”

“That’s really thoughtful of you.” Mirio admired everything about you. He was absolutely smitten with you ever since you started working in the perfume department. Mirio sometimes strolled through the floor during his breaks just to catch a glimpse of you. After scrolling through the computer, the blonde man frowned. “Hmm…looks like we’re out of stock. And the next shipment won’t come until the twenty-first.” 

You groaned. “Man, that’s cutting it close; you think you can hold one for me? I can buy it during my break or after work.” 

“I’ll try my best.”

“Thanks, Mirio.” You squeezed his shoulder, and he shuddered at the touch. Glancing at your watch, you said, “I gotta go before Nemuri wonders where I am. But thanks for helping out!” 

“Sure!” He saw you slip out the door in a hurry; you throw an apologetic smile for good measure. Pushing the elf hat further up, Mirio chuckled, “No problem.”

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Okay, so maybe there was a slight problem.

Santa Claus was still around town, and Mirio was placed on “elf duty” to help out with the pictures. Don’t get him wrong, the sunshine man adored children as much as the jolly old man who lived in the North Pole. However, Mirio realized he couldn’t guard the Hippity Hop Cat for you. All he could do was pray that one miraculously stayed on the shelf until you bought it. 

A flash went off, snapping Mirio back to his job. He smiled brightly, guiding the kid off Santa’s lap and ushering the next one to the chair. Nearly every parent in Japan was here today, the line looping around the store. Other customers, not visiting Santa, shopped as well, making the place extra crowded today. Yet, none of them were you, and that worried Mirio. 

“Ho, ho, ho, it was nice meeting you, sweetie!” 

Oh right! Mirio needed to focus, but it was hard knowing you weren’t here yet. All Mirio wanted to do was make people happy, especially you. After the sweet story you shared with him, he was more determined than ever to get you that toy. His blue eyes glanced at the bearded man in the red coat—could he help? Who knows. 

As Mirio waved goodbye to each kid, you stumbled off the escalator, face flushed as though you ran fifty flights of stairs. You glanced around the packed floor, dodging an airplane that whizzed by and brushing against the sea of customers to find Mirio. The blonde elf locked eyes with you and flashed a relieved grin; the grueling wait was over. 

And so was his duty with Santa Claus, what luck! Mirio marched over to you, placing a gentle hand on your back and guiding you to the aisle. “I was worried you wouldn’t come.” 

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a robot’s arm. “The perfume department was swamped with tourists and other people. I practically had to beg Nemuri to let me slip away for a few minutes so I could buy—” Turning the corner, you gasped in disbelief at the empty shelves before choking out, “—the toy.”

Mirio blew a low whistle; people were snatching these toys off the shelves like no tomorrow. Still, he wouldn’t give up just yet. “C’mon, maybe there’s some left in stock.” 

“You sure?” 

“Can’t hurt to try, right?” Mirio flashed you a boyish smile, blue eyes brimming with determination. You nodded and followed him through the elaborate maze of this chaotic toy store. 

However, just as you both passed by the cash register, someone bellowed out: “That’s the last Hippity Hop Cat, sir. Thank you for shopping at Toyland; have a nice day!” 

No! You screeched to a halt. Your eyes watched as the man grabbed his bag and left the store with an exhausted but relieved face. Without thinking, you slammed against the counter, scaring the young green-haired employee who clutched his uniform. Leaning forward, you desperately half-whispered, “Please tell me what you said wasn’t true!” 

“I-I’m sorry?”

“The toy!” You frantically gestured to the exit, the man now long gone. “Please tell me you have another Hippity Hop Cat for sale!” 

“U-Um, I, uhh, well,” Midoriya stammered until his eyes spotted a familiar face behind you. The nervous man sighed in relief, knowing he was saved. “Mirio!”

“Hey, Izuku, sorry about that,” Mirio bashfully chuckled and clasped your shoulder to calm you down. The blonde man quickly introduced you to his co-worker, adding, “They’re trying to buy the Hippity Hop Cat, but are you sure that was the last one in stock?” 

“Yeah, it was. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh…oh, okay…” Your shoulders drooped like a sad puppy; you were too late. After saying a quick apology, you numbly dragged your feet toward the exit as a gray cloud formed over your head. A warm hand stopped you from going any further, and you blinked up. “Huh, Mirio, what’s wrong?”

“You alright?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” you dismissed his concerns, but he wasn’t convinced; your eyes told a different story. Still, you mustered a brave face with a faint smile. “Listen, I appreciate everything you did. I knew it was a longshot getting the toy, so don’t sweat it, really.”  

“I know, I just,” he sucked in a breath, “I just wished I could have helped you out more. Especially since you wanted to make Eri happy.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll get her something else.” You squeezed his bicep when Mirio opened his mouth to interject; he faltered slightly at the brief touch. “It’s fine, really. I’m sure Eri will love any toy for her gift; I promise.” 

Mirio nodded, watching you leave the store and disappearing within the crowd. You said everything was fine, but he knew that wasn’t true. That fake smile of yours spoke volumes. There has to be a way to get that toy, Mirio pondered, rubbing his chin and staring at the floor with furrowed eyes. 

Suddenly, an idea popped inside his head just as a jingle bell chimed behind him. A white smile stretched across Mirio’s face. The idea was crazy, maybe a longshot, too, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. Mirio whipped out his phone and searched through his contacts until he landed on a specific name. 

The line started ringing...and ringing...and ringing when—

“H-Hi, Mirio.”

“Hey, Tamaki!” The blonde man beamed like the sun. He lowered his voice, cupping the phone for secrecy while walking away. “Listen, buddy. I know you’re busy and all, but I got a huge favor to ask…” 

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

“…you think you can do it?” A small puff of breath floated out of your lips as you stepped away from the revolving doors. You stood beside a colorful window display of tiny elves grinning from ear to ear, their eager hands holding toys for the good boys and girls. One elf balanced himself at the tippy top of Santa’s mountainous red bag, his green gloves clutching the pointy hat for dear life. 

You smiled, appreciating the creative design before saying, “I can close the following week...yeah...okay, awesome, thanks again!”

Crisis one averted. Crisis two was up for debate, mainly because you held a shopping bag with Eri’s gift. It wasn’t the Hippity Hop Cat, but a nice small plushy cat toy instead. You bought it just a few minutes ago after wandering through the aisles at Toyland. The plushy cat toy wasn’t a bad second choice; it was adorable and incredibly soft to the touch. But it wasn’t the toy you wanted to give for Eri’s first Christmas. 

Oh, well, you sadly thought, biting the inside of your cheek. You stared at the elves again, realizing that their costumes matched Mirio’s work uniform in Toyland, down to the funny little hat. Mirio somehow pulled it off well thanks to his bubbly personality and warm heart that could melt the North Pole's snow. 

At one point, you wondered if Mirio was even there since you didn’t see him at the store today. You assumed he was doing inventory, but Midoriya said Mirio took the day off after a last-minute “personal obligation” came up, and it was too important to ignore. Must have been serious, you sighed as the shopping bag rustled against the wind. 

You braced your coat, hissing as the cold air sliced across your cheeks. Yup, it was time to go unless you wanted to freeze out here. Shuffling away from the window display, you stopped when someone screamed your name. Glancing over, you saw Mirio running toward you with one arm waving high in the air. 

“Hey!” Mirio finally caught up to you, his face flushed and nose redder than Rudolph’s, yet he kept on smiling. “So glad I found you!” 

“Whoa, you alright?” Now it was your turn to be concerned, just like he was when you rushed into the store to ask about the Hippity Hop Cat toy. Mirio nodded enthusiastically, squashing your worries away. “Midoriya said you were busy with a ‘personal obligation’ today. Is everything okay?” 

“Oh yeah, everything is great!”

“Well, that’s, um, great.”

“So, listen, about the Hippity Hop Cat toy—” 

“Mirio, I told you not to worry about it,” you butted in, shaking your shopping bag with the plushy cat. “I went ahead and bought something else for Eri and—”

“Ta-da!” 

You went radio silent, staring in disbelief at the surprise. Sitting in Mirio’s hands was the one and only Hippity Hop Cat toy. The number one toy that was on every kid’s wish list, yet rarer to get than Willy Wonka’s Golden ticket. That toy was now only a few inches away from you. 

“B-But how?!” The words finally fumbled through your lips, flickering your gaze between the toy and Mirio while stumbling forward a bit. “It’s sold out everywhere!” 

“Let’s just say I pulled some strings with Santa’s workshop,” Mirio cheekily grinned like one of the elves from the window display. You choked out a laugh, dropping the shopping bag so you could hold the boxed toy; it felt wonderful in your hands.

You looked up with eyes softer than freshly fallen snow. Mirio continued talking up a storm, his arms flailing wildly like an excited kid who discovered something new. The delicate holiday lights flickered around you both, casting a lovely glow that was as bright as the joy twinkling inside Mirio’s eyes. 

They were always so welcoming that, without thinking, you gave him a crushing hug. Mirio froze, his arms hanging mid-air as he slowly processed what was happening. After a few seconds, his shoulders relaxed, and his strong arms eagerly wrapped around you, holding you in place. Even with that thick coat of yours, you felt very soft that his heart soared to new heights. 

“Thank you, Mirio,” you whispered near his ear, giving him another squeeze. But you didn’t stop there. A sudden urge came over you, and in a bold move, you planted a sweet kiss on his cheek. Pulling away, you bit back a laugh at his flustered face. “You really are the best Helpful Elf I know.” 

“Well, you know me,” he shot you a grin, “I’m always here to help.” 

“Is that so?” You tapped your cheek with your gloved finger. “Think you can help me gift wrap this toy, say tonight at my place?” 

“Luckily for you, I’m a whiz with wrapping paper.” 

Mirio’s hand wormed its way into yours, giving you a loving squeeze before joining you on your long walk home. The Hippity Hop Cat toy was the toy on every kid’s wish list this year, including Eri’s, whose first Christmas was officially saved. And it was all thanks to Mirio, the one and only Helpful Elf at Hazuki’s Toyland.

Thank you for reading!!

FicMas Fest 2020 Masterlist

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Treat Your S(h)elf: I Drink Therefore I Am: A Philosopher’s Guide To Wine, by Roger Scruton (2009)

You could say that wine is probably as old as civilisation; I prefer to say that it is civilisation, and that the distinction between civilised and uncivilised countries is the distinction between the places where it is drunk and the places where it isn’t.

- Sir Roger Scruton, I Drink Therefore I Am: A Philosopher’s Guide To Wine

When I first got talked into investing in the dreams of my two cousins and their French families to continue to manage an old French vineyard I thought of Roger Scruton’s book. I already had this book on my shelf alongside his other works. Re-reading it nudged me to take a risk and go for it.

For one I have always loved wine and have drunk it from a very early age. Secondly what could be more cultured or civilising than to marry body and mind through the palate of philosophy and wine?

And finally, and perhaps more importantly, the opportunity to escape the madness of modernity - as well as make peace from war as a British combat veteran of the Afghan war by not so much as coming home but finding a new one - by getting back into nature with hard honest graft on the land that Mother Nature blesses.  All of this I found especially appealing.

Of all the things we eat or drink, wine is without question the most complex. So it should not be surprising that philosophers from Plato and Socrates onwards to our contemporary times have turned their attention to wine: complex phenomena can lend themselves to philosophical speculation.

Wine is complex not just in the variety of tastes it presents – ‘wine tastes of everything apart from grapes’, I once heard a crusty old French vintner say – but in its meaning. Only the most woodenly literal-minded would deny that wine has a meaning: in its history, its role in human social life, in religious and other ceremonies. Though they drink it copiously over dinner at High Tables in their Oxbridge colleges, academic analytic philosophers do not spend as much time as they might in this kind of investigation of meaning or significance of wine – what we might call a phenomenology or a hermeneutic investigation.

Of course, there are more narrowly phenomenological questions which wine raises.

How do vintners or winemakers manipulate the underlying biochemical material to create the kinds of taste which they intend their wine to have? Does the ‘terroir’ of a wine really make a difference to taste, and if so how? What is the basis of evaluative judgements about the quality of a wine?

Arguably only those who actually make the wine and those who are life long wine connoisseurs can conceivably answer that on some experiential and technical level. But these are not the only philosophical questions in this area: the hermeneutic questions have their place too, in an understanding of the phenomena.

Sir Roger Scruton’s 224 page book is about the hermeneutics of wine rather than its psychology or phenomenology more narrowly conceived. Scruton, the late great conservative philosopher, is that rare breed who comes closer than most to bridging the gap between the grass roots and the High Table in answering such mysteries.  The result is an engaging, insightful, informative and (in parts) a very funny book. It is immensely readable, more in the anecdotal style of Scruton’s England: an Elegy (2000) or On Hunting (1998), than his more heavyweight philosophical works, such as The Aesthetics of Music (1997), Sexual Desire (2004), Beauty (2009), and his writings on Wagner and high culture. He does often come across as curmudgeonly, but his (written) relations with women, music and poetry are very delicate and tender. And so it is with his love affair with wine. It is indeed a very personal book and its is warmly personable, like the man himself, and it contains so much of Scruton’s distinctive wit and intellectual personality, it ought to be of interest not just to wine enthusiasts (whom Scruton likes to call ‘winos’) and philosophers but also anyone curious enough to understand the place of wine in our world civilisation.

The first and obvious thing to say about Scruton’s book is how the title of the book is of course a play on words. It’s a playful wink to Eric Idle’s “Philosophers’ Drinking Song,” in which the Monty Python cast, lightly disguised as a group of Australian philosophers all named Bruce, list the world’s thinkers from a drinking standpoint. This includes the couplet slightly amending Descartes’s proof of his existence: “And René Descartes was a drunken fart / ‘I drink therefore I am.’”

The pun on words is Roger Scruton’s way of taking the Monty Python couplet seriously. After all Descartes was a serious man and though he was born in Touraine, the rich French wine region, did probably not drink much. He treats all this as a paradox that G.K. Chesterton might well have toyed with - that is, as a truth standing on its head to attract attention - and examines the drinking of alcohol as a way in which human beings learn more about each other, fellowship, some of the deeper realities, God, and not least themselves.

In this Scruton is a wise philosopher who teaches us how wine cultivates our moral virtue and our civilisation. He encourages us to recognise that stream of liquid descending from our pursed lips into our throat as the red or golden chord that runs from heaven to earth, and binds everything in-between into a cosmic whole. Wine both reflects and helps constitute our participation in all strata of reality, and points the way to our redemption, divine or otherwise.

In Scruton’s Prelude (a musical term, of course) where he quotes Emerson “who commends the great wino Hafiz [a Persian poet] in the following words: “Hafiz praises wines, roses, maidens, boys, birds, mornings and music, to give vent to his immense hilarity and sympathy with every form of beauty and joy.” This is echoed in Scruton’s terms that “by thinking with wine you can learn not merely to drink in thoughts, but think in draughts. Wine, drunk at the right time, in the right place and the right company, is the path to meditation, and the harbinger of peace.”

The book is divided into two parts, labelled ‘I drink’ and ‘therefore I am’ respectively. The second part of the book is more strictly philosophical - Scruton starts it with the nice conceit that ‘therefore I am’ contain the whole of philosophy, each word standing in turn for reason (therefore), consciousness (I) and being (am). But arguably wine and Scruton enthusiasts will probably get more out of the first part.

The first chapter is a nice description of his own discovery of wine as a young man. Warmly written, the chapter is devoted to his friends who made him “fall” for wine (or is it he who made them fall?) and his acquisition of a 1945 Château Lafite, “the greatest year from the greatest of clarets”. His first memories are happy ones of his mother’s home manufacture of elderberry wine in a post-war England where the French (and Spanish and Portuguese) grape had not yet “conquered the suburbs.”

“For three weeks the kitchen was filled with the yeasty scent of fermentation. Little clouds of fruit-flies hung above the jars and here and there wasps would cluster and shimmer on the spilled pools of juice.” Other Englishmen of Scruton’s generation will recognise and sigh at this description as many fathers - including my own - made his own beer and wine from motives of both fun and economy.

Thus ill-equipped, Scruton goes to university ignorant of the rich variety of wines available even then to an English wino. At Cambridge and, later, in Paris, a succession of tutors, patrons, and friends not only introduce him to a growing list of wines but also teach him how to drink them. Some of the wines he is given are complex and expensive Burgundies, others cheap French supermarket vin ordinaire.

But Scruton discovers that all have certain inherent qualities that an educated palate can discover by drinking them attentively and appreciatively. By learning their provenance and history, he enriches his knowledge of the locality that produced the wine — and he can imagine (I would like to believe this is so) that he can glimpse the character of the local people in the wine itself. He learns finally that certain wines go with certain things, not merely certain foods, but certain occasions, certain friends, certain thoughts, even certain topics of conversation. He becomes a wino.

When in his early middle years, Scruton buys a farm in southern England, he discovers to his delight an array of homemade-wine equipment, identical to that of his mother’s elderberry experiments, on the kitchen floor: “I listened to the bubbles as they danced in the valves, and studied the wasp-edged puddles on the tiles. I had come home.” Yet it is a different person who comes home. Scruton celebrates his good fortune not with elderberry wine but by opening and drinking in quiet happiness a treasured bottle of Château Lafite 1945 that had accompanied him in the long wanderings now ended. For, by this time in his life, Scruton is a confirmed Francophile in his drinking tastes.

The chapter ends on a remark concerned with the “new habit, associated with American wine critics like Robert Parker, of assigning points to each bottle” which should not only be “viewed with nothing but contempt” but also compared to “assigning points to symphonies, as though Beethoven’s 7th, Tchaikovsky’s 6th, Mozart’s 39th, Bruckner’s 8th all hovered between 90 and 95.

Perhaps his second chapter ‘A Tour de France’ is the best one. This is a very personal, but informative and interesting, guide to Scruton’s favourite French wine regions. starting in Burgundy, down to the Rhône Valley, the Pyrenees and ending in Bordeaux with T.S. Eliot’s description of a spiritual journey that applies equally to a journey through wine:

We shall not cease from exploration, And the end of all our exploring


Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.

With much reason, Scruton does not think very highly of blind tasting: “To think that you can judge a wine from its taste and aroma alone is like thinking you can judge a Chinese poem by its sound, without knowing the language.” I let out a whoop of appreciation when I read this. In one clean swoop he casually casts aside the resultant snobbery that comes from the ritualising and self-importance of blind tasting events.

I think blind tasting whilst sincere is also an exercise in showing off. I’m not saying people don’t have a nose for wine or can tell certain elements but blind tasting is not the best way to truly appreciate the full complexity of wine. Indeed in my embryonic wine making experience (by watching my cousins and the managers on our vineyard) I would say terroir is perhaps one of the most overlooked aspects of wine making and it determines the difference between good wine and a bad one.

It’s great to read that Scruton defines himself as a terroiriste. Not the French word for a terrorist! But a believer in the French word, terroir. It is derived from the Latin word terra meaning earth or land. It’s a word coined by the French to express a wine’s sense of place. There is no English equivalent for this word. It was originally used to distinguish the wine making practices of old world wine. In other words terroir is how a particular region’s climate, soils and aspect (terrain) affect the taste of wine alongside the traditions gone into producing the wine. Some regions are said to have more ‘terroir’ than others. Johan Joseph Krug (1800–1866), the famous champagne producer, once suggested that “a good wine comes from a good grape, good vats, a good cellar and a gentleman who is able to coordinate the various ingredients.” No trace of terroir.

But I think Krug is wrong and vintners as well as the wine industry as a whole have come to the same realisation of the importance of terroir. Back in the 1980’s, many of these ‘terroir-driven’ wines were actually affected by wine faults including cork taint and wild yeast growth (brettanomyces). Vines thrive in a range of soil compositions from highly draining granite and schist based soils to limestone and clay and vines, in turn, react to these different soils in different ways. And on top of the differing soils, certain areas of the world have such unique combinations of geology and topography that interact with specific sun exposures that the resulting wines have distinct characteristics that cannot be found anywhere else.

Nowadays terroir is used to describe practically every wine region. Because much of European wine (old world) is steeped in tradition it is easier to get a sense of terroir. It’s a bit harder in a place like Napa or Sonoma (new world) because of the looser laws that govern winemaking but younger winemakers are coming around to the idea of terroir and trying to express the land. But certainly in France today vintners - as they come to increase their geological knowledge and environmental understanding and find ways to marry that to their unique artistry and craft - have realised the unique role terroir plays in the wine making process.

The next chapter looks at wine from “elsewhere:” Here Scruton looks at the Middle-East where wine was born; Greece where Bacchus, Dionysos, and more importantly, Eros used to hover; the United States; Australia, New Zealand and their misspelling of Syrah as Shiraz, the Iranian city of poets, gardens, nightingales and last but not least, wine; a few lines on South Africa, then Italy, Romania and Spain. But “travel narrows the mind, and the further you go the narrower it gets. There is only one way to visit a place with an open mind, and that is in the glass”.

Scruton had already warned the reader in the previous chapter not to read the “elsewhere” chapter: “After punishing body and soul with Australian Shiraz, Argentine Tempranillo, Romanian Cabernet Sauvignon and Greek Retsina, we crawl home like the Prodigal Son and beg forgiveness for our folly. . . [Bordeaux] is the wine that made us and for which we were made, and it often astonishes me to discover that I drink anything else.”  I rather fancy he is being tongue in cheek here.

This is for the “I drink” part of the book. Its author then moves to the “therefore I am” part which often needs much deeper philosophical knowledge than perhaps than even your average educated layman might have some difficulty having if they are not versed in a basic  understanding of aesthetics as philosophical discussion. But here his aim is to rescue wine from the philosophers and the so-called wine experts.

To those who have never been captivated by the complexity of wine and the way it is bound up with western civilisation, a book on the philosophy of wine might be dismissed as the typical product of conservative snobbery and elitism. But this would be a mistake. Scruton is not a snob about wine (nor, for that matter, about anything else). On the contrary, one of the strongest themes in his writing is his deep love of the everyday, of the simple pleasures of society as he imagined it once to be, where people were at one with the land and with the traditions of their culture. According to Scruton, this is something that (although it probably never existed) should be open to all, but which is being destroyed by the march of modernity. (In a nice aside, he asks: ‘Who am I to stand against the tide of history? Come to think of it, I am the only person I know who does stand against the tide of history’.)

In passing, Scruton evokes the great philosopher Avicenna who lived in Isfahan (Persia) during Islam’s Golden Age (980–1037 AD); he was a wine aficionado who recommended drinking at work defying “the Koranic injunction against wine, citing it as an example of sloppy reasoning,” that does not take into account whether it is a small or a large amount. Scruton (p. 133) also points to the fact that “in surah xvi, verse 7 of the Koran wine is unreservedly praised as one of God’s gifts. As the prophet, burdened by the trials of his Medina exile, became more tetchy, so did his attitude to wine begin to sour, as in Surah v verses 91-92. Muslims believe that the later revelations cancel the earlier, whenever there is a conflict between them. I suspect, however, that God moves in a more mysterious way.”

Scruton is very quite skeptical that the vocabulary used by so-called experts to describe wine is of much help: “If I say of a wine that it has a flowery nose, lingers on the palate, with ripe berry flavours and a hint of chocolate and roasted almonds, then what I say conveys real information, from which someone might be able to construct a sensory image of the wine’s taste. But I have described the taste in terms of other tastes, and not attempted to attach a meaning, a content, or any kind of reference to it. The description I gave does not imply that the wine evokes, means, symbolises or presents the idea of chocolate; and somebody who didn’t hit on this word as a description of the wine’s flavour would not show that he had missed the meaning of what he drank or indeed missed anything important at all. Our experience of wine is bound up with its nature as a drink [which] endows wine with a particular inwardness [and] intimacy with the body [that is not] achieved by any smell, since smell makes no contact with the body at all, but merely enchants without touching, like the beautiful girl at the other end of the party. . . Nothing else that we eat or drink comes to us with such a halo of significance, and by refusing to drink it people send an important message —the message that they do not belong on this earth.”

Again, I found myself saying amen to that.

The good part of the second part is Scruton trying to make a case for the cultural uniqueness of wine. In one sense, Scruton is right to do this: it is undeniable in many parts of western culture, wine has played a unique role in religious and social rituals, which no other drink has. But he can push his point beyond plausibility when he attempts to argue that because of the qualities of wine itself – and what it is to drink it properly – nothing else could play this role (more on this later).

The argument starts well, with a very illuminating discussion of the distinction between the various ways in which a substance can intoxicate. There are those that merely stimulate without altering the mind (like tobacco, for example). Then there are those which have mind-altering effects, but whose consumption itself brings no plea- sure (e.g. heroin). The third category contains those things which alter your mind and bring pleasure in their consumption: cannabis and forms of alcohol other than wine are his examples. Wine, Scruton argues, is in a fourth category of its own: here the alteration of the mind is internally related to the experience of consuming it.

These distinctions are very useful, and the distinction between the third and the fourth category is subtle but certainly real. It relates to the question of what non-human animals can and cannot do. Scruton makes the nice observation that an animal cannot savour wine (or any- thing else). In being able to savour or relish the taste of wine, a person no more separates out the effect of the wine from its taste than they can separate the meaning of a piece of music from its sound. Although one would not realise this from reading the thousands of words that are written daily about wine, wine would not be the drink it is if it did not intoxicate.

The last two chapters deal respectively with wine and whine, and being and bingeing. Though Scruton has something to say in favour of Puritanism, he castigates the ease with which “puritan outrage [and in particular, prohibition, but also sexual behaviour] can be displaced from one topic to another, and the equal ease with which the thing formerly disapproved of can be overnight exonerated from all taint of sin.”

He vehemently protests against “the humourless mullahs,” and the misuse of drinking, but also rejects the idea that fermented drinks are just shots of alcohol, and insists on their social functions across civilisations and time: “The burden of my arguments is that we can defend the drinking of wine, only if we see that it is a culture, and that this culture has a social, outward-going, other-regarding meaning. . . When people sit down together sipping drinks, they rehearse in their souls the original act of settlement, the act that set our species on the path of civilisation, and which endowed us with the order of neighbourhood and the rule of law.” But he has not much against drinking alone, and ends with a few words from the Chinese poet Li Po (700 BC), the same poet whom Mahler used in his Lied von der Erde (though in a very approximate translation):

A cup of wine, under the flowering trees;
I drink alone, for no friend is near.


Raising my cup I beckon the bright moon,

For he, with my shadow, will make three men.

Scruton points out in several brilliant passages, the prohibitionist, like the modern day Islamists and moral police in the West and the all too familiar binge-drinker are alike in their ignorance of the virtue of “temperance.” They can envisage no stopping place between abstention and alcoholism. Their absolutist logic, he argues, is like objecting to a first kiss on the grounds that it will one day lead to a divorce. And neither can really understand drinking for any reason other than to get drunk. 

Scruton confirms the wider value of temperance in our lives: “Virtue should be cast in human form if it is to be humanly achievable. Saints, monks, and dervishes may practice total abstinence; but to believe that abstinence is the only way to virtue is to condemn the rest of mankind. Better to propose the way of moderation, and live thereby on friendly terms with your species.”

As it happens, the occasional bender may actually have therapeutic qualities in moderation (i.e., if indulged in infrequently). George Orwell, who can hardly be accused of lacking a puritanical streak, thought that people should get drunk every six months or so. The experience, he thought, shook one out of one’s regular complacency and could be compared in this to a weekend abroad. Certainly it very often produces a feeling of greater humility in those who can remember what happened. Yet getting drunk is something that most drinkers do very rarely, if at all.

Changing our mood and outlook is a very different matter. Under the influence of a moderate amount of alcohol, our inhibitions are loosened. Shy people become bold, the tongue-tied talkative, the dull lively, the unimaginative fanciful, and the isolated social. (Even “mean drunks” usually start the evening in festive and forgiving mood.)

That last loss of inhibition is the most important because it promotes the fellowship that is the basis of a decent society. Not all intoxicants perform this vital function. Cannabis and similar drugs tend, if anything, to imprison the taker within his own consciousness (however expanded it may seem to him in his dreams). Except for those who lose themselves in alcoholism (and consequently become asocial in their attempts to deceive others about their condition), however, alcohol is a profoundly social drug. At the same time, not all varieties of alcohol are equally social in their effect. This thought leads Scruton to narrow somewhat the scope of his enthusiasm. Having rejected teetotalism, he continues: “The real question, I suggest, is not whether intoxicants, but which. And - while all intoxicants disguise things - some (wine preeminently) also help us to confront them by presenting them in re-imagined and idealised forms.”

Scruton makes a fascinating and intriguing point related to our historical relationship with the vine to make wine the highest ideal form. He claims that wine derives from a crucial historical transition in our relation to the earth – when human beings settled, put down roots and stopped being mere hunter-gatherers. In a memorable phrase, Scruton claims that in this way wine celebrates ‘the earth itself, as the willing accomplice in our bid to stay put.’ But of course one could say similar things about distilled spirits and beer. Such drinks are not made in such an incredible variety as wine is, but Scruton’s point is not about variety but about the intrinsic and relational qualities of the drink itself.

In the end, one cannot help feeling that he is relying a little too much on the sheer panache of his writing to help his argument bounce along: ‘Wine is not simply a shot of alcohol, or a mixed drink. It is a transformation of the grape. The transformation of the soul under its influence is merely the continuation of another transformation that began maybe fifty years earlier when the grape was first plucked from the vine.’ Wine is a transformation of the grape, to be sure. And the mind or soul is transformed in its consumption. But these two transformations are so very different that it is hard to see what can literally be meant by the one being the continuation of the other.

In fact, Scruton’s view is not just that wine is unique as a stimulant, but that it has to be drunk in a particular way in order for the harmony of taste and intoxication to take hold. It is not hard to agree with Scruton’s argument that there are more or less civilised ways of drinking wine. And this part of his thesis is very plausible: ‘The burden of my argument is ... that we can defend the drinking of wine, only if we see that it is part of a culture, and that this culture has a social outward-going, other-regarding meaning. The new uses of wine point towards excess and addiction: they are moving away from the old way of drinking, in which wine was relished and savoured, to the form of drinking typified by Marmeladov, who clutches his bottle in a condition of need.’

However I still found all this a tad unconvincing in that he makes a case that only the savouring and relishing of wine can play a central cultural role as opposed to other spirits - think of Scotch whisky for the Scots and beer for much of Northern Europe or even tea(!) for the English. So my apologies to Roger Scruton but I remain sceptical of his argument that of all stimulants, wine is uniquely civilising, however much I want it to be true.

I think Scruton is also wrong to despise cocktails. A well-made cocktail is as complex a set of taste experiences as a good Bordeaux. A good-strength cocktail is the perfect prelude to the theatre, giving one exactly the right lift to help the play to entertain, but not suppressing one’s appetite long enough to spoil a post-theatre dinner. It can be the booster rocket that starts a convivial evening. But the cocktail has its limits. The alcoholic strength of most cocktails reduces their usefulness both as an aid to sustained fruitful conviviality and to the kind of imaginative introspection that Scruton thinks necessary for a happy life.

That aside, Scruton knows that the best (including Li Po’s poetry) should be kept for the very end. The bouquet (of the wine, but in French the word is also used for the finishing of a firework) comes with the Appendix: What to drink with what, though here the second what does not stand for food, but for philosophers. This part of the book I very nearly coughed up my wine as I found it terribly amusing to pair a suitable wine, as one would with food, to a philosopher one might be reading.

St Augustine: Drink a glass of Moroccan Cabernet Sauvignon, though “the City of God requires many sittings, and I regard it as one of the rare occasions when a drinking person might have legitimate recourse to a glass of lager [which I did in Odessa, while reading Scruton], putting the book to one side just as soon as the glass is finished” [which I did not do, since I had three glasses, each of which containing half a liter].

Francis Bacon: “Any discussion of his insights should, I think, proceed by the comparative method. I suggest opening six bottles of a single varietal—say Cabernet Franc- one from the Loire, one from California, one from Moravia, one from Hungary, and if you can find two other places where it is grown successfully you will already have given some proof of the inductive method—and then pretending to compare and contrast, taking notes in winespeak, while downing the lot.”

René Descartes: “As the thinker who came nearest, prior to the Monty Python, to stumbling on the title of [my] book, Descartes deserves a little recognition. . . He has ended up as the most overrated philosopher in history, famous for arguments that begin from nothing and go nowhere. I would suggest a deep dark Rhône wine [that] will compensate for the thinness of the Meditations.”

Baruch Spinoza: “The last time that I understood what Spinoza meant by an attribute it was with a glass of red Mercurey, Les Nauges 1999. Unfortunately, I took another glass before writing down my thoughts and have never been able to retrieve them.”

Immanuel Kant: “And when it comes to [his] Critique of the Judgment, I find myself trying out [several wines], without getting any close to Kant’s proof that the judgment is universal but subjective, or his derivation of the ‘antinomy of taste’— surely one of his most profound and troubling paradoxes, and one that must yield to the argument contained in wine if it yields to anything.”

Friedrich Nietzsche: “Although we should drink to the author of The Birth of the Tragedy, therefore, it should be with a thin, hypochondriac potion, maybe a finger of Beaujolais in a glass topped up with soda-water.”

Edmund Husserl: “I recommend three glasses of slivovitz from Husserl’s native Moravia, one to give courage, one to swallow down the jargon, and one to pour over the page.”

Jean-Paul Sartre: “Sartre’s great work of philosophy, L’être et le néant, introduces the Nothingness that haunts all that he wrote and said. . . If ever I were to read Sartre again, I would look for a 1964 Burgundy to wash the poison down. Small chance of finding one, however, so there is one great writer whom I shall never again revisit—and I thank God for it.”

Martin Heidegger: “What potion to complement the philosopher who told us that ‘nothing noths’? To raise an empty glass to one’s lips, and to feel it as it travels down—noth, noth, noth, the whole length of the tube: this surely is an experience to delight the real connoisseur.”

In conclusion I really enjoyed reading this book (again and again).

This is a wonderful book for anyone who loves wine and wants to try identify what, in all its complex connections with so much of what is valuable in civilisation, might be special about drinking it. I think he does a wonderful job in looking at the philosophical and religious questions related to wine, from the Koranic injunction against alcohol to the true nature of temperance. These questions take us far from the vineyard at times, making excursions into terroir as different as Wagnerian music dramas and the philosophical nature of smells. His arguments as well as his beautiful prose are fresh, original, teasingly provocative, but also joyous.

This book is only about 224 pages but fun to read either in one sitting or dipping in and out at pleasurable intervals.

There are pages of useful advice on what wine to buy that are also glimpses into what to look for in the wine. I think his recommendations are good ones even if he leans too heavily into French wines. As someone who co-owns a vineyard I can say with reasonable confidence that I know my French wines but also wine from South Africa but confess my ignorance of wines from the new world such as California or Chilean wines. But I see that as an opportunity to discover rather than stay in my comfort zone. Here Scruton gently prods you along to do just that.

As an aside Scruton, who never shies away from his staunchly conservative Tory beliefs, perhaps forget to mention one juicy vignette in that Karl Marx’s political and philosophical ideas were probably inspired by wine. Indeed Karl Marx’s family were the happy owners of a vineyard in Trier, a small affluent Rhineland city, on the rolling hills of the Mosel River Valley. The family sold it due to hard times. Then as now these vineyards of the Mosel Valley remain mostly small-scale, are still known for their fruity white wines, and especially their lemony Rieslings and agrotourism. It seems the politics of wine (tariffs and import taxes) played a larger role in the history of leftist thought than their quaint appearance might suggest. In the early 1840s, the economic struggles of these very vineyards inspired Marx to criticise the draconian Prussian government - and in the process, some historians argue, begin developing the theory of historical materialism for which he is best known. In fact there is a delightful book I can recommend written by Jens Baumeister called, ‘How Wine Made Karl Marx a Communist’ (2018) if anyone is interested in reading more about that.

Of course it’s always hard to know how seriously one is supposed to take Scruton in some of his more extravagant comments in the book, like many things he says in his other books: ‘you could say that wine is probably as old as civilisation; I prefer to say that it is civilisation, and that the distinction between civilised and uncivilised countries is the distinction between the places where it is drunk and the places where it isn’t.’ His desire to outrage and court controversy rises to the surface, and can result in some of the funniest moments in the book. But as with everything he writes, some of Scruton’s claims must be taken with a pinch of salt or more appropriately, with a glass of claret.

Indeed I prefer to picture his words as if he was one’s old and familiar drinking companion sitting on weather beaten leather chairs and making provocative but teasingly good natured remarks out of a desire to amuse rather than to be boorish or loutish. Indeed this book is best enjoyed with a glass of wine on hand whilst sitting on a comfy old worn out leather chair curled next to log burning fire as the light dims outside.

I would whole heartedly agree with Roger Scruton that wine is a “drink that causes you to smile at the world and the world to smile at you.” Instead of imprisoning you inside a solitary introspection, it takes you out of yourself - and your ideas with you - to mingle with others and their ideas. Wine is therefore a voyage of discovery - and rediscovery - in many senses. And for this I can happily raise my own glass and say amen to that.

But what glass of wine would I raise when reading Scruton’s own book?

Well, one bottle won’t do. So temperance is out of the window then - sorry Roger. You will need a good  French Sauternes or Barsac (preferably 2014) with the nostalgic autobiography, a finely bodied Bordeaux wine (I would go with a more complex wine from Saint Emilion) with the philosophy section of the book, and a champagne (of course) to drink with the philosophical jokes towards the end of the book.

Oh go on then, finish off with a tipple of Cognac before bed time, I am sure Scruton wouldn’t begrudge anyone that pleasure.

[janeyseymour]

christmas headcanons for the queens?

OOH! UHHHH LEMME THINK!

(this got way longer than i intended)

is there a baking fiasco? yes. every year. jane successfully bakes a million cookies, but every year, when she thinks she has enough to hand out a good dozen cookies to each and every person that works at their theater, she finds the other queens passed out in the living room with Elf on, cookie crumbs evident on their clothing and empty glasses that once held milk. 

she went to the LiWs’ house once to try to bake again, only to find herself in the same situation. 

jane thought it might be fun to do elf on the shelf, even though the others know that the parents move the elf. so, she bought one for kitty and one for anne. she found them in the fireplace the next day. when asked about it, katherine mumbled something along the lines of, “listen. at least we didn’t chop their heads off.” at the same time, anne “guessed” that “that’s what the elves wanted i guess”

i’m sure you saw my fic about secret santa... it’s here if you haven’t seen it

they try to do ugly sweater contests, but they all think that even the “ugliest” sweaters are adorable

around the holidays, tickets are HEAVILY discounted if you promise to bring canned goods to the theater to donate to those who need some help around the holidays- anna’s idea

the queens get extremely competitive about their gingerbread houses. two teams: the first three against the last three (aragon immediately complains that they have “hurricane anne” on their team. cathy retorts with “you might have one big hurricane, but i have cleves and kat who are two tropical storms.” it’s pretty even in the end.) they end up spending WAY too much time on these, and they make the stage managers judge their houses (more like castles). 

cleves makes the best hot chocolate... her secret is that she puts a square of german chocolate at the bottom of each mug to melt into the regular hot chocolate. none of the others have discovered her trick- much to jane’s disappointment.

funnily enough, catherine is the one to insist on watching each and every christmas movie they can get their hands on

they argue over whether Die Hard is a christmas movie or not

decorating the tree is always an event in itself. they keep the “chaos tree” in the living room while catherine and jane decorate another tree in their other sitting room that is considered a bit more traditional (it has an angel on the top of it instead of a bottle of hairspray... anne’s idea)

they drive around a lot and look at the various light displays people have put out. 

it drives jane nuts when people mix different sorts of lights.

door decorating contests... team “divorced, died, survived” versus team “CHAOTIC 3″ versus “the band” (yes, they all came up with their own team names). every employee at the theater has to vote. the first team’s is a beautiful display. the second team’s is a mesh of all sorts of things, some not even christmas related. and the third is a bunch of santas playing various instruments. each team “wins” for different reasons. they never state who is the overall winner.

throughout december, they buy presents, wrap them and place them under the tree. by christmas eve, the bottom half of the tree is covered by six piles of gifts- one pile for each queen.

on christmas eve, after they’ve done secret santa, jane and catherine corral their “children” into going to the christmas eve church service with them. anna falls asleep every year within the first 15 minutes. 

they track santa when they get home

 catalina reads “the night before christmas”. They never make it to the end because everyone but jane gets lulled to sleep by her voice. the two carry the others to bed before turning in for the night themselves. 

and on christmas morning, it isn’t anne or kat who is up first looking forward to opening presents like most think... it’s actually cathy. banging pots and pans until everyone else comes downstairs and gathers by the tree.

jane always cries because she is so happy that she gets to spend her holidays with her family, although later she does cry because she wishes the children could be there to share in her delight.

[twoidiotwriters1]

Written In The Stars CXXII (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: I think the second half of this book is my best work yet. I know I always say this and that’s bc I’m always getting better -Danny

Words: 4,073

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Chapter Twenty: St. Mungo's.

At five in the morning the mood hadn't changed much in the room, Fred had fallen asleep on her shoulder, George and Ginny were across, staring intently at some point on the wall, Ron kept his face hidden behind his hands.

Harry and Sirius would look around the room with a lost air, unsure of what their part in this whole thing was. Mel and her mother had the same worried expression, none of them was known to be patient, but they didn't have a choice, they were all waiting...

Mel was worried about Mr Weasley, but she was also worried about her uncle back in the castle, about Umbridge and how she'd react to the missing Gryffindor students... She was also worried about Erick, all alone and having to deal with the death of the man he'd admired his whole life.

That was all Mel could feel at its fullest lately, no happiness was lasting, no bliss was ever-present. Mel was in a constant state of worry and distress, part of it because of her own trauma, and because all around her there was simply no safe place where to hold on to.

Mrs Weasley came rushing through the door. Mel stared at the woman, trying to find any hints of the possible news. She didn't have to wait for long, though.

"He's going to be all right," The woman said. "He's sleeping. We can all go and see him later. Bill's sitting with him now, he's going to take the morning off work."

Fred sat back beside her with heaviness, Mel pulled him closer with one arm and hugged him sideways, George and Ginny stood up and hugged their mother tightly. Ron finished his butterbeer, his usual colour slowly going back to his face.

"Breakfast!" said Sirius, standing up with newfound energy. "Where's that accursed house-elf? Kreacher! KREACHER! Oh, forget it, then. So it's breakfast for — let's see — nine... Bacon and eggs, I think, and some tea, and toast —"

Harry got up swiftly and walked over to the stove, clearly wanting to be of use in a room where he felt he had no place to take. He was wrong. Mrs Weasley made her way to the boy and took the plates out of his hands, encasing him in a fierce hug.

"I don't know what would have happened if it hadn't been for you, Harry. They might not have found Arthur for hours, and then it would have been too late, but thanks to you he's alive and Dumbledore's been able to think up a good cover story for Arthur being where he was, you've no idea what trouble he would have been in otherwise, look at poor Sturgis..."

Before Harry had a chance to reply, she let him go and turned to Sirius and Emily.

"Oh, I'm so grateful... They think he'll be there a little while and it would be wonderful to be nearer... Of course, that might mean we're here for Christmas..."

"The more the merrier!" Sirius smiled openly at the woman. Emily nodded in agreement.

Mel knew Sirius loathed having to spend all his time inside the house, even with the company of Emily it surely was annoying, having nothing to do given the circumstances of his life.

"Sirius," Harry moved closer to the man and whispered something Mel couldn't quite hear.

Sirius gave the boy a funny look and followed him to the pantry. Mel felt the irresistible need to follow them as well, but she figured, whatever Harry wanted to talk about in private was not her business, not anymore. That much she'd said to him a few hours ago.

Fred stirred in his place and finally moved away from her grip, hastily cleaning his face before anyone could notice, Mel pretended not to see for his benefit.

"I'm going to help my mum with breakfast," She told him. "I'm happy your dad's well."

Fred nodded, half-listening to the girl. When she moved over to get something out of a shelf, she listened to Harry's voice coming from the little room next to her.

"Sirius, I... I think I'm going mad... Back in Dumbledore's office, just before we took the Portkey... for a couple of seconds there I thought I was a snake, I felt like one — my scar really hurt when I was looking at Dumbledore — Sirius, I wanted to attack him —"

"It must have been the aftermath of the vision, that's all. You were still thinking of the dream or whatever it was and —"

"It wasn't that. It was like something rose up inside me, like there's a snake inside me —"

Dumbledore's words felt heavier than before, if Harry was truly affected by some kind of dark magic... it reminded her when Ginny started to act strange, when she'd been...

"Possessed," Mel whispered.

The door to the pantry opened abruptly and Sirius walked out of it causing her to jump, Mel directed herself to the stove, doing her best to not look back to where she knew Harry was currently standing.

She listened to Ginny's slow breathing unable to fall asleep. Her mind was replaying every moment of the last few months after the third task, trying to see if there were any hints that could point to a possession.

Mel thought hard about every time she had touched the boy, which to be fair, wasn't that many. Harry was acting up more often, that much was true, but who wouldn't after the hell he'd been through? Everyone had a limit, and Harry's got surpassed by a wide difference.

She didn't want to think about this, but she couldn't ignore it, not when it could lead to some of her friends getting hurt. It wasn't that she didn't trust Harry, but once again, Ginny was absolutely trustworthy and yet she'd petrified Hermione without meaning to. It could've ended worse if it weren't because Hermione got the answer on time.

When it finally was time for lunch Mel followed everyone downstairs with very little energy. No one but Harry seemed to notice, and that only because he too hadn't slept. Mel was once again torn between her duty and her personal interests. On one side, she felt she owed to her uncle to pay close attention, but that meant staying as close as possible, and that was something she didn't want to do.

Maybe it wasn't about being close physically, maybe she just had to get closer to his head. That one she could do without having to spend time with him. Legilimency and Occlumency.

That afternoon they were meant to visit Mr Weasley, the trip could be useful, she could stand next to Harry and try to perceive if his energy had changed. It was hard work, and she couldn't fully trust in the little trick, but right now that was all she had.

An hour later and an awkward train ride with Tonks and Moody, she found herself entering 'ST. Mungo's hospital for magical maladies and injuries' through the glass of what appeared to be an abandoned department store.

The things Mel saw in the waiting room were certified to give her nightmares, or at least, very peculiar fever dreams. A group of wizards and witches were walking around the rows of people writing down things on clipboards and asking questions about their symptoms. Beside her, she heard Harry asked Ron if those were doctors.

"Doctors?" Ron asked in a tone of bewilderment. "Those Muggle nutters that cut people up? Nah, they're Healers."

"Hey, they're not nutters!" Mel argued. "Muggles can't heal each other magically, they had to find their own solutions..."

"Yeah, yeah," Ron rolled her eyes. "Look, mum's there!"

"Over here!" Mrs Weasley called from the line where she was standing.

Behind the desk, she saw the portrait of Dilys, the witch that was also inside Dumbledore's office. Mel timidly waved at her, the witch did a quick count to make sure all the Weasleys were there along with Harry and Mel and she discretely returned Mel's greeting, disappearing from her portrait right after that.

"It's these — ouch — shoes my brother gave me — ow!" A man at the front of the line caught her attention. "— they're eating my — OUCH — feet — look at them, there must be some kind of — AARGH — jinx on them and I can't — AAAAARGH — get them off —"

"The shoes don't prevent you reading, do they?" said the witch at the front desk. "You want Spell Damage, fourth floor. Just like it says on the floor guide. Next!"

Two more people went before them, one worried father holding a little girl by the ankle, with fluffy white wings coming out of her back, and one man that was there looking for a wizard that apparently was confused to the point he was sure he was a teapot.

"Hello," Mrs Weasley said when they arrived at the front. "My husband, Arthur Weasley, was supposed to be moved to a different ward this morning, could you tell us — ?"

"Arthur Weasley? Yes, first floor, second door on the right, Dai Llewellyn ward."

"Thank you. Come on, you lot."

They followed through the halls and Mel continued to look around curiously, she probably had a funny dreamy look on her face, because Ron nudged her side, smirking.

"What now, you're adding 'Healer' to the list of jobs you want when you grow up?"

Mel snorted.

"No! Didn't you see all the crazy things happening in the waiting room? I wouldn't get used to that! I'm afraid that even though I've spent years as a witch now, at heart I'm still a muggle."

"Give it time, Lady," George replied. "It's been like what, four years? You won't even remember your life without magic after a decade living like a witch."

For some reason, that made her feel slightly uncomfortable. She loved being a witch, but her muggle life wasn't something she wanted to forget, especially when it had been the best years of her friendship with Harry...

Why did her mind insist on bringing Harry to every discussion?

"We'll wait outside, Molly," Tonks said. "Arthur won't want too many visitors at once... It ought to be just the family first."

Harry and Mel immediately stepped back, but Mrs Weasley reached out to get Harry and the twins grabbed her by the arms, pulling her along.

"Don't be silly, Harry, Arthur wants to thank you..."

"And there's no way you're staying behind," Fred said playfully. "Dad would love to see her daughter-in-law..."

"If you keep saying that you'll end up believing it," Mel warned him.

"I bet my parents would rather have you as a daughter instead of this bad copy of me," George teased.

"Who are you calling a copy, you idiot?" Fred reached to hit his brother, but George hid behind her. "Everyone knows I'm more attractive than you!"

"You two stop fighting!" Mrs Weasley hissed. "This is a hospital room! Please act your age!"

The three of them stopped, trembling with contained laughter as they reached Mr Weasley's bed.

"Hello!" The man called happily. "Bill just left, Molly, had to get back to work, but he says he'll drop in on you later..."

"How are you, Arthur? You're still looking a bit peaky..."

"I feel absolutely fine, if they could only take the bandages off, I'd be fit to go home."

"Why can't they take them off, Dad?" asked Fred.

"Well, I start bleeding like mad every time they try," Mr Weasley reached for his wand, and with one wave he conjured a couple of chairs for them to sit on. "It seems there was some rather unusual kind of poison in that snake's fangs that keeps wounds open... They're sure they'll find an antidote, though, they say they've had much worse cases than mine, and in the meantime, I just have to keep taking a Blood-Replenishing Potion every hour. But that fellow over there," He lowered his voice and pointed to the man in front of them. "Bitten by a werewolf, poor chap. No cure at all."

"A werewolf?" Mrs Weasley turned to look at the man with wide eyes. "Is he safe in a public ward? Shouldn't he be in a private room?"

"It's two weeks till full moon. They've been talking to him this morning, the Healers, you know, trying to persuade him he'll be able to lead an almost normal life. I said to him — didn't mention names, of course — but I said I knew a werewolf personally, very nice man, who finds the condition quite easy to manage..."

"What did he say?" asked George.

"Said he'd give me another bite if I didn't shut up. And that woman over there won't tell the Healers what bit her, which makes us all think it must have been something she was handling illegally. Whatever it was took a real chunk out of her leg, very nasty smell when they take off the dressings."

Mel's eyes stayed on the man laying ahead of them. The newborn werewolf, a man who was probably completely fine before being bitten. Was it really two weeks before the full moon? That wasn't ideal, she wanted to see her uncle, she was missing him lots already, and having half a week wasted because of his condition made her feel terribly for him.

"So, you going to tell us what happened, Dad?" asked Fred.

"Well, you already know, don't you? It's very simple — I'd had a very long day, dozed off, got sneaked up on, and bitten."

"Is it in the Prophet, you being attacked?" asked Fred.

"No, of course not, the Ministry wouldn't want everyone to know a dirty great serpent got —"

"Arthur!" said Mrs Weasley.

"— got — er — me," Mr Weasley finished.

"So where were you when it happened, Dad?" asked George.

"That's my business," said Mr Weasley calmly, "I was just reading about Willy Widdershins's arrest when you arrived. You know Willy turned out to be behind those regurgitating toilets last summer? One of his jinxes backfired, the toilet exploded, and they found him lying unconscious in the wreckage covered from head to foot in —"

"When you say you were 'on duty,'" Fred interrupted in a low voice, "what were you doing?"

"You heard your father," Mrs Weasley hissed, "we are not discussing this here! Go on about Willy Widdershins, Arthur —"

"Well, don't ask me how, but he actually got off on the toilet charge. I can only suppose gold changed hands —"

"You were guarding it, weren't you?" said George eagerly. "The weapon? The thing You-Know-Who's after?"

"George, be quiet!"

"Anyway," Mr Weasley continued like he hadn't been interrupted, "this time Willy's been caught selling biting doorknobs to Muggles, and I don't think he'll be able to worm his way out of it because according to this article, two Muggles have lost fingers and are now in St. Mungo's for emergency bone regrowth and memory modification. Just think of it, Muggles in St. Mungo's! I wonder which ward they're in?"

"Didn't you say You-Know-Who's got a snake, Harry?" asked Fred, glancing at his father anxiously. "A massive one? You saw it the night he returned, didn't you?"

"There's no need to talk about that night," Mel said roughly. The tone she used was enough to quiet the twin, but Mrs Weasley added more to it.

"That's enough! Mad-Eye and Tonks are outside, Arthur, they want to come and see you. And you lot can wait outside. You can come and say good-bye afterwards. Go on..."

Mel stood up and wished Mr Weasley as fast recovery, then she followed the rest of her friends back outside. Moody and Tonks went in, Fred spoke up.

"Fine, be like that. Don't tell us anything."

"Looking for these?" said George, holding out the extendable ears.

"You read my mind," Fred grinned. "Let's see if St. Mungo's puts Imperturbable Charms on its ward doors, shall we?"

They gave everyone an extendable ear, Harry's hand stopped midway, hesitant to follow through.

"Go on, Harry, take it! You saved Dad's life, if anyone's got the right to eavesdrop on him it's you..." George insisted.

"Okay, go!" Fred whispered once they were all seated.

"...they searched the whole area but they couldn't find the snake anywhere," She heard Tonks voice, "it just seems to have vanished after it attacked you, Arthur... But You-Know-Who can't have expected a snake to get in, can he?"

"I reckon he sent it as a lookout," Moody replied, " 'cause he's not had any luck so far, has he? No, I reckon he's trying to get a clearer picture of what he's facing and if Arthur hadn't been there the beast would've had much more time to look around. So Potter says he saw it all happen?"

"Yes," said Mrs Weasley. "You know, Dumbledore seems almost to have been waiting for Harry to see something like this..."

"Yeah, well," said Moody, "there's something funny about the Potter kid, we all know that."

"Dumbledore seemed worried about Harry when I spoke to him this morning," whispered Mrs Weasley. "He said Mel used legilimency and found nothing unusual, but he's not so sure."

"Legilimency?" Moody said in a tone of mild surprise. "A fifteen-year-old having control over that kind of magic? No wonder why You-Know-Who wants her on his side!"

Mel gasped and Ron was quick to cover her mouth. So that was it then, Voldemort didn't want to kill her, he wanted to use her.

"...The boy's seeing things from inside You-Know-Who's snake... Obviously, Potter doesn't realize what that means, but if You-Know-Who's possessing him —"

Harry jumped back, dropping the extendable ear and looking at his friends with wide eyes. Mel kept her gaze fixed on the door.

She wanted nothing else than to follow Harry's lead and hide in her room for the rest of the day, but as soon as she set a foot on the entrance hall, Ron caught her wrist and pulled her towards the twins' room, quickly followed by the rest of the young Weasleys.

"What?" She asked, though she already knew.

"You know what's going on," Ron said. "You knew Harry was ill before Neville had left the room, and you knew Umbridge was hurting him. Not only that, but you had the same bruises as Harry on the back of your hand!"

"How..?"

"Hermione saw it one day while you were still asleep," Ron confessed. "You have to tell us what's going on."

"I don't have the answers," She said tensely. "I can't tell if what they're saying it's true, I don't know if Harry's possessed."

"But you can tell other things, can't you?" Her friend insisted. "Last June, you had the same injuries as him in your arm, only that yours were bruises..."

She looked at the twins and Ginny, they were all staring at her. Now was as good as any other day, Harry didn't care about her telling them, but she had to be careful. Mel sat down on Fred's bed and told them everything.

Well, not everything. She began her story on the night of the third task, when the thin wall dividing her lifeline from Harry's broke apart. It was simple, really. They had been through so many near-death experiences together that the magic in their souls had merged, creating their strange connection.

Dumbledore had called it survival instincts, Harry's mind would look for her whenever he felt in danger, whether he wanted to or not. Not only that, but they were able to lend a bit of vital energy to each other if they were lacking some in a crucial moment.

The Weasleys listened with their mouths wide open, Ginny kept biting her nails, Ron looked awfully confused and would look at her and then the floor as if he could see Harry through it.

"That's why we fought," She said. "Harry doesn't want to force me to feel his pain. He thought that distance would help but I don't think we'll ever go back to normal. It didn't use to be this strong but ever since he fought Voldemort I feel more things now... I see more."

"But..." Ron frowned, trying to gather his thoughts. "But it's not you in his body, right? Or Harry in your body?"

"No..." Mel hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. "I stay in my body and he stays in his. I just... it's like dreaming. You feel things, but as soon as you wake up, it goes away."

"But you've been hurt before," Fred frowned. "Ron said it just now, you get bruises, and last night when we got here, your nose was bleeding—"

"Those were my fault—" She started, but Fred shook his head in disbelief.

"How's that your fault?"

"The bruises happened because I didn't ground myself," Mel said. "Harry was going through a lot... he was dying. I had to give in a little so he could come back. I had to let him take whatever he needed..."

Her friends gave her eery looks, she let out a tired sigh.

"I know how it sounds, but I promise this is not hurting me more than it hurts him. This thing goes both ways, if I were the one hurting, Harry would feel everything. He... he would've done the same for me. You know he would."

No one talked against her, still, Ron had lots of questions.

"What about last night?"

"Last night," Mel look down, fidgeting at the idea of having felt something else than just Harry, but not wanting to scare her friends. "I was weak– I used legilimency for the first time, it drained me. I couldn't push Harry's feelings away, I just buried them inside. Which was a mistake."

"What does that mean?" Ginny asked. "If... if it turns out he's possessed, what will that do to you?"

"He can't be," Mel sentenced, but her voice broke at the end.

"Have you felt anything strange?"

"I just feel Harry, even if he were struggling with something, I doubt I'd feel it. I only feel the things that belong to his soul."

"I don't get it," George frowned. "You saved his life last June and he blames you for the connection?"

"He doesn't blame her," Ginny rolled her eyes. "Harry's scared for her. You'd be terrified too if your best friend gets hurt every time you do. Harry probably freaked out when he found out he'd taken a bit of Mel's life. That sounds awful... But he would've done the same for you, and it was your choice anyway, I think you were brave for doing so."

"Maybe if you talk to Harry he'll understand," Ron offered.

Mel let out a bitter laugh.

"I've tried. As soon as he told me his idea— I've tried to tell him that this is not his fault. The best we can do is just ignore it and try to live normal lives."

"I don't think it'll fix it," Fred replied. "Things don't usually go away like that."

" I'm not saying I'll ignore it if he's in danger, you saw it last night, I was the first to arrive and help him. I like my new life, I like having more friends and I can't help but think that maybe..."

She stopped before saying 'I don't need him anymore', realizing it was something horrible to say.

"Maybe what?" Ron asked sharply, probably guessing what she wanted to say.

"Maybe it's time I stop treating Harry like a child and let him deal with this on his own. He keeps saying he can do it, so maybe I should listen."

"What if he can't, though?" Ginny asked. "What if they're right and... and he's..."

Mel got up. "I'm tired... can we please leave it?"

"But—"

"Sure," Fred stood up as well. "C'mon, we should help mum and Emily downstairs."

He shared one significant look with Mel, she wondered if he'd gotten a new revelation with this. Maybe he understood there was more to their agreement than just her wanting to get over a crush.

It was about wanting to escape from the constant reminder of being tied to someone against her will, someone who didn't want her around.

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@dee123ksha @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @kylosleftbuttcheek @reverse-hxlland @bloodorangemoonlight @omiwashere @t-rexs-world​ @just-here-to-escape-from-reality​ @21bruhs @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual

[avmisworld]

BTS when you prank them:

Kim Seokjin:

You pull the mask over your face, staring at your reflection with satisfaction. You were hideous. The rubber mask was pulled tightly over your skin, making it stuffy and hard to breathe, but the final look was worth it.

The mask was in the shape of something like a ghost goblin, an ugly brown face with green veins, sharp ears like an elf, and dark circles around the holes of the eyes. The nostrils were up like someone smeared the nose of the disgusting creature, and it had no mouth, just blood-covered lines from the bottom of the nose to the chin.

This was going to scare the hell out of your boyfriend, which was exactly what you were aiming to do. You don't know when your relationship with Kim Seokjin became waking up every day and looking under the bed to make sure there isn't a puddle of shaving cream waiting for you to step on it, but you couldn't say you didn't like it.

The prank war between the two of you escalated quickly, but you always made sure never to hurt each other in any way, the pranks never crossing the line too much, but what you were going to do today was maybe a bit more evil than usual. 

You walk out of the bathroom, taking care to not make too much noise, and peek at your boyfriend, who's sleeping soundly in your king-sized bed, one of his hands still spread over the space where you were a few minutes ago, cuddling into him. 

Seokjin is handsome even when he's asleep, with his dark hair falling over his eyes, bangs parted on his forehead, his full pink lips closed as he lets out silent puffs of air, his broad chest rising and falling steadily and his eyes closed, his eyelashes curling over his eyes. He's wearing checkered pyjamas, the top and bottom matching, and he's covered in your fluffy white blanket, the thick material reaching his chin.

Walking over to your boyfriend stealthily, you bite your lip to stop from laughing, already imagining his reaction, and reach out a hand to shake his shoulder hard, knowing that he's not a very light sleeper. 

Like you expected, Jin doesn't wake up, simply turning to his side and mumbling something under his breath before he falls into a deep slumber once again, and you roll your eyes, the lack of air in the mask starting to make you heat up, and reach your hand out again to shake the man harder, tugging off his blanket. "Jin!"

Your lover opens his eyes slowly, and you hover above him, waiting for his eyes to focus and his mind to clear up. It takes a few seconds as he yawns, stretching his arms over his head and rolling his shoulder, blinking blearily, before he finally looks at your face, his mind still working slowly until his eyes widen, almost falling out of their sockets.

Your boyfriend screams, leaping out of your bed and almost toppling over the blanket that was still tangled in his legs, his arms waving as he bolts out of the room, mouth wide open and sheer terror painted on his face.

You on the other hand, are folded on the ground, laughing uncontrollably since the moment Jin first saw you, tears springing into your eyes and you take off the rubber, still sitting on the ground, waiting for your boyfriend to come back as you gasp for air, holding your stomach.

"What the hell, Y/L/N Y/N?!"Jin screams as he enters the room, pure betrayal on his face as he looks at your hooting figure on the ground. It seemed like he made it a few steps out of the room before he understood the situation and came back, hair a mess and hands on his hips, his skin a few shades paler than usual.

"I'm sorry", you say, but you're so busy laughing it doesn't sound even slightly sincere, your face red from the lack of air and your muscles straining from being in the same position as Jin stares at you with disbelief, his own lips twitching as he tries not to laugh at the ridiculous situation.

"You're so dead for this, seriously", Jin waves his finger at you like an angry teacher, but the smile is still tugging at his lips and his face still has lines all over it from the pillow, so the glare isn't doing too much. 

You laugh, finally getting up from the fluffy white carpet, and walk over to your boyfriend, flicking his forehead lightly just to see him frown again, his pink lips jutting out in a pout. "I'd like to see you try."

Min Yoongi:

Min Yoongi was very hard to distract when he was working, you know that from a lot of personal experience. And now was one of his busiest days yet, the nearing comeback forcing him to stay locked in his workroom, writing lyrics and melodies for days in a row.

You swing your legs restlessly, scrolling through your phone and trying to pass the time, but Instagram was getting boring and so was watching Suga fancams, so when an idea pops into your head, you practically topple off the gray leather couch, a no-good smirk growing on your face.

You don't remember where you saw this prank, probably on some tik tok video, but it was a harmless, cute prank, so you didn't mind doing it to your boyfriend. The idea was passing next to Yoongi wearing different outfits each time, the weirder the better, and see if he notices. Honestly, he's so focused right now you're not even sure this will work, but you have nothing better to do anyway.

Running to Yoongi's workroom, which also happens to be your study room, you open the door quietly, slithering into the room and walking towards the bookcase, which has a bunch of your notebooks that you use to study for exams. You make sure not to say anything to your boyfriend, who's sitting with his back to the door and probably doesn't even notice you're in the room, and grab a random notebook before walking out of the room, a mischievous smile on your face.

You skip to your shared bedroom, opening the door to your walk-in closet and ruffling through the different outfits, hanging on racks or folded in piles in cabinets. You pick something rather simple for starters, a simple black overall with a cute white shirt underneath, and make your way back to Yoongi after fixing your long dark hair and putting on cute black spectacles.

You walk inside again, grabbing another thick book from the wooden shelves before swiveling around, biting your bottom lip so you won't giggle accidentally, the thrill of the prank making you unexpectedly jittery.

You do the same thing over and over again, changing to more and more absurd outfits every time, from a Hawaiian shirt you didn't even know you owned with grey sweatpants, to a unicorn onesie, and finally, your grand entrance: your prom dress from five years ago.

When you enter the workroom once again, Yoongi is still facing the computer, sketching down more lyrics, and you turn around, trying not to look disappointed that your beautiful dress was completely ignored as you return all your studying material to their places on the shelf, pouting as you do.

"Y/N", you freeze when you finally hear your boyfriend's gravely voice for the first time this day, and will yourself to look natural as you turn around, the sparkly grey material of your dress pooling around your feet. "Yeah, baby?"

"Are you doing some weird runaway or something? Because you could've just told me.", Yoongi says, eyeing your dress with nonchalance that impresses you, and you blink at him owlishly, the meaning behind his words slowly coming to view.

"You mean… you saw everything?", You ask dumbly, mouth slightly open as Yoongi continues looking at you, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he was trying really hard not to laugh, his brown eyes twinkling with something almost mischievous.

"You mean if I saw you come in different outfits like 50 times? Yeah.", your boyfriend says, rubbing the dark circles under his eyes before looking at you again, your mouth still open like a goldfish out of water.

You were sure Yoongi didn't see you the whole time, too busy with his work to notice you, but apparently he was looking at you the whole time, watching you like he takes care of you, humbly and quietly. The thought makes you giddy inside, and you look down, smiling with happiness even though your prank was technically a fail.

"I'm always looking at you, you know", Yoongi says gently, as if he reads your mind, and you raise your head to look at his soft eyes, his own small smile gracing his lips, and you blush, averting your eyes again before he adds teasingly. "But don't you think wearing your prom dress is a little too much?"

Jung Hoseok:

The idea came to your mind after suggesting your boyfriend that you buy a dog. Hoseok was actually into the idea, having his own puppy at his family's home and loving the furry animals, and you were looking for the right time to adopt, already discussing the breeds you'd like and the different names.

As if by some power from above, it just so happened that when you were scrolling through your Instagram earlier today, a video of a prank text between a random couple caught your eye, and you clicked on the post, your eyes widening and a gleeful giggle escaping your mouth the more you scroll to the right.

The prank was basically the girlfriend telling her boyfriend she adopted a "dog", and sending him a picture of some wild animal, like a baby coyote or something like that. The boyfriend obviously freaks out, thinking his girlfriend lost her mind, and you can definitely see you doing this to J-hope and getting a similar reaction.

So you wait for him to go to work, going as far as telling him in the morning that you're probably going to on a walk today, to avoid any suspicion, and wait till mid-afternoon, when you know he has his lunch break, to call him, making sure you let out all the laughter bubbling in your chest before you do.

"Hey, babe!", you grin when you hear Hoseok's cheerful voice, almost regretting your decision to prank this pure soul. Almost. "Hey, baby. I have good news!", you respond.

You hear a door closing, probably Hoseok exiting the practice room, and then it's a lot quieter, your boyfriend's voice clearer when he speaks once again, sounding curious. "What's up?"

"Well…", you start slowly, making sure to sound excited and happy, while being completely oblivious. "You know how we've been wanting to adopt a puppy?", you ask, hearing J-hope hum in agreement on the other side of the line. 

"Well, I was going for a walk and I saw a stray, and he was too pretty not to bring back home, so…", you trail off, biting your lip in anticipation when the line goes silent, J-hope obviously trying to process the information that you just brought a dog from the street to your home, something that was nothing like your usual behaviour.

"Umm… that's great, babe. But are you sure he doesn't have an owner? Or that he's not carrying any diseases?", your boyfriend says carefully, and you can imagine his face right now, his dark eyebrows furrowed over his brown eyes with worry, a small pout on those cute lips and his black hair sticking to his forehead from the sweat. It's cute how much he supports every decision you make, while taking care of you at the same time.

"Don't worry, he didn't have a leash, and I'm planning to take him to the vet today, he's not even in the apartment. He was just too pretty to ignore, Hobi, seriously. Here, I'll send you a picture.", you pump your fist, satisfied with your acting skills and your smooth transition to the final and most crucial part of your prank: the picture.

You cackle silently when you send the picture of the dog-looking animal, with the grayish-brown fur, small enough to fit in your arms, pointy ears and a small face. You actually could have mistaken it for a dog, if it wasn't for the yellow eyes, replacing the naturally brown eyes domestic dogs have.

There's silence for a moment after the picture is sent, and wait in anticipation for your boyfriend to see the picture, biting your fingernails nervously. This has to work. You even photoshopped the wild animal to look like he's standing outside your apartment.

"WHAT THE HELL, Y/N!!", Hoseok's alarmed voice makes you startle in place, slightly surprised by the screams despite expecting this sort of reaction. "THAT ISN'T A DOG, ARE YOU SERIOUS!"

"What do you mean? Of course it's a dog!", you play dumb, your heart hurting a bit when you hear the panic in your boyfriend's voice, despite you wanting to laugh so hard at the same time, and you clutch the phone to your ear tightly, taking deep breaths to calm you down.

"No it's not! It's a freaking coyote!", you can hear J-hope cursing under his breath, and then he's opening another door, saying something you can't hear to somebody. "I'm on my way. Don't get out of the apartment."

"Wait, stop!", you wince, regretting not taking your boyfriend's protective nature in consideration when you did this prank. Of course Hoseok will leave the company to make sure you're safe. "It was a prank."

You can literally hear the way your lover's rushed footsteps halt to a stop with a screech, and then it's silent again, before the line is filled with a deep sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God."

"Sorry, Hobi.", you say with a smile, despite your boyfriend not being able to see your face. "Don't worry, I'm not going to adopt a coyote without you.", you promise teasingly, and J-hope laughs breathlessly, clearly still caught in the prank, the information only now starting to sink in.

"You're unbelievable, seriously.", your boyfriend mutters, his tone now turning annoyed after the relief fades away. "Don't you know yet that you can't do these things to me? You're so mean."

Kim Namjoon:

"Good morning, babe", you say through a long yawn, stumbling into the kitchen where Namjoon is already sitting and reading the newspaper, waiting for you to wake up before he goes to the company.

"Good morning, love.", your boyfriend responds, lifting his head to smile up at you with those deep dimples you adore so much, his caramel hair carefully brushed away from his eyes and thick black spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, his tanned skin shining under the sunlight streaming through the window.

He's wearing a clean white t-shirt and washed out jeans, and he looks way too good for this hour of the morning and for such a simple outfit, and you can't help but feel even uglier, stumbling into the kitchen wearing checkered pyjama pants and a lacy sleeveless white top, your dark hair tangled and unbrushed and your face is still puffy from sleep, with dark circles under your eyes from staying up all night to study for your upcoming exams.

The real reason you were up right now, was because it was April 1st, also known as your favorite day of the year, and you were positive your busy boyfriend didn't notice the date today, otherwise he wouldn't be looking so cheerful.

"You look good", you mumble as you lean down to peck your boyfriend's lips quickly, placing your hand on his shoulder and appreciating the muscle underneath your skin. "When are you coming back home today?"

"Probably after you'll fall asleep", Namjoon says sorrowfully, his eyes apologizing to you silently, and you pout even though you were expecting that type of answer. The comeback was getting closer and closer and Namjoon was working harder than ever, perfecting the choreography and cheering up the rest of the members.

"Should I make you coffee?", you ask, and your boyfriend nods gratefully, squeezing your hand gently as you turn around, heading towards the kitchen counter. 

You're still pouting when you pour the ground coffee into Namjoon's favorite mint mug, reaching your hand for the sugar when you freeze mid-way, a sudden thought coming to your mind. If Namjoon won't be here all day, it means you won't get to prank him. Not acceptable.

Peeking over your shoulder, you catch Namjoon looking down at the newspaper again, probably reading about politics or whatever, his dark eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line like he always does when he's focused. 

Thinking quickly, you put the sugar back in place and grab the salt instead, opening the glass lid and pouring in the mug a nice teaspoon of the small white grains, mixing it up before adding a dose of hot water and a little milk, just like your boyfriend likes it.

"Here you go", you hand Namjoon the coffee and sit down beside him, taking a sip of your own blue mug slowly, a small smile curving around the lid of it as you try your best not to look suspicious. "Thanks, honey".

You're not surprised at all when your boyfriend takes a very big sip of coffee, his mouth immediately spitting out the brown liquid, eyes squinting and eyebrows furrowing in disgust, and he gags, pushing the prank coffee away while you laugh, putting down your own hot beverage on the round table so you won't spill it from how hard you're shaking.

"Oh my God, your face", you wheeze and Namjoon frowns, looking almost baby-like when he stares at you with a betrayed expression. "Why did you do that?", he whines, using a napkin to wipe his tongue and you take mercy on him, passing him a cup of water you organized beforehand.

"April fools!", you say with a grin, watching as Namjoon's face fills with understanding and he groans defeatedly, obviously cursing his own bad memory. "I should've known."

"Sorry, I couldn't let you go away for the whole day without pranking you", you say with a sweet smile, and Namjoon sighs, looking so done with you it was actually adorable, so you lean forward to leave another apologizing peck on his lips, the fondness in your boyfriend's eyes evident when you pull back with a bright smile. "I'll make you a new coffee."

Park Jimin:

You didn't get to spend much time with Jimin lately, and it was very hard for you, considering the fact that you were used to the older's undivided attention and affection.

BTS' comeback was nearing, which meant Jimin was getting farther away, coming back home only a few times a week at the late hours of the night, his eyes sporting dark circles and limbs heavy, collapsing on the bed with you in his arms and leaving a tired peck on your lips before he was fast asleep, not able to keep himself awake for another second.

Luckily, today was the day Jimin promised to come home early enough to eat dinner with you, working even harder the whole week just so he could take this short break, and you couldn't wait to finally see him, hug him tightly and kiss him properly for the first time in what feels like forever.

When the door to your apartment opens, your boyfriend walking through the door wearing a gray hoodie and black sweatpants, his blonde hair tied into a cute ponytail and a huge smile on his face, eye squinted from the force of it, you sprint towards him without hesitation, leaping into his arms, and he catches you effortlessly, swinging you around like the couple's do in the cheesy dramas.

You giggle, burying your face in the warm skin of his neck, and he laughs as well, holding you tightly to his chest and lowering you to the ground slowly, until you're face to face, noses brushing with the biggest grins on your faces.

"I need to talk to you", you whisper, hands still buried in Jimin's soft hair, and you want to tell him so bad about how much you missed his comforting touch and his angel-like voice and his pretty face. Face timing just wasn't enough.

To your surprise, Jimin seems to become serious, his dark eyebrows furrowing and his eyes turning slightly panicked. "About what?", he asks carefully, and you open your mouth to ask why he seems so nervous, when an idea forms in your head, and you look down, unwrapping your arms from your boyfriend and avoiding his eyes, as if you were feeling uncomfortable, ignoring the voice in your head telling you to hug your goddamn boyfriend and never let him go again.

"We should probably sit down", you say softly, motioning to the purple sofa in your living room, and you turn around before Jimin can see the smile threatening to grow on your face, breathing out in relief when you hear his footsteps behind you.

You make sure to leave a noticeable distance between the two of you when you sit down, and Jimin seems really worried now, grabbing your hand gently in his, and even for the sake of the prank, you can't get yourself to pull away from the warm touch. "Is everything okay?"

"Actually…", you inhale through your nose sharply, secretly admiring your acting skills as you look down to your lap. "I've been thinking for a while now… And I just feel like I should be honest with you."

"Y/N, you're freaking me out.", Jimin says more desperately now, squeezing your hand in his as if he's afraid you'll run away, and you know you can't keep doing this, not when Jimin's looking at you with scared brown eyes, his whole body tense like a ruler. 

"I've missed you so much", you finish with a smile, and Jimin blinks at you, his brain slowly processing the sentence while you bite your lip to stop from laughing, waiting for your lover to understand the situation fully. 

"You pranked me?", Jimin says unsurely, and there's blatant relief in his eyes when you nod, his whole body sagging against the couch as he closes his eyes, leaning his head back on the soft cushions. "You freaked me out for a second."

You laugh, but there's something bugging you, so you climb onto your boyfriend's lap carefully, his eyes opening when you straddle him, looking up at you with a hesitant smile. He was clearly hiding something.

"Why were you so scared?", you ask curiously, inspecting Jimin carefully, and the other sighs, his hands coming to rub your waist gently, a soft blush painting his cheeks from the embarrassment.

"I was just worried… that maybe this relationship was too hard for you, with me not being home for a while now…", he starts quietly, avoiding your eyes, and panic and regret immediately fill your chest, and you lean down to kiss him, cutting off the horrible thoughts coming out of his mouth. 

"Never", you promise when you detach from him, your voice firm even though your hands are shaking and there are tears threatening to fall at the thought of ever leaving this amazing man, who's looking at you right now with so much love it makes you melt. "You're stuck with me forever, Park Jimin."

Kim Taehyung:

One of the many things you love about Kim Taehyung is the fact that he's never taken you for granted. He always took care of you, even though he's a worldwide idol with a shit ton of money and a face that could get any girl on her knees. 

Even when it came to the simplest things, if it was chores in the house like washing the dishes or folding the laundry, Taehyung always made sure to help you, making even the most annoying duties a fun experience.

Today was going to be even more enjoyable, because you're planning to make Taehyung regret splashing you with cold water in the shower yesterday. Your plan was simple, but perfect, the best way to get your boyfriend without putting in too much effort.

"I'll dry, you wash?", you suggest nonchalantly, getting up from Taehyung's lap with a peck to his cheek, the white plates the two of you were eating from now empty, the only sign that food was there was the smears of red sauce from the beef you made.

Your boyfriend hums in agreement, getting up from the chair as you pick up the silverware and the plates, heading towards your small kitchen with careful steps, making sure not to drop anything.

You smirk when Taehyung walks towards the kitchen sink, the memory of you tying a rubber band tightly around the spray nozzle entering your mind. When your oblivious boyfriend will turn on the faucet, he'll get a nice, cold spray straight in his handsome face.

Just like you expected, Taehyung starts the water, cursing in surprise when a fountain of water hits his face just right, and you cackle when your lover blindly reaches for the sink, desperately trying to shut off the consistent waterfall.

You lean against the gray marble counter, not even caring about the puddles covering the parquet floor of your kitchen, and wipe the tears from your eyes when Taehyung finally lifts his head to meet your mischief-filled eyes.

His black curls are sticking to his forehead wetly, drops of water dripping down his tanned skin, and his dark blue silk pyjama set is soaked from the top to the bottom, matching the darkness in his eyes.

You gulp, suddenly feeling a bit scared at the intimidating look in your boyfriend's eyes. "Why are you looking at me like that?", you ask, your grip on the counter tightening when Taehyung inches towards you slowly.

Taehyung smiles sweetly at you, but something still doesn't feel right, your eyes squinting suspiciously when he shrugs carelessly. "Nothing. I was just thinking about how much I want to hug my beautiful girlfriend."

Your eyes widen at the sound of Taehyung's sentence, and you shriek when he lunges at you, sprinting out of the kitchen like your life depends on it. "You'll never catch me alive! I just came out of the shower!"

Jeon Jungkook:

It was your thing to go on random dates together, and today was no exception. You cross your legs on the purple beach towel you are sitting on, sticking another watermelon cube in your mouth before turning to Jungkook, who's chewing on a grape, bunny pout on full display and eyes squinted to avoid the sun.

Jungkook is shirtless, which is a good enough reason to come to the beach on its own, his defined abs and pecs dripping with ocean water, wet black hair falling over his dark eyes in cute curls, thick tanned thighs covered in black swim-shorts, his naked legs brushing yours as you eat from the plastic container, occasionally feeding each other.

You've spent a good part of your time here in the water, splashing at each other, Jungkook lifting you up as you screech, clinging to him tightly, but he throws you off easily, your noodle arms no competition to your boyfriend's buff biceps.

Now, the two of you were taking some time to tan after you got tired from swimming and playing around, eating the snacks and fruits you brought with you and listening to music, Jungkook rubbing on you sunscreen carefully, maybe even a little too carefully, his large hands sliding over your back and shoulders, and you return the favor just as eagerly, shamelessly feeling up your boyfriend's strong body.

"I'm going to the bathroom, I'll be back in a sec.", Jungkook says, pecking your lips gently before standing up and throwing a black t-shirt over his now-dry chest, the covered skin making you pout slightly. "'Kay."

You watch as your boyfriend disappears into the small building, stretching your tanned legs and admiring the way the bikini Jungkook chose you when you went shopping, bright yellow and somewhat cute, with the strapless top and high waisted bottoms, fits the tone of your skin perfectly. Of course Jungkook was great at choosing bikinis, just another talent to add to the respectful list he already has.

You're slightly bored without Jungkook beside you, so you let your gaze wander to the older's white beach towel, lying beside your own, when a hilarious idea pops in your mind. This will be a nice revenge for Jungkook dunking you in the water multiple times today.

You get up quickly, not wasting any time as you start to dig a hole in the sand, ignoring the crazy looks you're probably getting from passer-bys, digging as fast as you can before Jungkook will return.

You're panting by the time there's a rather large hole in the sand, big enough for a grown man to sit inside, and you smile gleefully, covering your masterpiece with Jungkook's beach towel before lying back down on your own and putting on your gold sunglasses for an extra effect, waiting for your lover to return.

"I'm back", you flip to your stomach when you see your boyfriend coming over, a soft smile on his face when he sees you, going to his spot and sitting. Or trying to sit, anyway.

You laugh when Jungkook lets out a surprised yelp, falling straight into the hole you dug up, his hands grasping the golden grains of sand uselessly to stop himself from falling and legs flailing, the useless beach towel wrapping around him as he curses, struggling to get up.

"Oh my God, your face", you snort, pointing at your boyfriend who gives up on trying to get out of your apparently deep hole, sitting instead inside the trap you set up with his hands crossed, his dark eyes fixed on you with a glare that could kill.

You're still laughing when strong arms wrap around you and you're thrown on a broad shoulder, Jungkook's arms holding you from your thighs as the ground swings dangerously underneath you, the situation only making sense when you're greeted with turquoise water underneath you, and you thrash, trying desperately to get out of Jungkook's hold. "No, not again!"

[redisaid]

In Good Company - Chapter 14

Rocks and Water

Sorry for the repost, but it was driving me nuts that I couldn’t do this properly before. Power is back on, so here is elf fic in it’s usual full text format, for those of you who prefer reading here to Ao3.

8514 Words

Read it on Ao3

“Oh good, I was afraid I’d have to go looking for you.” To be perfectly fair, this was only the second wrong spire that Jaina had entered on her early morning mission. The Spire had, well, far too many spires. The first one she’d tried based on the vague directions that Lirath gave her last night turned out to be some sort of music room. But this one was undeniably a mage’s tower. Even though it differed from the fat stone structures that paralleled it in human cultures, the contents of its interior spoke otherwise. Shelves and shelves of books. Various workbenches for enchanting and inscripting and all manner of things in-between. A great jumble of dusty, half-finished projects. A stone golem that looked like a lynx, but missing its back half. A spellbook halfway through being rebound. An enchanted broom that seemed as though it very much wanted to keep the place clean and free of dust, but was on its last legs of arcane power. 

Jaina had given it some of hers on her way up the spiral staircase, and was pleased to see it dusting around a scroll rack in earnest again before she lost sight of it. 

Both now she was faced with Lirath standing up at the very top of the tower, looking out over the view of the western sea, still hued in pink and purple from the dawn. 

“I’m surprised you’re even up to meet me,” Jaina noted.

“A gentleman is never late for an appointment, Lady Proudmoore,” Lirath admonished, turning away from the windows to give her a little bow. “Besides, it would take more than another rowdy night with Lor’themar and his boys to keep me down. If nothing else, I at least have my youth to thank for that.” Only he’d been still very much awake as she excused herself to turn in for the night. And only having just released her from what turned into hours of conversation, all the way from the bath until her hair was nearly dry again. She’d left them out on a patio under the stars, most of the rangers still clustered around a fire pit, singing and drinking, as they were wont to do when Lor’themar was around.

Jaina herself had only indulged in a few more glasses of the weak elven wine before seeking out the comfort of a guest room. Sleeping in a bed had been divine, almost as divine as the fact that she only had to share the room with one other. And Cindel hadn’t even woken as Jaina rose early that morning with the dawn, coming to meet Lirath as she had promised she would.

Jaina curtsied in kind to him, which Lirath laughed at. “Don’t elves consider it rude to talk about age with humans?” “Oh, come now, we’re probably similar,” Lirath offered with a single shoulder shrug. “I’m only fifty.” “Twenty-five,” Jaina answered back to that challenge. 

Lirath actually choked at that. “Gods. Never tell Valeera that, please. For your own good.” “I just found out that she was forty-one a few weeks ago and nearly died from shock, so I’ll be sure she never hears it,” Jaina assured him. 

“I can’t believe I’m trusting a literal baby with my arm,” Lirath said as he gestured over away from the elegant, arched windows, and to the other half of the room, which was dominated by a large work bench and shelf after shelf, bin after bin, of arcane crystals--dormant and waiting.

Jaina was surprised at how easy he was to talk to. His drawling barbs and their hidden brutal honesty almost seemed to invite just about everyone to follow in kind. So different from his big sister, who had Jaina tripping over her words in any language, struggling to say something of significance every time they spoke.

Still, it was rather refreshing. “Well, baby or not, at least the facilities you have for me to work on it are impressive.” Jaina wandered over to the meticulously labeled and sorted shelves, running her hand along the bins to find a fine layer of dust had accumulated here too. “Is this your tower?”

“Yes and no,” Lirath answered, leaning against the workbench behind her. “Yes, in that I suppose I am the current mage of the residence, who can’t effectively practice magic anymore. No, in that this was my father’s tower. It still is, really. I don’t think I’d have the heart to change much about it, even if I could use it effectively.”

Right. Jaina had gone this whole time hearing stories of Lireesa Windrunner, the former Ranger General. She’d barely picked up anything about her husband, apparently a magister of some note in his day, but not a person that rangers bothered to tell many tales of. All she knew about the man was that he was a mage, and the father of the Windrunner siblings. “Tell me about him,” Jaina offered as she gathered the courage to plunder this deceased stranger’s collection of crystals at his son’s behest.

“He liked to tinker,” Lirath complied. “As I’m sure you could imagine from the sheer amount of half-finished things that you must have seen on your way up. And he would hate the state of this place right now, with all the dust and clutter he left behind. A right old neat freak he was. Sometimes I think that if I let the house and grounds go enough, he’ll come back to haunt me and chastise me for what I’ve done to the place.” “Are all of you Windrunners so morbid?” Jaina dared to ask, moving to a bin of smaller crystals that might be closer to what they were seeking.

“Oh? How would you know? Sylvanas is hardly the type to talk about her feelings,” Lirath countered.

“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have them,” Jaina told him, selecting a worthy looking gem, somewhere between green and gold on the color spectrum, and humming with the potential for power.

Hopefully a more consistent level of power than the crystals currently fueling Lirath’s arm were providing. Or at least, that was the running theory that they had reached last night.

“How very astute of you to notice,” Lirath commented as she joined him on the workbench and set down the crystal for him to inspect. “Perhaps you should remind her of that fact.” “We’re here to talk about you, not her,” Jaina tried to steer him away before the heat that was rising in cheeks threatened to blossom into something visible.

The fact that her mind continued to replay the sight of Sylvanas staring at her from across the bath, wet streaks of platinum hair just barely covering her breasts, and nothing else, was not helping. 

“But other people are so much better to talk about,” Lirath suggested. He took up the crystal with his good hand, holding it up to the light of the windows, of the sun just starting to glow on the sea. “And I’m so good at talking about them. Do you know that Prince Kael’thas is said to be utterly smitten with you?” “I am painfully aware of that,” Jaina told him. “And painfully aware of how much I have tried to politely remind him that I do not feel the same way. But it’s very hard to get a prince of any kind to understand that.” “So it’s true then. See? Talking about other people is great,” Lirath said. “You can find out all sorts of fun things. Like how dear Lor’themar is part of the reasons Magister Rommath never has time to see me.” “Oh?”

Jaina was still getting used to the idea that same-sex relationships were relatively commonplace in elven society. So commonplace that even the gossip about them seemed downright mundane. So commonplace that heterosexual ones almost seemed to be in the minority, if anything.

“Him and Ranger Lord Brightwing, supposedly. Maybe both at once? Remind me to bother him about it. Maybe he’ll be as generous as you in freely admitting such truths.”

Jaina coughed at that. It was a subject she was decidedly uninterested in. The tawdry tales of other people’s business had never interested her, much less when it involved the bedroom. Was this man capable of having a tame conversation? She was ready to blame it on the wine last night. Maybe a lack of coffee or morning tea could be blamed now.

“And what else do your rumors say about me then?” Jaina asked as she gestured for him to hand the crystal back to her.

“You did something to impress my sister, or that she owed some great favor to Archmage Antonidas to take you on, or to your family. But if I know one thing for certain about Sylvanas, it’s that she distrusts mages and that she hates managing our pathetic excuse for a navy, so I can’t imagine what she wants from Dalaran or Kul Tiras,” Lirath told her.

There wasn’t anything, though, that she could want. Or could hope to gain. Jaina had gone over this a thousand times in her head, trying to puzzle out the answer. But she had been decidedly not an asset to anyone. Even Kael’thas, who had pushed for their meeting. Who Sylvanas also appeared to distrust greatly.

“I cut ties with Antonidas after we finished the resettlement project. He would have had me acting like I owed him my life for at least another decade or two otherwise. And my family wouldn’t give you anything, at least not for me or my sake. They think elves are strange and silly and that you and your magic are an affront to the Tides, even though they sent me away to learn it,” Jaina explained.

“Then you had to have impressed her,” Lirath offered. “What did you do? A walking handstand? A backflip? You don’t look like much of an acrobat to me.”

Jaina ignored that for a moment, testing the crystal with a brief charge of arcane from her reserves. She watched Lirath’s ears perk up. He must have sensed it. 

“I shot moving targets and didn’t miss any,” Jaina confessed. That was it. That was all she had done. And still, she didn’t understand why it had been enough.

“Sounds like something she’d like,” Lirath said.

The soft little smile he gave her was enough for Jaina to need to command this conversation back on track, “Let me see where the crystal goes in again.”

It looked too much like his sister’s. The secret and honest one that Jaina had just started being able to summon from her now and then. 

“I should scream when I do it. For the drama. Here it goes,” Lirath said as he pushed on a hidden button in the gold of his right arm. He did indeed scream, a high and girlish shriek for his otherwise smooth voice. “Someone help! My arm!” Jaina rolled her eyes. “See? Morbid. All of you. I’ve only ever met Vereesa once and barely shared a few words with her, but I bet she’s the same.” “Oh, definitely the worst out of the three of us,” Lirath agreed as he bent down to bring his arm level with the workbench, the inner workings of it now exposed, along with the current arcane crystal that powered the construct.

And right away, Jaina could see the problem. It was a violet crystal. More powerful, yes. More expensive, of course. More prestigious and valued? Definitely. Just what elves would use. But it was far too powerful for such a small construct.

She went to snatch it out of its bindings, but then stopped short. “I never asked. Do you feel it? Will this hurt you?” Lirath shrugged. “To a degree. I can distinguish levels of pressure, some sensation. Otherwise, what’s the point of having it if there’s no feedback? I wouldn’t know how to differentiate the grip required for a crystal glass versus an iron bar. Besides, don’t you want to hear me scream some more?” “Belore, no,” Jaina told him.

“You sound like you spend too much time with elves,” Lirath chuckled, a sound that stifled quickly as Jaina separated the crystal from the circuit, and the arm fell lifeless to the workbench, reduced to nothing more than a pile of metal bits and bobs.

“You made it seem like it wouldn’t really hurt,” Jaina said, biting back concern as she set the violet crystal down.

“It’s just...numb. Suddenly. Please, keep going and keep talking. Don’t worry about me,” Lirath offered, adjusting to put more of his weight on the knees he was now down on, and his good elbow on the other side of the table top.

“Right, sorry,” Jaina said as she began to charge up the golden crystal to prepare it as a replacement. “I said keep talking. Let’s go, Jaina. Rumors. Other people’s business. Distract me while you dismember me. Even Liadrin has a better bedside manner than this,” Lirath prodded.

“I hate rumors,” she told him, testing a spark off the crystal, and furrowing her brow when it didn’t react enough for her liking. 

She poured more of her mana into it, feeling a bit of relief as the stream of arcane wafted off of her. She hadn’t been able to use it nearly enough while still sticking to her now rather unnecessary promise to Sylvanas about not using her magic without permission. She didn’t count this against that, though. It had been Sylvanas that suggested Lirath speak to her about it, after all. She would be pleased to know what they were doing, here at the crack of dawn in her father’s tower, while everyone else slept off their wine.

“Tell me why my sister looks at you like she very much wants to reach out and touch you, but won’t let herself,” Lirath started.

Jaina nearly dropped the crystal, then did, as she failed to catch it with a suddenly ungainly and fumbling hand. It rolled onto the workbench, coming to a stop against the dormant metal of Lirath’s arm, flickering with a feeble glow that indicated it still wasn’t fully charged.

“She does not,” Jaina assured him.

“Let herself? I know. She’s such a martyr. Trust me. She probably thinks you’re too human to like women, but I have eyes, Jaina. Eyes enough to see that you couldn’t bear to look at anyone in the baths last night, but kept letting your gaze wander to her all the same,” Lirath said, his toothy elven grin returning.

“Can we talk about literally anyone else?” Jaina managed to stammer out as she took up the crystal again and started charging it up again. “Um...Prince Kael’thas seems awfully familiar with Magister Dar’khan Drathir.” “They love to plot to take over the world together,” Lirath said, though the news clearly didn’t impress him, or seem like it shocked him. Damn. So much for that distraction. “Maybe one day they actually will, but I doubt it. Nope, our last subject is a much more juicy topic of conversation. I love talking shit on my sisters. Or at least, when they’re not here to hear about it.” “I’d be afraid, if I were you,” Jaina countered, trying her best to focus on what she was doing.

“Oh, I’m deathly afraid,” Lirath assured her. “Sylvanas gives the worst elbow twists in Quel’thalas and stopped being afraid about breaking my remaining arm in the process a few years ago.”

“So mind your own business then,” Jaina told him. “Suddenly all about secrecy when it comes to Sylvanas, hmm? You’re only proving the theory, you know. You two would be very cute together, if either of you would let it happen,” Lirath offered.

“You’re mad,” Jaina told him, all but jamming the crystal into place in his arm once she released it and found it glowing consistently. Maybe as punishment. Maybe a little.

Lirath let out a grunt of surprise as the limb animated itself again, turning from a disarray of metal chunks and into the form for an arm again, with coils of arcane magic wrapping themselves into place of the joints. He stood, letting it settle into holding itself aloft again. When that test proved successful, he flexed the hand into a fist, then let the fingers unfurl slowly, one by one.

A grin spread over his features that had nothing to do with anyone’s business but his own. “I see what you meant before. The movement is smoother, less jerky.” “Sometimes, you don’t need the best and most expensive thing to get the job done,” Jaina echoed from their talk the night before, sharing his grin, as much for their success as for the fact that it had shut him up. Then added, “Damn elves.” “Damn prudish humans and their ingenuity,” Lirath countered, flexing his fingers. “I have a feeling we’ll have to keep tweaking, though.” “It’s likely,” Jaina said. “But your father has a lovely crystal collection here for us to plunder, as well as the tools required for making just about any construct. Or fiddling with someone else’s.” “So I’ll be hosting you at Windrunner Spire again?” Lirath asked with a mischievous sparkle in his glowing blue eyes. “Maybe next time you’ll let me intrude upon your love life.” “Yes to an invitation to return, no to the intruding,” Jaina said, offering her hand. Lirath stared at it. “You’re supposed to shake it. Just the hands, though. None of this weird arm grabbing I’m learning about. It’s what we do when we make a deal in Kul Tiras,” Jaina instructed.

He reached out with his construct arm, seeming to get the idea that that was what she wanted from him. He watched it carefully as it shook Jaina’s hand, a little too gingerly and delicately to satisfy a hearty Kul Tiran merchant or ship captain, but confident enough as it let go to make Jaina happy. 

“Consider the deal made, but I doubt I’ll be able to hold by the second part of it for long,” Lirath said. “I’d um...I’d better make sure the cook is ready with breakfast. And that he knows to double it.” “Right,” Jaina replied with another shared grin, following his lead as he gestured toward the spiral staircase again. 

“You’re a great deal of fun, Jaina. I’ll make sure that my sister realizes that. If she keeps bumbling over it for a few years, well, maybe I’ll start some rumors about you and I. For now, Lor’themar’s little recruit seems far more available and willing to make trouble with me, though,” Lirath informed her. “What was his name again? Hathvelion, right?”

“I don’t know whether to be honored or not,” Jaina said. Though, if anything, she was more relieved to find out that she and Lirath shared a problem. Well, what she was currently viewing as a problem.

He seemed not to have an issue with it. She noticed his ears perk up before she heard the voices below. They were nearly on the bottom floor of the tower. Lirath gestured for her to stop and they sunk against the outer wall, listening. “It looks like shit.” That was definitely Valeera. Her tone was casual and youthful, belying a rich voice that sung as well as it spoke. “It doesn’t, child. Trust me. You’ll never be quite happy with it until you see her face when you give it to her. Then it won’t matter what it looks like.” And that scratchy voice was definitely Illeryn’s. The old captain, who was the only one of Sylvanas’ rangers that showed any sign of age, meaning that she had to have at least a thousand years on the combined ages of all the rest of the tower’s young inhabitants. 

That last statement made Lirath let out a stifled squeal, which he smothered with his natural hand against his lips. He slunk down a few more steps, then beckoned Jaina to follow him, but put a finger to his lips to caution her silence.

She moved as quietly as she could to shuffle next to him, and was greeted with a view of Illeryn bent over the jeweler's bench, while Valeera paced behind her. 

“Really, you’ve done a fine job. How many have you made?” Illeryn asked her as she leaned back.

“I lost count,” Valeera grunted. “You think it’s okay?” “It’s beautiful,” Illeryn said. Only her body was angled in just such a way that it blocked whatever was on the bench so that Jaina and Lirath couldn’t see it, much to their mutually shared frustration.

“I still think it looks like shit, but maybe less like shit than the others,” Valeera said as she came over to the bench to inspect the mystery object again.

“You were making them before we left for Thalasdiel,” Illeryn observed. “If you’ve made so many you lost count.” “Mind your own business, old woman. Selanay said you would help me, not judge me,” Valeera snapped.

“I’m not judging you,” Illeryn assured her, reaching out to flick at one of her ears that poked up from the mass of her blonde hair. “Or her, for that matter. I just didn’t realize it was that serious.” “Well, it is,” Valeera said as she rubbed at the offended ear. “Maybe. If she thinks so, that is. I don’t know. It was about time I made one anyway. So you don’t think I should change it?” “Your token is supposed to represent you, Valeera,” Illeryn told her. “That might be my only criticism. You made a hair pin, and happen to be interested in being exclusive with a woman who wears her hair up all the time.” “Again with your judging,” Valeera spat.

“Just a comment, that’s all. But I do love the emerald and the gold. I think that’s very you. So take it as a small criticism and one that comes from a fondness for the both of you. And the way you set it? Well, if you ever decide to retire from ranger life, you might look for work as a jeweler with skill like that,” Illeryn told her.

“Now you’re flattering me. I don’t know what to believe,” Valeera sighed. 

They both leaned over to look at the object, giving just enough of a change to their angle for Jaina and Lirath to catch a flash of green and gold. It was indeed a delicate hairpin, the style with a cover that was pierced with the pin, where the cover was a curved and filigreed piece of gold, beset with a large emerald, and the pin itself held a matching one at its base.

“What is that? What are they even talking about?” Jaina whispered to Lirath as softly as she could, so as not to alert any sensitive elven ears below.

“Fuck, you don’t know?” he asked. “Isn’t that obvious?” Jaina countered.

“Oh, dear Jaina, you still have so much more to learn about us,” Lirath told her. “Tell me, has anyone offered you any jewelry since you’ve been in Quel’thalas?” “No,” she told him, still perplexed.

“Thank all the gods. Don’t accept it unless you want to be in a serious romantic relationship with them. That’s what it means. And it’s not just rings like you humans do. But maybe accept my sister’s pendant, if she gives it to you. She’s such a lonely creature,” Lirath explained. 

“Elves...why not just ask? Why jewelry?” Jaina mumbled.

“We like shiny things, Jaina. And extravagance. Are you all that surprised?”

“Not all. I suppose we probably shouldn’t be witnessing this conversation too,” Jaina surmised.

“Not really. It’s kind of a private thing. But positively adorable. Valeera is a bit young to be thinking about even making a token, much less giving it away. I haven’t even bothered to make one for myself yet. But she and Liadrin are wonderful together. I thought so even when I caught them kissing in my library on their visit last year for Valeera’s Thalasdiel,” Lirath informed her.

“That also doesn’t surprise me,” Jaina told him, stifling a laugh as they settled against the wall and continued their snooping, thankfully still unnoticed by the two others below.

---

Sylvanas woke to the familiar ceiling of her own room in Windrunner Spire. To the same patterns of light filtering in from the windows, broken up by elegant minarets and the leafy silhouettes of towering golden oaks, that had greeted her there all her life. 

Home still wasn’t a comforting place. Even with the softness of her fine sheets on the skin of her back. Even with the mountain of the softest pillows in the whole estate that she was piled in, that she always used to steal from her siblings. Now they were left for her, perhaps not so soft or so coveted when no one was there to fight her to regain possession of them. 

No, it still wasn’t right. She should have been woken by Alleria’s too loud footfalls in the room above her as she readied herself for a morning hunt, or to go back out for another scouting mission again. She should have been shoving Vereesa out of her bed and telling her that she needed to learn to sleep in her own room like a big girl. She should have been telling Lirath that it was far too early for him to practice his flute. 

But no, not even a noise from her little brother in his bottom floor room of the tower. He was probably still asleep. He had every right to take the lord’s tower now, and inhabit those chambers, where her parents had slept. Sylvanas supposed she also had that right, as the Ranger General and technically the true heir to the estate. As the eldest living Windrunner. 

But no, neither of them had dared to move from their childhood rooms. What would her people say about her, if they knew the Ranger General still slept in the nursery spire when she was home?

Sylvanas would normally banish such thoughts and move forward. But it was hard, in this place. It had always been hard, or at least since the year it was made so empty so suddenly. That was why she left it for Lirath to manage. Even now, she could hardly stand it.

“Get up,” she said to herself, for herself. 

It only took her a few more moments to force herself to obey that command, to her credit. 

Still, it felt like walking through tar. She went through the motions, but this place just weighed down on her with a heaviness that had somehow no substance, but a solidness she couldn’t escape. She found her way to the bathroom, washed her face, dressed in her leathers and armor, and even reapplied a fresh smattering of ranger kohl to her eyes. She knew that the others were probably enjoying their respite here, in the lavish comforts of her noble home.

But Sylvanas would much rather be sleeping in her tent again. 

She caught a view of the gardens from her window, the rising sun just now illuminating them fully--catching the dew on the carefully manicured hedges and nurtured blossoms that sprouted from them. A place that belied what had happened there. A mockery. An illusion. 

She could remember still, riding hard through the night, coming upon the Spire on a morning much like this one, only to find those fine pale flowers stained with red. Only to find that the orcs and their new;y acquired Amani allies had sacked the place before anyone could warn her grieving father and brother of the coming onslaught. She could remember, still, finding those that had served her family as guards and cooks and maids and stewards, all piled on the courtyard and left to rot. Sylvanas could still remember the grimace of pain on Lirath’s face that had let her know he was still alive, when she had moved her father’s body off of the top of him. Even though the massive axe that Aravath had so valiantly tried to protect his son from had pierced them both.

She shook the memory from her mind, only to see it replaced with the same gardens that had been there since her childhood. Restored, somehow, to an unbroken and undefiled state. By some magic Sylvanas didn’t understand or care to understand. In fact, the whole estate was rendered free of the scars of that day. But to her, it would never be the same.

From the same vantage, she could see the dark windows of the lord’s spire. Sylvanas looked up further to find the sun. Grand Belore was still sleepy in her morning path, just barely hovering above the eastern horizon, only slivers of her light visible through the trees. Sylvanas had some time before she had to be seen again, and before she had to pretend not to be as haunted as she was for another day.

She had time to have a conversation about it with the only person who stood any chance of easing those thoughts. A person that haunted her all the same, but whose often silent wisdom translated well in death, at least.

Sylvanas made her way across the courtyard and its lying gardens to the lord’s tower, opening a door to the darkness of it, and ascending the steps to the bedchamber with feet that had never forgotten the way.

A gesture from her was enough to summon the magelights back to life. Even with no magic to call her own, save the little bit of nature and arcane that a skilled ranger could tap into, she could make them work. They would respond to any Windrunner.

“Mother? I just want to have a little talk,” Sylvanas said to the empty room. 

The tower top was a tomb. Furniture covered with sheets, never moved, never otherwise distrubed. Cloaks left on their pegs. An empty bow rack that had once proudly served as a resting place for Thas’dorah. 

And a portrait of her parents, hanging proudly over a hearth. Well, of her family. But her mother was at the center of it, black hair streaked with silver that matched her eyes. Surrounded by her legacy. Alleria and Sylvanas stood tall next to her. Vereesa, still a child when they posed for this, grinned with Sylvanas’ hand on her little shoulder. Lirath was only a bundle of blankets in her father’s arms. 

Sure, she could still talk to some of the people in that painting. She could go seek Lirath out right now. But he wouldn’t have answers for her. She was supposed to have answers for him. And she tried. Gods did she ever try. But Sylvanas had never been prepared to dispense that sort of wisdom. She was still not sure if she could.

“I’m doing fine, by the way,” Sylvanas went on, approaching the hearth and resting a hand on the cold stone of its mantle. “Mostly. But we’ll get to that. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve absolutely enraged half of the Ranger Lords. Maybe more. I accepted a human into my squad and they’re losing their minds about it.” Lireesa had cared as little for politics as her daughters did. She left those maneuverings to her husband when she could. And she certainly despised the constant, petty infighting of the Ranger Lords. 

“And that’s all working out surprisingly well. The human, that is. I think you would have liked her, if you met her. She’s a very honest person, very direct, when you can get it out of her. You always appreciated that.” Lireesa offered no judgement. She never did. Her image just smiled fondly, looking a bit worn and a bit tired of all this posing and posturing, as it always did.

“Alleria’s baby is here. You never met him, and he’s not a baby anymore. He grows so fast, and looks so much like her,” Sylvanas continued. “That’s still such an odd phrase to say...Alleria’s baby. Who would have ever imagined her having a baby, huh?” “Speaking of that, Vereesa and her new husband are doing well. I suspect we’ll probably hear about more babies soon enough. But that one we all expected. You remember how she would cart around as many dolls as her little hands could carry everywhere she went? How she had ridiculous names for all of them? I think she got that from how father named his dragonhawks. I fear for her impending children and how they’ll be teased.”

Lireesa didn’t offer support for that memory, or that fear. Sylvanas very much wished she could have at least met Arator. Lireesa would have been so thrilled to be a grandmother. 

Sylvanas thought for a moment about bringing him here. But no, he wouldn’t understand. He would just think her strange and sentimental. And that wasn’t what anyone needed from her.

“I got a concussion a little while ago. An Amani party surprised my squad while we were sleeping. Used a hexer to keep us asleep. I dreamt of you telling me to wake up. One knocked me out of a tree with a throwing axe. I was never good at landing on my feet. But I’m okay. Liadrin healed me. She’s still with us, and I suspect one of my young rangers is going to make it very difficult for her to leave,” Sylvanas went on.

“But I didn’t come here just to tell you what’s happened. If you’re listening, then I suspect you don’t need me to tell you. It’s just…” And here, finally, was where she struggled with the words. Struggled to put the weight into them. It all felt like iron chains wrapped around her neck and shoulders. And it was suddenly too much for her to carry.

“Mother, how did you do it? How did you just keep going? No matter what happened. No matter who died. What plans fell through. What attempts failed. How?” It hadn’t been the first time she asked Lireesa this question. She didn’t know what kind of answer she hoped for. But she was still waiting for it.

“I know I have very little to complain about. There is no war looming on the horizon. The invaders that killed you are dealt with now, resettled across the sea with a promise of peace. The Amani are as restless as ever, but their numbers are too few to mount any serious assaults. I have an easy enough job now, compared to when I first started it...when you died.” “But, maybe it’s because that leaves me with time to question. And that’s another thing. You were a good Ranger General, and you somehow still managed to be a wonderful mother to all of us. Me? I can’t even bear to be here. I love Lirath, but I can’t even look at him without my heart hurting. And did you know it’s been two years since I’ve even seen Arator? Fuck…”

How had she any right to feel lonely, when she didn’t even see what family she had left? She was supposed to hold them together. She was supposed to take over and be their rock. Yet she couldn’t stand to be here. She always made some excuse to run away, to distract herself with the next responsibility. 

“I don’t know how to be you,” Sylvanas told her mother. “I thought if I pretended long enough, that it would just happen one day. But it’s been so long already, and I still feel like I’m pretending. Did you pretend too, mother? This whole time, were you still pretending?” Lireesa was as silent as ever.

“Well, if you were, you had me fooled.” Sylvanas looked out of the windows, overlooking the other side of the courtyard now to find it brighter, with shorter shadows of spires shading it. It was getting late now. Time to make an appearance for the living. Sylvanas rubbed at her eyes, hoping that she hadn’t managed to smudge the kohl on them too much. She didn’t really have time to fix it again.

And then she heard voices. “Yup, lights are on. She does this thing when she’s home where she goes to talk to them. I mean, I don’t blame her. I do it too, but I try not to be near as obvious,” Lirath was explaining to someone, and not doing so quietly enough for her not to hear.

“It seems like we should leave her alone then. She’ll come down in her own time.”

And that was Jaina, of all people. Why was Jaina with him? “Belore no, she’ll brood for days if you do. I need to go be a host again. Be a dear and convince her to come eat something and be social? I really hate trying to parent my older sister, but I think you’ve got just the right amount of nag for it,” Lirath offered.

“Another lovely compliment from you,” Jaina snipped at him quietly. Sylvanas had never heard her engage in such quick back and forth like this. Of course it would be Lirath to bring it out in her.

“I am full of only lovely things, Jaina,” Lirath assured her. “Now, please go make my sister stop moping. It’s not healthy.”

Sylvanas heard a croak come from Jaina as she tried to make a retort, but at the same time, the door shut rather loudly below. Lirath had left her there with little choice but to comply.

It was all rather loud, honestly. All very much meant for her to be able to hear. Lirath was shameless about such things either way. And she truly did love him for it.

Well, sometimes. Not right now. Not as she tried to mould herself back into some semblance of respectability as she heard Jaina mount the steps. There was almost a feeling to it, a transformation of sorts. Shoulders set straight. Chin up. Eyes focused.

Sylvanas could remember her mother coaching her through that much, telling her how she should look when her training captain came round to inspect her and her troops.

Only Jaina wasn’t some stern old elf. She climbed the top step with a quiet reverence, meeting Sylvanas’ eyes briefly before looking down. Shrinking closer to the wall, as if she felt that might make her presence here less intrusive. 

Sylvanas didn’t find it so. This wasn’t a place she hid from others. Just a part of herself that she did.

“Lirath sent me for you,” Jaina explained. Her voice was quiet, but still echoed through the high ceilings of the room. “He said you might be here. I can go, though. I’ll tell him you’re busy.” “It’s all right,” Sylvanas assured her. “I was just about to leave.” “This was your parents’ room,” Jaina observed.

“Yes.” What else could be said? It was. And she was here. Here, talking to a picture, like a fool. Like it would ever talk back to her.

Jaina’s gaze followed hers as she looked back up at it. And Sylvanas felt the need to explain herself. “I like this portrait of us. I should probably have it moved somewhere more public. Maybe not. I guess I come here to pay my respects sometimes, when I’m at the Spire.” Every time. It was every time. She would come and talk to her mother. Sometimes her father. Sometimes to yell at Alleria for the mess she’d left behind.

Jaina stepped out into the room to get a better look, eventually coming to stand beside her, but not too close. “You look like her,” Jaina said after studying the painting for a moment.

“You think?” Sylvanas asked. Though they shared the same distinct steel-colored eyes, she had always thought herself very different from her mother. Maybe it was the strank contrast of their hair, black to silvery platinum. Or maybe it was the fact that she felt she could never equal her.

“Very much so. I’ve not seen her in true color, just the statues and such all over Silvermoon,” Jaina noted. “You look more like her than your sisters do.” “I suppose that’s true,” Sylvanas answered. It was. Alleria had her father’s hair, but otherwise seemed to be a creature entirely of her own making. Vereesa reminded her more of portraits of their paternal grandmother, whom Sylvanas herself had never met. 

“It’s normal, you know, to grieve,” Jaina said after another moment of silence passed between them. “Just because you are responsible for so many people doesn’t mean that you aren’t allowed that.” “You sound like my mother,” Sylvanas said, a smile creeping up into her features that she allowed to show. “She was always full of wise things to say, but little explanation beyond that. I used to think she did it on purpose, to make me figure it all out for myself.” “I sound like the priestess that coached me through recovering after the explosion,” Jaina offered instead, but smiled with her all the same. “Always something about ‘time will heal all wounds’. Or whatever other load of shit they always say. Still, I thought it might help."

"You've spent too much time with Lirath already," Sylvanas observed.

"Maybe," Jaina appeared to agree. 

They shared another moment of quiet, still looking up at the painting. Then Jaina quickly looked between her and the image of her mother, once, then twice.

"Your earring," was all she said to explain that.

Right. The golden leaf. Sylvanas still wore it. She had since the day she took it from her mother's body and tried to give it back to her father. It was his, after all. His token, exchanged with her so long ago, before they had even married. It should have gone back to him then, but he refused it. Told her to keep it.

Sylvanas had pierced her own ear with it that very day.

"I'm not sure if you know about this. Maybe you do. We give tokens to one another to sort of formalize a courtship. Not quite so serious as human engagement rings, but a little more serious than just an ordinary gift between lovers. This earring was what my father gave to my mother. I wear it for both of them," Sylvanas said, flicking the ear that bore it. 

"I think that's very beautiful. Both the earring and the reason you wear it," Jaina told her.

The quiet of the room took over again, but this time, Jaina was looking at her.

"Sylvanas, are you all right?" Jaina asked after the silence stretched too long.

"Yes," she answered. Then it felt wrong to lie. "I just...I hate being here. Please don't tell Lirath. This house feels so empty and wrong. There's a reason why I'm never here."

"You should have said as much to the rest of us. No one would make you stay if you didn't want to," Jaina almost whispered in reply.

"It’s expected of me to offer everyone a break here, Jaina. I will be fine. We'll be back on the road again tomorrow," Sylvanas assured her.

"Do you ever do anything you want to do?" Jaina asked.

"I…"

Sylvanas was going to say that she did. She would go out to dinner with Lor’themar in the city on nights they were stuck working there. But really that was mostly to placate him and stop him from bothering her about it. She would come home on leave and let Lirath lead her around the estate and talk about the things he was having fixed or repaired. She would hunt alone, most times she could get away otherwise, but that was just to clear her mind of all of the things that clouded it on a daily basis. She usually came back too soon with too little game or solace to show for it.

"I try to," was the answer she finally arrived at.

"That's really the only useful advice I've ever been given by my family. Last time I went back home to Kul Tiras, I asked my mother what I should do about the mess I had made of my life. She said, 'I don't care. Do whatever you want, Jaina.'"

They shared a little laugh at that, bitter on both sides.

"Your mother at least doesn't seem like the type that would have said things like that," Jaina added.

"No, but she would tell me to take time for myself and to make sure I was happy. She always managed to do that somehow," Sylvanas answered.

"Then she was wise," Jaina said.

The sound echoed through the room again. Jaina looked up at the painting, but Sylvanas looked at her. She was close enough to see the corners of her eyes wrinkle a little, as if straining in thought.

What was she thinking so hard about?

"I want to do something," Jaina told her after a while. 

And then she stepped closer to her. Jaina let out a shuddering breath, then set a hand on Sylvanas' elbow, guiding her closer to her. She let out another against her lips before she kissed her.

Her lips were soft and warm. She smelled like soap and those lying gardens. Sparks of her arcane arced through the touch in a way that only an elf could feel and appreciate, charging the kiss with a power that felt almost sinful, but mostly for how freely it flowed between them. How easily.

And how good it felt. At least until Jaina pulled away.

"That wasn't the right thing to do, was it?" she asked under her own shaking breath.

"I'm not sure. Let's see," Sylvanas offered.

And this time, she kissed her. She took hold of the strap of Jaina's bow holster, pulling their bodies flush together. All heat and magic and something that was decidedly not the emptiness of this place. Something full and wonderful--wild and new.

Maybe not near as wonderful as the way Jaina looked at her when she pulled away, wide-eyed and softened. Awed in a way that said it was obvious she had felt the same, or maybe found the answers to her own questions in the kiss.

"Sylvanas Windrunner!" came the cry from downstairs. 

How had they missed hearing the door open again?

Only that yell was yet an entirely new voice. One Sylvanas had similarly not heard in a while. 

"It's mid-morning! Get your sad ass down here and say hello to me already!" Vereesa shouted up from below.

Sylvanas let go of Jaina instantly upon hearing that, hoping that the dread that no doubt colored her features would serve as an explanation.

"I didn't know you were here yet, Little Moon," Sylvanas called down as an answer.

And quickly ran a hand over her hood and armor to make sure nothing got dislodged during the kiss. No. Thankfully, but not thankfully, it hadn't gone on long enough for that.

"I've been here for an hour, trying to find out where my nephew has run off to, only to find two dozen half-drunk rangers stumbling around looking for breakfast and no sign of you or Lirath," Vereesa went on as she began to stomp her way up the steps.

"If you're going to scold me for--"

"Oh, we are past that already, Lady Moon. You know where I found Arator? In his room, doing his homework. I would swear he was switched at birth for someone else’s child if I wasn't there to witness it myself. You crying and saying you wished mom were still here to fix everything. Liadrin cursing at you and Alleria both while Alleria cursed back at her and screamed like lynx in heat the whole time. What a tender moment for that poor baby. We don't deserve him," Vereesa continued, her volume increasing not only with proximity, but with maybe a tinge of anger as she got closer.

Maybe more than a tinge. "I know. We don't," Sylvanas agreed.

"Tell me you talked to him yesterday, at least. He misses you," Vereesa pleaded, finally coming into view at the top of the steps.

And too busy rubbing her temples to notice Jaina taking a big step back, thankfully.

"We talked several times. As much as a young man is prone to talk. I asked him how his lessons were going and he said, 'Fine'. Very enlightening conversation," Sylvanas assured her.

"Did you at least plan on feeding him today or--" Vereesa stopped her tirade as she looked up. "Oh. I'm sorry Lady Proudmoore, I didn't realize you were here."

"Um, not a problem, Captain Windrunner," Jaina said, offering a ranger salute to Vereesa. "I was also trying to get Sylvanas to come down."

Vereesa blinked once, then twice. "I keep forgetting. Sorry, it's just odd to see you in ranger armor. But it's good. You look good. Positively glowing, or something."

Or perhaps like she'd just kissed and been kissed. Gods, of all people to interrupt that, an angry and self-righteous Vereesa was not who Sylvanas would have chosen. 

"Thank you, I suppose," Jaina answered.

"You don't mind then, if we hurry Sylvanas along? Let's ask mother if she'd mind? Oh wait, we can't,  because she's dead," Vereesa continued, staring at Sylvanas as she said the last part.

"No need to be so morbid. I was just leaving," Sylvanas said, throwing her hands up in defense. 

"No less morbid than yelling at a painting. Don't look shocked, we all know you do it."

Sylvanas knew that they knew. She knew that the time she came up here just after Vereesa's wedding, she'd found her bridal bouquet left to dry on the mantle, all white lilies and roses, going dry and yellow as they too withered into a mere memory.

"Come on, Jaina. Is it alright if I call you Jaina?" Vereesa at least stopped to ask.

Jaina nodded to this. She touched her lips briefly, then seemed to realize what she was doing and snatched her hand back. 

"Good. Well, Jaina and I are going to join everyone for breakfast, and hopefully we will find our little brother there so I can give him a piece of my mind too. You are very much encouraged to follow," Vereesa said.

"I said I was going," Sylvanas claimed as she walked up to join her sister.

She hoped that the brief glance she shared with Jaina was enough to convey what she needed it to. That they should talk later. That this was something very much worth talking about. That they should have talked sooner. That she was a fool for not realizing that before. That perhaps, for once, she could allow herself to have something she wanted, especially if that something wanted her back.

But right at that moment, all Sylvanas could spare was that glance. Vereesa's wrath was legendary, and she was not about to be on the receiving end of any more of it than she needed to be.

[mxstyassasxin]

Baptize Me (T, 2k)

on AO3

Regulus woke, terrified again, screaming at the nightmare that would probably plague him for the rest of his life. As with every night, he was momentarily disoriented, looking around in confusion at the softly decorated room, pale walls offset by the rich raspberry furnishings. He was settling back onto the mounds of comfortable cushions littering the bed, taking deep breaths to calm himself, when the door opened and a woman with long red hair stood in the light from the landing, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Regulus," her voice was as comforting as the room. And familiar. "Was it the dream again?"

He swallowed his remaining fear and nodded, watching as she made her way across the room to sit on the edge of his bed, taking his hand in hers and studying his face with kind, green eyes.

"Lily," he breathed in recognition, leaning forward to wrap his arms around her, taking comfort in her steady presence. "I woke you, didn't I? You don't have to always come in here. I think you'd be doing it the rest of your life if you did."

"Yeah, well just be glad you got me and not James, he's a grumpy bugger when he's just woken up." Her laugh was light, and it added an extra glint to her eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked him, her voice taking on a more sombre tone. "If it'll help, you know."

Regulus just shook his head. "It's exactly the same as all the other nights I've been here, Lils. I don't know why you don't just turn me out with Sirius."

"Because you've got a price on your head, silly," she says, mussing up his dark, Black family hair. "You're safest here."

He'd been there, in Godrics Hollow, staying with James and Lily Potter for about a month now, every night waking from the same dream, the same nightmare of what might have happened had Kreacher not managed to pull him out of that cave.

He had given the locket to the wizened house elf and begged him to go, to destroy it, yelling what he was sure would be his final orders as the Inferi dragged his weakened body further into the water. Kreacher had surprised him by appearing in the water beside him and dragging him through the ether, with magic unique to house elves, back to Grimmauld Place. One second, Regulus' lungs had been filling with icy water and the next, he had been coughing it up onto Sirius' old, dusty, scarlet bed cover.

"Sirius' room?" he had questioned Kreacher between his wracking coughs. "I won't be able to get out of here, the door's locked."

"No, but I will." Regulus had jumped at the sound of his brother's voice, gravelly from those muggle things he insisted on smoking. "Kreacher," he greeted the house elf cordially before thanking him for something. "I'll take him from here. And the locket too."

Sirius had wrapped a leather-clad arm around Regulus' waist and held out a hand which Kreacher dropped the locket into, then twisted on the spot, apparating them both to Godrics Hollow. There, Remus had fed him chocolate and healed the deep wound he had cut in his palm, while Lily wrapped her arms around his shoulders and James tried to get Sirius to stop pacing a hole in the carpet.

He had barely seen Sirius or Remus since then, the two of them always out on missions for the Order, reluctant to visit for fear of leading the Death Eaters to Regulus. Lily told him one evening that the intensity and frequency of the missions had increased since Regulus had found the locket. It had been destroyed by Dumbledore almost immediately, but it had also confirmed a theory he had that there were more like it out there, hidden in various objects the Dark Lord had felt an affinity with. So, the Order members had been sent off to recover them, James and Lily staying behind to protect Regulus following his defection.

Truthfully, it made him feel a little guilty because James definitely did not enjoy being cooped up in the one place. Obviously, he would have preferred an active mission with his best friends but, when Regulus broached these concerns with him, James had just clapped him on the shoulder.

"Of course I would, mate, but Lily's my number one now. Wherever she is, I will be too and right now, that is here, protecting my best mate's little brother. We're all lucky to have her, don't you think."

And that was exactly what Regulus did think. How could he not when she was here, comforting him after his nightmares yet again, willing to protect him with her life if necessary whenever the Death Eaters decided to come calling.

"Thank you, Lily," he said to her now. "I don't know what I would do without you. I always wake up just as they drag me under and then you're always here, in the doorway with your hair like fire. That's the only way to kill them you know."

"I know," she told him, voice soft as she smiled at him. "Get some rest now, Regulus. Do you want some Dreamless Sleep?"

He shook his head. "No, thank you. It makes me feel funny. I don't like being unaware."

"Alright then. I'll leave the landing light on though. Good night."

"Good night, Lily," he said as she walked out the door.

Regulus tried to get to sleep again, he really did, but after a while he found himself turning to books again to occupy his mind. He had read all the books on the shelves in his room and had finished the one he'd come to bed with. So, he slipped his feet into the slippers by the side of his bed and made his way downstairs to the living room which had bookshelves either side of the fireplace.

He noticed that one particular book had been pulled free of the others and lay flat on the front of one of the shelves. Picking it up, the red, leather-bound book was no bigger than his hand. The pages, edged in red, were so thin that they appeared almost translucent and the writing upon them was tiny, an effort to fit so many words into such a small book. Regulus finished flipping quickly through the pages and ran his thumb thoughtfully over the symbol debossed into the cover.

Making his decision, he curled his legs up under him in the large armchair with the deep, comfortable seat and pulled the crochet blanket over to cover them, intrigued by the small book. He was even more intrigued when he opened it to the title page only to find ‘Lily Evans' scrawled in childish handwriting in the top right corner.

It seemed a very strange book for Lily to have had as a child. The passages were numbered strangely and different parts of it seemed to have been written by different people. Some of the themes it dealt with were also bizarre material for a child, but it ultimately appeared to be about the same main characters. Unfortunately, even his confusion at the strange stories couldn't ward off tiredness for long and that was how Lily found him in the morning, still with her small book held loosely in his grasp.

"Regulus," she shook him awake. "Regulus, I need that book today."

"Huh," he rubbed his eyes and yawned before attempting to shake himself awake. "Oh, morning Lils. Sorry, I found it last night when I couldn't sleep."

Lily chuckled softly and Regulus noticed that she was already dressed for the day in a knee-length woollen skirt, white cotton shirt and stockings. Stockings. Now that was a far cry from the Lily he had come to know. She even had a blazer of some sort flung over her forearm.

"Yes, it probably is one of the best books to use as a sleep aid. Now come on, I need it." She held out a hand to him.

"Are you going somewhere?" He asked, thinking that was the only reason for her attire.

"Yes, somewhere I haven't been able to go for a while."

"Out?" Regulus was confused. They were safe here. Why was she going somewhere?

"Yes, out." Lily rolled her eyes at him, so he scowled and handed her the book. "You don't have to worry, Reg. I'm going to transfigure my appearance a bit. You could come too if you wanted and Remus will be there. That's the only reason I'm willing to go this week."

Regulus perked up a bit hearing Remus would be there. "Will Sirius be there too?"

Lily just smiled amusedly. "No, he doesn't hold with what we're going to do. Neither does James. He thinks it's stupid we still go."

"Go where?" Regulus scowled and quirked an eyebrow.

"I guess you could say we're going to discuss the contents of this book," she said, holding it up slightly. "It can be a great relief in burdensome times. A habit left over from my upbringing in the muggle world."

"Okay then," Regulus agreed, thoroughly intrigued. "Let me get dressed. I'll be quick."

"You'll need a muggle suit. I think there's one in the wardrobe in the spare room," she called after him as he ran up the stairs.

Twenty minutes later, Regulus was sat on an uncomfortable wooden bench in a large, single-roomed building full of muggles, wearing a muggle suit charmed to fit him and transfigured slightly to mute his distinctive looks. Lily, too, was sporting brown hair now rather than fiery red and her bright green eyes were a fairly ordinary hazel. Remus, on his other side, couldn't hide his magical scars but he had adjusted the shape of his facial features just to throw them off a bit and was now leaning forward with his elbows on the shelf in front of him that was attached to the back of another bench, hands pressed together in front of him, head bowed.

Lily was pointing out different parts of the building to him even though he couldn't understand a majority of the terms she used, but he could still appreciate the simplistic beauty of a few of the pieces, especially the windows. She had only just finished explaining who the people depicted in one of the windows were when a man in white and black robes came to stand at the front of the room, his arms raised asking for silence.

As soon as everyone began speaking in unison of sins, repentance and forgiveness, Regulus could feel a warmth starting to radiate through his chest. Then there was a sort of song called a hymn that Regulus could only mumble along to but that filled his heart with hope. It was strange really, that this meeting of people felt so different from the meetings of Death Eaters he'd been present at, even though this group also seemed to be praising a single entity. There was no fear here, no oppression. The acts of the entity that the robed man spoke of reminded him a bit of magic and he glanced curiously to Lily who smiled at him and lifted her shoulders in a shrug.

When everyone in the building bowed their heads as Remus had done earlier, Regulus followed suit and listened to the soothing voice wash over him as it spoke of the vulnerable and the downtrodden, of the lonely and the meek. He found himself joining in easily and emotion was starting to prickle the back of his throat, so much so that he couldn't keep the tune of the next hymn properly. Then, Lily pulled him up to the front of the room, towards the robed man with everyone else. He was slightly nervous now because the man had begun talking about body and blood, and Regulus had had enough bad experiences with that, but Lily reassured him it was just bread and wine, symbolising an oath, so he would just kneel for a blessing.

A blessing. Him. Regulus Black received a blessing from a muggle, and that had really put him in danger of the prickle at the back of his throat becoming tears he could barely hold back. What ended up pushing him over the edge though, just a few moments later, were the dozens of muggles, men, women and children, who grasped his hand and wished for peace to be upon him.

He didn't hear any more of the meeting after that. Not even the final hymn as the emotions had risen in him to become a river of tears that would not stop flowing. All he could do was take comfort, once again, in Lily's arms and remember this new, overwhelming feeling of peace and forgiveness that he had found.

[maggicsorceress]

Prompt: Nightmare x Killer, learning each other’s holiday traditions (and maybe coming up with some news ones too?)

Mmmmm this prompt is some good shit 👌🏻👌🏻 thank you hon! 😌✨

I own none of these characters!

~~

Nightmare wasn’t super into the holidays. Don’t get him wrong, he loved getting to spend time with the people he cared about, and there was always a certain air that fell upon everyone around Christmas time that made everything look new and fresh and beautiful. So, probably more realistically, he didn’t care for the materialistic side of the holiday.

Growing up with Dream and their mother, their Christmas celebrations were always very...tame. They did a lot of baking together, and there generally weren’t many gifts under the Christmas tree, but neither of the brothers were disappointed by the lack of gifts, and grew up relatively humble as a result.

When their mother died, Dream and Nightmare kept up the traditions she had taught them and, no matter where they were or what they were doing, they spent Christmas together.

But not this year.

This year, things were different.

Despite how much his brother had reassured him, Nightmare still felt a little bad about leaving him to spend Christmas with Killer instead. Dream had Cross though, so he was sure he would be fine.

He would admit that he was not prepared for how vastly different his and his boyfriend’s holiday traditions were.

“Killer?” Nightmare said. “What, in God’s name, is that?”

‘That’ being a worn elf doll propped up on a bookshelf in Killer’s living room. It was situated so that it appeared to be sitting, plush legs hanging over the edge of the shelf. Nightmare had only been over for about an hour and already he was seeing so many strange things. The elf, a strange plant hanging from the ceiling in a doorway, the sheer amount of lights Killer had strung up outside, and not to mention the way the entire house smelled violently of cinnamon.

“What do you mean?” Killer asked, raising his head to look where Nightmare was pointing. “Oh, the elf on the shelf?”

“The what on the what?”

“The elf on the shelf.” Killer laughed. “What, you’ve never seen one before?”

“Is this another one of your rediculous decorating things?” Nightmare said. “Like the plant hanging from the ceiling back there?”

“No, the elf on the shelf is a super fun game! You move it around until Christmas, so every time you see it it’s in a different place.” Killer explained. “And don’t tell me you’ve never hung mistletoe before! You know what that is, right?”

“First of all, that elf thing sounds completely rediculous.” Nightmare said. “Secondly, of course I know what mistletoe is, but no I’ve never hung it in my house.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, gee, I don’t know.” Nightmare said, sarcastic. “I don’t know why I never hung mistletoe in the house I shared with only my brother for about five years.”

Killer burst out laughing and made his way across the room to the couch where Nightmare was sitting, plopping down next to him and throwing an arm around his shoulders.

“Poor Dream.” Killer said. “His brother is so cruel.”

“I love Dream, but I sure as hell am not gonna kiss him.”

Killer shrugged and raised a hand to gently cup Nightmare’s jaw, pulling their faces close. “More for me then, I guess.”

Nightmare snorted and leaned forward to peck Killer lightly on the lips. “Dork.”

“You know it.” Killer said with a sigh. “So, if you don’t hang mistletoe or put an elf on the shelf, what do you do for the holidays?”

“Well, there’s...what? Five days ‘til Christmas?” Nightmare thought out loud. “Do you have a Christmas tree?”

“Yeah.” Killer said. “It’s in the shed.”

Nightmare blinked. “Why...why is it in the shed?”

“‘Cause I...have to put it somewhere for the rest of the year?”

“You...have a plastic tree.”

“Yeah?” Killer said, confused.

Nightmare heaved a heat sigh and stood up, holding out a hand for Killer.

“Well,” He began, “I guess now is my chance to add in one of my own traditions. C’mon, we’re going out.”

~

The drive wasn’t a very long one, and before long they were pulling into a nearly empty gravel parking area. It had snowed recently, so the ground was covered by a crisp coating of white. They were a little on the outskirts of town, where trees grew tall around them and the roads were more dirt than pavement, but Nightmare had been coming out here since he was a kid. Together, he and Killer stepped out of the car and looked around. There was a large house in the distance, and at the edge of the parking area a family sat around a fire pit in camping chairs. When they saw Nightmare, they waved.

“A little late this year, aren’t you?” One of the men called. Nightmare laughed.

“Dream and I are switching it up this year.” Nightmare said. He gestured to Killer. “I have to educate this heathen on proper Christmas trees.”

The family laughed and the man spoke again. “We’ve got a few good ones left. Holler when you find one you like!”

“Thanks!” Nightmare called back, reaching out and taking Killer’s hand. “Let’s go.”

He led Killer down a narrow, muddy pathway and out into a field of decently sized pine trees. They grew in rows, in an array of shapes and sizes and smells, and Nightmare turned to look at Killer.

“Welcome to one of my holiday traditions:” Nightmare said. “Cutting down our Christmas tree.”

“You get a real tree?” Killer clarified. “Every year?”

“Yep.”

Killer whistled. “Damn. How do you even get it home?”

“You strap it to the roof.” Nightmare said with a shrug.

“Damn...”

“It’s not that hard to do with an extra set of hands.” Nightmare said. “Dream was always with me, so it didn’t take that long.”

“But...why go out and deal with that every year when you can just buy a plastic one and reuse it?” Killer asked.

“Because,” Nightmare began, tugging Killer towards a nearby pine tree, “fake trees don’t smell this nice.”

The air around them was tinged with the sharp scent of fresh pine and chipped bark, the scent intensified by the chill of the winter wind. It was one of the reasons Nightmare refused to get a fake tree. The scent held so many memories. Tugging gently on Killer’s hand, he urged the other to walk along with him, crunching through ankle deep snow.

“We came here every year.” Nightmare said, nostalgia flooding through him. “I don’t even remember how old I was when my mom first brought us here.”

“It’s so peaceful.” Killer said as he gave their joined hands a squeeze. “And beautiful.”

Nightmare hummed and they continued down the rows of pine trees in silence, admiring the atmosphere that drifted around them like gently falling snow, and then, Nightmare laughed.

“When I was little, me and Dream used to play around out here instead of helping our mom look for a tree.” Nightmare said. “She’d always get so upset about how soaked our coats got.”

Killer chuckled. “That’s cute.”

“Yeah.”

They stopped their winter stroll by a pine just a few inches taller than Killer. It was a nice shape, with sturdy branches and deep green needles, and it’s scent was heavy in the air around it.

“This one is nice.” Killer said.

“Yeah, it is.” Nightmare agreed, pacing a circle around the tree. “Will it fit in your living room?”

“Looks like it. Do you want me to go let those people know?”

Nightmare gave pause, gaze wandering from the tree to the beautiful scenery that surrounded them, and found that he didn’t want to leave this moment just yet.

“Later.” He said to Killer. “...I want to enjoy this a while longer.”

Killer smiled, and it was as bright and beautiful as the snow.

~

“So,” Killer began, later that night, when the tree had been put up and decorated, and they were cuddled up on the couch with steaming mugs of hot chocolate, “I was thinking...”

“Oh boy...” Nightmare mumbled into the rim of his mug.

“Hey!” Killer whined. “Let me explain my idea before you get snarky with me!”

“Alright, alright, what is it?”

“So, since it’s just the two of us this year, and we only got presents for each other...” Killer said, rubbing gentle circles into Nightmare’s shoulder with a thumb. “I thought that maybe, instead of waiting until Christmas morning to exchange gifts, we could do it on Christmas Eve? That way, we can sleep in before going out for breakfast.”

Letting out a deep, relaxed sigh, Nightmare skunk further into Killer’s embrace, head resting on the slope where Killer’s neck met his collar bone.

“Yeah, I like that.” Nightmare said. “That sounds really nice.”

[yourholidaymom]

Your Holiday Mom: Jenn

Dear Holiday Child,

We are so glad to welcome you home this year! Even though it can only be virtually, my family is here, imagine we’re taking your coat, you are stomping the snow off your shoes in the hallway and coming in out of the cold. There is merriment in the air since we’ve been looking forward to your visit for a long time. There is our little grey cat Minnie, perched on the bannister of the old stairs. She likes to greet everyone who comes over nose to nose. Smokey, our elder cat, will probably warm your lap later on once things quiet down.

Today, it is tradition that we put up our Christmas tree and so I’ll leave you with dear Isabel, our 6 year old, while the boxes are brought up from the basement. I hope you’ll make yourself at home, I don’t want you to work, just relax, enjoy playing with Isabel, that’s a huge help for me, and you’ll have fun. She’ll be so glad to adopt you for today as an older sibling! Enjoy the hot mulled cider I’ve got warming in the kitchen as well as the happy chaos of excitement. Christmas is her favorite time of year. The “Elf on the Shelf” will have to make an appearance tomorrow morning, so I’ll need you to help me keep him hidden until then! Maybe you’d like to read his book to her. She would like that.

Once we get the tree set up and tied to the window sill so the cat can’t knock it down, I have a gift for you. Please sit in the soft brown chair in front of fire place. Imagine the box — it’s brightly wrapped and topped with a sparkling bow. See, there is your name on the gold tag. You must open it now. We can’t wait. Inside, under the tissue paper, you find the delicate ornament for the tree, it’s yours, each year we get you a new one. It marks the history of the time you’ve spent in our family. I hope you like it. I spend a lot of time hunting for the perfect one, that matches who you are and what you really love.

We hang the strings of lights first, and the cat, I’m sure, is already up in the upper layers of the tree,. We are laughing at her antics. I say as I do every year, “We should keep the tree up year round for cat enrichment.” Everyone pretends to agree, even if I seem like the crazy cat lady. Now we put up each group of ornaments…the tin sleighs with St. Nick at the reins, the snowmen and red boughs, the wrapped gifts and glass globes of every color. I would love if you put up my special ones, near the top…the crystal seahorses and penguins, the stag with his frosted glass antlers and red holly at his neck. We have a mixture of different styles on our tree. When I was younger, I liked to have it all be one or two colors, matching, but over time, and especially since becoming a mom, I began to love the tapestry of memories each ornament represents.

Once fully decorated, the tree tells the story of our family, and you can figure out a little of who we are, at the heart, from the ornaments, chosen with care. One of my very favorites, forgive me if I’ve told this story before, is from Mystic Seaport and has etched tall ships on it. I got this one the year I was homesick, living far from the sea and the home town I loved. It has special meaning because Mystic is the town where met my husband, where we first fell in love. I am so glad to see your ornament in the middle, sparkling away, as part of our family tree and lasting memory.

Once we’re done, we admire our work and enjoy a dinner of hot 3-alarm chili with melted cheese and fresh bread. There’s four of us at the table and later, once we’ve cleaned up, come on with me into the living room again, in the quiet. It’s so beautiful now, with the lights giving off their soft glow. Enjoy the hot cookies fresh from the oven. I added some peppermint to lift the spirit and remind us of joyful, happy times.

Dearest holiday child, I may not know you or the details of your struggle, but please know that I love you. I have plenty in my heart to go around and it’s not limited by space, time or proximity. I’d want to know you’ll come back every year. I will continue to do what I can to create a better world that welcomes every child, and in which all are safe and loved, where a parent’s love knows no conditions. Maybe you’ll take your ornament with you in your heart, holding it as proof that there is a mom out here, thinking of you, wishing you every possible happiness and wanting to know how things are going. I will keep a space for you in my heart and home. Be warm, be well, and may your future days be merry and bright.

All my love this holiday season and ever after,

Mom Jenn

** This year we are reprising your favorite letters. The original post date of this letter was Nov 29, 2015.

Your Holiday Mom: Jenn was originally published on Your Holiday Mom

[puckngrind]

Skating Lessons part 21

Summary: Christmas prep with Mason. 

Warnings: Swearing, foreplay, the usual...

Word count: 2131

Series Masterlist

“Where are we going so early?” You almost whine as Josh loads Mason in the car.  Knowing he has to be tired from his game the night before.

“Its a surprise.” Josh smirks at you as he leans over Mason to buckle him up. He jumps in the driver seat and hands you your coffee that seems to have appeared from nowhere. “Drink me!” He jokes as he starts to drive. He heads out of Columbus and towards the country.

“Josh?” You draw out his name with the question of where your drive was taking you.

“Look familiar yet?” He runs his hands down to yours like always.

“I know. I know.” Mason chimes in. Your eyes dart back towards your son who has his noses pressed into the window and his hand in the air.

“Really?” Your eyebrow goes up.

“Let’s see if Momma can figure it out, kay?” Josh chuckles and squeezes your hand.

Your eyes move back and forth as Josh’s watch gives directions that you cannot see. You finally get to the exit and it looks familiar.

“Are we going to our Christmas tree farm?” Your voice raises at the realization. This was the tree farm you’ve grown up going to. Since Mason you have always gone with your parents and clearly never paid attention to the route.

“Yeah Babe. I asked your dad where to go. With my long road trip coming up I wanted to make sure we got a tree up.” He brings your hand to his lips and kisses lightly.

“So Jingles can come back!” Mason’s voice was excited.

“Who is Jingles?” Josh questions in the sweetest tone.

“My elf. He comes to help Santa! Jingles comes when we are ready for Christmas.” Mason’s excitement for the season oozing out of every word. You look at Josh’s face and smile taking a mental note to explain the whole Elf on the shelf concept to him when little ears aren’t listening. “How’s Momma going to walk around the tree farm?” Mason turned his attention to the winding country road Josh turned on.

“I already thought of that.” Josh eyes Mason for a split second in the mirror and shoots a look at you.

“Of course you have. Perfect example.” You whisper while Josh shrugs his shoulders and turns into the farm.

Opening your door you inhale the smells of evergreen and cinnamon that dance in the air. The family owned farm has always been your favorite and the bonfire they throw scraps of tree on with cinnamon sticks makes every memory of cutting down a tree come rushing to your brain. “That’s smell is heaven.” Josh breaks your trance and pulls you toward him for a hug.

“Smells like Christmas.” You breathe in deeply.

“So Mace, can you handle the wagon and I got Momma?” Josh turns to Mason and he nods in agreement. Josh dressed Mason this morning and you realize as they stood there that the two have on the same buffalo plaid shirt that coordinates with your green one. The warmer Ohio day meant forgoing the heavy coats which your ice loving boys seemed to enjoy. “Ready?” Josh looks at you with that part sinister part loving look you are all too familiar with. He turns around and dips down so you can get on his back.

“Are you giving me a piggy back ride?” You question and Mason laughs.

“At least until we get out to the trees.” Josh looks back and smiles at you. “Come on Babe! There is a tree to find!” You shake your head and do as your told. As promised, Josh puts you down in the Canaan fir section of the field and disappears like Mason. “How tall is your celling?” Josh pokes his head from around a 10 foot tree.

“We normally get an 8 foot.” You hobble over to where your boys were standing behind this tree.

“Not what I asked (y/n).” He raises his hand up to see how tall it was compared to him. “This one will fit.” Josh looks down at Mason and then you.

“True. Plus it has a nice shape.” You eye your boys excitement and pure joy that matches.

“So can we get this one Momma?” Mason runs around the tree and collides into your side. Josh puts up a hand to steady you.

“It does look like the perfect tree.” Your smile reaches your eyes as you look down at Mason and up to Josh.

“Well let’s document this shi...stuff.” Josh pulls out his phone and props it in the limbs of the tree next to where you were standing. Kneeling down he pulls you to his knee and Mason stands in front of him. Using his watch he clicks the camera mode. “Okay, on three.” Mason counts and you all three smile.

“And this is why we are matching eh?” You look at Josh as Mason runs towards the wagon. Josh just kisses you while you remain on his leg. Your hand reaches up to cup his face. “Thank you.” You breathe out while standing up.

“For?” Josh stands and pulls you into his side.

“You know...being perfect.” You nudge him and he laughs.

Josh takes the saw and blanket Mason retrieved from the wagon and gets down to cut the tree. Mason lays right next to him and you couldn’t resist taking too many pictures of the cuteness.

“Timber!” Mason yells from under the tree as it falls to the ground.

The whole process was a turn on. Josh looking like a lumberjack and easily cutting down the tree. His attention to details like dressing all three of you the same and having Mason help in the tree finding process. You quickly came back to reality when Josh and Mason placed the tree on the wagon and Josh picked you back up. Mason’s little muscles pulled the tree back to the front and you took the distance to kiss Josh’s neck and whisper in his ear.

“Can we talk about how hot you look right now?” You kiss his neck again and Josh squeezes your legs.

“Oh really.” You cannot see his face but you know his smirk is plastered on.

“Oh yeah. Cutting down our tree. Making sure to take a picture of the three of us. Letting Mason help. Looking the way you do. Anderson, you make me weak.” You pop up from his back and place a kiss on his cheek.

“Noted.” Josh chuckles as you reach the tree shaking and roping area. Josh carries you back to the car while the tree is being prepped. He and Mason head back to pay for and retrieve the tree. You see them coming back. Mason with two hot chocolates in hand and Josh with the tree on his shoulder. You press your thighs together at the sight.  He was so damn sexy in his plaid carrying a giant tree with ease.  

The drive back was filled with Christmas songs and Josh playfully running his hands up and down your leg while singing loudly.

You have never put a tree up so easily in your life.  You remember your parents did not argue much but the putting the tree in the tree stand was maybe the one thing that stressed everyone out.  Josh placed you on the couch, had Mason hold the door, put the tree in the stand and with one hand steadying it with Mason’s help he tightened the eye hooks with ease.  

“Did that just happen?”  You sipped your coffee and looked up at Josh.   “What?”  Josh’s puzzled look was adorable.

“That was...impressive.  Now let’s see this tree!”  You wink at him feeling the heat in your cheeks as he grabs scissors and cuts the tree free.  

Mason and Josh retrieved your Christmas boxes and the three of you started to decorate the tree.

“Josh, does your house need a tree?”  Mason yawned out after placing his favorite Stinger ornament at his eye level.

“Nope.  I’m not there much these days and I only had a small fake one the last few years that sat on my counter.”  Josh leaned down to Mason’s level.  “I’m glad I can help with a real tree this year.  It’s what I grew up with.”  “In Canada is Christmas different since you are closer to the North Pole?” Mason yawns again and both you and Josh laugh a little.

“Well I grew up near Toronto which is super close to the US but my parents always made sure we got to bed early since Santa was so close to us.”  Josh stands up and holds out his hand.  “Let’s get you to bed so Jingle can come.”

“Jingles, but we aren’t ready for Christmas!”  Mason whined.

“Baby, Josh and I will finish.  Promise.  Jingles will be here in the morning.”  You kiss him and Josh takes Mason to bed.

Grabbing your favorite ornament from when Mason was born you try to reach up to get it higher on the tree when Josh’s hands grabbed your hips.  

“Fuck you look gorgeous standing in front of this tree.”  He whispers and lifts you up to place the ornament.  Spinning you around he looks deep into your eyes.  “Christmas looks good on you (y/n).”  Josh holds your face and kisses you deeply.  

“Same babe but can we finish the tree first and get the elf out?”  You say breathlessly.  

“Yeah, but I’m not promising to behave since the little dude is in bed.”  Josh kisses down your neck and your breath catches in your throat.

He lived up to his lack of promise.  Josh’s hands were up your shirt, his lips on your neck and lips, and picking you up to spin you around while singing Baby it’s cold outside.  You did get the tree finished and Josh hoisted you onto his shoulder to place the angel at the top.  Sliding you down his body you feel the electricity between the two of you.  He stops and holds you so your faces are parallel.  Wrapping your legs around him careful not to get your boot in the way.

“This road trip is gonna kill me.”  He groaned and kisses your lips.  

“You and me both but at least this damn boot should be off by the time you return.”  You knock it into his ass.  

“That’s going to be amazing as hell.  Plus there is always phone sex.” Josh chuckles and attacks your neck.

“Joshua!” You playfully act offended. “It’s five days right?”  

“Yup.  For the 12 day roadie in March you might just have to sneak in my luggage.”  He pulls back to look at you. 

“Babe.” You move your hand to his face and he drops you slowly down to the ground.  “it’s your job.”

“Yeah, and it won’t last forever then I’ll be retired in my 30s and bugging the hell out of you.”  He laughs and pulls your body into his.  Josh always eluded to the future but never quite so directly.  It made your stomach flip with anticipation.

“Josh.”  You aren’t sure what to say but he kisses you where the words fell.

“Now let’s talk about this elf?”  His eyebrows move up.  “Where exactly to you keep this said Jingles?”  he laughs and you two make your way to the secret closet that Mason never gets into.  You place Jingles in a coffee cup with three packets of hot chocolate, a candy cane and sprinkle marshmallows over the counter.  “So let me get this straight...the elf is to check in on you for Santa but he’s a naughty elf?”  Josh watches from his lean on the counter.

“Sounds about right...all the other parents do it...peer pressure.” You laugh.

“Now can we go to bed?” Josh whines and makes his way to you.  “Because I’m gonna need some motivation to head out in the morning.  And you’re sexy ass has been hard not to pin to every wall I can find.” He growls loudly and lifts you up.

“Shhhh...” you giggle.  “You aren’t getting anything if you wake up Mace.  Plus, you were the tease today with your lumberjack-ness.  I had to control myself all damn day.” 

Josh has a look on his face that you know well and quickly makes his way to your bedroom to toss you gently on the bed.  

“Sure you aren’t too tired from all your heavy lifting today?  Tree, me, tree, me...” You bite your lip and Josh crowds your space.

“Fuck no.  Want me to show you?”  He grabs your ass and you know you are in for it.  “Why would my baby want a lumber fucking jack when you can have this?”  Presses his body into you and you feel yourself melt under him.

[mimosaeyes]

Runaan babysits Rayla for the first time. Everything goes much better than expected.

A Ruthari getting together fic.

Credit to the Hot Brown Morning Potion Podcast episode 5, for notes on characterisation. Especially this part. Beta-ed by @sequoiawintersnight. Also available on AO3.

“Um,” says Runaan, after the door closes behind Tiadrin and Lain.

He had braced himself for tears, tantrums — any sort of fuss, really, that a toddler can kick up. But Rayla had been serene as she bid her parents farewell for the day, only giggling a little as they ruffled her tufty hair.

Surely that bodes well. Surely.

You are one of the Silvergrove’s finest warriors, Runaan tells himself sternly. You can handle babysitting your best friends’ toddler for one afternoon.

Rayla looks up from her toy. She watches him with huge, expectant eyes.

“Um,” Runaan says again. Sitting across from her, he’s suddenly realising that he has no idea how to talk to children. Sure, he’s interacted with Rayla before. Plenty, in fact. But it was always with someone else around, whose lead he could follow.

Awkwardly, he crosses his arms over his chest, then un-crosses them again.

Rayla cocks her head at him. “Thawi?” she asks. At least, he figures it’s a question, since her voice goes up at the end of it.

It takes him another moment of staring at her blankly before he understands. “You want to know where Ethari is?” Runaan ventures.

By way of answer, she leans forward to deposit, in his hastily cupped hands, her toy — a small wooden dragon that Ethari whittled for her. Runaan smiles as he recalls how painstakingly he’d worked on it in the weeks leading up to Rayla’s birth.

Runaan would be sparring with Lain when he would wave, and Runaan would turn around to see Ethari lounging in the shade of a nearby tree, using a small knife to coax, from a block of wood, the curve of a dragon’s neck or the fine tessellation of its scales. Ethari spent ages childproofing his design — rounding off any bits that jutted out, sanding everything down to perfect, splinter-free smoothness.

That’s Ethari, though: always putting his whole heart into his craft. It’s one of the reasons Runaan, ahem, admires him so much. And shows up at his workshop with some regularity for advice on proper weapons care (as is only prudent). And trips over his own feet sometimes when he notices Ethari watching their practice sessions. Which, okay, is somewhat embarrassing. Especially when Lain elbows him, or exchanges a look with Tiadrin.

Runaan clears his throat and wiggles the toy dragon at Rayla. “Ethari is busy today,” he tells her, “but we’re in his workshop anyway, since your mum says you like it here.”

Rayla perks up at the mention of her mother, and scrambles to her feet. Runaan watches, bemused, as she runs to a low shelf and tiptoes to retrieve something from it. He lets her, because he knows Ethari wouldn’t keep anything dangerous within Rayla’s reach, not when she comes by so often.

Besides, Runaan is pretty much subconsciously attuned to anything even vaguely weapon-like. He could disarm Rayla of a hazardous object in a heartbeat.

It looks like he won’t need to, though. Rayla returns brandishing two twigs, both filed blunt at the ends. More of Ethari’s handiwork, Runaan would wager.

She leaps about in a very, very loose interpretation of the basic drills she must have seen her parents performing countless times. Her face is scrunched up in concentration, and she exclaims, “Yah!” occasionally to punctuate a motion.

At the end of the display, Rayla holds a pose and looks up at him for approval.

Runaan holds her dragon aloft and bows his head. “Well done, young warrior,” he intones gravely. He suspects she might get a kick out of that.

He suspects right. Rayla lights up, grinning at him, and the thought flashes across Runaan’s mind that Well, you’re not Favourite Toy-Making Uncle, but maybe you can be Serious But Nice Uncle.

Even as he contemplates the implications of this stray thought — is he jealous that Rayla probably likes Ethari more? is he already so wrapped around her finger? — Runaan reaches out and ever so slightly adjusts her stance. He smiles at her to take any sting out of the criticism.

Rayla smiles back cheekily, then puts on her serious face again and waves her twigs at him. She doesn’t come close to landing a hit, so when she very deliberately pokes him with one of the sticks, Runaan makes sure to flail dramatically and fall over, crying defeat.

His eyes are closed, but he can hear her chuckling to herself as she clambers over his legs and flops down on the floor next to him. She pulls lightly on his hair, and he cracks open an eye to peer at her suspiciously.

She remains fixated on his hair, though, perhaps because it’s longer than that of her parents. Runaan gives a mental shrug and resigns himself to lying there on Ethari’s workshop floor, letting a tiny child play with his hair. It’s a pleasant enough, albeit surreal, way to spend an afternoon.

Rayla seems to be attempting a braid of some kind, but her fingers are too stubby for her to manage it. After a while, Runaan props himself up on one elbow so he can see what she’s doing and give her the occasional pointer.

Instead of undoing her flubs, Rayla just moves on to another section of hair, leaving little twists and knots and frizzy locks everywhere. Runaan distantly notes that he would not put up with this from anyone else in the world. And then he continues to let it happen.

And that’s when the door to the workshop opens, and Runaan looks up to see Ethari standing in the doorway.

He freezes — which goes against every principle of his training. He’s simply so mortified at how he must look right now, in front of Ethari of all people, that it takes precedence over everything else. Rayla yells, “Thawi!” and runs over to him, and Runaan is still just frozen in place, gawking at Ethari, thoughts stuck on But he was supposed to be busy today and Oh stars, my hair looks like a moonberry bush.

To his credit, Ethari takes it all in stride. He smiles at Runaan, amused but kindly, and then goes, “Oof,” as Rayla bodily slams into his legs.

“Hello, Rayla,” Ethari says. “I see you’ve had a fun morning.”

Runaan picks himself up off the floor as Rayla nods fervently. “With Wunie!” she chirps.

Ethari makes a noncommittal noise and leans over to place his shoulder bag on a nearby stool. “Oh yes. But are you sure he wouldn’t prefer to be called Wunaan?”

Rayla tilts her head back to check with Runaan, who finds himself somewhat helplessly shaking his head.

“Wunie says no,” she reports.

“Alright then,” Ethari says mildly. There is the faintest hint of a smile playing over his lips. Runaan is momentarily entranced by it.

Ethari retrieves a jar from his bag. “How’s about some of your favourite Moonberry Surprise?”

Rayla’s squeals of joy could probably be heard from the top of the Storm Spire. Ethari sends her off to search a cubbyhole for cups, and sets about unpacking the rest of his things. From the look of it, he’s been around the village, trading for supplies and materials. Just watching his calm, systematic mannerisms sets Runaan at ease.

Which is why he takes a moment to react when Ethari indicates the jar and says conversationally, “Tiadrin sprinted out of the council meeting to give this to me. She was oddly insistent that I leave the rest of my errands be, and go back to my workshop to enjoy it.”

A creeping suspicion sidles into Runaan’s mind.

Ethari continues, nonchalant. “It would’ve been Lain, I think, but I doubt he could’ve kept a straight face.”

Runaan blinks. “What do you mean?” he asks, half-sure he knows the answer but needing to hear it from Ethari. To gauge his reaction, and to be sure this isn’t all wishful thinking on his part.

Ethari bends down to accept two cups from Rayla, who can’t hold a third one at the same time and has to go back for it.

“I mean,” he says after another moment, “that I think we’ve been set up.”

Try as he might, Runaan can’t read much from Ethari’s neutral tone and facial expression. He’s implied that he knows their friends think… well, that there’s something between them. But is it a one-sided something, or is it reciprocated? Runaan still doesn’t know, not for sure.

He formulates — not for the first time — a dozen different ways to ask. He rejects each of them in turn. Also, obviously, not for the first time. The silence stretches on until he’s saved by Rayla returning with the last cup.

Which seems to have been custom-made for her small hands, as he absently notices. Ethari really does spoil her.

He pushes away the accusatory thought: So do you.

“Up?” Rayla asks Ethari hopefully, and he sits down on one of the stools so he can hoist her up onto his lap. For a moment, Runaan doesn’t so much envy his easy way with her, as wish he got to observe it more often.

Among the Silvergrove elves, Runaan has noticed, Ethari’s relative pacifism means he avoids publicly showing this side of himself. This truth about himself, which Runaan sees anyway, in glimpses: empathy and kindness, rather in excess of what Moonshadow society approves of.

All the while he’s thinking this, Ethari is bouncing Rayla up and down between sips of her Moonberry Surprise, making a game out of it. The sight of them playing, and the sound of her laughter, are beyond endearing to Runaan.

Then Rayla notices him watching and holds out her little arms to him. “Up!” she demands.

Runaan spares a moment to reflect that there was definitely a time when he was not a total pushover. Then he stands and lifts the tiny elf girl up onto his shoulders.

Ethari helps settle Rayla securely on her newfound perch. “Hey! When did you get so much taller than me?” he teases her, prompting another brief giggle.

His hand rests on Runaan’s shoulder as he speaks. Probably accidentally. Runaan tries not to think about the warmth of his touch, or wonder whether it lingers a moment longer than it has to.

He holds on to Rayla’s ankle, wary of dropping her. “Don’t squirm,” he warns.

But Rayla is already distracted by everything she can see from so high up. She pays him no heed, listing from side to side as if wanting to touch all the things on Ethari’s workbenches and shelves. When Runaan doesn’t immediately move toward the objects of her curiosity, she makes a pathetic whine in the back of her throat.

“You’re like a Moonstrider pup,” Runaan informs her, even as he obliges and takes a couple of steps forward.

Rayla just burbles and pokes at something shiny sitting on top of a cabinet. When Runaan peers closer, he sees that it’s one of a pair of horn guards — and that there are several more beside it, in various stages of completion. Of course. Although the elves of Silvergrove primarily go to Ethari for weapons (his are the most versatile and perfectly balanced), they also seek his services for engagements and jewellery in general.

Runaan gently nudges aside Rayla’s hand. “Careful,” he admonishes, but without much heat. “These are delicate.”

He glances at Ethari, who shrugs.

“I don’t make anything purely ornamental,” he says, then turns to address Rayla. “Wunie’s right, though; these do mean a lot to people. I have some other things you might like, over here.”

Runaan follows him to the far side of the workshop, where Ethari takes down a plain box and sets it on the table. Still seated on his shoulders, Rayla leans forward in anticipation, inadvertently pushing against Runaan’s head.

He laughs at how eager she is. “Alright, little one,” he says, and carefully sets her down.

They both watch as Ethari snaps open the catch on the box, and lifts the lid.

Inside is a collection of — Runaan doesn’t even have the words. Rationally, he recognises that these are ordinary household items. Small plates, hair clasps, buckles for securing supplies when travelling. They’re functional. But they’re also beautiful: engraved with swirls and curves, never a straight line anywhere. The silvery patterns remind Runaan of the way water moves in a river or brook under moonlight. They look like art, and yet they’re also textures begging to be touched. With careful hands. With reverence, or love.

Sitting cross-legged on the counter, Rayla’s eyes have gone wide.

“I didn’t know you made things like this,” Runaan says in awe. “Out of — what, scrap metal? Left over from your main work?”

Ethari shakes his head. “Not for these. Sometimes... people bring me weapons I can’t fix. Or won’t. Fine blades ruined because they were wielded improperly. Daggers they want to dispose of, that have drawn innocent blood.”

The mood turns sombre between them. Things happen. They both know it.

Ethari continues, “I never destroy them. I melt them down and reshape them.”

Runaan reaches out and runs his fingers over a hair clasp. It moves him, he realises: how much beauty Ethari sees in the world — even in the ugly, discarded parts of it — and brings out through his craft. Which he does, not out of obligation or necessity, but simply for the joy of creating something special out of something unwanted.

He remembers, abruptly, Ethari knocking on his door over a year ago. It was pouring rain and Ethari had been as sodden as the shivering bundle of fur cradled in his arms. The abandoned Shadowpaw pup had grown up hale and hearty under his care, after that first night when Runaan invited him in, offering him hot tea, blankets, a place by the fire. And — surprisingly, in retrospect — no questions as to why he showed up there.

He sees, with sudden clarity, that Ethari has always had a penchant for taking lost and broken things, and making them feel needed and whole.

“They’re amazing,” Runaan tells him, and bites back his next words. You’re amazing.

Instead of responding to the compliment, Ethari clasps his hands together nervously. “I, ah. I made that for you, actually.”

“What?” Runaan does a double take and stares at him. His fingers go still on the hair clasp. His heart thuds in his chest, thunderous.

Ethari quite deliberately unfastens his hands from each other. Pausing only to glance at Runaan, as if asking for permission, he leans forward and tucks a lock of Runaan’s hair behind his ear. The gesture is tender and shockingly familiar, as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

“It’s your heart,” Ethari tells him simply. “That’s what inspired me. You scowl and bluster, and goodness knows, you fight like a raging storm. But you also lay on the floor playing with a child because it makes her happy. You turn down the honour of joining the Dragon Guard with your best friends because you would rather stay and protect your home.”

He touches his shoulder. “Your heart is kind. It deserves something just as beautiful.”

Silent, stunned, Runaan watches him for a moment longer.

Then he surges forward and kisses him.

It’s only the briefest press of lips. He registers closeness, warmth. A huff of air from Ethari; he’s taken him by surprise. The other elf only begins to kiss back when Runaan is already pulling away again.

He gulps, instantly panicky. How many times has he dreamt of doing what he just did? And there he goes, rushing through it and probably ruining everything. He never even explained—

“I was wondering if you’d ever do that,” Ethari breathes.

Runaan blinks. “You knew?!”

Coming from a normally mild-mannered person, the look Ethari gives him then is exceedingly sassy. “Runaan, you come into my workshop with requests three times as often as any other elf. You volunteer to test out my weapon designs so we can talk shop and you can compliment my work, because you can’t figure out how else to express affection.”

He smirks at Runaan, but his voice is indulgent. “I love you, but you can be a real idiot sometimes.”

A beat.

“Oh,” Ethari mutters. “That just slipped out, didn’t it?”

And he rests both hands around Runaan’s neck, and pulls him into another kiss. This one is deeper, longer. Runaan is still stunned, but he quickly relaxes into the embrace. Just for a moment, he lets himself melt.

They only break apart when Rayla makes an indignant noise at no longer being the centre of attention.

She holds up some sort of rectangular, metal item from the box. “Mine?” she asks.

“What is that?” Runaan wonders aloud.

“A harness buckle,” Ethari supplies. He wags a finger at Rayla. “Maybe when you’re old enough to ride.”

Rayla makes a moue.

Runaan sighs as if very put upon by her (in all of two seconds, yes). “I’ll teach you,” he promises.

“Softie,” Ethari teases.

Runaan smiles lopsidedly. “I do my best.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. They find ways to entertain Rayla, or more often, she comes up with them. At one point, having refused for over an hour, Rayla finally dozes off for her nap, curled up among some soft cloths Ethari uses to clean filigree. While she sleeps, Runaan and Ethari tiptoe around, putting things to rights around the workshop. Ethari offers him a comb he finds lying around, and shakes his head fondly when Runaan mouths the words, “I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

By the time Tiadrin and Lain return from their meeting, Rayla has roused from her nap to sleepily play a little more with her toy dragon. Lain picks her up without any bother from her. Leaning over her father’s shoulder, she waves goodbye to Runaan and Ethari.

Runaan waves back until she looks away to nuzzle her face in the hollow of Lain’s neck. Lain coos softly at her. It still surprises Runaan how differently his jokester friend behaves around his daughter.

He turns his attention to Tiadrin, who is hanging back. There’s a tension around her eyes that wasn’t there this morning. “Everything alright?” he asks, worried.

She hesitates, but nods briskly. “It will be. How was Rayla?”

“A perfect angel,” Runaan starts to say.

At the same time, Ethari nudges him and says, “Utterly spoiled by this one.”

Tiadrin tilts her head at them both, visibly taking in how close together they’ve subconsciously begun to stand. Runaan is struck by how much Rayla is picking up her mannerisms. They have the same intelligence behind their bright eyes as they puzzle him out.

“So,” Tiadrin says slowly, beginning to smile at them.

Runaan narrows his eyes. “So,” he says back at her.

On some level, he does mean for that to serve as confirmation of Tiadrin’s suspicions. Watching the way she glances between him and Ethari, looking genuinely pleased for them, Runaan knows she’s gotten the message.

Tiadrin lowers her voice. “You do realise Lain is going to be unbearable when I tell him that his ridiculous plan actually worked.”

“Was it really orchestrated by you two then?” Ethari asks.

She shrugs. “We just figured if we could find you an excuse to spend an afternoon in close quarters… you might work out the rest. Finally.”

“‘Finally’?” Runaan repeats. Tiadrin raises an eyebrow at him. Ethari holds up his hands in the universal gesture for I’m not getting into this.

Runaan groans. “Was I seriously the last one to know?”

“Seriously.” Tiadrin winks at him; she knows one of his pet peeves is when people answer rhetorical questions.

She moves toward the door. “You’re welcome,” she calls back over her shoulder as she leaves.

And Runaan is left in the same position as a few hours ago, when this whole adventure began. Only this time Ethari is standing right by him, close enough to touch, and he can do that now. He can stop wondering what that would feel like; he knows.

He also knows what it feels like to hear him speak the words I love you.

Runaan just isn’t as emotionally open as he is. He’s not built that way, no matter what Ethari may believe about his heart.

Ethari seems to know, somehow, what kinds of thoughts are running through his head. Quietly, into the hush of a room suddenly bereft of Rayla’s boisterous energy, he says, “You don’t have to say it back.”

Runaan looks at him. He… he wants to. He just doesn’t quite know how.

Biting his lip, he picks up the hair clasp from the table. The one Ethari said he’d made especially for him. Beauty out of broken bits. Something soft out of loss.

Runaan holds it out to Ethari. “Mine?” he says wryly, mimicking Rayla earlier. And all the while thinking, How do I tell you I love you?

Whether or not Ethari understands what he thinks but does not say then, Runaan may never know. But Ethari smiles, takes the clasp from him, and threads it gently through his hair. “Here,” he says. “I’ll teach you.”