#my mother's wedding

[derangedrhythms]

[…] I felt the first drops of rain on my skin, like a sign.

Tessa Hadley, Reader, I Married Him: Stories Inspired by Jane Eyre; from ‘My Mother’s Wedding’

[waltermis]

😳😳

[gatoburr0]

The divine, one of a kind bride and the ugly ass groom.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The Odyssey would have been a lot shorter if Odysseus gave the Cyclops weed instead of wine.

[baldursgate3tempobsessed]

Please let Astarion meet Tav's family and have a younger sibling like 6 be like im gonna marry the prince points at Astarion.

Tav : Sorry, im married to the prince

NO IM GONNA MARRY THE PRINCE

That's so fucking cute kill me. But I just realized AFTER I finished it I read this wrong 😭😭 I read it as "marry" instead of "married" so whoops now it's an asking for your hand in marriage fic.

Also, I'm going to make this a weird little, unofficial, alternate reality, off shoot of this fic to explain away why Astarion can be in the sun without ascending because I am ~lazy~

Quick summary if you didn't read it, Tav serves Selune, gets a blessing for all the good work, and uses it to cure the anti-light issue of the vampirism (but not all of it). It's not a literal extension of that fic but I'm stealing my own plot explanations. That's it! Now here we go:

~

Astarion wasn't nervous per se. He was just... on edge. And the two-week journey it took to get here wasn't helping things, not when it gave him so much time to ruminate in his thoughts. He never expected to be in the position of "meeting the family," let alone in anticipation for asking for someone's hand in marriage.

Astarion wasn't even quite sure how his life got here. He had always fantasized that a life without Cazador would be one of selfish hedonism, not one where he would be legitimately concerned about a damn six year old sibling's first impression of him.

But then you came along, effortlessly shattering all of his grandiose plans with a batt of your eyelashes. Perhaps the entire journey of falling in love was more complicated, but it felt like it was that simple. In hindsight, he never stood a chance against you, but it was hilarious that there was a time he ever thought he did.

All of his prior dreams and fantasies felt like nothing in comparison to just being with you. It had been a year since you both saved the Sword Coast, a beautiful, fantastic year. That had ended with him somehow more in love with you now than when he first confessed. Selune's blessing had certainly helped with that he was sure. He still couldn't quite believe that you would use a god's blessing on him of all people, but gods, was he appreciative. Because being able to walk in the sun again meant that he could live the life he wanted, with no restrictions. He could be the partner you deserved, the kind that a father would happily say yes to when asking for your hand.

Which brought him back to his current dilemma. Perhaps he hadn't seen any of your family members in the time you'd been together, but he had heard plenty. You loved them all to death, especially your little sister. You wrote to them constantly, the mere sight of a letter from your parents enough to put you in a great mood for the rest of the day. He was aware that your mother was supposedly a saint, a fact that your own father had instilled in you often. He knew that they had a wonderful, loving marriage and were both higher ups in the Church of Selune. A fact that Astarion didn't particularly enjoy.

As grateful to the moon goddess as he was, he was aware that you were an expectation to the very normal belief that vampires were bad. And that marrying one was one of the stupidest things you could ever do from an average person's perspective, let alone a Selunite.

Why you hadn't done the smart thing and lied about what he was, Astarion would never know. But he did know that the thought of their rejection over his admittedly sordid history was putting him in a tailspin.

"They're going to love you," You said for the hundredth time, giving his hand a squeeze as you led him up the steps to your childhood home, "You have nothing to worry about sweetheart. I promise."

Astarion highly doubted that, but you were already knocking on the front door before he had a chance to argue. The door instantly slammed open, a beaming child already launching themselves at you before Astarion could process what was happening.

But you were more prepared them he was. You effortlessly caught them in your arms, laughing at their excited shouting, "Titi! You're late!"

So this was the famous Arabeth.

"No, I'm not!" You laughed as you settled her on your hip, "And what happened to my little girl's manners huh? You haven't even introduced yourself yet."

The child glanced over at him, like she was just realizing for the first time that someone else was standing over there. She looked a little shocked at the sight of him, staring at him with wide eyes. Wide enough for Astarion to start to wonder if something was on his face.

He gave her a little wave only for her to bury her face into your shoulder, peeking out at him with her lips pursed. Which was not the best start to the whole making his darling's family actually like him plan.

"Well, as you've probably guessed this is Arabeth. She's just a little shy," You reassured as you stepped inside, muttering a quick invitation inside under your breath. He appreciated that, he didn't need the whole house to be reminded of his... limitations.

"But she'll get over it soon enough," You continued as you called into the house, "Mom? Dad? We're here!"

And just like that they were rushing into the room, acting just as excited as your sister had been. Your mother wasted no time in smothering your face with kisses while your father swept you up into a hug. It was a rather impressive display of coordination, considering how they hadn't managed to knock you and your sister to the floor in the process. Astarion was pretty sure they were both saying something along the lines of We missed you! But it was hard to tell with all of you so tangled up in each other.

It was heartwarming to see, in all honestly. Of course such a loving person would come from an equally loving family, what else would he expect?

Though he certainly hadn't been expecting for your mother to throw her arms around him next. She brought him into a tight hug before looking him up and down, "So you're Astarion huh?"

She turned back to you, grinning ear to ear with her hands set on Astarion's shoulders, "He's so handsome! Selune help us, do you remember the last boy you brought home? He had a nose the length of my arm-"

"And that's enough of that," You said with a strained laugh, pulling your eccentric mother back a few inches, "And we've talked about the impromptu hugs. What happened to asking for permission?"

"Sorry, sorry!" She said with a wave of her hand, "Let me try again. I'm Seliras, and this is my husband-"

"Marcoul," Your father interrupted, putting his hand out for Astarion to shake, "It's been awhile since we've met a boyfriend."

"He's a little more than that," You said with a sigh as everyone exchanged pleasantries.

"We'll be the judge of that," Marcoul said with a sharp but friendly grin, the grip he had on Astarion's hand briefly tightening before he let go, "From what we've heard, you're quite the character aren't you?"

Ah, so the interrogating was starting early then. It was nothing that Astarion hadn't expected. Besides, turning up the charm was his strong suit, even when he was uncharacteristically nervous.

Astarion smiled back at him, "You've heard right. And I'm more than happy to answer any questions you might have."

"Oh gods please don't say that," You groaned, but it was too late. Your parents were already leading him to sit, rapid-fire questions coming out of their mouth.

Where are you from? How did you meet? Are you serious about our Tav? What's your religion? Where's your family? What are your plans?

But Astarion answered them all, with only mild censorship for the child's sake. The child who suddenly couldn't stop staring at him. It wasn't exactly easy to sell himself as a future husband when he was a vampiric ex-slave, but he made do.

It was an overwhelming experience to say the least, but not necessarily an unpleasant one. That was one good thing about trying to marry into a family of zealots, it was a lot easier to convince them of your virtue when you received a personal blessing from their goddess.

By the end of the night, they were all throughly appeased, enough so to get off the topic of him for a moment.

"You look a little young to have a thirty-year old child," Astarion said to your mother. He was actively trying to compliment her for obvious reasons, but he was also genuinely curious. She barely looked a day over 40.

"Oh we breed young," She said with a laugh, "We had Tav in our teenage years. Arabeth came much, much later. Our favorite little surprise. Gods, I can't think of a single person in our family who didn't have kids young. Our little Tav is the only exception to the rule."

"But maybe not for much longer, huh?" Marcoul added with a grin, yelping when you lightly smacked him over the head for the comment.

"Do not start the kid talk again!" You hissed out, cheeks red, "We've talked about this!"

Astarion couldn't help but grin at your reaction, charmed by your embarrassment. Though... the idea of the two of you having children together sure was an interesting thought.

Astarion felt a tug on his sleeve while you were distracted arguing with your parents. He turned, smiling when he saw your little sister standing there, still staring at him with wide-eyes.

She took a deep breath before blurting out, "You look like a prince. Are you?"

"Not exactly," Astarion said with a small laugh. That couldn't be further from the truth, "There's no blue blood in my veins."

She frowned, cocking her head at him like he wasn't making any sense. But then an idea obviously struck her as she excitedly asked, "But if you married a princess, then you'd become a prince too. Right?"

"I suppose?" Astarion answered with a shrug.

"So if I become a princess, and I marry you, then you'll be a prince?"

This conversation was quickly becoming out of his depth. But luckily enough for him you were swooping in to save him.

You laughed at her question, turning your attention back to the two of them, "No offense Bethy, but I'm going to be the one marrying this particular prince."

But Arabeth wasn't having it. She crossed her arms, looking at you like she was the one talking to a child, "You can't. Because if I don't marry him, he won't be a prince. So there. I have to do it."

She looked so serious, her facial expressions incredibly similar to your own. Astarion was holding back a loud laugh as you tried and failed to reason with her, "I can marry him without the royal status-"

"No! I'm marrying the prince!"

Your parents were doing a much worse job at hiding their reactions, both of them opening giggling behind their hands as you came up with a compromise.

"Okay, okay," You said with a sigh, kneeling down to look the small girl in the eye, "How about this? I marry him first. But only until you become a princess. Then he's all yours. Sound fair?"

She thought about it for a moment before nodding to herself, "Sounds fair."

Well Astarion wasn't going to get a better set-up then that. He turned to your father, his nerves coming back for a brief appearance, "I'm assuming now might be a good time to ask what I came here to ask. Though I do promise I only intending on asking for one of your children's hand in marriage."

Marcoul nodded slowly, his face unreadable as he spoke, "I mean no offense when I say this Astarion, but you aren't exactly who I imagined for my daughter."

"Dad don't-"

"Darling, let him finish," Astarion gently interrupted, his eyes still locked with your father's.

He took a deep breathe before continuing, "That said, I've never seen her so... herself with someone else before. So yes. The two of you can marry. On one condition."

"Anything," Astarion said instantly, nearly giddy at the fact that he was so close to the official yes, "Just name it."

"You have to have the wedding here," Seliras answered for him, a massive smile on her face, "No ifs, ands, or buts."

"And I get to be flower girl!" Arabeth chimed in, her past indignation completely forgotten as she climbed all over you, "And there has to be chocolate cake!"

"Oh gods, help us," You groaned, but Astarion was already nodding along. He couldn't give less than two shits where it happened or who was involved. He could scarcely believe that it was happening at all. But that was the last thing he had needed.

He already had the ring, the most amazing person he could ever fathom being with. Who actually wanted him back.

Now all he had to do was ask.

[moonselune]

By the Silk that Binds Us (pt. 14)

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Matron!Minthara x Wife!reader

An arranged marriage, enemies to lovers fic: part one part two part three part four part five part six part seven part eight part nine part ten part eleven part twelve part thirteen

CW: Blood, labor

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The darkness enveloped you like a heavy shroud, suffocating and inescapable. Yet, in the stillness of unconsciousness, a spark ignited. A memory surfaced, sharp and vivid, pulling you into its embrace. It was a quiet morning—a day that had begun with an air of peace, so unlike the tumultuous nature of life in the Underdark. You recalled it now with a clarity that was almost painful, the moments unfolding as if they were happening anew.

The day began with a faint discomfort in your abdomen, an ache that slowly crescendoed into something impossible to ignore. You had stirred from restless sleep, instinctively placing a hand over the swell of your belly. The realization struck you immediately: the time had come.

“Minthara,” you called softly, your voice steady despite the building tension.

Minthara was at your side in an instant, her sharp crimson eyes scanning you with an intensity that had always been as comforting as it was unnerving.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice a mixture of concern and anticipation.

“It’s starting,” you murmured, struggling to sit up.

For a moment, Minthara’s stoicism faltered. A flicker of something—perhaps excitement, perhaps fear—crossed her face before she composed herself.

“Then we’ll make this perfect,” she said firmly, rising to summon the midwives and healers. Her commanding voice echoed down the halls, cutting through the morning silence with an authority that brooked no argument.

When she returned, she was no longer the composed and calculated second of House Baenre. She was a woman driven by purpose, her every movement deliberate as she helped you settle back against the cushions.

“Are you ready for this?” she asked, her hand brushing yours in a rare gesture of tenderness.

You managed a wry smile, despite the pangs of pain beginning to intensify. “Do I have a choice?”

Minthara smirked, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of worry. “Not even Lolth herself could stop this now.”

The midwives arrived shortly thereafter, carrying armfuls of supplies and radiating calm efficiency. Yet Minthara refused to fade into the background, her presence an unyielding force as she orchestrated the room.

“You,” she barked at a midwife fumbling with a basin, “if you drop that, I’ll see to it you’re strung up by your ankles. And you—fetch more towels. Now.”

Her commanding tone was matched only by the unwavering support she offered you.

She was at your side, her hand gripping yours firmly as she leaned down to murmur words of encouragement. “You’re strong. Stronger than anyone. You can do this.”

The hours stretched on, a blur of pain and effort. Your body ached with exertion, and every fiber of your being seemed to burn. Yet Minthara remained steadfast, her presence a lifeline as the world around you faded into the singular task of bringing new life into existence.

“Breathe,” she urged, her voice cutting through the haze. “You’re doing beautifully. Soon, our child will be here. The heir of House Baenre.”

“Minthara,” you hissed through gritted teeth, “shut up about the heir.”

Her laugh was unexpected—a bright, genuine sound that momentarily eased the tension in the room.

“As you wish,” she said softly, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “No titles. No heirs. Just us.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a sharp cry pierced the air. Relief washed over you like a wave, banishing the pain and exhaustion. One of the midwives approached, cradling a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in soft fabric.

“She’s here,” the midwife said, her voice reverent as she placed the infant in your trembling arms.

You gazed down at the baby, her tiny features scrunched in indignation as she wailed. Tears pricked your eyes, unbidden and unstoppable.

“She’s perfect,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

Minthara knelt beside you, her hand resting gently on your shoulder as she looked down at your daughter. There was a softness in her expression one that even you had not seen before, a vulnerability that spoke of unguarded joy.

“She’s everything,” Minthara murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

For a moment, in that memory, the world was reduced to the three of you. The weight of House Baenre, the expectations of the Underdark, and the shadow of Lolth all faded away. It was just you, Minthara, and Lythaera—a family, untarnished by the harsh realities that awaited beyond this room.

But reality began to intrude, the warmth of the memory fracturing like a fragile pane of glass. Pain flared in your abdomen, sharp and insistent, pulling you from the comforting embrace of the past. The cries of a newborn faded into the low murmur of voices and the sterile scent of the infirmary.

Your eyes fluttered open, the dim light of the infirmary casting long shadows across the room. The faces of healers swam into view, their expressions etched with concern as they hovered around you. The pain in your abdomen was a dull, throbbing reminder of your vulnerability, a stark contrast to the strength you had felt in that memory.

“She’s awake,” one of them said, their voice cutting through the haze of confusion clouding your mind.

You tried to move, but your body felt heavy, unresponsive. The pain in your abdomen was a dull, throbbing ache, and every breath felt like an effort. Slowly, your gaze focused on the faces around you, their expressions a mix of relief and worry.

“What… what happened?” you croaked, your voice barely audible.

“Please, don’t move,” one of the healers urged, their hands gently pressing you back down as you struggled to sit up. “You’ve been through a lot. Let us take care of you.”

Your mind raced, fragments of memory and present blurring together. The warmth of the past lingered like a ghost, a bittersweet balm against the cold reality of your current state. But as exhaustion pulled you back under, one thought lingered, clear and persistent.

Lythaera.

The world swam into focus in jagged pieces—voices murmuring in the background, the sharp scent of medicinal herbs hanging heavy in the air, and an unrelenting ache deep in your abdomen that made every breath feel like a battle. Awareness came slowly, dragging with it a suffocating sense of dread that seized your chest. Something was wrong.

You tried to sit up, the movement clumsy and strained as your arms gave out beneath you. A hand pressed gently but firmly against your shoulder, guiding you back down.

“Mistress, you mustn’t move,” a healer said urgently, their voice calm but insistent. “Your body is too weak. You need rest.”

“Lythaera…” The name spilled from your lips in a broken whisper, barely audible. You tried again, your words slurred and heavy with the lingering effects of sedatives. “Lythaera… Kyorlin…”

The healer exchanged a worried glance with their colleagues. “She’s delirious,” one muttered.

But you weren’t delirious—you were desperate. The weight of Kyorlin’s betrayal pressed down on you like a stone, the memory of his blue eyes—a traitor’s eyes—seared into your mind. You struggled to form coherent words, to make them understand, but all that escaped were fragments. “Kyorlin… traitor… Lythaera…”

You clawed at the blankets covering you, trying again to push yourself upright despite the fiery pain in your abdomen. The healers moved quickly, their hands firm as they tried to restrain you without causing further harm. “Please, Mistress, you must stay still. You’re in no condition to—”

“Lythaera!” you cried, your voice cracking as tears streamed down your cheeks. The panic was overwhelming, a suffocating tide that drowned out reason and pain alike.

The door to the infirmary burst open, and Minthara stormed in, her eyes wild with alarm. She pushed past the healers, her sharp gaze locking onto your tear-streaked face.

“What is happening?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the chaos.

“Minthara…” you gasped, reaching out for her like a drowning person reaching for a lifeline. “Kyorlin… he’s Seldarine… Lythaera’s not safe!”

Minthara froze, her expression darkening as the meaning of your words sank in.

“Kyorlin?” she repeated, her voice sharp with suspicion. You nodded frantically, your movements jerky and uncoordinated.

“I saw him… his eyes… blue… he’s a traitor! Where is Lythaera?” Minthara's grip on your hand tightened, and her lips pressed into a thin line. Your voice, raw and desperate you demanded, “Bring her to me!”

Minthara hesitated for the briefest of moments before daring to answer.

“I gave her to Kyorlin,” she admitted, her voice low and measured, as if testing the weight of her own words. “He was supposed to take her to Lesaonar and Melinoe’s quarters. I thought she would be safe with him.”

Her admission hit you like a physical blow, and you shook your head violently, fresh tears streaming down your face. “No....No! No!"

The panic in your voice seemed to snap Minthara out of her momentary stillness. Her expression hardened, and she turned sharply to one of the guards stationed nearby.

“Find him,” she ordered, her voice cold and commanding. “Find Kyorlin and bring Lythaera back. Now.”

But before the guard could move, a scream ripped from your throat as a sudden contraction tore through your body, sharp and unrelenting. You doubled over in pain, clutching at your abdomen as the healers rushed back to your side.

“She’s in labor!” one of them shouted, their voice rising in urgency.

“No, no, no!” you wailed, your body trembling as another wave of pain wracked you. “It’s too soon! Please… not yet!”

Minthara was back at your side in an instant, her hands steady as they gripped yours.

“Focus on me,” she commanded, her voice fierce but laced with an edge of desperation. “You need to stay calm. We’ll find Lythaera, but you have to focus. Do you hear me?”

But her words barely penetrated the haze of agony and terror that consumed you.

“Bring her to me!” you sobbed, your voice cracking as you tried to push past the healers’ restraining hands. “I need her! Lythaera!”

Another contraction hit, and you screamed, the sound raw and primal as it echoed through the room. The healers worked frantically around you, their hands glowing with restorative magic as they tried to stabilize you.

Minthara’s jaw tightened, her usual composure cracking as she barked more orders. “Double the search! I want every corner of this compound searched. He will not leave with her!”

Your mind spiraled deeper into panic and pain, torn between the life fighting to enter the world too soon and the daughter you could feel slipping further away. Minthara’s assurances, the healers’ efforts, the guards’ movements—all of it blurred into chaos as you screamed again, your body convulsing with the force of another contraction.

Minthara had never felt anything like this before. The moment the word 'traitor' left your trembling lips and you screamed Kyorlin’s name, her world tilted. The cacophony in the infirmary—the cries of the healers, your anguished screams, the frantic orders barked to the guards—blurred and muffled, as though she had been submerged underwater.

Her chest tightened, her heart pounding an erratic, suffocating rhythm against her ribs. Her breath hitched as she stared at her own hands, watching with rising horror as they began to tremble uncontrollably.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to falter.

Minthara gripped the edge of the infirmary bed to steady herself, but her knees buckled, and she stumbled back. Every instinct screamed at her to act, to take control, but her body betrayed her. Her lungs refused to draw enough air, and the room seemed to shrink around her, the walls pressing in as her vision blurred at the edges.

She could still hear your cries, distorted but piercing, cutting through the haze: 'Lythaera! Bring her to me!'

Each scream from you drove a dagger of guilt and fear deeper into Minthara’s chest.

“I—” she tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Her voice was gone. Her legs moved of their own accord, carrying her out of the infirmary and into the corridor beyond. She stumbled against the stone wall, gasping for air, her hand clutching at her chest as though trying to still her racing heart.

The sounds of the infirmary faded behind her, but your screams lingered, haunting and relentless.

“Minthara!”

The sharp, familiar voice pulled her from the fog. Melinoe stood a few paces away, her brows knitted in concern as she took in Minthara’s disheveled state. She closed the distance quickly, her hands reaching out to steady her.

“What’s going on?” Melinoe demanded, her voice low and urgent. “What happened? Why is Y/N screaming like that?”

Minthara opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her throat tightened, her breaths shallow and ragged. She shook her head, her trembling hands clutching at Melinoe’s arms as though anchoring herself to something solid.

Lesaonar appeared in the doorway of the infirmary, his face pale as your screams echoed behind him. Without hesitation, he pushed past the healers and entered to see you.

“Minthara, look at me,” Melinoe said, her voice firm but not unkind. “Breathe. You need to focus. Tell me what’s happening.”

Minthara’s lips trembled as she finally managed to choke out, “K-Kyorlin…”

Melinoe’s eyes narrowed. “What about Kyorlin?”

Minthara swallowed hard, her voice shaky and uneven. “He’s… he’s the traitor. He’s Seldarine. And—and he has Lythaera.”

Melinoe’s eyes widened, her grip on Minthara tightening as the words sank in. “He what?”

“I gave her to him!” Minthara’s voice cracked, and her body shuddered with the force of her guilt. “I thought—he said he would take her to your quarters, Y/N was hurt. I didn’t—I didn’t trust him, but I let him take her! And now—”

Minthara’s voice broke entirely, and her knees nearly buckled again. Melinoe caught her, holding her upright as her breathing grew more erratic.

“Minthara!” Melinoe barked, her tone sharper now, cutting through the haze of panic threatening to consume her. “Stop! Breathe! You are Matron of this house, act like it.”

Minthara gasped, her chest heaving as she tried to obey. Melinoe's eyes darted around and she snapped at any nearby servants wanting to look at the Matron in this state. She leaned in to whisper in Minthara's ear.

“In through your nose,” Melinoe instructed, demonstrating. “Hold it. Now out through your mouth. Slowly. Do it with me.”

Minthara struggled, her breaths hitching and uneven, but Melinoe didn’t let go.

“For your wife,” Melinoe said firmly. “For Lythaera. For your unborn child. They need you. You can’t fall apart now.”

Those words struck something deep within Minthara. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to focus on Melinoe’s steady presence. In through her nose. Hold. Out through her mouth. Slowly.

Her trembling began to subside, her breaths gradually evening out. The chaos inside her dulled, the suffocating weight in her chest easing just enough for her to think again.

“That’s it,” Melinoe said, her voice softer now. “Good. Keep going.”

Minthara nodded shakily, her composure not entirely restored but enough to steady herself. Her mind cleared just enough to let the severity of the situation sink in fully.

“Kyorlin has her,” Minthara repeated, her voice firmer this time, though still laced with guilt. “And Y/N's screaming because… the baby is coming, she's giving birth. Too soon.”

Melinoe’s expression hardened, her lips pressing into a grim line. “Then we need to act fast. I’ll find him. I will take a troop into Menzoberranzan, I will tear apart the city to find them, this is my promise to you Matron.”

“I—” Minthara’s voice faltered, but Melinoe interrupted her.

“You’ll stay here,” Melinoe said firmly. “Your wife needs you. Lythaera is a child of Baenre, this kidnapping is merely a right of passage for her. She will be okay."

Minthara nodded, the trembling in her hands finally ceasing as she watched Melinoe stride purposefully down the corridor, her resolve unshakable. Minthara inhaled deeply, steadying herself as she re-entered the infirmary.

The chaos within felt like a physical force pressing down on her. Healers moved quickly around you, their voices low and urgent, as they prepared for the premature birth. You lay on the bed, writhing in pain, your cries cutting through the air and stabbing at Minthara’s heart.

Her eyes flicked to Lesaonar, who stood near you, his face pale and stricken. His fists were clenched at his sides, and he looked as though he might shatter under the weight of his emotions. When he turned toward Minthara, his voice broke.

“Minthara,” he choked, his words heavy with disbelief and betrayal. “Is it true? Kyorlin… he’s the traitor?”

Minthara’s jaw tightened, her throat thick with suppressed emotion. She hated the pain in his voice, hated the betrayal she had to confirm. But she met his gaze with unwavering certainty and gave a sharp nod.

“Yes,” she said, her tone resolute despite the turmoil inside her. “It’s true.” Lesaonar’s breath hitched, his entire body trembling as he took a step back.

“No… it can’t…” He looked away, his lips pressed tightly together as if trying to hold back a scream. Minthara stepped forward, her voice cutting through his despair.

"Lesaonar.” Her tone was firm but not unkind. “I know this is hard, but right now, you need to focus. Your sister,”—she gestured toward you on the bed—“needs us to act. I need you to act. Melinoe is leading a troop into Menzoberranzan to track him down. Go. Help her.”

Lesaonar hesitated, his gaze darting back to you. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and his jaw worked as he struggled to form words. Finally, he gave a sharp nod.

“I’ll bring her back, no mercy.” he said hoarsely, his voice thick with determination. Without another word, he turned and left, his steps hurried as he headed toward Melinoe.

Minthara’s chest heaved with a deep breath, but before she could move to your side, a healer touched her arm.

“Matron,” the healer said quietly, their expression grave.

“What?” Minthara snapped, her patience worn thin.

The healer’s voice was soft but firm. “The situation is critical. The child is far too early, and your wife is weak from her injuries. If this continues… there’s a strong possibility that only one of them will survive.”

The words hit Minthara like a dagger to the chest. Her vision blurred for a moment, but she blinked it away, her composure hardening like steel.

“Then save her,” she said instantly, her voice as sharp as a blade. “Save my wife.”

The healer hesitated, their eyes dropping to the floor. “Matron, it’s not a choice we can make. The outcome may be beyond our control.”

Minthara’s fury flared, her voice cutting through the room. “You will do everything in your power to save her. Do you understand me? I will not lose her. If she dies, all of you will be fed to the spiders.”

The healer nodded solemnly, bowing their head. “We’ll do all we can, Matron.”

As the healer moved away, Minthara strode to your bedside and dropped to her knees beside you. Her hand trembled as she reached out, brushing the sweat-soaked hair from your forehead. Your eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain and fear, and you managed a faint, tearful whisper. “Lythaera…”

Minthara gripped your hand tightly, her other hand pressing gently against your swollen abdomen.

“We’ll get her back,” she promised, her voice soft but fierce. “I swear to you, my love, we’ll get her back.”

You sobbed, your body trembling as another contraction tore through you, wrenching a cry from your lips. Minthara leaned in closer, her lips brushing against your temple.

“You’re strong,” she murmured. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. You’ll get through this. Do you hear me? You’ll get through this.”

The healers moved around her, their hands deft as they prepared for the imminent birth. But Minthara stayed rooted at your side, her gaze locked on your face. For the first time in her life, the indomitable Matron of House Baenre felt helpless. And yet, she refused to let despair take hold. The pain etched on your face stabbed at her heart, and when your glassy, tear-filled eyes focused on her with a flicker of lucidity, she leaned in, desperate for any word you might manage.

“Minthara…” you rasped, your voice trembling and weak. “Go to the chapel…”

Minthara stiffened, her brows knitting together in confusion. “What are you talking about?” she demanded, her voice laced with worry. “I’m not leaving you.”

You tightened your grip on her hand with surprising strength, and the look in your eyes burned with a determination that shook her.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice cracking, “what the healers are saying. I know what’s happening.” A tear slid down your cheek, and Minthara instinctively wiped it away. “Please… go to the chapel. Pray to Lolth.”

Minthara’s expression hardened. “No,” she said firmly. “I won’t leave you. Not now.”

“Minthara.” Your voice was weak, but the command in it was unmistakable. You met her gaze, and she could see the plea there, but also something else—something you weren’t saying aloud. “You have to go. You have to pray to her. Please.”

Minthara hesitated, her heart twisting in her chest. She could sense the unspoken intent behind your words, but she didn’t question it. With a reluctant nod, she stood.

“I’ll go,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But you hold on, do you hear me? You hold on.”

Without waiting for a reply, Minthara spun on her heel and sprinted from the infirmary, her boots echoing loudly against the stone floors. The corridors blurred past her as she made her way to the chapel. Her thoughts raced, panic clawing at the edges of her resolve, but she focused on her purpose. By the time she reached the ornate doors of the chapel, her chest was heaving with exertion.

Minthara pushed the heavy doors open and stepped inside. The air was thick with incense, the silken webs draping the walls shimmering in the faint light of faerie fire. She fell to her knees before the grand statue of Lolth, the Spider Queen’s many eyes seeming to pierce through her.

For a moment, she hesitated. Prayer had never been her strength. That was always you—your faith unwavering, your devotion inspiring. But now, Minthara drew upon your resolve, channeling the strength you had shown her time and again.

“Mother of Chaos,” Minthara began, her voice shaking but growing steadier with each word. “Lolth, my Queen, I come before you not in doubt, but in fury.”

She bowed her head low, her hands clutching the edge of the dais as she continued.

“Eilistraee has dared to lay her hand upon your chosen house. She has sown discord, stolen your loyal descendants, and struck at the heart of your dominion.”

Minthara’s voice grew louder, her words laced with venom.

“She has struck my wife, your child, the Mistress of House Baenre, with this treachery. She has taken Lythaera, one of your own, to mock you. To mock us. And now she seeks to undo us!”

Her voice cracked, but she pressed on, her words flowing like a tide.

“Show her your wrath, great Lolth! Let her and all who would defy you know the cost of crossing the Spider Queen! Bring your chaos, your vengeance, down upon them! Show them why we kneel only to you!”

When her words ceased, the chapel fell into an oppressive silence. Minthara’s heart raced as she knelt there, her forehead pressed against the cool stone. For a moment, dread crept in. Had Lolth ignored her? Was her prayer insufficient? Was Lolth simply relishing in their agony?

Then the ground beneath her hands trembled. A faint, almost imperceptible vibration at first, growing into a distinct rumble. The air seemed to shift, the incense swirling unnaturally. Minthara lifted her head, her breath catching as the eyes of the Spider Queen’s statue glowed faintly red, as if alive.

A voice—not spoken but felt—reverberated through the chamber, cold and commanding. It was not words, but Minthara understood the message nonetheless: You have been heard.

Tears pricked at Minthara’s eyes, though whether they were from relief, awe, or fear, she couldn’t tell. She bowed her head once more.

“Thank you, my Queen,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

As the vibrations subsided, Minthara rose to her feet, steadied by the knowledge that Lolth had listened. She turned and sprinted back toward the infirmary, her determination renewed. Whatever mania would follow, she would face it. You needed her, and she would not fail.

The chaos she expected upon her return was conspicuously absent. The once-noisy infirmary was eerily quiet, save for the occasional murmur of the healers. Minthara’s eyes scanned the room frantically, expecting the worst.

And then she saw you.

You lay on the bed, still gasping, still in the throes of labor, but the air around you had shifted. Your half-lidded eyes glowed with an intense, demonic red—a light so fierce it cast faint shadows across your face. The healers stood back, murmuring prayers under their breath as they watched you, their expressions a mix of awe and fear. Lolth was with you.

Minthara approached cautiously, her gaze fixed on you. She reached your side and dropped to her knees, taking your hand in hers.

“My love,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Your lips moved faintly, forming her name, but no sound came out. Yet the glow in your eyes seemed to burn brighter as if in response to her presence. Minthara clenched your hand tightly, her chest heaving with relief and fear.

The air in the infirmary grew heavier as your cries of pain tore through the room, each one reverberating with a pulse of raw, unrestrained magic. Minthara held your hand tightly, her knuckles white as she murmured reassurances, though her voice was nearly drowned out by your screams. The Spider Queen’s influence had clearly taken hold, and the atmosphere was charged with something far beyond mortal comprehension.

As you cried out again, the pulse of magic surged through the room like an invisible shockwave. It sent the healers staggering back, their instruments clattering to the floor. For a moment, it seemed harmless—a simple burst of power—but then the true horror began.

One of the healers, a middle-aged drow woman, froze mid-step. Her body convulsed violently, and she collapsed to the ground, her mouth open in a silent scream. From her nose, her ears, and her mouth, tiny black spiders poured forth, their legs glistening with ichor as they scuttled across the floor.

Gasps and cries of alarm filled the room as more healers dropped to the ground, their bodies writhing in agony. Spiders erupted from their orifices in a grotesque cascade, the arachnids skittering across the infirmary as chaos erupted.

Minthara’s instincts took over, and she rushed to the nearest fallen healer. She knelt beside the body, her sharp eyes narrowing as she examined them. The drow’s lifeless face stared up at her, and Minthara saw it: their eyes, now clouded in death, were not the deep crimson of Lolth’s own but an abhorrent blue.

Her stomach twisted in disgust and fury.

“Seldarine,” she hissed, her voice like venom. She stood up quickly, her gaze sweeping over the room as more bodies hit the floor, spiders spilling from their mouths and scattering into the shadows.

“Keep working!” she barked at the surviving healers and midwives, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Do not stop, no matter what happens. Focus on your Mistress!”

The remaining healers—those untouched by the magic—snapped to attention, their fear overridden by years of discipline. They returned to your side, their hands steady as they examined you and worked to manage the labor.

The midwives stepped forward, their expressions grim but resolute. One of them, an older drow with deep lines etched into her face, leaned over you, her hands gently pressing against your abdomen.

“The contractions are increasing,” she announced, her voice calm despite the carnage around her. “The baby is coming.”

Minthara stayed close, her gaze darting between you and the remaining healers. The culling, it seemed, had done its work—those who had writhed and died in agony were all revealed as Seldarine infiltrators, their light eyes betraying their treachery. The survivors, loyal to Lolth, worked with renewed fervor, ignoring the corpses of their false comrades scattered across the floor.

You let out another piercing cry, your body arching with the force of a contraction. Magic pulsed again, but this time it seemed to settle, its destructive wave dissipating as if satisfied with its gruesome work. The midwife met Minthara’s eyes and nodded.

“It’s time,” she said firmly. Minthara leaned over you, her hand still clutching yours.

"You’re almost there,” she whispered, her voice steady but filled with emotion. “You’re going to make it. Both of you will.”

Despite your exhaustion and the haze of pain, there was a flicker of determination in your glowing red eyes. The Spider Queen’s presence loomed over you both, her will entwining with your fates.

The room seemed to warp and fade around you as you strained, your cries of agony reaching a crescendo. Then, at last, the moment came. You felt the final, unbearable contraction ripple through you, and with a wet, shuddering release, the child entered the world. You gasped, your body trembling as you collapsed back onto the blood-soaked bed.

There was no crying.

The silence was suffocating.

Your head lolled to the side, and your glowing eyes dulled as the edges of your vision darkened. You tried to reach for the child, to demand to see them, but the overwhelming exhaustion swept you under, and consciousness slipped away like sand through your fingers.

The healers moved swiftly, immediately cutting the umbillical cord, their faces pale but determined as they whisked the small, limp form of the newborn away. Minthara stood frozen for a moment, torn between you and the child. Then, as if propelled by a force greater than herself, she followed the healers, her heart pounding in her chest.

The voices of the healers were hushed but frantic as they carried the babe to a side chamber. Minthara's sharp ears caught snippets of their conversation:

“The skin… too pale…” “…not breathing…” “…too weak to survive…”

Her heart lurched in her chest as she pushed past the small group, desperate for a glimpse of the child. She caught sight of them—a small, frail body, pale as moonlight and smeared with blood. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, her confidence faltered. The child looked so fragile, almost ethereal, like they belonged to another world entirely.

Suddenly, a healer turned and stepped directly into Minthara’s path. Before she could react, the healer’s hand darted out, and with a swift, practiced motion, they tore open her tunic with a scalpel.

“Explain yourself!” Minthara snapped, her voice a venomous growl as she glared at the healer. Her hand instinctively reached for the hilt of her blade, but the healer raised their hands in a placating gesture.

“Matron, please, trust us,” the healer said quickly, their tone desperate but firm. “This is the only way.”

Before Minthara could argue further, the healer pressed the tiny, bloodied babe against her bare chest. Minthara stiffened, bewildered, but the warmth of the fragile body against her skin rooted her in place.

The healers began to chant, their voices weaving an ancient incantation that filled the room with an eerie, otherworldly resonance. The babe, still silent and still, seemed to respond to the chant. Thin, shimmering strands of silk began to manifest, wrapping around the child like a cocoon.

Minthara stared in awe as the silk wove itself tighter, forming a protective sling that clung to her chest. The babe’s chest rose slightly, then fell again. A tiny sound—a whimper, then a gasp—escaped the child’s lips.

Then came the cry.

A wail, high and sharp, pierced the air, and Minthara’s heart swelled with relief and joy. Tears pricked her eyes as she looked down at the cocooned babe, their cries growing stronger with each breath.

Her hands instinctively cradled the child, her healing magic from her oath flowing from her palms into the tiny body. The crimson light of Lolth’s blessing surrounded them both, and Minthara felt an unshakable sense of purpose. She was their lifeline, their protector.

The healers collapsed one by one, their energy drained from the ritual. One of them, barely able to sit upright, looked up at Minthara and spoke in a hoarse whisper.

“This… was a miracle,” they said. “The Spider Queen willed it. Without her blessing, this would have failed.”

Minthara nodded, her lips curving into a small, fierce smile. “Lolth’s will is absolute,” she murmured.

The babe was secure, cocooned in silk that clung to Minthara like an egg sac to a mother spider. She stood tall, her chest rising and falling with determination.

The thought of you suddenly snapped her back to the warning—the dire prediction that only one of you might survive this ordeal. She turned, her heart heavy, expecting the worst.

But there you were.

You stood at the other side of the room, your silhouette framed by the flickering torchlight. Blood trickled down your legs, pooling at your feet in a stark testament to the ordeal you had endured. Your body swayed, breath labored, yet your glowing red eyes burned with an unearthly intensity. The sight was both horrifying and mesmerizing, your form transformed into something almost eldritch, radiating Lolth’s dark power.

Minthara’s breath caught in her throat. “By the Spider Queen…” she whispered, her voice trembling.

You met her gaze, your voice hoarse but steady. “She heard you,” you said, each word laced with pain and resolve.

Minthara moved toward you, cradling the cocooned babe close to her chest. She didn’t need to speak; the look in her eyes, a mixture of reverence, love, and fear, said everything.

You stagger forward, each step unsteady, yet propelled by an indomitable force within you. Blood stains your legs and robes, trailing behind you as if marking the path of a warrior returning from battle. Minthara, clutching the silken cocoon to her chest, moves to meet you halfway, her movements cautious yet desperate.

When you reach her, you raise a trembling hand and gently place it on the silk sling. The cocoon pulses faintly under your touch, warm and alive. Tears blur your vision as you lean forward, pressing your lips to the cocoon with a reverence so profound it silences the room. The faint cries of the babe within are muffled by the layers of silk, but they are there—a testament to survival, to Lolth’s will.

You draw back, your blood-red eyes turning to the healers who are still frozen in shock.

“The child,” you rasp, your voice raw but filled with authority. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

The lead healer stammers, her hands wringing nervously. “A… a girl, Mistress. Another daughter.”

The words wash over you like a balm. Another daughter. Another blessing from Lolth. You close your eyes and nod, a faint, exhausted smile gracing your lips.

“Of course,” you whisper, more to yourself than to anyone else.

With a deep, shuddering breath, you turn on your heel, your movements purposeful despite your condition. Minthara’s brow furrows, and she calls after you, her voice edged with worry. “Where are you going?”

“To get Lythaera,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “She needs to meet her sister, after all.”

The room stills at your words, the sheer determination in your tone stopping everyone in their tracks. Minthara’s eyes widen, and she steps toward you.

“They haven’t retrieved her yet,” she says carefully, her voice strained. “Kyorlin still has her.”

You stop in your tracks and slowly turn to face her, a small, enigmatic smile tugging at your lips. Your glowing eyes lock onto hers, and you repeat, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “I’m going to get my daughter.”

Minthara takes a step back, momentarily thrown by your confidence.

“You’re bleeding still,” she protests, gesturing to the blood soaking your robes. “The healers need to check you over, ensure your body is fine—”

Her words stop you cold, as if grounding you back to the reality of your body. Your hand instinctively rests on your abdomen, and for the first time, you acknowledge the lingering pain and the necessity of the healer’s work. Your shoulders sag slightly, and you nod, allowing yourself to be led back to a clean bed.

The healers, though terrified of you in your current state, rush to your side. They work quickly, their hands practiced despite the lingering tension in the room. Minthara stays close, the silken cocoon still strapped securely to her chest. The babe stirs occasionally, the faint pulse of the silk reassuring her that the child is alive and stable.

As they work, one of the healers speaks hesitantly to Minthara. “The silk cocoon… it is unique. Sacred. When the child has stabilized enough to survive, she will break through it on her own. It could take hours, days… perhaps even weeks. But she will emerge when she is ready.”

Minthara listens, her eyes never leaving you as you lie there, your breaths labored yet steady. She nods solemnly. “Then I will protect her until that moment comes.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Lythaera lay unconscious on a narrow, uneven bench within the dimly lit confines of a safehouse on the outskirts of Menzoberranzan. The air was stale, filled with the acrid scent of moss and mildew, and the faint trickle of water echoed from somewhere in the distance. Her small form was swaddled in a simple cloak, her delicate features slack in an unnatural stillness. Around her, the extremists bickered, their voices low but tense, their heated debate punctuated by the occasional sharp hiss of frustration.

“This is madness,” one of them muttered, pacing back and forth. His hand rested nervously on the hilt of his blade, his eyes darting to the dark entrance of the safehouse as if expecting pursuit at any moment. “We can’t stay here long. The matron and her brood will come for her. For all of us.”

“The surface is the only way,” another snapped, her tone insistent. She leaned over a rough-hewn table, her long, slender fingers tracing a crude map. “The quicker we get there, the safer we’ll be. They wouldn’t dare follow us into Eilistraee’s domain.”

A younger extremist, a woman with wide, uncertain eyes, glanced toward Lythaera. “But… she’s just a child. She’s never seen the sun. The surface… it’ll burn her skin, blind her. She’ll suffer.”

Kyorlin, standing in a shadowed corner, stepped forward, his presence commanding silence. His eyes—tinged with the same unsettling blue that betrayed his allegiance—gleamed in the dim light.

“Eilistraee will protect her,” he said firmly, his voice steady with conviction. “I will protect her. This child is our future, a symbol of what we fight for.”

His words carried weight, but the room remained tense, the undercurrent of doubt unspoken yet palpable. The extremists returned to their argument, their voices rising in intensity as they debated their next steps.

In the midst of the chaos, no one noticed the small crystalline spider that skittered silently into the safehouse. Its translucent body caught faint glimmers of light, each delicate limb moving with eerie precision. It crept closer to Lythaera, its many eyes glinting with an otherworldly intelligence. It paused briefly at the foot of the bench, its mandibles clicking softly, a sound too faint for the distracted extremists to hear.

The spider climbed deftly onto Lythaera’s robes, weaving its way into the folds of the fabric. Once nestled within, it settled itself against her chest, as if anchoring itself to her. The faint chittering ceased, and the spider remained utterly still, blending seamlessly into her clothing.

The crystalline spider was more than just a creature; it was a message, a harbinger. These spiders, sacred to Lolth, had once been your salvation when you were young and alone. This spider’s presence was not random. It was a sign, a declaration: Lolth is watching. Lolth is coming. And worse than that, so were you.

As the extremists’ argument grew louder, the spider’s presence went unnoticed, its role quietly solidifying. It pulsed faintly with magic, a silent promise to its matron: her child was not alone.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Woweee, this was intense hence why it took me so long to write aha. I am not an expert on giving birth or labor so it may not be entirely accurate but i really tried my best. Also poor minthy, she's going through it - you on the other hand, goddamn. This was partially inspired by that scene in HOTD where Rhaenyra just firms walking those steps after giving birth bcs spite.

Let me know what you thought of this down below, every like, comment and reblog is cherished and I love you all. Happy Holidays! -Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

Taglist: @longjohnsilverfish @alicelufenia @m-for-musings @h-doodles @spacezombiez @les-bee @chlondykebar @coratheninth @wineredsea @gaysindistress @trappedinafantasy37 @i-must-say-thats-quite-gay @damnsupercorp @lunar-monster @cinkenn17 @surrfix @iprobneedabeard @spicyshadows

[lulublack90]

Prompt 11 - Fake Date

@wolfstarmicrofic May 11, word count 875

“Eugh, my mum keeps asking who I’m bringing to my cousin's wedding!” Remus groaned as he checked the new message on his phone. “She’s getting worse. Ever since Oscar and I broke up it’s all she cares about.” He shook his head and put on a high-pitched voice, imitating Hope. “Reemuss,” He elongated his name like Hope did with her lilting accent. “Remus, why don’t you have a nice boy to bring to Gwen’s wedding? You should go find yourself someone, Remus.” He grimaced. “Like it’s so easy. She met dad in the middle of a forest when that guy jumped out of the trees at her and dad came to her rescue. Knowing my luck, the would be murderer would fall for me.” He leaned his head back and cursed the heavens. 

Sirius had sat there patiently listening to Remus grouse. He snatched Remus’s phone from his lap and typed a quick message to Hope. 

“There,” He said. “Now you have a date.” He grinned mischievously. Remus paled. 

“What did you do?” He picked up his phone and gasped. “Sirius! What the actual?!” His phone pinged as Hope started gushing about how happy she was and how much she’d always loved Sirius. He had to put his phone on silent to shut it up. Sirius had messaged Hope telling her that he was bringing Sirius as his date. Sirius who he’d had a crush on for years and told his mother every little thing about it. Oh gods, this was going to be a disaster. 

“It’ll be fine, Remus. I’ll pretend to be your boyfriend for the day, and then we’ll mysteriously break up, none of them will be the wiser, and it'll make your mum happy.” Remus groaned into his hands. 

They travelled to Wales the day before the wedding and stayed at Remus’s parents house. Lyall greeted them at the door but then disappeared into his study. He was happy in there and Remus was happy he was in there, to be honest. They’d never quite seemed to quite understand each other and this way was easier, much to Hope’s annoyance. 

Hope, on the other hand, wrapped them both in her arms and cooed over Sirius.

“I knew you’d end up together. You’re perfect for each other.” Sirius lapped it up. The only problem they had was Hope put them in Remus’s old bedroom. They hadn’t thought of that when they’d agreed to stay there. There wasn’t even another spare room. 

“It’ll be fun,” Sirius beamed. “Like being back at school.” 

“We never shared a bed. That was you and James,” Remus reminded him. 

“Well, better late than never then, I guess,” Sirius responded. So that was how Remus found himself in bed with Sirius. 

Thankfully, morning came quickly and then it was time for the wedding. 

Everybody made a fuss about Sirius.

“He’s so handsome Remus,” His grandmother had declared when he’d introduced him. “You ought to put a ring on his finger, so he doesn’t get away,” She’d said loudly. Remus went beet red. 

“Nain, you can’t just yell that out!” He hushed her. 

“And why not? I want to see some great grand kids before I pop my clogs, and you aren’t getting any younger,”

“Oh my god,” He didn’t know how to handle her apart from with a gin and tonic and the bar wasn’t open yet. 

“Don’t you worry, Mrs Howell, I’ll make an honest man out of him.” Sirius said, linking her arm with his and leading her away to her table. He turned and winked at Remus. Remus wished he could turn invisible. 

By the end of the wedding, Sirius had won over all of Remus’s family and all of the grooms. In fact, more people knew who Sirius was at the wedding than knew who Remus was. 

Remus was glad when they were on their way back to his parents house. It had been a long day. “So,” Sirius asked him. “When are you going to pop the question? Your Nain’s promised me her engagement ring.” He grinned, fighting back a laugh at Remus. 

“Oh, haha, Sirius,” Remus rolled his eyes and said no more about the subject. 

That night, much to Remus’s surprise, Sirius snuggled under his arm and rested his head on Remus’s chest. 

“I had fun today.” Sirius told him with a sleepy voice. “Your family is really nice, and I might just steal your Nain. She was brilliant.” He turned his head to look at Remus. “Thank you for letting me come.” He said quietly. 

“You invited yourself. I had nothing to do with it.” Remus huffed. 

He closed his eyes hoping Sirius would take the hint. But instead, Sirius pushed up and kissed him. Remus’s eyes shot open, and he stared at Sirius. 

“I was serious about that ring, Moony. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there.” Remus didn’t know what to say, so he dragged Sirius’s face back to his and kissed him deeper than their first. He melted as Sirius kissed him back. “Took you long enough,” Sirius murmured against his lips. Remus had never been happier. He made a note to send a bottle of champagne to his cousin, because without her this might never have happened.   

[thewales-family]

The official portraits published by Kensington Palace this year (2024)

📷 : The Prince and Princess of Wales, Millie Pilkington, Matt Porteous and Will Warr/Kensington Palace.

[selliho6530]

Just look how wonderful they are here!

Just look at the way Linda looks at Paul😍 (and Heather😌)

Cuties 😊

[petrichorium]

‼️‼️ B I G N E W S ‼️‼️ emperor of the sea akagami no shanks marries long-time captive in private ceremony

red-haired pirates vice captain benn beckman had this to say in an exclusive interview: “she's an executive, you bastard— and how the fuck did you know about this? get off my damn ship.”

"she's still asleep, i'm afraid. i mean it's barely been twelve hours— no, no, you're right. i'm sorry, we should have told you— yes, ma'am. sorry, ma'am. we're on our way. we'll do something nice, yeah? can't have the mother of the bride missing out."

[antiquepearlss]

I actually really want Eugene to officiate the Varigo wedding because one, it’s not a very official or proper wedding. If anything, it’s something Rapunzel and Varian put together in one week and is essentially just a giant party where they blow stuff up and eat cake. Varian totally asks Eugene thirty minutes beforehand if he will officiate and after five minutes of sobbing, he agrees.

And two, because I want him to say this line-

“It has been a joy to watch your distracting childish rivalry turn into a distracting childish courtship, which will undoubtedly turn into a distracting childish marriage.”

[ririsasy]

Varadha touching his nose ring while looking at Deva, remembering the time when Deva himself that put it there for him with his own blood in his hand, remembering the fact that it was Deva who protected and kept his "little honor" intact.

[galedekarios]

u kno i just started a new play through and when u first meet gale he does the slow blink that cats do when they trust u and he spent a whole year with only a cat as company …. hoping these r connected…. he’s so babygirl

you are so right, anon!

also let's face it, tara at some point probably gave him unsolicited dating advice. like, this is who we're talking about here:

we know she snoops too:

Tara the Tressym: However, I will not press you further. Your private correspondence is just that, technically. What kind of companion would I be were I to sneak a peek? NodeContext: A little telling, like she plans to read it [the letter] later

and:

Tara the Tressym: I won't pry for specifics, Mr Dekarios. Not when I can sneak a peek at your letter while you sleep.

[justabyssal]

"This too shall pass"

Inspired by John. I'm planning on putting these up in a shop at some point. Eventually.

[kindred-spirit-93]

listening to laufey while scrolling pinterest and planning a wedding is a vibe ngl

[serpentface]

FAMILY TITLES AMONG THE HILL TRIBES

(ft. various linguistic notes and tangents)

In-universe Brakul’s self-given title of ‘Red-Dog’ is Brakul 'ne-Dainh' in his native language (Bict-Urbinnas dialect of the Highland language group) and Brakul 'Chin-Reyla' in Wardi. Ne-Dainh/Chin-Reyla is not something he treats as or considers an actual surname or identity, just a self-styled nickname. He already has a title.

Family names/surnames are not a native practice among the Hill Tribes (though some clans or individual families have adopted this practice), and all traditionally use titles that designate immediate ancestry, clan and tribe. These full titles are officially given when one comes of age and are spoken aloud in ceremony (with the entire direct male and female lines listed by name, with most traditions expecting 12 generations of each being named).

The function is to cement one’s sense of place in the world, and their place in a direct ancestral line, which puts the person under the full watch and guidance of their ancestors. It's also a critical method of recording lineage- the long held practice of each person memorizing at least 24 total direct ancestors allows for very long, largely accurate records of family history to be kept, with some people able to trace their ancestry all the way back to initial settlement of the Highlands (or even beyond).

Brakul’s full title is:

“Brakul virsum Kuligan et Borunil an Briyonis ne-Taig an Bict-Urbinnas”

Which dead literally translates to “Brakul son of Kuligan and Borunil of the Foothills (of) Red-Cattle, of the North (Urbin/Erubin) River Valley” but has a much richer meaning in the original language.

"BRAKUL VIRSUM KULIGAN ET BORUNIL"

The actual meaning here is closer to ‘Brakul, son of Kuligan and his father’s fathers, and Borunil and her mother’s mothers’.

“Virsum” means ‘child (son/daughter) of’ (the gender is contextual), but implies the person’s status as a descendant of a full male and female line of ancestors. A different word is used if you’re just saying ‘I’m so and so’s son”. The title describes him as a son of his father Kuligan and of Kuligan’s male line, and of his mother Borunil and Borunil's female line.

All ancestors (within this particular system of kinship, divided into one direct male line from the father and one direct female line from the mother, and not including husbands from the female line or wives from the male line) are invoked and credited with the word ‘virsum’. Speaking it as part of the personal title is part of the routine and necessary honoring of one’s ancestors, who watch over their descendants from the afterlife and can temporarily return to the land to guide and protect (and sometimes punish, or teach sharp lessons to) the living.

"AN BRIYONIS NE-TAIG"

The actual meaning here would be understood as ‘clan/people of the foothills where cattle are lit red by the setting sun'.

‘Briyonis’ is the word for ‘foothill’, citing his clan’s specific location being the foothills that form the slopes of the north Urbin river valley. He is of a lesser clan within the powerful North Urbin River tribe. His clan benefits from close affiliation to their more powerful ruling clans located directly in the river valley, which grants them access to a greater variety of cultivated foods, but their actual position in the foothills still renders them predominantly reliant on cattle for subsistence. Clan names referencing cattle or horses are very common, given their frequent centrality to life.

The ‘ne-Taig’ literally means ‘red cattle’, but the ‘ne’ color word for red specifically invokes shades of red seen in and cast by a rising/setting sun. This red cast is culturally regarded as a unique beauty and evocative (and part of the name) of the solar god Hraighne. The foothills his clan is physically located on are a vantage point from which the western horizon is not fully obscured by mountains, and they experience very striking sunsets and are directly touched by the light. This is fairly unique to this location, and is invoked in the clan name and identity. ‘Ne-Taig’ here suggests a visual of grazing cattle illuminated red by the sun as it crosses the horizon.

‘Ne-Dainh’ carries the same implication, a dog illuminated red by setting sunlight. The Wardi language does not have a comparable word for a sunlit red and ‘Chin-Reyla’ really does just mean ‘(orangeish) red dog’ (‘reyla’ is specific to orangey-red colors, which is the closest match he could get. There’s no way to impart the meaning of ‘sunlit-red dog’ in Wardi that is non-clunky enough to be appropriate for a name).

"AN BICT-URBINNAS"

‘an Bict-Urbinnas’ is fairly simple, Bict means ‘north’, and 'Urbin' is the name of the specific river that stems from a northern and eastern tributary. This river has a very ancient name (or a derivative of one) that predates settlement by the Hill Tribes, and its exact meaning is lost.

The root -(n)nas designates a river valley, but has strong implications of being an esteemed and bountiful place, rather than solely a literal geographical descriptor (as the river valleys are centers of power and trade in the highlands). It may be a loanword from the Wardi language family, as its usage is VERY similar in form and function to the Wardi -(n)nos, which also suggests a place of esteem and bounty (more specifically having connotations of a kingdom).

’An’ literally means ‘of’, but in the specific sense of describing the place and identity of a collection of people. ‘an Bict Urbinnas’ would be understood in speech as ‘of the north Urbin River Valley (people)’. The clans historically settled in and around the valley of the North Urbin River form the totality of the Bict-Urbinnas tribe.

The ‘Urbin’ word predates the contemporary Wardi name ‘Erubin’ for the river, the latter of which invokes the semi-mythological founding figure Erub, who himself was of a Wardi tribe located downriver to the south of the Highlands. The real historically extant ‘Erub’ was most likely named Urub after the river, with his cited name shifting over the centuries in folklore, and the Wardi name for the river shifting with it.

‘Erubin’ as a corruption of ‘Urbin’ functions very well in Wardi language due to ‘-bi/bin’ denoting something as a ‘gift’, usually in a more metaphorical sense. ‘Erubin’ is understood as meaning ‘(The river that is) Erub’s gift’, and the Erubin/Urbin river is a key tributary to the much larger Black river, one of the key rivers that feeds the region's wetter and more fertile west. This 'gift' meaning also occurs in the name of the southeastern Imperial Wardi city-state Erubinnos, which is understood as meaning ’((The kingdom that is) Erub’s gift’. He is considered to have conquered and taken the land (from the core city's actual founders, the Wogan people) and established a kingdom there in the early days of warring Wardi tribal monarchies.