#the breathless disbelief on both their faces because they’ve been through so much and cannot believe the other is truly standing there

[peachdues]

I don’t think y’all understand — Jon and sansa’s reunion in season 6 was my Roman Empire

@thedovahqueen

GAMEOFTHRONESDAILY’S 10 YEAR ANNIVERSARY get to know the members (@elena-gilbert) Favorite Dynamic + JONSA ღ touches

[i-like-plan-m]

I was thinking more about tatted lwj and your response and the tattoos are lwj’s way to feel more freedom outside of the rules and values that his family keeps. He gets to express himself and break the rules without it actually affecting his relationships with his family since his family isn’t ever going to see him shirtless or naked. Like you said it’s like a secret little rebellion!

He starts off with a small simple bunny in his ankle and it slowly spirals out of control as he ends up getting addicted to getting tattoos and soon he has a whole sleeve and tattoos curling around his sides and spreading across his chest and down his back.

He also has one that starts at his waist and spreads down his hip and below his jeans and wwx just wants to know how far down does it exactly go?

ok, loving these prompts, they’re making words work for me tonight and also they’ve all been fantastic prompts so thank you!! 

[Posted to Ao3] 

“So,” Wei Ying said, and promptly flushed to the roots of his hair when it came out as a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You have… tattoos.”

“I do,” Lan Zhan agreed, apparently unbothered by Wei Ying’s dumbfounded stare.

Really, this was too much. How could he be expected to function, knowing Lan Zhan had tattoos, like the delinquent Lan Qiren always accused Wei Ying of being.

Of course, there was nothing delinquent about these tattoos. No, these were lovely, graceful sweeps of color, a blooming vine curling its way down Lan Zhan’s spine, wrapping around his hip and disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.

Wei Ying wanted to follow it with his mouth.

“When…?” he trailed off helplessly. They’d been friends for years, ever since high school, after an admittedly rough start wherein Wei Ying had done everything in his power to get Lan Zhan’s attention and Lan Zhan had been infuriated at the mere sight of him.

“I have had many sessions,” Lan Zhan said, and tugged a long sleeved shirt over his head. Wei Ying wanted to whine when the riot of color vanished from his sight, hidden beneath a blue sweater that he used to like, because it was soft and fitted and highlighted Lan Zhan’s extraordinary shoulder to waist ratio.

He did not like the stupid sweater anymore, Wei Ying thought grumpily. Now he knew it had been an accomplice, hiding Lan Zhan’s tattoos from him.

The audacity, he thought indignantly, fully aware that he was being irrational and not caring even a little. Fuck that sweater.

“Why’d you get them?” He asked when he finally remembered how talking worked. Mostly he was just grateful he hadn’t said, “Take it back off right this instant.” or, “Can I touch?”

Lan Zhan paused in the process of making tea— when had he gone into the kitchen? Wei Ying wondered in a daze— and glanced over at him.

“The first was a gentian flower, for my mother. I was eighteen. And… angry.”

Because he’d never been given the time and space to grieve, Wei Ying knew. They’d talked about it before, the restricting rules of Lan Zhan’s childhood. The way he’d been told how to feel, how to act, told to forget about his mother because she wasn’t coming back.

Wei Ying nodded to show he was listening, and took a step closer. Lan Zhan, busy running long fingers gently over his wrist, didn’t seem to notice. “The permanence of a tattoo appealed to me. Once I had it, no one could take it from me.”

No one could take her from me, Wei Ying heard.

“And then?” He asked softly, climbing onto one of the barstools to watch Lan Zhan move around the kitchen with a steady competence that Wei Ying watched with quiet interest disguised as attentiveness.

To his surprise, Lan Zhan’s ears flushed red. Wei Ying perked up, gleeful as always when Lan Zhan got embarrassed around him, the most shameless person on the planet, at least according to Jiang Cheng.

Because Lan Zhan was too good for him, he gave Wei Ying an honest (if reluctant) answer. “A rabbit on my ankle.”

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying gasped, delighted. “A bunny? You got a bunny tattoo?”

“I like rabbits,” Lan Zhan said mutinously.

“What next, what next?!”

“…Another rabbit, so the first wouldn’t be alone,” Lan Zhan admitted, ears positively on fire now.

He was so cute Wei Ying wanted to die. He settled for covering his face with his hands until he could control his expression again.

There was no way he could take more of this, so Wei Ying asked instead, “Does your family know?”

“My brother,” Lan Zhan said, and slid his left sleeve up to show the lovely blue flower decorating his wrist. “I showed him this after I had it done and he…”

Uh oh. “Was he mad?” Surely not; Lan Xichen’s only care in the world was for his little brother to be happy.

“No. He cried, a little, and then we spent the whole night talking about our mother. He remembers more than I do. He had many stories to tell me that were… different than what I’d been told growing up.”

“So he liked it? What about the rest?”

“Hm,” Lan Zhan hummed in agreement. “He got a matching one, on his hip. So he could hide it easily.”

Wei Ying leaned over the countertop, propping his chin on his hands and grinning at Lan Zhan. “What else do you have hidden under that sweater?” He asked, and then wondered what the hell was wrong with him. “I mean tattoos,” he added hastily.

Lan Zhan, though, just raised an eyebrow and leaned back against the kitchen island. “It would be easier to show you.”

Wei Ying’s brain promptly stalled out.

Lan Zhan sipped his tea and waited patiently.

“Show me?” He managed through a throat that was suddenly very dry. Lan Zhan made a low noise of acknowledgment. “Like… take your shirt off again?”

“It would be difficult otherwise,” Lan Zhan said, and the amused note in his voice made Wei Ying straighten, indignant. Lan Zhan was fucking with him. With him, Wei Ying.

Since when had his sense of humor included teasing Wei Ying? Well, he’d show Lan Zhan!

“Okay,” he said, so confident and assured it could be nothing but a lie. But Lan Zhan didn’t call him out on it, just raised a brow. Set aside his tea, and…

And took off his shirt. Slowly. Revealing an inch of skin at a time, soft pastel colors blurred into Lan Zhan’s stupid flawless skin, splashes of color that seemed so bright all of a sudden, the gravity of the room shifting to orbit around Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying’s breath caught. He hoped it wasn’t audible.

“You cannot see much from over there,” Lan Zhan observed. His arms were sculpted from years of handstands, the rest of his body lean and muscled from a religious running and swimming routine.

“No,” Wei Ying agreed faintly. He slid off his stool, encouraged when his knees didn’t give out, weak as they felt. He inched his way around the counter, eyes glued to the play of ink across muscle every time Lan Zhan shifted in place, every time he took a measured breath.

Wei Ying swallowed hard. Halted just within arm’s reach, and found himself unable to look Lan Zhan in the eye. The asshole had called his bluff, Wei Ying realized with some disbelief. He was having a hard time being annoyed about it, because… well, it got him within touching distance of his half-naked best friend.

His half-naked best friend who had miles of warm skin inked with soft colors and hopeful, blooming flowers. Little creatures— more bunnies, a small dragon with intricate blue scales, hints of claw and tooth and fang— were shrouded within a veritable garden lovingly carved into Lan Zhan’s body.

So many secrets hidden within. It felt like a metaphor for Lan Zhan, the little things Wei Ying had worked so hard to learn, to coax out of him, to wait patiently for Lan Zhan to come to him, all carefully wreathed in protective vines and a canopy of petals.

He reached out, unable to help himself. Lan Zhan stood very, very still as Wei Ying’s palm settled over his heart, measuring the beloved drum of his heartbeat. It was ceaseless. Reliable. As unwavering as everything else about Lan Zhan, someone so dependable and trustworthy that Wei Ying had lost some of his own sharp edges as a result.

He’d learned what it meant to have faith in someone, a conviction that was unshakeable and everlasting, and somewhere along the way he’d slipped right into love.

Lan Zhan’s hand came up to wrap gently around his wrist. Not to remove it, just to hold. “You’re quiet.”

“Your tattoos are giving me an existential crisis, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying admitted.

Lan Zhan frowned, looking uncertain for the first time this evening. “Is that bad?”

“No.” His voice was hoarse. He cleared it, fingers tracing the lines of the ink, following the path as each shape faded into the next so seamlessly they appeared to be one.

Lan Zhan’s abdomen flexed in response to Wei Ying’s soft, trailing touch as it drifted down. And down. And down. He sucked in a breath, watching Wei Ying with so much intensity it burned.

“How far down does it go?” Wei Ying asked, tugging lightly on the edge of Lan Zhan’s pants.

“Find out for yourself,” Lan Zhan said. Wei Ying looked up, shocked, and bit his lip uncertainly. It was the tipping point; Lan Zhan surged forward, his giant hands coming up to cup Wei Ying’s face, to hold him still as he kissed Wei Ying until they were both breathless and dizzy with it.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asked, too dazed to feel embarrassed by the way he was clinging to Lan Zhan to remain upright.

“You wanted to find out how far they go?” Lan Zhan asked against his mouth. Wei Ying made a helpless sound in response. “Mark your words,” Lan Zhan said, low and heated, and hauled him towards the bedroom.

Wei Ying was beginning to suspect he had been outplayed at his own game, but just then Lan Zhan dragged his mouth over the sensitive tendons of Wei Ying’s neck and suddenly he had more interesting things to occupy him.

He’d deal with everything else and all that it entailed later.

Much later.

[amelialincoln]

Notion

“Hey.” Link was breathless as he brought the final bits of outdoor furniture into the kitchen. It was supposed to rain tomorrow and Seattle had become covered in a thick layer of fog that seemed to cling to him as he closed the door to the backyard.

“Everyone headed out?” Amelia asked, scraping the last of the kid’s leftovers into the compost. Link nodded, placing a lingering, cold kiss on her forehead that made her shiver.

“Seemed kinda awkward between Jackson and Winston.”

“Well, it’s not Maggie’s fault that Jackson’s dated every person in a fifty mile radius,” she responded bitterly.

“This is true,” Link nodded.

“What’s going to make things worse is that she’s going to have to explain that all of us are mourning her other ex’s death,” she added grimly.

“No,” Link’s voice was soft. “I thought he pulled through.” 

“Richard just called me to see if I wanted to join a meeting on zoom tonight, everything fell apart and Teddy and Owen couldn’t save him.” Tears were starting to fill her eyes. Deluca hadn’t spent much time on her service recently but he and Sam were pivotal when she was working on Kimmie’s tumor. When it came to her own tumor, she was surprised how much Deluca had shown his support.

“So, he’s just gone?” Unlike Amelia, Link hadn’t experienced a whole lot of death.

“Yeah.” He pulled her into his chest and rocked gently. It almost hurt how nice it was to see the few people that had come over today. Despite the house they were living in being chaos, the couple had never felt more isolated and alone. “I had to tell Zola that Mer might possibly not wake up.” Amelia whimpered. “She was so strong. She doesn’t want to worry Bailey and Ellis so she told Maggie and I not to tell them. If anything happens to Mer, Derek made Kathleen their godmother, I can’t watch these kids get shipped off to New York, they’ve had it hard enough.” 

“I know, babe,” Link sighed, pulling her in closer.

“I have to go feed Scout, my boobs are gonna explode,” Amelia finally shed herself of Link’s arms after a couple of blissful moments. “Can you read to Zola and Bailey? I can handle Ellis because she’ll get like five stories out of you if I let you go in there.” Link chuckled.

“You’re probably right.”

 [][][]

“Auntie Amelia.” Amelia was relieved to be greeted with a sleepy voice as she stepped into the pink monstrosity that was Ellis’ room.

“Hi Elle belle.” She smiled in response to the little girl’s arms reaching towards her. “Come on sweetheart, let's pick some pjs.”

“Can you make it a surprise?” Ellis asked in a way that made Amelia’s ovaries explode and she found herself wondering what Link would think about trying for a girl. Hormones, Amelia, focus. “What about these?” She suggested, holding up a pair of pastel blue Moana pajamas. Ellie nodded happily, squealing as Amelia tugged them over her pudgy arms.

“Can we read the cookie mouse story?”

“Of course,” Amelia grinned. “It’s not like we haven’t read it every day this week.” She lowered herself gently down onto Ellis’ bed. Recovery hadn’t been the easiest when chasing three children around the house and caring for a newborn. Link had pulled out Amelia’s stitches the night before, using his phone’s flashlight, since neither of them wanted to go to the hospital and then go through the trouble of getting tested. She had tried to hide the pain for Link’s sake, tired of him expecting her to be constantly resting, but she hadn’t expected the pain. Link was an incredible ortho surgeon but when it came to the little details, he was sometimes a bit careless.

Amelia closed the door to Ellis’ bedroom as quietly as possible, trying not to chuckle at the little figure sprawled out across her twin bed. For such a small girl Ellis was notoriously known as the most impossible person to sleep with, taking up spaces three times her size. She walked past Zola and Bailey’s room, hearing Link’s animated voice through fits of giggles. He definitely outdid her in the storytelling department, and really in every department, which she tried to not think too much about. Scout was babbling as Amelia entered the familiar room.

“You hungry, big guy?” To Amelia’s relief, Scout had progressed past his grumpy and problematic eating phase. She hugged him into her chest, breathing in his sweet and comforting soft lavender smell from the bubble bath they’d used this afternoon. “My beautiful boy.” She was still in disbelief, even staring down at him in her arms, that he truly existed. As he’d gotten bigger, he’d started to become a perfect combination of his parents. With Link’s strong features, like his nose, and what Amelia could tell would be his jaw, along with her dimple and piercing blue eyes.

“Hey mommy,” Link’s amused voice came from the doorway. “You feeling better?” Amelia wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the soreness in her lower half or the news about Deluca.

“He makes everything better,” she sighed, fumbling with one of the buttons on Scout’s onesie.

“You going to go to that meeting?” Link asked, she could tell he knew something was bothering her. “I already missed it.” She shrugged, glancing at their bedside alarm clock. “I’ll probably just feed him and then pass out.”

“Do you want me to grab the baby wrap, you were lifting lots today already with the furniture.”

“Sure,” she nodded, not feeling like having a conversation about how perfectly fine her arms were. Link nodded, placing a soft hand on her back before rummaging through their closet for the wrap. She was happy to find that Scout latched on easily and without protest, feeling a little guilty about the lack of attention that he’d received today. She knew that people were suffering way more during this time and she couldn’t help but feel guilty for wishing that she, Scout and Link could be spending quality time in their apartment for their maternity leave like planned.

“Lift your arm a bit.” Link ran a soft hand along the side of her forearm as he tied the piece of fabric around her shoulder and managed to wiggle Scout into it, without removing him from her chest.

“Thank you,” she smiled tiredly.

“No problem,” he yawned, practically collapsing into bed beside her. “Fuck, Amelia I’m exhasuted.”

“Me too.” She ran a gentle hand through his hair, tugging out some of the frequent knots that had begun to form since his hair had begun to grow out.

“Is your incision site healing okay,” he groaned into the pillow, melting a bit as she massaged the root of his neck.

“I haven’t checked,” she admitted with a yawn.

“Want me to grab some polysporin?”

“It’s okay, babe, it feels fine.” She sighed slightly, playing with the idea of bringing up a topic that has been bugging her but not wanting to cause an argument that neither of them were up for. “You started drinking pretty early today.”

“Amelia,” Link groaned tiredly. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It was just unnecessary, no one wanted...I’m just worried.” She shifted Scout to the other side uncomfortably.

“It’s not my fault you see addiction everywhere. I had like two beers.” Silence hung thickly in the air and after a couple of minutes Link turned to face her. “I’m sorry. I know it makes you uncomfortable.” 

“You don’t really seem to care,” she answered honestly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He replied defensively, tiredness had seemed to leave his body momentarily. “I don’t--”

“The fridge is stocked, Link. It’s like a reminder every time I go to make food. There’s a cooler in the garage for a reason.”

“How am I supposed to know,” he sputtered. “Meredith downs tequila in front of you like this is a frat house. You hang out with our friends when they drink all the time.” 

“It’s different when you're surrounded by people. When I’m alone and just staring at a fridge filled with booze it’s hard to not want to take one.”

“Amelia, you haven’t relapsed in years, why would you even--”

“Because I’m an addict, Link!” The increase in volume of her voice caused Scout to shriek in protest. “Don’t you understand that? It doesn’t get easier. It’s a fight every fucking day. And when my boyfriend starts drinking every day at three o’clock in the afternoon, it makes that fight ten times harder.”

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” he grumbled. 

“Are you serious right now?”

“About what,” he shot back.

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. I thought you’d be considerate enough to validate my feelings instead of acting like I’m being dramatic but instead you’re being a child.”

“Mia,” Link groaned, slamming his head back into the pillow, looking as childish as ever. “You’re--”

“What? Overreacting? The fact that you don’t see this as an issue is concerning.” Scout’s shrieking turned into a full on meltdown as their “perfect” son burst into tears. “Oh, baby, no. It’s okay.” Amelia sighed, finding tears of frustration begin to build at the sides of her own eyes and let out a tiny whimper as she held back any sobs that attempted to be heard. Of course Link noticed, as always, and rolled over to witness the upset state that both his girlfriend and baby were in.

“I am sorry,”

“Show me then,” Amelia hissed through a clenched jaw, wiping away some stubborn fallen tears. “Cause right now I don’t believe you.”

“I’ll put the packs in the cooler tomorrow,” he promised, with a hint of resentment. Amelia shrugged, finally giving up on feeding Scout and bringing him tightly into her chest.

“Hey, it’s okay, mommy and daddy fight sometimes, but everything’s going to be okay. Don’t cry Scout. We love you so much,” she murmured into the crown of his head, causing Link to melt a little inside.

“Are we going to be okay?” Link asked, receiving a teary glance from his girlfriend. 

“Not if you can’t get this sorted because I cannot be his mother and also be passed out in a ditch somewhere on opioids.” Link nodded, moving to tug her shirt back into place and took Scout into his own hands, marvelling slightly at the little miracle they had created. “I don’t want to screw him up.” 

“You won’t,” he promised her, pressing a kiss to her forehead before grazing her slightly chapped lips. “You’ve been a mother for a month and have already proved that. That’s the last thing we need to worry about right now.” He patted his chest. “Now come to sleep because if we stay up any longer I feel like I might end up on the couch,” he chuckled. 

“Don’t give me any ideas,” she replied with a yawn. 

“I love you,” he sighed.

“I love you too.” 

what did u guys think of 17x07? i did find the beers at like 12 a bit weird and with the upcoming episode’s synopsis “Jo, Jackson and Link play a drinking game” I wonder if Amelia and him will have a conversation about her addiction bc I feel like they haven't really talked about it. lmk what u think!

[secret-engima]

Okie dokie, the Cor and Prompto sibling thing. Please can we have more? Does Regis discover the magic and come to the half sibling conclusion?

Okay so, as previously established in a recently answered ask, Prompto’s magic gets discovered because Cor runs off to Throw Hands with Gilgamesh. :D Specifically, they wake up to find Cor missing, and while the rest of the Retinue would have taken longer to figure it out and like- would have searched the nearby area for him first, Prompto knows. He grew up knowing the story of Cor the Immortal, he met the man, he was friends with the man and heard the story of how it happened. He heard the story of how to get there from Gladiolus.

Prompto takes off for the Tempering Ground, and after some confusion and HORROR when he tells them where he’s going, they follow. Because who would know where Cor went better than his brother?

They get there, and of course, the place is guarded. Not by Gilgamesh’s creatures, but by Lucian Crownsguard that Cor managed to sneak past. The rest of the Retinue isn’t near as stealthy in arrival, and while they are sympathetic to their prince’s fear for his wayward friend, they are under orders from the king himself to not let anyone pass. Especially not someone as important as Regis. No one has entered the Tempering Grounds and escaped alive, they cannot risk the Crown Prince or his Shield in such a way. Regis argues for it, he shouts and he commands, but they will not listen, and the Crownsguard outnumber them.

Meanwhile, through it all, Prompto stares at the entrance, sealed off by guards but not by doors, with an eerily blank expression. He knows how this story goes. He knows that Cor will be alright. Cor chops off Gilgamesh’s arm before being defeated, and Gilgamesh spares his life.

But what if.

What if Cor isn’t as good as he was last time because Prompto’s been there to shield him from some of the dangers that would have hardened him and honed him? What if Cor gets hurt during a previous trial and is slowed down? What if something goes WRONG in the final fight and Gilgamesh defeats him before he can land that blow that made the immortal Shield spare him? Fights are hair trigger things and Prompto has SEEN how the future can change. The little details if not the broad strokes, and in a fight it’s the little details, not the big ones, that will ruin everything.

What if Prompto’s existence is just enough of a ripple to change the small detail that saved Cor’s life last time?

What if his brother dies?

Prompto starts walking.

A guard steps forward to stop him, freezes in surprise at the gun aimed for his head. The other guards bristle and draw weapons even as Regis frantically orders everyone to stand down and Cid tries to catch Prompto and pull him back. Prompto keeps walking. When a pair of Crownsguard surround him, he pulls out his other pistol from armiger and aims at both of them in silent warning. When more Crownsguard surround than he has hands for weapons, Prompto pauses, bows his head and lowers the guns to the ground.

He kicks one suddenly, sends it skittering between their legs and all the way to the entrance of the Tempering Grounds. A flicker of light, of MAGIC and suddenly Prompto is at the entrance, staggering from using a warp when he is unpracticed (when he is in pain, clinging to his control even as Noct’s magic-now-his BEGS to be used at last). Regis shouts, in shock and horror both, but Prompto has already snatched up his pistol and run, disappearing into the entrance. The Crownsguard do not follow, and they regretfully prevent the rest of the Retinue from following after.

And Regis is horrified, and scared. He’s afraid BOTH of the teens in his care will die in there, but he’s also confused, because he hadn’t given any of his Retinue the power to warp yet. He wasn’t- that was something that took years of cultivating a bond to grant that through a Retinue bond rather than a simple lending of raw magic. He doesn’t know HOW Prompto warped, or how Prompto knew he COULD, because that kick had been calculated, been planned to get an anchor point where he needed it to be.

Then, somewhere deep in the chasm at their feet, where they cannot see and do not know, Prompto finds the door to the first trial and it tries to deny him entrance. So Prompto pulls out a bazooka from HIS armiger, not Regis’s, and opens fire.

The Retinue hear the muffled explosion and all tense. They look at Regis, who’s expression is pinched as he checks his armiger mentally, and that’s when he realizes with a jolt that Prompto’s Crownsguard issued pistols are still in his armiger. Cor’s favorite sword is missing, pulled free and in use, but even though he SAW Prompto holding pistols, using one to warp, the ones Prompto has always used on this trip still lie untouched in Regis’s armiger. A mental check show that ... except for Cor’s sword, all of Regis’s weapons are still stored in his armiger.

So what is Prompto fighting with?

Another muffled explosion, this one so strong it makes the pebbles on the ground shiver faintly, even though it is too far away and too deep for the Retinue to feel it themselves, then a rapid trio of booms, all in quick succession.

Somewhere deep in the chasm, something screams, eerie and primal and it chills Regis’s blood, all of their blood, as there it suddenly cuts off mid-sound and a few seconds later they hear the echoing crack of the shot that killed it.

“That was a sniper rifle,” Cid says with narrowed eyes and clenched hands, and they believe him, because they’ve fought Niflheim snipers before, and out of all of them Cid and Prompto were the ones to take the most interest in enemy weaponry. Regis feels cold.

He doesn’t have a sniper rifle in armiger. He’s never owned one. And there were none nearby among the Crownsguard (who do not use guns very much at all, let alone specialized ones like a sniper rifle over a handgun) for him to have snatched up on his way. So where did Prompto (and it had to be Prompto, Cor didn’t use guns at all) get one?

(Deep in the Tempering Ground, Prompto steamrolls through any opposition, mowing down the stubborn with weapons, and cowing the rest with the magic slowly steaming off his skin and slipping from his control. The daemons do not stop attacking him, but the knights who lie cursed here with Gilgamesh tremble and kneel on battered armor knees before the blond haired king storming past them with fury turning his eyes eerie dawn gold.)

(When he comes across one of the Bandersnatches, the creature screams at him. Prompto pulls out a sniper rifle from Noct’s-his-Noct’s-his armiger and fires. The creature dies with a sniper round through its eye and brain. Prompto keeps going. His skin is burning now, and magic is leaking and trailing behind him like wisps of blue mist and biting flickers of lightning that slowly start to take the shape of melee weapons Prompto doesn’t bother to use.)

(The last trial door refuses to open for him. They have figured out what he is here for now, and while the knights tremble before a king, they have their orders. None are to interfere in the trial of the one who came before. Not even a Lucis Caelum. Prompto pulls out his cannon, then his bazooka, but neither have enough force on their own to make the door yield, and he does not have the strength to hold two in his hands.

Prompto stares at it, and past it he can feel the darting flicker of Cor’s soul, edged with Regis’s magic and drenched in Prompto’s-Noctis’s after years of exposure. He can feel his brother in pain and angry and scared.

Prompto inhales and braces for pain.

Exhales as his-Noct’s-his armiger sings. It surges out of his skin, cracks him open like a desert in drought and bleeds through the openings left behind. The thirteen royal arms sing around him, then over top of them another layer is added in Noctis’s personal favorite weapons, his swords and knives and shuriken. Then over top of them is Prompto’s arsenal. The machine guns, sniper rifles, handguns, biocannons, and bazookas he’d picked up during the roadtrip and used to great effect to defend his king until destiny came and there was no one left to defend but a memory and howling grief)

Prompto’s armiger takes aim.

The door gives way beneath the magic enhanced onslaught of a stolen, repurposed, upgraded Niflheim armory).

Far, far above, on the top of the chasm where the entrance lies, Regis sways, gasping for air in shock and disbelief as a magic aura filled with protective (agonized) rage blooms. It roars under his feet, shaking the land and the stones like an earthquake, howling over his senses like a dragon of the deep. The Crownsguard buckle to their knees, and some of the rookies pass out beneath the howling, furious weight reaching up to them as the Tempering Grounds rocks and shudders from explosions. Regis’s Retinue waver on their feet, protected somewhat by their bonds with Regis, but even with that- it is close. Too close.

Astrals above the magic is so strong.

As quickly and devastatingly as it bloomed, it suddenly winks out, and for over an hour, there is nothing but stunned, breathless silence. No one dares move, no one dares leave. All eyes watch the entrance now. Waiting to see what (if anything) will come out.

It’s Cor.

It’s Cor who is sweaty and battered and exhausted, bleeding in a dozen small places, clothes all torn, face alight with something like terror and regret and over his shoulders-

Over his shoulders is Prompto.

“Help,” Cor whispers as he staggers up to them and they rush to grab him and take Prompto off his shoulders, “I- he’s burning up- he’s-.”

Prompto is burning up, his fever is dangerously high and he looks completely out of it and Weskham wastes no time in commandeering a medical tent and supplies to try to save Prompto’s life.

It takes days for Prompto’s fever to finish leaving, and during those days he’s either unconscious or half awake and sobbing about things that don’t make sense, calling for people Regis doesn’t know. At one point Prompto clings to Regis’s hand and calls him “Noct” and begs him with tears rolling down his face to “not go” and there is nothing Regis can do but cry with him, because he does not know who “Noct” was, but he knows that Prompto’s friend is already dead and long gone.

But there are other things to worry about as well. Like the magic that leaks and jolts from Prompto’s skin like static, that snaps angrily at Regis’s own when he tries to soothe it for Prompto’s sake, because the magic under Prompto’s skin is far more powerful than Regis’s and also feral. Angry at being restrained and hidden away for years and years. Regis thinks Prompto is a half-brother, but when they ask Cor what he knows-

Cor tells them a story. A story that Prompto has told him in bits and pieces. About four brothers, about a prince turned king, who gave Prompto a final gift that burns and seethes and hurts yet Prompto treasures anyway because it’s all he has left of them.

“But you said you’ve known Prompto since you were a boy,” Clarus protests.

Cor shrugs and looks haggard by his brother’s bedside, “I have. I don’t know how it happened. He won’t tell me how the story ends. But Prompto’s been an adult before, and something made him a little kid again. In body anyway.”

They almost don’t believe him, but there’s something about the magic coiling and dripping off Prompto’s soul that gives Regis pause.

When Prompto finally recovers, when his fever finally gives way and he is himself again, they ask their questions again. And Prompto shivers in Cor’s arms as Regis holds his hand in solidarity and he ... finishes the story Cor has told them. Fills it in with aching detail.

And so they learn.

His name was once Prompto Argentum, not Prompto Leonis. And he was the Heart of another Lucis Caelum’s Retinue. He was a boy with a barcode on his skin that he hid, a boy grown not from a mother but a science tank, and he have loved his brother-Retinue more than anything in the world. He was a Heart of a prince who lost a kingdom, a king who was one hundred and fourteenth ... and last ... of his line.

Then his king died, and Prompto cried, and somewhere between the new dawn and the despair of that first night, Prompto woke up somewhere else (somewhen else) entirely, with his king’s magic living and singing painfully strong under his skin.

They don’t want to believe him.

But he shows them the things in his armiger, the royal arms and the weapons Cid has never seen yet have his personal touch. He looks into their eyes and they see the age there for what it is. And they believe him.

Regis believes him.

His second sword, one of a pair, brother of Cor Leonis, was once Prompto Argentum, a child who knew them only in passing.

The Heart of the son Regis does not yet have. The son who dies for a Prophecy.

“I can’t do nothing,” Regis bites out later, when they are at a Haven far from the Tempering Grounds, alone among only his trusted, “My son is going to die! It’s not- I can’t just let it happen! How could the other- the future- how could I have let it happen?”

Prompto watches this Regis who is young and reckless, who is helping him learn to control the magic under his skin so it no longer burns him alive when he tries to use it or contain it, who has not yet suffered the tragedies and weight of the Wall that made the older Regis poor of health and accepting of fate. Prompto watches him pace and agonize over a future looming ahead, unable to be calmed by any of his fellow shell-shocked brothers, and ... an idea comes.

Prompto has the magic of a chosen king under his skin, and time to plan, to defy the future.

“I think,” Prompto whispers, “we need to take a detour before we go to Altissia.”

Everyone stares at him and Prompto looks down at his hands, thinking of everything he knows of Noctis, of the magic coiling and grumbling inside him that does not belong to him by blood. He thinks of someone else who defied fate and cheated death, and he smiles bitterly, “If you wanna try to save Noctis. Then we need to go to Angelgard.”

[darveyfics]

Combination of Prompts:

anonymous: Holiday prompt: Harvey kisses Donna at midnight on new year's eve

@maybeineed-u: new years eve, they haven’t talked to eachother since the ‘donna’ kiss, countdown starts and he swoops in with an ‘excuse me’ or just pulls her arm from her hand and before she can even speak he kisses her. happy ending <3

-

Just in Time

"He'll be here," Rachel promises her, squeezing her elbow as she passes and Donna startles at the words, knowing exactly who her best friend and collegue is talking about and yet-

"Who?"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Don't play that game with me. I know who you're staring at the door for."

"I am not staring at the door," she huffs, turning her back on the entryway and returning her gaze to her hardly touched drink.

"It's his firm. Hell, it's his New Year's Eve party. He wouldn't miss it."

"Rachel," Donna sighs, rolling her eyes at her friend's placating words. "I'm not concerned over him showing up or not. I-"

"Only if he shows up in time for midnight, right?" Rachel teases, wiggling her brow and the redhead scoffs at her.

Harvey is her friend, her boss, the man who she... but they won’t ever say anything to ruin what’s between them. Just because it's New Year's Eve and with the strike of midnight comes a certain tradition doesn't mean she can simply overlook the pace they've set thus far. She's still working to be more, to become a better COO with all the her new responsabilities plus ignoring Harvey after she kissed him, and as much as she wishes she could kiss Harvey at midnight, he hasn’t talked to her the whole week and from what she knows, he hates her.

"And don't tell me you dressed up for anyone but him," Rachel continues, plucking at the skirt of Donna’s dress, the fitted fabric that clings to her thighs. As always, Donna had chosen a dress that couldn’t be missed, a gold sequins long spaghetti strap wrapped dress that clinged to her body and curves perfectly.

"Shouldn't you be coordinating with Michael, preparing for your New Year's kiss?" Donna tosses back instead of denying Rachel’s claims. It's a pointless endeavor, and it may be a little true. She had bought the golden sequins dress for his party, knowing he'd see her in it, had imagined his expression while she'd assessed the plunging backless dress at the mirrors of the dressing room.

She can't deny the surge of disappointment she had felt upon walking inside the ballroom only to learn from Jessica that he was going to be late due to an unexpected delay in his flight back from Chicago. He had been gone all week, accompanying an old co-worker during a case.

It had only been four days, but she had missed him and he was supposed to be back in time for the party he had made her plan weeks in advance for New Year's Eve.

But the party had started three hours ago and it was nearing midnight.

"Who said I was kissing Mike?" Rachel demands loosely jokingly, averting her eyes to one of the flat screen TVs positioned overhead and taking a sip of her champagne. "And stop trying to change the subject."

Donna ignores her, glancing down once more to the drink in front of her, fighting the urge to turn watchful eyes back towards the door.

"We're going to make it," Ray promises him, patting his own bobbing knee in the driver’s seat of the town car, but Harvey’s hope is dwindling. He had told him everything about his break up with Paula, and Ray, who had always rooted for Harvey and Donna, took the chance of a lifetime and coached Harvey throughout this whole week on what to do with Donna.

It's New Year's Eve and the streets are clogged with traffic, the mess of Times Square and the holiday itself casting chaos through the city, and he cannot start his new year off like this, not when he knew Donna Paulsen was waiting for him at his own damn party.

Rachel had sent him a blurry photo of her and he had nearly lost his breath, along with his footing, as he had hustled through the airport with Ray. She looked stunning, like something out of his dreams, and he may not be able to kiss her tonight, but he had to see her.

"She dressed up for you," Rachel had texted him, his eyes flickering down to the phone in his hand, still alight with the picture of his former secretary.

"It's three minutes to midnight," Ray states instead, lifting from his side and reaching for his door.

"Ray?" he questions, but his driver is nudging him out of the car. They're not moving anyway, but he had finally begun to accept that he was going to miss the party, miss Donna. Apparently, though, Ray didn't intend to let that happen.

"If you run, you can make it," Ray informs him, a smile spreading across his lips, revealing a glimpse of white teeth in the flashes of the city lights. "I'll go to your apartment, get your bags in safely."

"Are you sure?" Harvey inquires, his heart already beginning to pound with anticipation.

If he ran he could make it in time.

Ray nods. "Good luck!" He calls after Harvey, tugging the door shut, but still smiling at him from behind the glass of the window. He steps onto the sidewalk and then begins his race down the street.

The countdown has started and Donna finally sighs her acceptance. He's not going to make it and it isn't his fault, she can't possibly blame him for a delayed flight, but disappointment still wraps her in its cold embrace.

All of their co-workers are chanting the numbers, less than thirty seconds to go, and Donna slowly begins to weave her way through the crowd, hoping to escape before the strike of the New Year can resound through the bar, desperate for the chill of night air instead. She’s used to spending this moment in solitude, she had just hoped this year would be different, maybe this year would be the year.

Harvey can hear the shout of seconds ticking by all around him, echoing through the streets, and he's so close, the gigantic building in his sights, and he has fifteen seconds left. He'll make it.

Donna pushes the revolving doors and steps out to the streets, breathes in a sigh of relief, and grits her teeth through the shiver that tumbles down her spine. She had left her coat in the wardrobe, but it's too late to turn back, not when there's only five seconds left until midnight.

"Donna?"

The gasp of her name has her eyes flying up to the familiar source, to her boss jogging towards her, a relieved smile spilling across his lips, a gasp leaving her lips before she can stop it.

4...

"You made it," she gets out, disbelief and a ridiculous burst of joy spreading through her chest.

3...

"I made it," he manages, out of breath as he meets her on the sidewalk, his eyes shining while his hands reach for her waist, pausing above her hips, unwilling to touch without her consent. “I’m sorry for... everything. I hope you’re okay with me.. doing this.”

2...

She can’t breathe, her face still scrunched up, confused with whatever is happening at the moment. “Doing what?” She says, her voice cracked and breathless.

1!

They couldn't start this new year off in a state of misery, and because he knew he sucks at talking he does what he’s best, he keeps his mouth shut, or most of it.

“Doing this.”

Happy New Year!

Harvey’s hands rise to cradle her cheeks and he covers her open-mouthed gasp with his lips over hers, the low hum of his moan and the riot of his heart between them drowning out the cheers of celebration, the searing stroke of his tongue clearing her mind of everything but him and the taste of victory on his lips.

"Donna," he gasps out, his heart racketing so hard against his ribs, she has unclenched her fingers from his coat to cover it with her palm, stop it from beating its way out. But her own heart refuses to silence, hammering through her chest and poking holes in her lungs, the task of breathing impossible, unfavorable.

She doesn't want oxygen; she just wants Harvey to keep kissing her, for this moment of resolution to last forever.

Harvey’s hands slip through the curls of her hair, his cold hands skimming her naked back, converging at the base of her spine where the fabric meets again. Her body cants forward, into the furnace of his, and he presses his lips to the corner of her mouth.

"I’m sorry."

"You already said that." Donna sasses, with a smirk on her lips, touching her fingers to his cheek, still able to feel the heat of blood beneath the layer of cold on his skin.

“You want to know something else?” Harvey asks with a smile on his lips.

She chuckles, confused. “What?”

“I love you,” He murmurs softly. She didn’t expect that, her smile vanishing in seconds, her heart beating in a rushed rythm. “Not in a friendly way, not in a brotherly way, not in a platonic way but in an ‘I’m in love with you’ way. I want to stop wasting time and spend the rest of my life making it up to you, Donna.”

She swallows the ball stuck on her throat, her eyes shiny full of tears but her lips stretched in a smile. “I love you too,” Harvey smiles and starts approaching her lips once again but gets rudely interrupted on his way by Donna’s hand. “but so help me Harvey Specter that you‘re doing this because-”

“Donna,” he starts. “you’re it for me.”

They both miss work the next day, and the next, and the next, and the next.

They almost don’t get out of bed for the first two.