My mom thought we were going to wait until tomorrow to get all the decorations out of the shed and set up the tree but while she and my dad were visiting my niece today I went ahead and did it all (with a little help from Steve of course). I am….so tired but also so happy it’s finally done!!

varshadhara

one.

Sita has been married a year when there is news of a drought, cloudless skies that refuse to darken and dust that does not become soil. 20 villages chose a single representative to beg for aid from the Emperor himself, and Sita’s husband is drawn when he finally enters their bedroom that night.

“They are dying,” he says quietly, a confession that even later Sita is never sure he meant for her to hear. His eyes close as he begins to remove the ornaments that mark him the eldest, the favorite son, heir to all his father has conquered. Sita, seated on the bed, watches as her husband looks down at the ruby necklace whose clasp he has just undone and calculates how many meals he could buy with what lies so easily in his palms.

“Years,” she confirms, hands playing with the edge of her cotton upper cloth for want of something to do. Her voice startles them both, somehow too loud and too soft for the strange hush that has fallen on the palace so many hours after sunset. “But only because the jewelry you wear is more precious in this city for having been yours.”

He looks up, curiosity a glint in his eye and hands at the heavy earrings the Emperor insists on for court. He seems glad to see her. “Would it help?”

“Yes,” she says, ignoring the way her heart clenches to hear the hope in his voice, “for now. But what about in a year, should the drought continue?”

Her husband glances at the chest which keeps his gold, the fruit of a generation’s worth of tribute from kingdoms that span the earth.

“What a tragedy,” he drawls, fingers slowly teasing out the crown from the wonderful tangles of his hair, “to lose all these heavy jewels in pursuit of my duty as king.”

Sita startles into laughter and reaches out to take her husband’s burden, ignoring the surprise that flickers briefly across his features. He is always so surprised and then so grateful for what to Sita are the smallest morsels of tolerance. She does not think about why this might upset her. “And as my Lord’s faithful wife,” she says cheerfully in response, “I suppose it would be my duty to donate my ornaments as well.”

Both of them linger on Sita’s wrists, the ones she keeps nearly bare save the one golden bangle around each that at least proves her a wife. They smile: tragic indeed.

“My father has proclaimed that the drought stricken will not pay tribute,” Sita hears hours later, low in the moments before she finally closes her eyes, “but there must be something more we can do to help.”

She could live like this, she thinks, at the moment she slips over the edge between the worlds of life and dreams. Sita is content. This could be enough.

----

two.

By now all of Ayodhya must know that Janaki, foundling daughter of the Videhan king, was not expected to marry -- the year that she has spent in the blessed state so far has been tumultuous, to say the least. She grew up a goddess, but more than that she grew up sheltered from palace politics and finds herself embroiled in more than one controversy due to her own ineptitude.

Her sisters, each of them younger than Sita, were married to her husband’s three brothers before they became women true and so are kept as maidens in the palaces of their individual mother in laws: far from their eldest sister who lives, as is traditional, in the rooms of her husband.

What would they say, Sita wonders, if they knew their sister to be equally virginal only weeks before the first anniversary of her wedding?

Sita sets the ceremonial platter on top of a stool and kneels, gently picking up the woolen blanket covering her husband as he sleeps on the floor. The difference in temperature, they have both realized, is usually enough for him to wake and so it is today when his eyes open. Together they fold not only the blanket that covered him but the two others that make what serves as his mattress on the ground, one of her husband’s many concessions to his ungrateful, accidental wife.

“I was never supposed to be married,” she had whispered the night of their consummation, tears streaming down her face and tone as possibly close to a shriek while knowing that servants listened at the door. “I know nothing of how to manage a royal household, much less satisfy a husband!”

The black rimming her eyes must have mixed with her tears, leaving Sita a fright. The combined talents of Ayodhya’s finest ladies-in-waiting ruined by the anxieties of a girl utterly unsuited to serve as their canvas. Sita’s husband, a man who wielded enough power at 16 to force each of Sita’s baying, blood-lusting suitors -- some of them thrice her husband’s age -- to their knees in supplication, had barely walked into the room when confronted with the sight.

“I did not need the protection of a husband,” Sita had said then, back turned. “I would have died before any of those lechers disguised as failed suitors tried to touch me.” She choked back a sob. “It would have been better for us all if I had.” Years later her husband confesses that sometimes he still hears her like this in the moments before he falls asleep, even when they have spent more years than not tangled as one in bed. Sita never tells him how close it all was in the end, how tightly she was gripping the knife when someone heard that a young anchorite had not only lifted, but broken the Great God’s bow. But on her wedding night, when Sita opened her eyes it was to the sight of her husband, his own blade drawn. She flinched, but he only raised his own palm and ran the edge against skin to draw blood.

“A woman,” he said in answer to her unvoiced question, “is supposed to bleed on her first night. The washerwoman will be paid handsomely for her knowledge in the morning.”

Sita flushed, shoulders straightening of their own accord at the implication.

“And as a virgin bride myself, I will bleed as any other” she said, hands fisted at her side in brief, overwhelming rage. “My reputation does not need you to shed blood on my behalf.”

Her husband had only nodded, moving towards the side of the bed opposite to where Sita sat in order to smear his palm once, twice, thrice until he seemed satisfied with his handiwork.

A million questions ran through Sita’s mind. “I hope your sleep is restful,” was all her husband said in response, grabbing a blanket from the foot of what was to be their marital bed and arranging himself on the floor.

Nearly a year since, Sita’s knowledge as to the running of households has not increased, nor, she suspects, has her knowledge regarding the satisfaction of her husband. He keeps long hours, spending as much time away from his wife as possible. The people of Ayodhya, used to the years that might have passed between visits from their woman-drunk sovereign, are enthralled by the near constant access to their Crown Prince, and this during the years when it is acceptable, nay even appropriate to be devoted to naught but one’s own pleasure.

The women of the palace, caught between their desire to honor their collective son and their need to denigrate his strange, uncouth wife, stay silent.

----

three.

“In Mithila,” Sita’s husband begins, breaking their easy silence that has fallen over this morning meal, “what would you do in times of drought?”

Sita startles, the palm frond she was using to keep away insects as her husband ate, slipping to the ground. Though they can now speak of many things, they have never spoken of Mithila -- it is encouraged for new brides to sink themselves fully into the environs of their new, forever home. In this, at least, she is like every wife before her: the ways of her past can have no place in her present. Every day she must attempt to forget who she once was.

“I am only a girl,” Sita answers carefully, eyes lowered as she was told women do. “Such a question may be better answered by my Father, or one of the preceptors versed in these matters.”

There is a silence, but Sita, unable to lift her eyes to her husband’s face, cannot tell if he has accepted her falsehood. The Raghuvanshis, she has been told time and time again, are a line of honor. They do not lie.

“Did you think--” she hears, and then a sigh. “I know who you are, my lady. Are we not friends, at the very least?”

Sita clenches her jaw, picking up the palm fronds once more. She is no longer afraid of her husband, at least not as she was at first. But he cannot want the answers he seeks, not truly. “I am a princess of Ayodhya,” she says, as she has to herself every morning since she woke up next to her husband’s blood on the bed and his body on their floor. “I am your wife, sanctified by the Lord’s Bow and the sacrament of the Holy Fire.”

“Yes,” her husband agrees. Sita cannot help but note that his tone is gentle. “And in Videha, you are considered a Goddess too.”

He says it so easily, as if Sita does not live balanced on the sword-edge between damned and divine. For a moment, she lets herself imagine what it would be like to be known.

There is a story known in Videha, of a drought so ferocious that a King long without child was forced to seed his own lands with the merit of his good deeds. Of the four days of labor that resulted in a baby girl, delivered from the womb of the Eternal Mother Earth. A child covered in an afterbirth of soil where there had only ever been useless dirt.

And yet this too is known: children are the only dead who are buried, their bodies believed too beloved to be consecrated to the fire and burned beyond reckoning. Instead they are covered in wool and laid to rest in the lap of Mother Earth alongside a plea for Death to be gentle.

Sometimes these children are wanted. Many times, the bodies buried are the ones who are not.

This is all that is known: when the King knelt to deliver the child, what had previously been blue sky broke into the first of that year’s monsoon, nearly a decade since the last.

Foundlings left to die do not wear the garb of royalty. Goddesses do not wed.

What would you call me, Crown Prince?

“I am a princess of Ayodhya,” she says, the words suddenly heavy, like stones in her mouth. Her silence protects her sisters from the taint of Sita’s own uncertainty, and Ayodhya has no need for Gods not its own. She waves away an insect that attempts to rest atop her husband’s left ear and resigns herself to her fate: “I am your wedded wife.”

“They are dying,” he says softly, but he speaks to himself. Sita thinks of the easy way they can speak now sometimes; at nights before they retire, or over a morning meal. Her husband is right -- they are friends, if nothing else, and she owes him more than this. Viciously Sita tamps down on the guilt she feels roiling her stomach, rebelling against a stance that suddenly feels like betrayal.

----

Four.

“It is strange,” Mother Kaushalya remarks, as always, “that you were never taught the ways of Royal Women. Is this how girls are raised in Videha?”

Mother Kaushalya, who has only known the Kosala for which she is named, has latched onto the strangeness of Sita’s far-off homeland as a possible explanation for the ways in which Sita grates mountain-rough against the silk of the Imperial Palace. It is useless of course, since a slight against Videha must inherently touch Sita’s sisters, who in the last year have already developed a reputation for grace, gentility, and an overflowing well of kindness towards all blessed with their presence.

Mother Kaushalya, according to the servant-slaves Sita eavesdrops on, has been heard quarreling with Mother Sumitra, begging for “at least one of your darling girls, my Lady, for you know that it can only be selfishness to keep them both when your elder sister has none!”

Sita, tugging awkwardly at the overwrought necklaces she must wear when in Mother Kaushalya’s presence, can only agree. She, more than anyone, knows what she lacks. There have been rumors recently that all three of Dasharatha’s Chief Queens have made a petition to the Emperor to find a new princess worthy of the Crown Prince’s hand.

Sita can only hope that when the time comes, her husband will allow her access to the Imperial Library, or at least will deem it proper to have one wife devoted to the worship of the Gods: philosophy and piety are so easily confused, after all. The best life she can now demand is one where she recedes into the background of the Imperial Palace, unneeded and unknown by all. Never will Sita oversee the workings of a kingdom in the manner she was raised, nor will she sit atop an altar and listen to those petitioners who make pilgrimage to weep at her feet.

Some days, Sita does not even know if she is a woman at all, if these mothers and wives are capable of knowing and carrying the grief of a nation inside their fragile bodies. Every night she dreams of the drought ravaging the villages near the outskirts of Kosala, of how once a year Sita was carried by 50 men to the fields of Videha so that she might press her feet into the soil that made her womb and call forth the rains that heralded her birth.

But then she too dreams of this: a mother weeping, swollen with child like other mothers who have knelt in front of Sita. A mother who delivers a daughter in the ordinary way and buries her alive.

“Goddesses,” the Sage Parashurama had said the year after Sita was installed in the palace of Mithila, “are not meant for marriage. Videha is fortunate that after the reign of Janaka it will be guided by the light of the Divine.”

He paused then, as they all do. “And if the Lady were not a goddess, well --”

They never finish the sentence. The threat is implied.

Sita cannot be meant for love, not in the way of women who are meant for marriage. How can she, when she was meant to sit atop a dais as the physical embodiment of a force of nature, just as easily as inside the hearts of believers? How can she, when she lives her life in the fear that she will be caught out and banished, back into the grave she was meant to die in?

Women are meant for friendship. Women are meant for love.

“My apologies Mother Kaushalya,” Sita says, shaking her head and trying to convince herself that she does not rage against the fate that stretches fallow before her, “I was not raised to be much of a girl at all.”

The real trouble, Sita thinks later, is that despite everything she has somehow found herself liking her husband anyway.

---

five.

“My Lady,” a servant twitters three weeks after the Emperor promises debt relief to the drought-stricken. “My Lady, your Lord husband has need of you!”

Sita looks up from the flowers she is carelessly attempting to string together in a garland, perhaps to festoon a doorway, perhaps to drape around one of the many idols of Surya, the progenitor of her husband’s race. They have not spoken in the week since he asked her about Videha and she refused to answer. “He does?”

“He does,” the servant responds with some relish, ready Sita is sure to reap the rewards of being the bearer of such premium gossip the moment Sita’s back is turned. Sita’s husband has never before indicated such a preference for her company. “He asked that I bring you to him, and not in the garb of royalty.”

“And you are sure that this is my husband?” It is not altogether seemly for Sita to be expressing such doubt that her husband might be asking for her, especially when such a request -- even to appear in plainclothes -- is not unusual for those young and in love, seeking respite from the rhythms of the palace by traveling outside its gates. But really, her husband?

The servant, a girl perhaps only a few years older than Sita’s 16, only raises an eyebrow and widens her grin. “Should I call for one of your maids to help you dress?”

“No,” Sita responds absently, lost in the contemplation of what game her husband could possibly be playing. “Did he say if he had any preference as to what I wear?”

“He did not, my Lady, but if I may I think you had better choose something blue if you have it. The color sets nicely against your skin. Silver jewelry instead of gold, if you have that too. ”

Sita does, buried at the bottom of a trunk of clothes she had carried with her from home. But before that --

“Here,” Sita undoes the clasp of the pearl necklace sent to her by some princeling attempting to curry favor with the crown. There is no true harm in people knowing she has left the palace in her husband’s company, but she is off-center enough to want this a secret as long as she can buy it so. “For your silence, until we return.”

In the time it takes Sita to strip out of silk and re-knot her old lower cloth of coarse blue cotton she has thought of a hundred different potential scenarios. Had she been alone, she might have had to slouch out of her own rooms with her head down so that she might prevent recognition -- in the company of a servant, Sita is passed over as one as well and strolls quite comfortably into the sunshine, following a path she has never taken until they find her husband leaning against the wall of one of the palace’s more minor stables.

“My lady,” he says, seeming to shake himself out of some sort of stupor and leveraging himself fully upright. “Antara,” he says then, turning to face the servant he had charged with fetching Sita, “you have my gratitude.” He leans down to pick up something wrapped in cloth before walking to Antara with a winning smile while pressing the package into her arms.

Sita knows something of her husband, but not like this. She is charmed.

“I came across the mangoes your sister likes when I was making my way back from one of the border kingdoms,” her husband says to Antara. “Tell her that I look forward to hearing more about her adventures when she is feeling well enough to take visitors.”

Antara’s eyes gleam and grow misty. “Oh,” she says, lips trembling as she folds her hands around the parcel and takes her leave, “and we have only just gotten her head to shrink back to its usual size after the last time!”

Alone at last, Sita’s husband’s earlier flash of ease vanish into the ether. Sita tries not to take offense at being more a stranger to him than the woman he sent to fetch his wife. “My lady,” he says again, but cannot seem to say anything more. Sita, feeling the awkwardness of the last week’s silence and her own slight guilt besides, takes pity.

“The girl?”

Sita is rewarded with a smile of her own, small but sincere. “Bedridden, but wonderfully vivacious still. There are bouts of illness where she is worse off than usual, but she believes me nothing more than a particular playmate and I try to see her when I can. The parcel has medicine a far-off physician swore had done a similar patient some good, but Antara would never accept unless I passed it to her like this.”

Sita blinks. “But you are her sovereign!”

Her husband shrugs. “I am her sister’s friend, and I find that everyone is entitled to some amount of pride. It is difficult to accept that you cannot help the one you love best alone.”

She nods, satisfied as she has been in the past with the knowledge that at least she is not married to a stupid man, And, she supposes, not a cruel one either. “How old is the girl?”

His smile widens slightly in apparent reminiscence. “She will be seven in two months' time.”

“Does she have a doll?”

“One,” Sita’s husband says slowly, brow slightly furrowed, “but bedraggled.”

Sita may not know how to comport herself as wife nor princess, but once she was a Goddess who heard the entreaties of those who cared for their beloved ill. Still, she remains a sister. This, Sita knows how to do. “If you approve, I will make her a new one that you can take with you. I used to make dolls for my sisters out of dried grass and cloth when we were children.”

For a moment, her husband looks stunned before he manages to school his features into something like equanimity once more. Still, he slips and there is something helpless about the way he is suddenly looking at her. “You are kind,” he says, but low in a tone that makes it clear that he is not truly speaking to Sita so much as about her to himself. “I am always glad for that.”

Sita blushes, unsure about how to respond to a compliment not exactly meant for her ears. It is not something she ever expected to hear from anyone in Ayodhya, much less the husband she condemns to spend his days wandering the countryside and his nights at rest alone on his own stone floor. “Why did you call me?” she decides to ask instead.

Again, her husband shakes his head as if rising from a reverie. His usual self-confidence suddenly melts into trepidation. What could he possibly want that discomfits him so?

“At the Kosalan border,” he says slowly, eyes focused on some point behind Sita’s shoulders, “there are a few villages that, at some point in the last few years, welcomed some families from afar.”

There is something about the way he speaks that begins to knot Sita’s stomach. She has the beginnings of an inkling, but nothing so concrete that she can speak it aloud. She nods for him to continue.

“Neighbors share stories in times of plenty as well as times of scarcity. These last few months there have been stories about former droughts, experienced by foreign kingdoms.”

Ah. Of course.

“This is not Videha,” Sita says, but she speaks almost as if she is in a dream. She cannot deny her divinity, not without inviting further scrutiny of her orphanhood. But neither has she ever truly believed that it is her feet that coaxed the rains to Mithila. Her father sowed the fields with the merit of his good deeds. Her father found a babe in the trough. Coincidence does not imply correlation.

What would happen if the stories were wrong? If Sita walked the lands but the sky remained a bright, barren blue? In some faint corner of her heart, she feels resentment towards her husband for having made her think of this at all.

“Yes,” her husband agrees, “I told them so. But they insist I bring you to meet them if only to speak as their princess.” He winces slightly, eyes shifting desolate to the dirt. “Hope sometimes means the difference between death or life in these instances, and at this moment I have nothing else to offer.”

Helpless, Sita thinks again. Her husband, Crown Prince of Dasaratha’s empire that extends further and exacts more in tribute than any before, stands helpless before his wife. They are friends, he had said, and even before that, he is the one who has always been kind. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but no words find themselves on the tip of her tongue.

Her husband, eyes still averted, nods as if he has understood. “It was foolish to ask, I know, and perhaps you even think me cruel. You do not speak of who you were in Videha, and I should not ask this of you as my wife.” His jaw sets. “I will take you back to the palace.”

What would happen if the stories were true? If, as in her dreams, Sita walked the lands here in Kosala and the skies still split?

“How will we go?” she asks quietly, unable to force her voice firm. The words leave her mouth unbidden, but she knows they are right nonetheless. “How long will it take?”

She can almost hear her husband’s neck snap as his eyes rise from their study of the ground to gaze at her with all the intensity of the vicious sun. If before he was stunned, now he can only be described as pole-axed. His face is suddenly host to so many overwrought emotions at once that it is rendered as illegible as the times when he forces it blank. She has never seen him so, but that is not unusual. She had not seen him even wearing the smile he gave Antara.

This, she wonders, if anyone anywhere has witnessed ever before. She wonders, even as in her heart she knows the truth: they haven’t. None but Sita.

“Will you really come?” His voice is almost plaintive, like a child asking something he already knows he cannot have. But what does the most powerful man in the world know of want?

“I will,” Sita says, head spinning with a thousand questions, a thousand fears, a thousand hopes. She bites her lip, suddenly overwhelmed by her own uncertainty. “I cannot promise --” again, she loses her voice before she can finish the sentence that would throw her status into such uncertainty.

“I know,” her husband says, answering her unasked question. “I always knew. It would not matter to me either way.” He too seems to break off, struggling to find the proper words. He takes a step forward, and then another, and then one more until he stands in front of Sita, close enough that if he reached out he could clutch at her wrists. “Janaki,” he says, voice dripping with an honest earnesty that suddenly reminds Sita that if she feels herself a girl in Ayodhya then her husband too is a young boy, aged artificially by the weight he is always carrying on his shoulders.

“Janaki,” her husband says again, and Sita takes a breath. He is very handsome up close this friend of hers, the man who is her husband. “You will always be safe with me.” He smiles slightly, and Sita feels the corners of her own lips curling in sympathetic response. “As you say, you are now my wedded wife. There is nothing anyone could say about you that will change that. You can be more, but from now on you will never be less.”

For years Sita was old as well. More than anything else, she was lonely. She is lonely still.

What would you call me, Crown Prince?

My wife.

“I will try,” she vows, refusing to think about what it will do to the villagers for whom the drought continues after she walks the distance of their land. For once, she knows what will happen: she will remain her husband’s wife. In many ways, this is more the moment of her marriage than the one in which he tied the sacred thread around her neck than the one in which he broke the bow of the Great God.

“I will,” she says again, and Sita is unsure if she is promising to be wife, princess, or Goddess. All three, perhaps. “For them,” she swallows and throws all caution to the wind. “For you, I promise I will at least try.”

---

+1

Sita walks for hours, hair falling out of the twist she had pulled it into after dismounting from the saddle she had shared with her husband traveling by horseback to the place that still believed there lived a goddess that could quench dry land.

She walks and walks, walks and walks and walks until her feet begin to crack and then bleed after such long exposure to the harshness of dead earth. Then, she walks some more. Thirst left her an hour ago, but now she struggles against exhaustion. Every step threatens to pull her down into the dust, and she knows, knew, that this would happen. She knew that she would prove their faith false, and leave them worse for having met her. She knew, and yet --

She had hoped, still.

There are no living goddesses who walk the land like Sita to call forth the rain. It is a ritual that has its roots in her father Janaka’s sacrifice, seeding the earth with the merit of his good deeds. Once, she had asked him what he felt when he had been plowing alone in the moments before he manifested a miracle.

“I suppose I should tell you that I prayed,” he had said thoughtfully, hand coming up to stroke absently at his beard, “but I did not. My people were suffering, and there is nothing even an intelligent man can do to mitigate the effects of a decade of drought. I was supposed to be thinking of all the good I had done, so as to imbue the ground with that goodness. But more than anything, every moment I was there I wanted it to rain -- more than anything I had ever wanted before. I felt like I would have done anything then, given anything, if only it would rain. By the end, I knew it would. It had to.”

In Videha, Sita had walked as ritual. She had lived in times of plenty.

In Kosala, there is a drought. She has seen with her own eyes the shrunken bodies of villagers who have no food. Whose voices are raspy with thirst. Together they had collected all the water they had left and had Sita sit, cross-legged before them as they washed away the dust of the road. Sita’s husband has promised that she will be his wife even if she proves a woman after all, but suddenly she knows why the rain fell. Her father too had known; in his own way, he had even tried to tell her.

In Kosala, Sita wants. She is a woman, and in this moment she wants as she never has before. She wants it to rain, more than anyone ever has wanted anything anywhere. More even than her father must have wanted because she wants not only for herself and her people but for her husband as well. Perhaps for him most of all, whom she has seen wrack his mind for weeks. Who has defied what convention or good sense would tell him and instead placed his faith in his wild wife, bringing her to the outskirts of his kingdom in hope of a miracle. Far from the palace, Sita knows herself. She knows what she wants. She knows now, with blinding certainty, what will be.

She wants to be loved, and she wants to love in turn. She wants it to rain, and so it will.

She walks until her body fails, certain in her knowledge that the rain will come. It has to. She trips, and suddenly she hears the gasps of the crowd that has kept vigil at the sides as they did in the time of her father before her. She trips, she falls, and just as she loses consciousness she hears the impossible roll of thunder on a cloudless day.

Sita hits the ground, and it begins to rain in Kosala.

---

coda. (2, 3, 4)

It is late when Sita wakes, eyes opening to the ceiling of a small hut as the raindrops patter against the roof. Outside she can hear shouts of glee, the beat of drums, the exultant songs of villagers who know that they can soothe their hoarse throats with water.

“Was it always like that?” Sita looks down to the foot of her bed where her husband kneels, hands gently rubbing ointment into her wounds before wrapping them with strips of his upper cloth. She hums in question, uncertain of what he means. “When you would walk in Videha,” her husband clarifies, eyes never leaving his self-appointed task, “was it like it was today?”

She could say yes, and imply that this is what goddesses do. Raghuvanshis do not lie. “No,” she says, and marvels at what a struggle it is to even speak. “Never.”

He nods, as if this was the only answer he expected. “Then it really was you,” he says softly, and suddenly Sita notices his hands are shaking as he winds the last of the cloth around her left foot. “You walked, and the gods answered your call.”

“Yes,” Sita says in a whisper. It is a thought too large to bear. He must have questions, she knows, and she owes her husband an explanation. She wants to tell him everything she remembers, everything she now understands, but in this moment there is nothing she can bring herself to say.

Finally, he looks away from her feet, shifting so that it is easier for Sita to look and see his red eyes.

“You cried,” Sita says inanely, stupid again but now in shock.

Her husband laughs, the sound just on the verge of being a sob. “It rained.”

He looks away.

“Before I found your pulse, I thought you had died.”

---

They leave in the morning once more on horseback, Sita clutching her husband’s waist and content to expose her aching, bandaged feet to the elements having long lost her shoes. The villagers offer breakfast, but Sita and her husband communicate wordlessly like she has seen other married couples do, and say together that they must respectfully decline. It will take another cycle for the crops to truly flourish, and there is more food than anyone can eat at home.

For a moment, Sita is jarred at the realization that Ayodhya is what she means when she thinks now of “home.” Mithila, of course, is home always -- but it is different now. Sita’s father called down the rain in Videha, but it was Sita alone who split the sky for her home last night.

After about an hour her husband brings the horse to a halt and jumps down, walking until they reach a lush orchard. Sita swings her right leg around and falls into his arms. For a moment she feels him lower her before he remembers that she cannot walk and shifts his grip, left arm grasping under her knees as Sita wraps her arms around his neck.

“You like jamun fruits, no? You keep them in our bedroom sometimes.”

Yes, Sita does. “Do you?”

Her husband shrugs. “I like these jamun fruits.”

“And where are we?”

“The crown plants orchards at places along the main roads so that travelers might find some respite.” He smiles, looking up at one of the trees. “This is the one with the best jamun fruits in Kosala. And this,” he lowers Sita to the ground underneath the tree and she lets go obligingly, “is the best tree of the orchard.”

It is a romantic claim to make, that there is a single tree that produces the best fruit in the land, but Sita’s husband does not say it as one might when repeating a fancy. Intrigued despite herself, she asks: “How do you know?”

He palms the bark, fingers searching for something that he finds in a particular divot. “A few years ago a squadron of warriors tested the fruit of every tree. This was the one they liked best.”

Sita is skeptical. “And you believe them?”

“Well,” her husband amends, that same mischief he had shown Antara in his eyes, “this is certainly the one I liked best, and the rest agreed as well. It might not be to your taste, given that you are a woman of refined taste in this sphere and I merely a man who prefers mangos.”

“We shall see,” Sita laughs, bedraggled and thirsty and tired. Still, she feels like she has never laughed like this before. In her past she has certainly felt joy and found laughter, but in her happiness now she floats. She had always felt so heavy before. “Let me have my breakfast, and I will be the judge of that.”

Her husband is graceful in victory -- it is not perfectly the season, but Sita swears she has never tasted so sweet a fruit.

---

“Her feet are bandaged,” Kaikeyi observes when the cacophony that accompanies their return to the palace dies down to a dull roar. It is an easy thing to notice when Sita is being carried in her husband’s arms. Kaikeyi was always the quickest of Dasaratha’s queens and proves herself to be the one best informed when her beautiful face twists in withering disgust. “You cannot possibly think that your wife ended the drought by walking.”

Sita cannot tell if the emphasis is on the words “your wife” or “walking.” Both, she thinks, offend the very marrow of an Ayodhyan sensibility that has spent half a year shoving gold at pandits to fund a sacrifice that will finally please Indra.

This is what Sita, married into a family that does not lie, plans to say: “We are glad to see the rain.”

This is what her husband, whose words at 18 already carry more weight in this family than those of his father, says instead: “She did. I saw it with my own eyes.”

what christmas means to me || f. andersen

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Some very slight language, tooth-rotting fluff and babies if you’re not into that.

Summary: It’s your fifth Christmas with your husband Freddie, but your first with your baby girl. 

a/n: Here’s some fun christmas fluff with human fridge Freddie Andersen that no one asked for! It’s VERY fluffy but was so much fun for me to write so I hope you all love it. BIG thank you to @woah-were-halfway-there​ for all her encouragement and for screaming at me to finish it (and there’s a little tie in to her AFTR series in there) you’re the best, friend. Merry Christmas to those who celebrate and happy reading! 

This had always been your favorite time of year, the air in Herning crisp and biting but the fresh snow crunching under your boots putting a smile on your face. You had nothing but fond memories of Christmas. Most of your childhood you’d spent them with your mother’s extended family in Toronto, eating your grandmother’s homemade cinnamon rolls and opening presents with your cousins as the sun rose behind the house. Though you were in Denmark this Christmas, you still had the fuzzy warmth in your chest as you walked slowly beside your husband and the little girl perched in his arms. It was your fifth holiday with Freddie but your first with your daughter, whose wide eyes darted around the backyard with the unbridled curiosity of a child who was finally aware enough to take in her first snow. Your first Christmas with Freddie had been very early on in your relationship. You’d met him only a few months before, at a team barbecue hosted by the Hymans. Alannah had become one of your closest friends as the two of you navigated law school together, and you and Zach developed a friendly relationship as a result. As much time as you spent with the two of them, the first time you met his teammates didn’t come until about a year later. Alannah invited you one night over drinks and though you were a bit nervous going into a situation where you knew no one but her, you accepted the invitation and found yourself in their backyard nursing a red solo cup and being introduced to a whole mob of Maple Leafs and their significant others. After making the rounds you’d gone inside to fix another drink and found a large redhead in their kitchen. The moment his soft smile was directed back at you, you knew you were a goner. The two of you had spent almost the entirety of the barbecue chatting in that kitchen, and you left with his phone number and the promise of a date. You hadn’t looked back since. The second Christmas the two of you spent together, you decided to host both of your families at your shared home in Toronto. Your newly received engagement ring sparkled under the tree lights as the two sides finally met for the first time, excitement building for your future to come. Christmas number three you were in Herning, three months married and finding the time to travel overseas as Freddie recovered from shoulder surgery, indefinitely placed on injured reserve. You spent Christmas number four alone back in Ontario with Freddie’s hand constantly rubbing soft circles on your swollen belly as you watch holiday classics on TV. Your baby girl made her entrance two months later, wailing loudly but still managing to immediately capture both your heart and your husbands. You silently cursed yourself for not changing into something warmer as the thin leggings tucked into your boots weren’t really helping the shivers running through your body, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to go back inside. Not when your daughter stuck her tiny hand out and giggled at the feeling of the wet snow. You’d been excited to experience this with her since she was still an idea in your head. Of course you’d had snow back in Ontario, but this was the first time she really seemed to be understanding what she was seeing and feeling. The white blanket on the ground and the small flurries fascinated her as she gazed around the backyard in complete wonder.  You quietly pulled your phone from your pocket as you continued through the cold further into your yard. The time read 4:04 PM, and though you knew it was only around ten in the morning in Scottsdale, you pulled up the familiar contact and hit the FaceTime button, the ringing filling your ears but not capturing the attention of Freddie or your girl. You rolled your eyes as it connected and what your husband called the world’s most terrible mustache filled your screen, but you couldn’t help the grin that spread across your own face as one of your favorite people appeared. “Hey y/n, how’s Scandinavia treating you?” he greeted, lounging on his sofa still in pajamas with a cup of coffee sat on the side table in the background. “Hi friend, always a good time in Denmark. ‘S it hot over there in good old AZ?” The two of you made small talk for the next few minutes before you heard your husband’s loud footsteps in the snow, looking up to find them walking back toward you, Fred’s smile soft in contrast to the giggles still coming from the infant he carried. Auston noticed your gaze lift from him to above the camera and he spoke again “Is that my girl? Where’s my girl, huh?” You didn’t think your daughter’s face could light up any further than it already had but sure enough it did as she heard his voice. “Look baby, say hi to Uncle Aus!” You handed the phone to Fred and he held it for a few minutes as he allowed the two of them to talk, Auston asking your daughter what she’d gotten for Christmas and telling her about his own family’s morning as she babbled back to him. You lost focus on the conversation in favor of watching the snow as it began to fall harder onto the ground below you. It had been steadily picking up speed since you’d started watching it from the bedroom window that morning, and you knew with the chill you’d have to take her inside soon. You tuned back in as you heard the conversation coming to an end, Freddie and Auston saying their goodbyes. “Bye Aus, say hi to Cars and the kids for me! Tell them we love them!” “Bye y/n, we love you too!” The call clicked off and when Fred handed the phone back you flipped over to your camera, moving to video mode to capture the moment of your daughter’s first real experience with snow. Fred gasped and directed her to look at the camera, waving and encouraging her to do the same. “Say hi mumma! Hi mumma!” “Hi baby!” you cooed at her as she flailed her arm in her best attempt at a wave, giggling as she batted more of the snow falling against her little fist. “Are you having fun baby girl? Do you love the snow? Daddy’s having so much fun too, look!” He smiled down at his girl, nodding enthusiastically along as she babbled aimlessly, gesturing to the environment around her. You stopped the video and made sure it saved to the camera roll, knowing it was a memory you’d cherish for years to come. “Okay family, I think it’s time to go inside, it’s getting a little chilly for us out here.” Your baby’s face dropped a bit but she remained silent and continued to mumble unintelligibly to herself as the three of you made your way back toward the house. You sighed at the warmth of your home as you made your way from the backdoor into the kitchen, shedding your coat before turning to help Fred pull the many layers off of your daughter. Her hat came first, then coat, then boots and sweater until she was down to just her Christmas pajamas. You’d thought they were adorable when you picked them out but even more so when you’d put them on her and so you and Fred had decided to just keep her in them for the day, knowing you weren’t planning to leave your home. The rest of the night passed rather uneventfully, the three of you spending the evening parked right where you’d expected, on the couch with hot chocolate watching Miracle on 34th Street and White Christmas before putting the baby to bed at the usual time. It had been a bit harder than usual to get her down but finally, after the excitement of the day, she fell into a fairly deep sleep in her crib. Once she had finally fallen asleep you made your way back to your husband in the living room, flopping ungracefully down next to him on the sofa, sighing deeply and resting against his very large frame. He chuckled to himself as you settled yourselves into a comfortable position, enjoying the silence of the moment together, his breathing quiet and the TV on low in the background. The Christmas tree in the corner provided the only source of light aside from whatever movie was playing, each of the ornaments telling its own story of a memory special to your little family. “Do you remember our second Christmas together, right after we got engaged? When our families met for the first time and our brothers spent the entire day chirping us for how ‘sickeningly in love’ we were?” you broke the quiet of the room and Fred laughed in reply. “Yeah and my mom insisting she help yours in the kitchen, which ended up in the two of them getting drunk together and accidentally burning the rolls.” You both laughed then, remembering your fathers waving dish towels and opening windows to try to stop the beeping of the smoke detector. “Yeah, that one. I think that was the first time I realized how much I was looking forward to having a family of our own. I remember thinking about sitting on the couch with our little girl, giggling with her while we watched you chase our little boy around the room. I wanted that so badly. And now we have it and I don’t think I could be any happier.” It was the truth. From the time you’d begun dating to now, through five years, a marriage and then a baby, your relationship had only strengthened. It wasn’t perfect, no relationship ever was, but it was perfect for you two. You’d grown together through the hard times and laughed together through the good ones and all the while you felt more and more loved by him every day. There wasn’t a sight in the world that filled your heart more than watching Fred with your baby. You had a family, one you’d hoped for since you were a little girl playing house with your sister, and you had created that family with a man who loved you the way you’d always wanted and deserved to be loved. It wasn’t ever lost on you how lucky you were to have him by your side. He let you lose yourself in your thoughts for a minute before a warm hand on your cheek turned your face toward him and you met the eyes you’d fallen madly in love with. “Ik hou van je, schat. I do, I love you. You are the love of my life, and an incredible mother. I wouldn’t ever want to do this, to have a family with anyone else.” He kissed the top of your head and left you with that. Freddie had always been a man of fewer words but you didn’t need them, you felt it in everything he did. It wasn’t about how he told you, but how he showed you. You both sat curled together watching the fire for another moment before you stood, making your way to the tree and pulling a small envelope from behind it. Freddie’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you made your way back over to the couch. “Schat, what’s that? I thought we’d finished exchanging all our gifts this morning?” He’d presented you with a beautiful set of diamond earrings to replace the pair you had lost in your move to the new house in Toronto last year, and you had gifted him with a pair of tickets and a room confirmation for a trip to Greece in the coming summer, a destination that had been at the top of both of your bucket lists. This present, though, you’d hidden behind the tree to give to him after your daughter went to sleep, when the time felt right. You handed it to him and shrugged slightly, answering vaguely with a “just another little something, go on, open it.” He opened the envelope and pulled out the card, regarding it carefully until you encouraged him to read the writing on the inside out loud. The card was simple, white with a few red hearts adorning the front, empty on the inside. You’d written the message before you left town last week, working through tears as you did. The tears welled up again as he began to read and you tried willing them away, but it proved to be nearly impossible as you heard them build in his voice as well. “You’ll watch mommy’s belly each day as I grow, and then you’ll count my ten fingers and ten little toes. You’ll hold me when I cry and rock me to sleep, but stay with me until I’m not making a peep. With mommy and sister we’ll laugh and we’ll play, and you’ll get to watch me grow every day. I’ll be there cheering at all of your games, until it’s time for me to hit the ice just the same. I can’t wait to meet you so very soon, so I’ll see you and mommy this coming June.” You were both quietly crying by the time he was done reading the card and he clutched it tightly in his hand, closing his eyes to collect his thoughts before he finally addressed you again. “Really? You’re pregnant?” You only had the chance to nod before he was up off the couch, bringing you in tightly to his body as you both tried to rein in your emotions. “I found out about a week before we left. We have the first ultrasound as soon as we get back to Toronto.” You pulled back slightly, making eye contact before you continued, “I’m so fucking happy, Fred. I’m so excited to have another baby with you. Are you happy?” “Happy? Schat, I’m elated. I can’t wait to watch you be a mother again, to bring another life into this world with me. I love you. I’m so happy.” You embraced for a few minutes longer before retiring to your bedroom, and the soft, gentle sex had you falling asleep with a small smile on your face. You slept for only a few hours before you were awoken by the giggles of your first baby from the living room, the bed empty next to you and the clock on the nightstand reading 1:47 AM. You made your way toward the sound where you found Freddie bouncing your daughter on his lap, both of them apparently unable to sleep and watching cartoons on the television set. Standing in the doorway watching them with your hand placed over your still mostly flat stomach, the excitement of giving her a baby brother or sister grew in you once more, the same visions of Freddie chasing another little one around the room that you’d had three years ago now popping back into your head. You knew that he would love this baby in the same way that he loved the one currently perched on his knee, so deeply that you saw it in every moment he spent with her. Next Christmas would be just as special as the last five with him had been, and just as special as all of those still yet to come.

Little Plastic Angels

For @bend-me-shape-me‘s SPNAdventCalendar2020 Warnings:  none for this one! Just sad soft boys being soft again Pairing: Endverse Destiel Read on AO3 Master Post Day 14: Christmas Lights

Little Plastic Angels

“How has this become our lives?” Dean didn’t have an answer to that. He could only shrug and pull the blanket tighter around his shoulder. There was a bitter twinge in the air as the night grew darker. It’d frost tonight. He’d have to make sure the patrol checks the southern fences… the cold wouldn’t be kind on the rusted links.

Beside him Cas shifted slightly. He wanted to ask what happened. He wanted an explanation but Dean just— didn’t have one. The silence lay thick between them, words neither knew how to voice rising and dying on frozen lips. Maybe it was safer this way.

Safer for them both. “Did you ever decorate for Christmas?” It was such a blunt off handed question that Dean was startled out of his thoughts. Brows raising he looked over at where Cas was perched on Baby’s hood. His half lidded eyes were on the fires blazing in the distance, and his mouth was pinched at the corners, just a subtle twitch away from a frown.

“What?”

“Decorate. Like with lights and trees and shit like that.” He shot a small glance over to Dean as he said it. And there was something there. Something buried deep in his own longing. It was an expression he was familiar with himself. That want for something so mundane and normal. The need to let it all be swept away in artificial lights and fake pine trees.

Looking down at his shoes against the dirty hood Dean sighed, “Sometimes.” He remembered, once upon a time, helping put ornaments on a tree. He remembered sneaking candy canes when John hadn’t been watching. He remembered baking cookies with his mom. He remembered stringing lights on a tree that first Christmas after Mary… Sam’s first Christmas. “When we got older and started moving around we just kinda… stopped.”

He could feel Cas nod beside him before he even looked over, a thoughtful look on his face. “We should decorate.” The idea was so absurd to Dean though. Why in the world would they decorate for a holiday that all but didn’t exist anymore? What purpose would it serve. He didn’t give a verbal answer. Cas seemed to pick up on his opposition to it though and just shrugged. The distant longing in his gaze dimmed and Dean almost felt bad about it.

In the distance something exploded and the fires flared brighter briefly. It lit up the night around them in a mockery of a welcoming fire. Tipping his head back Dean looked up at the small amount of dark purple black sky through the trees and smoke. If only it were that simple. That they could pretend things were still normal enough to warrant something so mundane as Christmas lights. Rolling his head over, he let his gaze settle on Cas.

He looked so small, sitting with his legs tucked up to his chest and huddled under a blanket. He had his chin resting on his knees, with his arms folded around in front of his shins. The firelight played over his face and burnished the ring of his hair in gold. Dean felt his heart clench at the sight. Angelic was the only word he could find to describe how he looked in that moment. He felt sick to even think it.

He thought of the little plastic angel they’d always had on their tree. Of the little white wings Dean had always made sure were clean before stowing her away in a box. Of the small harp Sam accidentally broke off when he was three. He thought of the gold halo that had a little light bulb in it to light up. The only light he’d always made sure worked. Year after year. He wondered absently whatever happened to her.

The little plastic angel who held so much sentiment though Dean couldn’t really explain why. “I had one decoration I always put out.” He said then, watching the flickering light across Cas’s cheeks and lips. He wasn’t sure why he was telling him about it, but it just felt… right. In that moment, it all felt right. “It was a small tree topper angel. You know the kind where it’s all plastic but with a fabric circle around the skirt?”

Cas humed in acknowledgement, no doubt he’d seen it at least once before. Whether he’d known what it was then or not, Dean didn’t know. “Her harp was broken off, and her wings were kinda wonky, but she had a bulb on her halo that made it light up.” He swallowed and looked away from the former Angel for a moment to mutter, “It was my favorite thing about Christmas.”

“A little plastic angel?” The disbelief in Cas’s tone made Dean smile slightly as he looked back up. He gave a curt nod and shrugged one shoulder. “With a light for a halo.”

He watched the light dance on dark hair. A halo in its own right. “Yeah. I lost her some years ago though. Not sure what happened.” He resisted the urge to reach out a hand and brush the hair back from Cas’s forehead. To touch the light seeming to surround him and see if it was real. To make sure this little angel didn’t disappear on him too. Maybe they could find something to put up. Maybe he could find tacky green and red candles since string lights were probably out of the question, unless they could find battery powered ones.

“I am… sorry.” Maybe… Cas leaned back against the windshield beside him, their shoulders were just barely brushing against each other. The warmth from him was still enough to send a jolt down Dean’s spine though. Closing his eyes he tipped his head back again and smiled. Maybe, just maybe, he still had his little Christmas angel afterall.

Leaning his head over slightly, Dean let his cheek rest against the top of Cas’s head. “I’m not. I still have one angel anyway.”

“I don’t have a light up halo, or any halo for that matter.” There was a beat of silence and then, "I am also not an angel anymore, Dean."

A long sigh tinged in fondness, "I know, Cas. Just take the sentiment for what it is, you dumbass."

Blessing or a Curse?

Request:  I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’ll do a Mummy movie Imhotep dub con where when you accidentally raise him and he makes you his thinking of it as a gift type shenanigan.

 Response:  I would love to.  

 Pairing:  Imhotep x reader

 Warnings:  Dub-con, smut, Monster banging (He’s the Mummy, but he’s not A Mummy), alcohol

 Fandom:  The cinematic masterpiece The Mummy (1999)

 Words:  4K

                 Most family’s heirlooms were jewelry, old photographs, vases, or even ornaments.  Sure, yours had all of those too, but none as valued as the key.  You picked up the strange object in your hand and opened it, loving how quick the spiked points set out.  

                  “What does it open?”  You’d been obsessed with the question since you first found out it was a key.

                 “Nobody knows.”  Your aunt’s voice broke your concentration.  “Like a lot of the family secrets it was lost with time.”  

                  “Along with most of the family.”  You sat down on your aunt’s couch.  “Do you really think we’re cursed?”  

                  The family tree and fortune traced back to 1926, a couple named Rick and Evelyn O’Connell.   They were your great aunt and uncle.  You’d seen some dusty photographs, but saw no familial resemblance. Your great grandfather was Evelyn’s brother, but you looked even less like him.  Maybe that’s why you felt you never belonged.  

                  “I’m not sure bringing up curses when you’re here for a funeral is fair.”  Your aunt sat next to you.  

                  “I’m so sorry.  That was rude of me.”  Your Uncle was only buried yesterday.  

                 “It’s okay.”  Your aunt reached out and squeezed your hand.  “I know you’ve had your share of loss too.  If the family is cursed, may as well be cursed together. I need a drink.  Would you like one?”  

                  “Please.”  You needed something to break the tension.  “Are you sure you don’t mind me staying?  Would you rather be alone?”

                  “Don’t be silly.”  She walked over to the bar.  “I live alone in a mansion in England.  You live alone in a shoebox in whatever country you’re staying in now. Take off your boots and stay awhile.”  

                  “I never put down roots.”  You held your hand out for the drink.  “Maybe then the curse won’t catch up to me.”

                  “Smart girl.”  Your Aunt cheersed you.  “Now distract me from my husband’s death.  Tell me some of your world travels.”  

 ~~

                 Two weeks at your Aunt’s and you were getting stir crazy. Ready to move on and resume trying to search for whatever it was you were searching for.  She wasn’t ready for you to leave yet.  So if you couldn’t explore the world you would explore the mansion.  

                  You could tell it was built for another time. Updates over the years had ruined some of the 1920s charm.  You barely got cell reception and the only time the internet worked was if you were close to the router.  These walls were thick, not designed for WiFi.  

                  The attic was your favorite space.  Antiques no longer desired and an occasional random old thing someone didn’t want to throw away but didn’t want around either. You were looking at a box of dresses, holding them up to your frame and wondering if any would fit you.  

                  You twirled in front of an antique mirror, laughing at the style.   BOOM! The thunder was followed by lightning.  It took you off guard and you tripped.   You tried to steady yourself, but your feet were off balance.  You crashed into the mirror, knocking the thing to the ground underneath you.  

                  It happened so fast you didn’t know how to respond. Shards of glass were all around you.   From what you could tell you weren’t cut, but you had to push yourself up with skill to avoid the pieces.  

                  “Shit.”  That mirror was probably worth more than your car.

                  You hoped your aunt wouldn’t be too mad.  You readied to push yourself up, going slow to not cut yourself, once you made it to your feet you looked at the destroyed antique.  All over some thunder.  

                  You were about to leave to get a broom when something caught your eye.  The base of the mirror.  With the glass cracked you realized it wasn’t a base at all.  It was a book.  The spine gold and the black pages hidden behind the glass.  

                  “Hidden?”  Why would anyone hide a book?  And in a mirror?   You reached down and grabbed it.  It was heavier than expected.  Like the pages were pure metal.   Ancient symbols were on the cover, but that wasn’t what excited you.  It was the shape.  The strange sun.  

                  Your eyes flared with excitement.  You no longer cared about the dress or the glass as you ran toward the stairs.  This was it. The most important heirloom.  The key.  

                  You were almost shaking with excitement by the time you made it to the sitting room, grabbing the relic you dropped to your knees.  The sound of the rain hitting the windows background static to your own thoughts.

                  In seconds you had the key opened and put it on the page.  It fit so perfect you almost fainted from excitement.  Then you turned and the edging of the book popped open with such satisfaction.   You flipped it open.  

                  Egyptian.  Ancient. Like your entire family tree, you’d spent some time studying the culture.  You grabbed your phone.  No service. That meant you had to wing it with your little knowledge.  Your fingers scanned the page.  

                  Each symbol you recognized you spoke the words out loud.   Unsure what they meant.  When you finished the page, BOOM! Another crack of lightning.  

                  You snapped your head to the door as it felt like all the air was sucked from the room and the power went out.  Your head cleared and it sounded like the wind was screaming.

                 What frightened you more, was what they were screaming: no.  A chill went down your spine.  You shut the book and locked it again.  

                  “What a storm.”  Your aunt walked in.  “What’s that?”

                 “I found it in the attic.”  You rose from the floor.  “I’m so sorry, but the lightning scared me and I broke a mirror.”

                  “More bad luck for this family.”  Your aunt rolled her eyes.  “You want a drink?  Power is out, not much else to do around here.”

                  “Sure.”  While your aunt was turned around you took the key out and flipped the book over.  

                  Something felt off.  You couldn’t put your finger on it, but didn’t think you should tell your aunt about the book.  It was just the storm, and the fall on to all that glass.  A drink would calm your nerves.

 ~~

                 The dreams started that night.  You tossed and turned, fisting the sheets, sweat dripping down your brow.  

                  He was handsome, strong, powerful. His voice was deep and commanding.  You didn’t know what he was saying.  His language was dead, but he loomed over you, his hand stroking your cheek.  

                  Even though you didn’t understand his words you understood his touch.  He was evil. Damned.  But he was gentle to you, almost grateful.  Like he wanted to thank you.  But as his lips moved closer to yours your blood turned to ice.  

                  The same scream of the wind left your lips as you woke up in bed, your chest heaving.  You glanced around the room.  Alone.

                  It took a moment to collect yourself, your chest heaving from the nightmare.  Who was the mystery man?  What was he saying?  Why did it feel so real?  

                 “Get your shit together.”  You put your head in your hands. “It was a stupid dream.”  

                  Something in your core told you it was something different, but you shook away the thought as you laid back down.

 ~~

               “You look like you could use some coffee.” Your aunt didn’t take her eyes from the television, you wondered how she saw you.  

                  “I didn’t sleep well.”  You turned to see what had her attention.  

                  The headline on the news said:  Raining blood in Egypt.  The talking head was rambling about some soil getting in the atmosphere and it not really being blood.

                  “That is insanity.”  You cocked your head to the side.  

                 “It’s on every station.  Some people are saying it’s the sign of the end of days.”  Your Aunt sipped her coffee.  “But the more logical minds are talking about red soil dying the rain and global warming.”  

                  “What side are you on?”  You sat next to her.  

                  “Oh honey.”  She turned toward you.  “The apocalypse has been happening for years.  The world isn’t going to end with a bang, it will end with a whimper.”

                 “T. S. Eliot?”  You didn’t take your Aunt for a poetry fan.  

                 “Stephen King’s opening to The Stand.”  She went back to the television.  “Want to go shopping today?  Get out of the house?”  

                  “Sure.  I want to be fashionable while I whimper to death.”  You laughed as you went to the kitchen.  

 ~~

                 You felt his presence and shot up in your bed.   He was sitting next to you and reached for your shoulder, being gentle as he pushed you back down.  

                  “No, no, no, no.”  You repeated the word, but he spoke over you.  This time in another language, but still not one you understood.

                  He was trying to calm you, the tone of his voice almost had a coo, but his hand on your skin, the way he touched you.  It was as if pure evil was in his veins.  

                  “Please.  What do you want from me?”  You crawled back on the mattress until you hit the headboard and reached behind you for something to grab as he moved with you.  Repeating words you did not understand.

                  His other hand came to your cheek too and he held your head in place, a warm smile on his handsome face.  

                  “Imhotep.  Imhotep. Imhotep.”  He was saying the word on repeat.

                  “I don’t know what that means.”  You were caged by him.  “Imhotep?”

                  A devilish grin spread across his face as he leaned closer to you, your foreheads almost touching.  

                  “Imhotep.”  He lowered his lips.  

                  You didn’t want the kiss, but at the same time you were desperate for it.   When his mouth crashed into yours you shut your eyes, your heart and brain wanting different things, but it was obvious this man was only after one:  your soul.  

                  The thought made you open your eyes and when you did the kiss turned into a bone-chilling shriek.  The handsome man was gone.  You were kissing a mummy.  

                  The dream ended like the last, with you popping up in bed,  your chest heavy and head spinning.  

                  “What the fuck?”  You reached out for the glass of water on your nightstand.  “Imhotep?”

                  It was gibberish meant nothing.  But tomorrow you were going to do some research. Just to clear your head.  You nodded as you laid back down.

                  “Only a dream.”  You pressed your thighs together and noticed you were soaked. “Great, now you’re getting turned on from dead people.”  

                  You rolled your eyes before shutting them.   You needed sleep.

 ~~

                 When you came down in the morning your Aunt was glued to the television again.   This time the headline read:  Egypt declares state of emergency.  

                  “Did the red rain get worse?”  You took a seat.  

                  “No. It stopped.”  She was glued to the television.  

                  “The after effects that bad?”  You imagined the cleanup would be gross.  

                 “Nobody knows.”  She looked hypnotized.  “Here it comes again.  Watch!”

                  The news switched to a reporter, walking the streets of Cairo showing the red grounds.  

                  “As you can see the red rain has stopped coming down.  Scientists have samples and are testing the liquid, but there are already rumors of sores appearing on…”  The news reporter dropped his microphone.  

                  Then the camera fell to the ground.  Both people started walking, the only thing visible their feet.   It almost looked like a parade was forming as a swarm of other feet entered the frame.

                  Even without the microphone, you could hear the one word they were chanting clear as day:  Imhotep.  

                  The news switched back to the talking head right as you gasped.

                 “The strange word they were chanting, Imhotep, scholars and researchers all over the world have been consulted.   Nobody knows what it means.   The origin is believed to be ancient Egyptian, but there is no known translation.”  The Anchor shifted his notes.

                   “It’s a name.”  You didn’t look away from the screen.  “It’s his name.”  

                  “They argued that earlier.  No known records of any person in Egyptian history with that name. At least none of importance.” Your Aunt took another sip from her coffee mug.  

                  “Because he was evil.   They wanted history to forget about him.”  Your stomach hurt as you sat on the couch.  “Put down your wine and listen to me, please.  This is important.”  

                  “Wine?”  Your Aunt looked away from the TV.  “It’s 10 am. This is coffee!”  

                  “Your husband just died.  Nobody is judging you.  But please, I need you to listen.”  You pointed to the TV.  “This. It’s all my fault.”

                  “You’re started a cult in Egypt?” Your Aunt rolled her eyes. “Made blood rain from the sky?”  

                  “No.  Imhotep did.” You swallowed.  “But I summoned him.”  

                  You blurted out the rest of the story in a frenzy.   Dreams, book, the key.  All of it.  By the time you were finished, you were struggling for breath.  

                  A concerned look crossed your Aunt’s face and she set her mug down.  She reached out and put the back of her hand to your forehead.  

                  “Are you feeling alright?”  She pulled out her cell phone with her other hand.  “I’m going to call the Doctor.”  

                  “Listen to me.”  You grabbed her shoulders.  “It’s true. I can go grab the book and show you.”

                  “I believe you about the book.”  Your Aunt sighed.  “It was probably a stolen artifact.  The house is filled with them.  Seems the O’Connells weren’t too keen on leaving valuable things in their country of origin.  But that’s all they are.  Things. You can’t use them to summon Mummies.”

                  “But the timing, and the dreams!  The book was in Ancient Egyptian!”  You didn’t understand why your Aunt wasn’t putting it all together.  

                  “Coincidence.”  Your Aunt handed you her coffee mug.  “Here. I think you need this more than I do. Listen to yourself Dear, you sound like one of the nutjobs that call into the shows.   So you���re having a dream man?  So you read a book.  Reading a book never hurt anyone.  You are thousands of miles away from Egypt.  Use logic. Those people were probably polluted from whatever was in the rain.  It’s much more likely government testing than a plague.  All that Imhotep stuff is just an infection.”  

                  You winced and glanced at the mug.  Your anxiety ran out.   She was right.  Those poor people had been exposed to something and here you were thinking about Mummies.  You took a gulp of the wine.  

                  “I’m feeling a bit stupid at the moment.”  You glanced down.  “Thinking a country that’s in a crisis was caused by a mythical being. When I say that out loud…yeah.”  

                  “Once this is settled down I will give the book and the key back to the Egyptian government.”  Your Aunt took the mug back and took a swig.  “Maybe then the curse on our family will be lifted.”  

                  That brought a smile to your face.  It was the right thing.  

                  “And for heaven’s sake, if a hot man comes and visits you in a dream and you don’t want him, send him down to my bedroom.”  She laughed.  “After all, I’m on the market again.”  

                  You rolled your eyes.  She was right though.  Why not turn the semi-nightmares into fun times?  A dream was harmless.

 ~~

               When bedtime rolled around you were a little nervous, of course now that you decided you wanted to play along with your mind’s fantasy there was a good chance he wouldn’t show up.   The thought kept circling your brain, making it seem like sleep would never come.  

                  You’d been tossing and turning for hours. Never once getting close to riding off with the sandman.   At three am you were about to give up and head downstairs to watch a movie or read a book.  

                 As you sat up a hand reached out and touched your cheek.  In the moonlight, you saw his features.  Imhotep. He was here.   You must have slipped into sleep and not realized.  

                  “You’re here.”  This time you put your hand on his, turning into his touch.  

                  “Yes.”  His English surprised you.  “Because of you.  For you.”

                  “And you speak my tongue now?”  Your brain finally got it together in this manifestation of him.  

                  “It took a few days to learn.”  He pressed his forehead to yours.  

                  Evil.  He was cold and evil.  You felt it in the contact and shuddered.

                  “You have nothing to fear.”  He pulled away and tucked a hair behind your ear. “I will never hurt you.  No harm will ever come to you.”  

                  “I believe you.”  You draped your arms around his shoulders.  “I shouldn’t, but I do.”  

                  A candle next to your bed came to life, you glanced toward it, unsure how it lit on its own.  

                  “A dream.”  You reminded yourself.  “None of this is real.”  

                  “I am not real?”  His finger hooked under your chin and turned your head to face him.

                  In the candlelight you got a better view of his face. It was beautiful and smooth. You ran your hand down his cheek.  He felt real.

                  “Is this not real?”  He ran his thumb over your lip before dipping his mouth again.

                  The power and coldness of his kiss were strange. Your brain screamed to run and shove him off, but it was like his ice spread to you with a burn as your tongue echoed his movements.  Your head started to go fuzzy as his hands were on your nightgown.  He pushed down one strap and then the other, pushing the garment down to your waist.  

                  The kiss continued as you lifted your hips and he pulled down your panties with the garment, tossing them to the floor.   His hand cupped your mound.  You gasped into his mouth as his finger ran up your slit and palm pressed hard into your clit.   One of his fingers teased your entrance and you grabbed his shoulders to steady yourself, moving to your knees.  

                   “How about this?”  He pulled away and watched you with a flash of lust as he slid a finger inside of you with ease.  “Is this real?”  

                  You moaned and squeezed his shoulders as he pushed his hand up.  His palm rubbing into your most sensitive spot while a finger worked inside you.  

                  “It feels real.”  You moved your head forward, wanting the kiss to resume.   He smiled as his hand went to the back of your head.  

                  “Thank you.”  His lips crashed on to yours as his hand went faster.  

                  Your hips started bucking on their own, the friction of his icy palm sending your body into a whirlwind.  The dizzy head came back and you couldn’t continue the sloppy kiss.   Your head fell forward on his chest as your lower body took priority.  

                  “I am here for you.”  He kissed your neck.  “You will come with me.”  

                  “I am going to cum now.”  You were panting as your body began to bubble over.  

                  “Not yet.”  He laughed.  

                  What the fuck?  Since when did your dream turn into an orgasm denial?  Even though he said no, his hand did not slow down and you were about to burst.  

                  “First, I will thank you.”  He scraped his teeth on your neck.  “Then we will leave.”  

                  The word “leave” cleared things up and your body exploded around his hand.  Waves of heat and relief made you tingle as your throbbing slowed.   Apparently, dream man who learned English in a day’s lessons didn’t include slang.  

                  His hand went to your shoulder as his finger left your body making you whimper.  

                  “Where will we go?”  You kept your eyes on him as he guided you to your back.  

                  “Home.”  He stood up and pulled at his robe.  

                  Your jaw hit the ground when you saw what your imagination had dreamed up for his cock.   It was the largest you’d seen in your entire life.  The sight sent more juices to your core.  

                  “Home?” You shook your head.  “I don’t have one.”  

                  “You do with me.”  He leaned over you, making you feel smaller than you were.  “Forever.”  

                  He ran the head of his cock down your pussy and stopped.  You tried to relax as you bent your knees.  He pushed inside, burning and stretching in all the right ways.   Your eyes rolled back into your head as you fell into the mattress.  

                  “Who are you?”  You barely got the question out before you whined.  

                  “Imhotep.”  He bottomed out and rocked his hips into you, his head poking at your cervix.  

                  It hurt in such a delicious way you lifted yourself to meet him, your nails digging into his biceps as he leaned down to kiss your collar bone.  

                  “What does that even mean?”  You didn’t know how you were asking questions when he felt this good.  

                  “It means I am here for you, because of you, and I will be taking you home.”  He pulled out, making you shake, but then pushed back in right away giving your toes a curl.  “You will come with me.”  

                   “Yes.” You let out a moan, the answer in the dream being the same regardless of the form of come he was referring too.  

                  “Good.”  He started thrusting faster, your bodies rolling into each other.  “Enjoy.”  

                  You nodded.  His eyes flashed and then he started going even faster.  Fucking and filling you in ways you didn’t know you could dream of, his cock slamming into you with such speed your entire body felt alive.  

                  It didn’t take long until you were a mewling in chaos. Thrashing to meet him, but hovering in ecstasy.   A layer of sweat formed over your entire body.  All the rocking and pumping made you needier than you’d ever been in your entire life.  

                  “Please.”  It came out as a whisper.  

                  “Of course.”  He placed a kiss on your forehead.  “Take what you need.”  

                  Your eyes popped open at his words.  Take it.  This was your dream and you were ready to cum.   You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer, flexing your body up as he railed you.  Holding his cock inside your body at the angle you needed.  

                  The release started to form again.   A coil in your stomach tightening like a spring. You bucked and dug your nails into his arms.  

                  “That’s it.”  He cooed into your ear.  “You will come with me.”  

                  The candle blew out, sending the room into darkness right when your orgasm hit.  Maybe it was that or maybe it was so intense your vision blew.   In the darkness you only saw an outline of him, but you couldn’t focus on anything anyway.  Your head swam with pleasure and your body felt like it was on fire with euphoria.  

                  He let out a grunt and bottomed out, he was filling you, claiming you, owning you.  Your head fell back into the pillow.  

                  “What a dream.”  You regretted not taking the enjoyment the first night.  

                  “Sleep.”  He whispered as he softened inside of you.  

                  It was an order more than an idea.  Your dream vanished and you fell into unconsciousness.  

the handmaidens all think he's the sweetest thing and they all start teaching him random little things they know. within the month ani knows more than he ever thought there was to know about matching fabrics and colors, he can interpret half the non-vocal signals the handmaidens use in public (he picks up way more than they think he does, actually), he can fire about seven different types of blaster (are you SURE padmé's okay with me having a weapon, are you SURE, slaves aren't supposed to–)

This one’s a bit longer than the last installment, so a read-more it is! 

.

Anaké might be too old to be trained as a Jedi, but he’s also too young for be trained as one of Padmé’s handmaidens. Yané is twelve and she’s the youngest by far. Saché and Cordé are thirteen, but the rest of them are all Padmé’s age or older, and Anaké is noticeably much smaller and very different from the larger group.

There have been younger queens than Padmé, though, and younger kings too. So there must be training a boy Anaké’s age can do, she knows, and when she approaches Captain Panaka about it, yes, there is. She asks him for a copy of the basic regimen, he gives it to her, and she takes it back to the others.

She doesn’t want to send Anaké to traditional training. For one thing, he’d be there alone--she made sure to make time to let Cordé and Dormé finally take their vows the first chance she had--and for another, all he’s asked for in return for all his loyalty is that he can stay with them. Even if Cordé and Dormé WEREN’T going to be moving into their respective suites tomorrow, she doesn’t think she could bear to send him away.

He helped save their people and all he wants in return is a place to swear himself to--to BELONG. Padmé cannot imagine why the Jedi would think such a person wasn’t worth keeping, but at this point, it’s their loss and Naboo’s gain.

Her gain, she admits to herself as she enters the training room to see Yané and Cordé working with Anaké, who is wearing plain, simple linens that don’t match today’s handmaiden robes. He’s already seen the palace tailors, but even a Naboo tailor can’t turn out a full wardrobe in half a ten-day, so for now he only has what he brought with him and a few basic outfits quickly altered to fit. They notice her immediately--it would be hard not to, since she came flanked by Sabé, Rabé, Eirtaé, and Dormé--and Anaké perks up noticeably. Padmé smiles at him in greeting, and he beams back.

“Padmé!” he says delightedly as he runs up to her, then balks and corrects himself with an embarrassed expression--“I mean, Your Majesty. My lady. Sorry.”

“It’s all right. It’s only us here,” Padmé reassures him with another smile. She would let Anaké call her “Padmé” all the time, honestly, but it does put a bit of a kink in the decoy arrangement when she’s wearing Amidala, and he’s already been very eager to fall in line with the others’ manners anyway. “We can’t stay long, we’re afraid. We’ve just come to see how your first day is proceeding.”

“It’s really cool!” Anaké exclaims, practically bouncing in place. He’s been getting more and more exuberant as the days pass. Padmé still isn’t sure if it’s the result of lifted pressures giving him more energy or a temporary mood while he settles, but it doesn’t really matter either way. “Cordé got me a knife and Yané’s showing me how to use it!”

He shows it to her, a slim vibroblade with a pretty painted ceramic shell and gold gilt covering the hilt. Padmé recognizes the knife as one of Saché’s old favorites, though she’s stopped wearing it since taking her oaths. It LOOKS ornamental, but sticks out among the group’s weapons too much when worn openly. It should be fine for training, though, obviously, and if Anaké wants to keep using it after that, it’ll be easy enough for him to hide.

“It’s a good knife,” she says approvingly. Saché must’ve come to the same conclusions as her and passed it on.

“Cordé said I can keep it,” Anaké says, then looks suddenly worried. “That’s--uh---that’s right?” he asks hesitantly, glancing back to Cordé guiltily. Padmé doesn’t understand for a moment, then considers just how likely weapon ownership being allowed among slaves most certainly ISN’T.

“Of course it is,” she says, feeling an itching urge to stab something herself. “You wouldn’t be much of a bodyguard without weapons of your own, would you? We would not deny you necessary resources.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Anaké says, beaming up at her again. That should not be something to THANK someone for, Padmé thinks, but reserves the comment. She doesn’t want Anaké to misunderstand the source of her displeasure.

“Will you let us see what you’ve been working on?” she asks, thinking it’s best to change the subject before that displeasure accidentally shows.

“Yeah!” Anaké says, lighting up. “Yané’s gonna show me a new move!”

“Wonderful,” Padmé says, smiling down at him. Anaké very obviously basks under the attention for a moment, then runs back to Yané, who takes him to one of the training dummies and proceeds to demonstrate a particularly brutal throat strike with her own knife. Padmé’s briefly surprised to see it--it’s a bit further along in the training regimen than she was expecting. A LOT further, actually. Yané must’ve skipped ahead for some reason.

Yané demonstrates the strike again, Anaké watching attentively, and then turns to him. He perks up excitedly and without reservation, and Padmé watches curiously. He looks so PLEASED. She doesn’t think any of them was such an eager student, and if they were, Captain Panaka must’ve been kept a very busy man for it.

“Like this,” Yané says, carefully correcting Anaké’s grip on the knife the same way she corrected his grip on the piping little flute she was teaching him how to play this morning. “There you are, Anaké. Does that feel comfortable?”

“Yes,” Anaké replies with a firm nod, then lunges forward and nearly takes the training dummy’s head off in one hit. Dormé makes a strangled sound behind Padmé; Cordé makes a DELIGHTED one. Padmé will . . . reserve her sounds, at least for the moment. Still, it was quite an impressive strike, especially considering Yané only showed him the move twice; the same way that Saché only had to guide him through the Water Waltz twice last night before he was near-perfect on it. He never stepped on her feet once, not even when they switched parts mid-song.

So that explains why they’re this far ahead in the training regimen, at least.

“Again,” Yané instructs. The training dummy doesn’t survive the second strike, and its decapitated head bounces off the mat. Padmé glances sideways to Sabé and Rabé reflexively, both of whom look just barely startled--which, for them, means VERY startled.

Jedi reflexes, she thinks. She should’ve expected this.

But he’s NINE.

“That was PERFECT, Anaké!” Cordé praises as she scoops up the head, and Yané nods agreement as Anaké grins excitedly, but glances to Padmé while Cordé distracts Anaké with praise. She flashes a quick, subtle hand signal--need reinforcements--and it’s not hard to guess what her concerns are.

“That was very well-done,” Padmé says, smiling as benevolently as Amidala can. Anaké gives her that basking, adoring look again and executes a perfect handmaiden’s bow. She spares a brief signal for Dormé and Eirtaé, laying three fingers just so along the embroidery of her skirt, and they both fall out of formation behind her, Dormé holding a hand out to Anaké.

“Yané’s been hogging you all morning, though, it’s time for OUR lessons,” she says firmly. “Today Eirtaé and I are going to show you the library.”

“What’s a library?” Anaké asks curiously. Dormé looks very briefly and INTENSELY pained at the question.

“A place that collects books and knowledge,” she says. “They’re usually a good place to study.”

“Oh.” Anaké frowns. “Um--are we gonna be reading stuff?”

“Yes,” Dormé says, smiling at him. “Do you like to read, Anaké?”

“. . . um,” Anaké says, looking briefly hunted. Dormé looks puzzled and Padmé wonders what put that look on his face.

“Do you know how to?” Eirtaé asks, which is not an illogical question, Padmé admits, but she already knows--

“I can read Huttese and Bocce,” Anaké says quickly, straightening up.

“Can you read Basic?” Eirtaé asks, and Anaké winces guiltily and ducks his head. Oh, Padmé realizes. She hadn’t actually--she should’ve realized. Of course he couldn’t read Basic; he would’ve TOLD her if he could read Basic.

“Well,” Dormé says, looking bewildered. “I suppose that’s where we’ll start, then.”

“We can teach you to read Common Naboo and Noble Naboo, too,” Eirtaé says. “We all know how, so you should too.”

“Yeah?” Anaké asks, looking shy. “I can keep really good books. I used to help Mom with them.”

“Well, this will be a slightly different kind of book,” Dormé says diplomatically. “But I’m sure you’ll be just as good with them.”

“I will!” Anaké promises immediately, and Dormé and Eirtaé lead him out of the room, the three of them only pausing long enough to bow to Padmé before leaving.

“He’s very good at that,” Rabé says neutrally. Padmé finds herself staring at the maimed training dummy.

“He threw one into the wall,” Cordé says, sounding delighted, which is the first moment Padmé notices the scraped paint ON the wall, and stares at it in disbelief. “Without TOUCHING IT, even.”

“This is the FOURTH one I had to pull out,” Yané says emphatically, thumping the hilt of her knife against the thing’s chest. “Should’ve seen his face the first time he broke one, though, he looked so upset I thought he might cry.”

“Over a training dummy,” Padmé said, closing her eyes against a brief flash of pain. She wonders how many times she’s going to do that over Anaké. It’s already been far too many, by her count.

“He’s doing really well,” Yané says. “At this rate we’re going to run out of training before his wardrobe’s done.”

“Then it’s fortunate he has more than just fighting to learn, I suppose,” Padmé says. She wants Anaké at her side, of course, but she doesn’t want to rush him into it. He should have time to really think it through, if he decides he doesn’t really want to swear to her service after all. He may not, once they’ve freed Shmi. Padmé wouldn’t blame him for that. If he DOES keep wanting to take those oaths, though, it won’t hurt to see him thoroughly trained first.

“It’s a lot to learn,” Sabé says, just as neutral as Rabé.

“I have every confidence he will excel,” Padmé says, looking at the training dummy’s head again. Jedi reflexes, for a start. “And in the meantime, we will all do our best to help him adjust.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” her handmaidens chime in near-perfect unison, all of them nodding the same way as they speak. Padmé has done that same call-and-response a hundred times, from both sides, and still never finds it any less gratifying to perform. Anaké will learn it too, soon enough--is no doubt learning it right now--and she finds that . . . that is a very gratifying thing too, in all honesty. She appreciates that very much.

She appreciates ALL of them, and all the work they’ve done and will do for her. It all adds up, piece by piece, and it all grows all the more valuable to her. It’s a gift, though not one she knows how to easily thank them for.

“Thank you,” she says anyway, and inclines her head in return. “Perhaps we’ll go speak to Captain Panaka about a longer training regimen for Anaké, after our next meeting.”

“Please do,” Yané says, tossing her knife in the air before tucking it away into her robes, the blade vanishing without a trace. “He’ll get bored as heck just stuck in the library all day, I can tell you THAT much.”

“We’re sure,” Padmé says, mouth quirking briefly at the thought. No, a boy who flew like THAT wouldn’t likely appreciate spending the whole day on deskwork. Perhaps they’d get him some piloting lessons, too, brief though those would likely be. That surely couldn’t hurt. “We must go to our afternoon meeting. Will you be alright cleaning up?”

“Of course,” Cordé says. “The training dummies might not be, though.”

“The training dummies definitely won’t be,” Yané says emphatically.

“We’re sure you’ll do your best,” Padmé says wryly, and the rest of them leave them to it. Rabé and Sabé both spare her very telling glances as they leave, and she hums quietly under her breath. She knew it already, but Anaké has the makings of a very fine handmaiden indeed, and they are very lucky that he would like to be one.

They definitely need to talk to Captain Panaka about further training, though.

Flower Boy // Mark Lee

Pairing: Mark x Reader

Genres: Fluff, Drama, Fantasy.

Word count: 943

Summary: Y/N is a young adult, specifically one with kleptomaniac habits. One day, they steal from the wrong band of hunters and piss off a very, very temperamental witch. An unlikely person appears and things get a little bit… murky.

-

You struggled to breath with every step you took, the subsequent slamming of your feet into the rough terrain making air fly out of your lungs far faster than you would prefer. Only the incessant beating of your heart could be heard, like a rapid drum beat. You knew your pursuers could hear you.

“Catch her!”

Thorns and brambles lashed at your legs as you stumbled over a particularly thick section, the thin, sharp tips of twigs and briars breaking the flesh. You let out a yelp as you turned into a channel, tumbling into the mud and falling into to stream, “Fuck!”

You wiped the dirt out of your eyes with your worn canvas shirt, abrasive on your skin. Two figures crested the top of the hill, the noise of more clearly not far behind. The one on the right - a young looking, orange haired scout carrying a bow – pointed at you from atop a rock. His partner, an older scout with darker hair, knocked an arrow and drew his bow.

All this for a fucking spell.

The other members of the hunting party appeared pair by pair, all caring deadly bows. Yeah, stealing that spell had been a really bad idea. You could picture it already: They were going to spike you through the eye and roast you on a stick, plucking the spell scroll from your pocket before letting your body erupt into violent flames.

A woman stepped forward, long flowing silver hair practically floating around her with anger. Her whole aura spoke power; electricity flowing through the air like it was polarized. Her eyes were as bright as lightning, a sign of her status.

A witch.

“Return what you owe and you’ll leave here alive.”

You gulped, leg tensed as if ready to turn and bolt. Your mind knew better, though, stopping your impulsive body. If you ran, they would surely kill you. You let your foot settle, accidentally falling after your ankle crumpled in pain. You yelped as your right leg twisted, hitting the wet, mossy ground on your already sore side. The woman’s gaze remained solid, unwavering. She calmly descended the slope into the stream, boots steaming as she sloshed through the two inch water step by step. The witch held out a pale palm, intricate patterns that screamed wiccan all over her skin.

“Hand it over, crook.”

You felt a presence manifest behind you; A light, airy presence that carried the smell of soft blossoms, dew, and earth. Their voice was cheerful and teasing, a childish sort of quality to his tone, “No one’s handing over anything, Siphony.”

He walked up beside you and you choked as you caught sight of the new arrival. His hair was the color of water lilies, his eyes a stunning brown as rich as rye whiskey… but what was most special was the spiraling vines that decorated his ears like fine jewelry and how the freckles that ornamented his skin had a bark-like texture to them.

“Mark!” The red-haired hunter from earlier yelled, waving his hand excitedly. He immediately ceased the eager movements when Siphony served him a white-hot glare, “Sorry…”

“Damn fucking right, you’re sorry…” the witch muttered, turning back to Mark. He had pulled you up, not with his hand, but by conjuring a vine to yank you to your feet. The woman’s eye twitched, clearly irked, “As far as I know, you are not involved in this affair.”

“Too bad,” Mark sighed, retaining his carefree vibe, “I made myself involved.”

“Like I said, this does not involve you! Get your irritating ass out of here before I banish you to oblivion, flower boy!”

Mark whittled, “Do you have to be so mean?”

You could hear the men at the top of the hill laughing at his statement, making the air crackle as the witch’s final nerve burned out, “Leave. Now.”

Mark smiled, “Will do.”

The sound of a thousand claps of thunder reverberated throughout the entire forest as the air seemed to condense into something thicker, more materialistic. It was like a mirage, splinters rising from nowhere to form a wall of bark, wood, and whatever got caught along with it. Leafy vines weaved between the chaotic mass, straightening it out into a pattern only nature could achieve.

“How did you… who…” You stuttered, “What are you?”

The corners of his lips drew a mischievous smile and he gestured with his thumb to the organic wall, “Apparently I’m a flower boy.”

A sound broke the air. A loud, enraged yell that devolved into a piercing screech more violent than a lion’s roar. The witch was furious, the poor scouts yelling apologies in order to save their own hide.

Mark cringed and took your hand, “You should run if you wish to live. I’ve known her for quite a few centuries… She doesn’t have a low mortality rate, so to speak.”

“I’d like to live but I can’t run,” You hobbled on your limp, injured leg, “I’m hurt.”

“Well that’s an issue…” He sighed, pursing his lips before perking up, thin eye brows adorably lifted, “I’ll carry you!”

“I-I’d rather-“

Before you could protest, a couple of vines harassed you up onto his back, forcing you to cling to the taller boy.  He was warm, the feel of his skin all natural and fresh like you thought it would be. He flashed a charming smile over his shoulder, tea rose lips parted in a thought-stopping way. You couldn’t even remember what you were going to say.

“Now I know,” You thought as you looked at Marks mysterious, charming smile, “Now I know why I stole that spell.”

-

Another piece from my old blog, unedited. It’s not my best writing, but it is very nostalgic for me. AU’s have always been my favorite :)

Thanks for reading!

What The Dickens?! A Fiddauthor Christmas Carol

A one shot fiddauthor fic for @tunaraptor, my @disford Secret Santa partner! Enjoy below the cut, or read on Ao3!

To begin with, Northwest Manor had been no stranger to Christmas parties in the days when the Northwests properly owned it. Naturally, those parties were exclusive only to the cruel clan’s wealthiest friends and allies; they were lavish affairs meant only to flout the Northwest’s many possessions. There were feasts consisting of meat from all sorts of endangered animals that had been killed in various nasty ways, presents for the children that had been bought from embezzling Christmas charities, and dull party games that were just thinly veiled excuses to insult each other under the guise of holiday cheer. Not a true drop of good will towards mankind could be found at these splendid affairs, as sparkling and hollow as a crystal ornament dangling from an endangered Redwood’s boughs.

Thankfully, those days were as dead as a doornail now that the mansion belonged to Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. Good fortune had smiled down on McGucket in the last few years; his inventions had given him wealth beyond his wildest dreams. This might have made a greedier man miserly, but McGucket loved nothing more than to give his fortune back to his friends, neighbors and loved ones, with Christmas being his most favorite time of all. He too liked to throw a holiday party every Christmas eve, but the guest list included everyone in town, with enough accommodations to satisfy all.

On the night before Christmas, everyone who lived in Gravity Falls, both human and magical creature alike, was at McGucket’s party. Food from Greasy’s Diner was served at the feast, lovingly provided by Lazy Susan (I can say with full certainty that no finer Christmas Dinner of pancakes, omelets and coffee had ever been seen in the history of the Yuletide season). The gnomes had formed a roving chorus of carolers that roamed the halls serenading guests with cheerful holiday carols, afterwards they would then ask for a small donation to the local children’s hospital under threat of bodily harm. Both Dipper and Mabel, who were visiting for the holidays, had taken to decorating the mansion with their friends and Gideon, who refused to leave them alone. Even Stan was in a marvelous mood, having dumped an entire flask of gold ru—I mean, “Happy Jolly Christmas Water with No Alcoholic Properties Whatsoever” into is carton of eggnog.

  While all this pandemonium broke out through the house, Ford Pines was navigating the vast sea of revelers in order to find his husband. He fiddled with one of the wedding bands on his left hand anxiously, Ford never cared much for huge parties with lots of people, preferring to spend his evenings left to his own devices or, at the most, with his family and closest friends. Fiddleford was the one who loved celebrations, and yet he was nowhere to be found.

           “Kids,” Ford called up to Mabel, who was standing on top of a ladder hanging a sprig of Mistletoe above one of the doorways. Her friends Candy, Grenda and even Pacifica Northwest herself were stringing garlands of holly everywhere, not particularly caring where they ended up as long as it looked festive.

 “Hey Grunkle Ford,” said Mabel cheerfully, accidentally dropping the mistletoe on top of Pacifica Northwest’s head. “Whoops! Sorry!”

 “Oooh,” said Candy and Grenda in unison. “Paz is gonna get kisses!”

 “Get this moldy, sexual harassment weed off of me,” Pacifica sneered as she yanked the mistletoe out of her hair. She passed it off to a flying gaggle of sugar plum fairies, who later nestled the mistletoe into the hair of a pretty white haired elf, which lead to another romantic holiday tale for another time. All stories lead into other stories, and this party was a mass of stories waiting to be told, but we must focus on the tale Ford and Fidds for tonight, or we’ll lose ourselves entirely.

 “Girls,” said Ford patiently, “Have you seen Fiddleford anywhere? He’s missing his own party!”

 “I saw him sitting by the tree in the game room earlier,” said Pacifica, pointing down the hall to a slightly ajar door. “He looked like he was having some, I don’t know, old age introspection, so I left him alone.”

 “Thanks Penny—”

 “… Pacifica?”

  “—Right. Sorry,” mumbled Ford absentmindedly as he made his way to the game room. “Honestly though, who names a child that?”

 “Old Money sociopaths,” Pacifica replied as she turned her attention back to decorating.

 Ford found his husband staring up wistfully up at the top of a magnificent Christmas tree, where high above a mechanical angel Fidds had invented gleamed in the dim light of the room.

 “Everything all right, Fidds,” asked Ford, placing a hand on his shoulder. Fiddleford smiled as he placed his own hand on Ford’s.

 “I guess I was just feelin’ a little blue,” sighed Fidds, “seeing the kids having a good time… I cain’t remember what Christmas used to be like when I was young. I didn’t want to spoil the party, so I just came in here to act all pensive and melancholy on my lonesome. Ya don’t have ta stay—”

 “Of course I do,” Ford whispered. He took Fidds’ hand and kissed it tenderly. “Why don’t we sit on the couch together and watch the fire, maybe that’ll make you feel better?”

 “Aw, I don’t wanna keep ya cooped up here,” said Fidds, gifting Ford with a smile, “They’re gonna start playing A Christmas Carol out on the TV soon, ya don’t wanna miss that.”

 “Oh yes I do,” said Ford disgustedly. “Charles Dickins’ A Christmas Carol is the most trite, sentimental story in the entire canon of British Literature, and only hacks with no imagination whatsoever rely on it whenever they want to tell a Christmas story.”

 … And then Ford slapped himself in the face for no apparent reason.

 “Ow!”

 “What cha do that fer?” asked Fiddleford, startled.

 “I’m… not really sure,” said Ford, rubbing the place where his hand had struck. He smiled apologetically to Fidds, and then set his sight on an old record player sitting across the room. Suddenly hit with inspiration, Ford made his way over to the machine and put in an old album

 “Truth be told,” said Ford with a warm smile as the first few bars of the Arabian Dance began to play, “I was always fonder of The Nutcracker myself.”

He offered his hand to Fiddleford.

“Would you like to dance?”

Fiddleford took Ford’s hand without a drop of hesitation. The slow, sultry sounds of woodwinds and cymbals filled the room as they danced a sort of tango across the game room floor. It wasn’t long before Fiddleford unshackled the gloom that had weighed him down like great chains of lead, losing himself completely to the music and Ford’s gentle touch.

“Where’d ya learn to move ‘round like that,” Fidds giggled as Ford lowered him into a sudden dip.

“The Dance Dimension, the one where everyone communicates through dancing,” Ford said before kissing the tip of Fiddleford’s nose.

“Y’ought ta show off them fancy moves off at the party,” said Fiddleford.

“Soon enough,” Ford shrugged as he pulled up his partner, “but I want to finish this one first.” Ford spun Fiddleford around as the music began to slowly fade away, finishing it off by pulling his partner close into a passionate kiss. It was a perfect moment.

Pity that’s the exact time the ghost showed up.

The fire in the hearth blew out as an unearthly chill engulfed the room, the door slammed itself open and closed, drawing the attention of the girls decorating in the hall. The walls rattled ferociously, knocking several of the mounted animal heads onto the floor, all while an ominous moaning began to fill the air, louder and louder until it was an unbearable pitch.

“What’s going on?” shouted Mabel over the commotion.

“I don’t know,” Ford cried back as he held a frightened Fiddleford close to his chest. “But it’s possibly a category ten ghost—you girls stay back just in case!”

The apparition finally manifest itself into physical form, bound in chains that clasped in the middle and weighed it down miserably.

“PRESTON NORTHWEST,” wailed the creature, its gruesome face frozen in rigor mortis even as it spoke in a horrible, hoarse voice.

“… What?” Fiddleford blinked in confusion.

“Ugh, Uncle Marley, dad doesn’t live here anymore, now stop bothering Mr. McGucket,” said Pacifica, making her way into the room with the rest of the girls.

“Uncle Marley?”

“Yeah,” said Pacifica, rolling her eyes, “He was Great-Great-Grandfather’s business partner a hundred years ago who died stealing Christmas from all the children of townspeople who owed him money, and now every Christmas he’s stuck warning every new generation of Northwests that if they don’t change their ways, they’ll be trapped to the same fate he earned.”

“Ohhhh, that’s so festive,” cheered Mabel.

“It gets old quickly,” said Pacifica with a scowl.

“Well,” Fiddleford stepped toward the ghost nervously, “I’m awful sorry mister, but Preston Northwest don’t live here no more. And don’t bother the girl neither, she’s a good kid.” Fidds clapped a protective hand on Pacifica’s shoulder, which made her smile. “Ain’t anybody haunting anybody here tonight. Although, yer more than welcome to join the party downstairs, there’s plenty of ghosts ya can hang out with there if’n ya want to stay.”

“Alas,” said the ghost mournfully, “I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere—”

“Didn’t stop you from ruining my fourth grade Christmas sleepover,” mumbled Pacifica under her breath.

“I must admit this is most inconvenient,” said the ghost, scratching his chin pensively. “I was sent to herald the arrival of the ghost of Christmas Past, Present and Yet To Come, they’ll be quite put out that they won’t be able to perform their duties tonight.”

“Wait,” said Ford with a bright smile that began to glow in the darkness of the room. “Perhaps we could work something out…”

The Ghost of Christmas present was, in his entire jolly splendor, a welcome edition to the party, providing a surplus of food and comfort for all to enjoy. He and Mabel became fast friends as they lead the party to new heights of merriment, to the point where even Pacifica couldn’t help but crack a smile.

The formidable Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come wanted nothing more than to haunt Preston Northwest with visions of his terrible fate if he were to continue to be a jealous, greedy jerk, but the specter was content to postpone that frightful encounter as Candy and Grenda quizzed him on such pressing matters as whether or not Marius would give Grenda another palace for Christmas, and who Candy should kiss on New Years Eve.

Of the haunting trio, however, the Ghost of Christmas Past was the one Ford had most wanted to see.

“Can you show him a few Christmases from his childhood,” he indicated Fiddleford with a gesture of his hand, “It would mean the world to him.”

“Of course,” said the luminous child, taking both old men by the hand.

In an instant, they were transported into a series of faded memories: young Fiddleford ice skating out on a pond in Tennessee, then another scene where little Fidds unwrapped a new banjo underneath a Christmas tree, Fiddleford tucking his young son into bed and reading The Night Before Christmas to help the child fall asleep soon. Old McGucket could barely hold back his tears of joy as each scene danced before him in an instant.

“Is this all right,” said Ford nervously, “do you like it? We can stop if you want–”

“I love it,” Fiddleford croaked, throwing his arms around Ford’s waist. “Thank you… thank you so much…”

Ford gently kissed the top of Fiddleford’s head.

“Screw it,” he whispered. “God bless us, every one.”

Merry Peals

Group: BTS (Bangtan Boys) Pairings: YoonJin (Yoongi X Seokjin), VMin (Jimin X Taehyung) Word Count: 3.6K~ Rating: PG-13 Genre: Fluff, Christmas Special ;D, Parents!Yoonjin + Kids!Vmin Summary: “Let’s go! Take the reins, Yoon-ah! This reindeer has been working all night and is ready to celebrate Christmas!” With an adorable little gallop Seokjin skipped out of the bedroom and down the hall towards the stairs, the stampeding of his feet muffled by the thick carpet. 

Yoongi would’ve smacked his cute little butt on his way by if he hadn’t had sacks of super sweet little bundles of pure joy giggling and whispering under each arm. (A/N: This Secret Santa fic is dedicated to my lovely Fae, @mochirapgod! Merry Christmas, Hun :D) Links: AO3 // Masterlist

Yoongi felt the bed dip right before a large bundle plopped down across his stomach. 

“Oomph!” he cried out, eyes squeezed tight and arms coming up from under the blankets to grip the weight across his torso. “Why you…” he grumbled.

Taehyung just giggled before wiggling around. “Daddy! It’s time to wake up!”

“Yeah, it’s Christmas!”

“Are you sure, Jiminnie?” Yoongi still had his eyes closed but it sounded like his other son had perched somewhere near the headboard. Or on it. (Yoongi really should get up before there was a replay of the time he let his older son stay up late to watch wrestling before bed.)

The bed dipped again. Yep, definitely near the pillows. “Of course it is, Daddy. Papa circled the colander so me and Taetae won’t forget.”

“And the c-colander never lies!” piped in Taehyung, now with an arm thrown across Yoongi’s windpipe. Yoongi should really get up and teach them the word calendar before some future kitchen-related confusion ensued. He should get up before they literally dragged his limp body from the bed once his air supply ran out. He should also just get up because he had to pee. He still didn’t open his eyes, though. Any extra downtime on a holiday was good downtime to him. (And yes, even with one small six-year-old and one almost, soon-to-be four year old crushing him this was still considered downtime in his experience as a parent). “You gotta get up, Daddy! Santa came!”

“Oh, did he now?” Jimin prodded his shoulder and Yoongi opened his arm welcomingly, pulling the boy to the little space near his heart. “And how would you know? Did you guys—“ he gasped dramatically, “peep?”

Chaos erupted. He would have thought that he’d insinuated that they were adopted. (Cough… that was a conversation for another day.) 

“No!”

“Daddy, no! I didn’t!”

“Shush, Daddy! You don’t want Santa to think we were bad—“

“—And take away all the presents!”

“I need my toys!”

“I need his toys!”

“Hey! They’re mine! Get your own!”

“I don’t wanna!”

“Maybe you don’t even have any toys. I heard you were—“ Taehyung suddenly shifted to whispering, “naughty.” 

Jimin’s gasp showed just how affronted he felt. His face was turning red and he looked down at their father to see if he’d heard but Yoongi had subtly pulled a pillow over to cover his ears from the racket. The boy’s brow furrowed in anger before shoving his little brother off their father and over on to the sheets beside them. “Take that back, you meanie!”

“Ow! Dad, he pushed me!”

“Well— Well Tae called me naughty!”

“Because you are!” 

“I— Dad! Tae broke your cup last week!”

“What! You promised not to tell! You filthy, stinky—“

“Boys?”

Abruptly the children stilled; Yoongi’s ears perked up at the new voice. He cracked open one eyelid to see Jimin leaned over him with a fistful of Taehyung’s long brown hair wrapped around his hand and Taehyung’s foot lodged behind Jimin’s knee, locking the elder in place. He closed his eye again. He sighed.

“What’s going on in here?” came Seokjin’s slightly worried voice. Yoongi could hear the crack in his smile all the way across the room. “I asked you two to wake your father up, not— not start a brawl first thing Christmas morning.”

“See, Daddy! I told you it was Christmas.” Jimin let go of Taehyung’s hair to raise his fist triumphantly in the air. 

Taehyung grumbled, rubbing at his stinging scalp, “The colander never lies.”

“Colander?” There was a pause. Yoongi could picture his husband vividly in his mind from the head tilt to the infamous Christmas Pajamas. “Yoongi?”

Yoongi finally opened his eyes and turned his head towards the bedroom door. Yup. There it was.

Seokjin had dressed in all red, which was normal for most Christmas pajamas sold this time of year. Seokjin’s was special, though. His looked like they were originally supposed to be a onesie except halfway through production the makers decided to have an ugly Christmas sweater competition… with material large enough to cover the whole body. There were multiple bells sewn over the breast of the top, all connected along a path of olive green yarn to simulate a very noisy garland. A wide white sash was tied around his hips, which, if it weren’t a onesie, would have been a belt of some sort to keep the pants up. His clothed feet had puffballs that ranged in color from green to gold to a shimmery silvery-blue and when he walked he left a trail of glitter that seemed to never have run out in all the years he’s owned the thing. The cuffs of his sleeves had white fur trim, as did the collar. The back was an entire embroidered Christmas tree with the legs of the pajamas brown like the trunk of the tree, the torso hundreds of shades of green peeking through from the stitched ornaments depicting scenes of winter wonderland and Christmas cheer. The hood of the suit, when pulled up over Seokjin’s head, was all yellow, like a star, and it also shed glitter that sparkled in his auburn locks days after the holiday. The entire thing was threaded through with thin silver tinsel.

It was ugly.

Seokjin loved it.

Yoongi dreaded the after-Christmas trip to the cleaners.

Yoongi eyed the monstrosity… and smiled fondly. “Yes, Hun?” He stretched his arms over his head, not-so-accidentally upturning the little boys on the bed. 

“Are you ever going to get up and come to the living room?” Seokjin was holding two mugs in his hands. Yoongi’s palate perked up in interest. He pointed to the blue ceramic decorated with little silver snowflakes.

“Are you trying to tempt me from my warm bed? With warm drinks?”

Seokjin chuckled, nearly spilling the hot liquid, warm wafts of air steaming over the edge. “It’s Christmas, baby. I made your favorite.”

“It’s only my favorite because you only allow me to drink it one day a year.” Lifting one boy under each arm, Jimin squealing and Taehyung squirming, Yoongi scooted over to the edge of the bed, bracing his feet on the floor to get up—finally. 

His husband walked forward and met him halfway for a kiss. “Once a year makes it more special. I know what I’m doing.” Yoongi could swear he tasted that sly smile on Seokjin’s lips; it tasted like bait. 

“Daddy! Let me down! I want Papa to carry me!”

“Oh? Is Daddy not a good enough sleigh for his boys to ride?” Yoongi heaved up with an exaggerated groan, struggling to find a balance between the weights of his children. “And I was gonna ask Papa to be the reindeer and pull the sleigh, too!”

With a hip, Seokjin bumped Taehyung’s shoulder. “Come on, my little angels, let your daddy help you downstairs. Santa came and I want Daddy to be able to relax and drink his special cocoa. Be good little boys and live a little.” 

“Jiminnie-pabo isn’t an angel, Papa! He’s a meanie.”

“Am not!” Now Jimin was the one squirming around. Gosh, at this rate Yoongi was about to just drop them both on the carpet and climb back into bed. One look at Seokjin’s warning gaze changed his mind. 

“Well, you’re both Daddy’s little angels. Angels are cute and love their fathers very much and I think that describes Jiminnie very well, right, Seokjin?”

“I think it describes my Tae-Bear too.” Seokjin grinned before bumping his youngest son again. “So I don’t see any reason for Santa not to have a super secret surprise waiting under the tree for our super sweet little bundles of pure joy.”

“You’re so cheesy,” Yoongi huffed under his breath, hiding his eye-roll behind a toss of his head to get his bangs out of his eyes.

“Let’s go!” Seokjin pulled out a strand of green and gold tinsel from who knows where and threw it around his husband’s neck. Yoongi offhandedly questioned how he managed it with two mugs in his hand but decided to ignore it. “Take the reins, Yoon-ah! This reindeer has been working all night and is ready to celebrate Christmas!” With an adorable little gallop Seokjin skipped out of the bedroom and down the hall towards the stairs, the stampeding of his feet muffled by the thick carpet. 

Yoongi would’ve smacked his cute little butt on his way by if he hadn’t had sacks of super sweet little bundles of pure joy giggling and whispering under each arm.

//

Yoongi got his special Christmas drink.

Years ago when Yoongi had started dating Seokjin he had discovered that his new partner liked to experiment in the kitchen. Sometimes it didn’t end so well and Yoongi, over time, learned when it was best to encourage and comfort the older man and when it was more helpful to make Seokjin laugh about his failures. Seokjin’s special Christmas drink, though, was far from a failure. 

Yoongi sipped from the lip of his mug, using his index finger to hold the soft peppermint stick away so it wouldn’t rest on his nose and make his face sticky. Seokjin told him the story of how he’d originally used hard candy canes as stirrers but they hadn’t dissolved fast enough to give the cocoa the full effect of its flavor. Yoongi hummed happily as his mouth became coated with the taste of mint, among other spices like nutmeg and cinnamon, the sweetness of milk chocolate, the grit of ground roasted almonds—and cranberry. Oh, the cranberries. Yoongi’s favorite part of the Christmas Drink experience was watching the small, freshly picked cranberries float among the white mounds of foamed milk, bopping under the surface of the hot drink as it softened them up. At the end, when all the cocoa was finished, Seokjin would come and fish out a cranberry from the bottom of Yoongi’s cup, Yoongi from Seokjin’s, and the two would hand feed the tiny fruits to each other, fingers stained brown and lips tinted red, the sound of their children fake gagging in the background accompanied by Jingle Bell Rock. 

He hadn’t been exaggerating; it was his favorite drink. 

“Daddy, can I have some?”

“Sure thing, Bud.” Yoongi leaned the cup towards Jimin, letting him take a gulp that was actually just more him sticking his tongue in the hot drink than anything else. He still managed to get foam all over his top lip before running to his little brother and showing off his new mustache, hands on his hips smugly.

The sound of Seokjin’s squeaky laughter floated across the room as their youngest son ran over to his papa to plead with round eyes for some cocoa too. Yoongi didn’t now why they wanted some of their parents’ drinks when they had their own cups of warm milk sitting on he coffee table next to a plate of raisin bread toast, cinnamon buns, and bacon (because Taehyung required at least three pieces a day to function as a normal child of society). Yoongi was satisfied with getting full from his favorite holiday drink and the laughter of his beautiful family. 

When the sticky-sweet bread was eaten, drinks were swallowed, and bitter kisses exchanged, it was time for presents.

“I want my present!”

“I want his too!”

“Hey! Nuh uh!”

“Why not! I’m older!”

“I’m betterer!”

“Daddy!”

“Papa!”

Yoongi groaned and slid down the brown leather of his armchair. He threw an arm over his eyes and waved his hand at his husband signaling that he was not going through that argument again.

Seokjin cleared his throat.

The yelling came to a halt.

“Boys?”

“Y-Yes, Papa?” came the docile simultaneous response.

“What did I say before?”

“Th-That we were angels,” Jimin started, socked feet scuffing at the worn carpet. 

“And that Santa only has super special gifts f-for good little boys,” Taehyung finished.

“Well?” Yoongi peeked over his arm to see his husband with arms folded and both their sons standing cowed before him. “Have you been acting as such?” Seokjin didn’t wait for an answer. “No, I didn’t think so. Now, go apologize to your father and maybe I won’t load the sleigh and drive those toys back to the North Pole.” Seokjin shooed the boys in Yoongi’s direction.

“Come here, TaeTae, Jiminnie.” His sullen children climbed up on his lap, Jimin sitting sidesaddle and Taehyung with his back pressed to Yoongi’s chest. Yoongi held them close around their waists. “What do you say?”

“Daddy, I’m sorry.”

“I— Daddy, don’t be mad. I’m so sorry too.”

“I’m not the only one you need to be apologizing to. Did you know Papa worked hard to decorate the house so it would be festive? He spent all night cooking a wonderful dinner so you’d have a full tummy of yummy Christmas foods.”

They turned to Seokjin and whispered their apologies. When their father nodded they moved back to look at Yoongi, apprehensive eyes sneaking glances at the bright wrappings under the tree.

“Whom else do we say sorry to? Hmm?” He gave a meaningful look between the two of them.

“Tae-ah. I’m sorry I keep stealing your presents.”

Taehyung huffed, but responded, “I guess I’m sorry I don’t like sharing my toys, Minnie.”

“And?” Yoongi prompted. They looked confused so Yoongi gave them a hint. He poked Taehyung in the stomach until he stopped frowning and pinched the bridge of Jimin’s nose causing him to squeak. “You need to apologize to yourselves, loves. It’s Christmas and there’s no reason to get yourself so upset over something as small as gifts.”

“But Papa said it was a super special gift! That’s huge.” Jimin’s arms were wide to signify just how important this was.

“But there’s something that’s even larger in importance, something that you owe yourself to enjoy and not ruin such a great day over.”

“Like what, baby?” Seokjin had walked over and sat on the floor, unfolding his arms to place one hand on his husband’s knee, the other alternating between straightening their son’s pajamas and fiddling with the hair at the nape of their necks soothingly. Seokjin didn’t want them to think he was angry with them; disappointed in their behavior, yes, but brothers having a small tussle was nothing to become irate about—especially on a family holiday. 

Yoongi placed a hand on the back of Jimin’s head, leading it to his shoulder. The small boy cuddled up and pressed his nose to his father’s neck. Taehyung followed shortly on the other side. He then reached a hand out to Seokjin—the man he’d married, the one he’d chosen to start this growing family with—and smiled when he felt the dry heat of the other’s palm glide onto his, fingers interlocking. 

“Like…” He struggled to wrap his arms around both of his boys; they were growing so fast and it sometimes gave Yoongi whiplash to realize they were his—his and Seokjin’s own special, personal gifts to raise and watch over and experience together. He squeezed Seokjin’s hand and received a heartfelt smile in return. “Like love.”

“Whee should enjwoy wuv?” Taehyung’s head had popped up and he spoke thickly around the thumb that he’d snuck in his mouth. Usually they would scold him for that, him being too old, but today Yoongi’d let it slide.

He nodded and kissed his smaller son’s nose. “Yes, baby. Why wouldn’t we enjoy something as special as love? Presents are great and all but are they really worth it if they pull a family apart? If they pin brother against brother?” He nudged Seokjin with his knee. “Father against children?” He turned towards Jimin, meeting rounded dark eyes that tended to suck him in if he stared too long. “Would you still feel happy about getting Taehyungie’s gifts if you had to see him cry?” He rubbed his nose against Jimin’s before addressing the youngest member of their family again. “If you, my Taehyung, had to see your brother pout whenever you said he wasn’t a good boy and deserved coal for Christmas? Really? Are gifts really worth that?” 

Yoongi patiently waited as the two boys looked at each other guiltily before searching their parents’ faces for the answer.

“No. We want you to answer,” Seokjin redirected them. “Think about what is really important to you, sweethearts. Look inside and answer for yourselves.” 

A few seconds passed with nothing but the sound of Christmas carols playing from the iPod speaker… a minute… then two. The two young parents smiled kindly, encouraging their children to take the time to really think about the meaning of Christmas. They were patient because they knew whatever answer they came up with would change how the rest of the day went—the rest of their lives. 

Finally, with one last longing look at the bows and ribbons under the lighted tree, Taehyung withdrew his thumb from his mouth and reached his spit-covered hand out to his older brother. “I enjoy Minnie,” he said shyly.

A smile broke out across Jimin’s face before he clutched Taehyung’s hand in his and brought it up to cup his own chubby cheek. “Good! Because I enjoy my little brother—my only little baby brother!”

Taehyung giggled sweetly before placing his head back on Yoongi’s shoulder, hand still in Jimin’s. “And I enjoy Daddy!”

“And I enjoy Papa!” Jimin exclaimed.

“Not as much as I do!”

“Well… Not as much as Daddy does!”

There was a beat of hesitation before Taehyung grinned mischievously, looking between Yoongi’s face and Seokjin on the floor. “You right.”

Jimin’s smile mirrored his brother’s. “I think our father’s need to… enjoy love too.” 

Before they knew what was happening Jimin had broken free of the circle of Yoongi’s arms and hopped down to his papa. Grabbing Seokjin’s hand out of Yoongi’s he tugged until his father was standing. Meanwhile, Taehyung had squished his body to fit between Yoongi and the arm of the chair, leaving Yoongi’s thighs free and ready for when Jimin hastily pushed Seokjin down, his butt plopping right in the middle of Yoongi’s lap. Taehyung roughly fisted a hand in Yoongi’s hair then in Seokjin’s, yanking until their heads were facing each other. 

“Its Christmas, Daddy, Papa!” yelled Taehyung. Yoongi’s eyes were wide and alarmed. Seokjin looked equally disoriented by the storm that was their crazy kids.

“It’s time to enjoy love!” Jimin cackled.

“Now kiss!” 

Yoongi found his head being pushed quickly forward, Seokjin’s coming at his just as fast. He squeezed his eyes closed and felt their foreheads collide, Seokjin’s little ow! reverberating through his ears along with Taehyung’s mumbled oops!, before his face was repositioned and finally—

Their lips met.

It was sloppy and uncoordinated (Taehyung was only three but he sure was strong) and Yoongi swore he tasted more of Seokjin’s expensive face lotion than the cinnamon left on his lips but it was still worth it. His husband’s lips were soft and sweet and he tasted a squeal and a giggle. It was a short kiss and after Taehyung let go of his hair Yoongi found he had to dip in for more. He couldn’t help the butterflies he felt even after all these years. 

When they parted he noticed that while he’d been distracted Jimin had pulled up the atrocious yellow hood of Seokjin’s onsie, gold flecks of glitter floating softly in the air. “Wow, I can’t believe I married someone who wears the ugliest pajamas this side of earth.”

“And I can’t believe the man I married is gonna kiss me again even though he deserves a punch to the chest.”

Yoongi pretended to contemplate that. “…You right.” Jimin and Taehyung screeched, running to cover their eyes as their parents sucked face in front of them. 

Jimin whispered from behind his clasped hands, “Is that how adults make up after a fight? ‘Cause if so I never wanna fight with you when I’m a grown up.”

Taehyung was spinning in a circle screaming EW! Jimin wasn’t sure if the younger even heard him. 

When the couple finally parted, Seokjin sitting sidesaddle in Yoongi’s lap with arms thrown around his husband’s neck and Yoongi grinning so broadly his gums were visible, their boys were more than a little impatient.

“Daddy! It’s Christmas!” Yoongi was starting to think he’d never stop hearing that today. “Can we open our gifts now?”

Seokjin sighed but his smile still lived on his lips. He waved a hand toward the tree, the bells on his pajamas chiming along with the action. “Go ahead, my little angels. I think you’ve been good enough. Go at them.”

The kids attacked the gifts like they were wild animals stumbling upon bountiful meat in the middle of a forest. Yoongi rolled his eyes.

“So… love…” Seokjin started, shifting to a more comfortable place on Yoongi.

The younger man smirked before placing a swift, chaste kiss to Seokjin’s lips. “Did you enjoy it?”

Seokjin twirled a clump of Yoongi’s hair between his crooked fingers before patting it down neatly on the top of his head. “Hmm… I think I’m enjoying it, as in, currently. You wouldn’t let it end with just that, now would you? That would make you a meanie.”

Seokjin’s pout was cute—all pink and thick bottom lip—and he knew it. Yoongi didn’t even pretend like he wasn’t weak for his husband’s charms. “Can’t be a meanie, now can I? What kinda father would I be to our angels if I didn’t model excellent behavior?”

A twinkle appeared in the depths of Seokjin’s eyes. He shifted again, this time restlessly... with anticipation. “Do you mean…?”

“Mistletoe?”

“Mistletoe.”

There were a lot of presents exchanged that day—discarded wrappings flooding the floor and empty boxes stacked precariously in corners—but, sometimes, the gift of family and love was just… a tad bit more exciting than anything you could get at a store.

Anime Update 17

CLANNAD - Woah, hold up! When I said “Til next time, Fu-chan!”, I didn’t realize that “next time” would literally be the next episode! Dammit, Fuko. You and your surprise appearances. Though the particular moment in which she appeared this time was a freaking riot - I thought I wasn’t going to like it being Harem Antics(TM) but it was probably the hardest I’ve laughed at a comedic moment in this show so far. I enjoyed seeing Tomoyo put her all into those sports and activities in order to raise her popularity and become student council president, too. Though two very strange aspects of the episode came towards the end, the first being Tomoyo’s backstory. When she got to the part where her brother jumped off the bridge and we then saw him in the hospital, I was like “DAMN. This might be the most depressing backstory Jun Maeda came up with here!” But then she went “Fortunately, my brother recovered.” Huh? What the fuck kind of cop-out is that? I was fully expecting the brother to have died from suicide, but it was all an elaborate way of explaining why Tomoyo wanted to protect some Cherry Blossom trees? Are you shitting me? And then there was Kyou and Rou’s reaction to seeing confirmation that Okazaki was in love with Nagisa. I get how they felt about it, but breaking down into tears? That’s a little excessive.

Dragon Ball - Again, not much I can remember or note about this one. I’m waiting for them to get on with the underwater treasure hunt already, which thankfully seems to be happening by next episode.

Toradora - Ami continues to be the smartest and most perceptive MoFo in this show, which is always pleasing to see when considering that most of the other characters don’t have the shit together. Taiga also shows what a wonderful person she can really be, especially around the holidays, and her explanation of why she holds Christmas in such high regard was very enlightening, particularly when taking her family issues into consideration. Minori, however, continues to be a mixed bag these days. Her reaction to seeing she’d accidentally ruined the gymnasium Christmas Tree and broke Taiga’s favorite ornament was perfectly fathomable and in fact super relatable - I’ve been where she was before. I know exactly how she must have been feeling. But to see her still all mopey and down on herself by the end of the episode to the point of refusing to attend the Christmas party because she felt she didn’t deserve to, even when Taiga was clearly alright with how the ornament had been fixed and didn’t hold what happened against her? That’s going into Wangsty territory that the anime just isn’t able to pull off. Minori deserved better treatment. 

Excel Saga - I...kind of enjoyed this one? Yeah, this was not one of the series’ stronger episodes. The concept of the city defense team becoming this Super Sentai Force was quite a long time coming and, as the episode even states, is an homage to Koshi Rikudo’s original prototype for what later became Excel Saga. Yet the episode was more irritating and dull than it was entertaining. One major fault was that it didn’t balance out the screen time for ACROSS and the defense team well enough - in fact, this was the first episode to not feature Lord Ilpalazzo at all! And the one joke it relied on - the defense team guys causing damage while claiming to be preventing it - got tired real fast to the point where I was actually far more into Pedro’s segment of the episode (”Gomez is really...THAT MAN!”) and wanted to see more from that. So consider me underwhelmed.

Ace Attorney - Speaking of underwhelming, I finished both remaining episodes of this trial and...yeah, it went pretty much exactly the way I’d predicted it would go. Ini was actually Mimi and was a terribly unimpressive villain with a particularly ridiculous breakdown in court, Morgan Fey was the crime’s true mastermind but was nowhere near the impressive, imposing manipulator she was set up as, and even Franziska, awesome and amusing as she may be, didn’t put up as tough a fight as Edgeworth had back in his and Phoenix’s first face-off. The worst thing is that there was ultimately no reason for this trial to have even happened - Morgan trying to get Maya out of the way so that Pearl could lead the Fey Clan by framing Maya for murder was needlessly over-complicated and foolish on her part, as it only ensured things led back to her and that she ends up in a far worse position. I was, however, glad to see Pearl shove Maya and Phoenix back together, and I liked how Lotta ended up coming through for the duo again. But I can see why the Justice For All cases are widely considered step downs from the previous ones.

Nadja of Tomorrow - This is the sort of episode I wish I could see Pokemon do more of; one where the Team Rocket actually has their boss working alongside them for the day while the good guys are none the wiser of what they’re up to (SuMo kind of did one of these with TR and Matori). After constant misses of Nadja and Kennosuke by Rosso, Bianco, and Herman, the part where Herman and Nadja finally crossed paths and were sharing the same space together had tension so thick, you could cut it with a knife! Thankfully, the moment went by without Herman ever eyeing the brooch and realizing who Nadja was. Further developments concerning Antonio were also great, as he’s shown to be something of a loan shark and a wrecker of lives who flaunts his ability to do so just ‘cause he has the wealth and power for it. Basically, a bigger douche than we already knew he was! Also, poor Nadja; still no closer to any leads on her mother...

Mobile Fighter G Gundam - THE DARK GUNDAM IS FREE! KYOJIIIII! AAAAAAAAAAAAH! Well, what else could I possibly say about this one? Oh yeah, there was a Neo German masked ninja who joined the fight, the new Shuffle Alliance got their asses handed to them, and Master Asia continues to be a badass awesome villain. And we got another downer of an ending here - despite everything, despite all the righteous fury and loathing he’s shown towards his brother, Domon in truth was harboring hope against hope that there was some misunderstanding and that Kyoji wouldn’t turn out to be his enemy, that he wouldn’t have to fight his own brother...and then Kyoji aims to kill him. The realization Domon has that he’s truly lost both his master and his brother to the Dark Gundam was a real punch to the gut, and the emotional sincerity continues to impress.