Thanks for the gift! I ended up writing a bunch of my halaire hanahaki fic this afternoon, and I frankly have no idea how to pick one sentence 😳, so I hope you'll enjoy this little Azune exchange! ;) <3
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“You—you can’t seriously be considering it?”
Bolaire turns to find Azune on his feet, looking between him and Murray, wild-eyed.
“I’d have thought you’d be in favor of me wasting fewer bodies…?”
“But what you’re suggesting isn't a cure, any more than what you did for Occtis was a resurrection!”
"Well 'scuse you, sweetie," Murray huffs.
Bolaire coughs and squares his shoulders, trying to make it seem like indignation and not a desperate bid for better airflow. “He seems perfectly functional? And I’m given to understand his body doesn’t even deteriorate, unlike mine—”
“You’d be forgetting how you feel!” Azune exclaims, more frantic than Bolaire has ever witnessed him, even in the face of true danger. “Whatever it is Hal has shown you— whatever his work has ignited in you. All of it, gone!” The oceans in the lower-half of his eyes suddenly overflow, struck bright by the light in his pupils. “What would you do, Bolaire?” he whispers. “Who would you be?”
Encouragement incoming! Crochet isn't very difficult imho (especially if you start easy which is... difficult I will admit). If you can sew I have no doubt you could learn crochet if you wanted and the supplies are pretty dang cheap
The encouragement is much appreciated Grem! I've tried both knitting and crocheting in the past, the former many many times, and the latter once or twice and my brain just can't make sense of it. It might be because I just can't make sense of right and left, and the forward and backwards motions but alas I don't know XD
I'll give crocheting one more chance... And if not I'll go back to my sewing and making little frogs 😅
Did Jasper pass away? I'm so sorry Lit, he seemed like such a good little rabbit. Many hugs for you
yesterday, yeah. but he got to twelve and a half years, which is pretty impressive for a rabbit, and got many pettings during that time, so there's that at least. thank you grem <3 <3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Freedom by gremlinbehaviour
Ship(s): Mercelot
Main Characters: Merlin, Lancelot
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Merlin and Lancelot stroll through the festival celebrating the one year anniversary of the legalization of magic in Camelot
Since you're bored, do you have any ideas about what a good last name for Leon might be? Or any of the knights.
ooh. i actually kind of came up with a last name for leon for a fic that i won’t be using. since leon is based off of “sir lionel” who is the son of King Bors in the legend, i thought “de Bors” could be a last name? so Leon de Bors. it sounds french, but not really.
lancelot’s name is pretty fanon accepted as lancelot du lac.
a last name i’ve seen given to gwen before, so therefore elyan, is thomas - because they are the children of tom! i’ve always liked that.
gwaine and percival are really tricky, and you fall into also giving them french sounding last names if you stick to the arthurian trend. it’s also hard because, really, what last name is going to sound good with “gwaine” or “percival”. maybe finding a welsh last name, since a lot of arthurian name origin is welsh based - i found a welsh name generator or a celtic welsh one - some i saw were bowen, davies, etc.
Portamis "I envy anyone who has the pleasure to be loved by you"
Sorry it ended up Jedi!Musketeers because I’m fighting with that fic right now and it’s kind of all I can think about. Also, like, really long and full of pining. Idk.
A Jedi does not pout. So it’s a good thing Porthos is still a padawan, and long sullen silences and brooding stares - while frowned upon - are considered natural behaviors among human adolescents. Learning opportunities, rather than personal failings. Master Treville is not particularly impressed by this way of thinking. Neither is he impressed with Porthos’ ability to meditate and release his feelings into the Force - at least not these feelings. His solution only worsens Porthos’ foul mood.
“The outer rim? For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t--” They rarely know, which is the only reason Porthos bites his tongue and redirects his glare down at his plate. He can’t help mumbling his displeasure to the pile of mashed potatoes. “They’re not even part of the Republic.”
“And yet they asked for our help, so we go. It’ll be good for you to get some distance from the chaos of Coruscant.” Treville’s gaze is heavy, as is the weight of his concern just at the edge of Porthos’ awareness. His Master is a serious man, a warrior-knight rather than a scholar, but Porthos knows by now to listen when he offers guidance. His Master has never led him wrong or left him to suffer without help. “And by the time we get back Aramis will have moved on from his latest infatuation.”
“Master.”
Treville snorts and shakes his head. “Do you think I am deaf and blind and cut off from the Force all at once, Porthos? You’ve been sulking since Aramis started chasing that Senate page, and his Master has been equally irritated with his increasingly ridiculous behavior.” The affectionate frustration he radiates in the Force only makes Porthos flush and look anywhere but at his Master’s knowing face. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a Jedi. Ah, do not lie to me by denying it. You’ve never been good at hiding your feelings, pup, not from me. You’ve been head over heels for that boy since he first took your hand in the creche. I thought you’d at least have the decency to do something about it by now.”
Porthos shoves his plate away, no longer hungry. What little he ate sits like a rock in his stomach. “A Jedi does not have attachments,” he responds flatly. But oh, he is attached. Attached in a way Aramis never has been, at least not to him. It’s not so bad watching him chase members of other genders, other species for meaningless flirtations and short flings - but watching him fall for a human boy? Porthos didn’t realize it would hurt so much to see that Aramis could love someone like him, without loving him.
“And yet here you are, attached to him, to Athos. And here I am, attached to you, and to my Master, and to my friends.” Treville spreads his hands in a universal gesture of helplessness. Thick, scarred fingers and calloused palms that Porthos has seen kill and coddle and hold the weight of the galaxy. The hands that picked him up at five years old and held him as Treville promised that he was not alone anymore, that there were others like him, and that he would be safe. The hands that have picked him up and dusted him off and put him back on his feet a thousand times since. “But I will do my duty to the Republic and the Order and above all the Force regardless of its impact on the ones I love. So will you, I hope. That is all the code requires of us - we may love, but only unselfishly.”
Porthos shifts uncomfortably under Treville’s hard gaze, finally making eye contact when his Master growls, “Look at me, Porthos. At the moment, you are being selfish. And stupid. And I won’t have either. That boy has been looking at you like you hung the stars for as long as I can remember, so either get your head out of your ass and do something about it before we leave for the other side of the galaxy or accept that you will never know what might have happened if you acted. Whichever you choose, do it out of my sight. You have two days to sort yourself out before our ship leaves.”
With that Treville pushes away from their small kitchen table, leaving Porthos with the dishes that they usually clean up together. He shoves them haphazardly in the washer and storms out of the apartment without any idea where he’s headed.
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Without any conscious thought, Porthos’ feet lead him to the door of the apartment Aramis shares with Master An. He doesn’t even have time to raise his hand to knock before the door slides open and Aramis appears, only to stop short when he sees Porthos in the hall. Not answering because he sensed Porthos’ approach, then. Just a coincidence. Aramis’ smile is wide and pleased regardless.
“Porthos, what can I do for you my friend?”
“It’s, uh…” Porthos shifts awkwardly as he realizes that Aramis is dressed up, or as dressed up as a Jedi ever gets. His tunic and tabards have obviously been pressed and he’s wearing the blue cloak and sash that look so good against his skin tone. Clearly he’s going out to meet that boy. Again. “It’s nothing that can’t wait ‘til you get back.”
“No, no, I insist.” Aramis waves Porthos inside and directs him to the well-worn couch nearest the door, sinking down to sit opposite him on the edge of the low table. “I always have time for you. Now, tell me why you’re looking at me like...that.”
“No reason,” Porthos lies, badly. He’s never been good at it. Not in front of the people that matter, even though he can bluff his way through a sabacc game as well as any professional. “Just came to tell you Master Treville an’ I’ve been assigned to some backwater in the Outer Rim. Might be awhile before we’re home again.”
“Oh. Let me just...” Aramis frowns and immediately fishes his comm out of a hidden pocket, tapping out a message without ever looking away from Porthos. “There, canceled, now we can spend the evening together.”
“Don’t cancel your date on my account,” Porthos mumbles, looking at the floor guiltily as a small thrill of satisfaction bubbles in his chest.
“Dearest Porthos, I would cancel nearly anything on your account, especially when you’re about to leave me. Even drinks with a very beautiful man.”
There, the spike of jealousy Porthos has been wrestling with for two months rears its ugly head. He pushes it down violently - a very unJedi like response - and hopes Aramis doesn’t notice. Because he’s never that lucky, Aramis immediately leans into his space and fixes him with a concerned gaze.
“It’s not the mission that has you so upset. What is it?” Invading someone else’s mind without consent is a violation, especially among Jedi, but Aramis doesn’t have to go digging to discover what Porthos is feeling. They’ve shared a bond too long to hide the broad strokes of emotion from each other. “Is that,” Aramis’ eyes widen. Porthos looks away again. “Jealousy. But of what, or whom?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know.”
“I truly don’t, unless you want me to go poking through your head to find out.”
“No. I…” Porthos hesitates. Forces himself to look up, to face Aramis and the confusing ball of emotion he causes head on. “I am jealous of your company. You must know, Aramis. I envy anyone who has the pleasure to be loved by you. I always have.”
“Oh.” Aramis lets out a heavy sigh and his face does something complicated. And then, worst of all, he laughs. Even in Porthos’ cruelest daydreams he hadn’t imagined Aramis would laugh in his face. “You stupid, wonderful man. Do you not realize that no matter who else there is, I will always love you best?”
“Not like that,” Porthos growls, already halfway to his feet. Maybe Master Treville would allow them to leave early for their mission to escape this mortification.
Aramis stands as well, blocking his path and seizing him by the shoulders. “Exactly like that, you idiot.”
And then, somehow, they’re kissing. It’s not the first time, but it feels very different than when Aramis had suggested the three of them practice on each other as they fumbled their way into adolescence together. Aramis knows what he’s doing now and by the time they separate Porthos is no less confused, but reluctant to let Aramis go. Instead they hover nose to nose, close enough that Aramis’ long eyelashes brush Porthos’ cheek.
“I will always love you best, Porthos,” he whispers. “I was simply too stupid to realize you felt the same. You do, don’t you?”
‘ can i hold your hand? ’ for the prompts, and whichever characters you want? If you're looking for prompts, that is
Thank you! When I post prompt lists, I’m indeed always happy to get prompts from them :). (Or just randomly, too. I can’t always promise that I’ll do them and especially do them soon but they make me happy :D .)
I’m sorry this took me so long but here, have a little soft Constance/Anne scene with a bit of emotional h/c. May be read as (developing) Constanne for Femslash February :) .
Anne sighed deeply as she dropped onto the chaise longue in her rooms, folding her hands in her lap to stop their trembling. It had been a day full of bad news, and she had the unhappy feeling that it might not be over yet. Groups of enraged citizens were in the street, and she was fearing for the life of those of her countrymen who might encounter them.
She felt the familiar sting at referring to Spanish citizens as her countrymen, even in the privacy of her own head, knowing how she would be judged and damned if she said so out loud. Her marriage to Louis was supposed to help fill the deep divide between the two rival countries but even after finally giving him an heir, it had done little for it. And now this girl, Emilie, was agitating her new subjects to hate her people, her brother. Her brother, the Antichrist! She could not suppress a bitter laugh at that. Philippe, the serious, soft-spoken boy who had been her compass all throughout her childhood when their parents had little time for them, leaving them to each other's company and the supervision of their governess. Philippe who had cried almost as hard as she had when her betrothal to Louis was announced.
Philippe who she hadn't spoken to in years, who she could not even write to without Louis thinking the worst of her.
But no matter how many years and leagues were between them now, her brother could never be the Antichrist as whom Emilie was painting him.
The swell of homesickness and grief that suddenly rose within her threatened to overwhelm her, and she raised her folded hands up to her mouth, pressing them against trembling lips. A sob tore from her throat anyway, loud in the empty room.
Or rather, the room she had believed to be empty …
Soft steps came closer, and she froze. Turning her head, she darted a look over her shoulder and relaxed minutely when she recognised Constance. The young commoner approached her slowly and sank into a curtsy in front of her, looking up at her from beneath thick lashes. “Your Majesty?” she asked, concern evident in the deep blue eyes and her soft tone.
Anne took a deep breath and let her hands drop down, unlacing her fingers almost with effort to motion for Constance to join her on the chaise longue. “It's nothing,” she said, hoping to salvage her pride and dispel that concern.
Constance rose and sat down next to her, taking care to keep some respectful distance between them. It occurred to Anne how strange it was that this young woman, a commoner with whom she was supposed to have nothing in common by rights of their birth and upbringing, had become a steadfast friend in only a few months while she barely had anything to talk about with her other ladies-in-waiting. And how deeply grateful she was to d'Artagnan …
“Your Majesty,” Constance said again, then hesitated slightly. “May I … take your hand?”
Anne looked at her sharply, lips parting in surprise. It was a huge breach of protocol for them to touch, after all. But she realised in the same moment that actually, there was nothing she wanted more. Decorum be damned. They were alone, as she had sent all of her ladies-in-waiting away, and Constance was the only one who had come back. She sighed and nodded. “Please,” she said in a low voice.
Constance gave her a quicksilver smile, passing over her face like a sunbeam breaking through clouds, and reached out, touching her hand almost reverently. She linked their fingers together and pulled Anne's hand into her lap, gave it a light squeeze as she said: “I don't believe it is nothing, Your Majesty. Please, talk to me. I am here to help you shoulder your burden, so let me carry some of it.”
Anne shuddered as emotion rose up in her at the compassionate words again. “I should not think like this,” she whispered, ashamed. “I'm the Queen of France now. But the people they are killing out there … They were my countrymen. They still are.”
Constance held her hand a bit more tightly, her lips pressed together into a thin line. “You can't just stop loving people just because you are supposed to,” she said finally. “And the way they are killing them, it should horrify everyone, regardless of who the victims are. That can't be God's will.”
Anne nodded, almost eagerly. “It is brutal and wrong. And the things she is saying about Philippe ...” She trailed off. “He is not the Antichrist. He is not. He is my brother.” A tear slipped free, and she took another shuddering breath. “I … Right now, I just miss him so much. I want to see him and remind myself of the man I knew, not the caricature as which she is painting him. But I cannot because I'm the Queen of France, and he is the King of Spain, and … oh, I'm being so silly.” She wiped over her cheek and turned away from Constance.
“You're not,” the young woman protested, and soft fingers carefully took her chin to turn her back towards Constance who looked at her with deep sympathy. “You're not just the Queen of France. You're also a woman who loves her brother, and Emilie is attacking him and other people that are important to you.”
Anne sighed and leaned into the comforting touch. She was so tired of being torn in two … “Thank you, Constance.” She squeezed her hand. “I'm so glad you are at my side.”
Constance smiled, raising their linked hands and pressing a gentle kiss on the back of Anne's hand. “There is nowhere else I'd rather be.”
