#soft aragon

[butterbeb]

it's day 5 of @softaragonweek so here's some breakaway Aragon and Howard!

[spooner7308]

My half of the art trade with @pandora-dusk

The prompt was to draw some soft Aramour to make up for the angst fest that some people have been enabling lately

This is pretty simple, they’re on a nice coffee date, and Jane’s in a Hawaiian shirt because she needs to be in Hawaiian shirts more often   

[exauhstedsunflower]

Aragon & Parr fluff, maybe one of them gets sick or period pains or just difficult emotions and the other takes care of them?

I am always down to write Aragon & Parr anything!!! Here you go!

-

The thing about Thursdays, is that most of the queens love them.

Kitty always pulls Anna into her room with marshmallows and a movie on the third Thursday of every month. (No one is sure why it’s that particular day. And according to the two’s refusal to elaborate, no one will ever know.) Anne and Jane just objectively like the way the day sounds verbally. (Also, when asked they will say it is totally not because they hate the way Wednesday is spelled.) Cathy usually has her show day off on Thursday, so she usually spends it reading a book or throwing herself into whatever she’s been waiting to have time to research. Catalina has no particular inclination towards the day, but her family loves it, so she’d usually say it’s a fine day.

Yes, Thursday’s have been a particular joy for the queens as a whole. Until today that is, because Catalina has just decided that Thursday is the day that God himself must have forsaken. Thursday is now the devils day, and no, she will not take constructive criticism on this. Another sharp pain radiates through her uterus as if to solidify the demonization of this particular day of the week.

‘It couldn’t have been a Wednesday? Everyone hates Wednesday!’

Truthfully Catalina’s periods are usually pretty painful; it has nothing to do with the day of the week. But hatred is a way to be able to have any clear thought through the cloud of pain, so fuck Thursday.

Usually she’d call for someone to get her some pain meds and her heat pad. But everyone is off to the theater today. She had to call out of the show today due to the pain to come. As soon as she saw the blood she knew it was going to be a bad day, she’d already had a minor headache coming on.

She attempts to move, maybe she can get her medicine herself, but the slightest movement only made it worse for her.

“Here, Madrina.”

Catalina looks up through her fogged up vision and sees her goddaughter standing there with water and two pills. She tries to sit up, she really does, but the pain is draining all of her energy. Cathy has to put the items aside to help her move around the bed.

She holds the pills out to Catalina, and then helps her drink from the glass. Normally Catalina would be super mortified to rely on anyone this much. But she can hardly spare that a thought with the pain shooting through her body. Her back hurts! Why does her back hurt? Ridiculous.

Cathy looks at her, likely trying to gage what  is needed from her. Catalina meets her eyes and beckons her closer. The woman takes a seat at the edge of the bed, facing Catalina and ready for request.

It takes a hell of a lot of energy, but it’s totally worth it. She grabs Cathy’s hand tightly as another pulse of pain goes through her body and she whispers with purpose.

“Thursday’s suck, Cath.”

Cathy snorts, reciprocating Catalina’s hand holding.

“This particular Thursday, maybe. Don’t let Anne hear you say that.”

Catalina curls back up in bed the way she was before sitting up. To Cathy the contortion might look uncomfortable, but a woman’s gotta do what she’s gotta do when she’s in pain.

“I can already hear it. ‘Better than Wednesday, it is. Have you ever written Wednesday? It makes no sense. At least Thursday makes sense!’”

Cathy laughs once again, this time at the mockery coming from her godmother. She even went as far as to imitate the diction of Anne’s accent. The dedication to the bit is astounding, considering she’s contorted like an acrobat in an attempt for pain relief.

Catalina huffs a small laugh of her own. Although it’s soon taken over by a whimper.

“I’m gonna go and get your heating pad, alright?”

She hardly waits for a response before leaving. Catalina takes the time alone to try and think. She doesn’t want to hold Cathy back today. The woman usually spends the day alone in her room, relishing in her only time to be in solitude. But how to get her to go and do what she wants to do? Cathy would never willingly leave Catalina like this.

Her goddaughter comes back in with a familiar small fuzzy pad with an attached remote to adjust the heat emanating from it. She immediately starts to fuss over getting Catalina up so she can place it under her. Instead of letting Cathy assist her, she lifts her body herself despite the protests coming from her body. After that, she takes another sip from the glass of water for the pills.

Immediately after this show of independence she feels incredibly nauseous.

Thankfully Cathy saw the rising bile coming. She lunges for the trash bin by her desk, and gets it to Catalina before she can make a mess of her blankets. If she’d thrown up on her bed she'd just throw away all of the blankets and sheets. And she doesn't have any replacements, so that’d suck. Because Catalina is in no shape to leave to buy more.

Cathy offers a look of sympathy when Catalina is finished puking and looks up at her miserably. Her nose scrunches at the stench, but she doesn’t dare move to get the bin away. No, no more moving for her.

When Cathy takes it away, (Placing it close enough to grab if again needed.) Catalina lays back down slowly. The heat underneath her is calling to her, and it soothes her cramps and back a bit upon direct contact.

“Y’can go if you want.” She murmurs, eyes closing. She’s not by any stretch better, but she’s more comfortable now.

“Lina, I’m not going to leave you.”

She sounds incredulous. As if the mere suggestion was the strangest thing to hear.

“M’fine.”

“You are not.”

“Go and,” she waves a hand in generality to signify that she could do whatever she wants. “Go read a book or something. Whatever you usually do on your day off. Don’t let me stop you.”

There’s silence for a bit. It’s long enough that Catalina actually starts to doze off. But then Cathy stands and she’s suddenly aware again.

“Gimme a sec.” She says, briskly walking into the hall.

Then she comes back. So fast that Catalina couldn’t even process the absence. Cathy sits on Catalina’s bed against the headboard and pulls her godmother into her, arms wrapped around her in a gentle manner. She holds up a book.

“This is what I was planning on reading today. I can do that here.”

Catalina would normally protest at being held, she's not a child after all. But she’s so comfortable, and warm, and the medicine is kicking in so now she’s kind of drowsy.

And then Cathy starts reading her book out loud, and that’s the last thing Catalina hears before falling asleep.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Deeper Water

[Tour]

Word count: 2696

Kinda late birthday gift for @the10amongstthese3s

Gosh diddly darn where do I start-- you are one of the most wholesome people in this community okAy? You’re such a saint ya know?! I swear, you’re probably the first of many to genuinely cheer me on with my writing and listen to all my ideas. If it weren’t for you, I probably wouldn’t be here right now. I remember when you first messaged me (or maybe I messaged you? i can’t even remember- we talk every day now!) and how happy I was to be noticed by someone so big and amazing in the fandom. I just felt so honored and lucky. And I sure am right about being lucky. Hell, Duckie you probably don’t notice this but your content and just you in general has helped me through quite a lot of shit. I absolutely love how you constantly try to help others out, put a smile on their faces and watch them grow. Your personality is GOLD. You have made me motivated and inspired me in so many ways, helping me with writers block, stupid anon hate, and my self-esteem in general. You’re such a respectful person and I just want to say over and over again until the end of time: Thank you… I thank you for reaching your hand out to me and my writing and helping me grow, even when I’m being stubborn and childish. Thank you for everything.  I wanted to give you something in return as well. I’m sorry it probably doesn’t seem like much but here you are, you wonderful, amazing, talented person!! Take this as a gift of my gratitude and how you changed my life through everything!

------------------

  “Teach me how to swim.” Joan grits out from between her teeth. Her icy grey-blue eyes are sparkly with tears, shoulders shaking, hands wrapped tight around the straps of the backpack she insists on using for work for some reason. The nails on both hands have been chewed down to almost the stinging quick. Aragon pauses, swallowing the last swig of her cherry powerade as she considers the girl: She’s trembling, lower lip wobbling, and her knees are nearly knocking together. Aragon wants to fish out a bandage from her pocket that she knows she doesn’t have to wrap up around her nails.

Joan is scared. But why?

It’s a question that even Aragon asks herself. Why was she afraid of water? Why was she so hesitant to swim? Why didn’t she know how to yet?

What happened?

Did she watch a loved one drown? Was her home destroyed by a flood or hurricane? Was she ever dunked underwater again and again and again and again until she couldn’t breathe anymore?

Anxiety surges like the ocean surf and riptides that pull Joan down beneath the surface, closing over like a lattice net of hands in children’s games, forcing her under. Anxiety, fear, terror--and for what? Over what? A liquid? A liquid she should have no reason to be afraid of? She was never traumatized by water, not that she can remember, so why?

  “Okay,” Aragon says with a shrug, and it’s as easy as that.

Joan swallows her shock at the agreement and the tears thick at the back of her throat, and nodded. She smiles thinly, wryly, shakily, and whispers, “Thank you.”

Then, she’s gone, whirling around in a flash of white-blonde hair and waddling off like an ungraceful arctic fox to her dressing room. Aragon doesn’t watch her go. No need. She turns, too, and throws her bottle away in the nearby trash can. Nearby, masters of eavesdropping Anne and Jane stare at her in dumbstruck shock, and Aragon isn’t sure if she wants to laugh or punch them at their stupid expressions.

  “What?” She snaps at them.

They say nothing, too intimidated by her bright, flashing eyes. Aragon snorts and then goes on her way.

She doesn’t speak to Joan until the end of that show day, after two performances, and by then they’re both exhausted. Aragon hides it as she always does, but Joan is slouched in a position that’ll make her back hurt later, rubbing the goosebumps on her forearms like she was cold, despite it being a rather warm early spring day. Her eyes are vacant and far away.

(why? why? why?)

Aragon throws an arm over her shoulders in a friendly way, as if they have known each other for centuries, and she can feel the trembles wracking Joan’s frame. The girl vibrates against her and rattles her rib cage to a rhythm conducted by aquaphobic horror.

  “Let’s do this!” Aragon says, and the words ring oddly hollow in her mouth. Her chest aches in a way that reminds her of when Mary was taken away from her when Joan smiles up at her- tremulous, but trusting, and Aragon thinks that this is the first time she’s been told such a thing, been included in something, been the center of someone’s attention.

And it terrifies Joan.

(why why why oh why why why--)

But Joan sucks it up- Aragon can see her swallow in a thick way that makes her own throat hurt. She smiles again, this time more for herself and says, “Yeah”, but it doesn’t come out right. It’s a squeak, a mewl, a bleat, a pathetic excuse for a reply because her terror has her by the neck with yellowed fangs dug in and she can’t even answer correctly. Aragon glances down at her, eyebrows twitching together, then nods.

There’s no going back. There’s only the here and now- only the salt spray that bludgeons even her dulled sense of smell, mouth dry and tasteless still from hours of singing, that Joan hides her face from by burrowing against Aragon like-

-like a small animal, a baby kitten maybe, one Aragon had plucked off of the streets back before marriage in her past life, nursed back to health with dribbles of milk and lovingly smashed up food, and learned to love again through loving something else. After Henry and Mary, her heart felt like ground beef, or pulpy chuck, maybe- all mashed up and masticated, run through the grinder twice over. It’s still sore, still tender, but it’s been healing. They’ve all been healing.

Was Joan?

(wet too wet too cold why why why--)

And as if on stage cue, her chest twinges, the stab smothered in a rough clear of her throat, and Joan sniffles. Aragon can’t tell if she’s crying. 

They take Aragon’s car. The drive is silent, aside from Joan’s sniffles and gasps and mewls of distress. She spent it rocking back and forth in the passenger seat, looking very anxious and very regretful and very, very ill. But she doesn’t tell Aragon to turn around or stop, even when she had looked like she was going to vomit at one point. Her nose squirted out blood shortly after that, the stress too much for her poor little body, and Aragon wordlessly gave her a napkin with a pitiful frown.

The surface of the lake churns, roiling over with wavelets and riptides. Little dimples and indents are left behind by the rain, like the pattering of unseen children, jumping in puddles with bright red boots and yellow rain slickers. Aragon parks in the grass and she and Joan sluice through evergrowing puddles and mud to get to the shore. They stop. A runner of blood hangs pendulously from one of Joan’s left nostril and she swipes it away swiftly. 

Joan dry swallows. Her eyebrows furrow, knitting together, as she tries to figure out what to do next- paralyzed by indecision by the sandy shores of the water, little wavelets lapping at them, ratty sneakers she bought from a thrift shop squashing down temporary imprints into the wet earth. Aragon thinks that she looks a hell of a lot like an indignant kitten, when she’s got the tip of her tongue barely poking out from between her clenched teeth and face all scrunched up in something close to the cousin of a scowl like that.

  “Gotta screw your courage to the stickin’ place, right?” She asks, trying to break the tension, and to her relief, it does. Joan nods, a sharp little jerky motion, and then kicks off her sneakers and wrangles off her socks with her toes. They’re bright pink with yellow elephants, and the water almost carries them away. Aragon bends down quickly, grabs them by the cuffs and flicks them over her shoulder, back in the vague direction of where their jackets and phones sit, bundled safely away from the surf. Joan startles a little at that, but when Aragon takes off her own shoes and throws them, she does the same, tossing her sneakers casually backwards. That tears a smile from her.

  “Let’s do this,” Joan says, and even if her voice catches in her throat a little when a clump of seaweed is washed up onto the shore like a snarl of a corpse’s hair, she steels herself again. Aragon feels that same twinge in her chest, she thinks it might be right under her sternum- as she mirrors her word choice, and they come as naturally to her as if they were her own. Her shoulders are squared, and for a moment, as the wind whips white-blonde tendrils of her hair into her face Aragon thinks that she can see a girl who could lead herself out of the maw of hell through sheer will and grit alone.

But then thunder grumbles overhead and the lake roils in response, and another line of blood drips down Joan’s face. She lets it fall.

It’s a terrible day to go swimming. At the same time, with the skies overcast gray and sprinkling down, little tepid spatters of rain rather than a steady drizzle, it doesn’t feel like swimming. It’s a far cry from the gorgeous azure summer day that most people would take a dip in, and Aragon wonders if that’s why Joan chose such a day in the first place. Maybe learning how to swim in a tempest would prove something to someone.

(who to who who would be proud who would cheer who who WHY)

Blood splatters against the wet sand and blooms into a glorious red flower. Its petals whorl outwards, swirling and flapping into magnificent crimson waves that dissolve into the ebb and flow of the tide. Plop, plop, plop. Flowers bloom and wilt with every hungry roll of water against the shore until Joan finally wipes the stream away and whispers, “I’m ready now.”

She isn’t, Aragon knows she isn’t because she’s sweating buckets and her eyes are shiny and have more white in them than grey-blue and she looks like she’s about to foam at the mouth like a hog in a slaughtering pen, but she nods anyway.

  “Alright.”

Aragon walks forwards, blindly into the water, and her hands carefully hold Joan’s, leading her deeper. Just until the water settles a little over their hips. She keeps her voice soft and warm and oh so gentle.

  “You okay?”

Joan nods, opens her eyes, which Aragon hadn’t realized she’d had squeezed shut, and utters something that sounds like the noise a lamb with its throat cut would make. Sweat runs down her temple. The water ripples with her body’s violent tremors of terror. She tried again: “Yeah. I’m good.” 

Aragon gives her the time to readjust, her eyes roving over the surface of the water like quicksilver, between the lightning and the gloomily dark bottom of rounded out pebbles and slabs of slate. It’s a little uncomfortable to be standing on them barefoot, the edges of the rocks and the corners of the bigger chunks digging into the soles of their feet, and Joan ends up standing up on her tippy toe to try to alleviate it. Aragon can’t help but be endeared by how even when she’s trying to be tall, Joan is still shorter than she is. When Joan turns back up to look at her, she knows that they’re ready to continue onwards.

Aragon holds Joan up at first. Aragon has never taught anyone how to swim before, so she’s not sure what to do. Joan’s sort of sprawled out on her stomach, splashing messily, cutting jags through the water’s surface. She punches and kicks like a drunk boxer, movements choppy. Aragon’s hands hover underneath her flat stomach (so thin so thin-- “Don’t you ever eat?”) as she follows her awkward crawl forwards, ready to--push her upwards, maybe? 

Joan’s hair’s getting her in the eyes. Locks of white-blonde are like thorny vines pricking against her corneas. Given their height difference, the water isn’t so deep on Aragon, so she reaches over slowly. 

  “Hang on, Joan-” 

Thunder.

Lightning.

Fission. 

The whites of Joan’s eyes are stark. She spasms in an awful way. She whips her head over to stare, floundering, and after a little awkward moving and rearranging of limbs and splashing of lake water, she's a koala bear clinging to Aragon. Her legs are cinched around her waist, arms thrown over her shoulders, and Aragon’s sort of hunched over because she’s supporting both of their weight and Joan hadn’t thought to bring along a swimming suit, so there’s the issue of her t-shirt and shorts billowing out like some Regency era dress and weighing her down too. She’s this close to choking her out with the strength of her grip.

  “Shh, shh,” Aragon rocks Joan back and forth in patient, soothing motions. “I’ve got you, baby girl. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Joan pants and breathes harshly against the crook of her neck. Her nails have hooked into claws on Aragon’s back, but if it hurts, Aragon doesn’t say anything.

  “Your hair,” Aragon explains, voice so soft even after being climbed up like she was a ladder. She moves to take the black hair tie off of her wrist. “It’s in your eyes.” 

Joan doesn’t say anything, only looks at her expectantly, the uh, I knew that, dumbass clearly writ across her face. But with blood rimming her nostrils and her eyes blank with horror and lips chewed to shreds, her gaze was anything but insulting.

  “Let me fix it.” Aragon says, and she’s smoothing back Joan’s hair and tying it up into a little ponytail, and then swirling that around to cobble a messy bun. It’s not the greatest looking hairdo in the world, but Joan seems to appreciate it. Aragon tucks the loose strands of it behind her ears clumsily, fingers a little numb with the cold.

  “You’re all good to go, darling,” Aragon says, and Joan nods. 

The moment’s broken, and they go back to kicking and paddling around. More than once Joan splashes water up her nose and Aragon snarks about brain eating amoebas in warm waters. Zombified. Sticks her arms out and everything, tottering this way and that. Aragon doesn’t roll her eyes and they both are grateful for it.

Joan rolls her eyes in response to her own antics, smacks the top of the water again, and it somehow dissolves, momentarily, into a water fight: sweeping arms and frantic giggling. She’s so caught up in trying to drench Aragon in the bone-chilling water that she’s lost her fear of treading water on her own. Aragon points it out, cheering, one fist punched upwards as if to punctuate the air at it.

The day stretches on. It isn’t perfect, but Joan is eventually passably confident with a front crawl. She’d insisted, because the little print outs crumpled in the bottom of her bag from the internet proclaimed it the fastest. Aragon doesn’t push her on her rationale behind choosing it, only helps her get to the point where she can kick her way over to her across the length of a pool. Eventually, she’s exhausted herself, and she lets Aragon drag her back most of the way without snarking.

Aragon remembers the last time that she held her like this: Joan falling into an uneasy sleep on her chest after a nightmare knocked the wind out of her-- literally. She had wrenched upwards out of her slumped position over her desk, leaned treacherously to the left in her chair, and slammed down hard, hard enough that days after they’d found that she’d cracked a rib on the floor.

By the time that the sun is setting, dying red embers bleeding across the sky in long trails, they’re both chilled to the marrow of their bones. They slog through the last few feet of water, resistance heavier than it seemed earlier on, thoroughly wet. Water runs down in streams from Joan’s outfit, and she snorts when Aragon throws her shoes at her when she’s raced across the sand to grab her own. She hobbles after weakly and Aragon stops messing around when she sees her pallor. She jogs over and wraps a soggy arm around Joan’s shuddering frame.

  “Joan?” She says. She lifts Joan’s chin with a finger and can’t tell if that’s lake water or tears rolling down her cheeks. “Joan? Talk to me, baby. What’s wrong?”

Joan shakes her head and bumps it lightly against Aragon’s shoulder. Her eyes flutter shut and she breathes out softly.

  “Thank you,” She whispers. A line of blood creeps slowly from her nose. “For this.”

  “Did someone ever drown?” Aragon then asks suddenly. “In your past life?”

Joan actually laughs. She sluggishly swipes away the stream of blood. 

  “No,” She answers. “No one except me. In my own sorrow.”

Another laugh. Aragon pulls her into a tight hug and kisses the top of her head. Joan hugs back, with nails hooked into needy, grasping claws.

  “It’s okay,” Aragon tells her. “I promise. It’s okay, sweetheart.”

  “Now it is,” Joan agrees softly. “Thank you.” She nuzzles her wet head against Aragon’s chest. “Catalina?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you teach me how to go underwater next?”

[azure-firecracker]

Thoughts on soft Aragon?

Perfection in human form.

[have-each-others-six]

It’s Just One Of Those Days

hello!

basically, i had three tests today, got sad, and wanted to write what would happen if the queens got a trampoline.

so this is that.

enjoy!

***

“What on earth were you thinking?”

Catherine of Aragon is standing in the backyard to the flat she shares with her five other roommates, and she’s honestly a little pissed.

Anne, being Anne, bought a trampoline today on impulse, and it’s taking up a solid third of the tiny backyard space that they get in London.

“What could you possibly mean by that?” Anne asks, fluttering her eyelashes innocently.

“The fuck-all giant trampoline is what she means,” Anna replies, standing next to Aragon, her voice high with disbelief. “Why the hell’d you buy it?”

Anne shrugs. “Felt like it.”

“Please don’t tell me that’s what I bloody think it is,” Parr groans, walking out into the yard with Jane, who swats her admonishingly.

“Language.”

“Oh, Christ, Cathy, you got Jane’s mum voice out and Kitty’s not even out here,” Anna laughs, but it falls flat as the queens look at each other.

Katherine hadn’t gotten out of bed today.

Not for the past three days, actually.

She’d been having a really terrible depressive episode, and while they usually only lasted five or six days, those days were absolute torture for the queens, seeing Kat in pain and being unable to do anything to help.

Jane always sat with her during the days, holding her daughter’s hand in her own and trying not to cry.

One of the others would fetch Jane in the mornings to make sure she left Kat’s room every once in a while.

Even when they get her out, though, like now, it’s easy to tell that her thoughts are someplace else, with the way her eyes keep wandering to the second floor window overlooking the backyard.

“Who wants to go first?” Anne asks, breaking the silence.

“Me,” Anna volunteers immediately, clambering on the spring-lined mesh and testing it.

“This feels weird,” she remarks. “Fun. But weird.”

“Anna, you’re supposed to jump,” Jane tells her, grinning.

“What the hell? Why would you jump? This is totally unstable!” Anna shrieks, bouncing slightly to prove her point and almost toppling over.

“Oh my god, move over,” Anne says, leaping onto the trampoline. She rockets into the air a few times, her hair flying up in a cloud around her head. “See?” she shouts. “It’s fun!”

If Anne whoops a little louder than she normally would, or if she glances a few too many times at Kat’s window, no one says anything.

Jane goes next, then Parr, and even Aragon takes a turn for about five seconds before climbing off abruptly and shaking her head.

The grey sky overhead stretches and swirls with the passage of time, and the queens are so wrapped up in the flip tournament that Anna is trying to start that they don’t notice a sixth person join them outside.

“Is that a trampoline?” Katherine asks softly, a spark in her eyes, clinging a blanket around her like a cloak.

“Yeah,” Anne responds breathlessly, sweating hard after attempting to do a split jump for ten minutes.

“Can I have a turn?” she asks, discarding the blanket, and Anne nods.

“Sure, Kitty, go for it,” she says casually.

She looks like a baby goat at first, wobbling on the unfamiliar terrain, but she gets the hang of it fast and soon she’s jumping around with Jane, giggling under the now-pale blue sky.

“Why did you buy this again?” Aragon asks Anne, crossing her arms and watching Anne’s face as she sees her younger cousin try to do a cartwheel.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Anne says, kicking the dirt, a pout taking over her face. “I like trampolines, all right?”

“So does Katherine,” Aragon observes gently.

“Yeah, well, Jane was looking mopey, and when she’s mopey she doesn’t make waffles in the morning.”

“So you bought the trampoline so you could get... waffles?” Aragon asks skeptically.

“Yeah. That’s the reason. You happy?”

Aragon looks at the defensive young queen, who’s always so anxious when her cousin is unhappy, who sits and watches TV with Jane when Kat’s having an episode, who makes it a point to learn new words to try and beat Parr at Scrabble even though it’s hopeless.

Maybe someday she’ll tell Anne that it’s all right to let Katherine know she cares about her.

But not tonight. She knows Anne’s not up for it tonight.

“Yeah, I’m happy,” Aragon says. “I’m glad you can get your waffles now.”

“Me too,” Anne replies, grinning, and Katherine runs over and drags Anne back onto the trampoline, and Aragon watches them, smiling.

They’ll be okay.

But if Anne buys a hoverboard, she’s moving out.

[fandomtrxsh19]

Motherly Love

I had this for a while so I thought I would post it.

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“Janey, I have to talk to you for a second.” the green queen said distraughtfully to the very queen that came after her. Jane Seymour could see that Boleyn wasn’t herself, for that was obvious. Instead of her plucky, sarcastic and overall dumbassness, the beheaded Tudor queen had her long brown hair out of her iconic space buns, had tears running down her face, and was oddly quiet. Seymour knew something was up. “I’m all ears” the motherly queen said comfortingly.

“The nightmares, they’ve gone worse” Lately, Boleyn has been having nightmares, of her marriage with Him and most of all, her beheading.

 They were super graphic, like she was reliving it all over again, more than 400 years before.

“Go ahead Anne, explain” Jane said. Anne had something to say and Jane was ready to listen. “Some nights, I feel like I’m there again. They get so real, that I can feel the sword cutting my head of and the blood coming down my neck. In the crowd, I see people weeping. And when I wake up, I see scratches and blood on my neck scar and I’m sweaty as all hell. Deep in my mind, I have this gut feeling that I’m going to die again”

Jane nodded in understanding.

She had heard something similar to this from Anne before, but never this bad.

“Continue” Jane encouraged.

“It’s just that, because of that fucking human turkey leg, I’m afraid of swords, those heads you get from the Halloween store, Styrofoam heads, and going back to the tower. Now, I think that if I even try to stand up for myself or say something smart, I’ll get killed a second time and I don’t want to relive that shit” Tears were flowing down Anne’s face as she talked. So much so her hands and the ends of her hair were drenched with sweat and tears.

The next room away, Aragon heard the whole conversation. She wanted to be there for her through the times of anxiety and depression.

The Spanish queen walked in. “I heard.” “Aragon, what are you doing here? Don’t you hate me” Anne said surprisingly, holding back tears.

“That’s not true” she said assuringly. “We may not agree on much, but, your still one of us and we care for you, A lot.”

“Really” Boleyn said questioningly. “Of course. Anyway, it isn’t the only reason why I came in here. I wanted to make sure you’re ok. Listen Hermana, all of us understand what it’s like to be haunted by him and not every time has been happy, but the most important thing is we’re here for each other. Yeah, it’s hard, but no one’s alone here. Besides, he can’t hurt us anymore. Toby and Lucy didn’t resurrect him thank God’

“Yeah, I guess” Anne said. “But, he still hurts us emotionally.”

“Trust us. We know” Jane chimed in.

“All of us has our king troubles, including me, but what matters most is the fact that we’re here, in this century, getting to share our sides of the story to millions and millions of people.” Catherine said.

“Yeah Yeah I know I know” Anne said. Catherine wiped the river of tears off Anne’s face. “Believe it or not, you’re like a daughter to me.” The brunette queen was surprised by Aragon’s comment. To her, it seemed like the sassy Spanish queen absolutely despised Anne.  After all, she was romantically involved with Henry during Catherine’s marriage.

“Thanks girls” Boleyn said thankfully. “I feel a lot better now.  Not to mention, I know that, even if they are realistic as shit, they are just nightmares.”

“Exactly” Aragon exclaimed.  “So, anything else you want to tell me”

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Aegis of the Crow

[Wings AU]

Wing Reference

Another revamped fic because i didn’t like the original

Consider: Mamagon AND Mama Jane taking care of a fellow Mom Friend

———————

She just always had bad wings. Just like her terrible luck. Just like her unsteady stride. Just like her impossibly low self-esteem. Bessie Blount, the crow with every flaw known to man. Probably some that haven’t even been named yet.

She didn’t always feel that way. As a child, Bessie’s feet rarely touched the ground. She flew everywhere—across the hall, up the stairs, around the backyard, through the castle corridors. She was the only one in her family to have pitch black crow wings, her parents and siblings all had flashy, colorful wings, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about the whispers and stares she got, either. She loved her wings.

And then she went to court, where the other avians weren’t as accepting of her wings. Aragon would always say the other people were just jealous of the way her black wings would gleam rainbows on the feathers in the sunlight, but even she couldn’t ignore the injuries Bessie would get- feathers forcibly plucked, wings stepped on, bruises all over her body.

Over time, she became more and more quiet and aggressive, keeping to herself after years of torment in the castle. Whenever she got excited or upset, her wings want to spread, so she’s learned to suppress those feelings. She doesn’t want to call attention to herself anymore than she already did.

Back to the wings, though. They fucking sucked. From a technical standpoint, they could fit into her costume, they weren’t very big, but…suffice it to say that would do more harm than good. Even pushing them through her normal clothing was fine. But, depending on material (which was almost all of them), the base of her wings tended to ache. The worst thing, however, was her costume, which sucked because it was the only thing she was allowed to wear during performances. The effects of that hell-suit went like this: The base of her wings got itchy and raw after twenty minutes. Joints start swelling thirty minutes in. At forty-five minutes they’d go numb and heavy, forcing her to strain her back muscles to keep them from drooping on the floor. An hour in, feeling would return in the form of deep, slicing pain that lingered long into the show.

The weight and pain it put on her back is constant. It creates pain in her shoulders and down her spine. During the show, she’s constantly having to adjust how she stands and plays so she doesn’t completely tip over backward. Trips to massage therapists and physios become regular and expensive. A lot of the time they’re too scared to even touch her. Usually because she was a crow, but many also think her ugly, patchy plumage is from Drop Feather Fever, an avian illness. She’s been refused a fair share of times, despite swearing up and down that she wasn’t sick.

Just recently, she relearned to fly (not well, but it’s better than being grounded all her life). It doesn’t help the issue either. She has to actively pull her legs back behind her using her hips and lower back. The longer she flies, the more strain there is against her shoulder blades. The way it pulls around her chest, putting stress on her ribs creates both pain and breathing difficulty. It can become searing.

There is a reason birds don’t have long bodies and arms. Anything else would end in extinction.

If the wings weren’t bad enough, though… The fact she had to constantly deal with what felt like physical torture day to day wasn’t enough of a burden for one person. She had also been burdened with being an eyesore. She could feel the fear and disgust people felt when they saw her. It came to the point where fans of the show actually requested one of the deps to go on for her simply because of the color of her plumage, even when she stood in the back and played the bass. There had even been a short petition to get her fired, although that died within a week. Still, the scars it left on her mental health lingered.

It was just pain. All the time. Even things like buying clothes and sleeping couldn’t be taken for granted. There was nothing good about her wings.

But, in the end, it didn’t really matter much one way or another because she suffers in silence. She strains her back when she keeps her wings tipped up straight so one of the queens or other ladies in waiting wouldn’t worry about her, especially Maria and Aragon. She forced herself to go on flying trips even though she knew she couldn’t go for long before it felt like her skin was ripping open. She tortured herself just to make her flock happy, but there was nothing she could do about it. She was in too deep to do anything now.

This week has been especially brutal. There were multiple days when they did two shows and Bessie was starting to curse the costume designer for using such a terrible material for her outfit. It has come to the point where it hurts when she simply turns her body ever so slightly. What made it worse? When she slipped on a feather during Get Down.

Get Down was usually her favorite song and she always liked to dance during it, or at least sway in her spot. But this was enough to make it her second favorite and put Heart of Stone in the lead.

Try as she might, Bessie couldn’t bite back the painful gasp when she fell onto her back. Her wings instinctively snap outwards, the tips flapping and fluttering and spewing fuzz and black feathers into the air. Then, she’s rolling over and scrambling upwards, trying her best to continue on with the song, despite all the gasps that had been elicited from her slip up.

The only thing Bessie could focus on was the white hot agony in her wings. Her teeth sink into her lip to hold back any other cries, as it wouldn’t sound too good for the crowd of hundreds of people to hear.

Get Down ends eventually, but her silent tears don’t. She can’t stop herself from crying softly because the pain has become too much for her to handle. She isn’t sure if anyone else notices, but she hopes they haven’t.

Somehow, she makes it to the end of the show. Instantly, she’s shuffling off of the stage.

While walking to the dressing room to get out of her damned costume, her stride falters. Fresh tears prick in Bessie’s eyes and she doesn’t have time to grab for anything before she falls backwards.

To say the least, the tumble would have been disastrous if Aragon hadn’t caught her.

“Woah there,” The golden pheasant says, and her hand on Bessie’s shoulder is hurting more than helping, “Easy does it. You okay, honey?”

Bessie feels less shame in admitting things to the queens because she doesn’t live with them, but Aragon is different. And yet, she still shakes her head, whimpering weakly as tears slip down her cheeks.

Jane, who had been chatting with Aragon when Bessie fell, joins the huddle over on the staircase. Her harpy eagle feathers ruffle in worry when she sees the state the crow is in.

“What’s going on?” She asks.

“I don’t know,” Aragon says before turning her attention back to Bessie. “Let’s get you upstairs, okay? Then you can tell us. Can you walk?”

Bessie nods. Although her legs were uninjured, in fact she could use them just fine, but each step sent bolts of pain up her spine. She fights the urge to cry out, instead just whimpering again, which makes Aragon and Jane exchange worried looks at how unlike her this was. The Bessie they knew would usually never show so much weakness in front of people...

Carefully, Aragon helps her sit down in Jane’s shared dressing room with Cathy and Kitty, but she hunches forward so her back won’t touch the chair. Aragon crouches in front of her to meet her gaze.

“What’s wrong, Bessie?” She asks.

Bessie opened her mouth to answer, but just ended up gritting her teeth and screwing her eyes shut. A strangled sob rattled her whole body. Aragon’s eyes widened in concern. Jane frowns.

“Poor thing,” Jane murmurs .

“Darling, you have to tell us what’s wrong or we can’t help you.” Aragon says.

“Get it off..”

Aragon furrows her eyebrows. She tilts her head a little.

“What?”

“C-costume,” Bessie chokes out. “Please. Please, get it off.”

Aragon immediately launches into action. However, her process was halted instantly the minute she unzipped Bessie’s costume and saw the mess on her back.

“Oh my god,” The pheasant muttered, covering her gaping mouth with one hand. “Oh, sweetie…”

Jane jumps up to see what was causing Aragon to look so stunned.

The entirety of Bessie’s back was red with even darker red splotches. Hues of purple and blue have appeared beneath, bruises formed from constant strain. The flesh is rubbed raw, cracked and peeling in some areas, but the base of her wings are the worst. The skin there is dark crimson with hints of indigo and black, swollen and inflamed. No wonder Bessie was in tears.

“Bessie,” Jane whispers in shock, “Oh, love, how long have you been like this?”

It takes Bessie a moment to answer, as she was currently gasping and wheezing. Aragon kneels beside her again, setting one hand on her knee to ground her.

“I don’t…ah…” Bessie’s eyes become glossy from the pain. Sweat rolls down her face. “Weeks?” She looks up at Jane and she had never looked so vulnerable before.

“That’s not good for you,” Jane murmurs.

“Your back doesn’t look too good, honey.” Aragon agrees. “Why didn’t you tell one of us? Or Maria? We might have been able to help. We have wing strain from time to time.”

However, she knew that this was much worse than a little “wing strain from time to time.”

Bessie whimpered and shook her head.

“I didn’t...want to worry you…” She mumbles.

“If anything, love, waiting and getting worse will make us even more worried.” Jane informs and Bessie goes pale at realization.

From down the hall, they can hear the bustle of the others. Cathy and Kitty would come inside the room soon to change. Bessie tenses up and tries to stand, but the pain in her back was too much and she collapses forward. Aragon rushes to catch her before she could hit the ground.

“Easy, easy,” The pheasant says, propping the crow up against her. “Breathe, baby. Breathe.”

“They can’t know,” Bessie rasps, “Please. Everyone is already burdened enough by me. Because if it isn’t me being a crow, it’s me not being able to fly that well or-”

“Shh, shh,” Aragon hushes her, stroking back her sweaty hair. She gently tugs it out of the ponytail, letting the locks that were as black as her feathers free to spill down her shoulders. “We won’t tell anyone else. For now. But can we get you cleaned up? You can think over what you want to do after that.”

Bessie nods shakily and Aragon smiles slightly. She looks up at Jane, who said she was going to go get some water before leaving the room.

“Alright, honey,” Aragon says, “That’s gonna have to come off.” She nods at the costume.

Bessie’s ears burn bright red, but she has to oblige. At least Aragon turns away so she could wrangle off the costume.

If only it was that easy.

Bessie accidentally lets a scream slip when the fabric gets tangled in one of her wings, causing her to accidentally pull on it. Tears explode from her eyes and she hunches over, chest heaving.

“Elizabeth!”

Aragon is immediately by her side and she doesn’t know whether to be humiliated or grateful. The pheasant appears to be fretting over her before finally touching her shoulder.

“Elizabeth, Elizabeth,” She says, trying to get through to the crow, “Elizabeth, it’s okay. Your shirt is just caught, that’s all. Alright? Nod to me if you can hear me, sweetheart. Can you do that for me?”

Bessie sucks in a sharp breath and nods. Aragon praises her.

“That’s good, sweetie, that’s very good.”

Aragon grabs the hem of the costume, which was halfway awkwardly dangling off of Bessie’s shuddering wings. She hesitates.

“I’m going to get this off of you, okay? Just relax for me.”

Slowly, Aragon slides the blasted costume off of the feathery appendages. She throws it aside and takes another look at Bessie’s back. The bruises look more apparent now. A sheen of sweat is slick over her raw skin.

“Joan, you stupid wingless idiot, get over here!” Jane shouts from outside the room. “Stop flapping your buds around and help me!

Aragon shakes her head and laughs slightly at the squawking going on. A second later, Jane enters with a bowl of water and a rag and Joan on her heels.

“Woah,” Joan says, blinking at Bessie’s half-naked form hunched on the floor. “Oh wow. Her back looks terrible.” Her awkward little wingbuds shudder. They start to feel weird just by looking at the mess of bruises and strained skin.

“Yeah,” Jane says slowly. “Can you keep watch? Bessie doesn’t want the other queens knowing.”

Joan frowns at that, but brightens slightly when she gets the opportunity to be useful. She nods and skitters out of the rooms, clipping one of her wingbuds on the doorframe in the process, but careening to the side with a, “I’m okay!” on her way out. Jane shakes her head.

“Do you mind moving to the couch, love? I’m going to clean your back.” Aragon says, dipping the rag into the bowl of water.

Bessie nods and, with the help of Jane, clambers onto the couch in the room. Almost instantly, she turtles again, curling up into a ball with her back to the other hens. She hisses softly when the rag comes in contact with her sore back.

With each gentle stroke, the pain became a little more bearable. But the ache…the ache was what made her want to give up and die. Or, at the very least, black out.

Oh how she wants to be rid of this deep-seeded agony that was not only tearing her body apart, but her life, too.

The way the shock from each throb made her fingers start to go numb if she had a grip too tight on her bass for too long, and she didn’t even know if she would be able to speak when she opened her mouth. The way her neck knots up until it felt wooden. The way her wings scream when she flew, with an agony that seemed to echo in her more than her joints at some point. The way she would lie in bed and try not to shriek along with every muscle in her body, the way her body didn’t seem to belong to her anymore.

She aches when she’s lying down.

She aches when she’s standing.

She aches when she’s playing her bass.

She aches on days she did nothing and she aches on the two show days. She aches because she aches.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she sometimes found herself making a litany of her pain. A whisper of suffering that she tries to focus on so she wasn’t focused on the actual feeling. Anything but the feeling.

The veins threading through her back were full of liquid fire. Every little movement stokes the flames burning in her tendons, shoveled more hot coals into her joints. But her wings? Her wings were just a blaze. Constantly. All the time.

Bessie blinks out of her daze when she caught a scent of something minty. She raised her head a little, only to wince at the tightness in her neck. Jane eases her back down.

“Wing oil,” Aragon informs, assuming that the crow had been curious (which she was). “This one’s mine.”

Bessie nods slowly, shutting her eyes again. The cold lotion glides through her feathers as Aragon rubs it in. Her touch is as gentle and caring as ever, and that helps Bessie relax a little bit more. She may have even cooed.

But then she hears the voice of a certain green macaw and all her stress comes rushing back.

“Joan? Everything okay?” Anne’s voice sounded from behind the door.

“Did you jam your wingbud again?” There was Kitty, with the natural titter that laced her tone.

“No!!” Joan barked, defensive. “Not this time!” Even from inside the room, Bessie could hear the scraping sound caused by Joan‘s wingbuds scratching against the door. And then there was a flap of actual wings, followed by a slight thump on the door.

“You can’t go in there!”

There was a second of silence; the others were probably exchanging confused looks.

“Why?” Cathy asks.

Joan’s wingbuds are doing that jittery thing they do when she gets anxious. Bessie can hear them scratching up against the door.

“Catalina’s naked.”

Aragon’s head snapped up from where she’s stroking Bessie’s wings comfortingly.

“In…our dressing room?” Cathy says with a confused tone.

“Yes,” Joan replied slowly, “She’s a very confused bird, you know. Probably lost one too many braincells while giving birth to all those kids!”

Jane bit her lip to keep from laughing, especially when she saw Aragon’s reaction. She even thought she felt Bessie’s body jump a little with quiet laughter, but that quickly morphs into a strangled whine when the wing oil drizzles into a particularly raw area on her back. Her spine arches at the sting, wings (very painfully) instinctively stretching open in response. That didn’t help her at all. Aragon is quick to soothe her.

“What was that sound?” Cathy says, as keen as ever.

“Nothing! I-I mean- Aragon! It was Aragon.” Joan stutters. She was getting anxious.

Jane presses her hand to her forehead, clearly trying to calm herself so she doesn’t go out there and pummel the wingless music director blabbering about the first queen like she was a prostitute or something. Her head whips back up when she sees the door open slightly, followed by Joan warbling for whoever it was to stop and then the door slamming on her arm. Jane and Aragon both wince at how forceful it was, and wondered if it was supposed to be a distraction or was actually done on complete accident.

“Ow…!” Joan squeaks from outside the room, so quiet the three inside almost missed it. Still, it makes Bessie’s stomach twist in guilt and she pushes herself up, despite her arms trembling in exhaustion and resistance.

“I’m fine now,” She mumbles, but was clearly still pretty out of it. “Where’s-where’s my shirt?”

“You’re not okay, Bessie.” Jane says, steadying her, “What makes you think you’re okay?”

Bessie opens and closes her mouth a few times, which probably looked pretty stupid.

“I am.”

But she still burns.

Bessie’s body rocks to a rhythm that feels like it’s being conducted by her soul, but it does nothing to ease the fire in her veins.

She wishes it was fire. That’s what she had thought it was, at first. A little while ago.

Fire burned, but not in the same way. Fire was detached, impersonal. It didn’t care what got in the way. It burned and charred and devoured everything in minutes and went on its way, leaving the scorched corpses in its wake. Fire was powerful and murderous but it wasn’t torturous. Sulfur on the other hand…well, falling into a burning pool of that stuff was a different beast entirely.

Sulfur clung in a way that fire did not. It wrapped its monstrous hands around you, drawing you in closer, exposing more of you to its touch until it framed each piece of you intimately, until it was every much a part of you as your skin.

Fire would leave. Sulfur stayed.

It stayed for hundreds of years ever since your first life. It made you burn until you lost yourself, until there was nothing left except the fiery red afterglow and the screams inside your head. It branded you, so that you and the whole fucking universe knew that you were being burned. Being roasted alive. Being cauterized, like an open wound. You were something that was wrong, something bad, something that needed to be fixed or punished.

Bessie would have much preferred fire.

It wasn’t Aragon’s voice or Jane shaking her shoulder that roused her. The sulfur had burned her consciousness away, seared her eyes until all she saw was black spots. Filled her lungs until her chest felt like it was an open furnace. Blistered through her wings until they became sick rendition of what they were supposed to be, like one big fucking cosmic joke. Bessie was so sick of being the fucking punchline, that she almost succumbed to the firestorm spreading from her back.

But then she heard the whimper.

Joan was struggling at the doorway, her arm still jammed.

“Go,” Bessie whispers. “Please. Joan’s…in a bit of a situation. She needs some help.”

“We’re not leaving you, Elizabeth.” Aragon says firmly.

“I have my flock,” Bessie smirks wryly, although it was clear it was quite forced.

Aragon and Jane exchange looks before standing up. Aragon kisses the top of her head before walking to the door and freeing the trapped music director, who tumbled down in front of her feet.

“Look at that! She got dressed!” Joan announces.

Aragon shook her head and hauls the girl to her feet. She gave the bewildered queens an apologetic look before pulling Joan away, followed by Jane.

Inside the room, Bessie folds her wings, tensed her body, and awaited the worried reactions of her flock.

———

Maria was going downstairs in the middle of the night to get a glass of water when she saw the crow curled up in one of the corners of the couch, earbuds blasting music so loudly the kookaburra could hear it from where she was standing at the staircase. Looking upon Bessie like this made Maria frown and remember what had happened only a few hours earlier.

Everyone had been worrying and panicking when they saw the state of Bessie’s back. They all tried their best to help and even though Bessie said she started to feel a little bit better with all of them there with her, Maria thought differently. The poor bird was still in a lot of pain; her fetal position on the couch practically screamed that.

Maria didn’t want to frighten the crow, but her eyes were closed and she wouldn’t be able to hear her calling out with her music up so loudly, so she very carefully approached and set a hand on Bessie’s shoulder. Naturally, Bessie flinches and her eyes pop open wide.

“Easy, love. It’s just me.” Maria calms her.

Bessie gives a small noise. It’s all she can manage, huffing out in tense breaths afterward, trying to still the godawful agony in her shoulder blades. Everything hurts now, not just her wings. Her fatigued body aches alongside an oncoming headache and now nausea has set in. Her stomach churns like restless snakes.

“What’s wrong? Bad dream?”

No, it’s not a “bad dream”, they both know this. It’s a much more familiar agony. Bad dreams were among the side effects of the trauma, but wing pains have been Bessie’s mortal enemy since her early teens in her past life.

“No..” Bessie wheezes out. Then, she coughs, and it sends her into another fit of pain, pain, pain! Her wings protest the jerky movement of her body with scraping, terrorizing torment. A sledgehammer is now a butcher’s knife, punctured just above the base of her wings with malice. The erupting geyser of throb that keeps her from saying anything else doesn’t manage to make her yell, but her gasp of agony seems to be enough to worry Maria.

“Let me get you some w-”

“No,” Bessie whimpers. “H-hold me? Please…”

A moment later, warm kookaburra wings are bundling her up, cradling her against Maria’s chest. Bessie snuggles into the embrace, trying to use the coziness to distract her. A tight whimper escaped her lips.

“I-it hurts…” She began to sob into Maria’s chest, “It hurts so fucking much, Maria. Please make it stop!”

Maria’s heart broke at the pleads. She pulls her wings tighter around Bessie, moving her closer until she’s balled up against her like she used to when she was little in their past life. She rocks the crow, cooing to her like a mother bird would to her chicks.

“I’ve got you, Bee, I’ve got you,” She soothes. “I’ll help you get better, okay? We all will. It won’t hurt forever. You’re so strong, Bessie.”

Bessie whimpers again as tears continue to flow. Maria kisses the top of her head, threading her fingers through her hair until the sensation overcame the prickling in her back. It wasn’t long before Bessie completely exhausted herself, fast asleep in Maria’s arms. Even then, Maria did not let go, holding her like she used to.