going through my phone notes and stumbled across some camelot au ones
Nathaniel had told her, the night of their wedding, that should she desire it, they need never share a bed again. Camelot did not need an heir from their king—should something transpire, the rule would be the queen's until someone else was able to wield Excalibur.
For the first week of their marriage, when they were more strangers than friends, Elyse had slept in these chambers.
After that week she hadn't so much as stepped foot in them.
Now, staring across the room, she wonders what had ever compelled her to leave them.
Gentle words, she tells herself. Kindly said. She had been lulled into a complacency by her king's soft-spoken voice.
Yet the gentleness held nothing to the twisted vines that tangled those words should she start to pry.
She sniffs, gathering the bundle of fresh bedding higher in her arms.
Let Nathaniel bed with the ghosts he covets so much. Elyse has no time to live in the past when her people's futures are at stake
ely only got given a birthday last year but here's a werewolf nanny/twins au drabble to celebrate
All three of her pups are home when Clare returns, car packed with groceries.
Where even a year ago, she'd have at least two packed in the backseat with her for the big city hauls to collect what the town's grocer didn't supply, now at thirteen, the twins are clambering for freedom that's hard to find in Wayhaven. Ely's been absent from her city grocery runs since she started high school, and her extra curriculars took focus.
They're growing up too fast, she thinks, as she heads inside. A year from now, Ely would be nearly nineteen, a high school grad, off to better pastures than the edge of the Olympic Forest could offer.
And in five, the Agency is going to be down a nanny, since Clare doesn't think she'll be able to—
Clare stops short in the garage doorway. She can smell blood. All three of theirs. Not a lot, but from all three—
"Last one," comes Ely's voice. "Just get it over with."
Clare's moving but she isn't fast enough to beat the next spike of Ely's blood, and the sharp fuck! that falls from her lips.
When she slams the door to the downstairs bathroom open, she startles all three.
Ely's sat on the counter, trembling, fear coursing through her veins. Bo's standing in front of her, half-hunched even with her boosted on the counter, and something plastic clatters from his hands when he whirls to look.
She can still smell their blood. Can't identify where it's coming from and she knows with how little of it she can smell, it shouldn't be that concerning, but from all three—
"It wasn't my idea!" Bethany squeaks, hands raising to half hover around the edges of her face.
Bo and Ely whirl to look at her—in betrayal, in anger, Clare can't tell. But what she can tell, in that moment when Bo's head turns, is the light catching on the jeweled stud in his earlobe.
All three of them have them, she realizes. Their ears are bright red, already starting to swell around the studs. Her eyes drop to the ground, where two bits of plastic sit that Clare assumes came with the small piercing guns that are on the counter. Six of them.
The only thing she can think is how Ely's still terrified of needles, still has to twist her whole head away from vaccines, though she's long since stopped accepting the hand Clare offered. The twins had learned that from her, though since they usually always got their shots together, the fear abated as they grew.
Except now her fearful eldest has clearly pierced her little siblings' and Bo's pierced hers for her.
Her heart's thundering near as bad as her pups' as she turns to Ely.
"What did you do?" she asks, voice hitching despite herself.
"It was my idea," Bo says, trying to fall on a sword for his sisters' sake.
Ely pokes him. "It was my idea, I bought the kits." She turns to Clare. "I was just going to do mine, but—"
"I saw the kits," Bo interrupts. "I wanted mine done if Ely was going to do hers and Beth said she didn't wanna be left out."
Bethany makes a noise in her throat, neither a denial nor acquiescence.
"I was just going to do mine," Ely repeats. "But after I got the twins' done my hands were starting to shake, so Bo did mine."
"Why by yourselves?" asks Clare. "Agent Knightly would've let you get them done at a parlor—in a sterile environment."
"We'd need her with us," says Bo, sheepish. He reaches a hand up, undoubtedly going to scratch his ear, but Ely snatches his hand before he can lift it high enough. "The parlor Ely was looking at said it'd have to be done with a parent there, no matter what."
Ely nods. "I might have been able to get away with it with you, but—they wanted IDs and birth certificates for the twins."
Clare opens her mouth, closes it shortly after with a click. She squeezes her eyes shut, tilting her head back. "Do we have cleaning solution?"
"I bought saline," Ely answers. "The twins' have been cleaned already."
"Right, okay." Clare pinches the bridge of her nose. "Let's get yours cleaned, then, and I'll have to figure out how the hell I'm going to explain this to Agent Knightly."
Ely snorts. "She won't notice."
"She might," says Bo, though from his tone he's only saying it for Bethany's sake.
"She probably won't be back until they're healed," Ely states. She hops off the counter—and her knees almost immediately buckle.
Both twins lunge for her to keep her steady as Ely leans back against the counter, body still trembling and lips pressed tight.
"I'm gonna need a minute," she says.
"I'll clean yours," says Bo. He glances over to Clare, still looking vaguely nervous. "Do you need help with the groceries?"
"I'll get Ely's," says Beth, going to the sink. "Go help Mom with the bags."
Clare sighs, stepping aside so Bo can sneak past her. She chances one last glance at the girls as Bethany finishes washing her hands before she trails after Bo.
"Do they. . .look bad?" he asks.
"They look fine," she answers, reaching up, up, up to ruffle his hair. "They'll look good once your ears aren't so red and they're healed."
"Do you think Rebecca's gonna be mad at Ely for it?"
Clare makes a soft noise. "I think she'll be upset she wasn't consulted beforehand—but it's already done. I don't think Ely will be in any trouble. I'm not going to ground her, anyway, and Agent Knightly won't call to check in for a few more days, so you're in the clear unless one of you gets an infection." She lifts her hand again to poke his shoulder lightly. "So make sure you and your sisters are cleaning them properly."
Bo nods, near enthusiastic. "Ely got all the information about healing from the guy at the parlor, we're gonna follow his instructions."
"Good," Clare says, trying to bite back her sigh. "Let's just get the groceries in. We can figure it all out later."
hi I don't want to get into it and I'm not like in a Horrible Spot, just a terribly rough patch so if anyone has a couple bucks to spare I've added my kofi to my pinned and the link is also here and I would really appreciate it. ty🫶
I am not immune to pretty fashion no matter how unrealistic the day-to-day wear would be but the outfits and hair on this model screamed Ely to me
I did some digging because I didn't want to post this woman with no credit and from what I found her insta handle is kt.res.h and she regularly models for mamc
back just to say my team won the svleague champions so that means ely's team won the championship cause why would I also not give her my favourite sport team
i've been over neck deep in the vb anime because i got my hands on physical copies of the stage plays so if I vanish for a few months again you know where I am
She hears Agent Knightly shift inside, the soft shuffling of the bedding. It still smells like Rook in there, though the scent is fading quickly. She wonders if Rebecca can still smell it. If she's burying her face in his clothes wishing it could last.
Elyse is upstairs for her afternoon nap. She's the least fussy child in the world when she's in good health.
Clare's always wondered if it's a genetic trait.
When Rebecca makes no other noise, she knocks again.
"Agent Knightly? May I come in?"
A pause. Then a soft, muttered, "Yes."
Clare cracks the door open. She takes only a singular step inside. It's dark, the curtains drawn. Rebecca's curled with her back to the door, wearing a sweatshirt far too large for her.
The smell is sharper in here. Clare's nose all but confirms it.
The little box in her hand feels wasteful, though she knows Agent Knightly won't believe her at her word.
"What is it?" Agent Knightly asks.
Her hair's knotted, the red locks usually pin straight tangled across the pillow. She's curled on her left side. Clare wonders if she knows, too. If she's suspected.
"Um—" She clears her throat. She's just Elyse's nanny, but this is—
She can't just ignore this. Not now.
"I was wondering—" Her exhale comes out shaky. She's not usually this tongue tied.
Rebecca shifts on the bed, pushing up just to curl her head in her direction. She looks as she had days ago when she had walked in and cradled Elyse in her arms.
"If it's not important, Clare, I want to be left—"
"You're pregnant."
She doesn't mean to blurt it out. Winces when the words stumble off her tongue. Rebecca's gone still, eyes wide.
"What?"
"I can smell it," she manages. "You're—." Softer, knowing what this would've meant to the gaping maw that now spans across both their lives. "You're pregnant, Rebecca."
Rebecca moves, ungraceful, climbing to her feet. Clare holds out the box before she can take an unsteady step forward.
"I bought this for you earlier," she says. "In case you don't believe me."
Rebecca stares at her proffered hand for a long moment. There's fear coursing through her veins now—Clare can smell that, too. Hear her heart kicking in her chest.
She snatches the box out of her grasp and stumbles towards the en suite. Clare winces when the door all but slams behind her, waiting only a breath before turning around.
By the time she makes it up the stairs to Elyse's nursery, she knows Rebecca's already counting, can already feel the nerves radiating from downstairs.
Clare slips silently into the room, going to where the toddler sleeps. Elyse blearily grumbles when Clare scoops her up, holding her to her chest, but after a moment of stirring, she settles, one little fist wrapping the ends of her hair between pudgy fingers.
"It'll be alright, pup," she murmurs. "No matter what happens, it'll be alright."
She's still rocking Elyse in her arms, humming softly, when she hears the sound of plastic breaking under the force of a throw.
Clare squeezes her eyes shut, turning to tuck her nose into Elyse's red curls, cradling her head gently.
It's only a heartbeat later when Rebecca's sobs float up through the floor.
the place that I work for has decided the current "titles" we use makes us sound "too retail-y" (titles are: Boss, Manager, Manager's Assistant. that's it, there's only the three people with them), so they're trying to restructure and now they want us to call our manager our "department head." we don't have departments. anyway. I lightly doxx myself here because I think it'd be funny for the agency to float around this idea because they sound "too fed-y"
Elyse's house hums, the animals make sounds, but it's not pure noise. It doesn't irritate her to hell and back like the days when they're open for tourists and locals to come and play with the livestock.
Her lips curls in a half-hearted snarl. She can already picture Ely's firm look and stern reprimand of don't call my reindeer livestock.
Morgan thinks she loves those animals more than the people she deals with. Wouldn't blame her for it, anyway.
She still hasn't let Rebecca step inside her house. Doesn't let Adam wander too far outside the kitchen, knowing he's a walking wiretap. Nate is on thinner ice, too. She's polite enough with them, but it's clear to Morgan that there are some things she can't forgive.
Ely hasn't tried to push. Let's Morgan lounge in the sunroom while the stars twinkle overhead. She's out with the dogs right now—Morgan can't see them from the angle she's at, but she can hear her. There's no wrangling. The animals love her just as much and she's readying them for the night.
It's Morgan's turn to babysit. Farah and Adam are out on patrol and Nate's somewhere with Agent Knightly going over paperwork they'll try to foist onto Ely that she'll throw in her fireplace as kindling.
She exhales a long, drawn out sigh. There's the faintest tell in the sunroom that once, long ago, a chain smoker lived here. Despite the fresh paint—a few years old at this point—underneath the sunbleach, the traces linger.
Morgan doesn't feel the itch to light up. Wouldn't in here, anyway. Ely doesn't like the smell.
She doesn't let herself think about why she cares about that.
She hears Ely return to the house once the animals are settled. Hears the telltale creaking of the front door—every damn piece of wood in this house creaks it feels, and while it would be irritating to her if it was paired with the sounds of a cityscape, here in the almost quiet, she thinks she can tolerate it.
Ely's socked feet approach the open sunroom door. She taps her knuckles on it like this isn't her house. Morgan doesn't move from her sprawl on the couch, just grunts to acknowledge her.
"I've got a couple more chores to do before bedtime," Ely says. "One of those involves vacuuming in here."
Morgan lifts her head then, peering over to her. Ely's haloed by the kitchen light, still in her outdoor clothes, though she's shed her overalls, leaving her in the leggings she wears underneath. Her frizzy braid's tucked under a bandana and her lips are tilted up in a little smile that doesn't wither under Morgan's stare.
"You have to vacuum in here now?"
Ely nods. "A quick run through with a swiffer and then the vacuum," she says.
"Bullshit."
"You can check the chore chart," she hums, gesturing towards the small whiteboard on the fridge. "Mango's hiding in the living room, you can go sulk in there, too."
"I don't sulk," Morgan says. "You worked all day, why do you have to do this now?"
"Because it's on the chore chart," says Ely. "If I start skipping, it'll all go to shit, and how can I hold up the farm then?"
"By not running a farm by yourself," states Morgan, though she rises to her feet.
"It's a family-owned farm," Ely says. She steps back so Morgan can slink into the kitchen. "I already cheat with Clay's help, though he was helping Sam before so he basically counts."
"So, what? You can't ask for help?"
Ely blinks. "I get help," she says. "I just said—"
"Yeah, for your deer," says Morgan. "Not for the house."
She makes a stifled, little noise. "I'm not going to ask someone to help me with chores for my house."
"Why not?"
Her nose scrunches, head tilting. "It's my house?"
Morgan stares at her for a moment. Thinks about how the woman in front of her ended up here—and how the woman who didn't raise her is just as fucking stubborn.
She settles for rolling her eyes. "Just go get me the fucking duster."
Ely huffs—not quite a sigh, not quite a groan. "Morgan—"
"I won't vacuum but I can wipe the stupid chairs down."
"The chairs aren't stupid," she says, reprimand softer. "And you really don't—"
"It's better than just sitting around." Morgan doesn't snap, but it comes out sharp.
Ely stares at her, head still slightly tilted, lips pursing in what's dangerously close to a pout. Then, with another half-sigh, she goes, "Alright, I'll get the duster." Another lingering look before those pouted lips soften at the corner, nearly a smile. "Thank you."
Morgan ignores the sensation in her chest, choosing to flick her eyes in another roll. "Whatever."
Hi Rinn! Hoping you've been doing better! I wanted to ask if there was a specific reason for you restricting comments on ao3 if that's alright to know?
while I don't specifically think there's a thing as a "deadbeat" person in fandom, I already wasn't that active before I had my little uh. crisis. and I felt guilty whenever I'd see comments sitting in my inbox unreplied to while there were others replied to. idk if you remember how long it *did* take me to answer comments back when I was "actively" posting, but the longer the gap the more uncomfortable I felt, so it's truly just a matter of me being able to Pretend I Do Not See. I also know people enjoy leaving comments and that's why I settled for just the moderating option where I don't have to post them to the public instead of just shutting them off completely
"What about Bo?" Bethany asks, soft. "Does he have this—this weird blood, too?"
Farah makes a noise. "Pause. Who's Bo?"
At that question, Bethany looks up, tilting her head. She glances around at the vampires, the others looking mildly confused and Adam's gaze starting to fill with alarm.
"My brother?" she offers. "I thought—Morgan, weren't you tailing them?"
Morgan cuts a glance to Adam. "I've been watching over your sister," she says, slowly.
"There's a third?" asks Farah, voice hitching.
"Bo's my twin," Bethany explains. "He's working at the bar with Ely, though."
She watches Nate, Morgan, and Farah's eyes all snap to Adam's back. He's unnaturally still, eyes on the door Rebecca had left through only a handful of seconds ago.
"Agent Knightly did not mention your—brother." He speaks the word like it's painful, before turning to Morgan. "You haven't sensed him there?"
"The bar's always packed with supernaturals," Morgan says. "The redhead's scent is usually muddled—if the brother works there, too, unless I was up on him, I might not notice anything different."
"Bo's like 6'5," Bethany says. "You wouldn't be able to miss him a room."
Morgan makes a face as the others' attention lands on her. "I was only told to watch the redhead, that's what I did."
"You were told to keep her safe," Adam states. "Which means staking out the bar and making sure there weren't any threats."
"She was also supposed to win Elyse's trust," offers Nate, softly. It's not an argument, but it's not an agreement. "I can understand her being. . .focused."
Morgan huffs. "Not like she wanted the focus I offered her."
Bethany's nose crinkles. "Gross, don't try to sleep with my sister."
Morgan's grey eyes dart to her. "She already said no when I offered."
"Ugh—"
"Okay!" Farah says, standing up. "We have a new, non-Morgan-trying-to-get-in-Elyse's-pants-focus now, right? We have to find your brother?"
"I can call him," says Bethany. "He'll answer me."
Once she's dug her phone out, she's proven right. Three rings in, Bo answers with a, "'Sup?"
"Hey, are you busy right now?" she asks. "Up for a little drive to meet up with me?"
There's a pause on the other end, Bo considering.
"Or—if you work tonight with Ely, I can go to the bar—"
"Where are you?"
"I'm—" She glances towards the vampires for a moment, before continuing with a hesitant, "—with. . .friends."
There's another pause. Then she hears her sister's voice, muffled.
"Bo, if that's Bethany hang up right now, she's with Rebecca."
"Oh, ew, what—"
"Wait, Bo, no I'm—"
The call disconnects before she can finish her half plea. She pulls the device away from her ear, staring at the screen before she looks over.
"Your sister really does not like your mom, huh?"
Bethany makes a soft sound. "Rebecca's not mom to her," she says, shaking her head. "And Bo's always looked up to Ely first."
