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someone needs to tell first age exalted ellie and fate that you're not supposed to select the same person for all of "bed, wed, behead"
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"We're going to have babies," she says, giggling. 

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"We are. Two beautiful babies."

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Kiss!!! 

This is definitely a cause for celebration. (Not just private, even - their friends of course know about their desire for kids, and Luna should be informed it worked, and Gleam is just generally on cloud nine.)

(She is also nesting, but, so far, this is mostly taking the form of making assorted pretty things for their children, something she's been doing at a low level for a while. She'll probably get around to rearranging their living space later. Maybe she should build an actual nest? Of pillows. (Actual nests are very, very cozy.))

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She has nine months to make arrangements to her satisfaction.

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Might be just barely enough.

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One can only hope.

"Do you want to pick out names as well?"

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"Yeah." Kiss.

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"What style strikes your fancy?"

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Hum.

"Pretty names, obviously..."

"But - dunno, I don't think a name like I've got - you really need to earn that?"

A quiet moment, then: "I might - like to pick a name for at least one of them from the people I came from, before I exalted..."

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Soft kiss. "That sounds a fine idea."

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Smile. 

"I can list some. Not - people I knew, I don't think, but there were a lot of pretty names in stories."

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"All right."

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She snuggles with her wife, then - sometimes a bit of a puzzle, what with how they're both quite pregnant now, and Gleam really really likes being able to pet her wife's belly, but her own little munchkin kicks whenever there's pressure on her stomach or she's lying weird... 

Anyways.

Snuggles! And story time. It takes a moment, sometimes, to recall this or that piece - but Gleam's been practicing memory tricks, reaching back into the foggy depths of her history, and they flow off her tongue.

They're beautiful stories, told in Gleam's voice, full of wondrous women with beautiful names. Strong women, always, but - in a quiet way Elathea hasn't often heard praised. Enduring women. Vengeful, forgiving, loving, sorrowful, raging women. Vicious women, always, a deep undercurrent of banked anger braided in with hope and determination.

There's a couple of stories that were very clearly Gleam's favorites as a child; she grows animated telling them, knows more variants, more little details. Those are the quiet women, perhaps a bit oddly. The ones who lie in wait, of course, but also the quiet strength of a thousand years spent in toil for a grand, subtle working. 

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"I love your stories."

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Heee! Nuzzle. 

"Any favorites for names?"

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"I liked Layla. And Samira."

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"They're very good names." Kiss! And she rubs her belly a bit. "I think... Mine is Layla."

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"This one can be Samira, then." Kiss.

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Kiss! And press into her wife. (And giggle when this gets her baby kicking.)

"Pretty sure Layla's going to be a martial artist," she says with a laugh. 

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Hum. "Samira is much quieter. You won't have much trouble teaching her the virtues of the quiet stalk, I think."

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"Layla can flush the prey out toward the more hidden danger."

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"They have an excellent teamwork setup."

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"A bit of practice, and it'll be perfect."

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"Indeed."

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Kiss!

"Love you, love them, I'm so happy." Giggles, and more kisses. 

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