#// debating putting this on ao3 too but we shall see

[sephirthoughts]

Father: Verb

Summary: 11 year-old WMD Sephiroth is assigned a new handler/bodyguard, named Vincent Valentine.

no ships/gen rating: teen and up (prev chapter and ao3 linked at bottom)

Chapter 9: The Variable

The few remaining Shinra staff, along with what security forces could still be mustered, were now gathered according to emergency protocols, in the deepest sub-basement level, which housed the arena and specimen containment, and most importantly, the evacuation tunnels.

Helmeted Shinra guards, looking very uneasy, patrolled the area, trying not to think too hard about the slavering masses of claws and fangs, in the paddocks all along the walls. Their commander wanted to evacuate the director, Professor Hojo, right away, but the old man would hear none of it, and they were engaged in a debate about it, at the moment.

“Our last communication from HQ confirmed that Shinra forces were inbound, to handle the situation,” the guard commander was saying. “We should evacuate now and rendezvous with them. They can protect you.”

Hojo gave a derisive snort. “Protect me? Don’t make me laugh. If Shinra want to pour their men into the meat grinder, what is that to me? I have experiments in progress that I will not have interrupted.”

“With all due respect, director, you can’t really think the asset is any match for several hundred highly-trained Shinra soldiers,” the commander said dubiously. “He’s a child.”

“Ha! If he can’t handle such a petty little thing, then he was a waste of the calories used up to raise him. If they can kill him, good riddance. I’ll haul his corpse down here and put his cells to better use.”

Just then, the rumble of an explosion shook the earth around them, rattling the light fixtures and causing dust and little bits of masonry to sprinkle down from the ceiling. The commander and other guards looked up, startled, and the staff and scientists gave exclamations of alarm.

“You were saying?” Hojo smirked.

The guard commander looked a bit green in the face. “That…could have been the Shinra reinforcements.”

“Then why don’t you and your men make yourselves useful, and escort the other personnel out of the building. As for the asset, let him come to me. I can control him.”

“But sir—”

“That’s an order, commander! Have you forgotten who’s in charge, here?!”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Uh, what about that one?” the commander asked, jerking his chin toward the upright dolly, on which Vincent was still restrained.

“Eh? Oh. He’s not personnel, he’s just another subject. Leave him.”

Waving the man away, Hojo turned his attention to the control panel he was tinkering with. While the guards rounded up the civilians and hurried them away, toward the emergency escape tunnel, Vincent was slumped against his restraints, staring blankly into the middle distance. He didn’t have to worry about what the old monster was going to do. He already knew.  

“I won’t kill him, for you,” he said, as Hojo brought out a syringe filled with a glowing, magenta-red substance and jammed it into his neck.

“But does he feel the same about you? We shall see,” Hojo replied, with a crafty leer.

Tossing the syringe away, he stepped back into the control room and pulled a lever, that made the heavy, steel blast door and shutters slam down, turning the room into a secure temporary shelter. These measures had been put in place in the case that any of the highly dangerous specimens regularly released into the arena got out of control. Perhaps not exactly as intended, they were now serving as the mad scientist’s insurance policy against his own creations turning on him.

“What say we add a few more variables to the experiment, eh?” Hojo said, his nasal voice echoing shrilly through the arena’s PA system.

Typing a command into the console, he triggered the override, that controlled the specimen paddocks. Alarm klaxons blared, as the heavy gates creaked slowly open, releasing the monstrosities inside. Sleek, black and red bloodhounds, densely muscular wrath hounds, and two-headed hellhounds, which were the most intelligent and dominant of the bunch.

They ventured out uncertainly, at first, then as more emerged, they began snarling and baying, jostling and snapping at one another. Suddenly, over the noise of the hounds, a man’s hoarse, wailing screams rose up, echoing in the cavernous, stone-walled space, as they warped and distorted, into the nightmarish howls of some horrific beast.

At once, the horde of huge, mutant canines cowered and whined, and went scrambling away, tails between their legs, like whipped curs. The evacuation tunnel was closed behind the retreating personnel, so the only way they could go was toward the archives and the other labs. The way the asset would be coming down.

The foe from which they fled was a gigantic, bipedal creature, more leonine than a canid, with demonic red horns and a long, black mane, almost like a person’s hair. Its hideous, sinuous hide, was covered in strange metallic embellishments. Its hind and foreclaws were golden and hooked like scythes, and its dragon-like tail was covered in gold spikes, with a battleaxe at the very end, though it was not clear whether it was clad in some kind of armor, or if those were features of its natural hide and bone.

It stood to its full height and let out a deafening roar, which shook the walls and rattled the light fixtures. Far away, down the corridor they’d escaped into, the mutant hounds yelped and sped their steps…only to find themselves caught suddenly, between Scylla and Charybdis.

From the other direction, came a horror unlike any they’d ever known. Their legs shook and they lowered their heads. It was a creature of an ancient and evil will, so potent it blinded their eyes and rendered them senseless and sick with dread. In its hand it held a long blade, that appeared to be forged from the frozen light of stars.

Whimpering like newborn pups, Shinra’s bloody-mawed guard beasts cowered and crawled on their bellies, some pissing themselves in terror, as Sephiroth walked leisurely past them, not even bothering to cast a glance at the pathetic things.

Hojo’s deranged laughter crackled through the room’s PA system, as Sephiroth stepped into the cavernous arena, black boots ringing out sharply on the stone floor. The old man was visible in the control room, through the bulletproof glass and the open slats in the blast shutters.

“I see you’ve been amusing yourself, boy,” he sneered. “I hope you didn’t embarrass me, playing around with that cannon fodder Shinra sent.”

“The soldiers are dead and the manor is destroyed,” Sephiroth answered flatly. “I also burned the secret archives, along with your laboratory, and all the remaining samples from ‘Project S’.”

Hojo gave a growl of anger, then waved it away. “Well. Nevermind all that. I trust you got what you wanted from your tantrum? Relieved your feelings, have you? And all it cost was several hundred human lives. Such a perfect little monster.”

“You would know.”

Just as Sephiroth said this, there was a blur of motion in the corner of his eye, as a massive, hideous beast sprung from the shadows and leapt at him, with a bloodthirsty roar from its slavering maw, ten-inch fangs bared to rend flesh and bone.

Slit pupils contracted in blue-green eyes. Sephiroth’s body seemed to flicker in place. There was a flash of cold light, and the next second, the titanic beast was tumbling backward across the arena. Its huge claws hooked into the concrete floor, cutting long gashes as it skidded to a stop.

Unfurling his black wing again, Sephiroth rose into the air and spread his arms wide, holding Masamune angled slightly downward toward the floor. An arrogant gesture of challenge, that made Hojo cackle with laughter, through the speakers.

The beast snarled and bounded forward again, like a shot from a cannon, with terrifying speed and agility for a thing of such tremendous bulk, dodging left and right as Masamune’s sword light slashed at it from all directions.

Golden claws missed Sephiroth’s wing by a hair’s breadth, as he evaded to the left, but the slash was only a feint. Using the momentum of its swing, the creature brought its armored tail swinging around in a deadly arc, the huge battleaxe aimed to cleave Sephiroth’s head.  

Masamune came up just in time to block the attack, the blades throwing sparks as they collided. Sephiroth was forced out of the air, by the sheer weight of the blow. The thing came down on top of him, attempting to crush him with its huge body, but he rolled out of the way and leapt back to his feet, throwing a fusillade of fireballs as he did so. They struck the beast all over its torso and face, in explosions of golden sparks, making it roar and thrash, but not doing any real damage.

To Sephiroth’s surprise, it threw back a blast of crimson fire, about twenty times the size of his little distraction flares, which he was forced to leap into the air to evade.

“Best watch yourself, boy,” Hojo advised gleefully. “Even an old dog still has a few tricks up its sleeve.”

Sephiroth had no idea why he’d call this thing a dog, being that it was clearly some kind of lion-like creature, but he didn’t particularly care. At the moment, he was busy dodging the massive chunks of masonry the thing was now tearing up from the arena floor and hurling at him. They smashed into the paddocks and destroyed guard railings, and one even exploded against the control room’s blast shutters, interrupting Hojo’s maniacal laughter, as he gave a startled cry.

When there was a pause in the beast’s assault (because it was catching its breath, of all things), Sephiroth held out a hand palm upward and raised it, like he was lifting something. As he did, all the gigantic hunks of concrete and rebar that the beast had thrown rose into the air.

Sephiroth smiled. With a flick of his wrist, several tons of masonry went flying back at the beast, like an artillery barrage.

Having no way to evade, it ducked and crossed its arms to block what it could, as its huge body was struck hard and heavily, battered and buffeted about by exploding missiles of concrete and stone.

It withstood much of the attack by virtue of its sheer size and toughness, but there were deep, bleeding gouges in its arms and legs, from the twisted spikes of rebar, that had been sticking out of the concrete blocks.

Pleased with the results, Sephiroth dismissed Masamune and raised both hands this time, ripping massive sections of concrete out of the floor on his side, and sending them raining down on the beast like a hailstorm from hell.

Enraged, the beast reared up to its full height, of nearly fourteen feet, threw its head back, and let out a thunderous roar, unleashing an explosion of what looked like tentacles made of crimson fire, which deflected all the incoming debris and sent it all exploding outward, in addition to knocking Sephiroth back a few feet.

In the split-second that the boy was righting himself, the beast made a tremendous, arcing leap through the air, smashed into him like a freight train, and slammed him to the ground, coming down on top of him with all its weight, which must have been several thousand pounds.

Sephiroth lay there stunned, with the wind knocked out of him, for long enough for the beast to slash at him, slicing long, bloody gashes across his chest and his face, from the right side of his forehead, to his jaw on the left, exposing bone in places. Blood ran into his eyes and blinded him temporarily.

Ignoring the shooting pains in his definitely cracked ribs, he pulled up his knees and kicked the creature hard, with both legs. It flew back and staggered to a stop, before mastering its momentum and charging back toward him. But that had given Sephiroth the few seconds he needed to clear his eyes and regain his bearings. The hideous slashes across his face and chest were already knitting themselves closed, at a rate visible to the naked eye.

Gathering dense masses of shadow in both hands, he stood his ground, planting his feet wide apart, and let the beast come. At the last possible millisecond, he raised his palms, throwing up a black, convex shield of whirling shadows, and the two combatants collided like a sonic boom.

The black energy Sephiroth had used as a shield, reacted with the fire energy the beast had thrown into its attack, and set off a devastating explosion. Both were thrown backward in the blast. The bulletproof window on the control room exploded, pelting Hojo with flying glass. Pillars crumbled and scaffolding came crashing down. Sections of the ceiling collapsed and huge boulders smashed down from above.

Sephiroth threw a sedan-sized concrete slab off himself, and leapt up. Hojo dragged himself to his feet in the control room, pushing his now cracked spectacles up, and brushing the glass off his clothing.

“I see you’ve got a few surprises in you, too, boy!” he crowed, through the few, crackling speakers that had survived. “Here I thought you’d only disappoint me, like usual.”

Sephiroth ignored him and summoned Masamune. Stalking toward the place where he saw the beast fall, he used a telekinetic blast to throw the pile of rocks and rubble away. What he uncovered, however, was not the hulking form of the beast, but a much smaller heap of what appeared to be crimson fabric.

Sephiroth stood at bay, Masamune’s razor-sharp tip trained on it, as the figure stirred. There was a wheezing cough, and it turned laboriously onto its back.

Vincent’s eyes blinked heavily open. One was dark crimson, as usual, but the other had a ring of gold in it, glowing so brightly now, it almost swallowed the red entirely. His beautiful face was smudged with dirt, and black blood trickled from his nose and between his ashen lips. Under the tattered, dust covered leather armor, his chest rose and fell weakly, with his wet, sucking breaths.

“Seph,” he choked out, causing more inky blood to bubble up and pour down his porcelain cheek. “Run…run away. Get out of here, while you c—while you can.”

“Ah, what a touching reunion,” Hojo crooned. “The boy and his guard dog, back together. But, don’t tell me you caused all this trouble, just because of your delusional attachment to this creature. Tsk, tsk. How very childish.”

“Silence, old devil!” Sephiroth thundered, in a super-resonant voice, that far overpowered the amplified one from the PA system. “This is all your doing! You intentionally pushed me to the breaking point! You instigated my rebellion against Shinra and lured me here to fight him!”

“Hahaha! Not as stupid as he looks!” Hojo chortled, frank and unapologetic about his cruelty, as always. “What better way to test your capabilities? How you perform in real combat, when in extreme emotional distress, is the only reliable way to judge how weak you really are, at your worst. You should thank me, you lazy brat. Now that you’ve shown Shinra what you can do, they’ll be bending over backward to accommodate you, when you go to take command of the other members of the SOLDIER program. More importantly, all my years of work will finally be recognized and duly rewarded.”

“Are you insane?” Sephiroth demanded. “I destroyed the manor and killed more than a hundred Shinra troops. Why would they—” He broke off and his expression changed to one of disgust. “I see. It was their plan, all along. They sacrificed all those people, just to test my abilities. This was all a show, for the ones in charge.”

“And one well worth the price of admittance,” Hojo casually confirmed. “What are a few hundred replaceable staff and an old building, compared to their most valuable asset?”

“After all you’ve done to me. All the torture, all the lies, all the inhuman experimentation, at your hands…what makes you think I’ll cooperate? Why wouldn’t I just kill you, now?”

“Because, I am the only person who knows where your mother is.”

“My mother died.” Sephiroth pulled the locket out from under the collar of his uniform, where he always wore it, and held it up. “You told me she died, after I was born! You gave me her picture!”

“Yes, well. Turns out she’s not quite as dead as I believed, when I told you that. I only recently discovered her whereabouts. She’s quite close by, in fact. If you behave yourself, like a good boy, I’ll take you to see her.”

“You’re lying,” Sephiroth faltered. “If she was close by, she’d have come to find me. She would never have left me all alone, to be tormented by you people!”

“I suppose I could be lying, but what reason would I have to do that?” Hojo shrugged. As he did, he pressed the button to raise the blast door, and came out of the control room, as if making a gesture of sincerity, by abandoning his defensive position. “Besides, are you really willing to take that chance? Are you really willing to risk your one chance to see her, after all these years?”

“Tell me where my mother is!” Sephiroth roared, pointing the tip of the long sword at him. “Tell me, right now!”

“Temper, temper. You really must work on controlling your emotions. I will be happy to take you to your mother. In exchange for one thing.”

Sephiroth gritted his teeth. “Well? What is it?”

Hojo stepped forward with a malevolent grin, pushing his spectacles up, which made the cracked lens glitter in the amber emergency light. “Nothing much. I just want you to kill an old dog, that’s outlived its usefulness.”

“Seph, go. Go, before it’s too late,” Vincent rasped, trying to struggle to a sitting position.

Masamune flashed back around and stopped within centimeters of his face, but Sephiroth was still looking up at Hojo. “What are you talking about? What dog?”

“That dog,” Hojo said, pointing a gnarled finger. “Kill Vincent Valentine, and I will take you to your mother.”

The blade wavered, and was drawn back from Vincent’s face. “No, I…I can’t. I won’t.”

“Clock’s ticking, boy. It’s time to choose. This dead dog, a failed experiment, whose life isn’t worth half a breath of yours? Or your dear mother, from whom you’ve been separated your entire life, and who has been longing for you, all these years. Longing to see her little baby.”

Masamune shook in Sephiroth’s usually rock-steady hand. The other was clenching and unclenching spasmodically by his side. The voices of his future selves were raging, in his head, suddenly in conflict with one another. One of them was stronger than the others, and was causing the discord. Many of them fell into line with that voice, and joined it in urging Sephiroth on.

Kill Vincent.

He is the variable. 

Kill him. 

Kill him now, and rewrite destiny. 

The others still disagreed, and tried to shout down the larger party, only adding to the confusion and chaos. Sephiroth clutched his forehead with his free hand, squeezing his eyes shut, against the dizziness, caused by their cacophonous argument.

Then, very gently and quietly, below all the other noise, he heard the voice of his older version, from eleven years in the future. It spoke only three words, but that was enough.

Eyes clear and cold, and glowing brilliant green, Sephiroth looked up at Hojo, raising Masamune again. Then, with a single, lightning-quick flash of silver, he thrust the gleaming blade into Vincent’s heart.

THE AUTHOR HAS SOMETHING TO SAY hojo: i totally know where your mother is and she's not even a dismembered deadass alien in a fishtank so don't even trip   THE AUTHOR HAS SOMETHING ELSE TO SAY i listened to one-winged angel while i wrote the whole fight scene it was very inspiring and hilarious THEY FUCKING CHANT SEPHIROTH 💀

prev chapter

[adzeisval]

Unresponsive

Even a ghost can get depressed. Also on AO3.

The crew stood in silence for a long time after burying Ed. There had been a gap between Izzy’s and Stede’s graves for years and that was where they put Ed to rest. Grief was all around the group but there was also a deep sense of it coming from the direction of Izzy’s grave. 

“I don’t imagine he can cross over to see Ed now,” Frenchie said. 

“Could be a while,” Jim said, “We love you Izzy.” 

Back at the Inn there were decisions to be made. Pete and Lucius technically owned the Inn but in a way it was all of theirs. And they were all getting older and the sea was nothing but trouble. 

“Not gonna lie, running a ship is getting a bit much for me,” Frenchie admitted. 

“There’s plenty of room here,” Lucius said, “For all of us.” 

“What would we do with the Revenge? We can’t just abandon it,” Wee John asked. 

“We could rebuild it,” Zheng said, “Make it a bit smaller but keep the heart of it intact. That way we won’t feel trapped here but we wouldn’t need a huge crew to run it.” 

“That’s not a bad idea,” Jim said. They had to admit they were getting tired of the daily grind at sea and ever since Archie died there wasn’t as much joy in the whole thing. And now that the whole group was thinking about staying it felt right. They were still a crew, still a family and the Inn could be their home. 

“So shall we put it to vote?” Frenchie said, “Should we stay at the Inn and refit the Revenge to a more manageable ship?” 

They voted and every one of them voted to stay at the Inn. Jim felt a little relieved. No more fighting the elements and other people. No more losing friends to violence, at least it was a lot less likely. They were a family and they could settle down. They had the funds to retire and move on from piracy, from their own savings as well as all the Ed had left behind for them. 

There was a feeling of relief in the group and Roach was already talking about redoing the kitchen and possibly adding a torture room to the basement just in case when a feeling of sadness washed over the room. 

“Izzy? It’s alright Izzy, you still belong here, we’re still your family too,” Jim said. 

“We still need you,” Frenchie said.

“We want you here Izzy,” Lucius said. There wasn’t any response and the feeling dimmed a bit but didn’t go away. Izzy didn’t stay long, he had probably only been there to see what was going on with such a great change in the family. 

“Do you think there’s anything more we can do for him?” Frenchie asked, “He was really sad. Somehow dim too.” 

“I know,” Jim said, “I don’t think he can be with Ed anymore, not while he’s looking after us.” 

“Do you think he made a commitment to be here until we’re all gone?” Lucius said. 

“That sounds like him,” Jim said. 

“We just have to keep reassuring him that we love him and we’re glad he’s here,” Olu said, “It’s all we can do.” 

*****

Izzy realized quite quickly that he was going to miss Ed every time he went to the Inn. Before he could count on seeing Ed, even if it was just a little, even if he wasn’t there for anything to do with Ed he would always at least see him. 

Now Ed was gone, he was in the afterlife with Stede and the others who had already passed and it was hard for Izzy to bear. It was a sense of sadness he hadn’t felt before. 

He popped into the Inn shortly after Ed’s death where the crew were discussing something. Izzy was having a hard time concentrating or figuring out why he was there. He caught the gist of the conversation; they were debating giving up sailing and just settling at the Inn, as they were all getting a bit old. 

They decided to stay at the Inn, which Izzy wasn’t sure he could handle, it would always remind him of Ed. The crew told him they wanted  him there and that they loved him. 

Izzy smiled a little but still couldn’t bring himself to interact with the group at all. . He didn’t really need to be there anymore; the crew could do things on their own and make their own decisions and were doing well so he really didn’t need to be there did he? 

Izzy tried to pay attention to what the crew were doing even if he didn’t feel like he could answer them properly. 

Izzy kept popping up at random times and the crew always seemed glad that he was there. 

“We always like it when you visit us, Izzy,” Frenchie said, “Even if you don’t say anything. We like to know you’re still here.” 

That made Izzy feel a little better, but only just a little and he still didn’t want to reach out to anyone, not just yet. 

It happened twice more that he popped into the inn when there was some discussion and he couldn’t do anything. It still hurt too much. 

Then the third time it happened he found himself in Lucius’ room with the man holding out the little carved shark. 

“Not moving on is worse Izzy,” Lucius said, “I hope you can interact with us again. We all miss it.” 

Izzy looked at Lucius, all gray and wrinkled but with so much life left in his eyes. Izzy sighed and moved the little shark. 

“Good to have you back Izzy.”

[fear-before-valor]

Romeo, Question Mark // Aromantic!Jim fic because I wanted aro content and if I can’t find some, I’ll [thanos voice] do it myself // Words: 1810 // Warnings: slight internalized aphobia; nothing that bad, just the amount that might come from an insecure teenager still learning about himself-- that said, take care of yourself, and remember that you are valid! <3 --

“Hey Tobes?” A voice sounds, in the dead of night.

“Yeah, Jim?” There is a rustling of a sleeping bag, because Toby would never, ever sleep in the bed if Jim was sleeping on the floor. He’d much sooner sleep on the floor with him, and Jim is too nice to steal half of Toby’s bed, even if it would have been alright by Toby. And it would have been. But again… Jim’s too polite. Toby knows this. Toby knows Jim.

For example, Toby knows that right this moment, Jim’s long stretch of silence is not from his being sleepy. He can practically feel the nervousness rolling off of his best friend, but he isn’t sure what the next move either of them will make is— or what it perhaps should be— so he remains quiet as well, and simply waits for Jim to respond back. He waits a long, long moment, and he’s almost afraid that Jim is going to bail on whatever he wanted to bring up—

—But then—

“What does a crush feel like?”

There is a long beat.

…Oh. Huh.

Toby realizes immediately that Jim can likely feel his brief, shocked silence, so he rushes to make it clear that he doesn’t think the question is weird, even if it caught him a little out of left field. Quick, Toby, he thinks to himself, Make Jim laugh. It’ll relax him.

“Well, you’re the Trollhunter; don’t you know how it feels to crush something?”

It is a stupid, stupid joke, Toby thinks, but it works on Jim’s midnight brain, as a soft, fond laugh sounds from Jim’s side of the room, which Toby has yet to look toward, for fear of breaking whatever is going on. He wants Jim to feel comfortable enough to talk to him, so he refuses to look at the other boy yet, knowing that his gaze might make his best friend hide whatever is happening inside his head. Toby wishes Jim wouldn’t do that so often. He likes when he’s allowed in Jim’s head. The guy dwells up there a little too much, in Toby’s opinion. He overthinks things like crazy these days, with all the pressures on him. Which, as supportive as Toby is, for all of Jim’s endeavors— be it Romeo, or the successor to an ancient line of warriors dating back centuries— Toby can’t help but worry sometimes, about how much his best friend has taken on. He knows he isn’t supposed to like Strickler and all, but Toby can’t really deny that the man has a point with his nickname for Jim. He really does shoulder the world.

Jim’s voice slices into Toby’s worries, his amused tone calming some of them, “Not what I meant, Tobes. You know what I meant.”

“Hey, maybe I don’t. You don’t know that.”

Jim’s voice, like his laugh moments ago, is, again, fond. “Yes I do.”

Toby’s chest flips in a weird way. A way he can’t quite identify. “Okay, fine… I do know what you meant…” He admits, but he isn’t sure where to go after that.

The room is dead silent for a second, the kind of quiet where both parties can hear the other think, until Jim interrupts it and asks, “So… do you know? Y’know… what a crush feels like?”

Toby frowns, thinking about it more seriously. He isn’t sure he’ll do the best job describing it, but he tries. “Well… Uh, you know how I like Darcy?” He asks, and at Jim’s assent, he continues. “It’s like… when she smiles, my knees go all weak, and my chest feels really light. And… I want to be the reason she smiles. I want to hold her hand, and take her on dates, and slow dance with her at Spring Fling over and over again, like we did that… one night…” Toby hesitates to bring up their most recent Spring Fling, remembering belatedly what else had happened then.

He moves on quickly, “It’s like… I dunno. I want to make her happy, like she makes me happy. I won’t say I wanna live my whole life with her ‘cause we’re only 16, but… I guess…. sometimes, it feels like that. Even if I know it’s unlikely.” He shrugs, a little saddened at the thought, but not fully. He knows that high school relationships rarely survive graduation, and he’s made peace with that. And, moreso in his case, he knows that there’s an unfortunate possibility that he won’t even survive to graduation, but that one, he tries not to make peace with. It’s bad for the mind.

“…Huh.” Jim retorts, seemingly unable to say anything but that.

After Toby waits for Jim to speak again… and becomes aware after a while that Jim isn’t going to, he chances it, rolls the dice, says, “Can I ask why you’re asking?”

Jim evades the real question, and instead answers what Toby verbalized, rather than what Toby left unsaid. “You can ask.”

“…Will you answer?” Toby responds, resisting with all of his might, the urge to look at Jim. He stares at a glowing green plastic star on his ceiling instead.

Jim’s hesitation is palpable. Toby can feel it in the hairs on his arm, by the way the very air seems to tense with Jim’s shoulders, which Toby can hear against the noisy fabric of his sleeping bag.

“I-” Jim’s voice catches in his throat. “Maybe…?”

“Not that you have to,” Toby says, uncertain, “But you can… you can share… y’know. If you want to.”

His best friend’s response is immediate. “Promise you won’t judge?”

Jim has been wishing to talk about this, Toby realizes, and his words come as fast as Jim’s did, “Of course I won’t.”

The silence this time, is Jim psyching himself up. Toby can tell. He can hear it in the way that he takes a few deep breaths, the way that he shifts restlessly.

“I don’t think I actually have a crush on Claire.” Jim blurts.

…Oh. Again.

No offense to Jim, Toby restrains relieved laughter, but that’s it? He thinks to himself. He doesn’t say that, though, because he knows that that won’t help reassure his friend in the slightest.

“Oh,” he repeats, aloud this time. “Well, that’s fine. Crushes come and go—”

“No.” Jim says, sounding upset. Toby freezes, listening. “I don’t mean—“ Jim huffs softly, “I mean… Ugh, sorry Tobes.” Toby practically hears the other boy collecting his thoughts, “I just mean… I don’t think I ever had a- a real crush on her.”

Did Jim’s voice just break? Toby feels like he’s had the wind knocked from his lungs. Whether Jim’s voice had or not, Toby’s heart certainly had. Is Jim so afraid of Toby judging him for misreading his feelings?

Toby shakes his head, even if he isn’t sure whether or not Jim sees it, “That’s okay, too, buddy. I’m not gonna judge you for that. Crushes are weird. They aren’t always easy to figure out.”

“…Right.” Jim sounds like something else is on his mind, but Toby doesn’t think pushing him seems quite right.

He takes a more subtle approach. “Thanks for telling me, though, Jimbo. I’m glad you feel like you can tell me something like that. Because, of course you can. I’m here for you.”

It isn’t so subtle that Toby fools himself to think that Jim hasn’t noticed, but it isn’t an outright probe, either.

He can tell that Jim appreciates it, however, by the sound of his voice. “Thanks, Tobes. I guess… I’ve just been scared of what’s been going on in my head, y’know? Do you… ever get that way?”

Toby thinks about his words before answering, but he gives a vocalized ‘hm’ to make sure that Jim knows that he isn’t just ignoring the question. “I mean… I’m no savior of the world and all, but, yeah, I get that. There’s a lot happening right now, troll stuff aside. We’re teenagers; things are kinda expected to be weird and complicated these days, right?” He gives a soft smile in the darkness, letting it bleed into his words.

Jim’s nod is audible against nylon once again, as he says, “Right. Understatement of the year, huh?”

Toby grins. “For sure. But that’s okay. Because we can get through it together, y’know? There’s nothing you could do to make me leave you, Jim, you know that, right?”

Jim’s silence is from shock, he knows. Toby allows him a moment to process.

“…Even if I’m… not really… normal…?”

Toby can’t hold back his snicker this time, “Jim, is anything about our reality ‘normal’ right now?”

Jim’s smile colors his words, to Toby’s relief. “Right. Of course it isn’t.” He pauses for a second, as if making up his mind, and Toby waits for him to do that, “Can I tell you something?”

Toby answers as quickly as a heartbeat responds to itself, “Of course.”  

“I-” Jim hesitates one more time, but evidently decides to push through, as he says, so quietly that Toby nearly misses it; lucky he is holding his breath, so that he doesn’t miss Jim’s words in his own exhale, “I think I’m… aromantic, Toby.”

Toby takes a single beat to breathe in and out, to allow this to add to his bank of knowledge about Jim, to his understanding of his best friend, and then says, “That’s cool. Was it the play that gave it away?”

There is a brief, alarmed pause, before Jim laughs, hard, at that. It starts slow, but rapidly grows lighter and more frequent, until it is closer to a giggle or a wheeze. “How do you know me so well?” He gets out between laughs.

Toby’s grin could light up the whole room. “‘Cause I’m your best friend, dude. It’s like… my whole job description.”

When Jim finally gets a handle on his chuckles, he responds, “Right. How could I forget?”

“You’d never. You just have a lot happening right now.” Toby reminds him.

“…Yeah.”

“But not tonight.” Toby soothes Jim’s beginning-to-wind-up mind, catching it before it can get too far.

Jim gives one last, singular laugh, soft, and fond, “Yeah.” He says again. “Not tonight.”

By the tone of his voice, Toby can tell that Jim finally feels like everything is okay. And he’s glad. Because it is. Just for that night, everything is okay.

The two boys fall asleep in minutes, closer in both heart and in body. Neither of them can remember when it happened, or who initiated, but when they wake the next morning, they find themselves hand in hand, and it isn’t even embarrassing. Because they are, as they always have been, best friends in every way. They will always reassure each other, and they will always be there for each other, and they will, evidently, always do it hand in hand.

[imagine-a-fictional-boyfriend]

I’ll Take Care of You, Chapter 1: Visits

so, I did a thing. Been reading some Billy fics on here and damn. Y’all got me inspired. Love me some thirst for Billy Russo.

This idea came to me out of the blue, idk. It will be a multi-chapter fic but I’m not sure how long. There shall be smut, babes. I’ll also be posting to my ao3 as well (pen name: i_hear_the_birds). I do not consent to my works being copied and/or posted elsewhere.

Fic Summary: Reader works in the hospital where Billy Russo keeps his mother. They’ve caught each other’s eye. But she thinks he is the devoted son... little does she know what hides behind a handsome face and expensive suits. 

Pairing: Billy Russo x Fem!Nurse!Reader

Chapter Summary: You’ve noticed the tall, dark, handsome man visiting his mother at the hospital you work in. And you knew that he had noticed you, too. It was time for you to do something about it.

Warnings: mentions of drug use, swearing, reader is thirsty (but aren’t we all?)

Words: 1.3k

Masterlist ~~ Chapter 2

~

You bit your lip, debating what you were about to do. You’d been thinking about it for a while. Ever since he winked at you 3 weeks ago.  

You’d heard the whispers from the other nurses and the PSWs. He was one of the hospital’s biggest donors, visiting his mother who had been there for years. Even though she abandoned him as a baby, he found her in the streets and made sure she was well looked after, thanks to his successful private security company.  

She was actually one of your patients. Carla Russo. She wasn’t healthy, but she was doing okay. Drugs had ruined her immune and nervous systems; smoking had wrecked her throat and lungs. She was nonverbal. She always appeared super panicky after her son left, but you would assure her that her son would come back to see her soon. It never seemed to settle her.

Normally, he didn’t pay any attention to the staff. He’d talk to his mother’s doctors, but that was about it. But you knew that you caught his eye. There was the wink three weeks ago. There was more than that, though. He looked back at you once as he was leaving, too. You’d seen the fire in his dark eyes.

Normally, you didn’t give a second thought to anyone looking at you. But he never paid attention to anyone. Except you. With the wonderful things you’d heard about him and the fact that he was, to be frank, hot as fuck… you wanted him. Bad.

Sure, he was older than you. At least 10 years. That wasn’t crazy. You’d been a nurse for a few years now, but had only gotten the job at this private hospital a few months ago. It wasn’t the most exciting job. It had good pay though, and benefits. You had your life figured out. You didn’t care about the age difference. You knew what you wanted. You wanted him.

So, it was time to put your plan in motion. You turned the handle and opened the door.  

You pretended to be looking at the order on your clipboard. “Okay, darlin’, you ready for that mouth swab-” You looked up. “Oh gosh! Umm, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize that Carla had a visitor.” You mumbled. Those dark eyes did take you by surprise; you didn’t have to act. It was like looking into a dark abyss.

He eyed you for a moment, his face unreadable. You felt a flush creeping up your neck. Then he smiled. “That’s all right, isn’t it, Mother?” he turned away from you to look at his mother.

Her sheets were tangled around her ankles. Her eyes were wide but they relaxed when you went over to her to fix up her bed.

“Oh, sorry about that.” He said, moving to the other side of the bed to help with the covers. “Mother looked a little flushed.”

You held the back of your hand against Carla's forehead. “Hmm, maybe a little warm. You took out your thermometer from one of the pockets in your pants and took her temperature. “No fever.” You said with a smile to her son.

He grinned. “Wonderful. What’s your name, darling?”

You tapped your name badge, and he leaned forward slightly to read it. “Pleasure to meet you, Y/N.” He held his hand out for you to shake.

You took it. “You too, Mr. Russo.”

“Please. Call me Billy.” He said, before he dropped your hand.

You blushed, and tucked your hair behind your ear. “Okay, Billy.” You cleared your throat. “Well, I am sorry to interrupt. I can come back later.”

Billy gave you a sly smile that caused your heart to race. “I sure hope that you do.”

You blushed even deeper before you left the room.

When you came back to give Carla what was on the order at the actual scheduled time, Billy was gone. You frowned at first but continued with your job. Next time.

***

The next time he visited, you abandoned the “oops, didn’t know you were here” tactic. You went up to him as he finished speaking with the doctor.

“Hi.” You said as he turned around.

“Well, hello, Y/N. It’s nice to see you, again.” He gave you a pleasant smile.  

“You, as well,” you said. Your tongue wet your bottom lip as you stared into his eyes. You noticed he had a little freckle under his right eye. “Carla will be so happy to see you.”

Billy grinned. It should be illegal for a man to be that handsome.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” You said, stepping away from the door.

“Thanks, darlin’.” He opened the door to his mother’s room. He closed it, but not before giving you a wink.

His winks made your knees wobble.

***

At his next visit, he had brought a bouquet of flowers. A small, pretty arrangement. He didn’t have the door closed, and when he saw you passing by, he called you in.

“What can I do for you?” You asked expectantly. “Everything okay?”

Billy grinned. He plucked a flower from the bouquet and present it to you. It was a red rose, out of place from the rest of the flowers.

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I-oh. For me?”

“Pretty flower for a pretty little lady.” He stated. His eyes were fiery.

You blushed before you accepted the rose. “That’s too sweet. You’re a nice guy.” You said dumbly.

He chuckled. “I just wanted to thank you for taking such good care of my mother.”

“It’s my pleasure.” You said sincerely. “I can see how much you care about her.” You smiled over at Carla in her bed. She stared back at you.

He hid a smile by running his fingers over his beard.

You brought the flower to your nose and took a whiff. “Well, thank you, Billy.”

“It’s my pleasure, Y/N.” You bit your lip, trying to stifle your grin. “Now, I’ve got to go. I look forward to seeing you again.”

***

You didn’t want to wait anymore. You knew he was into you. You knew that you’d probably have to make the first move. It wasn’t unheard of for relatives of patients to become interested in their family member’s care takers. Billy seemed like a smart guy. He probably knew not to get involved... even though he had shown his interest.  

Was it a bad idea? Probably. He did so much for the hospital, with his donations and public support. Could it jeopardize your job? Probably. Could it impact his mother’s care? Probably.

You needed to make your move before you lost your nerve. Thinking too much was ruining the mood.

He was here this evening. He usually stayed for about 20 minutes. You looked at your watch. He’d been here for just over 15.

It was almost 8pm. You were just starting your night shift. No doctors were here. Nursing staff was lighter. Today was the day to do it.

You were waiting, leaning against the counter at the nursing station for him to leave his mother’s room. When you saw him, you reached up and pulled your hair free from the elastic. You ran your fingers through your hair to smooth it out. You unbuttoned the top two buttons of your cardigan.

He watched you, and a wolfish smile took over his lips. He approached you steadily.

“Warm, are we?” he asked when he was in front of you. “You look it.”

“Pardon?” You asked, a little breathless. His cologne smelled good.

“Hot. You look hot.” He said bluntly. “You are hot.”

Normally, you wouldn’t take that as a compliment. It always sounded shallow. But coming from this tall, dark man, it set a fire to your bones.

“So are you.” You said confidently.

He grinned. “You think so?” He stepped closer to you.

You nodded.

It looked like he was about to step closer when another nurse came over to the desk to use the phone.

You cleared your throat, but Billy didn’t move away. “I know what you want, little lady.”

“What’s that?” You whispered back, tilting your face back to look at his.

“Why don’t you take me somewhere and show me?” He had a teasing look in his eyes.

You licked your lips absently. Now was your chance.

***

Author's note: Let me know what you think!! You're in for a wild ride for the next chapter ;)

[robininthelabyrinth]

LXC is the legal guardian and adopter for LSZ or LJY, and NMJ has questions.

part 2 of the LJY-adopted-by-LQR fic (now also on ao3)

-

“So, did I knock you up before I went to war or something?” Nie Mingjue asked. “Because I feel like you should’ve mentioned it if that was the case. Possibly in a letter.”

Lan Xichen was so tired that it took him a solid minute to parse what was wrong with that sentence and how to respond, and it was not by following his first instinct to apologize that he should’ve written better letters.

“Stop making fun of me,” he said instead, groping towards some measure of dignity.

Sadly, dignity was in very short supply when you were taking care of babies. Multiple babies. Well, one baby and one toddler, which was somehow worse?

Lan Xichen was pretty sure they’d figured out how to time their crying off each other.

“I would never,” Nie Mingjue said, like a liar, and then he picked up little Jingyi and – Lan Xichen simply cannot find another way to put it – shook him, in a manner not unlike testing a melon for freshness.

For some reason, this made Lan Jingyi stop crying and start making snuffling little giggles instead.

“How did you do that?” Lan Xichen asked, eyes wide.

“Do what?” Nie Mingjue tucked the baby into the crook of his arm and scooped up some food off the table, offering it to him, and Lan Jingy actually ate it. “Xichen, are you feeling all right?”

“Shhh!” Lan Xichen hissed, eyes fixed on the baby, which was neither spitting up everything nor wailing as if his heart was broken. “No unnecessary noise during meals.”

Nie Mingjue snorted in amusement. “Sure,” he said amiably, in the tone Lan Xichen had long ago learned meant ‘nice rules you’ve got there, it’d be an awful shame if someone found a loophole in them’. “This isn’t a meal, though; it’s just a snack.”

Lan Xichen eyed the still-not-crying Lan Jingyi and decided that now was not the time for a spirited debate on the virtues of discipline and fulfilling the merits rather than the word of a rule.

“Where’s monster number one gone?” Nie Mingjue asked abruptly. “He must be very good at hiding, because I looked away for a blink of an eye and he was gone.”

Lan Xichen’s eyes slowly dropped down to where a cloth-covered lump was not-so-sneakily edging towards Nie Mingjue’s foot.

Nie Mingjue was one of the foremost front line fighters of their generation, and possibly the previous one as well. His physical ability was matched only by his incredibly keen senses.

There was no way he was not aware of the lump.

“It’s a real shame, too,” Nie Mingjue continued. “I was planning on doing a test of how far you can throw children, but I think monster two here’s a bit too small to make the test worthwhile. But I guess it just wasn’t meant to be –”

You can’t throw children, Lan Xichen was about to say, except Lan Sizhui was tearing off the tablecloth and jumping up in excitement, shouting, “Here! Here! I’m here! I’m big enough! You can throw me!”

“Why does he want to be thrown,” Lan Xichen murmured, bewildered. He’d never wanted to be thrown around as a child. Had he?

In fairness, he wasn’t sure. No one had ever offered.

Apparently, though, Lan Sizhui did very much want to be thrown around, and Lan Jingyi even condescended to allow Lan Xichen to hold him while he watched.

“Higher! Higher!” Lan Sizhui shouted.

“Really? Is this high enough?” Nie Mingjue held him up at eye level.

“Higher!”

“Like this?” Above his head.

“Higher!”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

“All right. How about –” Baxia slithered out from her place by the door, zipping over until she was right in front of Nie Mingjue, allowing him to step onto her like a stair, and then zipping upwards to about hip-height, lifting Nie Mingjue and Lan Sizhui with her. They very nearly hit a tree branch with their heads. “– this?”

Lan Sizhui shrieked with laughter.  

“It’s too early to introduce them to flying,” Lan Xichen objected, because it was. “Mingjue-xiong…”

Nie Mingjue hopped down with a laugh. “All right, one last toss,” he told Lan Sizhui. “Then you nap. Okay?”

“Okay!” Lan Sizhui, who had never once willingly succumbed to naptime in the entirety of the time that Lan Xichen had known him, promised earnestly.

Back into the pile of soft grass he went, giggling the entire time, and amazingly enough he really did fall asleep afterwards. Lan Jingyi, too, had fallen asleep at some point.

“I’ve decided that your brother needs more experience running a sect,” Lan Xichen told Nie Mingjue, who raised his eyebrows. “Starting immediately. I promise to allow you to leave when Jingyi is, oh, shall we say five years old..?”

You could reason with a five year old. 

Nie Mingjue laughed.

It was a type of laugh that suggested that he thought Lan Xichen was making a joke. This was incorrect.

“You’d be amazed at how serious I am,” Lan Xichen told him threateningly, “I’m sect leader here, this is my territory, I can have you arrested any time –” but by that point Nie Mingjue was already bundling him off to bed, too, combing out his hair and plying him with snacks and –

This was not helping his argument that Lan Xichen should be allowing him to leave rather than keep him trapped in the Cloud Recesses as a babysitter-slash-love-slave. 

Well, he wouldn’t really do that, of course. He’d let him go. Eventually.

It’d probably be good for Nie Mingjue’s stress levels, honestly.

“Seriously, though, how did you do that?” he asked, his head on Nie Mingjue’s lap. “They didn’t cry once.”

“I’m good with kids,” Nie Mingjue said, his fingers digging into Lan Xichen’s scalp in just the right way. “Now can you explain to me how exactly you ended up with them? Two, no less?”

Lan Xichen groaned and covered his eyes with a hand. “Sizhui’s Wangji’s,” he explained. “Not biologically, but he’s put his name down in the family register under his own. But, you know…”

“I know.”

Lan Xichen appreciated that he didn’t need to go into it. The doctors had estimated that Lan Wangji would regain full mobility within three years, so that was the period the elders had mandated for his so-called ‘seclusion’, but with Lan Wangji being locked away like that – even with visitors, even though he was trying his hardest to care for the child from where he was – meant that someone had to care for the child’s day-to-day life until his brother was ready to resume the role.

“Jingyi is a cousin, I think,” he continued. “His parents are dead, and uncle accepted guardianship for him…I think he’s going to adopt him, actually.”

“Then why is he with you?”

“I volunteered.”

“Xichen, I say this with a full heart of affection and tremendous respect for your capabilities,” Nie Mingjue said. “But why in the world would you go and do a stupid thing like that?”

Lan Xichen sighed. The worst part was, he couldn’t even argue that it wasn’t stupid – he was, quite obviously, terrible with children.

“Uncle’s still injured from the war,” he admitted. In fact, his injury was probably even older than the war, dating as far back as the burning of the Cloud Recesses – his uncle had never been much of a fighter, his impressive cultivation strength stemming almost entirely from gentler arts like music and learning and meditation, but when his home and his family and his students were at risk, he’d fought, while Lan Xichen ran. Not just fought; he’d kept fighting long past the point that his body allowed. It only made sense for the bill to need to be paid. “He had a recurrence of an old complaint, not long ago; he started coughing up blood. The doctors insisted that he try to avoid anything that might cause him  stress.”

“Stress. Like, say, a rowdy infant?”

“Exactly like a rowdy infant,” Lan Xichen agreed, glad that Nie Mingjue did not mention that what had happened with Lan Wangji was also likely a source of stress. At least the two of them had slowly started to repair their relationship recently – the heartbreak would kill their uncle sooner than anything else, and Lan Xichen might be weak, but he really couldn’t tolerate the idea of suffering any more loss.

And also, if Lan Wangji could see his way to forgiving their uncle, he might one day agree to forgive Lan Xichen, too.

“I see. So you ended up with the little one, too.”

“Yes. And they hate me.” Nie Mingjue coughed a little. “No, don’t deny it. They clearly hate me. They always cry and spit and yell -”

“They’re children, Xichen,” Nie Mingjue said. “Traumatized children. They do that.”

Lan Xichen didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Nie Mingjue was frowning in memory of pain long past. Lan Xichen remembered, with painful clarity, how young Nie Huaisang had been when Lao Nie had died, how badly he had taken it.

There’d been a lot of crying and vomiting and yelling there as well.

“You’re good with kids,” Lan Xichen said instead of commenting, trading delicacy for delicacy; he would not touch Nie Mingjue’s still-bleeding wounds just as Nie Mingjue avoided his own. “Very good.”

“Well, I like to think so, anyway.”

They remained in blissful, comfortable silence for a while.

“How would it have even worked?” Lan Xichen finally asked. His eyes were still closed, Nie Mingjue’s fingers running through his hair; he never wanted to move again.

“Hmm?”

“If you knocked me up before you went to war. I mean, they’re not even the same age.”

“Well, one of them’s from the affair, obviously.”

“I’m sorry, am I cheating on you now?” Lan Xichen opened an eye and pinned Nie Mingjue with a fierce look that instructed his lover to reconsider.

“Of course not,” Nie Mingjue said, mock-solemnly. His eyes were dancing. “You were so distraught after receiving incorrect news of my untimely demise that you conducted a ghost marriage with my spirit, and then went and had a child to continue my name.”

“…they’re both surnamed Lan.”

“So what? Are you saying I’m not good enough to marry into your sect, is that it?”

Lan Xichen’s cheeks were hurting from trying not to laugh. “I wouldn’t dream of implying such a thing.”

“There you go, then.”

“Can I ask why I felt the need to have a child to continue your name if I had one already?”

“…well, fuck,” Nie Mingjue said. “I’ve got nothing.”

Lan Xichen burst out laughing.

[penny-anna]

a hundred buttons

“It’s this dress,” Yennefer admitted. “It fastens up the back with about a hundred miniature buttons. It’s, not strictly possible for one to remove it on one’s own.”

Jaskier snorted. “Oh? Well, how would usually get it off?”

“Usually I just,” she said, and motioned, trying to convey the general idea of I unfasten them all at once, with magic. “Whoosh.”

His eyes widened as he grasped the problem. “Ahh, I see,” he said. “That does sound very awkward.”

Temporarily bereft of her magic, Yennefer finds herself in a tricky position.

(On Ao3!)

The room was too small for Yennefer’s liking, and she paced it from end to end, keeping her ears pricked up. There could be someone standing right outside the door, waiting for her, and she’d never know. There could be someone lurking outside the window. She lifted a corner of the curtain, peering out at the empty blackness.

She dropped into a crouch, making certain that the knife she kept strapped to her angle was still secure. Standing up, she resumed her pacing. Her corset was beginning to chafe at her, pressing uncomfortably snug around her ribs.

She was itching for this to be over.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs. Geralt’s bard put his head into the room. “Evening,” he said, though it was well after midnight. “Still up?”

“Evidently,” she said. “Any sign of Geralt?”

He pulled a face. “Not a whisper. I take it you haven’t had any luck with the curse, then?”

“For the last time,” she said, “it is not a curse. A curse I could handle. The lingering effects of a magical void are the farthest thing from a curse.”

“If you say so.”

“In fact one might say it’s the precise opposite of a curse.”

Smacking his lips, he said, “it’s all the same to me.”

He, of course, had felt nothing at all, even when he was standing in the void itself. He hadn’t felt its deadening silence, its stomach-churning emptiness. He hadn’t felt anything vital inside himself go dark.

No, he’d just stood there with his hands on his hips and said, “what’s got into your pair, then?”

She was tired. She hadn’t realised how much she’d come to rely on her magic to give herself little boosts, after a long and difficult day. She said, “I can’t imagine where he’s got to.”

“Well, he’s away in a huff, so probably nowhere in particular,” said Jaskier.

“He isn’t in a huff,” said Yennefer.

“Hmm, I really think he is,” the bard said. “You know, because you so unfairly snapped at him that this entire situation was his fault?”

“It wasn’t unfair.”

“Even though this whole mess is quite patently no-one’s fault,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “and there was really no need for any shouting or throwing things or storming off in huffs.”

“Debatable,” she said. “Did you come down here just to irritate me?”

“Ah, no, I came down because I forgot my pack,” he said. “And, I suppose, to say that I���m going to bed.”

“Alright,” she said. “You do that.”

“Are you staying up?” he said. “Because if so I’d appreciate if you could stop rattling about. This house is very creaky.”

“I shall rattle as much as I like,” she said. “I’m waiting for Geralt.”

He tilted his head to the side, and stepped fully into the room. “Much as it doesn’t behove me to express concern for your wellbeing,” he said. “Given how much of a huff he was in there’s every chance he won’t be back before morning, so I wouldn’t bother.”

There were times – not infrequently – when he’d go out of his way to remind her that he’d known Geralt longer and therefore knew him better. Oh, he’d said airily, Geralt can’t stand sheep’s cheese. Oh, Geralt always gets like this after a hunt. Geralt doesn’t like it when people touch his weapons. Geralt won’t like this. Geralt doesn’t do that. It was difficult to gage if that was what he was trying to do now, without being able to look into his mind, but she didn’t think it was. He seemed to be making a sincere attempt to offer her some advice.

She had to admit, privately, that she felt a little better for having him in the house. Unlikely as it was that they’d be attacked by marauders or wild beasts or monsters in the twelve or so hours before the effects of the void wore off, she was painfully aware that she was limited in her ability to defend herself and that if the worst did happen, the bard’s help might be better than no help at all.

But his being aware of that most uncomfortable facet of the situation – the thought of his having the gall to feel protective of her – made her skin crawl.

“It’s fine,” she said curtly. “I’ll wait up for him.”

“Hm,” he said.

“What?”

“Are you alright? Aside from the obvious, I mean. You seem a little – frazzled.”

She was tired. She was sweaty, and itchy. She wanted badly to complain to someone and since Jaskier was the only person around for miles he’d have to do.

“It’s this dress,” she admitted. “It fastens up the back with about a hundred miniature buttons. It’s, not strictly possible for one to remove it on one’s own.”

He snorted. “Oh? Well, how would usually get it off?”

“Usually I just,” she said, and motioned, trying to convey the general idea of I unfasten them all at once, with magic. “Whoosh.”

His eyes widened as he grasped the problem. “Ahh, I see,” he said. “That does sound very awkward.”

He looked her up and down, pursing his lips. She avoided his gaze.

“Well,” he said at length. “Night, then.” Turning, he left her alone.

Yennefer stood in the middle of the room, listening to his footsteps recede up the stairs. After a moment, they faltered and then began to descend.

Leaning back into the room, he said, “would you like some help?”

“From you?”

“I do have,” he waggled his fingers, “some experience removing ladies’ clothing. And very dextrous hands.”

“I’ll wait,” she said.

“All night?”

“If necessary.”

“Are you sure?” he said. “I promise not to tell anyone. Not even Geralt. I, I really do understand how, hm. Uncomfortable this must be.”

Yennefer heaved a sigh. Her corset creaked faintly beneath her dress. Oh, but she ached to have it off. “Fine,” she said.

“Goodness,” he said, upstairs in the bedroom, peering at her back in the flickery lamplight. “They are small, aren’t they? You can barely see them.”

“Just unfasten it,” she said. She felt a gentle tug at her neckline as he began to ease the first button out of its hole. “It’s a very fashionable and elegant design,” she said stiffly. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“It is very nice,” he agreed. “I suppose this is the sort of thing one usually has a ladies’ maid for.”

Or a husband, Yennefer thought.

“So this void business,” he said, working his way down her back, carefully teasing out each button. He was being more delicate about it than she’d expected, trying not to damage the embroidery. More delicate than Geralt would probably have managed to be. Well, she supposed, he’d always had a healthy respect for nice clothes. “Did it – hurt?”

“No,” she said. “It wasn’t pleasant. But no.”

“I see,” he said. “Good to know.”

“Worried about Geralt?” she said.

“Naturally.”

“It’s uncomfortable,” she said. “That’s all. It’ll pass.”

“Let’s hope it passes soon.” He was almost all the way down her back. “I imagine it’s worse for you. Isn’t it?”

Geralt was hampered, by the loss of his signs, but by no means was he rendered powerless. He wasn’t stripped bare, the way she was. She wasn’t entirely sure he understood – that he realised that, although they’d both had something taken from them, his loss wasn’t the same as hers.

She said, “I can handle it.”

“Good grief,” he said. “How far down do these go?”

“Most of the way.”

He reached the small of her back and dropped to his knees to keep going. “Ah,” he said, his face perfectly level with her behind. “Quite a view.”

“Bard,” she said, “if you say one word about my backside my first act when this wears off will be to flay your skin from your body.”

“Understood,” he said, reaching, cautiously, for the buttons. “I shall keep my comments to myself. Although, if I might say, they are all complimentary.”

“I am currently mentally cataloguing all the spells I know to flay a man alive.”

“I’ll be quiet.”

He finished unbuttoning her, in silence and – to his credit – clearly taking care to touch her bottom as little as humanly possible. With a sigh of relief, she pulled the dress down her shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

She stood in her corset and petticoat, her arms and shoulders bare, gooseflesh rising on her skin in the chilly room. It wasn’t a position she’d usually like to be in when alone with a man she didn’t fully trust.

But then, she supposed she must trust Jaskier; there was no way she’d have agreed to this otherwise. Somehow she hadn’t noticed that she had come to trust him.

“Goodness,” he said, rising to his feet. “Laces too?”

“Corsets usually have them,” she said, putting her hands upon her hips. She was very glad she didn’t have to look him in the eye for this.

“Shall I –”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“It would be worse,” he said as he began, cheerfully, to unlace her. “I once had a tryst with a lady who was wearing – five layers of petticoats. We had to put them all back on in rather a hurry, and then I managed to tie myself to her stays and her husband was coming up the stairs so we were both panicking –"

There was the faintest creak on the landing outside. The bedroom door opened.

They froze, Jaskier’s fingers stilling on her laces. Geralt was standing in the doorway, staring at them. Yennefer stared back.

He walked like a cat, in spite of his considerable bulk. Bereft of her magic, Yennefer hadn’t sensed him approaching at all. The look on his face was utterly inscrutable. She hadn’t the slightest idea what to say and evidently Jaskier didn’t either.

At some length, Geralt said, “what are you… doing?”

“I’m undressing your lover,” said Jaskier. “Why, what does it look like I’m doing?”

Geralt said nothing at all. There was no change to his facial expression. Turning upon his heel, he walked back down the stairs.

Jaskier resumed unlacing her corset. “Do you suppose he understand that was a joke?”

Yennefer said, “I wouldn’t count on it.”

[khaleesiofalicante]

This is War - A Crack Fic

All the chaotic, horny energy today had to be channelled somewhere, right? 

You can read the fic here on ao3 too :)

Central park was a vision to behold. There were no mundanes within sight. The warlocks had made sure to glamour the entire area just for today.

“We are not shadowhunters,” Ragnor had said. “We don’t half ass things.”

He of course had left immediately after securing the parameter saying he didn’t want to be involved in another one of Magnus’ childish squabbles.

“Welcome everyone,” Simon said, standing on a podium hadn’t been there before. Where was that from?

“Why is he wearing a robe?” Helen whispered to her wife. Aline just shrugged.

“For far too long we have been trying to settle this debate,” Simon said in a deep voice that was not that deep. “But today, we must settle on an answer.”

Jace rolled his eyes. “Can we get to the good part?”

“Jace, you promised you’ll let me have my moment!” Simon hissed at him and then cleared his throat. “Today we will decide the most pressing crisis of our time. Who broke the coffee maker in the Lightwood-Bane household?”

“Wasn’t me,” Magnus shrugged. “If I did, then I would have fixed it immediately. It was obviously Alec.”

“Liar!” Alec gasped. “I love coffee. I love that coffee maker. Why would I break it?”

“Well, to love is to destr-” Jace spoke up.

“Honey, not now,” Clary shushed him.

“Listen, the kids can’t obviously reach the coffee maker yet,” Magnus pointed out. “And I’m not the one who takes out my frustration on inanimate objects. I mean we all know what happened to the kettle in the institute.”

There was a soft murmur from the shadowhunters of the New York institute.

“I WAS HAVING A BAD DAY!” Alec argued.

“Just admit you broke the coffee maker, Alec,” Magnus said.

“I didn’t do it!” Alec replied. “You’ve always been jealous of the coffee maker.”

Magnus snorted. “Jealous? Me? Pfft. You’re the one who is obsessed enough with the darn thing to name it.”

“Treat lightly, Magnus,” Alec said. “Charles is already dead. Why would you-”

“ENOUGH!” Simon said into the microphone. When did he get that? “Like I said, this childish argument has gone for too long. Today we will settle it like the civilized adults that we are.”

Simon bent down and picked up a giant gun.

“PAINTBALL FIGHT, Y’ALL!” he yelled.

Everybody started cheering – with way too much enthusiasm for a Monday morning.

“Alright. Magnus, Alec – whoever loses the game will agree that they broke the coffee maker, and we will put this whole thing behind us and move on. Do you agree to these terms?”

Magnus and Alec looked at each other and then nodded at Simon.

“Alright!” Simon grinned. “Pick your teams!”

Little Rafe ran towards Magnus.

Alec gasped. “Betrayed by my own blood.”

Max ran towards Alec. “We are going to win. I always win.”

Alec grinned at that. “I pick Jace.”

Jace grinned back and ran up to his parabatai. “Ohhhh y’all are so going down.”

Magnus laughed. “We’ll see about that, blondie. I pick Emma.”

“Oh damn,” someone said from the crowd.

“Emma, this is a paintball fight,” Alec pointed out. “You can’t use Cortana.”

“Don’t worry, it’s just for emotional support,” she said with a wicked gleam.

“Alright,” Alec said. “I pick Julian.”

“Isabelle,” Magnus called.

“KIT!” Alec yelled.

“TIBERIUS!” Magnus thundered.

“Count yourself lucky that it’s daytime,” Alec said. “Otherwise, I would have called Lily and she would have destroyed all of you!”

“Already making excuses for your imminent failure?” Magnus chuckled. “I choose Helen and Aline!”

“You can’t pick them both!” Alec argued.

“I can and I just did,” Magnus winked.

“Yeah, Helen and I won’t fighting in opposing sides,” Aline shrugged. “Sorry, Alec.”

“I got the lesbians!” Magnus laughed. “You are going down, Alexander.”

“You wish,” Alec said and whistled. Diego showed up behind him. “I got the Inquisitor!”

“Clarissa,” Magnus said. “The Angel’s chosen one.”

“Babe,” Jace said. “You can’t!”

“Everything is fair in love and war,” Clary shrugged, pointing a gun that was bigger than her. “And this is war, biatch!”

“Kieran!” Alec called and the unseelie king materialised from some corner and ruffled Max’s hair.

“Mark!” Magnus called.

“Cris-”

“Oh no you don’t,” Cristina lifted her finger warningly. She was perched on top of a tree. “I’m not going to be a part of this madness. I got a medicine kit right here. So, if anyone needs me, just holler, okay?”

“And I will excuse myself as the referee of course,” Simon pointed out. “Alright. Standard paintball rules apply. No serious injuries. If you get shot, then you’re off the game. Last team standing wins. And no runes or downworld powers. We are gonna fight mundane style.”

“YAS!” Kit cheered, already cuddling his paintball gun.

“Alright then,” Simon waved a flag. Where did he get THAT from? Did he have a bag of equipment just lying around?

“LET THE BATTLE OF THE COFEE MAKER BEGIN!” Simon yelled.

And then there was chaos.

The warlocks – mostly Ragnor – had changed the area into a paintball area. There were places to hide behind and attack from. It was really elaborate. Maybe Ragnor had more fun designing this space than he had let on.

“Alright,” Alec said to his team. “Let’s keep this simple. Take down anyone you see.”

“Anyone? What about our significant others?” Jace asked. “Do we shoot them down too?”

“Of course not!” Alec chastised. “We are not animals! Is that clear?”

“Yes, Consul!” everyone yelled.

“I DON’T CARE IF THEY ARE YOUR BOO OR YOUR BAE, THEY ARE GOING DOWN,” Magnus said to his team. “FIND YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHERS FIRST. THEY WILL NOT EXPECT YOU TO STRIKE! USE THAT TO YOUR ADVANTAGE! THERE ARE NO SIGNIFICANT OTHERS. ONLY SIGNIFICANT ENEMIES. IS THAT CLEAR?”

“YES CAPTAIN!” they all cheered.

They all broke out and ran to find their targets.

It wasn’t even five minutes since the game had begun and Kit ran straight into Ty.

“Hey,” Kit waved.

Ty pounced and pinned Kit to the ground. He pointed his gun at his boyfriend.

“Alec said we can’t hurt our significant others,” Kit put up his arms.

“Our captain said no such thing,” Ty replied. “You’re not-…Why are you grinning? I got you pinned down.”

“It’s my favorite place to be,” Kit smiled. “I open my eyes and there you are. You’re beautiful.”

“Stop flirting with me when I’m trying to fight you,” Ty blushed and then held out his hand. “Fine. I didn’t see you and you didn’t see me.”

Kit winked at him and ran away.

Mark and Kieran found each other next.  They both held their guns at each other – neither of them shooting.

“This is childish,” Kieran pointed out. “I’m already bored.”

“Wanna go sit on that tree and hang out with Cristina?” Mark winked.

Kieran grinned and the two of them ran away too.

Helen and Aline looked at them and shrugged.

“We could just live stream the whole thing,” Helen pointed out. “Lily would like to see this.”

“I don’t know what that means but if that’s what you want to do and that’s what we shall do,” Aline smiled and and kissed her wife.

“Clary,” Jace said in relief when he saw her. “Thank god! I thought someone-”

There was sudden pain in his chest and he looked down to notice the big green splotch on this t-shirt.

“You...You shot me,” Jace said, sounding hurt.

“Jace, I’ve already stabbed you in the past and you once set me on fire,” Clary rolled her eyes and ran away to find her next target. “Get with it!”

“JULIAN ATTICUS BLACKTHORN,” Emma yelled and ran towards him. “YOU’RE GOING DOWN.”

“Not today,” he winked at her.

Emma blushed furiously just before attacking him. It wasn’t easy. Emma was skilled at close range combat, but Julian knew all her weak spots. So, they were even.

They wrestled for a while before Julian pinned her to the ground. He was breathing hard, his pupils dialed.

“I’m sorry, but this is strictly business,” he shrugged with a mischievous grin.

“But we are still on for tonight, right?” Emma asked. “I finally got a reservation at that Italian place you like.”

Julian’s eyes softened a litte. “You did?”

“Yes,” Emma smiled and hooked her legs on his ankles and flipped them in the blink of an eye. She shot him on the stomach and kissed him on his lips. “See ya at seven!”

Unlike everyone else Isabelle was not going to be fooled or manipulated by her significant other. Thank the Angel Simon wasn’t a part of this. She really liked the feel of the paintball gun in her hands. It was huge, powerful, messy and colorful too. Her kind of weapon.

She ran around the park and took down the others mercilessly. There were only a few of them remaining now – everyone else had already been shot.

But not Isabelle.

She didn’t care about the coffee maker of course. The argument was a ridiculous one.

She just wanted to win.

In the distance, she saw Emma take down Kit and Diego shoot Ty. She was off to destroy the Inquisitor when she had a familiar cry.

“Baby,” she ran to him. “My little blueberry muffin. Are you okay?”

“I fell,” Max sobbed. “Somebody pushed me.”

“Tell me who did this and I will-”

“ISABELLE DON’T!” she heard Magnus yell.

But it was too late.

There was a giant blue splotch on her white blouse.

“Max?” she asked in betrayal.

The boy just giggled and ran away.

In this distance, she now saw Diego covered in red, with a very satisfied Rafael hanging upside down from a tree.

And then the rest of them went feral.

“Surrender, Alexander,” Magnus said an hour later, holding up his gun, which was covered in glitter. “Everyone on your team is down.”

“Well, I don’t see anyone from your team standing either,” Alec pointed out.

“I still am,” Magnus said.

“So am I,” Alec replied.

“Give it up, Alexander!”

“Never,” Alec said adamantly. “This is for the coffee maker. I loved it so much!”

“Then you shouldn’t have broken it,” Magnus argued.

“I didn’t!” Alec said in frustration. “I love it so much because…because that’s the first thing you bought for me.”

“Oh,” Magnus said, the grip on his gun softening lightly.

“I know you have bought me so many expensive gifts but the coffee maker…it’s always been my favorite. I remember walking into your apartment one day, we weren’t even properly back together then, and you just bought it for me.”

“Well, you drink a lot of coffee,” Magnus grumbled.

“Yeah and you noticed. And you got me something so I wouldn’t feel weird in your apartment. You bought it so make me so comfortable. That’s when I realized I really, really like you.”

Magnus blushed a little. “Well, then now it sounds stupid to think you broke the thing.”

“That’s because I didn’t, Magnus!”

“Well, I didn’t either!” Magnus put up his hands. “In fact, the day it broke, I wasn’t even home. I was in the spiral labyrinth all day.”

“I know! I wasn’t home either! I had to go to the Mexico institute for an emergency meeting, so I called Jace to babysit the ki-”

They both stared at each other.

“JACE LIGHTWOOD HERONDALE!” Magnus’ voice boomed across the park. “DID YOU BREAK ALEC’S COFFEE MAKER?”

Jace was sweating. “Listen, I was gonna say something and then y’all started fighting and it was very awkward, and I was looking for the right time and then Simon came up with this idea and I thought 'hey we haven’t done a fun group activity in a long time and so why not?', ya know?”

Magnus and Alec looked at each other.

“Everybody,” Alec called. “Change of plans. Attack my parabatai.”

“AND SHOW NO MERCY!” Magnus yelled.

[whump-time-babey]

So, it’s been just over eight weeks since I made this blog and I thought I’d do a little update?? Just so I’ve something to pin in place of my first intro

Hello! I’m Tobias!

I post prompts, mostly. Just little dialogue snippets or vague concepts that pop into my head, along with the occasional drabble.

I’m also in the process of making a few whump guide sorta things and I’m looking into making gifs too.

I’m also debating putting some fic on ao3 but,,, we shall see,,,

Oh, and I’m Scottish, so time zones can be a little weird, I apologise for any delays in responses this causes :))

Anyway, love you all and hope y’all are staying safe :00

[adurowrites]

A Percy Weasley Snippet

The lecture hall was quiet, but not perfectly silent. Percy could hear the scratching of quill on parchment, the creak of wooden chairs, and every now and again, a hard exhale as someone met a question they weren’t prepared to answer. 

There were twenty test-takers in the room, Percy included. One proctor sat at the front of the room, the other took slow laps about the room, sometimes muttering revealing charms to ensure no one was cheating. The soft footfalls paused somewhere in the back of the room. To the left, a witch coughed, hoarse and rough and momentarily distracting. Some of the test-takers had put silencing bubbles around their desks, wanting absolute quiet to focus on the exam. Percy preferred the ambient noise of the room. It made him think of Hogwarts, of taking his NEWTs in the Great Hall with the rest of his year. 

For as much as he hadn’t been particularly popular, or even well-liked, Percy had enjoyed his time at Hogwarts. He’d gotten along well-enough with his housemates, but he had found true camaraderie in the Ravenclaws of his year. He’d often wondered why the Hat hadn’t put him in Ravenclaw. He’d asked for it at his Sorting, even though he’d be breaking a family tradition and the thought of disappointing his parents terrified him. But it was the logical choice, and so he’d politely asked to be sorted into Ravenclaw. Apparently it was that request, and his bravery to buck tradition, that had the Hat put him into Gryffindor instead. 

But he was too studious for most of his house, and he’d spent most of his time studying with the Ravenclaws. There wasn’t much conversation, just quiet focus and the sense of belonging. Percy had missed that comfortable atmosphere as he’d been studying for the barrister’s exam. His flat, as cozy as it was, had the tendency to make him feel lonely. He enjoyed peace and quiet, but he also enjoyed company. Rather than sit alone, he’d done most of his studying in the Ministry library, keeping company with the various interns, undersecretaries, and paralegals.

He came to the end of the exam and glanced at the clock. There were four hours allowed for completion, and he’d hoped to save an hour and a half for review. He was behind by fifteen minutes. He grimaced and turned back to the start of the test. 

Just before the three-hour mark, a wizard got up and strode towards the proctor at the front. He handed his parchment over and left with a self-satisfied smile. A witch followed a few minutes later, looking a bit disgruntled. Percy figured she had wanted to be the first to complete the exam. He used play such games with his classmates at Hogwarts. Who was the first to finish? Who could write a paper the fastest? He used to think that finishing first was a sign of intelligence. But as he’d gotten older, he’d realized that taking his time with his work was a sign of maturity and wisdom. After all, the quality of the work was far more important than winning a silly race. 

So Percy stayed in his seat and reviewed his answers with the time remaining. There were only a few others that stayed to the end with him, although they appeared to have lingered out of necessity rather than patience. One witch looked disheveled, her hands twisting at her hair, and another wizard appeared damp with sweat. Or tears, Percy couldn’t tell. They filtered out into the hall where the other test-takers were waiting. The two who had finished first were arguing over a couple of questions, and they’d created quite a debate. 

Percy didn’t join. Instead he grabbed his portfolio from the locker and checked it for any messages. The Ministry knew he was taking his test today, but there were still a couple of work-related messages that had appeared inside - questions about the Minister’s meeting with the court, a few requests for paperwork, and a couple of messages wishing him luck, including one from Minister Fudge himself. 

Percy felt a flush of pleasure at the notice. (Yes, his name was spelled wrong, but Fudge was notoriously bad at names.) The personal note meant that Fudge was indeed considering him for position of Assistant. Now, all Percy needed, was just to have passed the bar. 

He took a seat on the benches along the wall and responded to what questions he could while he waited for the proctors to tally the scores. it only took half-an-hour, and then the door to the lecture hall opened. There was a rush and a minor traffic jam as the other test-takers raced inside. The results would be posted on the blackboard, and Percy felt a wave of nervousness. What if he hadn’t passed? What if the Minister had wished him well, only for Percy to have to re-take it? There was no harm in retaking the exam, of course. Plenty of barristers and government officials did. But Percy had never failed a test in his life.

....Divination didn’t count. 

He got up, hands clutching his portfolio to his chest and slowly walked into the room. He logically understood that he hadn’t failed. He logically knew he’d done well, very well in fact. But what if he’d somehow mixed up his answers? What if he’d forgotten to put his name on the test? What if - ?

The other wizards and witches were crowded around the parchment posted on the board. Some of them were celebrating. Some of them were swearing. All of them turned as he approached, and he saw a myriad of emotions cross their faces as they looked at him. Some were openly envious. Others looked impressed. Some gave him congratulatory smiles. 

“There he is!” the proctor said, stepping forward, his hand outstretched. “It’s not every year we have someone achieve a perfect score. Congratulations, Mr. Weasley.”

Percy automatically shook his hand, his eyes going to the parchment, and there it was. His name at the top, and beside it, a 500, a perfect score. He felt a relieved, incredulous, proud smile spread over his face. 

“With that score, you’ll have your pick of law firms,” the proctor said. “Might you consider Bolgers and Fawcett?” A card was slipped into his hand.

“He’s not going into law,” one of the test-takers said. “He’s in government. Senior Assistant to the Secretary.”

“I know,” said the proctor. He gave Percy a sly sort of smile. “Just in case you’re looking for something more lucrative.”

Bolgers and Fawcett was one of the wealthiest, most powerful law firms in the Wizarding UK. Percy knew the starting salary was easily triple what he was making now. 

He shook his head. “I’m quite satisfied with my current position, thank you.”

“Not if you’re taking the bar,” the proctor said. “You’ve got your sights set a bit higher. Well, when you tire of life as a public servant, let us know.”

“Thank you.”

The proctor left and Percy accepted more congratulations from the test-takers, some given more graciously than others. He responded with his own, and then once he was able, he slipped away, back to the Ministry. He still had work to do. 

He did divert by the Ministry’s owlry to jot down a quick message. I passed the barrister’s. A perfect score!

At another time he might have written more. He might have written about how rare a perfect score was, and that less than a hundred people had ever achieved a perfect 500 in the history of the exam. He might have written about the proctor trying to poach him for Bolgers and Fawcett, or about the test-takers recognizing him. But he knew by now that such additions would only be taken as arrogance. It seemed unfair to him, that only his boastings were considered prideful. In truth, Percy may have been boastful as a child, but he’d been forced to speak out about his achievements because no one else seemed to recognize them, or understand how significant they were. He’d grown up insisting on his own merit, celebrating his own accomplishments, and because of it, he’d been labeled prideful. He’d tried to be quieter about it lately, but it seemed even small comments on his success was enough to considered bragging. 

“Where shall I send it, sir?” the postmaster asked.

“The Bur -,” Percy cut himself off. He remembered the last time he shared such news with his parents. They ignored the message. They were unimpressed. No, worse than unimpressed. They were disapproving. 

His siblings had been happy for him though - they’d gotten him a gift for his office. And his parents had seemed apologetic over Christmas. He could try to reach out again, see if the fences had been mended. 

But if they hadn’t... Percy swallowed hard. It had hurt, when no one knew about his promotion, when his mother and father had kept it secret, like they were ashamed of him. It had felt like he’d done something wrong. It had felt like he didn’t belong. If it happened again... Percy didn’t think he could bear it. 

“Charles Weasley,” Percy said instead. “The Dragon’s Repast, Romania.”

“Very good, sir.”

Percy left, feeling slightly easier at his decision. Charlie wouldn’t ignore the missive. Charlie wouldn’t disapprove. Percy could imagine him, getting the owl and reading the message, and letting out a big whoop of joy for him. Charlie might even tell his friends about it - how his younger brother had gotten a perfect score on the bar exam. And the next time he came to visit, he’d insist on taking Percy out to celebrate. 

Percy nodded. That was enough. As long as he had Charlie, it would be enough. 

-----

(So, I have more head-canon about Percy, but it doesn’t really fit into my fic. I thought I’d plot a bit here on tumblr because I didn’t think it was hefty enough for Ao3, and it was just meant to be a little drabble, a tidbit, a snippet. But it doubled in length and then turned a little angsty at the end. So I may have to put it up on Ao3. 

For those folks confused, this is my interpretation of Percy Weasley from my fanfic series The Code, found on Ao3 and FFN. It’s not really about Percy, but Draco Malfoy and Bill Weasley.)

[themurphyzone]

PatB Oneshot: Every Rose Has Thorns and Petals

Summary: Brain’s plan is simple: create a Valentine card with a message that the world should adore him as their new ruler. But he needs extra help in coming up with a catchy message to rein in the consumers for the outer cover. And who better to help than the expert of all things amour?

AN: I decided to see if I could write a good Suavo. Enjoy! Warning for terribly cheesy flirting. I don’t typically write this genre XD

This borrows from the HC that Pinky can still do the Suavo persona.

Written for Valentine's Day/Suavo Sunday. I regret everything.

AO3 Link

At last, a new plan came to fruition! With Valentine’s Day looming upon them with its chocolate-coated fangs and sickly sweet aroma, people would be flocking to grocery stores everywhere to purchase giant teddy bears they could barely carry around and heart-shaped boxes of gourmet chocolate. But most lucrative of all, they would buy Valentine cards with the most obnoxious lovestruck messages that were far cheesier than Pinky’s cheesecake.

Everything clicked into place. The slightly larger than average dimensions of a Valentine’s card. Various red and pink hues for the envelopes. Colorful images with hearts, roses, and Pinky on the front cover (for Pinky met all of the scientific criteria that triggered one’s protective instincts). And on the inside, an image of Brain standing on the world in royal regalia with a message declaring that all the world shall adore him as their new leader.

But there was a single, glaring flaw to his otherwise brilliant plan.

He could not come up with a ridiculous phrase for the outside cover. It had to be eye-catching, humorous, or corny enough to grab a customer’s attention. He stared at the smiling picture of Pinky for several minutes, then gave in.

Pinky was the expert in all things ridiculous after all.

“Life is the road I wanna keep going! Love is a river and I wanna keep going ooonnnn!” Pinky sang along to his playlist, leading a Barbie doll in a tender waltz.

And it was best to interrupt before Pinky’s playlist reached My Heart Will Go On. That sappy 90s love ballad was on there. He was not striking the King of the World pose until he was actually king of the world, but that assertion hadn’t gotten through Pinky’s cotton-stuffed head yet.

Brain grabbed the prototype card and pencil, marching up to the windowsill where Pinky and Barbie danced under the evening sky. The sun lowered, the moon rose, and the first twinkling stars poked out, signifying the beginning of another night.

The phone was propped against a wall, and Brain smacked the image of Anastasia and Dmitri dancing to stop the song as he passed by. Pinky continued to hum, dipping Barbie low enough that her blonde hair touched the windowsill. His eyes were half-lidded, tail swishing to an invisible beat. Though there was no music, his rhythm was steady and his feet never missed a step.

It was mesmerizing. Pinky danced with all the grace of a professional ballerina.

He pricked his finger on a sharp point of the prototype card, and the poke brought Brain back to reality. Right. No distractions.

“Hiya, Brain! Zort!”

Dear Archimedes there were otherworldly blue eyes right in front of his face.  

Startled, Brain leapt back and swung his pencil defensively. There was a muffled narf as the eraser end went into Pinky’s mouth. Once the initial shock passed, Pinky giggled and nibbled on the eraser, several rubbery shavings poking out between his teeth.  

Brain took a deep breath, trying to calm his too-fast heartbeat.

“Quit slobbering on my erasers, Pinky,” Brain snapped. He removed his pencil from Pinky’s mouth, wrinkling his nose at the saliva-coated eraser. He tossed it aside, and the pencil skittered across the counter and onto the floor.

“But they taste so good!” Pinky licked his lips. “Especially with a pinch of dryer lint. That way you get fluff and chewiness in one single fantastic bite!”

Sometimes he truly worried for the state of Pinky’s digestive tract. For now, it was best to change the topic entirely. “As much as I’d love to debate the intricacies of your exotic cuisine, I require some of your eccentric expertise for my latest plan,” Brain said, setting the prototype card on the counter.

Pinky’s tail and ears perked up. A predictable reaction, but reliable all the same.

While Pinky put Barbie away, Brain retrieved a new pencil. There were few writing utensils that weren’t chewed up by a bored employee or Pinky for fun, and it wouldn’t be long before Brain would have to acquire more.

“I gotta help Brain now, Barbie. Thanks for sharing a dance with me! Those ballroom dance classes are really paying off!” Pinky chirped, waving to the inanimate Barbie, who now sat in a pink plastic convertible next to a shirtless Ken doll. He peeked inside the card and clasped his hands together, holding them against his cheek dreamily. “Awww, Brain! This is gonna be so romantic!”

“The very atmosphere I intend to create with these mass-produced cards, Pinky,” Brain replied. “However, while I have all the elements of your typical Valentine card alongside an additional message that will aid us in our conquest, I haven’t worked out one essential component yet.”

He closed the card and tapped the empty speech bubble next to Pinky’s image.

Pinky tilted his head. “You haven’t figured out how to make single people buy your cards yet?”

Drat. He hadn’t considered those outliers.

“Then we’ll just have to infiltrate the postal service,” Brain said, mentally congratulating himself on correcting that error quickly. “But before we implement the plan, I need a Valentine phrase for this speech bubble. A saying that will entice the average infatuated consumer and hook them into purchasing my cards alone. And since you lean heavily toward the sentimental and saccharine…well, this is where I require your assistance.”

“The sentimental and the saccharine?” Pinky echoed. “I don’t think I’ve heard of that soap opera, Brain. What channel is it on?”

Brain opened his notebook and found an empty page, poised to jot down Pinky’s suggestions. “The real life channel. Don’t be concerned about missing it, Pinky. It’s on 24/7 all year long. But I digress. The sooner I find a phrase, the sooner we’ll have the world!”

Pinky tapped his foot in thought, the tip of his tongue poking out like he truly believed protruding tongues had the power to magically grant ideas. For all Brain knew, Pinky probably believed that.

Then Pinky snapped his fingers. “I got it! How ‘bout ‘be mine, valentine’?”

“Too cliché,” Brain muttered. A million Valentine cards would already have similar phrasing. They didn’t have time to seize control of a greeting card factory. “Not unique enough.”

Although the valentine bit wasn’t particularly directed toward him, his grip on the pencil slackened, the tip leaving a graphite smudge along the margins. He quickly turned the pencil around and erased it, hoping Pinky didn’t catch onto his brief moment of inattention.  

Fortunately, Pinky didn’t notice. “Alrighty then. Hmmm…you’re the sour cream to my cheese-slathered potato?”

“…I’ll save it for a last resort.”

Well, he asked for unique. But sour cream didn’t particularly invoke strong Valentine feelings. Idioms that involved sweet foods with enough sugar to induce diabetes in an elephant would be better, and he made a quick note to the side.

“I turtle-y adore you?” Pinky suggested, his blue eyes sparkling accordingly.

Brain felt a light blush settling over his cheeks, and he rubbed his fur to rid himself of the mortifying feeling. “Doesn’t match your picture. And no animal puns unless they involve mice.”

Pinky rubbed his chin, not one to be easily deterred. “There’s gotta be some good ones on the Internet.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Pinky,” Brain sighed. He sat cross-legged on the counter, massaging his forehead to intercept any headaches before they began. “Figured we should’ve gone with the photobooth plan. It’s your fault for influencing my subconscious with your caterwauling over The Princess Bride’s movie adaptation.”

“Troz! I’ll have you know Princess Buttercup and Westley have great chemistry!” Pinky pouted.

Brain rolled his eyes. “Please. They’re about as compatible as two noble gases.”

Pinky went quiet after that. Whether he’d gone off into the imaginary world of talking cheeses or taken unusually great offense on the lead couple’s behalf, Brain wasn’t sure. But the silence obliged, and Brain took the opportunity to ponder their next course of action.

Take a risk and use one of Pinky’s earlier suggestions? Scrap the plan entirely and pull one from storage? Seek a second opinion?  

Then Pinky gasped, his tail pointing high in the air like an inverted exclamation point.

“Brain, are you pondering what I’m pondering?” Pinky asked, gripping Brain’s shoulders in excitement.

Brain leaned back, supporting himself on the palms of his hands. “We break out the Feldman disguises and ask Mr. Sultana for his opinion on what a hypothetical Valentine card should say?”

“I’m sure he’s got a bunch of good ones, but that’s not it,” Pinky said. “Actually, I oughta slip into something more…in-character. I’ll be right back!”

Pinky skipped away, humming as he went over to his dress-up box in the corner of their cage. He pulled a divider around himself so that all Brain could see was a shadowy silhouette rummaging through clothing and accessories.

Brain continued to ponder, though no feasible ideas were coming to him. He closed his eyes, shutting out all visual forms of distraction. He listened to Pinky dressing in the cage, but it was more white noise than a true hindrance.

Five minutes later, he still had nothing. But there was something…different.

A tantalizing scent. Not overly sharp, though just light enough that he couldn’t identify it with confidence. And he wanted to know more.

It wasn’t fruit or soap. Nor was it vanilla, like the scented candles Pinky loved so much.

Something smooth snaked its way under his nose, brushing the fur above his lips. The scent was closer now. His nose twitched.

“ACHOO!”

Startled by the force of his sudden sneeze, Brain’s eyes flew open. He rubbed his nose to wipe off the lingering sensation, staring down at Pinky’s long tail, which sat unassumingly in his lap. The tip was wrapped around the stem of a small red rose.

The tail lifted, rubbing against the fur under Brain’s chin. Brain felt his cheeks heat up again, and he quickly batted the offending appendage away.

“Pinky, you’re not helping my state of-“ Brain began, ready to launch into a verbal tirade on how he needed to think and if Pinky wasn’t going to help then he could make like a mitotic cell and split…and then he saw a very familiar, perhaps all too-familiar, lavender tuxedo with an overstuffed dark purple…something underneath.

He couldn’t tell if it was a shirt, vest, or pincushion. A gold button glinted in the middle of Pinky’s chest.

Gulping, Brain knew the mysterious article of clothing was the least of his concerns. He forced himself to look up, gaze raking past the slender neck and toward half-lidded, coy blue eyes. A sophisticated mustache poked out from each side of Pinky’s muzzle. And he was genteel, charismatic…

Suave.  

Pinky’s ability to play a character to perfection never ceased to astound him. He still remembered? Brain had long destroyed the Personalitron and its blueprints, deeming them unnecessary and cumbersome.

“Pardonnez-moi, you with the giant head and marshmallow body are seeking the passionate advice of I, the great Pinky…Suavvvo-“ he drawled every syllable with that odd French accent, r’s rolling off his tongue like smooth butter “-for your…ah, Saint Valentine card, no?”  

Fu—choose your words wisely—I mean, dear name of a historical contributor to the scientific or mathematical field who I can’t identify properly at this time.

“I fail to see how playing dress-up is going to help with this conundrum, Pinky Suavo.” Brain stood up and crossed his arms. He wasn’t about to let the Suavo persona sway him. He was the Brain, and he bowed to no one.

Exert control over the situation. Yes. That’s what he needed.

Suavo plucked the rose from his tail between two practiced fingers, inhaling its scent deeply. Where did he even get that rose from? The lab wasn’t growing flora for any reason, nor did any scientist have the green thumb to care for anything so fragile.

“Oh, but love is always…how did you say, a conundrum, is it not?” he purred, and Brain scowled. But Suavo was unperturbed. “One may pluck the petals from a pretty flower and ask if one loves or loves not, yet how will one know if they ask the flower and not the lover? Oh, I do not know.”

His voice dipped into a lower, softer register, and a strange sensation traveled up Brain’s spine. Though the riddle seemed directed at him, he wasn’t in the mood to unravel any cryptic meanings.

Just like before, Suavo’s magnetism was…hypnotizing. Like he had no choice but to do what Pinky Suavo said. And wasn’t that ironic? He, the Brain, as the hapless follower instead of the commanding leader.

Suavo appeared oblivious to Brain’s internal dilemma. He simply set the rose back into his tail and twirled one curled end of the mustache around his finger, humming a dreamy, sentimental song to himself. He was waiting on Brain in the most irritating fashion possible.

But if he wanted this plan to work, he’d just have to tolerate Pinky’s attempt at resolving his predicament.

“Pinky Suavo,” Brain sighed, forcing all his pride back. Suavo turned to him, his eyes still in that odd half-lidded position. “Is that overstuffed pincushion actually giving you ideas for the card?”

“Of course, mon ami.” Suavo slicked his ears and fur tuft back with a smooth, graceful stroke of his hand. “For it is he, who is I, who is the connoisseur of…ammooooouuuur.”

Brain grabbed his notepad and pencil, his stomach doing odd backflips like butterflies had somehow burrowed their way into his flesh and laid eggs there. He was not paying attention to Suavo’s hand movements. No, the eye was just naturally drawn to movement. That’s how it worked.

Besides, he was looking at the same being who once managed to get all his fingers and tail tangled up in a complicated cat’s cradle.

Suavo clicked his tongue, deftly plucking the items out of Brain’s grip. “No, no, you silly mouse. You cannot experience amour through pen and paper alone. You must feel it, see it, hear it. For it is everywhere and anywhere you search…if only you would use those big ears of yours.”

Brain gritted his teeth and jumped for his supplies, but Suavo simply held them out of reach with one long arm. All Brain could manage was a tiny hop. It wasn’t getting him anywhere.

So he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax.

“I’m listening, Pinky Suavo,” Brain said, hoping he sounded at least a little cordial. “I believe the colloquial is, I’m all ears?”

A pleased smile flitted across Suavo’s face, his arm lowering.

Perfect.

Then Brain threw himself forward, digging his hands and feet into Suavo’s clothing and hauling himself towards the notepad and pencil. Fortunately, it wasn’t hard to grip. Suavo stumbled a bit, but he refused to yield. Brain grabbed a fabric fold on Suavo’s right shoulder. He was so close-

-and a red nose pushed into his own. Warm, mint-scented breath tickled the fur on his face.

“You know, it is more, ah, polite to take a mouse to dinner before you begin climbing him, is it not?” Suavo crooned.

Brain’s ears flopped against his back, a warm sensation sweeping through his body. His clammy paws lost their grip on Suavo’s clothing, and he would’ve fallen entirely if Suavo’s free arm hadn’t wrapped around his waist and secured him with a strong yet gentle grip.

In hindsight, perhaps his attempt at reclaiming his belongings was ill-thought out.

Perhaps it was for the best that the arm was covered by fabric, but at the same time, some irrational thought of wanting Pinky’s fur against his own wormed its way into his mind.  

Suavo set the notepad and pen down with care, dipping Brain in the process. Brain clutched the fabric tightly, but it was unnecessary. Suavo’s embrace was strong enough to prevent him from landing on his head. Then Suavo straightened up, once again plucking the rose from his tail and holding it next to Brain.  

“Oh, now this is…magnifique,” Suavo murmured, his eyes darting from the rose to Brain’s face. Though Brain tried to maintain eye contact to make his displeasure known, his resolve was quickly crumbling away. Surely it was the close proximity, the thumb stroking his fur, that was picking apart all rational thought and leaving some hormone-driven creature behind?

“What?” Brain asked, and he inwardly cringed. His voice wasn’t working properly. He’d meant to sound more demanding than that pathetic excuse of a question.

“Your eyes, mon ami, are just a few shades lighter this rose,” Suavo said. Brain stared at him in disbelief. Comparing eyes to flowers, or worse, gemstones, was just ridiculous.

And your comparison of Pinky’s aesthetically pleasing eyes to the wild blue yonder above isn’t?

Brain ignored the contemptuous voice. That was completely different. The sky was neither a flower nor a gemstone, and therefore it wasn’t off-limits. Besides, it was a thought for him and him alone. It’s not like anyone else was going to hear it.

“You are but a deer mouse in the headlights. Yet there is no need to hide under a thorny layer,” Suavo hummed, tilting his head curiously. Deliberately. How strange. Even the slightest movement was mesmerizing. His fingers traveled up the flower stem, until his hand rested underneath the petals, supporting the tiny rose in the palm of his hand. “A rosebush may scratch and prick, yet the great Pinky Suavo cannot be swayed. For there’s a pretty bloom hidden in the darkness, and he is who moi shall…shall…NARF!”

Shocked by the return of the nonsensical exclamation, Brain lost his hold on Pinky Suavo’s clothing. He fell onto the counter surface with a pained groan. The hard material wasn’t doing wonders for the bends in his tail.

Something fluttered against his nose, causing Brain to sneeze again. He removed the offending object, and found himself staring down at the rose he’d been teased with. If he ignored the heavy-handed rose imagery Suavo kept spouting, it was rather adequate for a specimen.

“Narf! Zort! Poit! Egad!” Pinky laughed uncontrollably between his usual tics, uttering them at such a fast rate that they started to blend together like a tongue twister. “Ooh, I haven’t—troz! Haven’t said narf in a long time! But it’s poit—it’s okay cause you needed my help!”

Idiot.

Brain sighed and pushed himself to a standing position, then placed the rose on his notepad so Pinky could reclaim it later.

Now that he thought about it, Pinky hadn’t said any of his favorite syllables in his Suavo persona. Of course, they’d been replaced by stupid love poetry and gratuitous French, but the narfs and poits and zorts were rather refreshing.

Odd. He never thought he’d actually miss Pinky’s…unique diction.

“Pinky, were you actively suppressing your usual speech patterns in your strange form of assistance?” Brain asked. He couldn’t help his curiosity.

“Zort! Oh Brain, I’m not nearly as good as suppressing things like you are!” Pinky’s chortles continued as Brain grabbed his wrist and led him straight to the water bottle in their cage. “Besides—narf! Besides, I had to stay in character!”

“Remind me to never have you play a villain for any future plans revolving around cinema,” Brain grumbled.

Pinky’s tail happily flicked against Brain’s own. Though the imbecile was just swishing it around mindlessly, the brief physical contact suddenly brought back that very odd, warm sensation.

Curse this heightened sensitivity! It’s only a principle of thermodynamics and heat transfer!  

“Brain, are you okay? Poit,” Pinky asked as Brain made him sit down in front of the water bottle. “You’re all woozy and whirlywindy. And white and red all over like a newspaper!”

“I’m f-fine,” Brain said. He was absolutely not relying on Pinky for balance. “Just drink, Pinky. And take off those silly clothes when you’re done.”

Pinky stared, not comprehending anything Brain said, but that was normal for him. Then he started to laugh, and only then did Brain realize he needed to watch his word choice, especially around a certain someone, because of course his fluff-filled mind would misconstrue it.

“Not like that!” Brain spat.

Pinky tipped onto his back, legs kicking upwards as his high-pitched laughter continued to assault Brain’s ears.

For the sake of his own sanity, he left Pinky to his own devices and stormed over to the nearest sink. He pushed on the tap for cold water until he’d created his own miniature waterfall, then hopped right in. He welcomed the cascade over his body.

As long as it pushed his homeostasis in the opposite direction, he was fine with resembling a drowned rat for now.

o-o-o-o-o

The plan failed before it ever took off. Brain had been so distracted that he’d failed to notice the lab was completely out of colored ink, rendering the copy machines completely useless.

He’d gone with the ‘you’re the sour cream to my potatoes’ message for the front cover, formatting it into the speech bubble in an elegant cursive font. Though it wasn’t conventional by any means, he simply considered it again since no other suggestions were forthcoming.

But at the same time, part of him wasn’t keen on allowing the masses to lay eyes on the Valentine card.

It seemed special. Unexplainably so.

“Brain?” Pinky called. His verbal tics had long gone back to their normal frequency. “Aren’t we taking over the world tonight?”

Brain shook his head, relieved that he finally had control over his body again. “Not tonight, Pinky. I’m afraid I’ve been prematurely thwarted by the lack of inventory in this lab.”

“Oh, you don’t have to be afraid, Brain,” Pinky said. Gone were Suavo’s clothing and mustache, and Pinky’s lean, muscular arms were on full display as he folded them across his chest. “I’ll protect you from Tory.”

It was an unnecessary gesture, but Brain couldn’t help but be touched by the admission all the same. Brain made a show of carefully placing the card into storage, just so he could distract himself momentarily.  

When he finished his task, he found Pinky holding an elegant paper rose, crafted meticulously with purple tissue paper. A light blush settled over Brain’s cheeks as he accepted the gift from Pinky, whose blue eyes shone brightly as Brain ran his fingers over the soft petals.

“Thank you, Pinky,” Brain said gratefully, and he resisted the urge to rush off immediately and place the paper rose with his globe keychain, another gift from his dearest friend.

“You’re welcome!” Pinky smiled, and Brain’s heart beat faster. Then Pinky’s gaze flicked to the TV screen, and Brain figured he was about to be roped into watching a cheesy love story unfold. “Brain, can we watch Beauty and the Beast please? With those special Valentine M&M’s and chocolate-coated popcorn? I saw a whole bunch in the kitchen! Narf!”  

Well…he could’ve suggested worse. At least this one was tolerable.

And it’s been a while since they’d watched a movie together.  

“Get everything set up, Pinky,” Brain ordered. “I’ll join you when I’m finished with my own tasks.”

Pinky saluted and scampered into the kitchen, grabbing the rose he’d held in his Suavo persona along the way. He sang at the top of his lungs, though he’d forgotten most of the actual words and replaced them with a series of narfs and portmanteaus. Once Pinky was sufficiently distracted, Brain moved his notepad and pen over to the TV, then laid the paper rose over it.

He heard the crinkle of a bag followed by the sound of M&M’s being poured into a bowl. Pinky would be back any minute.

Brain knocked his head against the side of a wall.

Calm yourself. Pinky believes pebbles are precious gifts. You’ll be fine. Probably.

Slowly, he approached the drawer where he’d kept his hidden present. Sifting through several sheets of paper covered with complex formulas he’d deliberately placed in there to ward off Pinky, he found the sunflower pen he’d carefully hidden towards the back.

It wasn’t exactly…traditional for a Valentine’s gift. Simple blue ink with a green body and tipped with a bright yellow sunflower.

But it was bright. And colorful. Like Pinky.

More importantly, it was practical.

Brain’s ears twitched, and he heard the whirring of the VCR as Pinky popped in the movie. Brain debated leaving the pen and presenting it after the movie, but he didn’t want to procrastinate either. Otherwise it would be impossible to enjoy their activity.

Well, he could just drop it in Pinky’s lap. And snatch up some popcorn so his actions wouldn’t be too conspicuous. He climbed out of the drawer, holding the pen behind his back.

A preview for The Little Mermaid began to play. Pinky was enraptured by the animated marine animals. He seemed so happy.

Maybe he should reconsider. Valentine items would be discounted next week. He could just hold off and give a belated…what was he thinking? Valentine’s was just another day to turn profit!

The paper rose was sitting right there. No…Valentine’s meant something to Pinky. Like Christmas.

“Goody, you’re back, Brain!” Pinky cheered, stuffing two pink M&M’s into his mouth. The large bowl beside him was overflowing with chocolate. “It’s not raining inside, but I love your parasol! Where’d you buy it?”

A parasol?

He glanced up at the sunflower. Oh. So there was a resemblance to a parasol, he supposed. If one viewed it at a certain angle, that is.

“It’s a pen. Not a parasol. Take it,” Brain said, holding out the sunflower pen.

Pinky didn’t take it.

Instead, he made a joyful noise and crushed Brain with a flying embrace. Brain dropped the pen in surprise as Pinky’s entire body curled around him, feet off the ground. Brain had to support all his weight, Pinky’s warm fur brushing against his own.

“I love it! Loveitloveitloveit! Thanks, Brain!” Pinky squealed, happy tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“You’re welcome, Pinky,” Brain murmured as Pinky nuzzled his cheek. “Now get off. I require my lungs. And heart. And my digestive system.”

Pinky didn’t get off until the Disney fanfare to herald the beginning of the movie began to play. Then he quieted down immediately, rolling the sunflower pen so that it rested across his lap.

“…happy Valentine’s Day,” Brain whispered, nibbling on a red M&M.

Pinky smiled back, teeth flecked with bits of chocolate. He shushed Brain, not wanting him to interrupt the opening narration.

As the enchanted rose appeared onscreen, Brain stroked the soft tissue paper of Pinky’s beautiful creation. Then he set it aside and reached for some popcorn.

His world was here. And there was nothing more he wanted.

Fun fact: the original name for this fic was going to be Suavo Valentino, but the current title was a last minute change cause somehow I just wrote a lot about roses.

Another change: The Princess Bride bit was originally a dig at High School Musical and how Disney Channel has bad romance in general, but since that was mid 2000s I changed it so this story could reasonably fit in the 90s.

Suavo’s lines...were interesting. I couldn’t stop laughing at how dumb some of them were though.

Brain’s got it bad here. Save him.

Are the roses corny? Yes. Do I care? Not really. Maybe. Possibly.

[harmony88]

Okay so I saw your post yesterday from journey's end where you said something about how the Doctor wants to snog Rose when she says she built the dimension cannon to come back to him and I just want to read your take on that PRETTY PLEASE!

Oh, anon! How lovely if this had been reality! Let's just say it is. Ask and you shall receive :) Also put this on Ao3 (I'm sure its been done before but this was too fun)

He knew hugging her was going to feel like coming up for air. The amount of times he’d imagined this moment was astronomical and overwhelming, and even so, he was entirely unprepared for what it would feel like to actually hold her again.

He’d come up with a million scenarios. Dreams about falling into the parallel world by accident and scooping her back up and then escaping with mad laughter, holding hands just as the walls were sealing off again; visions of somehow finding her on a beach in this reality with her hair smelling of sea salt and sand. In those, he would wrap her up in a hug that made them both dizzy, and of course, he'd spent an absurd about of time coming up with silly daydreams of just casually stumbling across her in a coffee shop, making some flirtatious comment  that was much too simple for the heartache they had both been through.

Not entirely unlike what he'd said to her today, he supposed, as he had laid dying in her arms.

Long time no see.

It had been far too long. But, by some miracle or utter cleverness, here she was. Her chest was pressed against his, her lips were on his shoulder, kissing him and also breathing him in, and he just held her. The very thought of letting go was more than his hearts or soul could bear, so he didn’t, instead he opened his eyes and looked at Donna, who was giving him a coy smile full of relief and joy. So much swam between their eyes in that single look, and he knew without her having to say that she was thinking about that day so long ago, standing in a wedding dress, watching him try not to cry.

And he knew that right now, she was bloody happy for him.

Her name was Rose.

“I missed you,” he said without meaning to Rose's ear, and his eyes pulled away from Donna to look at her as she loosened her grip around his neck. He swallowed hard, because she was already too far away again and he was already falling, losing himself to her sweet honey scent and beautiful eyes, and the longer he looked at her the harder it was to imagine they’d been apart for as long as they had.

He didn’t know how he’d survived, and he refused to even think about having to go through it all again, not when she was finally here, and when her hands came to rest on his chest directly over his hearts, Jack averted his eyes, noticing the way the Doctor’s eyes seemingly widened.

"I'm starving," he said, looking at Donna. "And if we have to keep fighting today, we should -"

"Right, yeah, we should," Donna said, but neither Rose nor the Doctor noticed when they left and headed to the galley. They were just staring at each other, and when he exhaled her name, his breath brushed her cheek.

“Rose….”

“I missed you, too,” she whispered, and he nodded, smiling a little at her before he pulled her back into a hug, and this time he realized they weren’t being watched. So his hands, which he’d made sure to keep on her upper back before, fell to her waist, forcing her breathing to hitch a little, a sensation he could hear just as much as he could feel, and it was intoxicating. “I missed you so much.”

He stayed silent, but his lips pressed onto her hair, and his fingers debated about slipping under her shirt and her leather jacket, but the moment he realized that's what she was wearing a sense of dread filled his entire body, and he let out a shaky breath when he decided to keep them where they were. “Do me a favor?” he asked quietly, and she nodded. “When this is over, I want you to throw away every single leather jacket you own.”

“What?” she asked, pulling back a little and raising her eyebrow at him. “Why?”

“It reminds me of...saying goodbye,” he said softly, wearing his hearts on his sleeve for the first time in years and he found himself utterly terrified by it. But she just bit her lip and cupped his cheek, and she looked down at her jacket.

“Funny,” she began. “It reminded me of you.”

His face softened, and when her eyes looked up to his, there was a tenderness in them that was making his breathing feel sharp and painful. He just let his Adam’s apple bob as he tried to accept those words, and she stepped closer to him, her eyes never leaving his face as he brushed his hand across her arm, feeling the tangible evidence that she was here, in the flesh and in leather, and he fought the urge to kiss her forehead.

He lost, and before he knew it he was tasting her skin, savoring the sweet concoction that was Rose and sweat, and her hips buckled into his. She let out the smallest moan when she did and his hearts began to speed up, and suddenly she felt too far away again.

He touched the leather jacket, and they both remembered.

You were fantastic. And do you know what?

“Doctor…”

“Rose…”

So was I.

They were so close, so beautifully close, and he started to lean down, ready to kiss her, ready to just give in because he was simply tired of fighting this and he supposed there was some truth to that stupid saying about how distance makes the heart grow fonder, when the TARDIS sounded an alarm and everyone’s attention snapped to the console. He grabbed her hand, not about to not touch her, and they ran over to take a look at what was going on. Jack and Donna were there, too, and whether or not they actually ate their snacks or had been listening at the door like petty teenagers didn’t matter at all as they read the readings, and Jack stiffened.

“What the hell?” he asked.

“Something is looking for us," the Doctor said.

“There’s a massive Dalek ship at the center of the planet,” Jack said, looking at the screen. “They’re calling it the crucible. I guess that’s our destination.”

Rose and the Doctor shared a glance, but Donna was trying to play catch up, and she looked back down at the controls. “You said these planets were like an engine. But what for?”

“Rose,” the Doctor said, a thrill running through him completely at the fact that he was able to do that and look at her face while he did. She bit her lip, probably thinking the same thing. “You’ve been in a parallel world -”

He made sure to smile with his eyes at her at the word ‘been’, because it was the past, and it wasn’t true anymore, because here she was, perfect and pink and yellow and in the damn flesh, and she smirked a little, realizing that was a game he was going to continue to play and she was certain of it. He’d make it light hearted and fun, of course, but she knew and he knew that really, he would say it as a reminder that he wasn’t dreaming.

She squeezed his hand.

“That world is running ahead of this universe. You’ve seen the future. What was it?” he asked.

“The stars were going out,” Donna told him instead, remembering suddenly, and Rose glanced over at her. She nodded.

“One by one,” she added. “We looked up at the sky and they were just...dying.”

He stared at her, waiting for her to continue, and she began to look at her feet. She couldn’t wait to tell him this, she'd thought about it so much, but she wanted to do it alone, and right now they had...well….a few too many people. But he needed to know and time was running out, so sod it.

“Basically we’ve been building this, erm. This travel machine...This, dimension cannon, so...well - so that I could…” she tried to say, but she could feel Donna and Jack’s eyes on her and it made her hesitate. The Doctor’s eyes darted to her lips before they found her eyes, and his face was hard to read, though there was the ghost of a smile tugging on his lips.

“What?” he whispered.

He needed to hear her say it.

“So I could come back,” she mused, and he gave her a classic grin, full of teeth and his clicked jaw, and she couldn’t help but notice the way his hand found hers again. He hummed happily as she rolled her eyes, because they could both feel the flirty banter lingering in the air. She bit her lip as he continued to smile like an idiot at her. “Shut up.”

She was teasing, but her voice became a little breathier than it had been, the way he was looking at her was simply too much, and his smile fell, his tongue tapping the back of his teeth as he suddenly had this hungry look in his eyes that she’d never quite seen before, and she stopped breathing when he spoke next.

“Make me.”

His hearts were pounding, and her face, which was a little shocked at first, suddenly became determined, and neither cared nor remembered that Jack and Donna were there as she grabbed his lapels and pulled him to her. He wasted no time. She was lonliness' remedy, the thing he craved more than the air in his lungs, and his mouth was on hers before he could process it.

She cried out when he pushed her against the controls, tongues lapping and hands cradling her waist like they were before, only this time his fingers slipped beneath her shirt, dancing on her skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps behind them, and Jack stared in shock. Donna blushed and then turned away, walking over to Jack and making him step aside as well, because they both heard the panting that was starting to stir from both of them, and they figured if the world was ending, they should at least get this.

So they slipped back into the other room for as long as they could.

“Up,” the Doctor groaned.

“What?” she gasped, shuddering when his lips found her neck.

“Your legs. Put them up. On the seat,” he ordered, nipping a little at her. She laughed and kissed him, but she did what he said and groaned when he suddenly rubbed her in just the right spot with his thigh, and that leather jacket they’d debated about was being unzipped. "Oh, I missed you."

“Doctor,” she whined, and he just nodded.

“I’m right here,” he whispered. “I'm not going anywhere.”

She nodded, letting herself be spellbound for another moment, but her eyes caught sight of the monitor and she tried to pull away.

“We have….the planets, we -” she tried to say, but his lips were on hers again, and he sucked on her bottom lip. She whimpered.

"So?" he whispered, and she sighed.

“We can’t...not right now, we -”

“Yes we can,” he growled. “We can. I don’t care. I want you. I don't want to have to wait, the universe always makes us wait and I'm tired of it.”

Her jacket was nearly pulled completely off as his kisses grew more frantic, hot and wet and needy and full of so much guilt, perhaps. Guilt for losing her, guilt for not finding her first, and she rocked into him, making him cry her name as he slammed his hands on the console.

But the TARDIS still had her wits about her, and just as they began to tear each other's clothes off, making it so his suit coat was completely unbuttoned, she shifted and threw them both to the ground.

Rose winced when her shoulder hit the grating and he looked at her worriedly. His pants had a bulge that hadn’t been there a moment ago, but before they could yell at the TARDIS or resume what they were doing, the Old Girl jolted again, and he pulled Rose to his chest.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yeah, you?” she said, and he nodded, standing up and helping her to do the same. Donna and Jack were back in the room, looking a little nervous, and everyone knew the storm was getting closer.

“In that parallel world, you said something about me,” Donna whispered, looking at Rose. The Doctor looked at Jack, who was smirking and pointed down to his pants, and he just made a face.

“Don’t start,” he muttered, and Jack just beamed.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he teased, but Rose was looking at Donna carefully, and when she slipped her hand out of the Doctor’s to walk to her, he panicked.

“Rose, come here,” he said, unable to stop himself, and she stepped back so her side was touching his.

“The dimension cannon could measure timelines -” she began, and the Doctor gave her an adoring smile, wanting to ask her so many questions about it he could hardly stand it. She just nudged his side. “It’s weird, Donna, but they all seemed to converge on you.”

“But why me?” she gasped, “What have I ever done? I’m a temp from Chiswick!”

The TARDIS jolted again, knocking them all down, and the Doctor’s hands were securely on Rose’s waist as they stood back up. His hearts were pounding, and they all stared at the door. The scanner beeped.

“The Dalek Crucible,” he whispered, and for good measure, he kissed Rose’s hair. “All aboard.”

He looked at the hand in the box for a fraction of a second as they headed toward the door, because he’d seen a version of this timeline that he was just desperately hoping was not about to come true. But if it did, he'd try to be okay with that.

He'd try.

[wangxiangiftexchange]

Winter Solstice Gift for moonanstars124

The request was for fluff, found family, annoying the extended family, and AU coffee shop vibes (which I took extremely literally). I had a lot of fun writing this (my first actual coffee shop AU!) and I hope you enjoy it @moonanstars124!

Read on AO3

*****

The Burial Grounds

“Is there even a point in telling you what I want?” Jin Zixuan asks. “As you’ve never once made what I ordered.”

Wei Wuxian beams at him. “Of course! It gives me direction. A genre, if you will.”

“You do have a specific listing for a surprise drink.” Jin Zixuan resettles a-Ling on his hip. “If I wanted that, don’t you think I’d have ordered it?”

“Well, no,” Wei Wuxian explains reasonably. He reaches across the counter and pats the baby’s cheek. “If you wanted to get what you ordered, you’d have asked Wen Ning to make it.” Wen Ning turns from where he is setting up the soup tureen to shrug in apologetic agreement.

Jin Zixuan sighs deeply. “Someday I’m going to stop tipping you.”

“You can do that on the day that you don’t like what I make you,” Wei Wuxian informs him. “I mean, you won’t, because ajie would never stay married to someone who didn’t tip. But I would understand if you considered it.”

Lan Wangji half-listens to the exchange from his corner table. It is a familiar one, enough so to be pleasant background noise without distracting too much from his book. When the proper disruption comes, it is neither unexpected nor unwelcome, as it happens every morning around this time. He has already closed his book and moved his empty cup to make room for the small chalkboard that appears in front of him.

“Spicy vegetable for the soup,” Wei Wuxian announces, flinging himself down in the other chair. It is not yet nine in the morning, and he already looks happily tired. Lan Wangji nods and wipes the board clean—perhaps not strictly necessary, but if he redoes the borders, Wei Wuxian will sit with him for longer and take a proper break. “White chocolate and cranberry scones, because ajie loves us very much. And...hm. I’ll do a blueberry mint lemonade today, I think. Do we have blueberries?”

This last is for Wen Ning, who sets down Wei Wuxian’s coffee, Lan Wangji’s refill, and a plate with two of the aforementioned scones. “We do,” Wen Ning confirms. “But they’ll go moldy soon, so you should use them up.”

“Perfect.” Wen Ning smiles at both of them and returns to the counter. Wei Wuxian leans back in his chair, stretches his legs full-length, and looks around the coffee shop with satisfaction. One of his ankles comes to rest against Lan Wangji’s. Without looking up from the chalkboard, Lan Wangji puts his free hand on the table. Wei Wuxian laces their fingers together and dips a scone in his drink.

This is how mornings have gone nearly every day for a few years now. Wen Ning arrives early to open; Wei Wuxian staggers down from the apartment upstairs after being prodded awake by Lan Wangji, who claims his table and reads as the coffee shop comes to life around him. Jin Zixuan arrives at some point, bearing the day’s soup and pastries from Lotus Pier Cafe and often as not a dinner invitation for all of them from Jiang Yanli. Lan Wangji earns his coffee by writing out the day’s specials; Wei Wuxian seizes the opportunity to sit down for as long as it takes him to complete the task. Then Lan Wangji gives his table over to the morning rush and goes to work himself. Cloud Recesses Books is close enough to walk to in good weather, and he gets there in time to open. When the coffeeshop closes at three, Wei Wuxian wanders over and spends the rest of the afternoon doing his own reading or debating with Lan Qiren. It is a pleasant routine, and Lan Wangji sometimes has to stop and wonder at how happy he is.

There has been a coffee shop here for decades, under one owner or another, but the Jiangs bought it only three years ago. Lan Wangji remembers perfectly the first time he visited it after that. It was Lan Xichen’s idea to see what the new management had done with the place, and they went for lunch the first month after it reopened. “‘The Burial Grounds?’” Lan Xichen reads, pausing outside the door. “Interesting name choice.”

“After the Burial Mounds, presumably,” Lan Wangji points out. “The nature preserve outside the city.”

“Ah,” his brother says. “Naturally.”

Despite the name, the inside is entirely pleasant: walls repainted to brighten the space, spider plants hanging in the windows, a detailed menu in plain neat lettering on the chalkboard above the counter, specials in the same writing on a smaller one by the pastry case. “They must outsource their food,” Lan Xichen observes, nodding at the familiar lotus image. “The Jiangs own Lotus Pier too, so it makes sense.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says. He is listening. He is.

Lan Xichen follows his gaze to the mug on the counter, which holds pens for signing receipts and also a small rainbow flag. “Ah,” he agrees. “That is a pleasing development.”

The line is long enough that they can take their time reading the menu. This is good, because it contains none of the conventional titles. The Med Student, Lan Wangji reads. Four espresso shots in a cup. Below that is The Jiejie: soooooup! (See Specials board for today’s variety). And on and on: The Peacock (a white chocolate mocha with nutmeg), The Angry Brother (chamomile and hibiscus tea), The Adorable Nephew (warm milk with honey), The Headshaker (“Decisions are hard, so let us surprise you!”). Some have less of a story, Lan Wangji thinks: The First Timer is just a latte, and The Adventurer promises undisclosed amounts of cayenne. The result is a place that feels well-loved without being unwelcoming.

“It certainly has character,” Lan Xichen observes as they near the counter. The young man who takes their orders has a quiet earnest smile; he carefully lists the non-dairy milk options for Lan Wangji.

Despite the line, they find a window table easily enough—it is towards the end of the lunch hour—and they watch the street while they wait. It is only a few minutes before a different employee appears with their orders, mugs and bowls balanced precariously enough that Lan Wangji watches the soup in some alarm. But the dishes and their contents reach the table safely, which means that he can look up when the server says brightly, “Can I get you anything else?”

Lan Wangji thinks, Oh. He only barely prevents himself from saying it aloud, and the effort keeps him from speaking at all.

“Oh, wow,” the beautiful man says, staring back at him. Then he shakes himself. “Uh. Sorry. Is this your first time here?”

“We thought we’d see what the new ownership had done with it,” Lan Xichen explains. There is laughter in his voice, subtle enough that Lan Wangji hopes nobody else can hear it. “Our family owns Cloud Recesses, the—”

“The bookshop down the street!” The server’s face lights up—lights up more—and Lan Wangji gives up any hope of forming words himself. “I’ve been in there a few times. I thought you looked familiar.” This is to Lan Xichen; to Lan Wangji, he says, “I haven’t seen you before, though.” He does not say, I would remember, but the sentiment comes through clearly enough that Lan Wangji feels his ears go pink.

“My brother just finished university,” Lan Xichen explains. The amusement has become noticeably less subtle. “He will be working with us.”

“Oh wonderful!” the beautiful man says. “We’ll hope to see you again, then. Both of you, of course.” He sticks his hands into his apron pockets. “I’m Wei Wuxian, the manager. Which is, you know, terrifying. I’m probably not supposed to tell customers that part, though.”

Lan Xichen laughs aloud now, kindly, and Lan Wangji loves his brother for the way the beautiful man—Wei Wuxian—relaxes. “We understand,” Lan Xichen says. “Starting a business is a rather stressful experience at the best of times. I am Lan Xichen; this is Lan Wangji.”

“Welcome to the Burial Grounds, Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji,” Wei Wuxian says gravely, eyes dancing. “Please do let me know if you need anything. Or Wen Ning, he’s honestly much more capable than I am.” He jerks his head towards the counter, where the young man who took their orders is wiping down the espresso machine. “Anyway, I have to get back to work, but I hope you’ll come back.”

“I am certain we will,” Lan Xichen assures him. Wei Wuxian’s eyes linger on Lan Wangji’s face for a moment. When he manages to nod agreement, the smile widens. Wei Wuxian ducks his head at both of them and disappears into what is presumably the back room.

“Well,” Lan Xichen says, after a moment. “This is a delightful discovery.”

“Brother,” Lan Wangji says, deeply pained. He suspects that his ears have gone full scarlet by now.

“I mean the coffee shop, of course.” Lan Xichen takes a sip of his latte and hums with pleasure. “And as a small business ourselves, it’s only right to support others in the neighborhood. We shall have to become regulars.”

Lan Wangji sighs.

He returns alone the next day, just for a coffee in the morning. The one after that, Wei Wuxian sets his drink on the table with a hesitation that already seems out of character. When Lan Wangji tilts his head in question, he says, “I, uh, made you something special. If you want the one you actually ordered, I’ll do that instead, I just...sometimes I get the idea for new things, and I thought you’d like this one.”

Lan Wangji looks at the mug in front of him. It looks like the perfectly dull mocha that he had ordered, unsure what else to get, except that there are flower buds of some kind on top of the foam. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods and takes a cautious sip. “Lavender,” he says. He closes his eyes, which helps keep his brain from panicking when Wei Wuxian sits down in the empty chair. “Salt. Something sweet, apart from the chocolate?”

When he opens his eyes, Wei Wuxian’s smile is brilliant. “Birch syrup,” he confirms. “Good, I wasn’t sure how much that would come through; I haven’t used it before. But do you like it? You’re the first person to try that one.”

“Mm.” Lan Wangji looks down at the cup again: something made just for him, not for anyone else. “I like it.” He lifts his head again.

“Oh, wow,” Wei Wuxian murmurs, as he had the first day. “Sorry, I know I’m being weird. I just hadn’t seen you smile before.”

“Not weird,” Lan Wangji says, when he finds his voice. “At least, I don’t mind.” He clears his throat. “Thank you. For the drink. You should put it on the menu.”

“Yeah?” Wei Wuxian grins. “I can do that.”

There is indeed a new listing on the large chalkboard the following day: Dark chocolate mocha with lavender, sea salt, and birch syrup. Lan Wangji looks at the name of it and swallows. The Beautiful Stranger, it says, printed neatly in white chalk below The Headshaker.

When he has been coming to the Burial Grounds several times a week for a month, Lan Wangji arrives one morning to find Wei Wuxian darting frantically back and forth behind the counter. “Wen Ning called out sick,” he explains, when Lan Wangji gets to the front of the line. “This is definitely my reminder to hire more staff. I meant to, since we’ve been doing pretty well, but I just hadn’t gotten around to it. Anyway, sorry, what can I get you?”

Lan Wangji looks at the smear of cocoa powder on his cheek and says, “Is there anything I can do? I do not know how to use the machines, but I could help with other things.”

“You know,” Wei Wuxian says, “that would actually be amazing. Uh, let’s see. I need to get the Specials board up but my handwriting is atrocious. Would you mind? We’ve got chicken dumpling soup and vegan ginger snaps. No drink specials because I have too much else to worry about today.”

When that task is done (“Oh my god,” Wei Wuxian says, staring. “Well, I know I’m never ever showing you my writing”), Lan Wangji clears tables and wipes down the counter and takes orders. All the while, Wei Wuxian darts around the shop like a cheerful whirlwind. “Don’t you have to go to work?” he asks at one point, managing to pour a perfect latte and read the next ticket at once. “I’ll manage. I mean, I don’t know how, but—”

“I have texted my brother,” Lan Wangji says calmly. “He and uncle will cover the bookshop today.”

“...Right,” Wei Wuxian says. “I feel like I should fight you on that, but also I don’t have time. Thank you.”

At three o’clock, Wei Wuxian sets the Closed sign, draws the curtains, and collapses facedown onto the couch where the college students like to study. Lan Wangji regards him for a moment, then puts down the rag he was using to wipe down the last table. He still cannot use the espresso machine, but the kettle is a more familiar creature.

Wei Wuxian lifts his head blearily at the clink of saucer on table. He sits up enough to drink his tea without spilling it, and he devours two of the ginger snaps that Lan Wangji brought over in rapid succession. Lan Wangji sits down in the armchair across from the couch and sips his own tea.

The cookies seem to revive Wei Wuxian a little. “Thank you,” he says. “Again. For the tea and for, you know, everything. How can I repay you? Not a rhetorical question.”

Lan Wangji cradles his tea, glad to have something to do with his hands. “Well,” he says, “when I came in this morning, I meant to ask if you would have dinner with me.”

“Oh!” Wei Wuxian looks at him, wide-eyed. “I—hang on, past tense? Did you change your mind? I guess you did just get the total immersion experience, which I’m told is a lot—”

“I enjoyed the experience,” Lan Wangji says. “But I do not wish you to feel obligated. I will not ask you in a conversation about compensation for my labor.”

“...Right,” Wei Wuxian says. “Because you think about things like that, because you’re a ridiculously good person as well as gorgeous and in possession of unbelievably nice handwriting. Hold on.” He sets down his mug and goes to the counter, does something out of sight involving paper and a pen, and returns. “Here.” Lan Wangji puts down his own tea and inspects the offering: a gift certificate (filled out in a scrawl that is admittedly dreadful) for enough to keep him supplied with coffee for a month, more if he cuts down on his visits. “And I’ll get you all the tips from today, once they’re counted.”

Lan Wangji does not imagine that he will be cutting down on his visits.

“This will do,” he decides, and tucks the paper away in his wallet. “And half the tips. You worked very hard.”

When he looks up again, Wei Wuxian is fidgeting beside his chair. “Sure,” he says. “Great. So is the compensation conversation finished? Can we have the other one now?”

Lan Wangji smiles; he cannot do anything else. Deliberately, he stands up so they are facing each other. Wei Wuxian swallows, but his eyes are bright and he is smiling helplessly as well. Lan Wangji says, “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian replies immediately. Then, “You mean like a real date, right? I mean, I’d still say yes either way, but just so we’re clear.”

“A real date,” Lan Wangji confirms.

“Oh wonderful,” Wei Wuxian says. “I really hoped that was what you meant. Yes. Did I already say that?”

He is still in his apron, which has great smears on it from when a cup of coffee spilled on the counter earlier. His hair is coming loose from its tie for at least the fourth time that day; there is raspberry syrup on his forehead and powdered sugar on his nose. He is very, very beautiful.

Lan Wangji reaches up and tucks one loose strand of hair behind his ear. It does very little to help anything, but it means that he gets to feel the slight intake of breath as Wei Wuxian goes still. Lan Wangji does not drop his hand back to his side. Instead, he cups Wei Wuxian’s cheek very gently. He whispers, “May I—”

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian says, a little hoarsely. “Yeah, yes, please—”

Lan Wangji kisses him. Wei Wuxian makes a soft sweet sound and puts both arms around his neck; Lan Wangji cradles his face a little more firmly and drops his other hand to the small of Wei Wuxian’s back, drawing him in.

And so now it has been three years, or near enough. Lan Wangji dutifully writes out the Specials board every morning; the main menu also bears his script. He has met Wen Qing, who is now a surgeon and no longer the Med Student of the four expresso shots but who remains alarmingly intense. He has also met the Adorable Nephew and the Headshaker as well as the Peacock, Jiejie, and the Angry Brother, all three of whom received him with some combination of suspicion and amusement. “So you’re the Beautiful Stranger,” Jiang Cheng says, having shown up at the Burial Grounds to demand an introduction all of two days after that first date. “Hmph. He’s been yammering about you for a month; you better have been worth it.”

Lan Wangji is trying to be worth it. He plans to ask Wei Wuxian to marry him soon, and he thinks that Wei Wuxian will probably accept. This doesn’t really make the prospect of proposing any less daunting; what does is the way Wei Wuxian pulls him back to bed for sleepy kisses in the mornings, trusting and sure of affection reciprocated. Lan Wangji rather expects that he will slip and ask the question at one of these times, rather than at the dinner date he has scheduled for their anniversary. He doesn’t really mind the idea.

[spontaneousstupidwriting]

FebuWhump Day 3: Imprisonment

Peter gets locked in a closet at school and can't get out without risking his secret being found out.

Also on AO3

Peter sighs as Flash continues to taunt him as he walks through the halls. Normally Peter wouldn't care so much about the bully but both Ned and MJ are out today.

“Hey, Penis, I’m talking to you!” Flash shouts, Peter rolls his eyes and ignores his spidey-sense telling him something is about to happen. He grunts as he's shoved into the lockers. Flash crowds him and the rest of the students don't spare more than a glance at the familiar scene. "You should know better than to ignore me by now, Parker."

Peter huffs, "Whatever, Flash, can we just get this over with, we're going to be late for class."

Flash looks to the left of the lockers then to the thinning hallway crowd before turning back to him, "Oh I don't think you'll need to worry about that."

Flash grabs him by the front of his shirt and drags him to the door by the lockers that he glanced at earlier. "What are you-" Peter isn't given time to finish his question before the other teen opens the door and shoves him into the rooms. Peter stumbles into the shelves lining the back of what is apparently a small storage room. Dust fills the air after he disturbs it leading to a coughing fit.

"Have fun in there, Penis. Maybe you shouldn't ignore people," is the last thing Peter hears before the door is slammed and the light disappears.

His coughing dying down, Peter takes a second to get his bearings. The only light in the closet is what comes through the bottom of the door and as his eyes adjust to the low lighting he sees that he must be in an old janitor’s closet. The shelves are lined with cleaning supplies and everything seems to be layered in dust.

The bell signaling the beginning of first period rings and Peter sighs, one of the few days that he gets to school early and he still doesn’t get to class before the bell. He reaches for the handle and twists. Instead of turning as it should, it makes a grinding sound before it stops twisting completely. Peter uses a little more strength but it quickly becomes apparent that he’d have to use some more than he’s usually comfortable using outside of his suit. He debates with himself, remembering that the school recently installed cameras after someone raided the lockers and that it’d see him breaking the doorknob on his way out. Peter’s shoulders slump in defeat, he can’t handle another mark on his record.

Of all the days to forget my phone, Peter mourns. He resigns himself to waiting and settles on the floor, maybe he can use the small bit of light to outline his English essay. Surely Flash will come back.

So he waits.

He waits through the bell signaling the end of first period, and waits as the beginning of second period starts. He waits as the following periods begin and end and debates breaking the doorknob again as he regrets forgetting to put more snacks in his backpack and lunch begins. He waits as it ends and the later classes begin and waits some more till the end bell rings.

Throughout the day as he hears his classmates walk by Peter can’t bring himself to call out and face the humiliation that awaits his release that way. It’s only until about a half-hour after school ends that Peter gives up hope of being released by his tormentor that he gives in and starts pounding on the door calling for help. He can hear that the few people in the hall can hear him as steps slow and a few mention it to someone else, but no one comes to help him. That doesn’t stop Peter from continuing because surely someone will come to help.

But no one does. Not the stragglers or the club goers, even a janitor passes by later long after school ends, the sound of music coming from his direction, likely from headphones.

Eventually, the school clears out, void of any sounds. Peter slumps against the door, not believing that he was still stuck in here. By this point, there’s no light coming from the bottom of the door and it starts to cool as the heaters turn off for the night.

Peter reconsiders his options, while there's no chance of a person seeing him break the knob the cameras likely continue rolling after school ends and there are security alarms on the doors in case someone breaks in. Would they activate if he opens them from the inside? He doesn’t want to risk it. May is supposed to get home around ten tonight, a time still far off. Once again he resigns himself to wait, but this time it’s much more unpleasant.

His stomach has been growling since school ended and the cold begins to seep into his bones. It’s wintertime now and the temperature continues to drop as the night continues. The lack of food and overwhelming cold slows his thoughts and he just stares at the door in front of him. When was the last time he went so long without food? Mr. Stark is always hounding him to eat because of his metabolism so it’s been a while.

Despite how cold he is, Peter doesn’t shiver, something that seemed to happen due to the bite. He pulls his jacket even tighter around him and regrets not wearing a scarf like May told him to that morning. He shuffles into the corner connected to the door on autopilot and his eyes get heavier and heavier as the temperature continues its descent.

May, finally able to take a break, checks her phone as she takes her break getting some fresh air in the hospital courtyard. She frowns when she sees that she has a voicemail from Peter’s school and immediately checks it.

An absence notice? She checks for any messages from her nephew or Tony, because while these notices used to be pretty common, Tony usually checks Peter out at the office after being appointed as one of his emergency contacts. But there’s nothing from either of them, nothing to tell her where Peter is or if he’s okay.

Panic beginning to rise in her chest she clicks on Peter’s contact and waits with bated breath as it continues to ring. Maybe he’s asleep or in the shower she tries to assure herself but that excuse becomes a bit harder after Peter’s voicemail greets her for the third time. Giving up on that she scrolls over to Tony’s contact, hoping that he’ll answer and have some answers.

Tony’s working in the lab when FRIDAY interrupts his music, “May Parker is calling you, boss.”

Tony frowns, “What time is it, baby girl?”

“It is eight twenty-two p.m. May is scheduled to be working right now and Peter’s suit has not been online since his patrol two days ago. Would you like to answer the call?”

Tony nods, “Answer it and save everything here, for now, something seems off about this.”

Instead of a response from FRIDAY, the next thing Tony hears is May’s voice, “Tony?”

Wiping his hands off on a cloth, Tony answers, “Hey May, everything alright? FRI says you’re supposed to be at work.”

“Is Peter with you? Or have you heard from him at all today?”

Tony freezes, “No, he sent his usually good morning text at the ungodly hour he usually does but nothing else. What’s wrong?”

He can hear May’s shaky breath, “His school says he wasn’t at school today and he isn’t answering his phone. I haven’t heard from him since he left for school this morning,” by the end of it her voice starts to break.

A pit grows in his stomach as he tries to keep his voice steady for May, “You need to take a deep breath okay? I have multiple trackers on him. I'm sure he has at least one on him,” A hologram pops up on his workstation with various items and locations.

“In any other circumstance that’d be extremely creepy,” she faintly laughs.

“From the looks of it his phone and suits are at home but his wallet, keys, nano bracelets, and watch are at Midtown and got there right before school started. So he did make it to school, and because he never takes off the nanotech I’m willing to bet he’s still there.”

“What is he doing there?”

Tony signals for FRIDAY to shut the lab down, “I don’t know but I’m going to head down there, don’t worry May. I’ll call you when I find out what’s going on.”

May sighs, “I’m going to leave early and head to the apartment, please let me know as soon as possible.”

“As soon as I find him, and I  will  find him.”

“I know you will,” is the last thing she says before hanging up.

Tony makes his way up to the elevator, “FRI, landing pad, please. I want an update if there’s any movement on a tracker.”

“Of course, boss, shall I alert Happy to meet you at Midtown?”

Tony is enveloped by a waiting suit, “Tell him to bring some food and water too, it looks like Peter’s barely moved all day and it’s been a long time since breakfast.”

FRIDAY tells him that Happy will arrive ten minutes after him as he navigates the suit to Peter’s school. “What should be waiting for us at the school security-wise?”

“There are cameras in the hallways and classrooms as well as alarms on the doors and windows activated at six-fifteen today.”

Midtown comes into view and he starts to descend, “Disable the alarms and keep the camera footage on loop until we leave. Is there any footage with Peter there today?”

“Yes, boss, in it he appears to be walking to class when another student approaches him and shoves him into a room by himself, there is no footage of Peter leaving the room.”

The pit in Tony’s stomach grows as he enters the school still in his suit, is Peter hurt? Did he hit his head? “Where is the room?”

“Take a left at the end of the hall then a right into the hall after the cafeteria, the last door on the right is the one Peter was seen pushed into.”

Tony thanks his AI as he rushes down the halls. He stops when he gets to the door and notices the knob not turning as it should, “FRI?”

“The lock appears to be tampered with.”

Tony’s frown deepens and he uses the suit's increased strength to rip the door open. He’s greeted by a seemingly empty room. But Peter  has  to be here. He looks up to the ceiling and lets out a breath of relief before the worry sets back in, why hasn’t he responded to the door breaking,

“Pete?” no response. “FRI, vitals!”

“Heartbeat is dangerously slow and his core temperature is ninety-six degrees, nearing hypothermic levels. He appears to be in a deep sleep,” FRIDAY responds, voice worried.

“Shit.” Tony activates hover mode to reach Peter and catches a glimpse of his pale face. He reaches to pry Peter from the ceiling, be as careful as he can as he gives FRIDAY instructions, “Tell Happy to crank the heat all the way up and get the emergency blankets from the trunk. Also, alert medbay.”

“Already done, he will arrive in two minutes.”

Tony thanks his AI as he finally gets Peter into his arms, there’s no reaction from the teen. Tony steps onto solid ground and quickly makes his way to the front entrance again while trying not to jostle Peter.

Happy makes it to the front as soon as Tony opens the door, likely having sped more after the update. He opens the back door then quickly grabs the blankets from the trunk as Tony sets Peter onto the seat. He orders the driver to wrap Peter in them as the suit retracts around him before speeding off into the air back to the tower. When Happy finishes he gets back into the driver's seat as Tony slides in next to Peter. He wraps his arms around his mentee and rubs his arms.

Happy immediately starts driving off to the tower, questions coming, “What happened to the kid? Why the hell is he still at school?”

Fire starts to grow in his chest as he’s reminded how this supposedly started, “May called me saying that Peter was missing and didn’t show up for school but his trackers said he  was  at school. At eight-thirty. FRI checked the cams and saw another teen lock him in a closet but never saw him come out. Now we’re here.” Tony couldn’t help the anger that shone in his tone, what the fuck was that kid thinking, and why didn’t anyone help Peter? “I’m going through the rest of the footage after we take care of Pete and call May.”

Happy nods silently and speeds up.

The next morning Peter’s still sleeping in medbay, his condition improved with gradual warming and a nutrient drip. According to Cho, Peter adapted more spider-like traits than they previously thought, including hibernation. Because of course he did.

But instead of sitting by Peter’s side Tony is up in the penthouse, boiling with rage after seeing how no one helped his mentee, his  kid , as he was thrown into lockers then shoved into that damned closet, and ignored him again as he yelled for help. Hell, some  laughed  instead of helping him. There was some slight frustration with Peter and how he didn’t use his powers to get out and just  ask him to change the footage and lock like really, Peter, it was so easy, kid.  It wasn’t even a new thing, Tony checked back and that kid had been bullying Peter since before the cameras were even installed.  Why didn’t he tell me?  Instead of wallowing on that he calls May up, his aunt deserving to know what this punk has been doing to their kid.

It’s only a couple of minutes later that May approaches him, having been downstairs with Peter. “Is this where you’ve been?” she asks quietly. “You should come down, you know Pete would love to see you there when he wakes up.” She touches his arm and gives him a sympathetic smile.

Tony smiles back tightly, “I’ll go down after this and handle the rest later, but there’s something you should see.” May nods in assent and he plays the video of Peter being harassed yesterday morning. May gasps and clutches his arm. Before she can say anything Tony stops the video and starts talking, “This isn’t an isolated incident either. I had FRIDAY check all of the footage, and this punk has been messing with our kid since before the cameras were installed a couple of months ago."

May's face tightens and her eyes seem to glow, “And the teachers do nothing? Does anyone help him? This is bullshit! It never should have gotten to this point! If Peter had been in there any longer who the hell knows what could have happened? We have to do something!”

Tony grips her shoulders and looks her in the eyes, “You’re right, and I’ll be with you every step of the way, and with me will be my best lawyers and even better, Pepper. As soon as she finds out about this there will be nothing stopping her from tearing that school apart for what’s happened to Peter.”

May goes to respond but is interrupted by FRIDAY, “I recommend heading back to medbay, Peter is showing signs of waking.”

Instead of saying anything, May takes a deep breath and shakily smiles, “Thank you, Tony. For being here for him.”

Tony relaxes and smiles back, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

[nalgenewhore]

masterlist - ao3 - last chapter - next chapter 

an: hmm. well. it is what it is. enjoy !

+*+*+*+*+*+*

Sipping on her tea, Elide stared across the table at Ress, who was steadily ignoring her and looking at his phone. She reached her leg under the table and poked his thigh, “Who’re ya texting, Ress?” 

“No one,” he muttered, blushing at the message he received. Elide poked him again, idly scratching Bear’s head as she attempted to annoy her bodyguard into cracking.

“Come on, just tell me. I’m very good at keeping secrets,” she said, jabbing him sharply. He hissed and shoved her foot away, his cheeks bright red. 

“Elide, seriously, it’s- it’s nothing.” 

Elide hummed, “Whatever you say.” She sighed dramatically, batting her lashes at him as she speared a chunk of watermelon on her fork. “Pretty please? I promise I won’t tell anyone, not even Aelin.” 

“You won’t tell me what?” 

Ress shot her a pleading look as Aelin swept in, heading straight for the drink bar to pour herself a cup of coffee. Elide nodded imperceptibly and made a dismissive gesture with her hand, “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m just teasing Ress.” 

“Don’t be mean to him,” Aelin said, walking behind his chair and hugging him with one arm around his neck. “You’ll scare him away.” 

The door opened again, in walking Rowan who commented drily, “I don’t think there’s a single thing that could scare him off now, Fireheart.” 

Elide slowly drank from her cup, watching her cousin’s smile soften as her husband kissed her gently. Aelin deserved a love like the one she had with Rowan and Elide couldn’t be more happy for the both of them. She noticed Rowan had something tucked under his arm and nodded towards it, “What have you got there, Ro?” 

“This,” he said, tossing it down and sliding it across the dark mahogany table, “is for you.” Elide put her cup down and picked up the paper, a picture of her spread across the front page. The headline read Perranth Welcomes Home Its Duchess-To-Be!

Aelin slid into the seat next to her, trying to subtly sneak a piece of bacon down to Bear and failing miserably. Bear snatched it right out of her hand the moment she got a whiff of it. “Those pictures turned out well,” Aelin said, letting Bear lick the grease from her fingers before wiping them on a napkin. 

Elide nodded, “They did.” She flipped through the rest of the pages, scanning the article before dropping it down. “So, what’s happening today?” 

“I have a parliament meeting in an hour,” Aelin said, adding copious amounts of sugar and cream to her oatmeal. “Ro and I will be there for the morning.” 

“Am I not invited to parliament?” Elide pondered, knowing anyone who wasn’t a member or of royal status were barred from attending. Rowan rolled his eyes, quickly hiding his smile in his coffee. Aelin chuckled, sneaking another piece of bacon down to Bear. “Oh, woe is me. I shall wallow in grief until your return.” 

Aelin’s eyes held a wickedly amused look as she huffed, “Well, I should expect nothing less.” 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

Elide walked with Aelin and Rowan through the castle to the larger of the conference rooms, where Perranth’s government was assembling. 

She mainly chatted with Rowan, as Aelin had her head stuck in her briefing file, going back between the meeting’s agenda and her personal notes. The queen barely gave Elide more than a vague wave before ducking into the side office. 

Rowan went to follow her, but stopped at the last minute to pivot neatly back to Elide, “El…” 

“Yes?” 

He rubbed the back of his neck, concern flashing in his pine green eyes, “You seemed really upset last night. Are you sure you were just tired?” 

Disappointment clenched her heart, at the fact that her mystery partner hadn’t even told her his name and Lysandra hadn’t been able to get it from the guest list. She shrugged her shoulder, “Oh, I’m fine. Just tired and a little tipsy.” Rowan’s worried frown didn’t ease. Elide insisted, “Really, Ro, I’m alright.” 

He muttered something and pulled her into a hug, still wearing a frown, “Ok, but text me if you want company, I don’t really have to be here.” Elide smiled and hugged him back, shaking her head slowly. “Ok?” 

“Yeah, ok, Anneith above,” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes and pushing him towards the doors. “Aelin is right.” 

“About what?” His silvery-blonde eyebrows raised, an innocently curious light entering his eyes. 

He looked so earnest to know that Elide almost felt bad about saying, “You are a mother-hen, buzzard.” She cackled as his mouth dropped open and quickly ran away, waving at him before ducking around a corner. 

Her laughter was cut short when she saw her uncle, Vernon, and one of the most prominent women in Perranth, Maeve Nathair. “Oh, pardon me. Good morning, uncle, Ms. Nathair. It’s good to see you.” 

Maeve gave her a disapproving look, making Elide feel self-conscious when her hawk-like gaze snagged on Elide’s right ankle and the corners of her thin-lipped mouth turned down. “Lady Lochan.” 

Without another word, the pair swept away. Elide rolled her eyes, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling of… catching them in the corner, looking like they were conspiring. She shook her shoulders and went back to the dining room, skirting around the staff to get one last cup of tea. 

Elide bent down as she stirred her sugar in, “Bear, come on, you can’t stay here the whole day.” The dog wore a look that told Elide she was not impressed by being found out. Bear hung her head low, moping as she padded over to Elide’s side. Elide laughed, bidding good-bye to the staff as she pushed Bear out of the room. 

Bear pressed against Elide’s right side as they walked down the hall, her tail not wagging for once. She followed Elide into the entertainment room, passing her owner to hop up on one of the large couches. After sniffing it and turning around several times, Bear sat, whining softly until Elide sat next to her. 

Elide shook her head as she scratched Bear’s stomach, “You are the biggest baby I know.” She picked up the remote and turned on the TV to the local morning shows, flipping through the channels. 

They were all talking about her ball last night and what everyone was wearing. Only Remelle had a different subject. Elide frowned, putting the remote down, and watched Remelle’s show. 

Seated at her desk, the blonde woman stared directly into the camera as she spoke. On the screen behind her, there was a picture of Elide dancing with Rowan, her head thrown back as she laughed. 

A headline flashed over it, reading Trouble For The King and Queen?

Elide rolled her eyes and turned the volume up as Remelle spewed nonsense about Rowan’s first dance not being with Aelin. 

“Confirmed sources from royal staff have confirmed in the last few months, the monarch’s relationship has taken a downfall. Many attribute it to Queen Aelin’s near constant travelling and heavy workload.” A smug little grin appeared on Remelle’s face, “If I were her, I would spend more time focusing on her delicious king consort rather than unimportant busy work.” 

“Well, fuck you too,” Elide muttered, watching the rest of the segment out of pure spite. Bear shifted to rest her head in Elide’s lap, growling softly at the screen. 

“And that’s the lowdown, with Remelle DuBois. Tune in next time–”

Elide shut off the TV, “Yeah, I doubt that.” She rolled her eyes and stood up, “Well, B, where should we go next?” 

Bear loped after her, her nails clicking against the polished floors as they walked back to Elide’s rooms. She made a beeline to her bed, curling up and tucking her nose beneath her tail to sleep. Elide snickered and closed her bedroom door behind her, letting Bear have her little nap. 

She hadn’t had that much time to explore her rooms since her arrival home, so Elide opened the closest door in her entry hallway. It was a small powder room, just enough space for a toilet, a sink, and a mirror hanging above it. 

Elide looked at the artwork hanging on the wall, swearing she could see a shadow running along the wall next to it. Curious, Elide ran a finger down it, feeling a slight crash in the wall. With a small gasp, Elide pushed it and a section of the wall popped open. 

A cool gust of wind blew through the passageway, making her shiver. Elide glanced over her shoulder, debating just closing the secret door and forgetting about it but… curiosity got the best of her. 

She pulled out her phone, turning on the flashlight to see as she walked carefully. The passage twisted and turned, but there were no forks in the path. Elide ran a hand along the cold stone walls, looking up at the spiderwebs covering much of the ceiling. 

There was a soft light flickering a little ways ahead. Elide walked faster, eager to see what it was. 

The passage opened into a small room, the only exit the way she’d came. On the wall to her right, there was a small grate where the light was coming from. Elide looked at it, feeling around for a latch or something to open it. 

She found it and flipped it open, peering carefully through the peephole. Elide swallowed her gasp when she saw the parliament room. 

Her uncle was standing, a smug look on his face. Worry pumped through her and Elide looked to where Aelin and Rowan would be sitting. 

She only saw Rowan, the seat next to his empty. The king’s face was tight, the muscles in his jaws feathering. His green eyes were unreadable as he stared intently at his wife. Aelin remained poised from her standing position beside the speaker’s desk, but her hands were clasped tightly enough that her knuckles were white. “I beg your pardon, sir?” 

Vernon’s snivelling voice echoed up into the room Elide was watching in, “As of November of three years ago, when he turned twenty-one, he became eligible for the title.” 

“I understand that, Duke Lochan, but your niece is first in line.” 

Another member of parliament spoke up, raising a hand, “Not yet, your Majesty. Terrasenian laws state that a woman must be married before she succeed any royal titling.” 

Aelin made a helpless gesture with her hands, “We have never enforced that law, gentlemen. And- and this is the twenty-first century, by the gods. A man would never be forced to marry, why should Elide?” 

Elide felt tears well, her blood rushing through her ears. It couldn’t be true. She- all her life had been preparing her for this moment and because she was unmarried, she was unfit? She couldn’t focus on anything the congress said. Her lungs started gulping down oxygen, her vision fuzzy. 

She was having a panic attack, this she knew, but Elide couldn’t ground herself to anything until a heavy mallet struck down. The startling sound frightened her enough and she looked back down, seeing the parliament members pack their things up. 

They filed out of the room, one by one shuffling towards the double doors. Elide flicked her eyes to Aelin and Rowan, hoping maybe they had reached a verdict, something that would help her. 

But when all she saw was heartbreak on their faces, Elide fled back to her rooms. 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

Elide paced the carpet in her office, “How- how is anyone else in line for the title? I’m the only Lochan left and Vernon is the duke regent. He’s a placeholder, for the gods’ sakes.”

Aelin didn’t look up from the groove in Elide’s desk she had been staring at for the past ten minutes. She ran her nail along it, uncharacteristically silent. Elide looked to Rowan for help. 

He was standing at one of the windows, leaning against it with his arms crossed, a fierce frown gracing his face. Feeling her desperate gaze on him, Rowan turned to face Elide, sighing tiredly. “It goes back to the beginning, Ellie.” 

“What do you mean,” she whispered, picking at the skin around her nails out of nervous habit. “What aren’t you guys telling me?” 

Aelin finally lifted her head, the redness of her eyes making the blue pop, “I swear I didn’t know, El. No one- I didn’t know.” 

“You’re making me nervous, Ae,” Elide said, her voice trembling. “Just- just tell me. I deserve to know.”  

“Why don’t you sit down,” suggested Rowan, gesturing to the couch by the window. “We’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” 

Numbly, Elide walked over to the plush chair and sank down into it. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, “Tell me the whole story.” 

Rowan looked at Aelin, waiting for her to speak. The queen exhaled shakily, refusing to meet Elide’s eyeline. Instead, she picked at a loose thread in her pants, “The Lochans aren’t the only family in line to the throne. When- when Perranth was formed, there were two warring families.” 

“Who?” 

“The Lochans and… the Nathairs,” Aelin whispered, as if speaking any louder would summon some evil being. “The families settled here and fought over the crown. When-” her voice cracked, her face crumpling, but still, Aelin continued, “when the Lochans won, they agreed that if either ruling family couldn’t produce an eligible heir, the title would automatically go to the other family.” 

“But Maeve isn’t married either,” Elide said, a spark of hope igniting in her chest. She sat up, “She isn’t married either, how can she get the…” she trailed off when Rowan shook his head. “Oh, she isn’t- she isn’t talking about herself, is she?” 

“No, she isn’t,” Rowan confirmed, leaning against the desk. “Her brother, Cillian, had a son.”

Elide swallowed past the tightness in her throat, tears stinging her eyes, “How long do I have? They aren’t just giving it to him, right?” The conversation halted when the door opened, the three of them tensing. 

When they saw it was just Bear, intrigued by the noises, they relaxed. Bear ambled over to Elide, planting herself in front of Elide and growling. She bared her teeth and her hackles raised, the dog on edge due to her owner’s obvious distress. 

“No, you have time,” Rowan said. 

“How much?” 

He and Aelin looked at each other, avoiding Elide’s question. She repeated herself, her tone hard, “How much time do I have, Rowan?” She figured at least a year. It was still short, but she could make do. 

“Sixty days.” 

Elide gasped, floundering for the words. “No, that’s not right.” She looked at Aelin, pressing her lips together to stop from crying. “Ae…” 

Her friend dragged her gaze to Elide’s, whispering, “I’m sorry.” 

“But- please,” Elide pleaded, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Sixty days?” Rowan nodded solemnly, moving towards her with an outstretched arm. He let it fall when Elide shook her head, pressing herself further into the corner of the couch. 

“I’m so sorry,” whispered Aelin, her own eyes filled with tears. “I tried to make it longer, but…” 

Elide shook her head, “H-how can they expect me to find anyone I love enough to marry them in two months? It’s like-” she sniffed, crying anew when Bear bumped her nose into Elide’s leg, “it’s a big trick for an arranged marriage or…” 

But there was no ‘or’. It was the only option, she married whoever was most suitable or she lost her throne. “There is no ‘or’,” she said. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Rowan muttered. Aelin opened her mouth to say something, but Rowan cut her off, “No, Aelin. She doesn’t have to do this.” 

“How?” Elide asked, her voice cracking. “Tell me.” 

“Rowan…” 

Rowan shook his head, dismissing Aelin’s warning tone. “Elide, you don’t have to be the duchess. You- you can say ‘no’ and live a normal life.” 

Elide gawked at her friend, not entirely sure she’d heard him correctly. “Are- are you serious right now, Rowan?” Bear whined, clearly distressed by Elide’s visible upset. The dog pawed at Elide’s leg, her tail tucked beneath her. “I’m not just going to give up. I can- I can do this. It’s my throne and I won’t let some pompous, crown-stealing bastard take it from me.” 

Aelin chuckled a bit, wiping her eyes. She stood, walking across the room, and sat down next to Elide. “That’s my girl.” Aelin wrapped her arms around Elide, shooing Rowan away over her shoulder. 

Feeling spent, Elide practically collapsed onto Aelin. She felt calmer when the queen started rubbing her back and speaking in a soothing tone, “We’re going to get through this. It isn’t the end of the world.” 

Elide nodded, not entirely believing Aelin. “Yeah. I’ll be ok.” 

It seemed almost silly to think that in the morning, her biggest concern was the name she didn’t get of the man she would never see again.

+*+*+*+*+*+*

an:.......hehe 🤭

@mythicaitt​ @tinywolfofeyllwe​ @schmlip-scribble​ @the-regal-warrior​ @empire-of-wildfire​ @ladyverena​ @ttakeitbacknoww​ @shyvioletcat​ @alifletcher2012​ @tswaney17​ @ourbooksuniverse​ e @flora-and-fae​ @thesirenwashere​ @queenofxhearts​ @maastrash​ @mynewdreamwasyou​ @cursebreaker29​ @empress-ofbloodshed​ @b00kworm​ @hizqueen4life​ @silversprings98​ @amren-courtofdreams​ @minaidss​ @superspiritfestival​ @sanakapoor​ @ireallyshouldsleeprn​​ @spyofthenightcourt​​ @januarystears​​ @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln​​

[himikiyo]

i’ve been on my lonely // himikiyo week day 5

Himikiyo Week Day 5: Skirt + Lipstick

“This kind of meddling is rather unlike you,” Kirumi remarked that evening. “Setting them up on a date?"

After seeing Korekiyo and Himiko dance around each other for so long, Rantaro takes things into his own hands.

Read on AO3, DRA, or under the cut.

It was that time of year again. The season of parties, reunions, and all manner of other Danganronpa events. They existed all year long for those who wished to embrace their celebrity status, of course, but even the disinterested among them were dragged into the lead up to a new season. Season 53 was one of the biggest hits in a generation.

Without really meaning to, Rantaro had fallen into the role of the group’s big brother figure. Ironic, considering his utter failure at it in his fictional backstory. He liked helping his friends though, found more fulfillment in that than working on his own problems. He didn’t get much time to bond with anyone during the killing game, but he’d more than made up for it.

At the moment, he was in the hotel room of one Yumeno Himiko. One of the most resentful of the fame bestowed on all of them, she always required a little extra encouragement in the days before big events. That...wasn’t always because of Team Danganronpa though.

“It’s okay to feel anxious about seeing them,” Rantaro said, summoning every bit of patient encouragement in his possession. “Or even to be looking forward to it. Other people’s grudges don’t need to affect what you do, you know.”

“It’s not like that!” she exclaimed, sounding downright panicked. The blush spreading across her face told a different story, along with the soft-looking plushie she was absentmindedly hugging. Even at a glance, the long, dark hair and green uniform were unmistakable. It was the official Shinguuji Korekiyo plush from the DR53 line. It had been one of the lower sellers, compared to others like Ouma or Saihara who were sold out for months. Himiko’s copy was clearly well-loved though, if she even went to the effort of bringing it along to a hotel.

“Are you sure?” He raised an eyebrow, letting his gaze drop to the plushie to tell her he noticed it.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Himiko argued back stubbornly. “It’s just something soft to hug. Theirs was on sale. It’s not like I kiss its forehead and tuck it into bed or something.”

“Mhm.” She definitely did exactly that. “Well, if you don’t care at all about seeing Shinguuji, I guess there’s no need to talk about it anymore, right?”

“Right. No need.”

“On another topic then, I know a good restaurant nearby. We could head over there for dinner tonight if you don’t have plans with anyone else.”

“Sure.” She perked up some then, plushie still securely in her arms. “That’d be good.”

“Then shall we meet in the park at 7:00?”

---

After leaving Himiko’s hotel room, Rantaro didn’t return to his own. No, he had another friend to pay a visit to.

“Amami-kun, what brings you here? I don’t recall making plans with anyone.” Korekiyo tilted their head in curiosity, hand coming up to cover their unmasked face. It seemed a subconscious gesture, a lingering instinct to keep from being seen. Himiko would surely know more about that than Rantaro though. He’d caught her looking at photos and tabloid articles about them more than once.

“Oh, no, we didn’t have any plans,” he said, chuckling softly. “I apologize for catching you off-guard, Shinguuji-san. In fact, I came here to find out if you’d be interested in making some.”

“Making plans with you? Ah, well, it’s kind of you to offer, but...”

“Hoping for someone else?” he asked. Just as predicted, Korekiyo’s eyes widened, a clear sign of someone whose true feelings had been discovered.

“I wouldn’t dream of being so rude,” they demurred. “It isn’t as though I have people lining up to spend time with me these days, yes? I should accept invitations as they come.”

“If you’re sure. I happen to know Himiko’s room number if you’d prefer to ask her.”

“I...it’s not like that. Even if I did wish to invite Yumeno-san out, she wants nothing to do with me. The same is true of most of our group.”

“Then do you want to grab dinner tonight? I know a great place nearby. We could meet in the park at 7:00?”

“That...would be acceptable. Thank you, Amami-kun.”

---

“This kind of meddling is rather unlike you,” Kirumi remarked that evening. “Setting them up on a date? That seems more like something Kaede might do.”

“Maybe I’m learning from her,” Rantaro said with a laugh. “It’s about time those two sort out their differences. They can claim to be at odds all they want, but they’re the only people who really believe they’re enemies. Well, maybe Chabashira-san too, but that’s more wishful thinking than anything else.”

“Here’s hoping it works out.” Offering him a mischievous grin from over the rim of her teacup, she added, “I owe Ouma-kun some money if they don’t get together by the end of the year, and it’s already fall.”

“I don’t think you have to worry.”

---

Where the hell was Rantaro? Himiko had arrived at the park right on time, but there was no sign of him anywhere. It wasn’t like him to be late or stand people up — not without a serious reason to do so. The park was relatively small, so it didn’t seem likely that she could have simply missed him.

Just as she was debating whether she should try to text him and ask where he was, she caught sight of someone out of the corner of her eye. Even before she turned her head to look though, she could tell that it wasn’t him. This figure was taller and didn’t radiate his relaxed confidence in the least.

Korekiyo? An unmasked Korekiyo at that. She still wasn’t used to them being more lax about face coverings these days.

“Oh, um, Shinguuji. What a coincidence seeing you here.” Her voice sounded forced and awkward even to herself. She wished the ground would just swallow her up and save her from needing to interact with them, but no amount of wishing would make that dream come true. The world seemed dead set on reminding her of her (unfortunate, tragic, hopeless) crush at every possible opportunity.

“There are no accidents in this world,” they replied, sounding ominous as usual. “And in any case, it shouldn’t be that surprising, yes? Seeing someone at a park mere moments from the hotel where you’re both staying isn’t a terribly unlikely thing to occur.”

“Well, yeah, I guess so. It doesn’t really matter, I was just making conversation or something.” Her voice trailed off more and more until it was barely a half-whispered mutter, any semblance of confidence stomped out by embarrassment. “Anyway, uh, I’m actually supposed to be meeting Rantaro here to go to dinner together. Have you seen him?”

“You’re supposed to be meeting with Amami-kun?”

“Is there something weird about that?” It was a defensive question, one that slipped out before she was able to stop herself. Surely Rantaro never let any of her secrets slip, right? There was no way Korekiyo could know what kinds of things she said about them to Rantaro.

“As a matter of fact, yes, there is something weird. I’m supposed to be meeting him for dinner too.”

“What?”

Instinctively, she glanced around looking for cameras or anything else that might hint at this being some kind of staged interaction. She wouldn’t put it past some of the entertainment industry to spring something like that on her unannounced. However, there was nothing, nor did she really think Korekiyo would play along with something like that. Of their group, they were one of the most resentful about what they’d been through. Understandably so.

“I was asked to meet him here at 7:00,” they said, briefly pulling out their phone to confirm the time again. “It seems Amami-kun may have double booked himself.”

“Why would he do that?” Himiko wondered aloud. “It isn’t like him to be so careless.”

“Ah, you two are close then? I did notice that you’re on a first name basis.” Kiyo gave her a placid look, fixing their already perfect hair. God, they really were unfairly pretty. So much so that she felt a pang of jealousy at the realization that anyone could look over and see exactly what she was seeing right now.

“No, not really.” They were wearing black lipstick instead of their usual red, and the striking green of their eyeshadow made their amber color even brighter than usual. “We’re friends, but I don’t know if I’d say we’re close. It’s pretty casual.”

“I see. I am not close to him either. In fact, I was rather surprised by his invitation today. If he decided to back out, it wouldn’t be much of a shock. I’m much less convinced he would do something like that to you though.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Why are we so different?” Their outfit was gorgeous too, almost all black but no less intriguing for the lack of variety. Her eyes couldn’t help but trace the lines of their slightly too long sleeves (impressive, given how lanky they were) and flowy skirt.

“You know exactly why. I don’t think I need to give you a refresher course on that, Yumeno-san.”

She just sighed, not sure what she was meant to say in response to that.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter what you think about it. Likely or not, he’s standing both of us up.”

“Unless...” The word was spoken so softly that Himiko wasn’t sure she was meant to hear it. Did they have some other idea about what could be going on?

Clearing their throat briefly, Kiyo continued. “If Amami-kun does turn out to be a no show...I suppose we could still go to the restaurant he chose. Together. If that’s something you’d be interested in.”

“Yeah.” She smiled softly, thinking of the Kiyo plushie snuggled up safe and sound in her hotel room. Could...this have been Rantaro’s plan all along? She still had her doubts about whether Kiyo returned her feelings, but they were asking her to dinner. “We could do that.”

---

By the time they’d been seated in a cozy, dimly lit corner, it was abundantly clear that the restaurant was a romantic one, meant to cater to couples on dates. If it hadn’t already been obvious that the whole situation was some sort of set up on Rantaro’s part, that would have cemented it. He wanted them to go on a date.

She was afraid of getting her hopes up.

“Seems like a nice place,” she remarked, fiddling with the edge of her menu. Aside from the quiet background noise of other patrons talking and soft music, the quiet at their table was deafening. Not much conversation happened on the walk over either, mainly small talk about their day to day lives and those of their fellow alumni.

“Yes, it does,” Kiyo echoed. “Not the sort of establishment I would have pegged Amami-kun as frequenting.” She wondered if they were nervous or if she was just imagining the signs of tension. The stiff slope of their shoulders, the tenuous edge to their voice...

“Yeah, maybe not his type of place. Does that mean it’s yours?”

“It could be. There’s beauty in things like this, even if I’ve grown somewhat disillusioned with humanity as a whole.”

“And...is anything else here your type?” The instant the words escaped her mouth, she felt mortified. A moment’s bravery had been enough to say something like that? It was all she could do not to slink down in shame, face hot as she took a sip of water. “Um, never mind actually, that was a silly question.”

“No, I don’t believe it was. There is something else here that’s my type, believe it or not.” The mood lighting made it difficult to tell for sure, despite the lack of their usual mask, but it seemed like they could have been blushing.

“Really? And are you going to tell me what?”

“I wonder,” they said, lips curving into a smile. “Do you have any suspicions?”

“I might. If I’m right about why Rantaro planned all this out, then that doesn’t leave too many options.” She was far from an expert at the art of flirtation, but she suspected the same might be true of them. As suave as they often managed to seem in the past, it was a facade, part of the character Team Danganronpa created for them. Or perhaps not even that. Even for the ‘ideal’ Korekiyo, the one that only ever existed on paper, that confidence wasn’t so genuine. Not to the extent of really being able to open up and be vulnerable.

It wasn’t the time to make herself sad thinking of what they had to go through. If they saw any accidental hints of pity in her eyes, it could ruin everything. All she could do was try her best at chasing after what she really wanted.

“Care to share your deductions, then?” Was it intentional, the way their hand was sliding closer to her along the table? They’d never been one to take the prospect of physical contact lightly.

“I’m no detective,” she said, needing to suppress a shiver when their fingertips just barely grazed her own. Their nail polish was black too, matching their lipstick. No rings of the sort Rantaro still tended to wear, but she had a feeling they’d suit them. Any kind of jewelry would be lucky to adorn them.

“I don’t believe you need to be. In fact, I’d say the answer is quite obvious.”

Himiko chuckled. Their fingers were tangling together in earnest now, unmistakable as anything but what it was — holding hands.

“I know everyone kind of pushes us to keep up certain appearances. The media, the fans...even our friends, whether they mean to or not. They expect things,” she said softly. It was why it didn’t take her long after the end of the killing game to figure out that she shouldn’t talk about Kiyo too much, or with anyone who couldn’t keep a secret. The others found her interest strange, even repulsive. They were supposed to be enemies, forced into that box largely by people who didn’t have anyone’s best interests at heart.

“Yes, they do,” Kiyo agreed. Rather than launching into a long, anthropology-tinted lecture as they might have been prone to doing in the past, they seemed content to simply listen and reflect on what she had to say, allowing her to talk and draw conclusions on her own.

“Not many people would be happy about the idea of us getting closer, but...” She glanced down at the table, at how nicely their hands fit together. There in the corner, none of the other people in the restaurant had noticed who they were. Danganronpa fans were everywhere, but that didn’t mean it was impossible to steal moments of peace.

“But you’re tired of organizing your life around what other people think, yes? And Amami-kun for one, though I can’t claim to know him on a very deep level, seems supportive. I would go as far as saying enthusiastic. I can’t recall anyone else attempting to pry about my romantic life.” They paused, then clarified, “Not with benign intentions, that is.”

“So you’d be interested in it too? Getting to know each other better instead of always acting like we’re still enemies?”

“I never considered you my enemy in the first place, Yumeno-san. I would be honored to be given that chance.”

There was no doubt those words were genuine. For someone who slipped so easily into the role of villain, Kiyo was remarkably free of malice towards...anyone, really, save for some Team Danganronpa higher ups.

“Then I guess we could even call this a date.”

Still clasping her hand, they lifted it just enough to brush a kiss over the back of it, leaving a barely noticeable smudge behind.

“That we could.”

[theawkwardterrier]

my whole trajectory's toward you, and it's not losing momentum (call it anything we want)

Summary: Anthony had expected a certain amount of trouble when he took over managing the Danbury campaign. He didn’t imagine this amount. He didn’t imagine that it might at some point become something other than trouble.

There was mention of rival political campaign managers Kate and Anthony and even though I couldn’t quite get there - or make a scene happen which directly featured Newton 😔 - I did manage rivals and political campaigning. So here’s something to serve as incentive, congratulation, or brief respite depending on how far @thesokovianaccords​ has gotten in her grad school application process. Sorry if it’s a bit OOC, Livia - maybe it’s just the right degree to make sense in a modern AU? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Read on AO3

A week into running Dr. Danbury’s campaign, Anthony realizes that he has made a grave error in allowing himself to give in when his mother requested “a bit of a favor.”

At the time she’d asked, he had just gotten the news that his previous candidate was dropping out of his own race for health reasons, and of course, Dr. Danbury has been a fixture for his entire life so he might well have stepped up merely because she needed help (despite knowing that the reason she needed the help was that she’d fired her entire previous campaign team). Besides that, he has rarely been able to deny his mother anything, and that’s even before she brings up the number of hours she spent in labor with him (twenty-two, as he well knows by now) but still...he damn well should have ignored all that this time.

For his money, the most annoying part of not being listened to by the candidate is that her instincts have mostly served her well. Three days after he started, she ignored the common wisdom of maintaining decorum and not insulting the opposition which he had reminded her of before she went on camera, and had only benefited from it; apparently the majority of the constituency agreed that the particular candidate she had been asked about was indeed a “first class wanker who should pray nightly for the brains God gave a goose.” At least she had heeded Anthony’s advice to refer to the man as “my opponent” rather than using his name and giving him free advertising in the soundbite as it was played on nearly every news broadcast for the next several days.

“Well, we seem to have come out of this one all right,” she says, sipping her coffee and looking just the slightest bit smug - he doesn’t lie to candidates, so he had been obliged to report that the latest polling numbers actually went up after the incident. “Anything else, Bridgerton?”

Swallowing the speech he wants to give about how easily things could shift during a campaign, not to mention the difference between what people told a pollster and how they actually cast their votes, he says, “Perhaps we might look to hire a policy director, ma’am? To help...guide the campaign a bit more?”

“If we did, I should wonder what I had hired you for.” She looks at him over the tops of her glasses as if she can tell he is dreaming of responding that ah, well, it seems he is unnecessary, and perhaps he will just excuse himself from the position now. He makes sure his expression remains neutral and finally she waves a hand. “Well, let me see some names and CVs after the weekend, and I shall decide then.”

“Very good.” He extremely purposefully does not sigh until he is out of her office and striding along the corridor of their campaign headquarters. There are plenty of people who will take a call from him on short notice and who will back him with the candidate. Yes, if he can’t quit altogether (and he can’t if he wants his regular seat at Christmas dinner) then having someone in his corner is just the ticket.

He arrives for work on Monday even earlier than his traditional first thing in the morning, wondering to himself whether it will be better to simply present his top applicants or if he should throw in a decoy or two to make his choices shine even brighter - although perhaps that’s just the sort of ploy that the candidate would sniff out in a heartbeat after a career of wrangling university students. Still debating, he turns the corner toward his office, only to find Dr. Danbury in the hall outside, speaking with someone. Anthony doesn’t recognize the person from the back, can only see a fall of shiny, dark hair, so he guesses it is one of the volunteers, perhaps someone new who has arrived early for orientation. He hopes that Dr. Danbury isn’t being too intimidating.

“Ah, Bridgerton,” the lady in question calls down the hallway, and something about her tone makes Anthony’s spine go straight. “Good morning.”

Still, he clings to his good mood as he greets her. “Let me put my things down, and then we can go over your schedule for the day. And I have those CVs you had requested as well.”

“Nevermind those,” she says, and the little smile on her lips makes every one of his nerves stand on end. “Did you know that your mother and I went out for a drink on Friday evening? Oh, yes, we had a wonderful time, and your brother Colin came around to escort us home. Such a lovely boy, had some delightful stories about his trip to Greece - and so interested in the campaign. In fact, he had a brilliant thought when I mentioned your idea for bringing on someone new to help shape things alongside the two of us.”

Whatever virtues his brother Colin might possess, interest in the campaign is absolutely not among them. Skin humming all over, Anthony manages a casual, “Oh?”

“Indeed, and luckily I was able to organize it all over the weekend so you wouldn’t have to do a thing.” She gestures toward her companion, and with a sick swoop in his stomach, Anthony knows who he is going to see before she shifts around.

“I believe you two have met before?” Dr. Danbury says, voice fading just a bit beneath the static in Anthony’s ears as Kate Sheffield turns to face him.

They have not actually met before, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t know of each other.

The first time Anthony heard her name, it was her sister saying it - about twenty times in a row, if he’s being honest. He met Edie Sheffield two years back at one of his mother’s galas. Edie ran a different prestigious kids charity than the one Mum was fundraising for, so he’d wondered if inviting her was somehow inviting the enemy or maybe bragging. But Edie was sweet, and passionate about her job, and looked absolutely gorgeous in sapphire satin, and he settled into a night of getting her drinks and chatting her up, despite the fact that she didn’t seem as interested in speaking with him as she did in mentioning that he really must talk with her sister.

He’d stayed the night in the hotel where the gala had been held (alone, in one of the rooms which had been set aside for guests from the event; he’d put Edie in a car at about 11) and was planning on taking his mother to breakfast after she came down from her own room. When he went to check out, however, the desk attendant handed him a message which had been taken down for him on hotel stationary.

Dickheads like you shouldn’t try to get with my sister. Don’t do it again.

KS

“Is there anything else that I can assist you with?” asked the attendant, holding onto her poker face remarkably. Perhaps they taught that in hospitality programs.

He’d crushed the note in his hand before smoothing his own face placidly and handing over his credit card. His mother was all smiles and chatter during breakfast, but his mind was still on the note, which seemed to have burned itself behind his eyelids.

Dickheads like you - oh, so only other types of dickheads need apply? And get with? Were they twelve years old and couldn’t use grownup words? Not to mention the signature, such as it was. Trying to play mafia boss, expecting that he’d know who had sent it. He did, but it took a lot of bloody gall to assume that he would.

Not as much gall as Don’t do it again. He couldn’t even think of that part, the demeaning certainty of it, without a certain vein beginning to throb in his forehead.

In the two years since, he found himself falling back into analysis of the note - it was barely more than a dozen words, so how could there still be so much to parse? - whenever her name came up, which became more and more frequent as she moved from nothing campaigns in the most forgotten corners of the country to deputy deputy whatever on somewhat more consequential ones. She was gaining a reputation among his peers. They said she was smart and canny, that she had a knack for looking at the bigger picture and acting on her instincts.

(Someone who’d once worked with her had also mentioned that it helped that she didn’t have a high opinion of her looks, didn’t flaunt herself the way some women did around the office - she certainly didn’t have a reason to do so, but sometimes that didn’t stop them.

“Oh, be fair,” said the other man. “She does have quite a nice—”

They’d shut up when he’d walked into the room - everyone knew better than to talk that way around him, and it wasn’t just because of “all those sisters” the way some people said. Eloise had been interning with the campaign that summer, and for the rest of the day while he’d talked with human resources, he’d let her make mistakes on all of their lunch and coffee orders and give them the wrong data for their reports when they’d made her look it up instead of doing it themselves. When he’d fired them, he spread the word on why, but left the particulars out of it.)

The note returns to his mind whenever someone new has their one experience of suggesting Kate Sheffield as a potential hire, or when he thinks he’s seen her in the background of some press conference or event for another candidate, or if he runs into Edie at another charity function, where he absolutely does not flirt with her just that extra bit harder while part of his mind thinks Your move directly toward her sister who he has never actually met in person.

Until now.

“We’re acquainted,” he tells Dr. Danbury, managing to remain polite by avoiding Kate’s gaze. He leaves it at that.

They’re the first two in the conference room for the all-staff the next morning, and somehow he’s not surprised.

“Good morning,” he says as he comes in to find her over by the coffee. She’s doctoring it significantly, clearly already familiar with the quality to be found in a campaign office. He always buys his own; he can’t stand the amount of milk and sugar and oddly flavored creamers required to make the other stuff palatable (and don’t even get him started on the alleged tea).

Tone cool, she replies, “Mr. Bridgerton,” and takes a sip from her mug.

It isn’t as if the staff goes around calling him “Tony” or “boss,” and only the most knock-kneed newcomers call him “sir.” He’s Anthony to most. He has no inclination to correct her.

He works to keep his tone casual and courteous as usual when he introduces her to everyone (“And this is Kate Sheffield, who will be doing some consulting for us”) but something about it must catch Dr. Danbury’s attention, because she raises an eyebrow at him from her end of the table and rests both hands atop her stick.

The fact that the candidate is aware that something is going on between the two of them makes it all the more exasperating when two days later she signs off on Kate’s media and advertising plan over his own. He shows up for dinner with Daphne and Simon that evening as planned, knowing that Daphne would be completely willing to pull the pregnancy card if he tried to get out of it, but she sends him home before the waiter has brought the dessert menus because he keeps muttering about how more people travel by tube and railways and for longer distances but are more likely to take more individual rides on buses and what that means for posting print ads.

(The numbers are seared into his mind, considering she’d included a full breakdown with three kinds of graphs and bloody footnotes in her presentation.)

Getting released from the restaurant early gives him extra time to go back to the office for a bit and put together a preliminary get out the vote strategy. He calls in several favors as a part of it, including one from an old friend of his father’s who asks incredulously, “Really? For this?” clearly wondering whether Anthony’s reputation is deserved if he’s pulling out all the stops for something so routine.

It’s well worth it, however, when Dr. Danbury raises an eyebrow as she looks over the document he’d put together, and tells him, “Well done, Bridgerton, very well done indeed. I think this shall do nicely.”

He does not even glance toward Kate; there really isn’t any need to gloat.

Well, one tiny peek won’t hurt.

Her jaw is set and her eyes are flinty, but she gives him just the slightest nod, as if to say that he might have won this round, but she’d like to see him try the next one.

Just before three in the morning, he wakes himself, panting, from a dream that makes him think he might have to report himself for workplace sexual harassment.

“I would have hoped you’d have better self-preservation instincts,” he says aloud to his body. “Or at least better taste.”

Collapsing back against the pillows, he pushes his mind toward images of ex-girlfriends and celebrities, but no, there is Kate, strong and challenging and gorgeous above him, a vivid afterimage that refuses to go away, and he sighs and gives into it, trying to set himself to rights so he can get past this and find at least a bit more sleep.

Anthony has never been the sort of boss who shouts at people in the office - he has always tended toward cold anger and “you know what you’ve done, now fix it” stares, and doesn’t intend to act differently now. But as he stalks over to Kate’s desk, he finds a fiercer anger taking over, just a bit.

“You changed my media statement,” he says, voice silken with it as he leans his palms down on her desktop and rests his weight on them. He is speaking low, the words just for her, although his eyes roam over the others moving busily around the main space of the office.

She turns her chair slightly, so that he feels the brush of her hair on his forearms where his sleeves are rolled up; it shifts his attention fully in her direction. Her hair tie had snapped earlier, and the thick topknot she tried twisting for herself has collapsed, leaving it free around her shoulders. He snaps himself back from examining the shining curls as she says, “Yes, I did.”

Part of him admires her straightforwardness, that she takes responsibility without even trying to deny it. The other part...well, the anger hasn’t exactly disappeared.

In a level tone which would have his siblings looking over in alarm, he says. “I had worked that statement out with the entire communications department.”

“The entire communications department does what you tell them to do. It’s what you pay them for.”

“And what, exactly, do I pay you for?”

They are facing each other now, their bodies a bit too close for it. She is looking directly at him, voice sharp and clear as glass. “I was hired by the candidate, to help run the campaign that she wants. Your statement was just a polite walkback of her words.”

He has the sudden thought that the brown of her eyes could be warm, that her gaze probably is warm when she’s looking at her sister or the dog whose photo she has framed on her desk (a plump, panting little corgi wearing a bright blue bow tie, absurd), but he’s never seen her that way. He’s only ever gotten this, annoyance and disdain and perhaps disappointment.

Still, he responds, “Her words need to be walked back if she wants to someday be more than the candidate. In this constituency, colonial reparations aren’t a popular enough issue to increase turnout for those who weren’t already interested, and it’s exactly the sort of thing which will put off those who were on the fence. We’re trying to flip a seat by reminding people of what their current MP is doing wrong; we have to stay on message, not muddy things with topics too few understand. Sending out a statement moderating the comment is the right move.”

“But that statement isn’t what the candidate believes, and her future constituents should know what her actual position is - they likely aren’t as stupid as you seem to think. And besides that, she has the right stance in the first place.”

In the weeks since she arrived, he’s found that the things people said of her were true: she is smart, perhaps too smart for the good of either of them, and decisive, easily seeing what’s been done and what needs to be and acting on it, the exact sort of person you would want at your side as you plot a course forward. But he hadn’t realized that she was a believer.

There are fewer idealists in politics than one might think, or at least who have risen to her level. He always finds them a bit off-putting, and it startles him even more with her - he had thought he recognized in her a sharpness and pragmatism which reminded him of his own.

“Don’t do anything like this again,” he says, trying to temper his own abruptness even as he is somewhat unsettled by the conviction in her. “Or I’ll fire you, and I don’t care what the candidate says about it.”

“I think she would have quite a lot to say in that circumstance,” Kate tells him, but she turns back to her keyboard and doesn’t argue anymore.

At least until the next day, when they end up nearly nose to nose in his office as Anthony maintains that they can’t get anyone’s hopes up with a promise of immediate action on climate change, especially considering the priorities in the party platform and the likely makeup of the next parliament, and Kate practically shouts that they’re showing people where their convictions lie and that Dr. Danbury will fight for them if she gets the chance.

When Anthony dreams of her again that night, they are not talking about policy at all. But when he wakes up, edgy and aching as he is, he finds himself hoping one day to see her smile at him the way he did in his sleep; he wants to know if her eyes really are as warm as he imagined.

On Saturday, there’s such persistent nagging in the older sibling groupchat that Anthony finally gives in and agrees to leave the office for a night out. Forcing him into some allegedly relaxing activity is a time-honored tradition when they’re coming into the final stretch of a campaign; he’s certain the others have been discussing tactics in one of the numerous other chats that are always going on. (The last he’d glimpsed, the sibling group which didn’t include Gregory, Hyacinth, or himself - but did, irritatingly, include Simon - was named “Anthony’s Scary Forehead Vein.”)

“Please tell me that we aren’t going to paint ceramics again,” Anthony says as he walks, hands in his pockets, beside Benedict. Their group is too large to all move together on the sidewalk, which is a bit of a relief. “I don’t think I could put up with another night of Eloise reminding me that there are stencils if I need them.”

Benedict very narrowly and very obviously avoids laughing at him. Now that Anthony thinks about it, actually, his brother had spent that particular outing using a dozen colors to intricately decorate a mug, spending so long on it that they had nearly closed the place around him. Their mother drinks her tea from it frequently, however. “Thankfully there won’t be any pottery or painting tonight.”

“And it’s not—”

“Not a club,” Benedict assures him, then grins. “Can you imagine Simon trying to make certain no one came within a foot radius of Daph on the dance floor?”

Anthony shakes his head, looking ahead of them to where his sister and brother-in-law are walking together, not holding hands, but so close that they might as well be. He still feels a bit strange about the two of them together, especially after all the drama on the way, but he can see that they’re in love each other, even if he can’t really imagine why anyone would want to be, and they’re extremely obviously happy, so he’s trying to grow accustomed to it. He can also absolutely see Simon working himself into knots playing mosh pit bodyguard.

“So where are we going, then?” he asks, but before Benedict can answer, Eloise, broken away from her friend Penelope, tosses her arms over their shoulders and wriggles her face between them.

“You’ll just have to see,” she says, and Anthony doesn’t have to look at her to know that she is twitching her eyebrows at them. He probably could get it out of her if he tried, but he actually is finding himself feeling a little lighter being out with everyone, so he just waits and ten minutes later, they’re entering an already fairly crowded pub. Colin and Eloise go over to register them as a trivia team - or more likely to bicker over what name their team should have. As if realizing the same, Daphne squeezes Simon’s hand once and pushes over to join them.

(Her stomach is still flat, even for someone looking, but Anthony notices that she places a protective hand over it as she walks through the crush anyway.)

The rest of them go to claim a table and start putting together an order for drinks and appetizers. Anthony is leaning across, shouting a promise that if Penelope doesn’t finish her chili loaded potato wedges, they’ll certainly be taken care of, when someone behind him asks, “Excuse me, can we borrow this chair?”

“Sorry, there are more of us coming,” he says politely, turning to face the woman. She’s thirtyish and tall, but that’s all he takes in before he spots, over her shoulder, the rest of her group. They’re all chatting with each other, wearing matching T-shirts in a variety of bold colors which declare them the Quizzie Bennets, and in the center, her hair up in a ponytail and definite warmth in her eyes, is Kate. Edie stands beside her, picture perfect nose crinkled in a teasing way, but all Anthony can notice is that he’s never seen Kate in jeans like this, that the odd, bright purple of her shirt looks electric instead of ugly against the dark of her hair, and all he can think is that he never imagined her as relaxed as she is, weapons laid down.

She seems to detect his gaze then, and as she meets it he expects the weapons to be picked right back up. There’s certainly surprise, a guardedness to her eyes as they meet his, but then she narrows them in his direction, as if saying game on.

So that’s how she wants to play it, he thinks, then turns to the others and says, “No alcohol.”

Benedict blinks. “What do you mean by that?”

“In solidarity with Daphne,” Anthony offers.

“Daph does know that it’s pub trivia,” Simon says. “And she’s not—”

“Fine,” Anthony interrupts before the compliment train can get rolling. He sets his jaw. “I mean that we need to keep clear heads if we’re going to absolutely trounce everyone here.”

Penelope looks a bit alarmed by the vehemence in his tone and Simon quirks a brow, but the others are game enough - Bridgertons have always had a competitive streak, and apparently the rest of them actually chose this particular trivia night because it’s done aloud, infinite bounce style, instead of on paper.

“We play with live ammo around here,” Eloise declares gleefully once she’s returned and been updated on what she missed.

“Damn right we do,” Anthony mutters to himself, glad that he is seated with his back to Kate so he can resist the temptation to see how irritated she looks just now, or how face might be a little flushed and her ponytail loosened from the heat of everyone packed together inside…

“Who exactly do you keep looking for?” asks Colin, who’d plopped himself into the chair Kate’s teammate had asked about. He cranes obviously around, and Anthony turns firmly back to the table before his brother can follow his line of vision.

For all that they didn’t pick their team in order to be serious contenders, they do cover the bases fairly well. Anthony has politics and current events, obviously, along with history. Penelope plays backup there as well, and covers literature alongside Colin, who handily takes on geography too. (Anthony has always inwardly wondered how reasonable it was to build a career around wanderlust and Instagram and freelancing for travel magazines, but if it brings them victory tonight, he will never question again.) Benedict apparently took in more about nature than any of the rest of them who grew up in the Kentish countryside, and knows quite a bit more about art and art history than Anthony had expected. Daphne, unpredictably, knows a lot about sports - she claims that it’s what happens when you spend your life being rambled at as “another one of the boys” - and, more predictably, music.

Anthony hadn’t expected Simon’s skill with numbers to be particularly helpful, but now he’ll have to buy him a drink at some point, both for doubting and for pulling them out of a sticky situation involving Bernstein's constant. He wishes that Francesca wasn’t too young to have come out with them - there are several instances where they could have used her chiming in with quiet calm about anything related to economics or science, but they instead have to all give questionable contributions in that regard. They all chip in for pop culture, too, although Eloise is clearly the master - she actually yawns as she announces that of course the country where Monica’s boyfriend Pete Becker took her on their first date was Italy, and Anthony has never been more grateful that he lets everyone sponge off his Netflix login (although would it really kill them to not be using all the screens on the rare occasions he actually has the time and inclination to watch something?).

The trouble is that there are plenty of other teams who are clearly regulars, and they were put together in order to be serious contenders. The questions and answers are flying through the air, the quizmaster, a skinny older man with big hair shouting “Correct! For ten points,” more often than not, and most importantly, the Quizzie Bennets are availing themselves nicely. (He should have guessed as soon as he saw the matching T-shirts.)

Questions his team can’t answer correctly bounce to them next, and he can’t help but toss Kate an incredulous look after she not only answers that Angela Merkel was voted chancellor of November rather than October 2005, but also rattles off the margin for and against. Her eyes meet his as if she was expecting his glance, but she just shrugs before wrapping her lips around her straw and taking a dainty sip of her drink. He has to look away then.

Still, Team Quizerton (apparently the name that both Colin and Eloise had hated enough for Daphne to negotiate them to agreement) has done well enough that Anthony feels confident as they move into the final round.

“And what will the twist be tonight?” the excitable quizmaster asks, although he then just presses a button on his phone rather than spinning some kind of enormous wheel. His face lights up as he announces grandly, “Ah, the ladder!”

He quickly outlines the rules: each team will have five questions selected for them in ascending order of difficulty, with point values from ten to fifty. For each correct answer, they will receive the corresponding points and the option of requesting a related bonus question for half the initial question’s value. Wrong answers mean a point deduction, double for bonus questions, and the end of play for that team. You can also pass, choosing another team to answer and forfeiting further questions for yours but freezing your points where they stand.

It’s more like a game show than any trivia night that Anthony is familiar with, but he actually appreciates the strategy element; he can understand why this would be Kate’s preferred contest.

He considers giving a pep talk to the table, but all of them - except for Simon, who’s looking somewhere between vaguely amused and bored - are dialed in, ready to claim victory, so he settles back and readies himself for it too.

It happens in the final round. Anthony is just allowing himself to feel the slightest bit smug at having earned them another 75 points by not only correctly responding that Sri Lanka was the first country to have a female prime minister, but answering the bonus of her name (Sirimavo Bandaranaike) and year of election (1960) as well. The quizmaster nods, turns, and reads off the next question: “This famous playwright’s last words were reportedly ‘I knew it! I knew it! Born in a hotel room and, goddamn it, dying in a hotel room.’”

There’s a strange, deep silence, then a buzz of whispering among the Quizzie Bennets, and Anthony is struck by the realization that they don’t know the answer. He certainly doesn’t either, and a glance around at his group tells him that they would have been screwed had they gotten the question, but it doesn’t matter. Excitement licks up his throat, victory so close he can taste it…

And then Kate’s head comes up from the huddle, and her eyes meet his, and he knows exactly what she is going to do before she does it.

“Ten seconds!” says the quizmaster.

“Trust me,” Kate mouths to her teammates, and then says aloud, “We’d like to pass, and give the Know It Ales a chance to answer.”

Anthony’s mouth goes dry. Stupid team name aside, they’ve been confidently answering questions all night, and this time is no different. Their leader is nearly bored as he immediately says, “Eugene O’Neill.” And Anthony can barely hear the room around him over the blood rushing in his ears as they answer the follow-up too.

When the quizmaster declares the Know It Ales the champions for the evening, Kate slings her arms around her teammates and cheers as if he’s announced her name instead. The other Quizzie Bennets look puzzled, but when she stares defiantly at Anthony, chin raised, beaming, glowing not like she’s in the spotlight but like she’s the light itself, he somewhat suspects that she’s the winner indeed.

“Isn’t that—” Colin starts somewhere close to Anthony’s ear.

“No, it is not,” Anthony tells him firmly, and wrestles him off to pay their tab.

Later that night, after he’s somewhat successfully distracted himself with work and somewhat less successfully distracted himself with looking for something to watch (why isn’t everyone asleep, and even if they are up, could they really not leave him one available screen?) he finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed with his work phone in one hand and his personal one in the other. And even though he knows exactly how bad an idea it is, he very carefully references the campaign contact group and keys one number into a new text message in his personal phone.

Sorry that this didn’t seem to be your night. Best of luck to your team next time.

He shoves out a breath and stands as soon as he’s sent it, forces himself to start getting ready for bed; she’s probably asleep now, or she might read it as rude or sarcastic and choose not to respond, and the text is just going to sit there, awkward and interminable…

There are plenty of ways to be lucky, thanks very much, and I think we found one - although I look forward to reclaiming my rightful title someday soon. See you on Monday, Bridgerton.

Regardless of what he tells himself, he can’t quite get the stupid grin off his face as he shuts off the light. He’s under no illusions about who his dreams will feature tonight.

Monday night before the election, Anthony leaves the office past eleven. He rubs his eyes as he walks past dark cubicles and conference rooms - unsurprisingly, he’s the last one around - and decides that what he needs more than sleep is something to eat, and not whatever cup noodles or single egg he might come up with at home. No, he needs comfort food, something generous and hot and greasy as Benedict’s face the year he was thirteen (not that his at fifteen was much better).

His favorite hole in the wall is open until midnight, so he stumbles over there and buys the biggest order of chips he can, the enormous burger nearly an afterthought. The place is tiny and not the sort of spot that has ever even heard of ambiance, but he’s tired and the idea of waiting to get back to his flat and eating in its emptiness isn’t particularly appealing. He turns with his food in hand and finds Kate looking up at him, startled, from one of the three tables.

He could take one of the others, leave them to eat in awkward peace, or he could pretend he had always intended to have his food to go. Instead he comes over and asks, “Can I join you?”

Her capable hands moving just a note too slowly, as though giving him time to reconsider, she collects the documents from the opposite side of the table, tapping them into order as he waits patiently. She folds her fingers atop the neat stack in front of her once she’s finished, watching as he dives into his meal; he should probably be embarrassed about it, but he doesn’t really have the energy.

They talk about inconsequential things - how the weather forecast might cause trouble with voter turnout, the unfortunate office incident with Johnson and the speakerphone last week, mutual political acquaintances - and Anthony realizes that it’s the first time they’ve ever done this, just made small talk without disagreeing. Kate doesn’t lose her sharp tongue simply because they are in casual conversation, but it’s different when her remarks aren’t directed at him; hearing her pert analyses of other candidates and campaign staffers actually makes him laugh.

She’s left half a piece of cold fish and polished off more than a few of his chips (completely unthinkingly, he’s sure) when they’re informed that closing time’s come and they have to clear the table. It would be completely natural for them to part ways and see each other in the morning for another round of sparring, but he finds himself saying, “I think I might go get a drink,” and finds her answering, “I think I might join you.”

He regrets it just a bit when he’s balanced on the bar stool (he really is exhausted; this is the earliest he’s been out of the office in days) but then Kate raises her wineglass and says, “To the homestretch,” and smiles just a bit as he touches his glass to hers. The light falls cozy and dim around them and he can still see exactly how long and competent her fingers are, wrapped around the stem, the places where strands of hair have escaped their pins, trailing down to rest against her exposed throat.

Right, he thinks inanely to himself. Right, excellent, this was a good choice, and belts back his scotch before signaling for another.

“Those were your siblings?” she asks, taking a sip of her own drink. “At trivia the other night?”

“Some of them were...are…” He shakes his head, trying to straighten out his own meaning. “It was some of my siblings, the oldest four, and my brother-in-law, and my sister’s best friend.” Then, before he can stop himself, he adds, “I saw your sister was there as well.”

“Hmm,” she says, taking another sip of her cabernet, and he can see her spine stiffening, armor reasserting itself.

For the first time, he realizes that she could easily hate Edie, her younger sister - her younger half-sister, even - who is sweet and accomplished and more apparently pretty, the one people’s eyes turn to when the Sheffield girls are around, but what Kate displays is no begrudging love.

It would probably be better for him to change the topic, get them back on safer ground, but though he might be smart, he’s not necessarily wise, so he tosses back his second scotch and asks, “Why did you warn me off her the first time? You didn’t even know me.”

“Yes, but I knew of you,” she says. As always, she faces the comment head on, doesn’t even pretend not to remember exactly what he’s talking about. “I was starting in the industry, I needed to have an ear to the ground and at least a general sense of the players, and I didn’t like the sense I got about you. It didn't make me think you were the kind of person to trust with my sister.”

“I’ve never—I would never—I don’t think I’ve—” he says, stumbling, slightly stricken. He knows that there are whisper networks about the people - the men - in their field, knows exactly who some of the whispers are about and has done his best to be the type of person who helps make those whispers into shouts. It would kill him a bit to find out that he’s done something that would make someone feel the need to speak about him that way.

“Not necessarily on a personal level,” she says, suddenly gentle, then circles her finger around the rim of her glass and amends, “Well, not that way. People actually said you were very smart and a good employer, but when I learned more about your history, the jobs you’d worked on in the past, it didn’t feel like there was any principle to your choices. As if you were just willing to sell yourself to whoever asked, or at least whoever looked good on a resume. Edwina deserves more than that.”

She is looking at him extremely frankly, as if she hasn’t just shrugged away the idea of the career he’s built, but with the way she says her sister’s name, the softness of it, how she somehow makes the full, old-fashioned version more personal than the nickname - he understands that sort of devotion. Hearing it from her steals the irritation beginning to build even as she continues. “I could never even entirely figure out why you went into politics rather than something else. You’re reasonably intelligent, you could have done any number of things if you weren’t particularly invested in the issues.”

Somehow, instead of the protest he was expecting, that he was intending, what comes out is simply, “It’s the family business.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The Bridgerton Group. My father started it.” By her expression, she doesn’t think that two generations exactly makes a family legacy, but for once she holds her tongue, and his, loose with drink and exhaustion, can’t hold back.

“I grew up playing under the table at a dozen campaign offices across London and having poster mock-ups as my placemats. When I was a bit older, I was allowed to volunteer, and I loved seeing him there, in his element, listening to proposals and then telling everyone, ‘Well, here’s what we’re going to do.’” He swallows. “He—My father died, just after my first year at university, and I wasn’t old or experienced enough to take his place. The staff went off to work for other people, and all I could think about was how disappointed he would have been, to see this thing he’d built, this thing he loved, fall apart so easily. The entire time until I graduated, while I was getting experience with other consulting firms and working on other campaigns, I was just waiting until I could do justice to what he left behind for me.

“He nearly called it ABC Consulting, but my mother told him that it sounded too juvenile. My parents had me and my brothers fairly young - he was still a student when Benedict and I were born - and he wanted to name it after us.”

He realizes as soon as he’s said it that he’s only ever admitted that once before, to Simon on a similarly drunken night during their final year at school, forgetting the way that Simon and his father were, or weren’t, with each other; his friend’s face had closed up as soon as the words had left Anthony’s mouth, and they’d never talked about it again. But Kate’s face is open, listening, more than he thinks he’s ever seen from her, in such a way that he thinks he could reveal anything to her.

He could tell her about the trouble he and his brothers got up to as children, or how he likes watching baking shows to relax even though he’s not worth a damn in the kitchen, or that he can’t stop himself from adding another mile to his morning run each time he finds a gray hair. He could start talking about how complicated his feelings have grown regarding the man who was once his best friend, or about the way his entire chest had burned as his mother placed a squalling Hyacinth into his nineteen-year-old hands before closing her eyes and about how he never wants either of them to know that he’d tried to force himself not to tremble and had trembled anyway. But this isn’t the time for any of that, so he continues.

“I wanted to put it back together for him. There were candidates I took on in the early days who were stepping stones, necessary to building a reputation but who I wouldn’t work with again now that I have the reputation and the choices that come with it. And I have my own opinions on the issues - some of which might match yours more closely than you’d expect - but I’m there to make sure that the candidates who hire me succeed in getting where they want to be. I’m good at that, and I’m committed to it, and I’ve never run a campaign I wasn’t proud of. Sometimes, though, being around you, I wonder if you're going to eventually talk me into a different philosophy.”

His glass is full again though he isn’t sure when that happened, and a group of middle-aged men with ties undone and suitcases beneath their eyes fumbles past the bar behind them toward a booth, but the only thing he is paying attention to is Kate’s considering gaze on him as she absently swirls the wine remaining in her glass.

“I have the feeling,” she finally says, “that when you say a different philosophy, you consider it a more naïve one. And I’m not certain that our opinions on the issues would really match up considering that you grew up with family money.” Her voice is not arch or insulting, though, and he would certainly know.

“We were...comfortable,” he admits. She raises a waspish eyebrow in response.

“No one who’s actually middle class would ever put it like that,” she informs him. “You most definitely have a trust fund.” But she actually smiles at him, and for once he knows what it’s like to have Kate Sheffield look at him with warmth in her eyes.

He’d quite like to have that again.

“Do you think—?”

“That we should dignify the remarks with a response? No, I absolutely do not.”

Anthony glares down at the article he has pulled up on his phone, then looks over at Kate, striding down the hall beside him, eating slices of peach out of a reusable container. For a moment he’s distracted from the rumormongering on behalf of one of their opposing campaigns; he thinks of Kate’s hands carefully working the knife around the fruit, of the way her tongue flicks over to catch the juice when she takes a bite…

“I could reach out,” he says, too loudly, before he walks into a wall. “I know the head of the campaign over there, I can remind him about the spirit of fair play and all that, especially this close to the finish line.”

She looks over at him incredulously, snapping the top onto her empty Tupperware. “I don’t care if you were the best man at his wedding, he’ll laugh you off the phone. I’ve had at least three listicles of our candidate’s best insults toward her opponents forwarded to me just this morning.”

“I had the feeling that wouldn’t work.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Just three days left, for better or worse. “Fine, so we say nothing and hope that it passes out of the media cycle quickly and doesn’t do too much damage to the absentee votes.”

“As I said from the beginning.”

“You are far too determined never to let me have the last word,” he says, just the slightest bit amused, as they circle around the desks of the main office, edging their way over to hers.

She snags the toe of her ballet flat on a computer charger trailing across the floor, stumbles, but he catches her hand just in time and sets her upright again. She continues walking as if it hadn’t even happened, raising her voice enough to be heard over the chatter and buzz of phone calls as she teases, “What would be the fun in that?”

Aghast, he says, “We aren’t here to have fun, Sheffield.”

“Oh, did you actually want to win?” She tosses the empty container onto her desk as she drops into her chair, then looks up at him, swiveling slightly from side to side and shaking her head. “You really are a cliché.”

“Yeah, well, here’s another one: get to work.”

“I’m not sure that’s technically a cliché, but I suppose I could do that,” she says, with a shrug and a grin, turning toward her computer. He watches her for another few seconds, and then takes himself off to his office before he becomes too much of a cliché himself.

Despite the phone call he had earlier with his mother promising her that he wouldn’t, he falls asleep on his desk the night before the election, startling himself awake hours later.

“Too bloody old for this,” he mutters to himself, grimacing as seemingly every joint and muscle in his body quite firmly announces itself when he stands. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he gathers his things and makes his way through the darkened office.

Except it isn’t as dark as he’d expected. He scans the desks to try to figure out who left their lamp on, and finds Kate with her head resting on her arms, essentially imitating him from ten minutes prior.

Briefly, he stands there, not entirely sure what to do, but then he walks over, hand hovering by her shoulder before he gives her a light shake.

“Kate,” he says softly, crouching so he’s closer to her level. Her loose ponytail drapes over the burgundy of her blouse, quite close to his hand. He had not realized that he would recognize the scent of her, clean and straightforward with a subtly delicate edge; he should have known - he’s been smelling it in his dreams for weeks. He swallows and shakes her once more. “Kate, you should go home.”

“That was meant to be my line,” she says, far more lucidly than he would have expected. He shifts back as she stirs and sits up, massaging her fingers over her eyes. “I had the feeling that you weren’t going to leave at a sensible time, so I was planning on reminding you before I went home, only apparently I can’t leave at a sensible time either.”

“No, I suspect that sensible times to leave the office don’t involve the letters A or M,” he agrees. “Not that I would know anything about that.”

As she readies herself to leave, he tries to remember that the way she stretches out her back or takes down her hair, how she swings her bag over her shoulder, the quick, assessing way her eyes cover the room to make certain everything is in its place: all of that should be unremarkable. But there’s a moment, just the tiniest sliver of time, when she’s flicked off her desk lamp and they begin to walk out together in the glow of the emergency exit signs and the dim light of windows from other office buildings - she glances over at him, his hair rumpled, tie and briefcase dangling from one hand, and he thinks that he sees her swallow in a way that he recognizes all too well.

And then the moment is gone, and they’re out on the sidewalk, about to go their separate ways, the car he’d called for her already waiting.

“Big day tomorrow,” he says over the top of the door, holding it open as she climbs in. “Are you ready for it?”

“I’m always ready.”

He laughs, soft as the night around them. “Yes, I suppose you are. Good night, then.”

She looks at him one last time in the yellow beam of the streetlight, still a bit sleepy-eyed but no less aware for it. “Good night, Bridgerton,” she tells him, and drives away, and he can’t help but wonder about what if she hadn’t, what if he’d said something or she had made a choice, what if she didn’t drive away from him again.

The day of the election is always the worst for him - all the work behind him, nothing really to be done but let the people vote. He’s in the office earlier than usual anyway, early enough that he isn't certain it was worthwhile going home, but this, at least, he can control. He manages to keep himself busy throughout the day, but it’s all just a countdown to that night.

Somehow, despite - or perhaps because of - the sleeplessness and planning and stress, it isn’t one those contests that drag on. Dr. Danbury is brought on stage at about a quarter to one alongside the other candidates; the results, when the returning officer announces them, are decisive.

She’d brushed away his offers to help or choose a staffer or hire someone to work on her speech with her; instead she’s written it herself, and although brief, it’s as firm and irreverent as she is. He suspects that no one will ever pack as much sarcasm into referring to certain colleagues as “the right honorable.”

He makes some calls and receives congratulations from his mother and siblings, who have long since ceased to find these sorts of things interesting enough to attend but who make certain to keep up from home. As Dr. Danbury frees from handshaking and small talking, he makes his way over to her.

“Congratulations, ma’am.” He holds out his hand, which she eyes with a lifted brow.

“Anthony Bridgerton, I’ve known you since you were charming people from your mother’s arms, and considering that - not to mention all we’ve been through together over these last months - I think you can stand to give me more than just a handshake.”

He hugs her, which feels odd and tells him more than anything that the campaign is over. When he pulls away from her, she pats his cheek. “Now, go celebrate. You’ve earned it. I’m certainly going to.” And she winks.

The campaign staff is making plans for drinks and dancing and even just going home to raise a glass with loved ones. He wades into the group, patting backs and shaking hands, speaking briefly to some of them, smiling all the while.

And then he sees Kate, toward the edge of the crowd, chatting with one of the young guys from finance. Edwina is beside them, likely not as inured to the excitement of the night as the Bridgertons.

Kate, the taller of the two, spots him, leaning over to say something to her sister before weaving her way over. He tips his head toward a quieter little hallway, and they go over together, leaning against parallel walls.

“Congratulations,” they say to each other at the same time, and then immediately after, “I only wanted to say—”

He nods at her to go first. It’s only polite. But there’s an unusual sort of trepidation about her face, a pause that he doesn’t expect, that makes him wonder if she wishes that he’d taken the initiative. Still, she’s Kate, so she takes a breath and comes out with, “Edwina is here tonight, and if you still wanted—Clearly I misjudged you, and so if you were still interested in her, I wouldn’t say anything.”

“Oh,” he says, and that is all he can manage for the moment, standing frozen and watching Kate force her shoulders back and her gaze to his.

He does not know precisely how to communicate the depths to which he has realized that he does not want to date Edie Sheffield, that he never wanted to date her, that his interest lies entirely elsewhere. What he says instead is, “I had wanted to ask you to stay on with the Group. Permanently. You’re very, very good at what you do, and I think that...You know, your perspective and your clarity during the campaign was extremely helpful, extremely valuable, to me.”

He can picture it plainly, has been picturing it already: Kate taking him to task about every little issue, forcing him to remember the things outside of the campaign itself, the bigger things. Kate, with her hair swept up and her eyes bright and furious, challenging him to be the best version of himself, or at least to want to try.

But then she looks up at him and says, “I’ve actually had another job offer recently. The candidate—I’m sorry, the MP-elect wants me to be her new chief of staff, and I was already inclined to accept.”

“You’re going to be incredible at that,” he says immediately, blank shock quickly giving way to sincerity then laughter. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. Maybe I just didn’t think that Parliament was ready for it.”

“That’s probably for the best, though. Element of surprise and all.”

Her voice doesn’t trail away but as his laughter does, so does her smile, her animation; the air seems to fall thin and still. He doesn’t know that there’s ever been a beat of awkwardness between them like this, not even when they have been at their most prickly with each other, but it’s there now, in her eyes as she looks across at him, in his gut as he wonders what to say next.

“I’m glad you got another job offer,” is what comes out, and there is her unamused, interrogative eyebrow, hovering upward.

“So you weren’t serious with yours?”

“No, of course I was, it’s only that...Well, I’ve been your boss up until now, regardless of how much you might believe it should be the other way around.” That even gets him a slight returning smile, enough for him to ignore the dryness in his mouth and the franticness of his chest to say, “And if you had taken the job with me, I would have continued to be your boss. Which would have made it rather unacceptable for me to ask you out.”

In the space of that breath, with the silence heavy between them even as they stand right beside a crowded room, even as Dr. Danbury’s voice crows easily above the others, still practiced from projecting through the university lecture hall, he wonders if she is going to leave him like this, cards on the table, only the fall below him.

“Well,” she finally says, slow as anything. She is looking up at him, considering and careful, but he knows that her mind must be working at triple its already remarkable speed. “If I’m going to be around the city, and there’s no conflict of interest…”

He doesn’t entirely like the way it is turning into something neat and logical in front of him when he’s never felt anything close to that around her. He doesn’t like the way she looks tentative, pushing back against the edge of something more than caution - fear, perhaps, as if this might be a trick, as if the idea of allowing herself to crack open is unbearably terrifying, and it looks wrong on her face, so bold and familiar, he never wants to see that expression there again. He reaches out across the space, and when she reaches back, he takes her hand.

“Kate,” he says. “You are the most infuriating person I’ve ever known and possibly the smartest, you are wildly, overly principled and somehow make me want to be the same, you never let me have a moment’s peace, I can’t stop thinking about you, and I’d like to go on a date with you.”

“Well, that does sum things up nicely, Anthony,” she tells him, and despite herself, he can see a little snatch of a smile just there, the warmth growing in her eyes as they look right into him, the fear working its way from her. Still, she tries for nonchalance as she says, “My contract with the campaign doesn’t end until Friday. We can do Saturday night, if you’re up for it.”

He’s up for it. He takes her out Saturday night for dinner, hides a smile as she pokes fun at his shoes, gets into an argument with her about education funding, and goes to bed more distracted by a half hour of pressing her against her front door (and then onto her sofa for another twenty minutes) than he has any right to be considering he isn’t fourteen. He spends Sunday night with her too, and on Monday they go to see a movie they both hate but can’t stop talking about, and he is fairly certain he is going to spend essentially every night with her for the rest of his life.

It isn’t peaceful - and only likely to get busier once they both really get back to work - and her dog is a nuisance and Colin tries to take credit for the whole thing, and they’re so happy that neither of them cares.