#but she’s on the last part of her aspiration so it’s time to wrap her up anyway

[simstoryu]

winter is here ❄️

and so is my girl’s birthday. she grown grown now and a little anxious about it

[zaczenemiji]

The Winning Pitch

Kenji Sato x Cheerleader!Reader

Synopsis: At college, Kenji Sato gets to know you during your trainings. When the university’s big game approaches, both you and Kenji strive for success in your respective teams. A heartwarming conclusion celebrates both victory and love.

Word Count: 1,975

Author’s Note: Kenji x reader requests are open! ⭑.ᐟ Send them through Ask (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

MASTERLIST

Kenji Sato: student-athlete and campus crush. He’s an aspiring baseball star who was very determined for that title. To add to that, hundreds of girls are pining for him. Which makes you wonder how lucky you were to have landed on this guy.

You guys met at university—in college. It started one sunny day at training. The sports field was wrapped in a golden glow as the sounds of athletes training and cheerleaders practicing filled the air.

Kenji, the star, was in the middle of a batting practice. He was focused, his eyes never leaving the ball as he swung with precision and power.

On the adjacent field, you were rehearsing a new cheerleading routine with your squad. The upcoming game was a big one, and everyone was working hard for it to be perfect.

You were on top of a cheer pyramid when your captain blew her whistle and then clapped her hand. “Almost there!” She said. “We just need to work on the trembling, (y/n).”

With that, the girls on the base helped you get back down on the ground. “And, bases, we need to work on how we’re gonna dismount that,” she added as she watched.

“Alright, team,” she announced once you’ve reached the ground. “Be back after 5 minutes for strength training.”

With that, the team temporarily parted. You walked past others who were doing stretches as you headed toward the drinking fountain.

On your way, your eyes drifted towards the baseball field. There, you saw the face everyone was talking about. You knew Kenji Sato. Who doesn’t? You guys haven’t talked to each other, though.

You watched as he hit another home run, the ball sailing over the fence with ease. Impressed, you found yourself smiling.

Kenji suddenly turned and caught your eye. He smiled back, a little surprised but pleased to see you watching. Suddenly, you see him walking over to where you were.

You felt a soft warmth rise to your cheeks. You quickly turned around to drink at the fountain as you were supposed to.

“Hey there,” Kenji greeted, now standing nearby. You turned the faucet off and wiped your lips before turning. “I’ve seen you around. Cheer squad, right?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “And you’re Kenji Sato, baseball star.” You smiled up at him as you crossed your arms in front of you.

Kenji chuckled. “I wouldn’t say star, but I do my best,” he said. His eyes drifted to look behind you where you began hearing your teammates gasp and squeal.

“You guys look great out there,” he said. “Must be a lot of hard work.”

“It is,” you admitted. “You’re pretty impressive yourself. That last hit was amazing.”

“Thanks,” Kenji said, his smile widening. “Say—“ but before he could continue, you heard your captain call. You looked behind to see your team gathering together.

“Time’s up, Sato,” you looked back and smiled at him. “See you around.” With that, you turned to jog back to training.

But Kenji didn’t leave yet. He stayed to watch a little longer. He saw some of your teammates gather around you squealing and asking you about him. You just gently brushed off their questions as you bent down to do stretches.

Those small talks in between trainings and during breaks became frequent. It had become a familiar scene to both your teams to see you two by the water fountain, chatting.

There are times he’d arrive there before you; and there, he’d wait. Sometimes, he’d be on his phone. Other times, he’d watch you finish your routine from the distance.

As the day of the game was nearing, your practices became more grueling. The captain called for a break and you sighed in relief. You headed over to the fountain to rehydrate as you’ve always done so. However, as you turned it on, no water came out. You turned the handle on and off repeatedly yet nothing changed.

Frustrated, you wiped your forehead. The heat of the afternoon sun clawed on your skin and you felt your throat dry even more. Just as you were about to turn back, you heard a familiar voice behind you.

“Here,” Kenji said, holding out a water bottle.

Surprised but grateful, you smiled and took it. “Thanks, Kenji,” you said. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Gotcha,” he said with a wink. “I was here earlier for your short break. However, it seemed like practice is more intense lately and your breaks have been reduced.”

Every day, he did this. He memorized the time of your breaks so he could come over for a chat.

You took a sip of water, feeling the cool liquid refresh you. “Yeah, they are,” you replied. “How’s practice going for you?”

“Well,” he replied, taking a sip from his bottle. “Just working on my swing and some drills.”

You nodded in response before chugging the contents of the bottle down to half. Just then, the captain called for the squad to regroup.

You placed a hand on Kenji’s bicep. “Thanks again for the water,” you smiled, looking up at him. “I’ll see you around.”

You turned to walk back to your team before you could even see the small blush that crept on his face. The same goes for him; he did not see the little grin you had on as you went away.

These small moments with Kenji were becoming the highlights of your day. Each day you grew excited for it and started looking forward to where it could lead.

The next day, you arrived at the field earlier than usual. You found yourself scanning the area to see if Kenji was there early, too.

He was, practicing his swings. He stopped when he saw you. With a grin, he jogged over, holding out another water bottle.

“Just in case the faucet’s still broken,” he said with a wink. You laughed, taking the bottle, “Thanks, Kenji.”

“So hey, uhh,” he said as he did a bit of stretches here and there. “I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me sometime? Maybe grab a coffee or catch a movie?”

You immediately smiled at the invitation. “That sounds nice,” you said. “But how about this? If you win the upcoming game, I’ll go out with you.”

Kenji’s eyes lit up with determination and amusement. “Well then,” he replied. “Better start getting ready for that date then because we’re going to win.”

You grinned, enjoying the playful banter. “We’ll see about that,” you said. “Good luck, Kenji.” You knew Kenji and his team had a good chance. Your squad makes sure you guys have, too.

Counting the time left before the game, the weeks turned to days, to hours, until it was only a matter of seconds before your squad headed out into the field to perform.

The stadium lights blazed brightly. Fans cheered for their respective teams, as the anticipation built.

You stood with your team at the edge of the field, lining up into position as you all waited for the cue to start. One signal from the facilitators and you guys were up and running to the center of the field.

As the music began, you and your squad moved into formation, executing sharp, precise motions in perfect synchronization. The crowd’s cheers grew louder, a testament to the flawless execution you and your team worked tirelessly to achieve. Every jump, every tumble, every lift was met with applause.

Kenji stood with his teammates near the dugout, eyes fixed on you. He watched in awe seeing that your training paid off. He had seen you practice from his spot in the field, but it was truly magical to see you perform under the bright stadium lights.

The music shifted, signaling the climax of your performance. Your team smoothly transitioned to the pyramid. The bases positioned themselves. The middle layer climbed into place. And finally, it was your turn. With a deep breath, you ascended to the top, standing tall and confident.

At that moment, Kenji couldn’t contain his excitement. “Go, (y/n)!” He shouted, rendering his teammates amused. You guys were supposed to cheer for them, not the other way around.

Hearing him, your smile grew bigger. You extended your arms into a high V, holding the pose with perfect balance.

Kenji continued to cheer, his voice carrying over the crowd. “You’re amazing!” He yelled. “Keep it up!”

Just when everyone thought it was done, you transitioned into a heel stretch. The stadium erupted in applause, Kenji’s voice among them.

The captain called for the dismount. With flawless coordination, the pyramid began to lower. You descended gracefully, each layer in perfect harmony until your feet touched the ground.

As the routine was concluded, you and your teammates high-fived and hugged each other. The audience’s applause was deafening.

You glanced towards the dugout, meeting Kenji’s eyes. He was beaming with pride and happiness.

As your team retreated out of the field, you jogged over to him. “That was incredible, (y/n)!” He said enthusiastically. “You guys are amazing!”

Breathlessly, you smiled. “Thanks, Kenji,” you said. “We gave it our all.”

Kenji’s eyes shone with admiration. “That fired me up, (y/n),” he said. For a moment, he cleared his throat. He leaned a little close to whisper, “I hope you’re not forgetting your end of the deal.”

You chuckled at him. “I know you’ll do great, Kenji,” you said. “We’re all cheering for you guys.” You gave a wink before running back to your squad.

Soon after, the game began. As the first pitch was thrown, Kenji stepped up to the plate. He sure was going to win this game tonight.

It had been intense. The scores were close and the stakes were high. Everyone was on the edge of their seats.

Kenji stepped up to the plate, the stadium quieted in anticipation. The opposing pitcher glared, ready to deliver the next pitch. Kenji tightened his grip on the bat, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the ball.

The first pitch flew, a fastball right down the middle. Kenji swung with precision, the bat hitting it with a satisfying crack. The ball soars through the air, heading towards the outfield. The crowd cheered as Kenji sprinted towards first base.

“Go, Kenji!” you shouted from the sidelines.

Kenji’s heart pounded as he rounded first base, watching the outfielders scramble to catch the ball. He approached second base. The ball hit the ground, bouncing past the outfielders, and Kenji knew he had a chance.

“Keep going!” his teammates yelled.

Kenji didn’t hesitate. He sprinted towards third base, his eyes fixed on the coach’s signals. As he neared, the coach signaled him to go for home. He rounded third base, heading for home plate.

The outfielder finally retrieved the ball and threw it toward the infield. Kenji could see the catcher positioning himself, ready to tag him out. He pushed himself harder, sliding into home plate with all his might.

The dust settled, and the umpire’s voice rang out, “Safe!”

The stadium exploded into cheers. Kenji’s teammates rushed towards him, lifting him into the air. He had scored the winning run, securing victory for his team.

As the team celebrated, Kenji’s eyes searched the crowd, finding you among the cheerleaders. You were beaming with joy, cheers echoing through the noise.

The team set Kenji down, and he jogged over to the sidelines. Without a second thought, he pulled you into an embrace.

“You did it, Kenji!” you exclaimed, jumping in his arms. Kenji grinned, his heart still racing. “That was an incredible game! You were so good out there!”

“Thanks, (y/n),” he said, letting go of you. He looked at you with a playful glint in his eyes. “So, how about it?” he asked with a grin. “You, me, and a celebration dinner?”

You smiled warmly, nodding. “I’d love that,” you answered.

Taglist is open! Comment if u wanna be tagged on future Kenji oneshots

@lostwsoo

[lillie98]

You Can’t Be What You Can’t See.

Positive, authentic representation means the difference between feeling like an alien in your community and discovering your identity. I’ve been on this journey for the last four years. Diving into media, my past, and other autistic creators to put together some semblance of what it means to be me. A large piece of that puzzle snapped together last year after watching Stranger Things Season 4, specifically the Painting Scene. I could not wrap my head around why Mike didn’t take the time to comfort Will as he cried or why he didn’t seem to understand Will was talking about himself. I thought back on his whole characterization and what I would have done in that situation, and the lightbulb dinged: Mike is autistic…just like me.

It was an overwhelming moment of joy, understanding, and identity that not only did we share the same diagnosis, we practically share the same brain. Since then Autistic Mike has taken over my mind and taught me more about myself than any doctor. I’ve explored him through my writing and used his (eventual) relationship with Will as something to aspire to, that maybe someday my Will will come for me. Someone to accept, love, and understand every part of me. It is incredibly healing and life-giving and I’m so thankful for everyone involved in creating such a beautiful story. When Bhavna announced she had opened commissions for her art, I knew I had to have this turning point in my life memorialized. We worked together for about a month to come up with this piece and I could not be happier. I sobbed when I saw the preliminary sketch—I finally felt seen.

All that to say, never be embarrassed about something you love. Someone out there needs to see it’s okay to exist. Please enjoy Mike’s latest DnD info-dumping session while his boyfriend, Will, looks on. It’s late, they should be in bed, but Mike can’t stop and Will’s too infatuated with Mike’s happiness to make him. The world is a little too loud, so Mike donned his headphones, and Will loves the way they relax Mike and allow him to process the world a little easier. Thank you, Bhavna. Happy Stranger Things Day. ❤️

[callsign-rogueone]

field work

Sawyer Henrick x reader part three of Sawyer and Peach’s story words: 2.5k 🏷️: no book spoilers. more mentions of James being a mysoginist creep but it’s not actually shown (yet), these two are still in denial, and they will be for quite a while. hey, that rhymed. anyway here is your crumb of gf content for the week! sweetheart or love next, probably.

“And here I thought all Lucerans knowing each other was a stereotype,” Rhiannon muses over her drink.

“Oh, it’s not that we all know each other,” you say with a grin, “it’s that we can always find each other in a crowd.“

“And you always get along like wildfire?” Ridoc asks. 

You blink for a moment, silent, but Sawyer answers for you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and squeezing gently. “That might just be a ‘her thing’. She’s never met a human, or a horse, that she couldn’t befriend.”

“Infantry not included,” you snort, recovering from your momentary blip.

“Okay, I have to know — why’d you turn him down the first time?” Rhiannon asks. “Like, before he started being a creep, I mean. I’m with you 100%, whatever it is, I’m just curious.”

“He’s rude to everyone but me, even his friends. They only hang out with him because he's the top dog over there, even though it’s clear his daddy bought him his leadership position — his boots are too clean.”

She tilts her head to the side, not quite following. Ridoc pulls his leg up, inspecting his left shoe.

“It’s a figure of speech,” you laugh, waving a hand at him. “Means he’s not a worker. He’s one of those rich-boy types, always prattling on about honor, and serving his country, following in daddy’s footsteps, which he’s decided includes making me his sweet little housewife who will follow all his orders and produce him a litter of sons that will all grow up to look and act exactly like him.”

Everyone’s jaws drop.

“He said that to you?”

“Not those words exactly, but yes. He thinks all Luceran women are sweet and submissive and only ever aspire to be mothers and housewives. As if I’m not here to study for a career that’s going to keep me on the front for the next ten years. I’ve told him that, but he seems to think that I’m playing hard to get or something, and I’ll change my mind if he keeps asking.”

Sawyer’s fork bends in his grip, but he quickly rights it again before anyone other than Violet can notice. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I know the value of housework and homesteading. I’ve helped my mother do those things for years. It’s hard work, and it’s important. And I do want a few children eventually, but not half a dozen, and certainly not with him — with someone that respects me, and who will raise them with me as a partner.”

“I’m glad you know what you want,” Rhiannon says, looking directly at Sawyer.

“At least I won’t have to see him this week. It’s my turn for the foraging assignment, so I’ll be spending my workday in the woods.”

“Doing what, exactly?” Sawyer asks.

“Collecting ten kinds of herbs that have medicinal properties, and preparing them into various salves and things for one third of my final grade.”

“Fun,” Ridoc says dryly.

You shrug. “I don’t mind it. Being out there reminds me of home. And it’s nice to not be cooped up in the infirmary all the time.”

—————————————

You nearly trip over your own feet as you see the giant red mass in front of you. You’ve seen hundreds of dragons flying overhead or across the bridge in the rider’s quadrant, but you’ve never been this close to one before — not a friendly one, at least.

You back up two steps, giving it more space, and it follows you, stepping forward. Every expletive you know flows through your mind in a continuous stream. 

How Sawyer befriended one of these things is beyond you. At least you won’t have to worry about failing this assignment if it roasts you alive.

Just don’t look it in the eye, don’t talk to it…

Your back collides with something solid — a tree trunk. You’re cornered. All you can do is shut your eyes as tightly as possible and make one last prayer to Amari, hoping you’ve done enough good deeds in your twenty-three years to have earned a decent afterlife.

Ten seconds tick by, but nothing happens. 

You crack an eye to see its head directly in front of you. It’s just… sniffing you? You must pass inspection, because it takes a step back, not making any move to harm you. 

You force yourself to relax, deepening your breaths and waiting for it to go away, but it stays in place, still examining you. You suppose you’ll have to be the one to leave — you’re probably in its territory. You take a step to your left, touching your hand to the tree trunk to make sure you’ve cleared it before you start to walk backward.

It chuffs like an irritated horse, stepping closer again — clearly not done with you.

Oh, come on.

You can’t help it. “I know I’m not supposed to talk to you, and I know you can’t talk to me, but I don’t understand what you want,” you blurt. 

It cocks its head at you, and you know you’re doomed. These things can probably smell fear, and you’re absolutely terrified.

Shit, shit, shit.

You backpedal quickly, making an attempt to smooth things over. “Okay, I think we got off to a bad start here. I’m sorry for trespassing. I won’t do it again. It would be really great if we could just…”

You fall silent, hearing a group of people headed toward you, their voices carrying through the trees easily. One of them has a fresh wave of nausea and anxiety flowing through you — James.

Forget the fire-breathing beast standing in front of you; the three human men approaching are infinitely more terrifying, capable of much more intricate and abject cruelty than any being on this planet.

You slip your hand into the pocket of your jacket, feeling for the handle of the knife Sawyer had given you and settling your fingers into the grooves. It’s been a comfort to you thus far, but you’ve never had to use it before. And what good will it be against three fully armed infantry, when you’re alone in the middle of the forest?

But you aren’t completely alone. 

The dragon has turned its head toward the voice, hackles raised; clearly agitated. Maybe you’ll have time to run if they distract it — but you couldn’t bring yourself to abandon the boys to die, even if they’ve been bothering you for nearly two months now.

It unfurls a massive wing, placing it in front of you, and bares its teeth in a snarl. You can't see the looks on their faces, but you can hear them shriek like little children, bolting in the opposite direction.

You hold your breath until you can no longer hear them running. “Thank you,” you whisper, even though the boys are far gone by now.

It… nods? 

You take a moment to collect yourself, your heart still racing as you process the events of the last five minutes. A red dragon showing up at the exact right time to protect you from James, taking its time sniffing you and letting you be this close, letting you talk to it… This cannot be a coincidence. No way.

“Sawyer sent you, didn’t he?” 

Another nod.

You sigh in a mix of relief and exasperation. “I love that boy dearly, but he just does not think things through sometimes. I was fully convinced that you were going to kill me. You’re terrifying — no offense. Or maybe that’s a compliment to you guys. I don’t know.”

A chuff that almost sounds like a laugh. 

“Either way, thank you again for scaring that guy off. I can’t stand him, or his friends. They give me the creeps. The idea of being out here alone with them…” you shudder just thinking about it, but shake it off quickly, managing a smile.

You slip Sawyer’s knife back into your pocket, digging out your crumpled list of herbs to find. “I don’t think they’ll be headed this way for the rest of the afternoon,” you say, too polite to tell him he can leave. He makes no move to, anyway.

Alright, then. You wouldn’t mind having him watch over you while you finish up, just for peace of mind. And he probably knows the area better than you do, having lived here for years. You honestly aren’t sure how to get back to the school from here. You can see the bell tower, but it’s distant enough to make you nervous.

He stays a few giant steps behind you as you work, keeping an eye on you when you go somewhere he’s too big to follow. 

Chamomile, echinacea, calendula, feverfew, valerian, mint, lemon balm, sage, thistle, centella…

“That’s everything,” you sigh in relief, wiping your hands on the soft cloth you’d taken out with you. The school looks considerably closer now, the path you’d started off on back under your feet. “Thank you again. I felt a lot safer with you around. After I realized you weren’t going to torch me, that is.”

He puffs out another almost-laugh. 

You’re quiet for a moment. “You chose well. Sawyer’s a great guy. I’m proud to call him a friend, and I’m glad he has someone like you by his side. Take care of him for me, please?”

He closes his eyes, giving you a slow, almost solemn nod before he takes a few steps away and launches himself into the air, ruffling your hair and robes with the gust of wind it produces. 

You can hear the bells chime — ten. You’d spent nearly an hour with him, and another before that on your own, getting yourself lost. You have plenty of time to work before you need to get to your evening class, and Sawyer should have a break in an hour or so. Maybe he’ll come see you, and you can lovingly tell him off for having his dragon scare the pants off of you, and then thank him for it. 

————————————

There’s a soft knock on the doorframe. You can’t stop the smile from crossing your face as you look up to see Sawyer, still in his usual all black. 

“How did it go?”

“Just fine,” you answer. “I got everything I needed. And I met a friend of yours.”

“Oh?” he asks, wondering who it could be; you’ve already met his squadmates, and he doesn’t really count anyone else as a friend besides them. And aren’t you supposed to keep your patients’ names secret?

You hum in reply, still plucking the leaves from the stems. “Big tall guy, red skin, lots of teeth…”

His eyes widen as he realizes that Sliseag hadn’t stayed as far away from you as he’d instructed. 

“You told me to protect her, not to watch idle.”

Sawyer ignores him. “I’m so sorry, Peach, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay. He ended up scaring off James and his twin idiots, and we had a lovely, if rather one-sided conversation.”

His heart might give out. “You talked to him? He let you?”

“The first time was an accident!” you defend. “He cornered me, and wouldn’t let me leave, and I couldn’t figure out what he wanted, so I asked. And then I realized he was yours, and we chatted while I picked all of this. Yes or no questions only, of course, since he couldn’t respond to me with words.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You’ve always been good with animals,” he concedes. “I guess that includes dragons, too.”

“I’m offended to be put in that category.”

Sawyer ignores him again. “Wait, why were dumb, dumber, and dumbest there?”

You can’t help but laugh at the nicknames he’s assigned them, even if they’re a little mean. “Infantry are always in the woods playing soldier. That’s all they ever do. Nolon warned us about it earlier in the year.”

“Do you have to go back out there again?”

“Only if I fail this assignment,” you say quietly, looking down at everything you’ve gathered.

“I’m sure you’re going to do great. I’m absolutely positive. When will you know?”

“Tomorrow morning I’ll see if I get a passing score. Some of the preparations have to sit overnight, or dry out for a few days, so the rest of the points will be calculated then.”

He can tell you’re anxious about this, from the way your voice has quieted. “Hey. You’re going to do amazing, because you are amazing,” he says, giving you a gentle squeeze. 

You lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

He’s glad that you can’t see how red his cheeks are in this position. “Alright. I shouldn’t keep you from your work, future Head Healer. The world hangs in the balance here.”

You laugh. “When did you decide that I’m going to be a Head Healer?”

“Just now. I can’t think of anyone better for the job, when the time comes.”

“You don’t know any other healers.”

“I know Sarah,” he defends. “And she’s still threatening me every time I come in. I don’t think her bedside manner is the best.”

“You say that like you’re scared of her, mister dragon rider.”

“She can be quite descriptive with her threats.”

You sigh softly, still leaning into him. “I missed you, you know.”

“You saw me yesterday.”

You elbow him gently, knowing he’s purposely acting obtuse. “I meant before that. Before our paths crossed again. I really missed spending time with you like this. I hope we can keep in touch next year.”

He rests his chin on top of your head, squeezing you gently. “I hope so too. Who knows, maybe we’ll even be stationed together.”

“Maybe. I hear wingleaders and their executive officers get to choose.” It’s your turn to warm with embarrassment at the implication — that he would choose whatever base you’re at, just because you’re there.

“They do. Rhi is definitely going to be the wingleader next year. Maybe I’ll still be her XO. But even if I’m not, I’d do whatever I could to stay with all of you.”

Your heart sinks a bit at the last few words. All of you. You like his squadmates, and they’ve always been kind to you. You’re glad they have his back in the air. You aren’t a jealous person, either. So why does it sting that he holds you equal with the rest of his friends?

“You alright?” He asks softly.

You hum. “Yeah. Just tired. After I finish this, I have a two hour class, and then I’m going straight to bed.”

“You should eat first.”

“I should do a lot of things,” you sigh.

He pulls back to look at you. “I mean it, P. You, of all people, should know how important nutrition is.”

You crack a smile. “I do know. I just like seeing you get worked up about it. It’s cute.”

He sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

What indeed, you think. What do you want him to do? Better not go down that path.

“Alright. Finish up and get some rest. And food.”

“And food,” you agree. “Promise.”

“Good girl. See you tomorrow?”

You just nod, unable to form a coherent response — and muffle a tiny scream into your hand as soon as he’s out of sight. What the hell just happened?

[atleastpleasetelephone]

Gentle on my mind - Chapter 13

Initially set in 1967 when Elvis is filming Clambake. Feeling miserable and trapped after the Colonel banishes Larry and the spiritual texts, Elvis invites Gloria to keep him company through the last five days of filming. Gloria is an aspiring movie editor and more importantly she's a lot of fun. Will she be what Elvis needs to get him out of the depressive funk he's in?

Catch up with the other parts here.

Many thanks to @sissylittlefeather being my beta reader on this one.

A/N: We're still in 1975...

Pairing: Elvis x OC - Gloria, a budding film editor.

Word count: 2.4K

TWs: Very little. Angst, fluff.

Gloria is nervous about her kids meeting Elvis for the first time, but, as she sits on the bed watching him get changed into his fourth outfit option, she realises not as nervous as he is. She smiles at him in his version of casual wear - a navy shirt and pants, with one of his stage jackets over the top and a large gold belt. 

“Whaddya think?” He turns towards her, fiddling with the bracelet he just put on. 

She steps forward, putting her arms around his neck and looking up into his face. “Gorgeous. Don’t know how I’m going to keep my hands off you.”

The slightly unsure expression that had been on his face when he’d first turned towards her from staring at his reflection in the long mirror on the wall turns into a sunshine smile. He gives her a quick kiss and then they both realise the time, again, and head downstairs. 

The kids are shy when they first arrive, Elvis is big and sparkly and intimidating. But it takes no time at all for him to be on the floor, play-wrestling them both at once, and the shyness melts away completely. Gloria and Patricia chat for a while as they watch him interacting with Corey and Jackie, exchanging smiles with one another at how much of a natural he is with them. As if he’s known them forever. 

Elvis has taken his jacket off, and is sat on the floor panting with exertion as Jackie leans against his arm and Corey sits between his legs, his little hands on Elvis’ not insubstantial belly. 

“I surrender!” He exclaims, his hands in the air. “Ya win. I can’t fight no more.” 

He closes his eyes and sticks his tongue out of the side of his mouth, head flopping to one side as his arms flop down comedically. 

Corey’s little hands slap his belly repeatedly. “You’re not dead! You’re pretending!”

Elvis immediately recovers, opening his eyes and staring right at the little boy. “I’m not dead…” he leans forward, making his eyes menacing and screwing his face up. “...I’m THE UNDEAD! RAAAAAH!” He launches himself forward and Corey screams. 

Elvis wraps him up in a big hug and then giggles right in his ear, before starting an onslaught of tickling. He feels another hand on his arm and looks over to see Jackie sitting there, pouting. She’s not much over a year older than her brother, and she doesn’t like being left out. And being quieter, she often is. Elvis chuckles and pulls her into his lap too. Then he feels a hand on his head and looks up to see Gloria standing there. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hi. I was feeling left out.”

“Oh. You want something?”

“A kiss.”

She leans down and he moves a hand to hold her face as he presses a kiss to her lips. Both kids immediately start screaming. 

“Mama!”

“Mama kissed Elvis!”

“Elvis loves Mama!”

When they eventually stop just shouting the first thing they think of, Corey looks up at his mom and asks her a serious question. 

“Is Elvis our new daddy?”

Jackie frowns. “What about our real daddy?”

“Elvis is real!”

Gloria has been thinking about this a lot. She didn’t have to kiss Elvis in front of them, but she had. And now she could make something up that would be easier for them to understand than the truth. But she wants them to understand that life is complicated sometimes, so she decides to talk to them about it.

“Hey. Shush for a minute,” she tells them, waiting for quiet before she continues. “I want to explain this to you. Are you going to listen?”

They both grumble but they sigh and nod and try to listen even as they continue to squirm on Elvis’ lap. 

“Yes Mama.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.” She looks down at their upturned, expectant faces and swallows. “Yes, I love Elvis. And… I think he loves me.” She pauses there and looks at him briefly. She doesn’t want to put words in his mouth. 

“Of course I do, honey,” he replies, craning his neck to stare up at her like he’s the third kid, sitting there and waiting for an explanation. 

She smiles, another of those smiles that stays on her lips and doesn’t reach her eyes. She knows she’s about to say something he won’t want to hear, and part of her wonders if his birthday is the worst possible time to do this. But she’s started now. 

The kids are still looking up at her, rapt. 

“But Elvis lives in Memphis, and we live in San Francisco. And your daddy lives in San Francisco too, and he loves you both a lot. So even though Elvis and I love each other, we can’t live together, because I’d be taking you away from your daddy and that wouldn’t be fair. And Elvis has a very busy life, you both know that. He has to travel all over the country, singing to people.”

“We could go with him?” Jackie suggests, hopefully. 

“You have school, and you know that too.”

Jackie sighs and looks down at the floor sadly. Corey looks sad too. He thinks for a while and then looks up again at his mother, with a face full of hope. 

“Can we visit though? I want to visit! I love Daddy Elvis! Mama! Please!” He’s shouting by the end, and punctuating his speech with exasperated slaps of his hands to Elvis’ belly. Elvis winces, but makes no attempt to stop him. 

Gloria starts to feel her resolve failing in the face of her begging child. She also feels her belief that this was the best course of action starting to falter too. She shouldn’t have kissed him in front of her children. This is not turning out the way she had hoped, although why she thought two small children could deal with such complicated emotions without yelling she’s not sure. 

“Corey, please. I know you’re having a lot of big feelings right now, but you can’t take them out on Elvis. C’mere.”

She picks him up and holds him in her arms and he groans and then bursts into tears. 

“It’s not fair!”

No, Gloria thinks, it really isn’t fair. 

“Son, I think if your mama says it’s okay, I would love ta have ya all here. But only if she says it’s okay.” Elvis clenches his jaw, briefly gritting his teeth before he says the next part. “Your daddy needs ta see ya both too.”

Corey moves his head from where it’s been hanging over Gloria’s shoulder to right in front of her face, and puts a hand on either cheek. “PLEASE MAMA!” Tears streak his face, bright red from all the crying. 

“Shhh. I… we could probably visit…” she replies, feeling almost defeated at this point. 

Corey yells “YAY!” directly in her face and throws his arms around her neck. She strokes his back, absent-mindedly trying to soothe him. Then she looks down at Jackie, still on Elvis’ lap, noticing the sad expression on her face. 

“Jackie?” She asks. The little girl looks up. “What’s wrong?”

For such a small girl she manages a very big sigh in response. Elvis cuddles her close to him and repeats Gloria’s question. “What’sa matter, honey?”

“What about real daddy?” She finally asks, quietly. “He’ll be sad if we’re here all the time.”

“We won’t be here all the time,” Gloria explains, patiently. “We’ll just come sometimes, in the holidays.”

Jackie frowns for a while and then her face sort of flattens back out again. “Oh. Okay then.”

There’s a silence and Gloria starts to think this might be the end of the complicated conversation and she might be able to get this birthday celebration back on track. She carefully puts Corey back down and strokes the top of his head, leaning over to do the same to Jackie. 

Her sister has been watching the whole scene with some interest, and decides maybe now is her time to chip in and give Gloria and Elvis a little time without the children. 

“Come on you two, let’s see if we can find some food, shall we?” She looks down at Elvis. “So long as that’s okay by Elvis, anyway. It is his house, after all.”

Elvis smiles, picking Jackie up off his lap and placing her carefully on her feet, before standing up himself. “Sure is, honey.”

Gloria is relieved to see them go, and grateful to her sister for taking them. That whole situation had been emotionally exhausting. She looks over at Elvis, expecting him to have something to say about it, half-wondering if it will cause a row. 

He moves close to her, then pulls her into his arms, wrapping her in a big hug. “It’s okay, honey,” is all he says, and he feels her whole body relax. 

He kisses the top of her head. It hurts, to know that she doesn’t think there’s a future for them. That they won’t all live together. Of course it does. But she’s here now, and he doesn’t want to spoil the time he has with her. Or the time he has with Corey and Jackie. He’s grown attached to them almost immediately, and he wants them to stay as long as possible, Gloria too. For once he keeps his impulse to anger and upset in check. 

***

The rest of the day passes in a busy and happy blur. Priscilla drops Lisa-Marie off, and various other Memphis Mafia members appear with wifes and children throughout the day. There’s only a little drinking, but there’s a lot of food and, most importantly where the kids are concerned, there’s a big cake. Elvis doesn’t care so much about the cake, or the presents that people have bought him (he likes them, but they’re never quite right), or even everyone singing happy birthday. But he loves his friends being here, and that the house is full of life, children laughing and crying, adults telling stories, singing and even a bit of dancing. Graceland is truly alive with activity in a way it hasn’t been for a long time. And he has Gloria to thank for that. He makes a mental note to thank her properly later. 

***

Gloria tucks the kids in, explaining for at least the third time what to do and where to go if they wake up worried in the middle of the night. Jackie is almost asleep already, not interested in irrelevant information as she’s slept through since she was a baby, but Corey keeps asking and worrying about it being too dark in the room without a nightlight. Wondering what’s taking so long, Elvis walks down the corridor to the room and pokes his head in. 

“Daddy Elvis!” Corey exclaims, in a way that is really not conducive to sleep. 

“What’re ya still doin’ awake, son?” Elvis asks, his voice low and soft as he comes into the room to kneel down next to the bed beside Gloria. 

Corey frowns. “It’s too dark.”

“He doesn’t have his nightlight,” Gloria says, by way of explanation. 

“Oh. Hang on a minute.”

Elvis disappears, then reappears a few minutes later with a ladybug nightlight. “Here ya go. Got a bunch for Yisa.”

He plugs it in and Corey exclaims again with joy, holding his arms out wide for a hug. Elvis leans into it with a smile. Then he walks over to the other bed and gives Jackie a kiss goodnight, not wanting her to feel left out. Remembering the way she pouted earlier, when she had less attention from him, being quieter and less demanding than her brother. 

Finally Elvis and Gloria manage to leave the room, switching the light off and closing the door softly behind them. They walk back to Elvis’ room in silence, and then when they get inside she sits down on the bed with an exhausted sigh. 

“Oh my god. Thank you for getting that light. I thought he’d never let me leave.”

Elvis sits down next to her and puts an arm around her, pulling her against him. “They’re gorgeous honey. A pair a great kids.”

She laughs against his shoulder. “You want them?”

He grins. “Only if I can have you too. You’re incredible, Glory.”

“Hmmm. Thanks,” she mumbles into his jacket, blushing at the compliment. 

“I mean it. Lookin’ after those two, makin’ them into such good kids. After everythin’ that happened with Roger…”

She puts an arm around his waist. “Thanks. That means a lot, El.”

“An’ everythin’ you’ve done fer me. Would’ve been locked up in here on my own today if it wasn’t for you. Yer so special, Glory.”

Gloria can feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes at his kind words. “I hope you had a good birthday,” she sniffs. 

He pats his lap expectantly and she shifts to straddle him, a stray tear escaping down her cheek. It’s been a tiring, emotional day. 

“I had a wonderful day, thank you.”

His hands cup her face gently. 

“Even after what I said to the kids?”

“Even after that.”

“I love you, Elvis.”

“I love you too, baby. C’mon. Let’s get ready for bed.”

He gently wipes the tear from her face with his thumb, then helps her off his lap again. They curl up together in bed in pyjamas, her hand on his belly. She’d seen the newspapers in the trash this morning with headlines like “Elvis, Fat and Forty,” and her heart had broken a little. She likes the extra weight on him, always has. Her nose presses against his sideburn and it tickles her a little. She kisses along his jaw, thinking this is the most relaxed she’s been with him since their time on Clambake. The least pressed for time. 

“I can stay, if you want?” She says, suddenly. “For the rest of the week. The kids will have to go back in a couple of days for school, but I could stay. Pat said she’d look after them for a while… I’d have to check but I’m pretty sure she’d be okay with it.”

His head turns quickly. “For the rest of the week?” He’s not expecting it and he can feel his throat closing up with emotion. It’s been so long since he’s been able to spend this much time with her. 

“If…if you want.”

“I can’t believe you have to ask that, Glory. Of course I want.”

She smiles. :”That’s settled, then. If Pat tries to say no you can give her a Cadillac.”

***

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[sabraeal]

The Man of Progress, Chapter 5

[Read on AO3]

For all that Mel has planned this exhibition down to the last rosette, both banners and bunting boasting the same proud blues and golds of Piltover itself, there is still a single aspect for which she cannot account: the weather.

“Quite a gamble, planning an event like this in the out of doors.” Cassandra Kiramman’s dark hair may have begun ceding ground to gray, framing the face once famed for being as friendly as looking down a rifle’s barrel— at least by one aspiring journalist, shortly before the Academy put their class paper on temporary retirement— but it hasn’t done anything to soften her. Time may blunt an edge, but if anything, age has only sharpened the councilwoman, honing her to a more ruthless shape. “Could have been quite a disaster for you if the day hadn’t decided to dawn bright and fair.”

Mel slows on these last few stairs up to the Academy’s rooftop, allowing the councilwoman to keep pace. The stairs are new constructions, curving up the back of the building the way Kino had taught her to tread up dunes and down mountainsides. Switchback, he’d called it, laugh catching in his throat. Named like a weapon, and more useful than most of them. They sway at the slightest provocation, at the whim of the breeze or the mercy of her weight— any weight, really; even a dropped handkerchief might set them to a tremble. But the Revered Professor insisted on the superiority of the design, that the genius of it lay within the mobility of its form rather than the rigidity of its parts— the flexibility of a willow is what keeps it safe in a storm, is it not? His giggle put punctuation to the question. All part of the Academy’s rigorous dedication to everyday safety.

*

“Its resignation, more likely.” Half buried in the bowels of his great machine, Viktor’s snort takes on a tinny tone, like a voice from a victrola’s horn, more mechanical than man. “Finally figured out that he couldn’t discourage a bunch of overly educated lemmings from electrocuting themselves just by denying them a way to do it easily.”

It’s hardly possible for him to see the precise angle of her eyebrows, buried as he is in the bowels of invention, but she stares with enough emphasis to spear him with her skepticism, even so. “Strong words from a man who threw himself into a rent in reality on a theory.”

“That”—the word snaps off, leaving the rest to chase at its heels— “was a well-researched hypothesis, with several strong supporting arguments.”

“It was a lucky guess.” The thunder crack of her heels dulls to soft clicks without warehouse's the lofty ceilings. Viktor shifts even without the warning, the starched shoulder of his shirt scraping just below her knee. She’ll have to introduce him to a better cleaner; it wouldn’t do for the man of the hour to itch on the podium. “One that should not have worked.”

One that wouldn’t have, for any lesser of a mind. By the sly glance he slants her, stern brow easing into something far too smug for her liking, that had been no small part of his calculations. “But it did.”

*

“But it did.” There’s a satisfaction to the way her mouth wraps around those words; a surety, as if her own planning and foresight were less an effort of will and more a force of nature— an inevitability that cannot be quantified, but only is. It adds a certain air of ambiguity, an inarguable mystique; every syllable exuding enough infallible confidence to end any conversation.

The exact sort of attitude that would serve her well in a council room of querulous colleagues— and annoys her daily, dealing with her own recalcitrant investment. By the councilwoman’s furrowed brow, the habit is as charming on her as it is on Viktor— which is to say, utterly obnoxious. “That it did. It seems Medarda’s uncanny luck in regards to the weather persists. However—”

A gust rattles the deck beneath her feet, metal joints complaining with what Heimdinger might term a very healthy squeal. A matching one runs through the crowd climbing it, wide brims and long skirts fluttering high enough to bare a scandalous ankle. The councilor throws one hand on her hat— a habit, Mel assumes, since there’s not a breeze on this earth that could budge that bulwark of pins— the flounces of her blouse ruffling like a hen’s feathers.

“Save for this wind!” There’s more humor than gripe in her huff, the hint of a smile clinging to the stern line of her mouth. Don’t let the old girl fool you, Hoskel heaved in her ear once, over the whiz and whir of his horses, she might make a stand on tradition now, but she was a wild one in her youth— rode velocipedes for goodness sake. “My goodness! I don’t suppose there would be a safer season to do this?”

Mel laughs, gripping the rail harder. There’s little else to do when one’s life is in the hands of engineers. “It is my understanding this is the price of standing head and shoulders over the rest of Piltover.”

Another gust sets the stairs to grumbling, matching the councilor’s mood as she sighs, “As there always is. The podium is just up here, I imagine? Well, one more flight can’t hurt, I suppose—”

There’s no warning to it when the wind hits, no rhyme or reason; just a steady whirl that rises to a wail, clanging the assembly against the roof. The strength of the scaffold mutes it to no more than a rattle, a small shake in the steel beneath their feet, but with one foot raised, the councilor is put off balance, one arm flying out to find the rail—

Only to be caught by a steady hand rounding the corner. Her husband— Tobias, Mel remembers— his bright eyes crinkled at the corners. “Do be careful, my dear.”

“Ah…” There is little about Councilor Kiramman that can be considered soft, but what there is eases, the faint lines around her eyes deepening to match his. “Thank you, darling. Though I hardly think I have any say in whether I keep my feet beneath me or not.”

“That may be so.” The councilor’s husband is a soft spoken man, as gentle as the hand that holds her elbow, but he hardens his voice enough to be heard. “But you can at least try.”

“It heartens me to hear that you believe the wind blows at my asking.” Her hand settles on the rail, and the head of house Kiramman is cast from cold steel once again, as immovable as the foundries that bear its name. “But there are things that even I cannot control. Much as I wish I might.”

His empty hand hesitates— hovering first at her back, then her side, before falling back to his own. There are few men who deal with sudden superfluousness with grace, and fewer still who would smile over it, but Tobias Kiramman does both, humming, “You hardly need to remind me. I’m raising our daughter too, aren’t I?”

The mere mention of Clan Kiramman’s youngest brings a sharpness to the councilwoman— not in the way whetstones hone steel, but in the way a horn’s peal does a hound, fixing all that lethal focus to a singular point. “Don’t start that with me. Where is she anyway? Dragging her feet, no doubt, when I already told her—”

“Miss Medarda” —Tobias catches himself with a laugh, following along in his wife’s wake— “ah, I mean Councilor, now. I have to thank you for the invitation— I don’t think I’ve been so excited to see a presentation in years.”

“Tobias.” There’s a warmth when Mel says his name, an echo of a fondness from a much younger girl. One he’d been kind to, those first few years, when there had been no benefit to befriending a foreign girl who had already disappointed one branch of her clan. “What a pleasant surprise! Cassandra hadn’t said you’d be coming.”

“I could hardly keep him away,�� the councilwoman mutters absently, craning her neck to see further down the stairs. “This is the only part of being a patron he actually likes, after all— listening to all these engineers talk about their projects. As one would expect of Kiramman’s most promising apprenta.”

Mel allows her eyebrows to lift, coaxing her expression to curiosity. “Not really?”

“That was years ago, now.” He waves a hand, as if that little tidbit weren’t common knowledge, passed around parties to prove that Councilor Kiramman has been anything but perfectly polished. Oh, she pretends a scandal couldn’t stick to her if it slid in on her shoe, Salo sniffed once, turning his nose up at perfectly passable canapés to crunch on his pistachios. But she did what every other girl did back then— pick papa’s most prized horse and ride it all the way to the finish line. It just so happened that she picked a good one. “Long before your time, councilor. Now I just content myself with staring through the shop window, so to speak. You’ll have to forgive me for running a little behind schedule today, it’s been my job to keep an eye on—”

“There you are!” The councilwoman barely has her feet on solid ground— or steady platform, more accurately— before she bustles back to the stairs, blustering with enough force to give the wind pause. “Didn’t I tell you to stay with your father? What if something had happened to you?”

Tobias’s straight shoulders deflate around a sigh. “—My daughter.”

Her mother may be the very picture of steely, her short stature doing nothing to diminish the dignity of her determination, but Caitlyn Kiramman is the textbook definition of coltish; all long limbs on a body that hasn’t quite yet decided which way it’s going. Tall is the obvious answer; even at sixteen she’d stood eye-to-eye with her father, and while most girls slowed to a standstill before their governesses declared them finished, she’d spent her next few summers growing in fits and starts until even Salo had to crane his neck to condescend to her.

Mel has little more than a passing acquaintances with the councilwoman’s daughter— clansmen and colleagues she and Cassandra may be, but they hardly travel in the same circles outside of business— but it’s still comes as a shock to see her mount that last step, that sullen air that had so defined the girl’s adolescence clinging to the sunken corners of a woman’s mouth. She could have sworn that only last summer the girl was still running around in short pants and pigtails, sun-worn freckles speckling her nose, but now she’s as skirted and beruffled as her mother; Cassandra’s younger, more uncomfortable mirror.

That’s the terror of old age, my girl, Jago would say, his hand steadily scratching across a page. A clock’s hands may barely move to you, but use a child to mark the time and you’ll be one foot in the grave before breakfast.

“Nothing happened.” Mel’s mouth twitches. The girl might have grown, but that gloomy glare of hers hasn’t, taking in every strip of blue and gold with a sneer astringent enough to strip paint. “Nothing ever happens, and nothing ever will. You don’t have to fuss over me every moment, like I might break or something—”

“I am hardly fussing over you,” the councilwoman huffs, flounces thoroughly ruffled. “I am simply being prudent. A young lady such as yourself can hardly go about unchaperoned—”

Tobias tilts Mel a weary, if fond glance. “They’ve been like this all morning. Much as my wife tries to encourage an interest in Piltover’s innovation, I don’t think Caitlyn will ever enjoy these little symposiums. Not by any fault of your own, of course, Councilor! It’s just, er…”

“Boring?” she offers, all smiles. “I can hardly be offended. I would have felt much the same way, at her age.”

Give or take a generous couple of years. By the time her more fortunate cousins were finished, so to speak, Mel had proven she was more than simply a cog in Medarda’s well-oiled machine, hand-picked by Master Jago as his most promising protégé out a handful for former favorites. It hadn’t won her many friends; she was supposed to be an outsider, a far-flung cousin expected to make the best of an unfortunate exile by keeping her head down and doing what she was told, not by taking the coveted position of the old man’s aide. At twenty she’d been a ubiquitous presence at his side, a fine decoration positioned just over his shoulder, as at home in the council room as she might have been behind a counter.

But she’d been a young girl once too, dropped unceremoniously on the shores of a foreign land, expected to be entertained by their endless lectures and bloodless sport. In her mother’s shadow, she’d watched empires fall beneath the beat of a hundred drums, entire civilizations ceding to sand beneath her own horse’s hooves, kings and generals felled by their own hubris— or by a shrewder man’s betrayal. She’d chased her brother’s braids through the endless dunes of Sai Faraj, and learned to overtake him in the cascades, but here—

Here they’d shuffled her into stiff-backed seats and had stuttering engineers pontificate over progress until she’d been sure her ears would bleed from the boredom. They’d taken her to watch steel horses race along greased tracks, sparks and shrapnel a poor proxy for flesh and blood; and to stages where glittering divas sang arias about soldiers lost in the same sands she’d ridden, or merchants sunk on the seas she’d sailed, and…it charmed her.

Not at first, when her wounds were still raw and bleeding. Then, she would have liked nothing more than to have been one of her mother’s men, able to call any who agitated her into an arena to air her grievances with steel and strength, but— later. In the months after her temper had cooled from roiling magma to sleek obsidian, when she could begin to appreciate the smallness of their world— so important to these people of Piltover, and yet insignificant beyond their borders. A city of children playing at civility, a petty kingdom built on progress—

And a fine proving ground for the poorest Medarda. A place to show the sort of conquest she could be capable of, given time and resources. A theater in which she might finally, for once, outshine even her mother’s glory.

So long as these engineers of hers don’t demolish another city block trying to do it, at least.

“There should be seats toward the front.” Mel waves a hand toward the podium, absent, casual, as if she hadn’t cordoned off a whole section of seating just for the councilors and their guests. A good thing; not even a perilous climb up the academy’s roof could dim the public’s enthusiasm for progress, the entire platform practically packed shoulder-to-shoulder with curious onlookers, waving flags and bearing pins as if this were a second Progress Day. "I’ve been assured that any of them should afford a good view of the proceedings, but if you’d like my opinion”— she leans in, conspiratorial, watching the mischief light in Tobias’s eyes— “the occupants in the leftmost seats will have a much more dramatic view.”

Or so Talis had implied this morning, walking her from one end of the podium to the other, arm wrapped oh-so unsubtly around her shoulders as he murmured, and you see, right there— that’s where it’ll turn the corner—

“I’m not here for your stupid council!” Heeled boots were a tactical error on the councilwoman’s part; as fashionable as it might be amongst the young girls clinging to the coattails of their clans, hoping to rise with their prospects, it cedes her daughter the high ground. Those lofty heights only let her sneer gain momentum before she lets it loose on this crowd. “And I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for Jayce, so don’t tell me that I best sit where you like, since I—”

“I think I’ll have a dramatic view no matter where I sit.” Tobias sighs, shaking his head. “But thank you anyway, Councilor. I’ll be sure to take it into consideration.”

Already the press parts around them, granting the councilwoman and her daughter a wider berth than the stage itself, but Tobias intercedes with all the ease of an experienced negotiator, diffusing tensions before their conversation can claim too much collateral damage. The result may not be all-smiles when he’s done— an unlikely goal, when a girl is as gifted at glowering as Caitlyn Kiramman— but there’s certainly a cessation of hostilities, an uneasy stalemate that allows him to herd them toward the podium. There’s a pause when he comes to the end of the aisle, a hesitation before his hand sweeps out to the left, every angle of it composed to look indifferent, as if it hardly mattered to him where they sat.

The councilwoman takes one glance at the seats— demarcated with a tasteful velvet rope slung between golden poles, a placard reading Reserved in the finest penmanship Medarda’s apprenta can put to page swaying beneath— before circling back to her husband. Canvassing every contour of his expression first, she nods, bustling behind the barrier. His daughter, however, digs in her heels.

Headstrong, that’s what councilwoman always called her; the same thing one of her mother’s generals had called his newest mare, shortly before it threw him ass over teakettle into the dunes. Mel snorts, shaking her head. “Cassandra can try, but I doubt that girl will ever sit easy in a council seat.”

Elora’s already at her elbow, surveying the situation with an absent sort of interest. “She is a bit argumentative. But I was under the impression most children her age are. It hardly seems fair to write her off just because of some, hm, adolescent rebellion.”

“Not that. A bit of backbone makes for a better councilor than a puppet’s strings.” Though she could hardly complain about the ones who showed up to their seat so expertly strung. Hoskel might shake his head at every strong breeze, but it was easy enough for steadier hands to tug him in the right direction. “The problem is that she wears her heart on her sleeve. With one glance I can hear every thought that’s in that girl’s head, as clear as if she said it.”

Elora’s heavy eyebrows lift, softening her sterner angles. “Would it be so bad to have someone honest sitting in a councilor’s seat? Couldn’t it be the breath of fresh air that’s needed to start making real changes in Piltover?”

“A tempting idea in this jaded day and age,” Mel allows, winding her way through the press. Bodies shuffle to clear the way, gentlemen quick to doff their hats to a pretty woman promenading past. “But the air is only fresh so long as the window is allowed to sit open. And inevitably someone will find the breeze unpleasant.”

“You think she’d be removed from the Council?” Elora presses her notes to her chest, scandalized. “She’s a Kiramman.”

“Removed, perhaps not.” Tradition, after all, ran strong for a city built on progress. “She could make herself a light in the darkness, a paragon among the petty hearts in that room, but polishing a statue to gleaming only invites the touch that tarnishes it.”

Her gaze cuts across the crowd, settling on the velvet ropes that cordon off the Council, only to find a broad set of shoulders squeezed between Salo and Shoola. Bronze cogs gleam as Ferros throws back his head, laughing at his own clever quip.

“That’s the price of being so honest, after all,” she murmurs, resisting the urge to stiffen when his stare settles on her, smug. “Everyone knows exactly what you care most about. And what you might do to save it.”

*

“Councilor Medarda.” Ferros may not have a council seat— given up generations ago, she’d been told by her tutors, to allow Bolbok’s people a voice amongst Piltover’s more corporeal merchants and innovators— but its coffers certainly contain enough capital to allow its favorite son to be both extravagant in his spending and expansive in his socialization. So when Albus fails to stand, instead slouching back in his chair and affording her no more than a scant nod as a greeting, she can be assured that the slight is calculated down to the last cog, an offense as intentional as the rise and fall of the bronze-wrought workers on his epaulets. “Quite a turnout for a personal exhibition.”

“Albus.” She’d watch a snake eat a rat once, out in the dunes of Sai Faraj; its jaw splayed achingly wide to accommodate the furred girth of its dinner. It takes a similar effort for Mel to hold hers open wide enough to keep the name from hissing through her teeth. “I wouldn’t have thought you could spare the time for such a small—”

“’Spare the time?’” Hoskel squawks, tugging at the almost artfully outdated collar of his waistcoat. “The man’s practically funded this project down to the washer! You can’t expect him to go and miss the grand unveiling, can you?”

The curve of her smile stiffens like a cat’s spine beneath a carriage wheel. “Is that so?”

“Now don’t tell me you don’t know, Mel! Why, no one would care a single jot about all this hextech nonsense if old Albus hadn’t spent every waking moment talking that Talis boy up to anyone who would listen. Even got some of my own money riding on this horse— though nothing compared to you, Ferros! Could have conquered a nation with the amount of capital he poured into all this. And you know what the Noxians say” — the councilor wheezes out a laugh, nudging his elbow into Salo’s ribs to pass along a knowing wink— “to the victor goes the spoils.”

To Salo’s credit, he looks more likely to spit shells than share Hoskel’s sentiments. At least until one glance at Ferros sets him to smirking, eager to rub against that constructed set of shoulders. “And what promising spoils they seem to be, Lord Albus. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a crowd outside Progress Day.”

“I can hardly take all the credit.” False humility hardly suits Ferros, putting a slick sheen on every syllable that slips past the slanted edge of his sneer. “After all, it was Councilor Medarda who arranged this little demonstration for the public.”

“You don’t say.” Hoskel’s enthusiasm predictably wanes, his wide eyes squinting as they fall on her, as if he might find the fine print. “Well, I suppose that would be what you’re best at, Mel. That’s what I always say, isn’t it? Medarda knows how to put on a party!”

“That it does. But I must admit, it’s entirely to the councilor’s credit that I came upon these boys at all. If she hadn’t reached out to me before that Distinguished Innovators Symposium and told me about the promising pair of engineers she’d discovered hiding out in a Midtown warehouse, well…” One corner of Ferros’s ferrety little mustache quivers as he stares at her, sending a shudder shivering down her spine. “Things could have gone quite differently.”

“You know, I’ve always said the Councilor has a good eye for these sorts of things.” Salo's eyes flutter between them, torn between whom to focus his flattery. “Her taste is exquisite, I’m sure you know.”

It’s the sort of compliment that might shine more sincerely if it wasn’t accompanied by the crunch of pistachio. Still, she steps toward him, hand pressed prettily to where lace twines up her chest, smile already set into place—

Only for something to snap beneath her sole. Several somethings— shells, littering the podium around Salo like a strange halo. A strong gust scatters them across the platform, several seats in every direction, falling underfoot of clansman and commoner alike, and—

And her pretty veneer of civility cracks, smile as strained as her patience.

“You’re too kind,” she manages, too stilted for sincerity. It hardly matters— Salo is far too busy looking to Ferros to worry about how she might receive his flattery. “But truthfully, we wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the hard work of Mr Talis and—”

Ferros laughs; not his usual stiff-lipped hah, summoned up from the depths of his chest, but a languid, almost lazy chuckle, nearly lost to the wind. “Take a seat already, Mel.”

He may thrust out a meaty hand, the demand on her attention as absent as it is absolute, but Mel cannot care to follow it. Not when her own colleagues sit there— Hoskel, who had so eagerly accepted her gift to him only last week, thanking her for another fine puzzle even if he hadn’t quite managed to solve the last; Salo, who had practically begged on his knees for her to attend the theater in his box last season, if only so he might meet the Demacian tenor who kept ignoring his floral overtures; Shoola, who had only last week approached her about a number of ships her clan were anxious to usher through the Sun Gates before the summer squalls could start up on the Conqueror’s Sea— refusing to meet the question in her eyes. They stare past her as if she were a passing pamphlet that had unfortunately blown underfoot, too unimportant to take to the bin themselves.

And there is Ferros, grinning beneath his furred caterpillar of a mustache, teeth as bare as his ambitions, and she—

“If everyone would just— oh my!” Heimerdinger chuckles over the ring of the audio coils, a small hand reaching out to tinker with their halos before they could confound each other once again. “Ah! Yes, if everyone could just take their seats, then I think we could get this exhibition on the road— or, er, rooftop, as it were!”

His giggle grates— Ferros’s cunning little Council coup might astound and annoy, but there is truly nothing more wearying than a man who drinks from his own punch bowl. Still, Mel is grateful to have any excuse to search for a seat besides at Albus’s behest. The last thing she needs is to give any of her fine colleagues cause to believe that she lets this man tug her strings too.

“Reginald!” Ferros snaps his fingers, the aide beside him springing up like toast at the breakfast table. “Move. It wouldn’t do to keep Miss Medarda standing.”

She quite nearly declines; there are plenty of seats and better company over by the cluster of Kirammans, but Heimerdinger clears his throat— a little ahem-hem-hem over the murmur of the masses— and she finds herself folding into the chair. It earns her a dire glare from his aide, but she learned enough at her mother’s knee to know that wolves do not worry about the opinion of lambs.

“I must thank you for all coming out here today when” — the wind blows, setting all the coils to screeching— “when the elements are not quite as friendly as we may have hoped! But I promise this is a presentation that is not to be missed— a true leap in progress, the sort of innovation that may elevate Piltover’s place in the world, thrusting us back to the forefront of trade and invention just as the Sun Gates did so many years ago!”

A murmur wends its way through the crowd, growing in volume and momentum until a swift gust cuts it short; too many hands flying up to catch hats to keep whispering behind them.

“And if I might add a more personal note.” Heimerdinger rocks from toe to heel, so pleased for a man who once took such pains to kill this concept in the cradle. “I think this really is something special— a show of what engineers can do when they aren’t weighed down by preconceived notions and previous scholarship! Of what the mind can do when it’s free from the confines of the usual and allowed to—”

It’s a relief that the wind steals the words, setting the coils squealing before the Revered Professor can tame them again. She would have never survived that much self-congratulatory back patting from the man who has conveniently forgotten how much he railed against handy magic in the homestead.

“Well, I suppose that’s enough from me!” he chuckles, one furred paw pressing to his coat’s open collar. “Time to let these boys show you what they’ve got!”

Talis emerges from the wings with his hand already held aloft, not so much dissuading the claps and cheers as basking in them, acknowledging the adulation as well-earned. He’s every inch a clansman as he takes the stage, shoulders square beneath the stiff cut of his jacket, the white wool starched to the very limits of its weft. From collar to hem, every inch of him is constructed, metalwork at his shoulders turning him from an apprenta to an authority.

“Thank you!” His voice booms out from the coils, no breeze able to bully his words to silence. “I don’t think the Professor’s left much for me to say, besides that I am— no, we are thankful for this opportunity to present our work before such an attentive audience.”

A broad hand sweeps out, fingers absently unfurled— a second thought, no more than a pause for breath between one line of his speech and the next, and yet her gaze eagerly tracks the motion, searching for the smaller, more angular figure hidden in his shadow. One she finds, the seams of his shirt and waist crisp, trousers tailored down to the last allowance, both shoes and cane and brace polished to gleaming—

Ah. A squint and a generous tilt of her head, and finally all the angles resolve into a too-familiar shape: Viktor. Albeit a neater one. Cleaner. Tamer. His hair even looks like it’s been introduced to a brush, laying in neat wings against the curve of his skull, not flat but kempt, nonetheless.

Strange how it almost makes him less recognizable; more like the wallpaper that haunted Heimerdigner’s tiny heels rather than himself.

“It’s been a dream of mine since I was a boy to bring magic to the masses,” Talis confesses to the breathless crowd, already hanging on his every word. “To put the power of the arcane into hands that could use it. Not to move mountains or change the course of rivers— though I’m sure more than a few people wouldn’t mind that sort of thing, if it would get them home faster!— but to help with the everyday things. Spend less time on the things we must do, and spend more on the things that make us feel alive.”

He ducks his head, handsomely humble; the sort of pretty tableau that drew every eye, even from the back row. But Viktor’s trembling shoulders are what catch Mel’s attention, one corner of his mouth caught between a confounded frown— Talis’s words may be measured, read with the same cadence as from a card, but he’s clearly gone off-script— and the barest hint of a smirk.

“He’s charming, isn’t he?”

The hairs stir at the back of her neck, rustled by Ferros’s own breath. Mel knows better than to let herself shiver; fear only encourages a man like Ferros.

“Mr Talis?” She spares him only the briefest glance; one that measures the inches between them, and with an eloquent flutter of her lashes, informs him that she finds them wanting. “He’s pleasant to look at, if that’s what you mean. And certainly knows how to plead his case.”

It’s a lofty sort of glance that she means to toss over her shoulder, the kind that says, I could hardly care about the topic, but I’ll nobly suffer it for the sake of conversation, but Ferros waits for her. There's a too knowing glimmer in his eyes, mustache twitching like a cat’s paw before it descends. “Oh, it’s more than that, I think.”

It’s an effort to turn her head, to keep it trained on where Talis stands behind his podium, pontificating on the potential of progress. “Is it?”

“I hardly think you would waste your time on a pretty face, Mel.” His mouth wraps around her name like hands might a throat. “Jayce Talis may have been born to a minor clan, meant only to labor in mediocrity beneath a brighter banner, but he is a prodigious talent. A boon to anyone that claimed him as an apprenta.”

“Why do you think Councilor Kiramman is so eager to remind everyone just who sponsored him through the Academy?” She lets her mouth curl into a more conspiratorial curve. “It’s certainly not out of the goodness of her heart.”

“Hah. I would never do that woman the disservice of assuming she has one.” Ferros’s teeth flash, the barest hint of humor. “Though I can hardly blame her for wanting to stake some claim. Jayce is a promising young talent, and should this project of his succeed…well, I hardly need to tell you, do I?”

Every clan would be clamoring to catch a ray of his reflected glory, to put their stamp on the man who would change Piltover. “There’s two of them, you know. Mr Talis may have thought up Hextech, but Viktor—”

Ferros waves his hand, bored. “Jayce Talis has the mind of a great man. And better yet, the ambition of one, too.”

A breath catches in her chest, the thumb of his threat pressing tight between her collarbones. “What do you mean—?”

“And without further ado!” Talis steps back from the podium, arm sweeping out toward the open skies. “Let us show you the future of Piltover! Er, as long as my partner doesn’t have anything to add, that is.”

The Council may be seated close to the stage, but it’s still too far to make out the particulars of Viktor’s expression. His moods are often a matter of angle rather than aspect, confirmation and condemnation only separated by degrees, and yet—

A tilt of his head implies a raised brow, even if it’s not entirely in evidence. His shoulders lift— not the mountainous upheaval of Talis’s shrug, but a more subdued motion, one that does not say why so much as why not?

Viktor leans between audio coils, and with a mischievous hitch of his mouth, says, “Let’s crank it!”

There’s a confused silence in his wake, a crowd torn between titters and jitters and unable to summon up anything more decisive than a disquieted stare. Viktor hardly notices— no, he’s already put his back to them, more interested in the dark clouds slung low over the horizon than the mood of the masses.

A mood that shifts as a sail emerges from the depths of that silvered belly; moving not at the ponderous pace of the dirigibles squatting at the skyline, but with all the swiftness of a sparrow swooping between branches. The Revered Professor might have asked them to take their seats, but the crowd’s on its feet now, a murmur catching as the ship chews through the miles between marina and rooftop.

It’s a lean little thing, more sloop than galley, both basket and balloon curved to a point with agile, fin-like sails sprouting off its back. A marvel, one might say, or a miracle, or—

Or straight from that sketch in the lab. The one Talis had left strewn across his bench, a pipe dream patent she’d barely spared a glance for, save to see whose name was scrawled in the corner.

And yet here it is, cutting through the gusty breeze with little more than a cheeky sway. Not a dream at all, but a reality. One Talis hadn’t thought to appraise her of, despite all their preparations.

“Steers like a dream, doesn’t it?” Ferros murmurs into her ear, not surprised, no— smug. “A dirigible that could fly as swiftly as a ship sails! I nearly didn’t believe him when he said it could be done.”

It’s not until she tries to speak that Mel realizes her jaw is clenched. “Who could blame you?”

“It doesn’t have a name yet— you know how it is. Engineers never know how to turn a phrase. Too literal.” The sloop cuts closer, the golden frame gleaming in the afternoon sun. “But I’m quite partial to sky cruiser.”

There’s a quip at the tip of her tongue, a question poised to slip from her on an airy chuckle— how will you convince them to give up their terrible name in favor of yours?— but it disappears with a catch of her breath, the squat rune of Clan Ferros stamped right into the ship’s side.

“It’s a prototype of course,” Ferros informs her over the ringing in her ears. “There will need to be refinements before it will be fit to join Ferros’s fleet. But it certainly serves as a statement piece, doesn’t it?”

She’s saved the need to reply; Talis’s arm lifts, and shroud drops from a few rooftops away, revealing  a tower, shiny and chrome.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he calls out, barely needing the coils to catch his voice. “May I present to you: the Hexgate!”

Even from here, it hums, a mist of arcane gathering around a single glowing point, expanding into the ghostly portal the boys had spent hours inscribing into its machinery. That itself is enough to impress, the crowd pitched forward on their toes, straining to see the sky ship as it approaches, white sails blinding as it sails straight for the tower—

And in a brilliant beam of light, disappears.

“What happened to it?” Hoskel yells, hoarse enough to be heard. “Where’s it gone? Don’t tell me they’ve gone and—”

A shadow falls over them, sky visible to all four sides but obstructed from above, stifling as a shroud, and even though she knows the trick of it— even though Talis walked her through this glorious reveal— her breath catches too, the fear knotted in her breast as real as the day her mother first shoved her off a her ship into shark infested waters, telling her to survive.

And all at once, alarm turns to awe as a voice cries out, “The ship!”

There is hardly ever a quiet moment in Piltover, but as the cruiser sails above them, low enough that some of the bolder attendees reach out thinking they might touch, the very air buzzes, elation and exhilaration a palpable vibration on her skin. Mel can hardly think for all the noise, can hardly hear—

Kiramman’s rambunctious daughter rushes the stage, bounding up its side in one long-legged jump. She may be trussed up in long skirts and ruffles popular in a crowd twice her age, but not one frill can make her ladylike, not when she throws her endless arms around Talis’s shoulder, shrieking and carrying on like the giddy girl she isn’t. Her mother is hardly far behind, elbowing her way past men head and shoulders taller with the sort of confidence confined to sportsmen at the top of their game. There’s a smile straining at her sternest corners, a hound begging to be let off its leash— and when Talis turns to her, arms open and yet already filled to the brim with one Kiramman, she lets it off the lead, running rampant as what’s left of his arm slings around her shoulder. Pride radiates off her; not the cool satisfaction of a patron with a promising apprenta, but something warmer, something more, and—

And for a moment, Mel can’t bear to watch. Her eyes slip away, falling away to somewhere safer, somewhere beyond them— only to find Viktor, hovering just a few steps back. In the mad rush of the crowd mounting the stage, eager to shake hands and clap shoulders with the man of the hour, he’s been shuffled back to the rail, angled out over the rooftop like he might be able to count bolts and tally damages just by squinting.

“I’ll have to thank you, Councilor.” Ferros stares up at his ship with the same satisfaction as her mother surveying foreign shores. “I do think this will be a profitable investment.”

There’s a contraction of Viktor’s spine, something between a shiver and a spasm, and he turns, gaze swinging out over the crowd—

To meet hers. She’s too far to see the subtleties of his expression, and yet she’s sure there’s a softening around his eyes, the barest hint of a smile lurking around the stern set of his mouth. His hand raises, fingers curling and unfurling uncertainly before he sets it back down, settling for a scant nod before he shifts back to his appraisal of the horizon.

Mel lets the smallest hint of satisfaction curl her lips. “I couldn’t agree more.”

*

Medarda spares no expense when it comes to fêting their triumphs, and tonight is no exception. Noxian red shimmers in every glass— all legal, a gift from their cousins out of Rockrund— fountains of Damacian champagne cascading in every corner, a legacy to the largess of their line. A good thing, too; there’s not a clansman worth knowing that isn’t in attendance, councilors and merchants magnates and blood that can be traced back to Old Zaun mingling over canapés that boast flavors from all four corners of Runeterra. The ones that matter, at least.

What it doesn’t seem to have however, are the men of the hour.

“Congratulations are in order, it seems.” Councilor Kiramman doesn’t so much smile as survey as she approaches the pillar where Mel holds court, a glass of fine Vindese red dangling from her fingertips with a studied ease. “This is quite a tidy little coup for Medarda, all things considered.”

A generous assessment for a woman so desperate to deny her any toehold on Talis, said kindly enough it might lull a fool like Hoskel into believing it an olive branch. But Mel does not hold Medarda’s seat because her hands are the softest to shake or her smiles are the prettiest to behold— no, that is because when Kiramman stares at her with a focus that might be more at home aimed down a rifle’s barrel, she only lifts her chin and grins.

“You flatter me,” she says, one hand pressed to her chest, measuring out her throaty chuckle to the ounce. “I may have planned this intimate little gathering, but we wouldn’t be celebrating at all if it weren’t for Mr Talis and his partner. They are the ones who have done all the hard work to make this evening a success.”

“Quite,” Salo sneers, not even striving for a sliver of sincerity. “Though a patron is just as party to the profits as the patronized, wouldn’t you say? After all, it’s not as if they could have done much without the generous funding Lord Albus granted them. And you too, of course, Mel.”

Crystal strains beneath her grip. “Of course.”

“Where is that boy, anyway?” Hoskel blusters, hopping from foot to foot, as if the scant inches his boots gave him might make a difference. “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of Talis anywhere. This is his party, isn’t it? Celebrating the success of his hex door, or what have you.”

“Hexgate.” It’s too impatient, too terse— too much. Not the sort of tone a councilwoman takes with her own colleagues. But Mel can hardly summon up the care to smooth it away, not when her own eyes are trained to the walls, searching. “And it isn’t only Mr Talis’s party. His partner—”

“Never comes to these things anyway. And I hardly think tonight will be an exception.” A hand falls heavy on her shoulder, too warm, too familiar to fight the way her muscles tense beneath it. “Ah, my apologies, Councilor. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Ferros’s squeeze is meant to look friendly— intimate, even— but Mel nearly bites her cheek to bleeding to stifle her flinch. His hand slips away after, her flesh prickling in its wake, but Mel would rather choke on her own wine than give that man the satisfaction of seeing her check for a mark.

“Why, Ferros!” Hoskel spreads his hands as if they’re old friends— school chums, even, despite the fact that the old goat could be his father. “I was wondering when we’d see you around here! You’ve had quite a coup too, you know! What with that, er…what do you call it…?”

“The sky cruiser.” Salo flutters eyelashes so coy they could be cribbed from courtesans. And knowing the crowd he runs with, most likely so. Pity it's a wasted effort on a man like Ferros. “Quite a sharp little thing, wasn’t it? Why, I bet everyone will have one by this time next year.”

“Something like it, perhaps.” His mustache curls, doing nothing to soften the sneer beneath. “But not that ship.”

“Of course not.” A blotchy blush stains those sallow cheeks, taking Salo from cadaverous to consumptive. “I didn’t meant to imply that, ah—”

“I see you are without a partner, Councilor.” Ferros waves over one of the passing attendants— a Vastayan girl, her pointed ears flicking as she lowers the tray of canapés and receives his wine glass instead. “And after you spared no expense on these fine musicians. I would be remiss if I did not oblige you with a dance.”

“Oh my, yes!” Hoskel bobbles with a too-knowing chuckle. “That would be quite fine, indeed. Would that my wife weren’t here, I’d be tempted to take a turn about the room myself.”

Mel tries to imagine it: those knobby knees bumping across the ballroom floor, his beady eyes leering down the décolletage of a fine young lady half his age— or more likely up, if his heeled boots barely bring even him with her own— negotiating her gown around the bulge of his belly. There may already be a glass in her hand, pale champagne fizzing against the cool crystal, but Mel reaches out for a passing tray and downs half a flute in one gulp to wash the taste from her mouth.

“Thank goodness she’s here to save us from such a farce.” As sick of Salo’s simpers and sneers as she is, Mel can’t bring herself to disagree. “Though I’m sure you, Lord Albus, will put on a much more pleasing show.”

“If I do, it will be thanks to my choice in partner.” A gracious compliment— or at least it would be, if it weren’t clear that Ferros meant to flatter his own discernment first, and her aesthetic contributions second. Still, he holds out a hand, mustache curling in clear invitation. “Even if her entire attention isn’t on her footwork.”

Mel blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve had your eyes on the wallpaper this entire time,” he huffs, too amused. “Looking for Talis, I assume.”

She stifles a snort. It’s hardly Talis’s attendance she’s worried about. He likes attention.

“And is there some reason you would?” The loftiest streak of Councilor Kiramman’s gunmetal gray barely brushes Ferros’s shoulder, and yet with arms folded forbiddingly beneath the ruffled bust of her bodice, cuts a more imposing figure than him still. “Jayce might be the man of the hour, but that hardly makes him the only person of interest in this room.”

“Because of how he looks, of course,” Hoskel scoffs, scrubbing spindly fingers over his smooth pate. “You might be too far over the hill to remember, Cassandra, but a strong chin like that with shoulders to match? I don’t think there’s a woman in here who isn’t looking for him.”

Kiramman could hardly count herself out from that number either; her own eyes had been scouring the walls, eager to snatch up her most promising former apprenta. What a coup it would be for her to tour the man of the hour around the gala as if he’d come clinging to her coattails. “I’ll remind you, Councilor Medarda is a valued part of Piltover’s ruling council. I think she has far more pressing concerns than who might next sign her dance card.”

“I see. So what you’re saying is that she’s looking for the other one.” Salo’s mouth hooks into a conspiratorial smirk, glancing Mel’s way as if they were sharing some sort of joke, a jest only the two of them could understand. “Why, councilor, I didn’t know that Undercity rats were the same species, let alone your type.”

Bold words from a person that resembled a stoat more than he did a man. And yet she still pries her jaw loose enough for a laugh to leap out, brushing the thought away with nothing more than a wave. “Oh no, no. I must say, I’m not into the freshly exploded look.”

"Of course not.” Salo chuckles, lazily raising his glass. “Leave that to the engineers!”

“Oh come now,” Hoskel wheezes, clamoring to join the joke, as always. “Even they must have some standards!”

Her stomach twists as she rests her hand over Ferros’s meaty palm, but her smile isn’t the least bit strained. “I believe you said something about a dance, Lord Albus?”

Those thick fingers band around her own, too smooth, too soft to have seen any more work than stamping a few papers. His mustache spreads wide, and it’s her only warning before it fans out over the back of her hand, the generous cuff of her sleeve saving her from finding out whether his mouth is as dry as it looks.

“Councilor,” he grunts out gruffly. “It would be my pleasure.”

*

It’s to the strains of violins that Ferros fits his palm over her back, fingers splayed from shoulder blades to the dip of her spine. Metal warms beneath the brand of his touch, and haah, how foolish of her to wear a gown with hardly any back to speak of when she had hired the band herself, asking them to play the sort of songs these staid clansmen might dance to.

“You look ravishing tonight, Mel.” Ferros may be all sloped shoulders under that constructed collar of his, the bottle-round lenses perched on his nose so awkwardly thick he still has to squint to see her, but his voice is a caress, a cat-like rumble of a far more interesting man. But the way he looks at her is clinical— no, professional, like a collector perusing a private collection. A compliment detached from its meaning. “I don’t think I have ever seen you in blue.”

“A striking shade, isn’t it?” Piltover favors a more subdued shade, that kind that looks proud on banners and clean on rooftops—and dowdy on dresses. But Mel was an old hand at compromise, bringing the shade deeper, brighter; the silk so smooth it begs to be touched. “I’m afraid I couldn’t resist.”

“It suits you.” Another man might leer down her décolletage, might hold her with more intent, but Ferros— Ferros stares her straight in the eye as he says, “Just as this city does.”

A high compliment from the man who thinks of it as his. And a calculated one; his voice might warm it, turning it into something approaching suggestion, but even through those thumb-thick lenses of his, she can see the flat, reptilian chill behind his eyes. “You flatter me.”

“Hardly. Salo is right— your taste is impeccable. Both in gowns” — now his eyes drop, tracing over the band of her high collar before dropping down to where gold-wrought bands rest over the swell of her hips, holding a golden sun and a glimmering tail of paler silk in place— “and investments.”

Ferros is far from an accomplished dancer; for all of Salo’s simpering, he doesn’t so much lead as drag her across the floor, taking his turns too quickly and steps too heavy. Not enough to be stomping through the waltz, but it lacks patience— and subtlety. A heavy-handedness that implies he is a man who is more used to bullying his way through a challenge than solving it.

“You’ve done me quite the favor, bringing Talis to my attention.” A chuckle rumbles against her chest, his mouth curved into a too-satisfied smirk. “I’ll admit, I had my doubts— he’s a distractible boy, as I’m sure you know— but that sky cruiser…”

“It’s a fine piece of machinery.” Her smile sits coy enough to tweak even Ferros’s imperturbable poise. Just a flinch; the barest glare before he’s back to his usual smirk, but enough to fuel her through the next set of turns. “I’d seen the schematics for it in the lab, but it never occurred to me that Hextech could have come far enough to power a vessel like that, let alone with the maneuverability it showed today.”

“Oh, it took no small amount of funds to see that Mr Talis brought that little dream to life in a timely fashion, but it was worth every washer.” His chin tilts, letting that smug sneer of his gain momentum before it hits. “I’m sure a Medarda understands better than anyone how important it is to be first.”

Mel stifles the flex of her hand against his shoulder, covering it with a smile. Master Jago had spent twenty years of his life charting the sprawling maps that had brought Medarda back from the brink of extinction; discovering routes that would take days— weeks, even— off their travel time, just to make sure they arrived with their goods first, before any of the other clans could dilute the markets. To make sure they controlled supply, even if they could not fully anticipate demand. They’d sunk their considerable capital into airships too; more ponderously slow than galleys, but less liable to founder on shallow shoals or be lost in autumn squalls. And now—

And now with one sky ship— no, sky cruiser— Ferros could have made all of those plans moot.

“Success puts me in a generous mood,” he hums, pulling her tighter to him on a turn. “A forgiving one.”

“Is that so?” Mel leans in even as her heart stutters in her chest, hope too heady a drink to ignore. “How forgiving?”

“Enough that even Medarda’s slate could be wiped clean.” A corner of his mouth curls. “Provided the Hexgate proves as profitable as it seems.”

Meaning: so long as it was finished; not simply a prototype sitting in a warehouse, gathering dust as the Council squabbles over where to put the parts.

It would be a trivial thing to get the permits passed; just a few honeyed words in Hoskel’s ear would secure his votes, and an introduction to a promising young entertainer for Salo. Kiramman would be harder, but Jayce’s position as the clan’s former apprenta would make the councilwoman more amenable to reasonable resolutions. And where Kiramman voted, Shoola would follow, leaving only the Revered Professor and Bolbok— traditionalists, the both of them, but with Heimerdinger’s interest already firmly entrenched in Hextech’s corner, and a majority vote practically guaranteed—

Bolbok’s old bolts would fold too. “I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”

Ferros’s fingers grip her hand hard enough to blanch the skin beneath. “See to it that I’m not.”

“Hey there, sorry to interrupt.” An arm cuts between them, white jacket as crisp and pristine as it’d been up on the podium. “Mind if I cut in?”

“Jayce.” Ferros doesn’t blink— snakes like him never do— but he does step back, meeting Talis’s charming smile with a more sober one of his own. “Of course not. It seems our set just ended. The Councilor is all yours.”

“Great.” He plucks her hand right out of Ferros’s grip, dropping it just short of his elbow. “C’mon, Councilor. I’m not used to all these fancy dances, so it’ll be up to you to show me how to cut a rug.”

She catches the sweat prickling at his brow and lets her mouth soften as she takes his arm. “It would be my pleasure.”

*

“Sorry about that.” Talis scrubs a palm over the back of his neck, short hairs rasping against his calluses. “You just looked like you could use a rescue.”

That’s the sort of astute observation that she likes to encourage in her protégés— and one she might appreciate more if he wasn’t steering her so pointedly away from the ballroom floor. “I thought you asked for a dance.”

“I did. I do. I mean— I want to. Definitely.” Talis drops his gaze to where her gown cuts away from her shoulders, baring every last inch of skin from her nape to the top ridge of her tail bone, and swallows hard. “I just thought you might want a drink first.”

“A drink?” She’d been nursing one before Ferros had gotten to her— champagne, fizzing healthily against the crystal flute, an enjoyable way to take the edge off what would undoubtedly be a long evening. But it’s long gone now, set down and swept aside with all the rest of the forgotten dinnerware her guests have strewn about the room. “I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“Good.” Relief slumps his shoulder, that chiseled jaw of his relaxing into a guilty wag. “I sort of told Viktor I’d be right back.”

“Viktor?” It’s silly the way she straightens, as if there’s any hope to see over this crowd. Mel has never been small by any means, taller than most women she meets by a rather startling amount of fingers save the councilwoman’s daughter— and her own mother, provided her memory hasn’t made a mountain out of an only moderately-sized molehill— but the press is too close, milling bodies keeping her from gaining a clear line of sight—

Until the crowd parts, serendipitous. There Viktor is, perched on a stool, illuminated like a hero in the second act— or at least something like him. He’s half-turned to her, face in profile; barely recognizable in a costume that fits, let alone gives a begrudging nod to something like the current fashion. It’s nothing short of a miracle to see him in that straight-shouldered coat, its lapels replaced by the more exaggerated ones of his waist, every inch of it tailored to make his sharp edges into sleek angles.

“I told you I’d bring him here, didn’t I?” She does have a vague recollection of extracting that promise from him, though she hadn’t put much credit in his ability to make it happen. Those shoulders of his really could move mountains, it seemed— or at least Viktor. “Ah, just give me a minute. Let me tell him we’re back.”

Warn him, more likely, but there will be no complaint from her— not when Talis’s shoulders make such a pretty picture cutting through the crowd like a lathe through steel, slim waist all the more obvious by the exaggerated breadth. There’s a bone-deep, animal sort of pleasure to observing his chiseled jaw in profile, bearing the sort of strong angles that beg to be immortalized in charcoal— or at least they would be, if these Piltoverians had any taste. And yet…

Yet her eyes keep drifting back to the trim cut of Viktor’s trousers, no brace to mar the line of them; or to the casual hand he hooks over the head of his cane, fingers drumming absently on the polished wood. His hair has escaped from the pomade he’d used to tame it, not running wild the way it did in the lab, but just starting to curl, volume lost neither to captivity nor chaos. He’s the same man at a glance, but tracing these new angles, strange paths that becoming familiar again, Mel has to admit— he’s handsome.

Or at least he is until she draws close enough to hear him grunt, “Don’t these people know about chairs?”

He shifts, leaning hard on his cane, as if a good stretch might make his spine sit straight where all of modern medicine could not. “This stool will have me picking vertebra out of my ass for the next week.”

“That’s why most of us are standing,” Talis laughs, before his expression falls to a more familiar concern. “But don’t feel pressured to get up. Sit as long as you like. Just because the councilor is on her way doesn’t mean—”

“Good, I wasn’t planning on it.” He tilts his head, the column of his neck lengthening as he tries to get comfortable, throat flexing as he swallows. “Do you think these people piss too, or will necessity once again be the mother of invention when I—?”

“Councilor!” Talis calls out, too loud. “Glad to see you caught up! Viktor and I were just, er…”

“Complaining.” Viktor turns wearily toward her, dark circles even more pronounced in this light. “Good evening, Councilor. I trust you’re having a good time. It’s your party, after all.”

“It’s your party,” she reminds him, slipping a hip between his knees and the next stool. Her silk tail tangles around his trousers, winning free with help from his clever hands— and the barest twitch of his lips. “I’m just footing the bill. Though it seems I should apologize for the lack of adequate seating.”

He waves her off with a snort, silk slipping between his fingers as she settles an arm next to his, close enough to note that the blue of her sleeves complements the not-quite-burgundy of his coat. “It’s hardly the worst stool I’ve met. You should have seen the desks at the academy— closed off on one side, with those little desks over your lap. Now that was impossible.”

“You survived four years of it.” Talis folds his arms over the endless white expanse of his coat. “It can’t have been that bad.”

A corner of Viktor’s mouth curls. “You underestimate the amount of inconvenience I can tolerate to get what I want.”

It’s tempting to tease, to let her smirk wrap itself around ‘I think I have a pretty good grasp on your limits,’ or, ‘younger men are known for being more flexible.’ But instead she smiles, settling for a much more diplomatic, “Then I should thank you for tolerating tonight long enough to attend. Even if I suspect Mr Talis dragged you the whole way.”

“Only a little.” There’s an amused glint in Talis’s eye as he adds, “I just told him that if he didn’t come tonight, you’d find somewhere else to bring him. And since you’re a well known supporter of the arts—”

“I’ll suffer any pain if it means I don’t have to subject myself to the opera.” He grimaces as he settles back onto the stool, spine creaking as much as the leather. “Or the races.”

“What’s this?” She favors him with a theatrical raise of her brows. “You wouldn’t want to spend personal time with your favorite patron?”

She expects a snort, a roll of his eyes, maybe even the barest hint of a chuckle— but instead, Viktor casts her a speculative look. One that starts at her golden heels and winds up, lingering at where blue velvet gives way to gold chain, and again at her shoulder, where metal flexes with all the ease of flesh, before ending at her eyes. “That part would at least be tolerable.”

Four syllables, and yet she’s touched. Absurdly so. Tolerable. “Talk about being damned by faint praise.”

“Don’t take it personally, Councilor.” Talis is all too quick to comfort, as unneeded as it is, his big hands waving between them. “I think you’re the fourth person to rank better than decent.”

“Don’t tell her that,” Viktor mutters into the glass in front of him, wrinkling his nose before he takes a sip. “You’ll give her the wrong idea.”

“What’s that?” she hums, lengthening her lean to a loom. “That you don’t find my presence absolutely objectionable?”

“No.” His eyes flicker up to meet hers, too wide, too gold in this light, before slipping away. “That I might actually like having you around.”

It’s hardly a confession— it’s barely more than a profession of human feeling— but yet Mel’s breath catches in her chest, unable to squeeze between the resounding beats of her heart. It’s simple, pedestrian even, and yet significant; made more so by the way he won’t hold her eyes as he says it. His throat works around a swallow as he finishes, the flex of the muscles more intimate than a caress.

“That reminds me,” Talis says, loud enough to jolt her heart back to its normal cadence. “I owe you that dance.”

He thrusts out his hand, hopes worn too bright on his sleeve, and—

And Mel glances back at Viktor, only to find him absorbed in the grain of the bar. She turns back to Talis with her smile firmly in place. “And it would be my pleasure to take it.”

*

For all his bumbling charm, Talis isn’t a half-bad dancer. There’s a small hesitation at first, a pink tint high on his cheeks as his palm presses over the cool metal of her spine, a little too high to make for a good lead. But he eases into it, measure by measure, until that polite grimace unfurls into a more confident smirk. Hardly the best lead that has swept her across the floor, but a passable one; enjoyable, even.

That is, until he leans in, smile just a shade too close, warmth just a hint too personal. “I wanted to thank you, you know.”

“Really?” It’s important, in times like this, to keep a cool tone, to create distance even when her plans require her to remain inviting. “I suppose I should inquire as to why.”

There’s any number of reasons— for funding their first fumbling attempts at making Hextech into a viable tool, even when it often meant footing the glazier’s bill; for introducing them to a host of patrons eager to be at the forefront of the next popular venture; for not only giving them an opportunity to reach new levels of achievement, but a venue in which to showcase them; for not turning them over to the enforcers that first night, when it certainly would have curried her favor with her colleagues— so it’s a surprise he settles on, “Not many people would care if Viktor came to one of these fancy shindigs. I’m glad that you do.”

She blinks. “Of course I do. He’s one of the two inventors of Hextech, isn’t he? He has as much right to be fêted for his contributions as you do.”

“Well, yes.” His hand flexes around hers as he leans back— less an affectionate squeeze of her fingers, she assumes, and more an absent wish to rub it over his neck. “But you know how it is in this crowd. Most people have this idea that I’m the one who’s done all the work, and he’s just my…”

Assistant. She’d heard it often enough in Kiramman’s little salons. “You haven’t exactly done much to dissuade it, either.”

“H-hey, well”— it’s not just his cheeks that flush this time, pink deepening to a more furious crimson— “you know how it is. Most of these people only hear what they want to hear.”

And Talis is all too practiced at providing it. “What I would like to hear is when I’ll be getting my own sky ship. Since it seems that you are in the business of handing them out.”

“Ah, t-that. You see…” It’d be funny to watch Talis fumble, if it wasn’t so frustrating.  “We were going to tell you.”

Not even Hoskel has enough forehead to convey the depths of her doubts. “Were you, now?”

“Yes! Of course. It’s just…” His charming hero’s smile pulls thin, buckling under the weight of his grimace. “Well, Lord Ferros, he…ah…”

Was willing to pay so much more if he didn’t. Perhaps he’d even presented the idea in a more attractive wrapping, calling it as a surprise, a bit of window dressing that would make Medarda’s spectacle of science even more spectacular. But Talis wasn’t some common engineer, attending the academy to get a leg up in the world— no, he was a clansman himself, born into a world where a single investment could be the difference between a seat at the council table or in a moldering manor, watching the debt collectors squabble down to the washer over the hope chest his mother had married with. He’d known what an advantage he’d be giving Ferros.

“Don’t worry, Mr Talis.” She squeezes his shoulder soothingly. “There’s no hard feelings. Business is business, after all.”

The man practically sags in relief-- but not enough to ruin any of those heroic lines of his. “Really?”

“Really.” Mel lifts her chin, meeting that straightforward stare. “I had worried about you, you know. When we first started this project.”

“Me?” His mouth spreads around a chuckle, settling into a smile that shows every perfect tooth. “No, I didn’t. Why is that?”

“You were too earnest. Wide-eyed, even. Like a clansman’s daughter at her debut.” That charms a laugh out of him too; absurdity always amuses young men, especially the ambitious ones. “You might be born to Clan Talis, but it’s been a long time since they competed for the contracts the way the greater clans do. Progress is a cutthroat business, and I wasn’t sure you would be cut out for it.”

He snorts. “I guess I should take that as a compliment.”

“You’re certainly welcome to. But I was also wrong.” The strings crescendo as she leans back, smile as sharp as a knife’s edge. “It seems you know how to put your own aims first, just like the rest of us.”

It’s a happy accident that the music ends just as she does, the strings still echoing in her ears as she extracts herself from Talis’s embrace. “I must thank you for the dance, Mr Talis. It was quite…satisfying, all things considered.”

An amateur would turn on her heel, letting every click across the floor convey the depths of her disappointment, but Mel— Mel turns her retreat into a performance, stepping out before she puts her back to him; like a diva making her exit from the stage. Every inch of it is elegant, every angle of it refined, the insult measured down to the dram, and yet—

Yet, Talis finds a way to ruin it.

“Wait!” Even without this lull between one piece and the next, his voice would turn every head, pitched for a street corner rather than a soiree. It’s just her luck that it quells every conversation in this crowd as well, just in time for him to shout, “Mel!”

Her name practically reverberates through the room, rattling teeth as well as high society’s sense of propriety. Talis clears his throat. “I mean, Councilor Medarda. I didn’t…I wasn’t trying to…”

“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr Talis.” Mel lifts her chin, favoring Talis with a smile so cold he flinches. “I’m afraid tonight’s festivities keep me too busy to afford you another dance. We’ll have to talk more later. Perhaps when you’ve had more time to think about what you wish to say.”

*

History hadn’t much interested her, as a young child.

Not the kind her tutor taught, at least; the other children might have crowded close to his feet, eager to hear of the storied heroes of old, conquering sea and sand and jagged mountain peaks for the glory of Noxus, but such things could not compete with the joy of chasing Kino through the dunes, or the satisfaction of chasing her mother’s heels as her generals reported on battlefields where the blood had not yet dried.

That had all changed once she’d arrived in Piltover, the sting of her exile sharpening itself into new purpose with each new line of precedent she learned, the clan code of conduct burning itself into the  darkness behind her eyelids, flaring to life each time she closed her eyes.

But one of his lessons comes to her now— his most interesting, at least in the opinion of her younger self. The valiant general standing before the walls of a stronghold— which, she cannot bother to remember, not when so many of his stories started this way— the mage atop them rising from the ramparts, lightning crackling over their skin, a cloak made out of storms ready to strike—

And that is how Mel feels now, static crackling beneath her skin, ready to spill from her mouth, her fingertips, her very flesh if anyone so much as looks at her. Bad enough that Ferros thinks he has her backed into a corner, but now her own engineer is helping him for no more than pocket money and a pat on the head. The one she had discovered, cultivated, practically fed from her own hand—

“Ah, Councilor Medarda!” There’s no assistant dogging the Revered Professor’s footsteps now, not even his loyal poro, only his tiny boot heels clacking across the marble. “Unbelievable that we haven’t yet crossed paths tonight, on today of all days!”

One of his little chuckles bounds out of him, as eager as a puppy that’s slipped its leash. Mel stares down at him, weariness washing over her like a wave. It had been tricky enough to find a corner of this manor that wasn’t taken up by bent heads and polite smiles, and just when she’d found it, Heimerdinger runs into her.

One problem after another. Just her luck tonight, it seems. “Professor. I didn’t know that you—”

“I expect you’re looking for Viktor!” He giggles again, wagging a fuzzy finger. “A hard one to find at a party like this. He’s not the most social of my students, that’s for sure.”

It would be polite to laugh. A small titter, a throaty ha, something— but what stumbles from her instead is, “I am.”

What's more surprising is that it’s true.

It makes a certain kind of sense, of course; she’d been fit to spit sparks, and she’d gone in search of a lightning pole. It’s only—

She hadn’t known she was doing it.

“Well, you’ve almost found him,” Heimerdinger chortles proudly, as if she were a student of his herself. “Just out on that balcony there. Getting some fresh air, he says!”

“Fresh air?” Mel squints through the glass, brow furrowed. “Isn’t that the balcony that looks out over the bridge?”

There’s no need to clarify which; as imposing a figure as its towers cut, lights glittering like stars at the edge of night, the Bridge of Progress is hardly a view party-goers appreciated. The Undercity might be an acceptable unpleasantness underpinning all of Piltover’s progressive trappings, but one hardly liked to think of how the other half lived while getting drunk off bubbly and caviar.

“Well, I hardly think that would bother him!” The Professor lets loose another one of his laughs, and waves her off. “Now, I’d love to stay and chat, Miss Medarda, but it seems I have an important meeting to make in the Little Professor’s Room.”

He scurries away before she can get a word in edgewise— a relief, now that her quarry is within reach. The door opens quietly under her hand, only the softest click of the handle turning to warn him of her approach.

Which it does; his head bobs up from where it hangs between his shoulders, neck twisted to catch a glance of the shadow that approaches—

And he straightens. Not fully; his cane is propped in the corner, just far enough to make a reach obvious, if not ungainly. But enough to mark the difference between a hunch and a lean, his arms straight where they rest on the balustrade.

“Councilor.” It’s unexpected how much she warms at the way his accent bites into the word, softening it in some places, and sharpening in others. “I didn’t expect to see you out here. Not so soon, at least. I’d imagine your dance card is quite full.”

“Hardly.” She’s conscious of the light behind her as she pushes off from the jamb, making her little more than a suggestive shape wrapped in shadow to his eyes. If she allows herself a more exaggerated swing of her hips as she sashays forward, if he drops his eyes to follow them— well, it’s just another bit of play acting. A role she’s accepted in this little game of theirs. “If you cared to look, I think you would find that most of the men in that room much prefer to admire me from afar, rather than risk being made a fool if they get too close.”

“Pity,” he says, without an ounce of contrition. “I’m afraid I’m not much for cutting a rug, otherwise I might be tempted to let you try.”

She arches a brow. “Dancing?”

“Making a fool out of me.”

There’s a silence after he says it, too long, too heavy. If only the night had not fallen so thick or so soon, she might be able to catch more than a glint of his eyes in the gaslight, a quick shimmer she’s sure lingers on her before it slips away. In the end, the moment’s only broken by the clearing of his throat. “Still, there’s plenty of young men out there. I’m surprised they aren’t all in a rush to play idiot for you. Jayce certainly was.”

“Mr Talis proved a pleasant diversion.” It’s a diplomatic answer, if not entirely true. “For most of the set, at least.”

“Most?” His eyebrows angle toward amusement. “What? Did he step on your toes? I thought they taught you people to dance right out of the cradle.”

It would be easy to let a smile curl her lips, to straighten her spine and trade quips about infants waltzing across playroom floors, or whether the toddlers felt that the polka had become passé. But it treads too close to the true topic at hand; to Talis and Ferros and the unfortunate hopes she had pinned to their partnership.

“Is that a new tie?” she asks instead, reaching out to slip her finger between the blade and tail. It’s not silk, like she expects, but smooth even so, the red stark against the warmer tones of her skin. “I’ve never seen you wear it.”

Those brows of his drop, angling steeply over his stare— the one fixed on her hands, scowling deeper when she dares to run a thumb over the fabric. “I’ve had it.”

His hand sweeps hers away with an irritable flick, and she bites back a grin. “But you haven’t worn it.”

He hesitates, fingers pale where they pinch the fabric. “No, I haven’t.”

“They have a meaning, don’t they?” Jago had told her that once, leading her for the first time through the Academy grounds, having her catalogue every color and knot. “Something about philosophy. And the exams.”

“Something like,” he agrees irritably, adjusting the knot. It’s the same as it always is, a three part shape instead of one, tied with all the ease of habit. “It’s Jayce who started wearing red first. The only one I’d ever seen, I think. At least for a while.”

She’s careful when she says, “So it was his idea for you to wear it tonight?”

“He said it would send a message.” He shrugs, shoulders all angles even beneath his coat. “I don’t know. I thought it just looked better with the vest.”

“It does.” At his startled look, she smirks. “Though white would have stood out more.”

“And compete with you, Councilor?” He shakes his head, the smallest hint of a smile clinging to the corner of his mouth. “I know better than to get into fights I can’t win.”

She snorts. “If only more people took that philosophy to heart.”

“Is that what Jayce did tonight?” He leans back against the balustrade, one arm propped up on the stile. “Get into a fight? Not win?”

“No, nothing like that.” It’s her turn to hesitate now, hands curling with purpose around the lip of the rail. It’s granite, cold even in the heat of summer, and best of all, grounding. “I simply inquired about the sky ship you two had designed for Lord Albus. I hadn’t been aware that you were taking private commissions.”

“We aren’t.” There’s a vehemence in the way Viktor says it, like a foot being put firmly down. “The idea wasn’t new. We’d been tossing around the idea of making a better, faster sky ship since the beginning, when we—”

“Blew out every window in the Council Building?”

He favors her with a belligerent scowl. “When we were stuck floating in the rafters for the better part of an hour. To be able to manipulate gravity like that…who wouldn’t think of putting themselves in the air? Flying, you know.”

She lets a brow twitch toward her hairline. “Are you trying to tell me Lord Albus independently came up with the idea for his…sky cruiser?”

“No.” The word is more sneer than sound. “Not at all. Ferros found a sketch Jayce left laying around the lab, and suddenly he needed to get his money’s worth out of us. He likes doing that, you know. Showing up and asking what he paid for.”

Mel snorts. “Of that I am intimately aware.”

Viktor glances at her, a flicker of curiosity lighting in his eyes before he looks away, gaze fixed somewhere out over the bridge. “The ship was part of that. Earning our keep, so to speak. Though I did tell Jayce I didn’t think you’d appreciate being kept out of the loop.”

“It’s only business.” Even she isn’t sure whether she means to agree or argue. In the end, she simply lets it stand on its own.

“So what else did he do then?” Viktor’s mouth curls enough to expose the point of a single, sharp tooth. In the right light, it might even look charming. “To only rate being mostly pleasant.”

“Nothing. It’s not like we argued on the dance floor.” No matter how much she’d been tempted to. Scenes like that hardly paid dividends. “We parted on good terms.”

He raises one of those stern brows. “Is that so?”

“Good enough that he felt welcome to use my given name.”

“Ah.” Viktor grimaces. “Mostly pleasant.”

“I’m not offended,” she insists, lifting her chin. “Outside of my duties as a councilor, I quite prefer Mel. It’s only that Mr Talis was a bit presumptuous in using it for a professional relationship.”

“Was he?” His teeth flash in the dark— barest glint before he hides them back behind his lips. “If my memory serves, you call me by my given name. Exclusively, even.”

“Well, that’s because I…” Had been under the impression you didn’t have one. That’s what she’d assumed at least; Mel hadn’t much cause to socialize with the denizens of the Undercity, most of her business coming from the profits Medarda made from the Sun Gate and the ships they sailed through it or from the apprenta she’d invested in when their endeavors finally bore fruit, but those she had known had gone by a single name, never even hinting at a second. But she’d caught a Viktor E printed neatly underneath the Jayce T on the plans for the Hexgate, so it only stood to reason that he must have one, either by birth or by invention, and— “didn’t realize it would bother you.”

“It doesn’t.” It’s aggravating how easily he says it, not a hint of care in his shrug. “Just a point of interest. Since you make such a point of calling Jayce Mister Talis.”

She sniffs, folding her arms beneath her chest. “Well then, it seems I must tender you an apology, Mister Viktor. I hadn’t realized I was being so rude.”

Mel had never known the wealth of sounds a man could make with his mouth until she met Viktor; on a single day she might hear a heartfelt hgurk or a harried hnnnng, let alone a thoughtful mnnn or a guilty erk. Odd little things, alien really, but she'd grown used to them, cataloguing all his little grimaces and grunts until she knew which hmpf meant he'd take her advice under advisement— and which meant he'd be putting it in his mental bin the moment she swept out the door.

The sound he makes now, however, is wholly new. Not a grunt or a snort but a gasp, caught somewhere between chest and throat and expelled out his nose by the force of his head whipping to face her. “Just ‘Viktor’ is fine.”

“I would hate to deny you the respect you are due, Mister—”

“It’s”— his voice rises too high, threatening to crack before he clears it down to a lower register— “It’s my name, isn’t it? It’s fine.”

Her mouth curls. “If you’re sure.”

“Yes. Extremely.” He coughs, face hidden in his far shoulder when he says, “And don’t worry. I won’t start calling you ‘Mel’ either.”

It’s odd, the way he says her name. Not the sound— every letter is perfect, even if he hangs on to the ‘l’ a bit too long, rolling it around on his tongue the way Hoskel savors his illicit wines. It's confidence in which it comes from him, no hesitation, no pretense, mouth wrapped around her name like he had been born to say it.

Her heart flutters strangely, sitting too high in her throat. Not unpleasant, but distracting; that restless sensation spreading inexplicably lower, hardly settling in a single place until it slips past her stomach. There it quickens, unfurling to anticipation— like the first time she'd stood on the ledge above the swimming hole, gathering her courage to jump. Eager, as if she knew there would be water to catch her.

Impatient, as if she had been waiting for him to do it, all this time.

“Pity.” It’s practice that keeps her pitch playful, instead of throaty. “I think I could get used to it. I’d at least blend in your lab better.”

“You hardly need that,” he snorts. “You already walk around like you own the place.”

It’s meant to be a sting, she knows; a heavy hint that her presence is an imposition at best, and unwanted at worst. But there’s a warmth to his words that turns the complaint from frustrated to fond, more like the way Jago complained about his housekeeper, or how the councilwoman spoke of her daughter than how Salo sneered over his rivals. As if she were not some interloper in his life, but instead an inextricable part; an annoyance he would miss if it should ever absent itself from him.

“What you said earlier.” He blinks, those weighty brows drawing down into their most confused angles. “That you might have come to enjoy my presence…”

“That is not what I said,” he snaps, stiff. “I said that you might get the wrong idea, thinking that I might actually like your company.”

“The feeling is mutual, you know.” That stops his little protest in its tracks, mouth snapping shut so hard his teeth click in the silence. “I think I’ve come to like having you around as well.”

“Ah, well.” He clears his throat, gaze searching the empty air in front of him. “That’s still not what I said.”

“Of course.”

“But…” His head turns, just slightly, the corner of his gaze catching hers. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind if you came around the lab more often. So long as you stay out of my way.”

“I promise,” she says, struggling to smother a smile. “I’ll be the soul of discretion.”

[stcverogers]

TOP GUN FIC RECS 7!

top gun fics that i’ve been reading and obsessing with over recently

this is extremely important and i take this very seriously out of respect for the community. please do remember to read the rules for the respective blogs before interacting with or reading them.

F: fluff A: angst S: smut

𖥻 - series /multi part

masterlist

JAKE 'HANGMAN' SERESIN

F: it's all about you by @bussyslayer333 the four times jake knew that his girl was the one he was going to marry, and the one time he made her his wife.

F: next thing you know by @disturbedbeautywrites you and jake met at the hard deck. in the blink of an eye, you're happily married with children you adore.

F: one man's loss is another man's gain by @sebastianstangirl01 jake would never thank rooster for anything other than leading his wife to him.

F: dad's shirt by @stargazing15 you and your daughter get jake a shirt for father's day, though she's more excited to wear it than him.

F + A: oh deer by @wkndwlff jake loved you, that he was sure of. out of fear of ruining your friendship, he kept that a secret. when you're in a car accident and jake almost losing you, he had to let you know.

F: i think there's been a glitch by @folkloreslovechild jake can't help who he is when he's around you.

F + A: 5 times hangman got older + 1 time he got wiser, too by @folkloreslovechild jake had always loved you, he just never realised it.

F: jake and his sweet wife by @fireinmoonshot

F + A: always a bridesmaid by @sugarcoated-lame when the dagger squad arrived at rooster's wedding, he had given them a stern warning to stay away from his baby sister. of course, jake is never one to listen to what bradley bradshaw has to say.

F: and i know when i need it i can count on you by @carnationworld-writings jake will do anything to help alleviate some of his pregnant wife's pain

F + A: you again by @ereardon you and jake were once in love, till he decided that you needed to break up. years have passed and you've both achieved your aspirations. will this then make room for both of you to rekindle that lost flame?

F: apple pie and you and i by @honeyhenry jake realises how fortunate he is when he's surrounded by the people he loves most, his family.

F: reunions by @gigisimsonmars you and jake haven't been together long and a pregnancy scare creates uncertainty about your relationship.

F + A: beach day by @harvestleaves jake's main concern will always be his girl, even if it meant skipping out on showing rooster up at dogfight football.

S + A: stay by @sere-sins jake never spent the night, but you needed him. so he'll stay, even if it's just for today.

A: pink light by @sushiwriterhere jake seresin, in all his blonde haired glory, had you wrapped around his finger. you loved him like the earth loved the moon. he didn't.

A: past the texas line by @allbark-no-bite jake will do anything for you, there is no line he wouldn't cross.

F: let me walk you home by @fireinmoonshot jake thought that tonight was finally the night that he would make a move on you. much to his dismay, you were preoccupied the whole night. he settles on walking you home.

F + A: the worst best man by @youvebeenlivingfictional jake seresin was already an insufferable man. pit him as best man while you've the maid of honour for a wedding, you were sure to be on the verge of pulling your hair out.

F + A: hung the galaxy by @creativeashproductions the last time you stepped foot in the city of angels, you had become a runaway bride. this time, you’re happily together with a fiancé you love dearly.

F + A: would that i by @uselsshuman jake, the ever loving partner, will always be there to clean up your accidents, no matter how big or small.

F + A: the olive theory by @eternalsams on every person’s 24th birthday, they will receive an envelope detailing who their soulmate is. you’re disheartened when the contents of the letter doesn’t describe jake.

BRADLEY 'ROOSTER' BRADSHAW

F + A: i don’t know, blame the air force? by @gretagerwigsmuse you are hopeful in getting your end of year bonus, only to find out a big chunk of it was going to the defence budget. it didn't help that you were dating a military man.

F + A: days like this by @sometimesanalice when you've had a terrible day, bradley is there to cheer you up

F: a little bit of courage by @callsignmeiga you and bradley have reached the point in your relationship where he's ready for you to meet his found family.

F: all of the girls you loved before by @wannabeschyulersister all of the girls rooster's loved before made him the one you've fallen for.

F + A: do you want me? by @ash5monster01 rooster assures you that he wants you as much as you want him.

F: sweet encounters + sweet tooth by @junkdrawerfics rooster's first time meeting you was with payback drunkenly stumbling into your bakery, screaming for your croissants.

F + A: bad idea by @sometimesanalice rooster sees the girl that had dumped him at the hard deck, flirting with someone who definitely did not deserve her.

F + A: just roommates by @risriswrites you and rooster were just roommates, till you weren't.

F + A: rescue me by @beccaanne814 bradley is left haunted by the events of the uranium mission and seeks comfort in the one person who can give it to him.

F + A: ruffling feathers by @helloheyhihowdyheya yours and rooster's feud didn't just exist in the air.

F + S: baby come close by @bradshawsweetheart you trust bradley with all your heart, deciding that you are ready to take your relationship to another level.

F + A: pick your battles 𖥻 by @intoanotherworld23 your relationship with bradley ended on a bad note, cruel words were spat and feelings were hurt. you're both called back to topgun for a suicide mission and tensions arise.

F: baby on my left, wife on my right by @popcornlover wanting to be carried from the car into the house, you and your daughter pretend to be asleep

F: stuck on you by @teowritesthings bradley gives you the sweetest morning surprise.

BOB 'ROBERT' FLOYD

F + A: my girl by @rlphunter phoenix sets you up on a date, not knowing that you are secretly dating her backseater.

F: fix it by @lovingperfectionsblog bob was not good with women. he also should have known better than to seek advice from womaniser, jake seresin.

F: you gift bob flowers by @peachystenbrough

F: wicked game by @icegirl03 you and bob slow dance in the living room

F: baby, i'm yours by @superhornetbaby bob dials up the endearment when he's drunk

MICKEY 'FANBOY' GARCIA

F: 512 by @bonitanightmxres you've always thought that the guy living in apartment 512 was cute. you finally gather the courage to ask him out.

[winterrrnight]

french open

PAIRING: drew starkey x fem!tennis player!reader

FACE CLAIM: iga swiatek

SUMMARY: an instagram blurb about drew being ecstatic about his girlfriend winning the french open

WARNINGS: n/a

EDITH SPEAKS: I've played tennis for a big part of my life so this definitely is a bit personal, I hope you all like it!! I haven't been able to work on my bigger fics atm so here's a little instagram au to keep my blog active :)

I made up all the instagram users, so if by any chance I have your instagram user used here, I'm so sorry I promise it was a total coincidence!

please like and reblog if you enjoy this! feedback is always appreciated 🪐

navigation || join my taglist || requests

liked by drewstarkey, jonathandavissofficial and 1,584,684 others

yourinstagram second week starts tomorrow. let's enjoy it ❤️

user81 sooo proud of you y/n! you've come so far

drewstarkey you're doing so well 🤍

-> yourinstagram thank you baby 💗

-> drewfan25 he's fr her biggest supporter 🥹🥹

-> rafes_starkey he is!! word is he's in france and most probably will be there at her next match

liked by rafe_is_hot, drewfilms_ and 56,834 others

drewstarkeyupdates drew with a fan outside the roland garros stadium today!

tagged: drewstarkey

rafes_starkey ITS Y/N'S SEMI FINAL TODAY AND HE'S HERE FOR HER OMG 🥹🥹

drewiseverything there's no bigger fan of y/n than drew

user45 he looks so good omg

liked by y/nfan31, drewhive and 458,421 others

ynupdates y/n will be playing in the finals of french open next week!! so proud of her 🥳💐

tagged: yourinstagram

y/nfan20 OH MY GOODNESS 🥹🥹

drewsify did y'all see drew in the crowd cheering her on?? it was sooo sweet

-> rafe_is_hot they're couple goals

user67 she's doing so well ❤️

liked by ynisamazing, drewfan56 and 89,282 others

drewstarkeyupdates drew via ig stories!

tagged: drewstarkey, yourinstagram

ynfan21 OH MY GOD 😭😭

rafezcameron I'll just go sob in a corner 😃👍

drew_clouds y/n played so well I was on the edge of my seat watching the match

liked by yourinstagram, drewstarkey and 4,683,760 others

playerstribune y/n y/l/n is the winner of the french open 2023, ranking her no. 1 in the world in singles by the women's tennis association (WTA)!

yourinstagram the most surreal moment of my life 🌟

-> ynfan21 Y/N WE'RE SO PROUD OF YOU!!!

-> ynisamazing OUR GIRL DID IT 😭😭😭😭

user80 no one deserves it more than her!! she's come so far, and she's worked so hard

liked by drewstarkey, madelyncline and 5,483,684 others

yourinstagram I still can't wrap my head around this, and I wanted to take a moment to thank you all for being there for me throughout this entire journey. these last few weeks were so exciting and frustrating at the same time, but your support and energy got me through every single day. keep daring, keep dreaming and keep working hard ✨🤍

drewstarkey my girl I am so so so proud of you!!! ❤️

-> yourinstagram I love you so much drew thank you 🤍

brooke_starkey we love you y/n you're a star! <3

-> yourinstagram sweetie you're so lovely 🥹

fionapalomo OH MY GOD!! darling you're such a big role model for all the girls out there who aspire to be big atheletes! they're all going to look up to you and remember you always 🤍🤍

-> yourinstagram oh darling this is so sweet of you to say thank you!! 💗💗🥹🥹

liked by hichasestokes, yourinstagram and 3,302,652 others

drewstarkey my girl did it!! I cannot be more proud of her. my darling, I look up to you every single day, there's no one I've ever known who's as inspiring as you. I've seen you train for this exact moment for years, and I know there's no one who deserves it more than you do. all the blood, sweat and tears you shed so you could hold this trophy are worth it all, because this trophy looks like it's made for you. it's meant to be held by you. I love you so much, cheers to so many more achievements like this 🏆🥂

yourinstagram my love, thank you so much. You've been there for me all the days when I thought this is way too far out of my reach, when it felt like I'm worth nothing, when all efforts looked like they were going to waste. You held me and comforted me, reminding me of my abilities. and today, there's no one with whom I want to cherish this moment more. This trophy is yours as much as it is mine 💛

-> drewstarkey you're my everything ❤️

rudeth y/n we're so so proud of you!!! ⚡

-> yourinstagram thank you rudy! 🤍

drewfan87 THIS IS SO SWEET I'LL ACTUALLY-

starkeyboyz I present to you drew starkey, the best hype man one could ever have

ynfan46 y/n created history 🫶🏻

↶ೃ✧˚. ❃ ↷ ˊˎ-

TAGLIST: @runningfrom2am @ragingsammie @maybankslover @totalswag @madelynie @chenslucy @ietss @elle-mp3 @viawritesstuff

[phantomdialogue]

˗ˏˋ. ݁₊ ✶ ˖ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐩 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 - 𝟔/𝟓 ☆ . ݁ ˖ˎˊ˗

premise: clementine's aunt has always told her that her apartment was magical. but after her passing, clementine can't believe in that magic the same way she did at eight years old. however, the apartment decides to prove her wrong when she wakes up in the same apartment, seven years in the past when it was inhabited by a young aspiring chef, iwan.

couple(s): iwan ashton and clementine west

tropes: fantastical elements (time travel), forced proximity, red string of fate, second chance romance (in a way), right person wrong time

content warnings: heavy discussions of grief and death

review below!

review:

i wanted to tell myself that i knew what i was getting into but i really didn’t and i’m absolutely speechless now. this was a heartbreak so profound and beautiful and devastating all wrapped up in the most amazing fantastical romance. i cried and i laughed and i spent half the book dreading what came next because the more i read the more i fell in love with the characters and the more i knew what was coming was going to hurt. 

clementine may be my favorite fmc of all time. she just spoke to me in a terribly heartbreaking amount of ways and i related to her through all of the book. the way that she talks about grief felt like she was speaking right to me at times and that’s cheesy to say but it’s true. this book is truly just the most powerful commentary on grief in all its forms. whether it’s grieving something/someone dead or alive. 

iwan… oh he’s got me wrapped around his finger. both the past and present. he’s the boy i’d love to meet now and the man i’d love to end up with. you spend some parts of this book wanting to know so much more about him and as easy as that could be to accomplish by adding certain elements, the choice not to, to make the reader wait with clementine, just works painfully well. 

i wish i had more to say but this truly left me beyond speechless. i’ll be thinking about it forever. the push and pull of time jumping while staying with the same present day character and reading how things were different and the same all at once. piecing together the world at the same time that clementine did (or shortly before) and truly being on the edge of your seat waiting for what came next. it was done in the most breathtaking way and hats off to ashley poston for breaking my heart several times throughout this book. 

my ratings:

characters - 5 ☆ - believable, change and grow, memorable strong relationships, multilayered

plot - 5 ☆ - addictive, gripping/exciting, satisfying conclusion, steady pacing, well-structured

setting - 5 ☆ - atmospheric, beautiful, magical, surreal

writing style - 5 ☆ - beautifully written, original, whimsical tone

favorite quotes (some spoilers here, of course, but minimal):

“And here we find the rare gentleman in the wild,” he began to narrate—in a really terrible Australian accent, by the way. “Careful. He must be approached cautiously so not to be easily startled . . .”

She only ever had two rules in this apartment—one, always take your shoes off by the door. And two: never fall in love. Because anyone you met here, anyone the apartment let you find, could never stay. No one in this apartment ever stayed. No one ever would.

“I assure you I’ve danced before.” “But not with me.”

“Universal truths in butter. Secrets folded into the dough. Poetry in the spices. Romance in a chocolate. Love in a lemon pie.”

He still hadn’t taken his eyes off me—almost as if he thought I might disappear.

You never commit a mundane moment to memory, thinking it’ll be the last time you’ll hear their voice, or see their smile, or smell their perfume. Your head never remembers the things your heart wants to in hindsight.

I knew Iwan wouldn’t be a dishwasher forever, and even if he was, it wouldn’t have mattered—dishwasher or chef or lawyer or no one at all. It was the man with gemstone eyes and the crooked smile and the lovely banter that I felt my soul crushing for.

There was a possibility in the sound of the lock clicking open, in the creak of the hinges as the door flung wide, a roulette that may or may not bring you back to the time when you felt happiest.

“Isn’t it strange how the world works sometimes? It’s never a matter of time, but a matter of timing.”

“I don’t think so. I think you’re going to be amazing.”

That was love, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just a quick drop—it was falling, over and over again, for your person. It was falling as they became new people. It was learning how to exist with every new breath. It was uncertain and it was undeniably hard, and it wasn’t something you could plan for.

And we laughed, and charted each other’s bodies down to our cores, maps of places that were familiar and yet new, and the night was good, and my heart was full, and I was happy, so happy, to fall in love on a night like this, where I felt like I had finally caught the moon, and more.

[irenethewoman]

Mrs. Shelby - Chapter One- Escape (part 1)

This chapter is quite long, it’s going to be in two parts. Hope you enjoy.

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In October 1914, I found myself in Birmingham. The train came to a halt on the platform, and as it did, a person in brown hastily disembarked from the car. I scanned my surroundings cautiously. The platform lay in dimly lit solitude, the air was chilly, so I draped my half-worn cashmere coat around me and hastened forward, my gaze fixed ahead. My hope was to secure a job in Birmingham that would sustain me, putting an end to my northward travels. My intention was to find a place to rest and recuperate for a while before seeking employment. With all the men away at war, the factories surely lacked labor. Ideally, it would be an office job, but upon arriving at a hotel, I discovered a hole had been cut into my wallet, and the coins inside had vanished. The gaping gash, created by a blade, danced in Birmingham's cold breeze, taunting me. The innkeeper's eyes spoke volumes; he clearly regarded me with suspicion, assuming I had ulterior motives. Over the past two weeks of fleeing, I had endured much hardship.

The injustices I'd encountered, unlike any I'd known in the past 15 years, left the Baroness in a melancholic state. I had wanted to unleash my anger, to scold the innkeeper, but considering my current predicament, discretion was the better part of valor. I couldn't risk leaving a lasting impression that might lead to my being taken back to London. So, I swallowed the sharp retort on the tip of my tongue, turned on my heel, and exited with my head held high. It wasn't until I was out of the innkeeper's view that I crouched down on the street, wrapped my arms around my knees, and wept. If my father were still alive, this would never have happened! He had aspired to marry his little princess into No. 10 Downing Street. The memory of Nurse Claire and Sister Mary helping me pack on that night remained vivid. The wet nurse had packed my luggage with nearly all the jewelry and coins I could carry. My pregnant sister Mary had suffered at the hands of her child's father, my illegitimate brother, for concealing my whereabouts. I'll never forget how Nurse Claire clung to me in tears inside the dark closet, preventing me from rushing out. We had held each other in silence while Sister Mary's voice faded into the distance. I would never forget the sight of the bloodstains on the marble floor of Turner House as we hastily departed. Shards of shattered glass glistened under the crystal lamp's glow. We had left in a hurry amid my sister's screams, and Nurse Claire had personally escorted me onto the northbound train. Despite my pleading, she had refused to accompany me, choosing to stay in London. Her brown eyes had been brimming with tears as she'd said, "Live well, miss, live well..." The gnawing hunger in my stomach pulled me from my reverie. I needed to survive, for the honor of Baroness Turner, for Nurse Claire and Sister Mary. Only through survival could I have a future. I wiped away my tears and, after patting myself down, retrieved three chocolate pieces wrapped in gold foil. It was a humble brand available at malls. In the past, we had imported Swiss and Belgian confections, and I wouldn't have touched this variety. But now, with not a penny to my name, I welcomed it gladly. As I unwrapped the chocolate, ready to take my first bite, I noticed a young boy sitting across the street, about the age of my brother, his blue eyes locked onto me and the chocolate coin in my hand. We shared a prolonged gaze from across the street. He was a child, and I, in my desperation, was acting rather childishly myself. Eventually, I made my way over, suitcase in tow, and sat beside him, offering him the unopened chocolates. My intuition told me he was a runaway. To run away at a time like this, he must have been loved and cared for at home. Perhaps he was the little angel I needed to escape my troubles. He accepted the chocolates but seemed in no hurry to open them. I paid him no mind as my hunger overtook me, devouring the chocolate in my hand. "What's this?" he asked softly, eyeing me as I ate. "Chocolate," I replied honestly. "You're lying. The chocolate here doesn't look like that," he retorted, still fixated on the chocolate in his hand. True, even though it was a cheap brand, the glittering wrapping paper had an irresistible allure to children, not to mention the delicious chocolate within. "But this is how they make chocolate in London," I shrugged. "I've tasted better ones, from Switzerland and Belgium. The French are skilled in making chocolate desserts too. We used to have a French chef at home, and his desserts were exquisite." The boy's interest grew with each word I spoke. It was a promising start. "So, can I come to your house?" I feigned regret, "I'm afraid not. We had to let that chef go." The boy's bright blue eyes dimmed at my response, but I quickly added, "But I did learn a few dessert recipes from him. If there's a kitchen, I can make some for you." After some internal struggle, the boy finally stood up, took my hand, and led me to a busier street.

[eemcintyre]

Surprise Me (Tom Cruise)

I've been pondering on this absolute unit for a while. Please appreciate the amount of time, energy, and NYC restaurant research I had to do, lol

TW- none

Summary- One of your friends, after a poor track record of setting you up on blind dates, gets one more chance and makes the most of it. You meet the date for dinner at an elegant NYC restaurant to discover that your friend has set you up with Tom Cruise.

Y/N was one of those people who had told herself, her whole life, that she would never go on a blind date. No matter how many months or years went by of being single, she had refused to stoop to what she perceived to be such a desperate level. Moreover, she was not actively looking for a relationship, as she was generally happy on her own, living a full life of work, hobbies, travel, and friendship.

However, one lapse- one lonely, alcohol-induced, self-pitying night of self-disclosure with a friend later, and that friend, Nikki, had become obsessed with setting her up. Nikki had arranged a number of dates for her with a number of men, who despite Nikki’s good intentions, mostly turned out to be questionable at best, and occasionally were potential serial killers at worst. Tonight was Nikki’s last chance- she promised that this time would be different and would make up for all of the other terrible evenings and to just trust her. Promises, promises.

Y/N exited the taxi that had taken her to La Grande Boucherie, the restaurant that she and her date had agreed on for the evening. It was an open-air French establishment situated in an alley between two avenues. From across the street where the taxi had dropped her off, she could see fairy lights wrapped around several small trees inside the restaurant, twinkling in the descending dusk.

All she knew about her date, from their text conversations spanning the last few days and the description of Nikki, was that his name was Tom, he was handsome with dark hair, fun and energetic, and that he worked in the filmmaking business. As Y/N lived in New York, it was not at all unusual to run into people in the film industry rather frequently- even she herself had worked in costume design, and currently production design. Although, he and Nikki were both a bit vague when she asked what exactly it was that he did. She figured that meant he was probably one of those “aspiring actors” who really make their living doing guided NYC tours or waiting tables and had a bit part in a B movie once.  

Y/N had never been to La Grande Boucherie before, and it looked a little more high-end than she had anticipated. Elaborate fixtures of spherical lights hung from the vaulted ceiling, and large tropical plants provided a small canopy by one of the walls. Although “Tom” had mentioned that the place was on the elegant side, she almost wondered if she was underdressed, in a simple, mid-length, classic black dress. But she figured the date wouldn’t last a particularly long time anyway.

If tonight’s a disaster, this is the last time you set me up and I swear I’ll key your car in revenge, she texted her friend a final time before slipping her phone into her purse and crossing the busy street. She wondered why she was feeling a bit nervous when she had been on so many unsuccessful dates and her expectations had become so low. No matter how hard she tried to suppress it, it appeared that a miniscule part of her remained hopeful about finding someone. And at this point, she really had no idea what to expect, as this was a much nicer place than where her previous dates had invited her. Though, of course, men with money had just as much potential to be terrible dates as those without, she was terribly curious, and equally intimidated. What had her friend gotten her into this time?

Upon reaching the front of the restaurant, she briefly scanned her reflection in the window, adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder and shrugging. She also took a moment to evaluate the atmosphere of the restaurant up close. Soft jazz music glided through the entryway, and the building smelled of a combination of rich, sizzling French meats and soups, and the luxury perfumes and colognes of the affluent people who dined there. She was not necessarily worried about the dinner being expensive- she made enough money to be able to splurge on something nice from time to time- but doubted that the overall night’s experience would be worth it, no matter how good the meal was.

Her gaze roved over the occupants of each table, but none of them appeared to be the mysterious “Tom,” either not fitting the description or already accompanied by other guests. Luckily, “Tom” had texted her a table number to look for. Approaching the hostess’ podium, Y/N inquired “Hi. Can you point me in the direction of Table 16?”

The hostess answered with a knowing smile that puzzled Y/N. “Good evening. Of course. It’s the one in the far-right corner by that display of pink flowers.”

“Thank you,” Y/N murmured, spotting the table and the back of the head of the man sitting in one of the chairs.

“Enjoy your night, ma’am.”

“You too.”

Y/N crept slowly across the tiled restaurant floor to Table 16, frustrated with herself at how on-edge she was. Feeling like she was being observed by everyone she passed, she almost tripped on a chair leg. Rounding the last corner and reaching her destination, she braced herself to greet “Tom” and finally see what he looked like.

Sitting at the table was a man in a simple black suit and white dress shirt with the first two buttons undone. He had short, dark brown hair, a few strands brushing his forehead, with green eyes that stood out against his pale skin, and a distinctive mole on his left cheek. Y/N froze, momentarily forgetting everything about what she was going to say, where she was, what she was doing there, and how to talk.

From his seat at the table, Tom Cruise grinned and said “Hello.”

“Oh gosh… wait- oh my gosh, you’re…”

“I am,” he grinned wider and shrugged. He was about to say more, when Y/N continued:

“I am so sorry, I- I must be at the wrong table. They told me Table 16 and pointed me this way-” she gestured frantically, feeling her face grow hot.

“Well, you found it,” Tom confirmed, gesturing to the small sign on the tabletop. “This is Table 16.”

“Oh, um, well, he must have texted me the wrong number… I am so, so sorry, this is embarrassing. I was supposed to meet someone here, and…”

“Wait, hold on- is your name Y/N?” Tom inquired, cocking his head to the side.

“…Yes, it is,” she answered slowly, feeling lightheaded.

“Do you know Nikki?” He leaned toward her from his chair. The look on her face was her answer. “I think we’re supposed to go on a date tonight,” he stated matter-of-factly, beckoning to the chair across from him. “Sit down.”

“Oh, there’s got to be a mistake here somewhere…” Y/N said, her stomach performing feats of acrobatics as she stood rooted to her spot.

“You won’t even give me a chance?” he teased, fixing her with puppy-dog eyes. “I thought we got along pretty well over text.”

“No- I mean, it’s not that, I just…” Y/N brought her hands to her head in embarrassment as she stammered, finally managing to move and take a step back from the table. “I’ll be right back; I just need to- I just need to use the restroom- I’ll just be a minute.”

“You will come back, right?” he joked, although his eyes betrayed genuine concern that she was about to make an escape.

“Yes, I’ll be back.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” She spun around and took several rapid steps in the opposite direction of the table before she heard him call out “It’s the other way.”

~

“Wow. I can’t believe you; I mean, what the fu-” Y/N hissed into her phone, holed up in one of the women’s bathroom stalls of La Grande Boucherie.

“-What?” Nikki’s voice sounded from the phone speaker innocently.

“You know exactly what you did-”

“-Are you actually calling me right now to complain about being set up with Tom Cruise? I told you that I was coming in clutch for you this time.”

“What the hell are you trying to do to me?? I am not prepared for this!” She snapped, detecting the footsteps of whoever else had also been in the bathroom as they exited rapidly.

“What do you mean? I’m sure you’re wearing something nice, you always do, and I know you know how to eat…”

“YOU SAID HE WORKED IN THE FILMMAKING BUSINESS, NOT THAT HE’S THE MOST FAMOUS ACTOR IN THE WORLD.”

“Okay, okay, calm down…”

“Why didn’t you tell me??” Y/N groaned, emerging from the stall to examine her hair, makeup, and outfit, which seemed to have gone from “possibly slightly underdressed” to totally inadequate.

“You know you never would have gone if I’d told you. You would have either thought I was trying to prank you or you would have had the aneurysm that you’re having right now.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Y/N snapped defeatedly.

“Act like yourself? Do what you would normally do?” Nikki replied, exasperated. “He was interested in you just off of my description and you guys’ texting.”

A pink tint rose to Y/N’s face. “He was? You’re not just telling me that?”

“Hey, I’m a little crafty, but I’m not evil.”

“…What did he say?”

“He thought it was cool that you’ve done production design and costume work, he liked that you’re kind of outdoorsy… he was interested, okay? Get out there and talk to him instead of talking to me!”

“We are going to have a serious talk about this…” Y/N muttered, straightening the wrinkles in her outfit and heading for the door.

“You can tell me all about it tomorrow. Trust me, I’ll want to know every detail.” Nikki paused. “And you said I’d never set you up with anyone good.” Y/N could hear the triumphant smirk in Nikki’s voice and hung up, rolling her eyes.

“Be calm. He’s just a person. He’s just a guy,” she said to herself as she neared Table 16 once again, relieved to see that Tom still sat there.

“I told you I would come back,” she managed a smile, moving to slide into the other empty chair, when Tom rose from his place to pull it out for her.

“I’m glad you did,” he added, smiling back and looking equally relieved as they finally faced each other at the table. “I ordered us an appetizer and some drinks while you were gone. I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so hopefully it’s all okay…”

“Oh, I’m not picky.” Silence fell briefly, and before it could become too awkward, Y/N decided to address what was certainly weighing heavily on both of them. “So, you and I got off on the wrong foot and I want to apologize. I was just totally caught off-guard…”

“Nikki didn’t tell you?”

“No- well, she knew I never would have gone if I’d known-”

“Do you really hate me that much?” he chuckled. “I mean, I know not all of my movies have been great…”

“Not at all, it’s not that, I just would have been too scared.” Y/N dropped her gaze to her hands, twisted tightly together in her lap.

“Well, it’s normal to be nervous, but come on, I’m not so scary now, am I?” He leaned forward with his elbows on the table, smirking.

Y/N gathered the courage to meet his gaze. “No,” she admitted, with a grin. “I just feel out of place here, in this restaurant, in this whole situation.”

“I think you fit right in,” Tom assured her. “Actually, before our conversation went off the rails earlier, I was going to say that you look stunning.”

“T-thank you, you do too,” she stammered, feeling the blush creeping over her face again, cringing at her reply. He laughed, but it was a good-natured laugh, not seeming to be at her expense.

“Thanks. I tried.”

Y/N finally took a sip of the drink that Tom had ordered for her, a sparkling cocktail that tasted of cranberry and lemon. “This is good,” she nodded.

“I made a good choice?”

“Yes, you did, thank you.”

Soon after, the appetizers arrived- a roasted beet and endive salad. As they started to eat, Tom suggested:

“Now, why don’t we just start the night over? Hi, I’m Tom.”

“I’m Y/N,” she replied, and they both laughed between mouthfuls.

“You mentioned that you do behind-the-scenes work for film projects- what are you working on right now?”

“Oh, just a local documentary thing. Street art and its origins, styles, and cultural significance. Terribly exciting, I know.”

“Of course it is. But you’d rather be doing something else?”

“Like everyone else around here, I have higher aspirations. I know everyone has to work their way up- you know that better than anyone- but I also know that not everyone who puts the work in ends up making it, and it usually just comes down to chance and luck- being in the right place at the right time or knowing the right people. I’m just afraid that my miracle is never gonna happen, y’know?”

“Well, I really believe that if it’s what you’re meant to do, as long as you stay dedicated and a step ahead of everyone else, it’ll happen. We’re just not all on the same timetable. It happened early on for me, but for a lot of other people, they didn’t ‘make it’ until they were in their thirties, forties, hell, fifties…” He took a taste of his own drink- a non-alcoholic cocktail.

“I hope I don’t have to wait that long,” she said, half joking and half serious. “But what projects are you involved in at the moment?”

He obliged to the change in topic. “I have a lot going on with this action-movie satire piece. It’s one of those ones that’s been stuck in development hell for a few years, so there’s just a lot of negotiating back and forth; it gets tedious after a while, but I think we’re finally getting things nailed down. It’s looking like it’ll be a lot of fun once we get past the initial stages.”

During the course of this conversation, they realized that they should begin perusing the menu and decide on their main courses. As she examined the options, Y/N reminded herself that she could afford to spend a bit extra once in a while, yet the prices still managed to stun her. It must have been visible on her face, because Tom said “Order whatever looks good. I’m buying tonight.”

As Y/N opened her mouth to strongly protest, he held up his hand. “Nikki said you’d complain, but you can’t change my mind. It’s been a while since I’ve gone out, I want us to have a good time, and besides, it’s the way I was raised.” He shrugged, folding his hands in front of him on the tabletop. “Don’t worry, I don’t expect anything, and I know you’re capable of paying if I let you, I just want to. Okay?”

~  

When the server appeared with their entrees, the dusk had long since turned to nighttime darkness, allowing the fairy lights and orb ceiling fixtures to bathe all of the restaurant’s occupants in a warm glow. Y/N had ended up deciding on a mushroom ravioli dish, while Tom ordered a filet, and they shared a portion of seafood that he insisted she try. She was surprised to admit that she was feeling remarkably more at-ease.

“I am obsessed with this place,” he said offhandedly, having made it about halfway through his steak.

“I can see why,” Y/N giggled. “So, tell me: what is it you like to do when you’re not sword-fighting people or scaling the sides of buildings?”

Tom laughed, using one hand to smooth his hair back. “On those rare occasions, I like to do things like rock-climb, fly…”

She coughed on her food. “Fly? Oh yeah, that’s right.”

“Or cook, watch sports... I can have fun with both feet on the ground too. I’m down for just about anything.” He cocked an eyebrow. “What do you get into when you’re not designing the aesthetics of local documentaries?”

“Well, I enjoy a good hike or some skating, and I can be a bit arts and crafts-y when I want to. I do some drawing and painting when I’m between big work projects.”

She was amazed at how attentively he listened, and how he didn’t do it just to respond, but to ask questions as well. She was used to enduring her date’s life story without getting more than a few words in edgewise. She reminded herself that his entire job was to be a convincing actor, and so to not become too optimistic or believing of how he appeared. But damn, if it wasn’t difficult the longer they maintained eye contact and sat so closely and laughed with each other amidst the dim, cozy lighting and the soft jazz piano. Maybe she wouldn’t totally eviscerate Nikki after all.

~

After making it to the end of dinner, standing on the street outside, they prepared to part ways.

“You can ride along with me and my driver can drop you off,” he proposed.

“No, that’s extremely sweet of you, but you’ve done more than enough,” Y/N insisted. “You can’t change my mind.” Her eyes gleamed mischievously at him as she referenced their conversation near the beginning of the evening.

“Well, Y/N,” Tom sighed, “I’ve got to admit that tonight was the best time I’ve had in a while. You didn’t think it turned out so bad, right?”

“Not bad at all,” she replied, clutching her coat in both hands as a soft breeze passed.

“Good enough to do it again sometime? Soon?” he asked, eying her expectantly as the two of them shifted awkwardly back and forth on the pavement.

“Oh, I suppose,” she teased, though her expression was beaming. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a while too.”

A limousine pulled up to the curb next to them. She deduced that it was Tom’s aforementioned ride, but he was determined to stay until she flagged down a taxi, uncomfortable with the idea of leaving her on the street alone at night.

“You’ll have to think about what you’d like to do next. Maybe we could go flying,” he joked, as she eventually caught a passing cab driver’s attention.

“Maybe,” she chuckled as she approached the taxi. Tom opened the door for her, and before she slid inside, he placed a hand on her shoulder and murmured “Have a good night. Be safe.”

“Goodbye, Tom,” she slid into the backseat of the cab, smiling at him and then to herself as the cab started on its path to her home. Basking in the feeling of his touch on her shoulder and the slight giddiness that the earlier cocktail afforded, she lost herself in contemplation of the evening’s events, wondering where they might lead.

[untilmynextstory]

the price we pay | ned stark x ashara dayne

summary: Despite having a ceremony in her husband’s faith, adapting the style of the North, and providing an heir for their liege lord, they were unhappy with their lord having a Southern bride. She knew it would take time for them to accept her, but it had been surprising that they didn’t care she was Dornish, just that she was from the South.  

chapter 3: the love of duty

Ashara's anticipation of Winterfell, sparked by Ned's vivid description of the Tourney of Harrenhal, was palpable. She tried to conjure up a grand castle draped in snow, a sight she had never seen. Though inaccurate, her attempts to visualize snow as softer sand added to her eagerness. She envisioned walls and towers that seemed to touch the skies, a massive hearth in the heart of a tundra.

She imagined old stones warm from the heated springs running behind the walls. She pictured the rooms warm with plenty of furs and wrapped in Ned’s arms. 

Reality, however, was a stark contrast to her imagination. 

Winterfell was massive and complex. There were dozens upon dozens of open courtyards, and the walls were huge and imposing. She had gotten lost a few times while trying to become familiar with her new home, a daunting task. She believed scrolls and tomes did not describe the magnificent size of the Starks domain. It may not be a home filled with excessive reaches in gold and silver that had no practical use, but it was a beauty she could appreciate with its furs and the blazing fireplaces with mantles detailing histories and stories of the North. 

It was nothing like the marble floors and walls of Starfell or keeps in the South that wanted to display their wealth and superiority. 

However, the people of Winterfell, wintertown, and her husband’s bannerman were as cold as the snow surrounding them. 

Despite having a ceremony in her husband’s faith, adapting the style of the North, and providing an heir for their liege lord, they were unhappy with their lord having a Southern bride. She knew it would take time for them to accept her, but it had been surprising that they didn’t care she was Dornish, just that she was from the South.  

Despite their resistance, she wouldn’t succumb to becoming immersed in her new home. This was her husband's land and her son’s. God willing, her blood mixed with Ned’s will further the Stark line. 

Besides, she fared much worse in King’s Landing in Elia’s court than she could in the North. After all, the Northerners didn’t whisper discontent; they were loud and brawdy about it. She didn’t have to worry about subterfuge. It was almost refreshing that people were so open with their feelings and contempt. It was even more fascinating watching her quiet husband being able to handle such men. 

Yet, she wasn’t entirely lonely. 

She found a few friends among the servants, particularly Old Nan and the guards. Yet, the only Lady who had become a true ally was Jyana Reed, Howland Reed’s wife. She had been saddened to watch them retreat to their home in Greywater. She had enjoyed her company as they traveled North. The lady had given her plenty of advice on living in the North that she worked to remember. 

However, she knew that her touches of melancholy couldn’t last long, especially when her Lord Husband was in equally turbulent waters. 

She realized her husband was overwhelmed with being the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He had grown up being a second son, who at most only aspired to be lord of a small holdfast as a loyal bannerman to his brother. He often came to supper haggard from reading missives and hearing complaints from other lords and the smallfolk. She could see the lines beginning to form on his forehead.

She tried to do her part, as now, being Lady of Winterfell, she ran the household. Unlike Ned, she had training from her mother in what it took to run a household. Ladies didn’t have the freedom of choice as second sons. Her mother had drilled into her that her beauty would not keep a man. They never did, as looks faded in time. Daughters needed to know how to manage a keep, big or small, in place of her husband’s absence for whatever reasons. 

It was still a transition, but she knew it didn’t compare to the scale of her husband on top of the personal losses the realm was still recovering from. The loss of Rickard, Brandon, and Lyanna was still heavily felt within Winterfell and the North.

They were no longer the youth from Harrenhall. It felt like so many moons ago they had laughed and twirled in those halls—the folly of youth. 

Ashara wrapped her fur cloak around her tighter, unlike her husband and his men; she had requested a hood be added to most, if not all, of her cloaks. She hadn’t seen her husband since she had a late lunch in his solar with Jon. 

Ashara asked one of the household guards about her husband’s whereabouts. She wasn’t surprised to find that if he weren’t in his solar or the godswood, he would be in the crypts. 

Ashara had left a sleeping Jon under the watch of Wyla as she grabbed a torch and made her way to the resting place of her husband’s family and one day for him. She wasn’t surprised to find him in front of Lyanna’s crypt—the only woman to hold a resting place amongst the Lords and Kings of the North. 

“Ned?” She called softly. 

Ned turned to face her, and a smile tugged at his lips. She noticed a blue winter rose was placed on the stone hands. 

She strolled to her husband’s side. She didn’t know what to expect with a marriage to Ned. She knew, in the beginning, it was mainly lust and the exuberance of youth that propelled her feelings for the quiet wolf. 

Yet, now in marriage, she could see the true depth of what she felt for Ned. He was kind, funny, and so warm. She looked forward to nights in his arms. They still hadn’t fully consummated their marriage. Ashara still struggled with her grief of their daughter and brother. Ned, being the gentleman he was, never pressured her despite it being in his right to claim what was his as her husband. 

Yet, the most rewarding part was her husband sought her counsel. She had a voice in their home outside of being in charge of raising their son. 

Ned grasped her free hand, “Everything alright?”

Ashara nodded. “It’s late. I missed you in placing Jon to bed,” she explained softly. 

Another thing she admired about Ned was he wasn’t afraid to spend time with Jon. She still was unsure if it was due to Lyanna or if he viewed Jon as his own. But he had warmed to Jon, and she found him holding the babe daily, which would occupy her in getting him ready for sleep. 

“He go down okay?”

“He is an easy baby. I think he prefers sleep than anything these days,” she told her husband. “Are you okay?”

Ned kissed her fingers before looking up at the statue before them. Ashara didn’t know Lyanna outside of Ned’s words. Even at the Tourney, Lyanna had been roaming the land, and she never got to be appropriately introduced to the female Stark, unlike Brandon or Benjen. However, she couldn’t help but worry if Lyanna’s ghost would forever haunt the halls, her marriage, and her husband. 

“It’s her name-day,” Ned told her. “She would have been 17.”

Ashara didn’t know how to respond as she held onto Ned’s hand. 

“As much as I miss her, I am so mad at her,” Ned admitted. “Do you think he loved her?”

Ashara sighed at the question. Considering how she witnessed the tepid marriage between Rhaegar and her princess, she knew she wasn't equipped to answer it. She tried to think of the Crown Prince and his bookish ways. He was kinder than most noblemen but could be cold as the snows in the North for a descendant of dragons. She had thought the man held affection for her princess, considering Elia had been able to bring warmth and smiles to the Prince. Though what had happened at the Tourney and how he had disappeared after little Aegon’s birth, it was one thing not to love your spouse. Ashara wasn’t naive to think all arranged marriages produced love, but most Lords knew better than to shame and humiliate their wives so publicly. The man had left Elia and his children to suffer. He led them to their deaths. If anything, Elia knew her husband didn’t hold love for her, but at least for their children, and the man had failed in that. 

Ashara shuffled closer to Ned. “I don’t think Rhaegar knew how to love.”

Ned released a shaky breath but couldn’t lie to her husband. They were drowning in lies themselves. She knew the only thing that could hold them together was to be truthful with each other. 

 “We will tell him the truth?” She asked him as the shadow of flames danced across Lyanna’s face. 

If she had any anger towards Lyanna, it was when it came to her son. Ashara didn’t want to have to share Jon with her or her memory, and she felt ashamed of it. It wasn’t Lyanna’s fault, as she knew if the girl had lived, she would be a mother to Jon. 

Ashara would only be a mother to a pale baby she could no longer hold. Worse, she would have just been a memory to Ned while he built a life with another. 

“You’re the mother Jon should only know,” Ned whispered. 

Ashara gave him a watery smile. “Does…does it upset you that it's not…it won’t be your line carrying on the Stark name?”

Ned didn’t answer as he scrutinized Lyanna’s statue before looking away. “It was never mine to begin with.”

Ashara nodded her head, and Ned tugged her closer. He was so warm, and the smell of pine and snow infiltrated her senses. A shiver trailed down her spine. 

“Come, my lady. The hour is late.”

Ashara let her husband lead, but she allowed herself to look back for one last time at Lyanna’s statue and watched as the winter rose fell from her still hands. 

As much as Ashara was adapting to Northern culture, food, wardrobe, and speech, she could not wholly abandon her heritage.

Her brother was sending her spices, and she tried her best to incorporate some of her favorite foods into the meals at Winterfell. She could tell the folk were initially resistant to the new seasonings, but some, especially the household guards, soon enjoyed the dragon peppers. It was another way to stay warm in the snow. 

Ned was already building another glass garden to incorporate more native Dornish fruits and plants for her. She had preferred that over the Sept he had offered to make. 

She had no problem converting to the Old Gods for her husband. Dorne followed religions, but they weren’t as pious as those from the Riverlands and Crowlands. 

However, embroidery and tapestry were the easiest way to incorporate her heritage. She had even begun making kerchiefs for her Lord husband with a wolf chasing a star, which he wore with pride. 

She had even begun to make little Jon clothes and cloaks, incorporating a dire wolf and stars with purple thread weaved into them. 

Like the little blanket she had Jon swaddle in, the blanket was made of black fabric. It had a grey dire wolf running across it, stars scattered around it, and purple trim. She smiled at the boy as he fought sleep. It amazed her how much of Ned was in the boy. Jon’s eyes had turned into that familiar grey of the Starks. Yet, unlike Ned's dark brown hair, the boy had curly black hair that was similar to her shade. She and Ned spent hours theorizing where the curls could have come from. 

Her boy was growing fast—too fast if she was honest with herself. Soon, he would be walking, and his baby coos would turn into words. But he was doing it all alone. 

The halls of Winterfell were quiet without the sound of laughter. 

Dorne was never quiet - especially in the Water Gardens. She hoped to give Jon something like that. 

The door to Jon’s nursery opened, and she smiled as Ned walked through the threshold. Jon, whose eyes were steadily becoming heavy, opened wide at the sight of his father. Ashara smiled. 

Ned approached her from behind. He kissed the top of her head as he gently caressed Jon’s head. The movement had the small boy closing his eyes, but he couldn’t keep them open. The small baby was out in a few minutes. 

She placed him in the crib and watched fondly as he slept peacefully. 

“Ned?”

“Hmm?”

“Jon deserves siblings, don’t you think?”

[imalicu]

[AruAni] Skinship

Summary: Even after all these years, to Annie, Armin is still just the same nerdy guy who always wants to be by her side, just like in their high school days. As for Armin, he gradually discovered that his baddie girlfriend secretly loves physical affection. And he can't help but find her absolutely adorable!

It has been six years since Armin and Annie started their journey together. They’ve gone through countless moments of joy, sadness, arguments, and even silent wars. Despite it all, they never considered parting ways; instead, these experiences only brought them closer. They learned to respect and compromise for one another, that make solidifying their bond to what it is today.

At this point, they’re essentially married in every way but on paper. The couple has lived together long enough to understand each other's personalities and busy work schedules. Armin is a psychologist and running his private clinic while Annie owns a cozy little music shop and occasionally tutors young aspiring guitarists. With outsiders, they seem like the perfect couple — and truthfully, they are.

To Annie, Armin is still just the same nerdy guy who always wants to be by her side, just like highschool days.

Whenever they’re in a crowded place, Armin is always the one to take her hand first. In the early days of their relationship, Annie would blush and shyly tell him: “You don’t have to hold my hand like that. It's so embarrassing.”

He’d just flash a bright smile and squeeze her hand tighter. “I know, but it’s a habit I can’t shake.”

He genuinely enjoys holding Annie’s hand, especially in bustling areas, to make sure his petite girlfriend doesn’t get lost — and to silently let others know she’s already spoken for. Of course, he’d only ever admit to the first part, avoiding Annie’s potential annoyance.

By the way, Armin is someone who will hug her any chance he gets, especially when he’s feeling down after a long exhausting day. Whenever he’s in that state, Annie doesn’t say a word. She simply opens her arms and waits for him to use the last of his energy to embrace her. “You’ve had a long day, Mr. Arlert,” she’d say as he buried his face into the crook of her neck.

Somehow, everything feels better and more manageable in Annie’s arms. Her hugs are comforting and the gentle pats on his back make him feel like a koala koalaing on a tree, not caring that someone was watching him. Annie's hugs are the best.

Even when they’re in bed, Armin clings to her tightly as if she were a warm body pillow. At first, Annie found it hard to adjust to his firm embrace. But over time, she got used to it and let him be. After all, his sleepy face, with closed eyes and slightly parted lips was just too adorable to resist. Plus, it helped her sleep better so she couldn’t bring herself to refuse him.

To Armin, Annie is definely his sleep remedy. He holds her close, burying his nose in her neck or hair, depending on which way she’s facing. Her warmth comforts him and her scent soothes him. Nothing helps him fall asleep faster than being in her arms. ..... Over the years company, Armin gradually discovered that his baddie girlfriend secretly loves physical affection. And he can't help but find her absolutely adorable!

Every morning, Annie wraps herself around him and refusing to let go. With her eyes still shut, she grumbles, “Just five more minutes,” as she buries her face in his chest.

Armin can only smile, his hand gently stroking her head. He could never say no to such a small request from her. With his other arm, he holds her close and letting her rest for just a little longer in his embrace.

Her endearing clinginess melts his heart every time. Annie also has a habit of hugging him whenever she feels cold. Without warning, she’ll wrap her arms around him from behind, like on a Sunday morning when he’s cooking breakfast for the two of them. Slightly startled, Armin smiles as he continues cooking. “What are you doing, honey?” he asks softly. “Cold,” she replies with a little whine.

Winter is coming in, and Annie loathes the sudden chill in the air after yesterday’s mild breeze. On days like this, she just wants to curl up around Armin and bury her head like a hibernating bear.

“You should go back to bed and grab a warm blanket,” Armin says gently. “No,” she mumbles, her head pressed against his back. And she continued mumbles grumpy about weather.

Armin chuckles as she grumbles. He knows how much Annie despises it but he doesn’t mind at all. After all, he’s her personal heater and letting her hold him like this without any complaint. They're the perfect couple, to the outside world they seem to be a happy couple and they are, they really are.

[angst-fairygodmother]

Try Again ~ A Baldur's Gate Fic (Gale/Tav)

A/N: Just a little angsty/ambiguous epilogue fic I've been working on for months. Technically it's specifically for Molvyrae, my Tempest domain cleric of Mystra, but yearning is universal. Word Count: 2773 Rating: M - mild language, some sexual content, angst A/N2: Some of the initial conversation is either directly from the in-game epilogue or modified lines from it, so credit to the Larian writers where it is due. Cross-posted to AO3

After the fall of the Elder Brain, time passed as it always had. Some might call it almost quiet, if you consider a constant labor to rebuild, days split between activity and giving comfort and nights spent falling into an exhausted, dreamless sleep quiet. While her party had scattered to the four winds, Molvyrae stayed, doing her part to fix what had been broken. She was given a modest residence in the Lower City, and quickly converted most of the two story building into something of a halfway house for those seeking her medical or spiritual aid and refugees seeking things and people they have lost.

She oversaw far too many funerals in those months, but blessedly, a few weddings too, including Alfira and Lakrissa’s, finally brought on by the realization of how much they had already weathered together. She tried to be there with all her heart for her friends on that day, but regret colored her smile, remembering the adoring and wonderful man that she had given up.

Now it was a half a year later, and the sun had set by the time she strode into the campsite where it had all begun, following the mysterious invitation that had just shown up on the table which served as a humble shrine to her goddess. Her friends were all gathered already, and she was overwhelmed with the emotions overflowing in her heart: love, longing, and trepidation mingling and twisting her stomach as she drew a deep breath.

~

Molvyrae couldn’t help but hug him, before he had finished “reintroducing” himself. Her arms wrapped tightly around the wizard, and she was shocked but pleased to feel him return the gesture, pulling her close and surrounding her in the familiar scent of his soap.

“Well, that was quite lovely,” he said as they both drew away, almost reluctantly. “I’m glad you’re as pleased to see me as I am you.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, biting her lip anxiously, and trying not to notice the way his eyes flickered down at the motion. “I know I ended things rather…abruptly.”

“My heart has survived far crueller partings, and lived to tell the tale. I assure you, I meant exactly what I said to you at the time. Perfect as they are, some things aren’t meant to last forever.”

She smiled gratefully at him. “I…thank you Gale, for understanding.”

A shadow flickered across his face, deep sadness clouding his eyes for a moment, before it passed and he gestured for her to sit beside him so that they could catch up. It didn’t take long for them to fall into easy conversation, at some point Tara joining them and twining herself around Gale’s ankles before sitting to groom herself, unbothered by all the world. He told her about his new role as an educator, his aspirations of authorhood, and his students' apparent idolization of her from the stories he told them.

“It sounds like the last six months have been treating you quite well Gale,” she said, resting a hand on his knee for a moment before drawing away quickly, as if burned. “I couldn’t be happier for you.”

“I’m pleasantly surprised to say that they have, indeed. And for all my complaining, I am very fond of my students. You know, I’d be delighted to introduce you to my current cohort - as a guest lecturer, perhaps? I’m sure they’d have plenty of questions for you.”

She stared at him, surprised that he would want to do such a thing, and feeling a tiny bit ambushed by the suddenness of the suggestion. A party, in a place that felt familiar and made it easy to slip back into the old way of things, was one thing. But to spend time with Gale in a place that was entirely his domain, where he would be confident and comfortable and she would be unbalanced by more than regret…it was an intimidating prospect.

Yet, she was hardly surprised when the next words came out of her mouth. “Of course,” she smiled teasingly, “What wizard wouldn’t benefit from the wisdom my goddess has to offer?”

“Excellent, excellent, excellent. I can hardly wait. Of course, you’ll be most welcome to stay with me in my tower–” he offered eagerly, before being cut off by the tressym’s polite ‘ahem.’ “My apologies, Tara. That would be our tower.”

She shot a glance at Tara, trying to see if that was in fact what Tara was protesting, or if she was far more practical than Gale regarding their proximity and the way Mol had ended their former relationship. Unfortunately, the feline expression was impossible to read, even before Tara returned to bathing herself. Mol cursed internally, left to her own devices after all and feeling like she was starting to panic.

“And I’ve a pantry full of Waterdhavian delicacies and a delightful bottle of Elverquisst with your name on them, if that sweetens the pot any?” Gale continued, and Mol smiled, hoping he didn’t notice that she had missed some of what he said.

“You don’t have to bribe me with good food, although I won’t say no. The good company is more than enough reason to say yes, if I hadn’t already,” she laughed, and he smiled in that bashful way that made her heart flip.

“I know, I know. I just don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated or doing me a favor…”

“You’ve always been too kind, Gale. I wouldn’t agree out of mere obligation.”

“I truly do look forward to having you. It was strange, going from seeing you daily to six months on my own. I’m very curious to know what you’ve been up to these past months, but I suspect the telling of that tale would keep you tied to me all evening.”

She couldn’t help raising an eyebrow at his phrasing, choosing to focus on the accidental innuendo, over the heartbroken (and heartbreaking) admission. He coughed embarrassedly, catching it as well, before sending her off to mingle with the others, claiming he needed a moment to regather his wits because the wine had quite suddenly gone to his head. Before she went, they hugged again, a little longer this time, promising that they would discuss the details of her visit in the morning. She sighed, her head swimming, guilty that she had accidentally reopened the still healing wound she’d caused and confused by the emotional twists and turns the conversation had taken, and retreated, sitting by the lakeshore with Scratch for a while before returning to the party herself.

~

Molvyrae smiled, listening to Gale as he joyfully showed her around his tower for real this time, basking in the sense of magic and warmth that surrounded her, and the fond memories of the illusory nights spent there.

“Gale,” she eventually said, stopping him with a hand on his arm as he blushed and stumbled over apologies regarding the mess in his sitting area, and the fact that only one chair was even remotely clear of books and papers. A chair she suspected was used by Tara more often than anyone else. “Please. Even if I sat on your carpet, it would be more comfortable than some of our camp accommodations.”

He shuddered, and she wondered if he was remembering the night in the Underdark where every rock had turned out to be covered in a mysterious slime, or in the Shadowlands where far too many inconspicuous logs and tree stumps had spines and thorns lurking in their rough bark.

“I know, but that was a very different situation. Here I’m supposed to be playing host to…my dear friend, and I can’t seem to manage it properly.”

“Because you’re trying too hard. I didn’t come here to be impressed by magical artifacts or a lifetime and a half of magical tomes, or the incredible dinner you cooked for me. Although all of those are incredibly impressive,” she waved a hand and laughed lightly, cutting off the protest she could see coming. “I came because you asked me to. So please, just relax. All I need is you.”

She winced as soon as the words left her lips. She felt his shoulders drop as he sighed, and her heart sank with them. “You said that to me once before…” he spoke suddenly, voice cracking.

“I–” she braced herself for the rebuke she knew she deserved.

“You told me that you loved me for the man I was, the man I am, and that I didn’t need to become a god,” the words were wistful and soft. “But clearly, something changed.”

“Nothing changed.”

He laughed, the sound coming out in a short, bitter bark. “We both know each other too well to lie.”

“You’re right, we do. But it’s not a lie. We’re still us, and everything that entails. It just got…complicated.”

“You have no idea how much I wish that were true,” he reached up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear tenderly.

“Gale…” his name left her lips in a whisper, as she leaned in.

“Molvyrae,” he answered, in the same hushed, wanting tone, his eyes flicking down to her lips and back up to her face. “I–”

Whatever else he might have planned to say was lost as he threw caution to the wind and kissed her, cradling the side of her face as he did. Her noise of surprise was smothered into his mouth, and she wasted no time in kissing him back, one hand grasping his shoulder to pull him closer as his lips parted before her questing tongue. His free hand gripped gently on the flesh of her waist, fingertips pressing hard enough to be felt but not to cause pain, and she couldn’t help the moan that escaped her.

All too soon, they parted, both of their chests heaving for air, with no room between them for it to reach their lungs.

Gale stared at her in unabashed awe, and Mol cast her eyes desperately past him, looking for something to focus on, other than the wizard’s lovestruck, kiss-drunk expression. The air hung thick with tension, each waiting for the other to pull away, and then both moving together to do quite the opposite.

Their mouths danced against each other, tongues tangling. She barely noticed the impact as her back collided with a door, reaching behind her to claw for the knob and forcing it open, removing the last barrier between the pair of them and the bed. They stumbled, as one across the blessedly clear room, no longer creating a warpath of desperation for each other.

Gale’s long fingers burned where they ran across her ribcage, one dipping beneath the now open fabric of her shirt to reach the band of her undergarment. He nipped at her lip as she tugged on his hair, teeth scraping as she pulled away. As he fussed with the closure one handedly and the other dragged her hips closer, she trailed her kisses downward to the place where his throat met his collarbone, no longer marred by the mark of the Netherese Orb. His breathy moan made her smirk, trailing her tongue across the sensitive skin, but he was quick to get his revenge, reaching further to cup her ass and hitch her leg around his waist just as the button finally freed from the loop and the fabric hiding her breasts from him went slack.

Somewhere in the hungry stumble, they had turned, and it was the back of Gale’s knees that hit the mattress first, sending them both falling onto the plush cushion. The jolt seemed to wake something in them, and Gale’s hands released Molvyrae, pulling back as if suddenly electrocuted. The harsh motion made her sit up, still straddling his lap, but tugging awkwardly to keep her garments at least partially on.

“Mol…we have to stop,” he said as if it caused him physical pain to do so. “Before this goes any further and gets out of hand…”

The words were like an icy waterfall over her, and she nodded mutely, clambering to get off of him and stand. She turned her back, motions jerking as she refastened button after button. He stayed where he was, unable to resist watching her, and waiting for her to say something.

“I…” she choked back tears, after a long silence. “I should go. I should never have come in the first place.”

“What?” he sat up then, reaching for her and pulling back before he actually made contact.

“This was a mistake. I knew–I should have known. I’m so stupid.”

“No,” the harshness of his voice made her turn in shock. “The blame for this hardly rests on you.”

“Doesn’t it?” she couldn’t help laughing at herself, even as the tears began to fall and she turned away again.

His arms wrapped around her and she felt his face press between her shoulder blades, she tried to ignore the dampness there and the way her body trembled and the urge to press her hands against his where they rested on her sternum. She bowed her head and let herself cry, something she wasn’t sure she’d done since that fateful morning.

“The fault is mine, Molvyrae,” he sighed and she felt it pass through her entire body, before he stepped back, releasing her.

She turned to face him, wiping the tears from her eyes and watching him as he began to pace in small shapes, as he had done sometimes in camp when he was nervous. She reached out for him, but he didn’t take her hand, just continued to fret the edge of his open robe between his fingers.

“I invited you here under partially false pretenses, in the hopes that we could spend some time together again. I don’t know if I expected this, but I thought maybe we would talk about our feelings, about what happened between us, where it went wrong. And we already said we wouldn’t try to lie to each other, so I must admit, even if it was a dim thing, I did hope.”

“Yet you were also the one to put a stop to it?” She frowned in confusion, distracting herself from the itch to embrace him by starting to redo the braids along the side of her head.

“I know,” he shook his head ruefully. “Quite the contradiction, but you see, I realized that a single night of passion, no matter how much I might want and enjoy it, will never be enough.”

“Gale…” his name was a sigh, and he flinched at the sound.

“I’m sorry Molvyrae. I can’t go through the heartbreak of having you for one more night only to lose you again. So, you see, this whole debacle was my doing.”

Silence settled over them, thick with feelings, with the doubts and dreams that lingered.

“I miss you,” she said finally, words barely audible and voice shaking.

“You…do?” He stared at her, and she felt her cheeks and neck growing flushed under the intensity of his gaze.

“Of course I do. You said it best at Withers’ party. We spent everyday together, every night together. For months. And then we walked out of each other’s life…” she shrugged, folding her arms across her chest protectively.

“Why did we?”

“Because I was scared. I had too many questions and not enough answers. So I pushed you away, and you are so Good that you just let me.”

“I wanted to chase you, Mol, but you needed space. I may be a fool in many ways, but I could tell that at least.” The admission was soft, and she couldn’t help but laugh at how even now he was comforting her, after she’d ripped his heart out twice.

Take that, Mystra, she thought somewhat bitterly. Your priestess broke him more than you ever could.

“I know.”

“What if I had? Followed you, I mean.”

“I think I would have kept running, until you gave up.”

“You should know by now that I am not a man easily dissuaded, on the things that really matter.”

“I know.” She smiled ruefully. “So, where does that leave us?”

He was silent for a long moment, and she waited, breath held and unsure.

“I think,” he paused, searching for his words, “we should each get some rest, and speak on this tomorrow, when our emotions are not so fraught. Rash decisions are the ones we regret, after all.” He cradled her cheek in his palm, and pressed their foreheads together. “And I do not want to regret anything when it comes to you. Not again.”

[bestworstcase]

Something that’s been knocking around my head for a while, that really solidified with vol 9 when we met the fucking demiurge of the tree, is the brothers Grimm were born, grew, and were at one point capable of change. The storybook montage at the end shows the brothers Grimm evolving as all denizen of the everafter do. But then they left the everafter, so my thought is: have the brothers Grimm evolved beyond the point when they left their “motherland”? Or have they stagnated? In a kind of stasis similar to what they inflicted on Salem? At the very least, the god of light (or what appeared to be him 👀) that spoke to Ozma was unchanged from the time before Remnant. And given that was, by our best estimation, a bajillion years ago, he hasn’t changed much huh? (Though it would be cool if the gods had mutated into incomprehensible eldritch dragon titans in the bajillion years since. One can only hope!)

it might have been done for Budget Reasons TM or for the sake of having the emotions read clearly, but i find it interesting that the brothers take on humanlike shapes before leaving the ever after. the general assumption is that the demiurge is human-shaped because she takes after humans who’ve journeyed through the ever after—and certainly her appearance is informed by those connections, hence the traces of alyx’s colors in her design—but, well.

she’s a wood-carver, a sculptor, a blacksmith… things you need hands for. meanwhile the brothers began as little goats and grew up into dragons and in this story about how they became gods, the last transformation they undergo before stepping into the unknown is to take on new humanlike forms; it seems to me just as likely that a humanlike shape originated with the demiurge and the brothers took on that form themselves when they set out to make their own world.

and yet, when they fight in the lost fable, and when they’re confronted by salem’s rebellion they become dragons again: they regress. when light appears to ozma in the white void, he does so as a dragon before donning a gigantic variant of his humanlike form.

their humanlike forms are also… incomplete, lacking eyes and mouths. they haven’t yet fully become and—evinced by the way they fall back into the dragon forms—they don’t know how to become what they aspire to be. they never settle into these new forms. stagnant, as you say. but…

look at jinn! look at ambrosius!

they’re not just human-shaped—they’re fully-realized, expressive, alive in what has to be a deliberate contrast to the brothers, because jinn and the brothers were introduced in tandem. (this is part of why i think dark ascended and divided himself into these spirits; if he learned through the experience with salem what he was missing, what he wanted to become, then iterating to a more humanlike form makes a great deal of sense)

and of course the chains are golden—like the god of light, who still doesn’t understand, who’s still the dragon under his under his skin, who bound these spirits and who’s still trying to enforce his will on a woman who has grimly resisted no matter how much pain he inflicted upon her. (<- pun intended)

i think light is probably exactly the same even now. bigger than before, maybe, but so much of what he is as a character is wrapped around his refusal to change. he’s still that dragon pretending to be something greater.

[thevegetablewhichnoonedaresname]

Dungeon Meshi and endings. Spoilers under the cut.

I'm not replying to op directly because I think it's a perfectly valid opinion and they don't need to be bothered to engage in debate about it, but I just saw a post where someone said Dungeon Meshi's ending was too rushed, and it got me thinking, because this is one of the ONLY completed series I've read where I didn't feel that way. The ending is one of my least favorite parts of most stories, because even if it's good it so often feels too fast, and it was specifically one of the things that I really liked about DM. The action climax happens in CHAPTER 91. It takes SIX CHAPTERS (decently long ones, too) to go around and revisit all the main and secondary characters that need wrapping up. I felt like, for once in my life, I was actually able to go around and say goodbye to the characters I cared about at my own pace.

I wonder if it's different if you read it as it released rather than over the course of a few days? Still, though, I've read stuff as it released where I feel like six chapters of wrap-up would be welcome (cough cough noragami cough cough. although I know there was stuff going on with the author so I'm not mad about that one). Or maybe it's because Falin doesn't get brought back until the very last chapter. I suppose I could see how that would feel rushed. I really wish we'd gotten more than little glimpses of her in the main story because she's delightful and charming. However, I think the amount of screentime she got made sense for her role in the story, and now that I'm trying to unpack why I was happy with the ending, I think it's because the amount of time she got there was proportional to the amount of time we got to spend with her up to that point.

I've been thinking about what I need in a satisfying ending, and no matter how good the content is, I think I need it to take a certain amount of time/words/pages. I need to take some time to let it sink in that the story is over. I hate feeling like I've been unceremoniously booted from the simulation right as it was getting good. I want to see every character with any sort of character arc get it wrapped up in a satisfying way, if it hasn't been done already. I also need to know what the characters will be doing afterwards. Being able to see that in a scene is nice, but I'm also happy if enough information is provided to draw reasonable conclusions.

Yet Dungeon Meshi goes even further than that and keeps on tying in the main themes in the ending chapters. I feel like I could make a whole post about desire in Dungeon Meshi, but long story short, there's a clear line drawn between desire (which is very instinctual and primal) and the things the characters actually want. The ending reinforces this theme with the chapter where Izutsumi goes around to the main party members. I love that chapter because it simultaneously drives home a major theme and gives us a chance to see the characters honestly and earnestly talk about their aspirations.

I'm gonna stop there, but long story short, Dungeon Meshi good. Everything comes back in the ending. Hope wins. Love wins. Conflict on earth doesn't get fixed in an instant but we can all be better. We can all keep living.